by Peter May
When he glanced up he saw Simon gazing at his glass thoughtfully and suddenly saw him looking old. For years he had only ever seen Simon as the boy he had gone to school with, played in the band with, shared girlfriends with. Now, his head slightly bowed, the once dark beard peppered with grey, the light caught the scalp beneath his thinning hair and cast shadows beneath his eyes. He looked his age — a man approaching his fiftieth birthday. Simon stopped staring at his glass and drained it instead. ‘I thought things might have changed.’
‘Why?’ It was Simon who had told him that Kirsty was in Paris.
‘Her mother.’ He signalled the waiter and ordered a brandy. ‘You know we’ve always kept in touch.’
Enzo nodded. He had never been sure quite why. The three of them had grown up together in Scotland, on the south side of Glasgow. Simon had gone out with Linda before Enzo, and then all but lost contact when he went south to study law in England, returning only once to be best man at their wedding.
‘Linda thought things might have changed. After all, Kirsty’s a big girl, now. Nearly finished her post grad in translation and interpretation. And you don’t win a year’s internship with a company in Paris unless you’ve got your head pretty well screwed on.’
‘Well, nothing’s changed. Not for Kirsty, anyway.’
‘What did she say?’
‘She told me to fuck off.’
Simon’s brandy arrived and he sipped on it contemplatively. ‘So what now?’
‘I might as well just go home.’
‘I thought you had an appointment with Raffin?’
‘I’m not sure I’ll bother.’
Simon cocked an eyebrow. ‘Two thousand euros, Enzo. You can hardly afford that on your salary.’
Enzo glared at him. Simon had been instrumental in forcing the issue to a bet in the first place. And as the only lawyer present had promised to bear witness to the parties involved and keep the cash in escrow until an outcome was agreed.
* * *
The tables beneath the candy-striped awning of Le Bonaparte were nearly all full when Enzo arrived, Parisians and tourists alike indulging in the café culture that so characterised the city, sitting in serried rows sipping drinks, watching the endless ebb and flow of humanity in the Place St. Germain des Prés. It was nearly dark now, the biscuit-coloured stone of the ancient church of St. Germain floodlit starkly against a deep blue sky. Enzo took a table on the corner, beneath a No Entry sign, and ordered a brandy. He checked the time. It was after ten, and he was late. He wondered if, perhaps, Raffin might have come and gone already. He had told the journalist that he would recognise him by his hair, tied in a ponytail, a silver stripe running back from his left temple. He never thought about how other people might view him, with his baggy cargo trousers and white running shoes, and his large selection of voluminous, collarless shirts, which he rarely tucked in. And, of course, the ubiquitous canvas satchel that he slung across his shoulder. Sophie’s favourite fond insult was to call him an old hippie. Which was probably how most people saw him. But he was also a big man, and kept himself fit by cycling, so he tended to stand out in a crowd. He was aware that women found him attractive, but he had always shied away from committing to another relationship after Pascale.
By twenty past he had finished his brandy and was contemplating leaving. As he searched for coins in his pocket, he became aware of a figure standing over him. He looked up to see a tall, thin man with longish brown hair swept back to the upturned collar of his white shirt. He carried a light summer jacket carelessly across his shoulder, and his trousers, belted at a slim waist, were immaculately creased, gathering in fashionable folds around neat, black-leather Italian shoes. He had a cigarette carefully held at the end of long fingers, and took a final draw before flicking it away across the cobbled street. He held out his smoking hand. ‘Roger Raffin,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘That’s okay,’ Enzo said, shaking his hand. He was surprised at how cool it was.
Raffin sat down in the vacant seat, and with the practised ease of a vrai Parisien, signalled a waiter with a black apron and white shirt who materialised almost immediately at their table. ‘A glass of Pouilly Fumé.’ He nodded towards Enzo’s glass. ‘Brandy, is it?’
While they waited for their drinks, Raffin lit another cigarette and said, ‘I checked you out on the internet, Monsieur. It says you are a professor of biology at Paul Sabatier University in Toulouse. Why am I even talking to you?’
