by Peter May
She smiled at his clumsiness in addressing her and presented him with her hand. He took it awkwardly. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come in.’
Light spilled into the hall from leaded windows. Exotic, hand-carved wooden figurines stood on a marble-topped dresser. A huge antique armoir reached almost to the corniced ceiling.
‘Lyonnaise,’ Marie Aucoin said. ‘Louis Quatorze.’ She smiled. ‘You know, there is a depository in the thirteenth arrondissement of priceless antique furniture from which government ministers can choose to furnish their offices. Sadly we must furnish our homes at our own expense. Which is a pity, since they don’t really pay us very much.’
She led him through double doors into a classical French dining room with moulded ceilings, marble fireplace, and gilded mirror. But there France ended, and China began. The furniture was oriental. A long, black-lacquered table with eight chairs. Matching mahogany buffets with bamboo panelled doors, inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and dressed with carefully arranged Ming and Qing Dynasty vases and ornaments. Ceramic dragons flanked the cheminée. Vividly coloured Chinese rugs were strewn about the parquet floor, and original Chinese scroll paintings hung from cream-painted walls. Bridges and Buddhas and pink-faced children. Even the Venetian blinds were mahogany-slatted in the Chinese style. A red lantern diffused soft light above the table. The strings of a classical Chinese orchestra scraped and wailed gently somewhere in the background.
‘I thought Chinatown was on the Left Bank,’ Enzo said.
She smiled. ‘I went to school in China. My father was ambassador in Singapore and then Peking. I speak Putonghua and Cantonese.’ She led him through to an adjoining sitting room, and two men and a silver-haired lady of around sixty rose from armchairs. The younger of the men stepped forward with his hand outstretched. He was tall, with thinning brown hair, a little younger than Enzo.
‘Christian Aucoin,’ he said.
‘My husband,’ the Minister of Justice added unnecessarily. And she turned to her guests. ‘Juge Jean-Pierre Lelong and his wife Jacqueline.’
Enzo shook hands with each of them. ‘Enchanté.’
A young man in a white jacket was hovering by the door. Marie Aucoin signalled to him. ‘A drink for Monsieur Macleod. What will it be, whisky? That’s what the Scots drink, isn’t it?’
‘That’ll be fine.’
‘Any particular marque?’
‘Glenlivet, if you have it.’ Enzo thought that she almost certainly would not.
But she was unperturbed. ‘Of course.’ She nodded to the waiter and ushered Enzo to a seat. ‘Juge Lelong is one of the foremost juges d’instruction in Paris. You know what a juge d’instruction is, don’t you?’
‘A judge who instructs the police in the investigation of a crime, I believe.’
‘You’re familiar with our legal system, then?’
‘I have lived here for twenty years, Minister.’
‘Of course you have. Left your wife and family in Scotland to set up a concubinage in Cahors with a young lady who died giving birth to your daughter. Sophie, isn’t it?’
The fact that she felt no need for subtlety in conveying that she had done her homework on him left Enzo feeling a little uneasy. ‘Yes.’
‘Tell me.’ She perched on the edge of her seat and leaned confidentially towards him. ‘What makes a man abandon his family and a successful career to come and live in a foreign country and teach biology at a second rate university?’
Enzo looked at the Minister of Justice and decided that he did not like her very much. She was superior and patronising. He said solemnly, ‘It was the sex, Minister.’
He enjoyed the moment of shocked silence which invaded the room like a fifth presence, before Marie Aucoin burst out laughing and clapped her hands in childlike delight. The others took her lead, smiling politely, but were clearly unamused by Enzo’s vulgarity. ‘Bravo, Monsieur Macleod, bravo. I think you and I are going to get on very well together.’
