by Mark McKay
Chapter 3
The Gare du Nord was buzzing. A full Eurostar disgorged its cargo of visitors and returning French nationals, who then proceeded to negotiate a concourse of travellers of all nationalities, headed for destinations all over Europe. Nick noted what he thought must surely be the regular London to Paris mob. They revealed themselves by their stern expressions and fleet footedness as they outdistanced their less experienced rivals in a sort of subdued sprint towards the nearest taxi rank.
‘They’re getting away,’ said Lauren. ‘We’ll never get a taxi.’
‘Fortunately, we don’t need one. The hotel is just around the corner.’
She gave him a sideways stare. ‘Right next to the station? What happened to the “romantic” part of your suggestion?’
He laughed. ‘As I recall, it was you who came up with that. Don’t worry. If it’s anything like the pictures on the website, you’ll love it.’
The Hotel Mademoiselle was a five minute walk away. They entered a light and airy reception area and booked in and then made their way upstairs.
‘We have an “Allure” room,’ said Lauren. ‘Hope it lives up to its name.’
It wasn’t a large room, but it was tastefully furnished and decorated in a muted grey theme, with a silky matching bedspread and large flat screen TV. The one large window on the sloping outer wall opened to reveal a view of the hotel courtyard. Lauren nodded her approval.
‘It’s nice.’ She smiled. ‘I think the word is “intimate”.’
‘Yes, and there’s a hell of a lot to see and do around here. We won’t be bored.’
‘When are you seeing your French counterpart?’
‘Tomorrow at 10. He’s picking me up. In fact, this whole thing will only take half a day at most, I hope. Then we have a completely free weekend.’
‘Come on then, let’s start now by finding a good restaurant. I’m starving.’
The Friday morning dawned with billowing white clouds in a blue Paris sky. After breakfast, they considered Lauren’s itinerary.
‘There’s a huge indoor market close by, that should keep me going till you’re back again,’ she said. ‘The girl on reception gave me directions.’
‘Buy lots of wine and cheese please, as much as you can carry.’
The room phone interrupted their deliberations. Nick picked up.
‘Yes, thank you. I’m expecting him.’ He turned to Lauren. ‘Captain Michel Bonnaire is downstairs. Time to go to work.’
She kissed him. ‘Call me when you’re done.’
Bonnaire sat in reception, reading Le Monde. A big man in his forties, he had the bulk of a prop forward, with one slightly mauled ear and a nose that looked to have been broken at some stage and not properly reset. Nick wondered if it was a souvenir of a rugby injury or whether it had been inflicted on the job. He certainly looked like the type of guy you wouldn’t want to upset. Casually dressed in jeans and leather jacket, the tough guy image was briefly dispelled when he rose to greet Nick with a broad smile.
‘Bonjour, Monsieur Severance. Welcome to Paris.’
They shook, Nick’s hand enveloped in the other man’s strong grasp. ‘Bonjour. Let me warn you, my French isn’t good.’
Bonnaire relaxed his grip. ‘That’s OK. Mine is.’ He laughed and then his features relapsed into a serious professional stoicness. ‘My mother was English. You have nothing to worry about. Let’s go.’
There was a Peugeot parked outside. They pulled out into the busy morning traffic.
‘Always crazy around here,’ remarked Bonnaire. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Le Roux in half an hour. I will translate if necessary, but he speaks English when he wants to.’
‘You know him?’
Bonnaire kept his eyes on the road and deflected the question. ‘I wasn’t told very much about your visit, but I arranged the appointment and simply said you wanted a statement to eliminate him from your enquiry. Correct?’
‘Yes, and his colleague, or whoever she is. Sylvie Dajani.’
‘She will be there. She is his personal assistant. We’re going to his gallery.’ He stole a quick glance at Nick. ‘Tell me about the murder in London, please.’
Nick filled in the blanks. Bonnaire nodded his head once or twice throughout, but ventured no comment.