‘I was with the police scientifique in Scotland. But it’s a long time since I practised. The internet didn’t even exist then.’
‘So what makes you think you are qualified to pass an opinion on anything today?’
‘I was trained as a forensic biologist, Monsieur Raffin. Seven years with Strathclyde police in Glasgow, the last two as head of biology, covering everything from blood pattern interpretation at major crime scenes, to analysis of hairs and fibres. I was involved in early DNA databasing, interpretation of damage to clothing, as well as detailed examination of murder scenes. Oh, and did I mention? I am one of only four people in the UK to have trained as a Byford scientist — which also makes me an expert on serious serial crime analysis.’
‘Made you an expert, Monsieur Macleod. Things have changed.’
‘I’ve kept myself apprised of all the latest scientific developments in the field.’
‘So why aren’t you still doing it?’
‘Personal reasons.’
Raffin looked at Enzo appraisingly, fixing him with startlingly pale green eyes. He looked no older than thirty-five or thirty-six. He had a creamy-smooth tanned complexion and pale lips. His nose was thin, and sharp, and a little too prominent, but he was a good-looking young man. He sighed as their drinks arrived and took a delicate sip from his misted glass. ‘Why should I co-operate with you on this?’
Enzo tipped his brandy glass to his lips and the stuff burned all the way down. He felt reckless and brave and in need of something to fill a vacant place in his life. And it seemed like a good idea not to mention the wager at this point. ‘Because I’m going to find out what happened to Jacques Gaillard,’ he said. ‘With or without your help.’
III
Raffin’s apartment was in the Rue du Tournon, on the first floor, above two art galleries. It was within a hundred meters of the floodlit splendour of the Senate building, the home of the French government’s Upper House, tiers of classical pillars supporting its crowning dome at the head of a long, narrow street running all the way down to the Boulevard St. Germain, and the Seine beyond that.
Raffin tapped in his entry code, and pushed a huge, heavy green door into a cobbled corridor. At the far end, they emerged into an L-shaped courtyard dominated by a tall chestnut tree. Lights burned in windows which lay open, cooling apartments after the build-up of heat during a long, simmering day. They could hear people talking, laughing, still seated around dinner tables. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano, an uncertain rendition of Chopin.
‘I’ll want a guarantee of exclusivity,’ Raffin was saying. ‘No one else gets to publish the results of your investigations. I’ll have sole publication rights. Perhaps we should put that in writing.’
‘Whatever you like,’ Enzo said.
Raffin pushed open a half-glazed door and they began up wooden stairs that circled a narrow elevator shaft. He had made up his mind in an instant, draining his glass of Pouilly Fumé at Le Bonaparte in a single draft and getting to his feet. ‘Okay, let’s do it. I have reams of notes made during my research. Only a fraction of the stuff ever made it into the book. Come back to my place and you can take them away to look at.’ He had already started across the street when he stopped, and almost as an afterthought turned back to Enzo. ‘And you can pay for the drinks.’
On the first floor landing he fumbled in his pocket for his key and opened the main door into a square entrance hall. Pale light from streetlamps in the courtyard slanted through venetian blinds in long, narrow slats.
Enzo immediately sensed the journalist’s tension. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
Raffin raised a quick hand to silence him. Double doors from the hall lay open into the dark of the main salon. Beyond, bright yellow light fell across the floorboards, from an opening in mirror-glazed bedroom doors which stood ajar. They could hear someone moving around beyond them, and Raffin tensed as a shadow passed through the light.
‘Cambrioleurs,’ he whispered. Burglars. He placed his jacket carefully over the back of a chair and turned to a bookcase with shelves ranged up to the ceiling. He selected a large-format, heavily bound encyclopaedia from one of the lower shelves. Clutching it above his head in both hands, he advanced into the salon. Enzo followed, thinking that the journalist looked just a little ridiculous. The History of the World E to F seemed an unlikely weapon. Waving an encyclopaedia around his head, he was more likely to frighten a burglar to death than do him physical damage.