Enzo was pretty sure they weren’t. His drink arrived, and a perfunctory toast was made to good health. They drank and made desultory conversation. Christian Aucoin told him that he was the Director of the Banque Agricoles, which explained how they could afford a Louis Quatorze armoire and an apartment in the Avenue Georges Mandel. Enzo knew from newspaper articles that the Aucoins had no children, and he noticed that they never once made eye contact. Their body language spoke of a relationship fractured beyond repair, but glued together for the sake of appearances. Juge Lelong kept his own counsel, watching Enzo cautiously from beneath furrowed brows while his wife prattled nervously about making preparations for the August evacuation to the summer house in Brittany. The judge dragged his eyes momentarily away from Enzo to his wife and said, ominously, ‘You may very well be on your own this year, Jacqui.’
Finally, they adjourned to the table, where bamboo mats and chopsticks awaited them. Jasmine tea was served in delicate china cups, and a succession of Chinese dishes was brought out from the kitchen by two waiters. The food was excellent, and Enzo didn’t need a second invitation to eat.
The Garde des Sceaux was well-practised in the art of conversation, asking questions, making observations. She elicited from Enzo his passion for music, and disclosed to him her love of potholing. ‘I’m quite often in your part of the world,’ she said. ‘I once rappelled into the gouffre at Padirac.’ The wine flowed freely, and Enzo began to relax a little. Which was when she caught him off guard. ‘I understand your Scottish daughter is working in Paris at the moment.’
He looked up from his plate and felt the colour rising on his cheeks. ‘Yes.’
‘Translation and interpretation. It’s a job with a future in an expanding Europe. An internship, isn’t it?’
‘I believe so.’
The Minister leaned her elbows on the table. ‘I could get her a better position in one of the ministries.’
‘I’m not sure she’d be very happy about that.’
Marie Aucoin seemed taken aback. ‘Whyever not?’
‘She’s not very well disposed towards her father. I suspect she’d reject out of hand an opportunity connected with me in any way.’
The Minister shrugged. ‘Foolish girl, then.’ And she changed the subject abruptly. ‘So what do you think of the new parliament sitting in Edinburgh?’
‘I think anything that brings decision-making closer to the people is a good thing.’
‘Do you really? Some political observers believe that “the people” are not particularly well-qualified, or informed, to make decisions about anything.’
‘Oh, I forgot,’ Enzo said. ‘You French think that the state should be run by an intellectual élite. From what I understand, it wouldn’t be unusual at any given time for the President, the Prime Minister and half the Cabinet to be graduates of ENA. Énarques. Isn’t that what you call yourselves? And, of course, you send out unelected provincial governors to administer the populace. That is what Préfets do, isn’t it?’
She was unfazed. ‘Interesting view, Monsieur Macleod. But by the same calculation, at any given time at least half of those of us in government are not énarques. But, at least all of us are there on merit.’
By now, the meal had run its course, and Enzo had had enough. Emboldened by wine, his patience frayed by fatigue, he crumpled his napkin and dropped it on the table. ‘Minister,’ he said. ‘Why am I here?’
Marie Aucoin’s eye flickered almost imperceptibly in her husband’s direction and he immediately stood up. ‘Jacqueline,’ the banker said. ‘I found those prints I promised you. Why don’t you come through to the study and tell me which of them you’d like? We can join the others for coffee and digestifs in the séjour later.’
‘Of course.’ Madame Lelong rose from the table with a fixed smile.
‘Excuse us,’ Christian Aucoin said.
When they had gone, Enzo found himself facing Marie Aucoin and Juge Lelong across the table, and he suddenly felt very much on his own.
‘We have the D
NA results back from the arms you found in Toulouse,’ the Minister said. ‘Confirming that they are, indeed, part of the remains of Jacques Gaillard.’
‘I never doubted it.’
‘We’re still waiting for the pathologist’s report.’
‘Which probably won’t tell you much,’ Enzo said. ‘Except that those chips and grooves on the bones of the forearms were probably made when he raised his arms to protect himself from the blades of his attackers.’
‘Plural?’ said the judge. ‘What makes you think there were more than one?’
‘There was a lot of damage to the radius and the ulna on both arms. Either the attack was very frenzied, or there were more than one attacker.’
Marie Aucoin looked thoughtful. ‘Why do you think the killer — or killers — left clues leading to the next body part?’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ said the judge, before Enzo could answer. He was clearly intrigued. ‘It’s almost as if finding one body part will lead inexorably to the others.’