‘It’s all routine, I hope,’ said Nick. ‘But with the phone call from Montmartre and Le Roux being French and in the vicinity of the killing, I just need to tick him off the list.’
‘But you have a feeling about him, perhaps? I’m sure there were many Frenchmen in London that day.’
‘Yes, but they weren’t all staying at the Neptune hotel.’
Bonnaire grunted and said nothing more. Nick wondered what he was keeping to himself and decided not to force the issue. Not yet, anyway.
By now they had crossed the Seine, in a virtual straight line from their starting point. ‘This is Montparnasse,’ explained Bonnaire. ‘Many art galleries here.’ He turned off the Boulevard St. Michel into a quiet residential street consisting of smart apartments spread over several storeys, many sporting elaborate wrought iron balconies and fronted at street level by solid, high wooden doors.
‘Not exactly Bond Street,’ muttered Nick. ‘Where is it?’
‘Very discreet, I think. Just here, on the right.’
They pulled in. The gallery certainly didn’t advertise itself. There was a simple gold plated sign on the door, which read: ‘La Oasis - Galerie d’Art Islamique’. The window to the left of it looked as solid as the door and was protected with a black latticework iron grille. Bonnaire rang the bell. A voice emanating from the entrance speaker asked him who he was and once that was established, the door clicked open.
They stepped into a hallway, which extended for some distance before terminating in a flight of stairs. A set of double doors halfway down the hall opened and a woman emerged to greet them. Of medium height and slim build, she wore a long sleeved, three quarter length dark blue silk dress, with fine silver stitching on the cuffs and hem. Her jet black shoulder length hair was loose but brushed into perfect order and her face had a light Middle Eastern texture, with full lips and very brown eyes. No older than forty guessed Nick, and elegantly understated in a way that shrieked money.
Bonnaire introduced himself and gestured at Nick as a few words were exchanged in French.
‘I’m Sylvie,’ she said. Her accent was part French and part something else. ‘You came all the way from London to see us, I believe.’ She smiled and shook his hand briefly. ‘Please, come through.’
They entered the gallery, which was a spacious room running the length of the place, with a high plain white ceiling and a large skylight and azure painted walls. French doors at the rear opened on to a small garden. There were a few paintings on the wall, some showing scenes of court life in exotic Middle Eastern settings of centuries past, others with examples of calligraphy that meant nothing to Nick. And a few ceramic pieces on plinths throughout the room, dishes of deep blue with complex geometric patterning and vases of all shapes, covered in intricate, swirling motifs. For a minute he was distracted by the sheer beauty of these objects.
‘Where is Monsieur Le Roux?’ asked Bonnaire.
‘I’m here.’ David Le Roux had come in behind them. Impeccably dressed in a tailored dark suit, he was a silver haired fifty-something, with sharply defined features and a darker complexion than Sylvie. They shared the same Middle Eastern heritage, in Nick’s opinion. Le Roux’s English was very deliberately spoken and as a result only slightly accented, as though he’d spent a lot of time on getting the pronunciation just right. All part of establishing his credibility with his cultured English clients, perhaps.
‘Come over here, we can sit down.’ He led the way towards a table and chairs situated by the doors, overlooking the garden. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Would you like something to drink?’ offered Sylvie.
Both Nick and Bonnaire shook their hea
ds, as one. ‘If you could join us Ms Dajani, this won’t take long.’
She sat facing him, Le Roux to his right. ‘I’m investigating a death in London, as I think Captain Bonnaire has told you. And we’re taking statements from all French nationals who were staying in the vicinity. Just routine.’
‘This was a shooting, was it not?’ said Le Roux, a look of concern clouding his features. ‘Why French nationals?’
‘We have reason to believe a French national was involved. Can you tell me the purpose of your visit to London?’
‘Yes, of course. I was meeting a potential client. We had a meeting on the Tuesday morning.’
