by Peter May
She was carrying a woven shopping basket and had a black headscarf tied loosely around her hair. He followed her, recklessly close, all the way down through the town, past the Carretera del Dr. Callis and a tiny art gallery on the corner to the Casa de la Vila at the bottom of the hill. He leaned on the rail and looked down into the clear, green water of the bay below and watched his mother climb stiffly down the steps to the curve of the harbour road.
He wondered again what point there was in this. Perhaps he was simply delaying the moment when he would have to decide what to do next, but still he felt strangely compelled to go after her.
Past the café-bar in the Casino, she turned off the Place Frederic Rahola into the main street opposite the town’s long, shingle beach and climbed steps into a small supermarket. Richard lingered for several minutes out on the sidewalk before following her in. He hovered, pretending to look at the wine, as she chose a selection of fresh vegetables from tiered racks, then felt his heart seize suddenly solid as she turned in his direction. She, too, wore dark glasses, so he couldn’t see her eyes. But she stopped, for all the world as if time had simply decided to stand still. She was looking right at him. Right through him. What were maybe only a few seconds seemed to stretch into eternity, but he felt naked, bathed in the spotlight of her confusion and uncertainty. And he turned and hurried from the shop without looking back. His heart was hammering against his ribs so hard he felt sure that people in the street could hear it above the noise of the traffic. He daren’t stop. He kept on walking until he knew there was no way she could still see him, then he pressed himself against a wall and tried to control his breathing.
He had been foolish, careless, and wondered if she had realised. If there was any way she could have recognised him. And, of course, he knew that there was.
It was time to go. Time to get on with the rest of his life. And it had occurred to him now exactly where to start.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Miramont, November 2008
Returning to Miramont, tucked away in its mountain valley high up in the Cantal, was an anticlimax after Paris. Enzo was not quite certain why Raffin had opted to come with him, but suspected that the journalist was being drawn back by an interest in Anna. There was no doubt that she was an attractive woman, and Raffin had so clearly been fascinated by her that first night. Enzo was uncomfortable with the thought but had no evidence with which to back it up. And so he held his peace.
When they got there, it seemed colder than before, although the sky, if anything, was a clearer, deeper blue. The winter sun cut the sharpest of shadows among the folds of the hills that rose up around the house, and the frost stayed white all day in those shaded places that the sunlight never reached.
Enzo had spent a restless few days at Raffin’s apartment in the Rue Tournon, just a stone’s throw away from the Sénat, and the wide-open spaces of the Luxembourg Gardens. The weather had been grey, and misty, and cold, and he had passed the time walking in the park, wading through the drifts of leaves, drinking coffee and reading the papers behind the steamed-up windows of the crowded café-restaurant near the north gate.
It was not until the fourth day that he received word from the laboratory of the police scientifique. Cells had been recovered from the dried mucus on Lambert’s pull, and a DNA profile successfully obtained. Enzo felt a sense of triumph. They had the killer’s code. All they needed now was to find a match. But that was likely to take time and to be a complex and labyrinthine process.
‘Why?’ Nicole demanded to know on his return.
And Enzo explained that it was because they had no idea what databases to search. There were twenty-seven countries in the European Union, each with its own DNA database. And while they had all signed up the previous year to the Prüm Agreement, allowing national law enforcement agencies automatic access to the DNA and fingerprint databases of other member states, Enzo did not constitute a national law enforcement agency.
‘So how are you going to get access to them?’ Nicole said.
‘I’m not. Jean-Marie Martinot, the cop who handled the original investigation, has to persuade his former colleagues to re-open the case. Even then, they’ll still have to sell the idea to the Police Nationale. And you know how quickly French bureaucracy moves, Nicole. It could be a while.’
‘Well, if he’s on anyone’s database, it’ll probably be ours.’
