by Peter May
The sharp blast of a horn startled him. He turned to see the lights of a péniche approaching on the river below. In fact, there were two barges, end to end, being shunted down river by a small tug. They sat dangerously low in the water, weighed down by their cargo of sand. Enzo could see the figure of the helmsman in the window of the wheelhouse. The first of the barges was already passing under the bridge immediately beneath him. The sand looked soft and inviting. A drop of four or five meters. He turned and clutched the rail. It would be a desperate thing to do. If he jumped and misjudged it he could break his legs and God knows what else on the crossbars, or even end up in the water.
Almost as if they realised what was in his mind, the two men started moving towards him. Enzo no longer had any choice. He hoisted himself on to the rail, balancing precariously for a moment. He heard one of the men shouting, and he jumped. Even as he fell through the air, it occurred to him how absurd this was. What on earth was he doing?
He hit the sand with more force than he had been expecting. His legs folded under him, and he landed on his back. The sand was not as giving as he had hoped, and all the air was knocked from his lungs. He found himself looking up at the underside of the bridge passing overhead, unable to breathe, unable to move. If either of these men had a gun, he would be an easy target when he emerged on the far side.
He lay helplessly, face up, as the star-studded sky emerged once more, and he saw the two men peering down at him from the parapet. One of them seemed to be laughing, the other serious and unsmiling. What if the danger had only been imagined, and the two men on the Pont St. Louis were simply on their way home after a night out. Here he was, leaping off the bridge like a madman. Enzo tried to imagine how he would have reacted, had he encountered a man who had suddenly, and for no apparent reason, thrown himself off a bridge on to a passing barge.
With something between a cough and a retch, his lungs were suddenly released from their paralysis, and they filled painfully and rapidly with air. His first few breaths were difficult. He seemed to have to fight to empty and then refill them. He inclined his head to see the two men still standing on the bridge watching as the barge took its course around the north side of the ële de la Cité. He saw the flare of a match as one of them lit a cigarette. He let his head fall back, and lay for several minutes waiting for his breathing and his heartbeat to stabilise.
Apparently the helmsman had not noticed him drop from the bridge. Enzo could still see him in the wheelhouse. He was smoking a cigarette and occasionally lifting a mug of coffee to his lips. They passed under four bridges and were clearing the tip of the ële de la Cité, emerging again into the full flow of the Seine. Enzo scrambled unsteadily to his feet and began shouting and waving his arms. If he didn’t get off this thing now he could end up in Rouen.
He saw the helmsman’s expression of incredulity in the light of the wheelhouse, and the man’s mouth began working. Enzo could only imagine the stream of imprecations which issued from it. He couldn’t hear him above the thrum of the tug’s motor. A group of young people passing across the pedestrian Pont des Arts looked down in astonishment. Enzo heard the motor slip into reverse. And as it roared and revved, the péniche slowed, turning in towards the quay at the Port des Saint-Pères. Enzo clambered up out of the hold and on to the near side skirting. As the barge drew alongside the quay, he took his life in his hands and leaped across the narrowing gap, slipping on the cobbles and landing on his hands and knees. He felt his trousers tear at the right knee, and when he staggered to his feet saw blood smearing white flesh revealed by the tear. The palms of his hands were grazed and stinging.
The helmsman was out of his wheelhouse shouting at Enzo, who could hear him now. He reflected briefly on how colourful and expressive the French language could be. The crowd on the bridge had doubled in size and a dozen people or more gathered along the rail watching with interest. Enzo wondered why there couldn’t have been more people around when he needed them. Across the river, he could see the long, south-facing elevation of the Louvre, huddled in muted lighting down the length of the quay. Above him, the floodlit dome of the Institute de France was stark against the night sky. He realised he was only minutes away from his studio.
Still the helmsman was shouting. What on earth could Enzo tell him? How could he explain? He decided not to even try, and he turned and ran, fleeing from the scene of the crime like a schoolboy playing truant, up the ramp to the Quai Malaquais, slithering in his haste, shedding sand in his wake.
The Rue Mazarine skirted the Institute de France, and he ran up it without stopping until he reached the Café Le Balto on the corner of the Rue Guénégaud. There, he stood gasping for several minutes, leaning against the wall beside the door to his apartment block, until he was collected enough to tap in the entry code and step into the safety of the hall.
He knew immediately that there was something wrong. The light did not come on. The light always came on. It was on a timer which kept it burning long enough to reach each landing and hit another switch to take you up to the next. It saved electricity. But without it, the stairwell was pitch dark. Enzo stood, holding his breath, listening intently. His own heartbeat seemed deafening. But above it, he heard the unmistakable creak of the wooden staircase, like a footstep in dry snow. And then silence. There was somebody on the first floor landing. Somebody waiting in the dark. Somebody waiting for him.