Suddenly the bedroom door opened wide and electric light flooded the room. Raffin froze in mid-stride, the History of the World raised in readiness. A woman stood in the open doorway looking at him in astonishment. She was tall, wearing a long, black dress gathered at the waist. It was sleeveless, with a quite daring neckline. Dark hair, shot through with hints of silver, tumbled in luxuriant curls around her face and over her shoulders. Her skin was clear and lightly tanned, and large, startled black eyes held them both in their gaze. Enzo thought she was quite the most beautiful woman he had seen in a very long time.
She looked up at the book above Raffin’s head. ‘For Heaven’s sake put that away, Roger,’ she said. ‘History never was your strong suit.’
Slowly, Roger lowered the book. ‘What are you doing here?’ There was no disguising his annoyance.
She half glanced back into the bedroom. ‘Came to get the last of my things. You weren’t here, and I still have a key.’
He lais the History of the World on the dining table and held out an open hand. ‘Well, I’ll relieve you of that now, thank you,’ he said. She slipped long, elegant fingers into a pocket hidden among the pleats of her dress and produced the key on a length of leather thong. He snatched it from her. ‘Have you got everything?’ There was still tension in his voice.
‘I think so. I just need a bag to put it in.’
‘There are some large, plastic carriers in the dressing room.’
But she made no move to go and get one. Instead she looked beyond him to Enzo. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
Raffin glanced at Enzo, as if he had forgotten he was there. He said dismissively, ‘He’s just come to pick up some papers.’
Enzo stepped past him and held out his hand. ‘Enzo Macleod.’ He smiled. ‘Je suis enchanté, Madame.’
She shook his hand and held it in hers for just a moment longer than was necessary. Her eyes were compelling, and Enzo felt trapped by their gaze. She said, ‘I’m Charlotte. You’re not French.’
‘Scottish.’
‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘What papers?’
‘That’s really not any of your business, Charlotte,’ Roger said.
‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Jacques Gaillard,’ Enzo told her.
Raffin sighed deeply. ‘Now you’ll never get rid of her. Charlotte’s a…psychologist.’ He spoke the word as if it made a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Trained in criminal profiling.’
Enzo raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Where did you train?’
‘As a profiler? The United States. I spent two years there before coming back to set up my own psychology practice. From time to time the Paris police deign to seek my advice.’ She glanced in Roger’s direction. ‘But I make my living from people with everyday hang-ups. In my case, crime doesn’t pay.’
Roger said, ‘I’ll get you that bag.’ And he headed off through a tiny door in the wall to the left of what had once been a fireplace.
Charlotte advanced towards Enzo, and he tried to put an age on her. She was a little younger than Roger. Early to mid-thirties perhaps. ‘What are you?’ she said. ‘A policeman? A private detective?’
‘I used to be a forensic scientist.’
She nodded as if that explained everything.
Roger reappeared with two large plastic carriers. He thrust one at Charlotte and said to Enzo, ‘I’ll get those notes for you.’ And he disappeared through double doors into his study.
‘I suppose I should pack, then,’ Charlotte said, and she retreated to the bedroom.
Left on his own for a few moments, Enzo looked around Raffin’s salon. Tall windows opened on to the courtyard below. Bookshelves lined the walls on two sides of the dining table at one end of the room. The remaining walls were covered in art: still-lifes, classical scenes from Greek and Roman literature, oriental tableaux, and what looked like original artwork from old French movie posters. There was an upright piano next to the window, and an old, enamel stove sat in what had been the cheminée. Everything seemed to have a place, and was in it. There was a marked absence of those small, personal items that clutter up people’s homes providing clues to their character. Raffin had a certain style, in his deportment, the clothes he wore, the items he had chosen to furnish his apartment. But none of it gave much away, as if it were all a well-polished veneer designed to conceal what lay beneath. He reappeared, the plastic carrier now filled with heavy box files.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘That should keep you busy for a while.’ He turned towards the bedroom. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ He closed the door behind him, and Enzo stood in the stillness of the apartment, unable to avoid hearing the voices raised in angry whispers on the other side of the mirrored panels. It didn’t take long for the whispers to become shouts. Enzo focused his attention on one of the still-lifes. He did not want to be involved in other people’s domestic problems. After several minutes the voices subsided again, and there was a brief period of silence before the door opened and Charlotte emerged with her plastic carrier full of clothes, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment.