Enzo shrugged. ‘Maybe, maybe not. The French database is pretty limited. The British have got the biggest in Europe. In fact, the biggest in the world. But there’s nothing to say he’s on any of the European computers. There are dozens of databases around the world now. And then, of course, there are the Americans, who have the second biggest. Getting access to that will generate a blizzard of paperwork all on its own.’
They were in the computer room at the back of the house. Nicole had several screens up and running. Enzo ran his eyes across them. ‘So how’s the search for the good doctor going?’
She made a face. ‘It’s not. There are loads of agencies and directories. It’s hard to believe, but a lot of them don’t even have photographs. Then there are all these sites with so-called actors advertising their services.’ She blushed. ‘Mostly it’s about sex. You know, exotic dancers, escorts. That sort of thing. But I think you might find it easier to identify your doctor with his clothes on.’
Enzo smiled. ‘I think I’d know the face, no matter what.’
‘Well, I’ve got a few for you to look at. I’m not too confident, though.’
In fact, she had fifteen jpegs collected in a folder. Enzo leaned over the desk as she opened them one by one. These were photographs taken by professionals, always against a neutral backdrop, faces lit to show them off to best advantage. Those with few advantages had their deficiencies masked by soft focus. A catalogue of men in their forties showing teeth that were too white, pulling in paunches, smiling eyes trying hard to hide an optimism long lost to failure. None of them was his doctor.
Nicole grimaced an apology. ‘I’ll keep looking.’
Enzo had been disappointed by the coolness with which he had been greeted by Anna. He had hoped for the same warmth with which she had sent him off. The taste and scent of her remained vivid in his recollection. But she was still being discreet in front of his daughters.
Now, as he left the study, she was waiting for him at the foot of the spiral staircase and gave him a quick kiss and squeezed his hand. ‘I missed you,’ she whispered.
He ran his hand up through her hair to cup the back of her head in his hand and draw her to him to kiss her back. A much longer kiss, filled with the passion aroused by her very proximity. She drew away, smiling, and wagged a finger at him.
‘Not in front of the children.’
He grinned.
She took his hand. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’ And she led him into the séjour, where she had removed all the paintings from one wall to mount a large whiteboard at eye-level. He had told her at some point how he liked to think visually. How at home he always worked on a whiteboard, jotting down thoughts and observations, trying to find links between them and connecting them with arrows.
He looked at it in astonishment. ‘Where on earth did you manage to find that?’
She shrugged dismissively. ‘A few phone calls, and a monsieur from the village to install it.’
‘But won’t your friends object to you defacing their house like this?’
‘Oh, they won’t mind.’
Enzo thought, if it was his house, he would have minded. But all he said was, ‘Thank you.’ And kissed her again to demonstrate his gratitude. ‘How have things been?’
She tilted her head a little to one side. ‘Okay.’ But she didn’t sound convincing. ‘Sophie’s pretty restless. And Bertrand, too. I think he wants to get back and sort out his gym.’
Enzo sighed. ‘I feel bad about that. But it’s not safe yet. It really isn’t.’
‘Anyway, they go for long walks, and they lunch sometim
es in the village. They’re out right now.’
‘What about Kirsty?’
Anna made a face. ‘I think she’s still in shock, Enzo. Someone tried to murder her, after all. And her best friend was killed. Roger didn’t call once, and she’s spent most of her time in her room. He’s up there with her now.’
Enzo didn’t even want to think about what they might be doing. He said, ‘I’ve got something I want everyone to listen to. But I’ll leave it until after we’ve eaten tonight.’ He took her face in his hands. ‘Is anyone helping you with the cooking?’
She let him kiss her and laughed and said, ‘I’m enjoying it, Enzo. It’s such a long time since I had anyone to cook for but myself.’
He slipped the cassette into the stereo system and hit the play button.