He made his way across the lobby in the darkness, arms extended, until he felt the stair rail cool and smooth in his hand, and one by one he began climbing the stairs as quietly as he could. The silence in the building was pervasive and unnerving.
Enzo stopped at the mezzanine level and listened. Now he could hear the slow, regular sound of someone breathing, and realised that if he could hear them, they could hear him. On the half-landing he stopped and listened again. A dim light shone through a window from the street outside, but it only seemed to plunge the shadows on the landing above into deeper darkness. This time he heard nothing. As hard as he strained to hear, it seemed that the breathing had stopped. Was it possible for someone to hold their breath that long? It was time to take the initiative. Another half dozen stairs and he would be at his door.
He sprinted up, two at a time, with a rush of adrenaline, and was blinded by a light that shone suddenly and directly into his eyes. He yelled and swung out blind, with a clenched fist, punching the wall and gasping in pain.
He heard a startled exclamation and a woman’s voice. ‘For God’s sake, Enzo, what are you doing?’
As he hopped around the landing, waving his injured hand, and dredging up infantile swear words from his childhood, it occurred to him that it was a voice he knew. He shielded his eyes from the light and saw Charlotte’s frightened face peering at him out of the dark. ‘Could you please stop shining that thing in my face?’ And when she diverted it to the floor, he saw that it was the kind of small penlight you might carry on a key ring. ‘How did you get in?’
‘I remembered the code from the night you brought me up for coffee. The lights weren’t working, but I had this little flashlight, so I decided to sit on the stairs and wait till you got back.’
Enzo was opening and closing his hand, flexing bruised joints.
Charlotte added, ‘But I didn’t expect you to try to assault me.’
‘I didn’t know it was you.’ Enzo realised he wasn’t making a very good impression.
‘So do you normally try to punch people you meet on the stairs?’
‘I thought someone was waiting to jump me.’
‘Why on earth would you think that?’
‘Because it wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried it tonight.’ Enzo unlocked the door to the studio and reached in to switch on a light.
Charlotte laughed. ‘Wha-at?’
‘I was being followed. On the ële St. Louis. At least, I think I was.’
‘What were you doing on the ële St. Louis? I thought you were having dinner with the Garde des Sceaux.’
/> ‘It’s a long story.’
She followed him into the studio and watched as he poured himself a large whisky. ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ She looked at the state of his suit. ‘You’re covered in sand. And your trousers are ripped.’
‘I jumped off the Pont St. Louis into a passing barge.’ He avoided her eye.
‘I think I’d better have one of those, too.’ She nodded towards the whisky bottle. ‘And maybe you should tell me what happened.’
As Enzo related the story to Charlotte, his fears seemed absurd, and his response to them verging on the ludicrous. She was hardly able to drink her whisky for laughing.
‘It’s not funny,’ he said. ‘I really thought these guys were after me.’
‘But why?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting paranoid. This whole Jacques Gaillard thing is getting out of hand. His killers must know I’m getting close to them.’ He looked up, struck by a sudden thought. ‘How did you know I was having dinner with the Garde des Sceaux?’
‘Roger told me.’
‘Oh, did he? You two seem to do a lot of talking for a couple who’ve just broken up.’
‘It wasn’t an acrimonious split,’ Charlotte said, and then immediately qualified herself. ‘Well, not really.’ But it wasn’t something she was going to discuss further. ‘So what did Marie Aucoin have to say for herself?’
‘She’s set up a special team to investigate Gaillard’s killing. And it was made clear to me that I was to have nothing further to do with it.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I’m going to have everything further to do with it.’
Charlotte smiled. ‘Of course you are.’ She took his whisky glass from him. ‘Why don’t you take off your trousers and sit up on the breakfast bar, and I’ll dress that wound for you.’
‘Best offer I’ve had all night.’ Enzo kicked off his shoes, undid his belt and stepped out of his trousers. He hoisted himself up on to the breakfast bar, his legs dangling, and for the second time that night felt like a big kid. He remembered his mother sitting him up next to the kitchen sink to clean the gravel out of skinned knees when he was a little boy in Scotland.
Charlotte found a sponge in an unopened pack under the sink, and some disinfectant. She boiled a kettle and mixed up a solution of water and disinfectant to clean out the gash on his knee. It stung, and he yelled out, flinching from the sponge. ‘Don’t be a baby,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to get an infection in that.’ She discovered a roll of bandage in a drawer and taped it over the wound. ‘I think you’ll live.’
Enzo wanted to keep her close. ‘Tell me, in your considered opinion as a forensic psychologist, why would Jacques Gaillard’s killers leave clues with each of his body parts?’
‘Clues to what?’
‘To the location of the next body part.’
She shrugged. ‘Without knowing more about the case I can only offer an uninformed guess.’
‘Which is?’
‘He, she, they…want to be caught.’
