Serial: The final part of Happenstance by Elise Fox

She had to get out. It wasn’t just her in danger any more, it was Sébastien, too

They didn’t make a cup of tea, like Doug suggested. Instead, he said he wanted to see the garden before they left and placed his hand on her wrist, wrapping his fingers around her flesh. He didn’t squeeze. There wasn’t any need, they both knew it. She followed him silently to the front door, watching as he slid the long, heavy bolt sideways, her nerve endings screaming at her incapacitated brain to make a run for it. She didn’t, of course. She couldn’t. She had felt this way so many times before that the torpor was instantly familiar.

He led her around the side of the house to where the gîte stood, shuttered against the day like a prison. It had always looked cold and unhappy but this afternoon it degenerated further still with its long strings of plastic police tape fluttering across the sealed door. Doug released his hold on her.

“Go in,” he said.

“How? It’s locked.”

He smiled. “You know me, I think of everything.” He pulled back the shutter on the nearest window, the glass itself easily swinging open, too. Kathryn’s throat tightened. There was no way Sébastien and his colleagues had left the gîte unsecured. She peered into the blackness. Doug had a plan and it didn’t involve going home. She almost wished it did.

“In you go,” he said.

She bit her lip. Blood pounded in her ears. She resisted as he manhandled her on to the garden chair beneath the window, but it made no difference. Before she’d even slipped to the floor on the other side, Doug shut the window behind her and closed the shutters. In the darkness, she heard him wedge something hard against the woodwork. And then again on the window to her right. He had sealed her inside the gîte. The door was locked. The windows were barred from the outside. There could be no escape, not this time.

The sun was high in the sky now, most of the clouds gone, and the warmth of the spring afternoon bringing people to the streets of Angoulême. In a week, it would be Easter, one of his favourite times of the year. Sébastien pushed back in his seat, waiting for the lights to change. In less than 10 minutes, he’d see Élodie again, the woman he’d worshipped for so long. Maybe she’d stay. Maybe they’d wake up together this time next week. His stomach knotted. Was he really going to let this start up all over again? Hadn’t he just managed to get himself into a better place? Had he really just left a terrified woman alone in a situation that had the potential to escalate? On the seat beside him, his phone rang. His colleague Gilou’s name blazed across the screen. He picked it up, answering quickly before the traffic moved.

“Boss, good news,” Gilou said. “Karen Waters and her daughter have been picked up in Bordeaux.”

“Are they OK?”

“Yeah, seems so. Local police will hold them until we say what to do.”

“Contact Interpol and then the British police. They should take it from here.”

“OK,” Gilou said. “Strange they hadn’t gone far. Hiding in plain sight, I guess. But the press coverage worked. It flushed them out.”

The traffic moved and Sébastien hung up, Gilou’s final words hanging in the air. He braked hard, the driver behind him slamming his hand on his horn. Reaching into the glove compartment, he retrieved a police siren, lowered his window and stuck it on the roof of his car. Gut instinct

twisted sharply. Hiding in plain sight was the oldest trick in the book. Karen Waters might not have got away with it, but that didn’t mean others hadn’t, or wouldn’t. The press coverage had flushed her out, making her face recognisable to everyone she met. But that wouldn’t be the same for Doug Atkins. He could already be in France but no one would know. Sébastien himself had said virtually that to Kathryn less than an hour earlier – she was safe assuming that her husband wasn’t already on their doorstep. But what if he was? He should never have left her alone, not without checking on her husband. He should never have put Élodie first.

It took 10 minutes to negotiate the one-way system and another five to be clear of the town, even with the siren blaring. As the road quietened, Sébastien pulled over, killed the noise and picked up his mobile again. Elodie answered on the second ring.

“Where are you?” she asked, a hint of sulkiness in her voice.

“Something’s come up. I won’t be back for a while.

I’m sorry.”

She sighed. “I’m trying to make this right between us, Sébastien. It sounds like you don’t want that to happen.”

He rubbed his chin. Élodie (as always) drained him of willpower. “I do want things to be right, but there’s something very important I have to do first. If you wait, I promise I’ll be back later.”

She didn’t reply. In the background, the laughter of several late cafe lunches filled the void.

“Are you going to wait?” he asked.

She sighed again. “Call me when you’re done. If I’m here, I’m here.”

It was the best he could hope for. They both hung up. He retrieved another number and called it. Leah Farrell. It went straight to voicemail. His pulse quickened. Reception at the farmhouse was excellent, so why wasn’t she answering?

“Kathryn, it’s Sébastien,” he said in English. “I’m coming back now. I’ll be with you in five minutes.”

