Chasing Rainbows

Prologue

At 8.30 in the evening the black Citroen turned onto the bridge from the left bank and stopped in the middle by the central arch. The car had false plates, which had been stolen from a vehicle in Picardy earlier in the day. It really didn’t matter as there were no cameras on the bridge and the light was beginning to fade so it would not have been easy to pick out detail from a distance. Besides, the Parisians and tourists were all having their evening meals and the workers from the city were already settled with their aperitifs in the hundreds of restaurants and bars which shared the embankment with the book sellers, artist galleries and the mime artists.

The Pont Neuf spans the river Seine at one of its wider points as it meanders its way through Paris. The name translates as New Bridge, which seems rather inappropriate these days as it is one of the oldest bridges and was originally constructed in 1607. It was the first bridge in Paris which had been built without houses and commercial premises on it. The Parisii tribe of the time chose to build the crossing solely with the intention of connecting the Ĭle de la Cité with the artistic and creative Rive Gauch (left bank) rather than provide accommodation for the increasing Parisian population.

It was quite an achievement for its time, with twelve full arches, and over the centuries it has become a rather romantic Mecca for lovers, tourists, artists and the numerous river craft which pass under it every day.

The driver parked the car partly on the pavement; the passenger got out and went to the rear of the vehicle and opened the boot. The driver and passenger both wore dark suits, and had anyone been close to them it would have been obvious that the passenger by the boot was wearing a false beard and the driver a false moustache with oversized black glasses with no lenses. They would have seemed rather comical had there been any passers-by.

A naked and bound male was dragged rather unceremoniously from the boot of the car. His hands were tied behind his back with rope and his feet bound together tightly with what appeared to be masking tape. The tape had also been used across the man’s mouth and wound tightly around his head so he could not make a sound. The bound male seemed a great deal smaller and lighter than the driver and passenger, who had no trouble dragging him from the boot and pushing him to the ground of the bridge. The bound man was sweating, frightened and struggling to get to his feet but the passenger kicked him down again then pinned him to the ground with his strong knees.

From the boot of the car the driver took out a black bag. It was a soft bag, not leather but the type a labourer might carry containing tools. He opened the bag and removed what looked like a kitchen knife with a partly serrated edge. The bound man saw this and tried to struggle but was pinned tighter to the ground by the passenger, who pressed the man’s head to the hard concrete. The driver took hold of the bound man’s right ear and sliced it free from the frightened man’s body using the serrated edge. Blood ran across the pavement. The pain was horrific and the naked man screamed inside but no sounds came out.

The ear was wiped with a tissue to take away some of the warm blood, then placed in a small clear plastic bag the driver took from his pocket. He then placed the bag into a small leather pouch and put it back into the boot. The driver then pulled out the three-metre piece of chain from the tool-bag which would be used to snap the frightened man’s neck.

Their instructions from the man in charge were quite clear. The frightened man was to be hanged from the central arch of the bridge and one of his ears was to be removed; this would be sent to his ten year old daughter as a reminder that her beloved father had been dispatched by a man of considerable power. It was a message not only to the family but the whole of the Paris police department. It would be handed to the girl when she arrived at school the following morning. The man in charge needed to make an example. The man in charge was currently hosting a cocktail party in an apartment on the fashionable Rue Foch for some of the quarter’s most influential businessmen and artisans. The man in charge paid attention to detail and had a reputation to protect.

One end of the chain was wrapped around the frightened and naked man’s neck and the other around the base of the old gas-light column. His pleas for mercy, which sounded like the squeal of a pig, fell on deaf ears as the passenger lifted the bound man onto the wall of the bridge and tossed him over the side without a moment’s hesitation.

His neck snapped and he no longer squealed.

***

Ellie May Watson from Weaver, Kentucky, sat on the top deck of the glass-topped Seine cruiser and looked around at the magnificent sights of Paris. She could hardly believe how lucky she was; if only her friends back home could see her now. Ellie and her husband Gerald Watson the third glided slowly along the river on one of the magical Bateaux Mouches, the famous Parisian tourist boats, and were about to enjoy real French wine and real French food. The boat was lit up by the hundreds of garland lights along its side and reflecting in the river. From the speakers came the distinct sound of Edith Piaf. Ellie had heard the woman’s voice before and made a mental note to ask the captain who was singing. She would get a CD of the women – real French music played on American stereo systems. How her friends would be impressed.

Could life get any better, honey? she said to Gerald and looked up through the glass ceiling as they approached the central arch of the famous Pont Neuf bridge.

It took only a few confused seconds to recognise that it was a body hanging from the bridge that the glass top of the boat had hit, and, as she let out the scream, the dead man’s bowels opened up.

Ellie May Watson from Weaver, Kentucky, never returned to Europe.

CHAPTER ONE

Part One: Nick

Every year it never fails to surprise and comfort me.

It’s how the effect of the warm sun beating down on you can make you forget life’s little problems. Sitting here in the garden, my own garden, surrounded by brightly coloured azaleas and rhododendrons, with that always-welcome smell of a very early jasmine in the air, allows your worries and fears to sink into insignificance.

But only for a while.