‘Goodbye, Monsieur Macleod,’ she said without looking at him, and she walked straight out of the apartment.
Raffin appeared in the doorway. He too, looked flushed. ‘Sorry about that.’ Although he didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘Things are never easy at the end of a relationship.’ He tilted his head towards Enzo’s bag. ‘When you’ve read through that stuff, any questions give me a call. Meantime, I’ll get some kind of agreement drawn up on publication rights.’
IV
When he reached the Boulevard St. Germain, Enzo saw her searching in vain for a taxi. There was still a lot of traffic in the street, and the cafés were still doing brisk business, but there were no taxis in sight.
He joined her at the traffic lights. ‘Do you want me to call you one?’
Even with a sideways look her eyes had an alarmingly disarming effect. ‘You live nearby?’
‘My studio’s just down there, near the Institute. But there’s no telephone there. I meant on my portable.’
‘Oh.’ She seemed disappointed. ‘I thought maybe you were going to ask me up for coffee.’
He looked at her, caught off guard by her directness. ‘Sure.’ The green man appeared on the far side of the boulevard. ‘We’d better cross the road, then.’
They pushed north through the crowds thronging the narrow Rue Mazarine, towards the floodlit dome of the Institute de France. The cafés and bistros were full. Voices emboldened by drink and good company, raised in laughter and argument, echoed around the canyons and mediaeval alleys of this long-time bohemian Left Bank quartier. Only now, it was no longer populated by bohemians, but by the nouveau riche of the nouveau génération, wallets bulging with euros tucked into designer pockets and bags.
A young woman laden with shopping and clutching a baby emerged in a hurry from a late-opening mini-market, colliding with Enzo and sending tins and packets clattering across the pavement.
‘Merde!’ she gasped under her breath.
‘Je
suis désolé,’ Enzo apologised, and he and Charlotte stooped to help her gather up her things. The baby was crying now, and the young woman was having difficulty getting everything back in the bags.
‘Here,’ Enzo said. ‘Let me?’ And he took the baby from her. For a moment, the mother appeared reluctant to let the child go, but something about Enzo seemed to reassure her, and she released the baby and turned to refill her bags hurriedly with Charlotte’s help. In the time it took the two women to rescue the shopping, Enzo had the baby laughing. ‘She’s a bright wee thing,’ he said, pulling a face and sending the infant into chuckling paroxysms. He turned to see Charlotte and the young woman looking at him, and he grew immediately self-conscious, handing the baby back to her mother and reclaiming his bag of box files.
‘Merci.’ The young woman hurried away through the crowds into the night, her baby looking back over her shoulder at Enzo, a smile still sparkling in her eyes.
Charlotte stood in the roadway, caught in the light of the shop window, elegant and beautiful in her black dress, regarding Enzo thoughtfully, a half-smile on her face.
‘What!’ he said.
She shrugged. ‘Nothing. I thought you were going to make me coffee.’
* * *
The studio apartment was on the first floor on the corner of the Rue Guénégaud and the Rue Mazarine, almost above the café Le Balto, and diagonally opposite the concrete monstrosity that housed the Paris Val de Seine School of Architecture. It was within sight of the magnificent Institute de France, home of the Academie Française which strove to protect the French language from the erosion of the modern world. Enzo had often thought there should be a similar institution to stop cretinous architects from ruining their cities.
From the first floor landing Enzo opened the door into the studio and Charlotte gasped. ‘I’d never have guessed you had such bad taste.’
Enzo grinned. ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ He closed the door behind her and followed her into the main room. The walls were lined with a padded fabric imprinted with a bold, repeating design in red, brown and cream. ‘Very nineteen sixties. Only, I’m afraid I can’t claim the credit. It belongs to the very elderly uncle of friends in Cahors. He’s in a maison de la retraite, and they can’t sell it until he dies. I love it. I hope he lives forever.’