The light bulbs, like those in the farmhouse, were eco-friendly. They took several minutes to be fully bright and even then gave only a sullen half-light to the interior of the gîte. Kathryn tried both windows downstairs, managing only to open them a few inches before they banged into the barricaded shutters. The numbness was leaving her, a fever taking its place. She had to get out. Doug could be doing anything right now. She’d come too far in the past six months to give up without a fight. Running upstairs, she momentarily froze at the door to Karen’s bedroom. On the far back wall, next to the window, was something she’d missed before. A door. Doug had obviously missed it, too. Or had he? Yelping with crushed hope, Kathryn ran to it, rattling it as hard as she could. Just like the front door, it was locked. And just like the front door, the key was gone. Doug had been here before her.

As he neared the track to the farmhouse, Sébastien reached for his phone to call Gilou for back-up, but stopped. If he made the call, he’d have to explain why he needed help. And that Leah Farrell wasn’t real. And then what? If her husband never turned up, she’d be arrested and charged with a serious crime, all for nothing. He had a gun. He was a tall, strong man. He was a police officer. If anyone could sort this mess out, it was him. Why make it worse?

The instant the farmhouse came into view, though, he knew he was wrong. The front door gaped wide open, one half of it pinned back, the other flapping in the breeze. Kathryn would never have done this. Sébastien killed the engine, grabbed his phone, and stepped cautiously from the car. He drew his gun, holding it by his side as he slowly approached the house. The sun was warm on his face. His mind raced: Gilou, Élodie,

The instant the farmhouse came into view, he knew something was wrong

Kathryn, her crazy husband. What was he walking into? He hesitated. Pulling his phone from his pocket, he redialled the last number. Leah Farrell. A second later, a mobile rang inside the house, its tune reaching him through the open door. Someone had turned it back on. Still no one answered.

“Kathryn!” he shouted. “Kathryn!” he yelled.

No reply. He exhaled slowly, clearing his mind. OK, this was serious. There could be only one assumption:

Doug Atkins was here already. He pressed Gilou’s number. It went to answerphone. Speaking quickly, he told him

where he was and that he needed help urgently. Nothing more. He’d explain it all later. He continued walking slowly to the house. Not a lot added up. There was no car visible, other than his. No sound. No obvious signs of forced entry. Wherever Doug Atkins had materialised from, he’d done it surprisingly cleanly. The man might be a monster but that in itself didn’t make him impossible to take down. Fastidiousness, on the other hand, elevated him from a thug to a dangerous opponent. Sébastien tightened his hold on the gun as he reached the yawning door, his heart hammering. Standing back slightly, he pushed one half of the door with his spare hand and then, as training had taught him, he edged his way inside.

The object that struck the back of his head was dense, like a chair leg or firewood log. There was no warning, no opportunity to brace himself. He fell hard to the tiled floor, his hands barely breaking his fall, and the gun clattered from his grip. Instinctively, he tried to crawl towards it, but the ground around him blurred, forcing him to stop. His throat filled with blood. His nose had probably broken on contact with the tiles. A pair of shoes came into view beside him; black trainers, with a white stripe running along the sides. Dirt was crusted at the edges of the soles, as though they’d been worn in wet mud that had since dried. The stitching was broken in places. A man spoke, just one word, as a hand picked up Sébastien’s gun and held it to his head. “Goodbye.”

In the distance, she heard Sébastien call her name. Twice. She rushed downstairs, pushed the windows against the sealed shutters again and screamed out to him. Nothing. She had to get out. It wasn’t just her in danger any more, it was Sébastien, too. Every second she spent trapped gave Doug a tiny bit more of the upper hand. Kathryn ran back upstairs, flung open the window by the door in the bedroom and climbed out. Adrenaline flooded her body.

If she fell and died, then so be it. If she didn’t, if she was actually able to swing herself over to the steps leading down from the door, then she was free. It was that simple.

In the far distance, she heard a siren. It was now or never. Standing on the narrow window ledge, she pushed one arm and one foot out, gripping the rough wall with her hand and praying that her foot would reach something solid. There it was, the wooden railing beneath her foot. She leant towards it, grabbing the edge of the roof with her hand to pull herself further over. She forced herself to let go of the window and lurched towards the steps. Her ankle twisted, the pain doubling her up. But she’d done it. Hobbling, she tripped down the steps and on to the grass at the rear of the gîte.

The man was standing, leaning over him, the muzzle of the gun pressed firmly against his right temple. Sébastien didn’t look up. There was no point. Seeing Doug Atkins’ face would make no difference. Instead, he remained staring at his trainers. Then there were four feet instead of two, and the pressure of the gun suddenly disappeared from the side of his head. The man fell beside him, as though he, too, had been hit from behind. A single shot rang out. Sébastien held his breath, waiting for pain to rip through his body. But it never came.

Slowly, very stiffly, he forced himself to sit up. Kathryn was a few feet away, the gun in her hand, her face blank.

“I was only trying to get him off you,” she said. “I didn’t mean to pick the gun up. Why did I do that? Why did I shoot him?”

“Kathryn, I need you to do something for me. Put the gun on the floor and kick it away please. Can you do that?”