The spring has always been my favourite time of year, probably for the promise it holds for the coming months. I know then that the summer is merely a breath away when lifestyles and attitudes change and the inhibitions of winter are folded away like old clothes. It’s that crucial time of year when one is surrounded by a myriad of fresh new colours and tanned faces. When conversation, laughter and young wine erupt like a dormant and stopped fountain that’s been corked for far too long.

Do you see what I mean?

The warmer weather suddenly makes even the language I use more lyrical, encapsulating and decadent.

It’s the sunshine and light which make all the difference here – they were, after all, the main reasons we chose to live in the south-west corner of France. We had all loved French culture and (most importantly) French cuisine. At the beginning I was rather apprehensive about packing my bags and family and buying what started out to be a holiday home across the Channel. But then everything about our normal lives had changed so the move then became no big deal. It’s times like this, though, sitting in the garden and just being at peace with the whole world, that make it all worthwhile and dispel those little niggling doubts that perhaps it was all a big mistake.

When I return to England, people interested in moving or buying a second home abroad often ask me for advice. Whether or not it was easy to move lock, stock and barrel across La Manche and is property really that cheap and how much do I pay for wine? I often reply that it’s a dreadful place to live, that jobs are hard to come by and it’s only cheap because the place is falling to bits, the French can’t be bothered with it and getting people to work for you is a nightmare. I tell them that most of the wine is third rate because Marks and Spencer’s and Waitrose have bought all the best stock and that the French are the hardest people to live with. I attempt to baffle them with the restrictions laid down by the European Parliament and tell them if they believe the Common Market has made things difficult in the UK then it’s about one hundred times worse across the Channel.

And why shouldn’t I?

Here, then, just outside Perpignan, in the shadow of the Pyrenees and only a few minutes’ drive to some of Europe’s best beaches and the smoothest skiing, I’ve found my little piece of heaven. The last thing I want is this beautiful and unspoiled region to be full of ex-pats and Germans buying property on every corner and propping up every bar and taking over restaurants, as they have done in Brittany.

If you want my advice, I sincerely point out, learn by my mistakes and if you must live in France then choose Brittany or Peter Mayle country in Provence, as they have more to offer.

I wonder how many innocents over the years I have deterred from living here in the Lanquedoc-Rousillon region.

When we bought the old mill house it had already been derelict for about fifteen years that we knew about, and none of us had any idea how much work would be involved in restoring it. The neglected plot was such a wreck when we first drove up, and we frankly had no idea of what type of building it was – had it not said on the agent’s details that it was a mill then it would have remained a mystery. It was initially romantic of course. It always is when you view a property. The potential always stands out and your imagination runs riot. But, then, that’s the easy part. After all, very little physical energy is used sitting out on a terrace that has not yet been built or sipping crisp, dry wine under a warm sun. Our estimates of time involved in creating rather than uncovering our dream home ranged from three to six months. But then we were naive and that was English time. It’s turned out to be a good few years and still we haven’t got around to fixing up a couple of the smaller outbuildings. But I am now happy to accept Sally’s view that some buildings should remain lifeless shells as a tribute to the past.

Good old Sally – always full of bright ideas.

We did get our priorities right with the garden, though, and it was the first area we started working on. In my experience most English people tend to fix the house up first and then after about a year they start to pay attention to the garden. We did it the other way around, though. It was the reason for living part of the year in a better climate and we had hoped that a great deal of our time was going to be spent outside so it felt more important. Besides we knew nothing about plastering, damp-coursing, septic tanks or woodworm so the garden was relatively easy for city dwellers like us.

And the rewards of doing the garden first have now paid off.

I’m sitting here at an old wicker table we found and rescued from one of the barns, sipping Normandy cider with the daily newspapers in English and French spread out before me and contemplating whether or not today, this beautiful fresh April day, is a day for working or relaxation. The sky really is a crystal blue and the gentle breeze is stopping the sun from making me too uncomfortable. I think I’ll have another glass and sit here a little longer. After all, next week Eamon and I will be working on the next issue of the magazine so I’ll need to recharge my batteries. Besides it’s all written down on the notepad in the back of my brain and the laptop he insisted I learnt how to handle. I do have a tablet and an android device to make notes with but the keyboards tend to be too small for my fingers so I like to rely on my brain. Needless to say, I forget most things but have been known to remember important points at the last minute.

The house is just a twenty-minute drive from where Eamon works, L’Institute des Langues du Monde in the centre of Perpignan. He’s a teacher of English as a second language and, according to his students, the best. It was his job and the early eighties that brought us here. It was then that the British and Germans had only just discovered how cheap property was in France. For about a quarter of the price of a reasonable house in the UK you could buy a mansion in the French countryside. All run-down of course but, with a little imagination, some hard work and a basic understanding of French bureaucracy you could end up with a stunning house in beautiful and unspoiled country. The upkeep and the bottomless pit of money you needed to keep it going were just a silly notion and really nothing whatsoever to do with us. At the time we moved here I worked for an English estate agent and though the commission was not really enough to make a living, I built up a good working relationship with a number of the local tradesmen. Eamon’s earnings were very good for the area but I’ve never been the type of person to sit around all day and do very little. He suggested that I give up work as he was earning enough to keep both of us but that was not for me. For years I had harboured thoughts of becoming a police officer and that desire to join the force became a bit of a continuous theme in my life; I still believe that one day it will happen.