‘Where was that?’
‘Mayfair. We met at 11 for about an hour, I think. He was interested in acquiring some tenth century Iranian ceramic pieces.’
‘What were you doing before 11am?’
There was a quick exchange of glances between Sylvie and Le Roux before he answered. ‘Nothing. We arrived late on the Monday and had a leisurely breakfast the next morning. Then we checked out and went to Mayfair. You can confirm all this with the hotel.’
‘And your client?’
‘I’ll give you his name and contact details before you leave.’
‘So you had no other business to conduct while in London?’
‘None whatsoever.’
Nick closed his notebook. ‘I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, but as I said, simply routine.’
They stood. Le Roux stayed standing by the table as Sylvie walked them out. ‘I hope you will see Paris while you’re here, Monsieur,’ she said. ‘Or are you going straight back?’
‘Staying the weekend, thought I’d combine business with pleasure.’
‘Enjoy. The details of our client are in this envelope.’ Nick placed it in his jacket pocket, just as she opened the door and with a gentle smile, ushered them out.
Bonnaire guided the Peugeot back to the Boulevard St. Michel.
‘You were quiet,’ remarked Nick.
‘They are cool, aren’t they,’ replied Bonnaire.
‘What do you mean?’
‘We have an interest in those two. As a matter of potential national security, actually.’
‘What? Why didn’t you say so?’
Bonnaire grinned. ‘I just wanted to see you in action first.’
Nick was irritated. ‘Jesus, no one said anything about national security concerns.’
‘OK, calm down. I’m about to explain. They are both French nationals of course, they both have French mothers. But the fathers are from Iraq. Le Roux’s father was some government official who turned up here in 1962, just prior to the coup that overthrew the Iraqi government. He was granted political asylum, met a French girl and promptly got her pregnant. The result you met just now.’
‘Le Roux doesn’t sound like an Iraqi name.’
‘He changed it.’
‘And Sylvie?’
‘She is thirty-seven, so fifteen years younger than him. Her father was another official, who saw Saddam coming and decided to get out during a trade mission in 1976. He also married a French woman.’
‘And all this makes them a security risk?’
Bonnaire swore in rapid fire French as a Citroen cut in front of him. ‘No, mon ami. We do know that both Le Roux and Dajani were in Baghdad in 2003, when Iraq was, shall we say, liberated. Visiting family, apparently. Some of whom were killed in the bombardment of that city. We think that experience might have engendered some anti-western feeling. To a certain extent, this is conjecture on our part.’
‘So, why are you worried?’
‘They didn’t return to France for a year after that. It is possible that they acted on their anti-western sentiment by visiting a terrorist training camp in Pakistan. They have never been implicated in any terrorist activity, but they are in and out of the Middle East all the time, allegedly buying art works for their discerning European customers.’
‘So you have no proof then?’
‘Just rumours and evidence of contact with known terrorist sympathisers. All under the cover of legitimate business, of course. We think Le Roux is channelling money for a number of unsavoury people. Why, we aren’t sure.’
‘So I wonder how that would tie in with the murder of a historical researcher in London.’
‘The telephone call, you say it came from Montmartre?’
‘Yes.’
‘Sylvie Dajani has an apartment in Montmartre.’
Nick felt a quick stab of excitement, but kept his response low key. ‘That’s interesting.’ He stared at the road for a minute, considering the implications. ‘Co-incidence, maybe. I can’t arrest her for having an apartment in Montmartre.’
‘If anyone is going to arrest her, it will be me,’ said Bonnaire. ‘I suggest that we stay in contact. I can keep an eye on their movements in and out of France, we do that anyway, but I don’t know how much that will help you. There are no resources available to watch them round the clock.’
‘That might be overkill, right now. If they are involved I need a motive. So far there’s nothing to suggest one. What I will do is monitor their arrivals and departures from the UK, going forward. When and if I know something of interest, I’ll call you.’