All through the meal he had watched Raffin monopolising the conversation with Anna, flirting with her, exuding charm like oil. And he had seen Kirsty become more and more subdued. At one moment, he had caught Anna’s eye, and felt her embarrassment, her silent plea for rescue. And he had broken up the tête à tête by calling her into the kitchen on some pretext. He was itching to break his silence on the subject, but didn’t want to create a scene in front of Kirsty and the others. And so all his attention was focused on the tape.
Intent faces around the room strained to listen. Two voices distorted by time and telephone. A murderer speaking to his victim the day before he killed him:
‘Yes, hello?’
‘Salut, it’s me.’
‘Oh, okay.’
‘I’m sorry I didn’t call yesterday. I was out of the country. Portsmouth. In England. A business trip.’
‘Is that supposed to mean something to me?’
‘I just thought you’d wonder why I hadn’t called.’
‘Well, you’re calling me now.’
‘I was going to suggest tomorrow afternoon. Three o’clock. If that’s okay with you.’
‘Where?’
‘Your place.’
‘I prefer somewhere public. You know that.’
‘Listen, we need to talk.’
An audible sigh. ‘You know where to find me?’
‘Of course.’
‘Three o’clock, then.’
‘Fine.’
The conversation ended abruptly. Enzo had listened to it over and over again. He had his own thoughts, but he wanted fresh input. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think they didn’t like one another very much,’ Sophie said.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Well, because the killer’s being very polite, and the other guy can hardly conceal his irritation.’
Bertrand said, ‘I’m not sure he’s irritated so much as just tense. Wary.’
Nicole asked if they could listen to it again, and Enzo rewound the tape to replay it. When they finished listening for a second time Nicole said, ‘They don’t know one another very well, do they? I think maybe they’ve met only a handful of times before.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because he had to ask if the other guy knew his address.’
Kirsty said, ‘They’d obviously met often enough for Lambert to have established that he only wanted them to meet in public.’
‘So why did he agree to let him come to his home?’ It was Raffin this time.
Enzo said, ‘Because the killer was threatening him. Very subtly, but unmistakeably. He was in complete command of the conversation. He was using the familiar tu, while Lambert was using the formal vous. Lambert was being spoken to like a child. His caller had failed to make some pre-arranged call the day before, but his apology was perfunctory. When Lambert expressed his preference for meeting in public, he was slapped right back down. Ecoute-moi. Listen, we need to talk. There’s more than a hint of a threat in that. We hear Lambert sigh. He doesn’t want the caller to come to his house. But he gives in straight away, because he’s lacking in confidence. He’s scared, intimidated.’ Enzo looked around at all the faces focused in his direction. ‘But there’s something else. A single word in that whole conversation that sticks out like a sore thumb.’
When the faces looking back at him remained blank, he turned to his elder daughter. ‘Come on, Kirsty. English is your native tongue. You must have heard it, surely?’
Kirsty stiffened, feeling the weight of her father’s expectation. She had never been quite sure that it was something she could live up to. She desperately wanted to please him, but she couldn’t think of anything.
‘He said he’d been out of the country. In England. The town of Portsmouth.’ He swung his attention towards Bertrand. ‘Say Portsmouth, Bertrand.’ Bertrand looked at him blankly. ‘Just as you would normally.’
‘Portsmouth,’ he said.
Enzo swivelled back towards Kirsty. ‘See? Hear how he said it? The way the French always say it.’ And he pronounced it phonetically, just the way that Bertrand had said it. ‘Porsmoose. The French just cannot get their brains around the concept of four consecutive consonants. RTSM. How do you pronounce that? They can’t. They say, Porsmoose. But his caller pronounced it just the way an Englishman would. Portsmouth.’
Kirsty nodded, understanding now what her father had meant. ‘Are you saying he was English?’
‘That’s just it. I don’t know. He doesn’t sound English to me.’ He turned to Anna. ‘Did he sound like a foreigner to you?’
She shook her head. ‘He sounded like a Frenchman to me.’
‘He had a southern accent,’ Sophie said. ‘He’s French. I’d put money on it.’