‘If you can decode the clues,’ Enzo said. ‘But it’s clear that the pieces we have recovered so far were never meant to be found.’
‘Which somewhat undermines your theory, Jean-Pierre,’ the Minister said. She glanced at the judge and then folded her hands on the table in front of her, fixing Enzo with dark blue eyes. But there was very little warmth in them now. ‘Monsieur Macleod, I want to thank you on behalf of both the government and the police for the work you have done in bringing Jacques Gaillard’s murder to light. You have performed a very valuable service, and I will be making our gratitude public at a press conference tomorrow.’ She paused.
‘But?’
‘Now that the circumstances of his killing have been brought to our attention, I have appointed a special investigation team to look into it. The team will be led by Juge Lelong.’ Enzo glanced at the judge, who was watching him impassively. ‘Which means that your help will no longer be required.’
‘In fact,’ said Juge Lelong, ‘were you to involve yourself in further investigations, it might be regarded as interference in official police business.’
‘Although, of course, given your familiarity with the background of the case, any further insights that you might have would be gratefully received,’ Marie Aucoin added quickly, and she smiled sweetly across the table. A long silence hung in the soft light of the red lantern. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
The judge stressed each individual word. ‘Do you have any further insights?’
‘No.’ Enzo realised that Raffin’s words of warning had, indeed, been prophetic.
‘Good.’ Marie Aucoin sat back smiling, business accomplished. She lifted a little bell from the table and tinkled it. ‘Time for coffee, I think.’
Chapter Eleven
Enzo sat in the back of the taxi and pulled off his tie. He stuffed it in a pocket and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. He took a deep breath. It was late. Nearly midnight. The air was still hot, heavy with humidity and pollution, and night had settled on the city like a warm, damp blanket. Streetlights drifted past, streaking darkness, like disembodied beings from another world. Enzo’s own world felt very small, confined to the space he occupied in his taxi. A world filled with confusion, anger, frustration. He was damned if he was going to give up his investigation just to save the further blushes of the government and the police. They had failed to make any progress in ten years. What guarantee was there that they would make any now? Perhaps they were hoping that Gaillard would simply go away again. And, yet, he knew how difficult it would be for him to proceed if the authorities were against him. Interfering with official police business. Juge Lelong’s words rattled around in his head. The warning could not have been clearer.
They crossed the river at the Pont de la Concorde. The Boulevard St. Germain was deserted at its eastern end. Enzo stared out bleakly at the empty pavements, shuttered shops, and darkened apartments. As they passed the junction with the Boulevard Raspail, he could see the lights of the sixth arrondissement ahead of them. The cafés would still be full, and only now would late-night diners be debouching from bars and brasseries. He could almost hear the narrow streets around his studio echoing with their laughter, and he was not sure that he could face it. On an impulse he told the driver to take him to the ële St. Louis instead, and he got out in the Rue des Deux Ponts.
The street was quiet as he watched the taxi recede into the night. The café on the corner where he had sat watching for Kirsty just a few days earlier was closed. They were sweeping out in the restaurant where he had eaten lunch. He stood on the pavement and wondered what he was doing here. He walked to a point opposite the entrance to her apartment. The buildings on this side had been recently renovated. There was a For Sale sign outside the first floor apartment above him. He craned his head up towards the attic studios opposite and wondered if Kirsty’s place looked down into the street. There were lights on in a few windows. Was one of them hers? Did she ever think about him, except in anger? His own father had died when he was a young man, so he knew what it was to be fatherless.