Bonnaire dropped him back at the hotel. Lauren was still out shopping he assumed, so he called her.
‘Still at the market, come and join me.’
St. Quentin Market was just around the corner in the Boulevard de Magenta, he was there in five minutes. They bought a selection of cheeses and two bottles of claret and then found a little Italian restaurant for a light lunch. Lauren ordered a bean salad and he settled on a shrimp scampi, with lemon and pepper sauce. He asked the waiter for a bottle of Orvieto.
‘Not for me,’ said Lauren, ‘get a half bottle.’
‘Alright. Not thirsty?’
She was still scanning the menu and shook her head without looking up. ‘Mineral water will do.’
The waiter departed. Lauren was still absorbed in a seemingly fascinating study of Italian cuisine.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
She met his eyes. ‘Nothing. How did it go this morning?’
‘Well, nobody confessed to murder.’
‘Is that good or bad?’
‘Good for the rest of our weekend.’
‘I want to go to the Louvre tomorrow, is that OK?’
‘Sure.’
The food arrived. Lauren picked at it distractedly, then after a minute she meticulously arranged her knife and fork on either side of the plate, took a sip of water, and sighed.
‘I’m pregnant.’
He paused in the action of lifting a shrimp from the plate. ‘Ah.’ Then deposited it in his mouth.
‘Is that all you’re going to say?’
He reached for the wine and took a generous mouthful. ‘I wondered when you were going to tell me.’
‘You mean you knew? How could you possibly know?’ Her voice rose on the last word, colour rushing to her cheeks. ‘Of course, you’re the bloody detective aren’t you? Nothing escapes your notice, does it?’
He put down the wine glass a little too firmly and the stem broke. The bowl and its contents met the floor and shattered. Heads turned.
‘Don’t hold me responsible if you can’t remember to take your bloody pills,’ he shot back. ‘And don’t get angry with me, either.’
She glared at him, eyes blazing. ‘Bastard.’ She picked up her fork and plunged it into an unfortunate bean. ‘You broke your glass.’
The waiter was already hurrying across with a replacement, plus a dustpan and brush. There were a few seconds of silence while he removed the debris and while the surrounding diners, realising the show was over, went back to their own conversations.
‘Are we going to discuss this like adults?’ hissed Lauren, while another bean was mercilessly disposed of.
‘Do you want it?’
She was calmer. ‘I don’t know. D
o you want it?’
‘How on earth would I fit a child into my life, my job? I work all sorts of hours.’
‘And what about my so called brilliant career?’
He reached across the table and covered her hand with his. She started, but didn’t pull away.
‘It’s a shock for both of us,’ he said. ‘Can we discuss it properly later?’
She nodded, but he knew the issue wasn’t going anywhere. He topped up his new wine glass, while she avoided his gaze and occupied herself by carefully rounding up the remaining beans and assembling them into a neat pile on the side of her plate.
The subject remained closed for the rest of the weekend, but neither the glorious sights in the Louvre nor the glittering splendour of the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles were enough to banish it from mind completely. Lauren was plainly irritated by the fact he wouldn’t talk about it and became progressively more detached herself. By the time the Eurostar returned to London on the Sunday evening, their conversation was at a virtual standstill.
Nick found it hard to concentrate at work. The case was going nowhere fast, it looked like it might quietly simmer away and lose momentum. His gut told him that Le Roux and Dajani had some connection with Simon’s death, but without any evidence it might just as well be wishful thinking.
There were no more obvious candidates to interview from the Neptune’s guest list for the night preceding the murder. Yvonne reported back to say that Charlotte had just arrived at work at the time of her brother’s killing and had a statement from her boss James Owen to back it up. Not that he thought Charlotte had any involvement, at all. And if Rebecca Slade had killed Simon and then rung him an hour or so later pretending to wonder where he was, then she was certainly a cool customer. Her tears over Simon had seemed real enough. No, the question of motive lay in whatever Simon had been up to in India. London and Paris were currently dead ends.