Enzo smiled and shook his head. He reached for a book he had placed on the shelf beside the stereo. He opened it at a page marked by a Post-it. ‘The Murders in the Rue Morgue,’ he said. ‘By Edgar Allen Poe. Let me read you this paragraph.’
He slipped a pair of half-moon reading glasses on to the end of his nose and perched himself on the arm of Sophie’s fauteuil:
The Frenchman supposes it the voice of a Spaniard, and might have distinguished some words had he been acquainted with the Spanish. The Dutchman maintains it to have been that of a Frenchman; but we find it stated that not understanding French this witness was examined through an interpreter. The Englishman thinks it the voice of a German, and does not understand German. The Spaniard is sure that it was that of an Englishman, but judges by the intonation altogether, as he has no knowledge of the English. The Italian believes it the voice of a Russian, but has never conversed with a native of Russia. A second Frenchman differs, moreover, with the first, and is positive that the voice was that of an Italian; but not being cognizant of that tongue is, like the Spaniard, convinced by the intonation.
He looked up at the array of rueful smiles around him. ‘Not easy, is it? We all have our own perceptions, very often based on preconceptions which are false.’ He paused. ‘You know what a shibboleth is?’
Raffin said, ‘It’s a password.’
‘We use it in that sense, yes. But it’s the origin of the word that’s interesting in this context. It’s an old Hebrew word. And its present usage derives from a story told in the old Hebrew bible. A story of civil war between two Hebrew tribes, the Ephraimites who have settled on one side of the River Jordan, and the Gileadites who have settled on the other. If an Ephraimite who crossed the river tried to pass himself off as a friend, the Gileadites would make him pronounce the word shibboleth. It actually meant flooding stream. But in the Ephraimite dialect, initial sh sounds were always pronounced s. So the Ephraimite would say, sibboleth, and give himself away.’
Kirsty said, ‘So Porsmoose is like a shibboleth.’
‘Exactly. It tells us something very important about our killer. The trouble is, I don’t know what.’ He closed his book and took the cassette from the stereo. He held it up between thumb and forefinger. ‘But I know a man who might. I need to get this in the post first thing tomorrow.’
Chapter Thirty
When Kirsty awoke, there were long slivers of gold slanting through half-open
shutters, and she heard the church bell strike nine. She had lain awake for much of the night, and was surprised now to find that she had slept at all. The bed beside her was empty.
She got up, brushing tangled hair from her face, and slipped on her dressing gown, padding then in bare feet across polished boards to open the French windows and throw the shutters wide. The sun, still low in the sky, blinded her, and the rush of ice-cold air shocked her from her drowse. Frost lay thick across the field, sparkling in the sunlight. Long shadows cut sharp lines across the white-roofed houses of the village.
In normal circumstances, a morning like this would have raised her spirits, keening her anticipation of the day ahead. But nothing, it seemed, could lift her out of her depression. The tumultuous events of the last few days, and the death of Sylvie, had settled on her like a fog, laden with guilt and regret. Compounded now by the mercurial behaviour of her lover.
In the days that he had been away, Roger had neither called nor e-mailed once. And then on his return, he had been caring and attentive, making love to her in the afternoon, easing her depression with a balm of soothing words. Only to ignore her all through dinner, turning his attentions exclusively towards their hostess. Kirsty knew that everyone else around the table had been aware of it. Nicole had prattled away to Sophie and Bertrand, and they had prattled back, a way of covering their embarrassment. And Kirsty had been conscious of her father’s smouldering anger at the far end of the table. But his expected explosion had never come.
Kirsty was intimidated by Anna. She felt dowdy and naïve by comparison. And she was sure that for the erudite and experienced Roger, Anna’s more worldly sophistication cast Kirsty in the shade.
She had tried to speak to him about it last night when they went to bed. But he had said that he was tired. It had been a long day. She was just depressed and not seeing things clearly. They would talk about it in the morning.
