The Nostradamus Prophecies Read Online Free PDF Page A

thing took on a far more benevolent aspect.
    Anyway, he had an alibi. The pharmacist would remember him, surely? He’d told her all about the gypsy’s behaviour. It simply didn’t make sense for him to have tortured and killed the gypsy with his hand torn to shreds like that. The police would see that, wouldn’t they? Or would they think he’d followed the gypsy and taken revenge on him after the bar fight?
    Sabir shook his head. One thing was for certain. He needed rest. If he carried on like this he would begin to hallucinate.
    Forcing himself to stop thinking and to start acting, Sabir slewed the car across the road and down a woodland track, just two kilometres short of the village of Samois itself.

13
    ‘He’s slipped the net.’
    ‘What do you mean? How do you know that?’
    Calque raised an eyebrow. Macron was certainly coming on – no doubt about that. But imagination? Still, what could one expect from a two-metre-tall Marseillais? ‘We’ve checked all the hotels, guest houses and letting agencies. When he arrived here he had no reason to conceal his name. He didn’t know he was going to kill the gypsy. This is an American with a French mother, remember. He speaks our language perfectly. Or at least that’s what the fool claims on his website. Either he’s gone to ground in a friend’s house, or he’s bolted. My guess is that he’s bolted. In my experience it’s a rare friend who’s prepared to harbour a torturer.’
    ‘And the man who telephoned in his name?’
    ‘Find Sabir and we’ll find him.’
    ‘So we stake out Samois? Look for this Chris person?’
    Calque smiled. ‘Give the girlie a doll.’

14
    The first thing Sabir saw was a solitary deerhound crossing the ride in front of him, lost from the previous day’s exercise. Below him, dissected by trees, the River Seine sparkled in the early-morning sun.
    He climbed out of the car and stretched his legs. Five hours’ sleep. Not bad in the circumstances. Last night he’d felt nervous and on edge. Now he felt calmer – less panic-stricken about his predicament. It had been a wise move to take the turning to Samois and even wiser to pull over into the forest to sleep. Perhaps the French police wouldn’t run him to ground so easily after all? Still. Wouldn’t do to take unnecessary risks.
    Fifty metres down the track, with the car windows open, he picked up woodsmoke and the unmistakable odour of fried pork fat. At first he was tempted to ignore it and continue on his way, but hunger prevailed. Whatever happened, he had to eat. And why not here? No cameras. No cops.
    He instantly convinced himself that it would make perfect sense to offer to buy his breakfast direct from whoever happened to be doing the cooking. The mystery campers might even be able to point him towards Chris.
    Abandoning the car, Sabir cut through the woods on foot, following his nose. He could feel his stomach expanding towards the smell of the bacon. Crazy to think that he was on the run from the police. Perhaps, being campers, these people wouldn’t have had access to a television or a newspaper?
    Sabir stood for some time on the edge of the clearing, watching. It was a gypsy camp. Well. He’d lucked into it, really. He should have realised that no one in their right mind would have been camping out in a northern manorial forest in early May. August was the time for camping – otherwise, if you were French, you stayed in a hotel with your family and dined in comfort.
    One of the women saw him and called out to her husband. A bunch of children came running towards him and then stopped, in a gaggle. Two other men broke off from what they were doing and started in his direction. Sabir raised a hand in greeting.
    The hand was pulled violently from behind him and forced to the rear of his neck. He felt himself being driven down to his knees.
    Just before he lost consciousness he noticed the television mast on one of the caravans.

15
    ‘You do it, Yola. It’s your