‘Did the pathologist recover the bullet?’ he asked Yvonne. ‘He should have by now.’
‘Yes sir, it’s a 7.62mm bullet.’
‘Good, now all we need is the gun that fired it.’
‘It must have been very well silenced, if no one in the coffee bar heard anything.’
He gave her an appraising look. ‘Yes, good point. Speaking of coffee,’ he continued, as he extracted a ten pound note from his wallet. ‘Would you mind? Get yourself one, too.’
‘Don’t you like the office coffee then, sir?’ Yvonne took the money. ‘With all due respect, I’m not the gopher around here.’
‘I won’t make a habit of it. And I’m buying, does that help?’
Yvonne raised her eyebrows and pursed her lips, then walked off. Great, he thought, my bad mood is contagious. ‘Did you find Simon’s SIM card from India?’ he called after her.
‘With Jamie,’ she said, without turning around.
Jamie hadn’t found time to examine the SIM card, nor had he succeeded in cracking Simon’s elusive password. The list of Simon’s friends and acquaintances had come from Charlotte, who had warned Yvonne that it was almost certainly incomplete.
‘Sorry Nick, I’m up to my eyes,’ said Jamie, who looked slightly worn. ‘I’ll see if the service provider can give me an unlock code.’
‘Soon as you can please.’ Why didn’t he just do that in the first place? When he went back upstairs, he had a message to call a DCI in Cambridge. He sat quietly at his desk for a minute and tried to concentrate on curbing his unwarranted irritation with everyone around him today. After several long breaths he thought he might have partially succeeded, so he picked up his desk phone and returned the call.
Five minutes later his mood had darkened considerably. The Cambridge DCI had told him that in the course of his own murder enquiry, the name Rebecca Slade had come up on the police database as a cross reference to Nick’s case. Apparently the victim had sent Ms Slade some old manuscripts about two months before he was killed. Did Nick think there was any connection between the two murders?
‘When was he killed?’ asked Nick.
‘Friday morning,’ replied DCI Matthews.
When I was in Paris talking to Dajani and Le Roux, thought Nick. ‘How?’
‘Shot at close range, with a 7.62mm bullet.’
‘Do you have any leads? Witnesses?’
‘Nothing. He was out early morning in the countryside, walking the dog. A jogger found the bodies.’
‘Bodies?’
‘Whoever it was shot the dog too.’
‘And you have no suspect?’
‘No suspect and no motive either.’
Nick thought for a moment. ‘Yes, I think there may well be a connection. But I don’t think it’s Rebecca Slade.’
He promised to share what he had and asked DCI Matthews to do the same. On that note, their conversation ended.
In the meantime, Yvonne had returned with the coffee. He told her what Matthews had just told him.
‘There must be a connection,’ she said, her irritation at being sent out on a trivial errand vanishing.
‘I agree. I need to speak to Rebecca Slade again. Can you raise her for me?’
Yvonne nodded and left to do just that. He wondered what the connection could be. The common denominator was the manuscript, but why shoot the man when he’d already sent it? There had to be another reason, maybe Rebecca could shed some light on it. He stared into space for the next five minutes seeking inspiration, but none was forthcoming. Then Yvonne was back.
‘She’s gone, sir.’
He straightened up in his chair. ‘What do you mean, gone?’
‘I got no answer on the mobile number, so I called the SOAS switchboard and they put me through to someone in the research department. Rebecca took a flight to India on Saturday morning. He thinks it was Kolkata she was going to.’
‘Was that all he could tell you? Was it part of her research remit, or what?’
‘Apparently not. She just announced she was taking some time off and left. He has no idea why.’
But I do, thought Nick. With the body count mounting, he could only wonder if she would be any safer looking for long lost tombs in India than she would be digging through arcane manuscripts in Russell Square. Somehow he doubted it.