Why had he come here, drawn back like a moth to the flame? Guilt? The realisation that, in truth, he had given Kirsty every reason to hate him? He knew, after all, that his own pain was self-inflicted. He sighed. This was stupid. He thrust his hands in his pockets and turned towards the Rue St. Louis en l’ële. It would take less than fifteen minutes to walk back to his studio. A taxi passed on the other side of the street and pulled up outside the door to Kirsty’s apartment. A young couple stepped out and the taxi remained idling at the kerb. The girl had long, chestnut hair drawn back in a loose knot, and he heard her laugh, a familiar sound to him, even after all these years. He drew back into a doorway and watched as the young man cupped her face in his hands, talking to her earnestly for some moments, before drawing her face to his and kissing her. They embraced, then, and kissed once more. A long, lingering kiss. Enzo watched, with an ache in his chest and a knot in his stomach. When they broke apart, the young man said something and they both laughed. She was happy, and Enzo would have given anything to be able to share in that happiness. Her young man climbed back into his taxi, and she stood waving as it headed off towards the Pont de la Tournelle. She glanced back along the street, and Enzo pulled further into the shadows. For a moment he thought she had seen him, but then she turned and punched in her entry code and was swallowed up by the building.
He stood in the dark for ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. After all the misery with which he had tainted her life, she was still capable of laughter, and happiness. He had no right to make her unhappy again. He was just being selfish, in search of forgiveness to exorcise the guilt which had haunted him all these years. It was the same selfishness which had prompted him to leave in the first place. To steal away the father she had loved. Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
He made a decision, standing in the doorway, her laughter still echoing distantly in his memory, that he would never bother her again. She didn’t want him. It was her choice to make. And he had no right to try to change her mind. He had had his chance once and failed her. The least he could do now was let her get on with her life, free of him, free of the past. A past that he, too, must put behind him, and move on.
He stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street, turning left into the Rue St. Louis en l’ële. The lights of shop windows fell out across the street. Patches of shadow where apartment buildings and doorways stood in darkness were like missing teeth. It was oddly quiet here in the heart of the city, the calm at the centre of a storm. The traffic was a distant rumble. There was no one else in the street. At the far end, the Brasserie St. Louis was shut, tables and chairs stacked up on the pavement under its awning. He heard his own footsteps echoing back from the apartment blocks rising on either side, each step laden with resignation.
But the echo seemed odd, unsynchronised, and he realise
d that they were not his footsteps. There was someone else in the street. He stopped, turning to look behind him, but he could see no one. The dislocated echo had stopped, too. A trick of acoustics, perhaps. He continued towards the end of the street and heard the sound of following footsteps again, some way back. He swivelled and caught a fleeting movement in the shadows of a gateway leading to a courtyard. Again the echoing footsteps had ceased abruptly. Was there someone lurking there? His mouth felt dry, and he became aware for the first time that his pulse rate had increased. He realised he was afraid, and was not sure quite why. Except that someone seemed to be following him, and didn’t want to be seen.
He picked up pace towards the Brasserie St. Louis. And there it was again. An echo that wasn’t quite an echo. He glanced over his shoulder and this time saw a man following in his wake, about twenty meters back. He was making no attempt to conceal himself. His pace had picked up to match Enzo’s. As he neared the end of the street, Enzo started to run. Scaffolding forced him off the pavement. He thought he could hear the other man running behind him. He stole another glance over his shoulder, but the scaffolding obscured his view. He turned left at La Chaumière en l’ële, emerging from the darkness of the narrow Rue St. Louis into the brightly lit expanse of the Pont St. Louis leading over to the ële de la Cité and the floodlit towers of Notre Dame.
If he had hoped to find people here, he was disappointed. The bridge was deserted, and he could still hear footsteps in the street he had just left.
He was half way across the bridge when he saw the second man. A thickset figure in a dark suit standing on the far side, silhouetted against the lights of the cathedral behind him. Something about the way he stood, legs slightly apart, hands at his sides, gave Enzo the immediate impression that this man was there to bar his way. He stopped running, and stood staring breathlessly at the man, uncertain of what to do. Behind him, footsteps emerged from the Rue St. Louis and came to an abrupt halt. Enzo looked back. His pursuer stood at the other end of the bridge, and Enzo could hear him breathing hard in the night air. He was trapped. There was no way off the bridge. Enzo looked around in a panic, willing a taxi to appear, or a group of revellers to spill out from a bar somewhere. But there was no one. No traffic. No redemption. No escape. The man behind him began moving forward. In the distance Enzo could see the lights of traffic drifting past on the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville. But they might as well have been a million miles away.