Before long, and with my French getting better every day, I became project manager for many of the British who bought second homes in the region.

There was a great buzz then surrounding the whole of the property scene in France and there really were some fantastic bargains that offered genuine opportunities for buying into an alternative lifestyle. They Brits surprised me when they turned up not even knowing how to ask for a beer – well perhaps just a beer – and simply expected the local Maries to speak English. But that was to my advantage and I suddenly found myself going from wondering what to do all day to finding myself very much in demand. The downfall, however, was that the mill was put on the back-burner for a few years, but I was able to learn my trade at the expense of others so that when I did eventually get around to doing our own home I already had the advantage of dealing with French property and building regulations, which I would advise anyone to steer clear of.

But the idea of starting an English and German magazine for the new influx of home-owners surprised all of us with its popularity. We didn’t have the benefit of the internet then so hours had to be spent proofreading and cutting and pasting in every sense of the words. I have to say, though, that it was not all down to me. I had the best illustrator and artist on hand and absolutely free of charge – well, my daughter Sally could hardly charge me for her work and nor could my lover for his translating skills. Obviously it was going to succeed. There was such a demand for the communication skills then, and the French are a rather nepotistic bunch, so I already had the upper hand.

Sally really was a great help when we set the magazine up. She has a magic eye for detail and colour, and did some really fabulous illustrations, which I have to admit I have shamefully reaped the rewards for. But she is my daughter and one day what’s mine and Eamon’s will be hers.

Okay, so it makes me seem insincere and selfish but I do consider myself to be very lucky indeed and it’s a long way from when we lived in London and I worked for one of the large clearing banks. Life was so very different then – I sometimes wonder whether or not it was just a dream. Or worse, that one day I’ll wake up and find that this is the dream. I really do not want to and probably could not cope again with the frustration and degradation of driving through crowded, dirty streets. I still love London and enjoy the architecture and the arts and the history. But there are just too many people now – much more than a few years ago – and I find it a total obstacle course simply walking along the pavement.

But for the moment I am in France and all is well. It’s eighteen years since Eamon and I began to share home, life and love together, and our beautiful daughter is Sally.

I refer to her as our daughter – not through any genetic miracle or a complicated arrangement with a surrogate mother. She is my flesh and blood but over the years Eamon has proved himself to be the perfect parent and we constantly correct people if they refer to us as Sally’s father and his friend. Eamon is as proud of her as I am.

She’s now twenty-two years old and at university in La Rochelle on the beautiful east coast and training to be an art teacher. Eamon and I were aware she was gifted at drawing and painting when she was eight years old and we encouraged her as much as possible. We were not the type of parents who would force a child into doing something they did not want or mould them into someone they had not decided to be for themselves. An easy and common mistake to make which I believe many parents make. We still have many of the paintings and drawings dotted about the house she did as a child. We refer to them as our insurance and pension that will look after us in our twilight years. Many boozy evenings have been spent telling her what must be done with the vast fortune the paintings will fetch and how Eamon and I will need to be looked after, preferably by an expensive and handsome male nurse. Sally would have to recite the instructions in both French and English so there could be no mistake. She would often have a friend with her and I think some of them were unsure as to whether or not we really meant it or we were just nuts. The sight of two fully grown gay men, a little plastered and making fools of themselves, was possibly a worrying sight for some of them.

We always looked forward to those evenings.

I think it’s the cheaper wine and cheeses which caused many of these slightly embarrassing evenings.

Every few months we return to England to see the respective families but mainly to freshen up Maggie’s grave.

Maggie, my precious, darling Maggie was my wife and Sally’s natural mother. She still is my wife and always will be but she died when Sally was only two years old. My biggest regret is that Sally never knew her mother though we have spent many, many hours talking about her. I think there can be nothing about Maggie that Sally does not know. But I still wish that she was available, not only now but particularly when Sally became a teenager and all the problems that brought.

Maggie was my childhood sweetheart – an old-fashioned saying I like to use and find really rather warming. We’d known each other since we were twelve years old and from the first day at secondary school. I was in love with her from the moment I saw her in the corridor of Blue House, our home school team. To me she was a woman at that age and my heart started skipping beats from the moment she walked into the classroom. She appeared much more mature than the other girls though we didn’t really get to know each other well until we were thirteen. Our non-descript uniform looked stunning on her – always sharp and well fitted. She had dark, curly hair which sat neatly on her shoulders and a few little freckles that were quite dark and appealing. All I wanted to do was look at her all day but I couldn’t – my classmates would have seen me as a sad loser, nutter, screwball, wanker or tosser, so I pretended to ignore her presence.

To her, I was just a spotty, snotty-nosed little boy just into long trousers, and, though I was a full eight months older than her, I often acted as if I was just eight years old. It wasn’t really surprising that she thought of me that way as I gave her every reason to. On one occasion in a biology class, we covered menstruation. Not a good topic for a class of nine girls and