He couldn’t really see what she did, his head was spinning, but he heard metal on the tiles and knew it was done. He rolled forward, reaching out for the body of her husband. His fingers eventually found the man’s neck. No pulse.

“Can I hear sirens?” he asked her.

“Yes.”

When Gilou arrived, he was going to get the biggest hug Sébastien could manage.

“Is he dead?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She didn’t cry. He’d seen it before. Shock was an all-consuming response. He was probably experiencing it himself. “How long will I go to prison for?” she asked.

“Listen, Kathryn,” he said. “You’ve got about three minutes to change your life.” She stared at him.

“This man was going to kill me. I have no doubt about that. You saved my life, and now

I can save yours.” He began dragging himself towards the gun. “Go. Now. Get a bus in the opposite direction. Start again. Change your name again. Don’t look back. You’re free now.”

“But I’ll be wanted for murder.” Her voice broke.

Sébastien reached the gun, made it safe and smothered his bloody hands all over the handle and barrel, obliterating any prints from Kathryn.

“No, you won’t. As far as I’m concerned, you were never here. I came to tell you that Karen and Rosie Waters have been found and this man attacked me. I shot him in self-defence.”

“It’ll come out that he’s my husband.”

“Yeah, it will. And that he’s a violent brute who came after you and then tried to murder a police officer. Trust me, we won’t waste time looking for you. You have to go now if you’re going. Gilou will be here any moment, and I really need to close my eyes.”

‘Kathryn, I need you to put the gun on

the floor and kick it away, please’

Five years later

He really hadn’t changed much, his hair was maybe a little thinner and greyer, his stubble a bit more flecked. But essentially, he was the same: tall, lean, with an infectious, relaxed body language and dark, searching eyes. He stood and held out his arms to her as she reached his table, and she had to concede that the feel of them wrapped around her body made her heart leap, just a little.

“So,” he said, stepping back and grinning. “What do I call you now?”

She laughed. In perfect French, she replied, “Do you really want to know?”

He raised his eyebrows. “We can speak in French now then? Great. Well, I think I'd better

know your name if we’re going to have dinner,” he said, motioning to the waiter.

“I took my mother’s Christian name, Georgina. Mostly, I get called Georgie.”

“OK,” he said, pulling out a chair for her. “Georgie it is then.”

“How’s your face?” she asked, as he slid back to the chair opposite her. “The last time I saw you, it was a bit of a mess.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, my nose was broken. It took a while to heal."

“And your head?”

“The concussion lasted for a few weeks.” His eyes settled on her and they both stopped smiling. “I’m pleased you got in touch,” he said. “I’ve thought about you a lot. I tried your old phone several times but never got through. Did you throw it away?”

“In Bordeaux,” she replied. “How long have you been up here in Paris?”

“From the beginning. You once told me it was a good place to hide, remember?”

He nodded. “I do remember. And it is.” He rested his elbows on the table and stared hard into her eyes. “But you don’t need to keep hiding.”

She hesitated, watching him closely. “I never got the chance to thank you properly. “Neither did I.”

“But without you, I’d be in prison.”

He shrugged again and gave a lazy grin. “Nah, probably by now, you’d be out.”

She flicked a piece of bread at him and he caught it in his lap. “So, you’re in Paris to see your parents?” she said.

“Yeah, it’s never easy with them but at least we talk these days.”

“And how’s Angoulême?” “Well,” he said, smoothing his palms across the table. “I have some news on that front. I’ve just sold my apartment and bought a dump in the countryside about 50km south.” His face lit up with joy as he spoke. She grinned at him.

“Have you left the police?” “No, but the plan is to do it up and then leave.”

She sat back in her chair as the waiter set two beers on the table in front of them. “It sounds idyllic.”

He nodded and took a long gulp of his drink. “Do you ever go south?”

The truth was, since arriving in Paris, she’d gone nowhere. Not even to England. Teach English. Learn French. Keep hidden. She shook her head.

He fixed her with his dark eyes again, just as he had

‘I’m pleased you got in touch,’ he said. ‘I’ve thought about you a lot’

on the very first morning they’d met. “You know, if you’re serious about thanking me properly, I could do with a hand renovating the place. I need someone to keep an eye on the workmen while I’m at the station every day. And now you speak fluent French, it’ll be easy for you. Free board and lodgings.”

Her stomach rippled. What was this? A genuine cry for help, a proposition or a joke? She still didn’t know him well enough to be sure. She laughed. “You’d really want a mad woman living with you?”

“Well, the one I spent three of the last five years living with was madder than you.” “She’s gone now?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Shall we order?”

“There’s so much to choose from,” she said, glancing down, trying not to blush.

When she looked back up, he was grinning widely, preparing to flick the bread back at her. “Isn’t that the beauty of life?” he said. “You never know what might be on the menu. It’s all down to happenstance, you know.” THE END