‘But that’s crazy. Why?’
‘Well, if they don’t get caught, no one will ever know how clever they were. After all, they got away with murder. It’s not uncommon for a killer to want to be caught so he can claim the credit.’
‘But they went to great lengths to hide the body parts so that they would never be found.’
Charlotte sighed. ‘Then your guess is as good as mine.’
Beyond the initial jagged pain when she dabbed his knee with the sponge, he had enjoyed the cool, soft touch of her fingers on his skin. And after she had finished, she left a hand draped over his thigh, her belly still pressed against his other leg as they talked. He could smell her perfume, and felt the warmth of her through her dress. She looked up at him, and her face was very close. Her eyes were like big, dark saucers, and they fixed him with a twinkle that was half serious, half amused. He felt blood rushing to his loins, and on an impulse leaned forward to kiss her. To his surprise and delight, she made no attempt to move away. Her lips were soft and moist, and there was a sweetness on her tongue. He cupped the back of her head in his hand, feeling the soft, silky texture of her curls, the smooth curve of her skull as it swooped down to her neck. He felt her hand on his chest, fingers moving up to his face.
And then it was over, and they broke apart and looked at each other for a long time without a word passing between them. Finally Enzo said, in almost a whisper, ‘Stay over.’
But she shook her head. ‘I have an early client. Another time.’
‘There might not be another time. I have to go to Toulouse tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘The Président of my university has requested an audience. I think he’s going to sack me.’ He tried a smile, but it was a poor attempt at masking his disappointment.
Chapter Twelve
I
The Université Paul Sabatier was smudged across a great, sprawling campus on the southern outskirts of Toulouse. Sabatier had been the Dean of the Faculty of Science at Toulouse University in the early part of the twentieth century, and winner of the Nobel Prize for Chemistry in 1912. Enzo had often thought how the great man would have been horrified to see the crumbling collection of faculty buildings thrown up in his name thirty years after his death. The science-based university consisted of disparate, ugly concrete blocks separated by vast car parks and scrubby patches of sun-scorched grass which turned to mud in winter.
From the dilapidated administration building, an avenue of trees flanked a long rectangle of green, stagnant water leading to a series of lawns providing a perspective to the distant, classical Lycée Bellevue on the other side of the Route de Narbonne.
Enzo parked in front of the administration block and climbed broken steps, past graffitied pillars, to the main entrance hall. The office of the Président was one floor up on the mezzanine level. His secretary ushered Enzo into his office and told him that the Président would be with him shortly. Huge glass windows gave out on to the view towards the Lycée Bellevue whose belle vue the university was spoiling. Students attending summer courses ambled across the concourse below, unhurried in the striking heat of the southern sun. The office was airless and hot. There was no air conditioning, and Enzo took a handkerchief from his satchel to mop his forehead. He sat down in front of the Président’s vast desk and let his eyes wander across the shambles of paperwork which littered it. The Président’s glasses lay, half open, on top of a pile of exam papers. Designer tortoiseshell frames, lenses divided in two for distance and close work. On an impulse, Enzo reached over to pick them up. They were handsome spectacles, and he wondered if they might suit him. He put them on and stood up to try to catch his reflection in the window. As he did, he heard the door opening behind him, and he snatched the glasses from his face. He turned, slipping his hands behind his back to hide them.
‘Macleod,’ the Président said, and he held out his hand.
Enzo swapped the Président’s glasses from one hand to the other, and firmly shook the one being proffered. When he returned his right hand to its place behind his back, it was only to discover that somehow the index finger of his left had become jammed in the bridge between the two lenses. He pulled discreetly, but it wouldn’t budge.
The Président dropped into his chair and regarded Enzo thoughtfully. ‘You’re a damned nuisance, Macleod.’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Président.’
‘Well, sit down.’ He waved a hand at the chair opposite.
But Enzo knew he could not very well sit down with his hands behind his back. He yanked again at the glasses. ‘I’d rather stand.’ He felt awkward and foolish.
‘As you wish.’ The Président began searching about his desk, lifting and laying papers, a frown forming itself in deep lines between his eyes. ‘I spent an unpleasant fifteen minutes on the phone with the Chief of Police yesterday. I suppose you can imagine the topic of conversation?’
‘I su
ppose I can.’
The Président flicked him a fleeting glance, suspecting sarcasm, then returned to his search. ‘He was adamant that the place for a Professor of Biology is in the classroom. And I have to tell you, I agreed with him.’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Président.’
Finally, the frustrations of his fruitless search boiled over. ‘Where the hell are my glasses! I’m sure I left them on the desk. Damned things cost an arm and a leg.’ He looked up at Enzo. ‘You didn’t see them, did you?’
‘No, Monsieur le Président.’ Enzo wedged the glasses in his right hand and pulled hard with his left. There was a loud crack as the frame broke in two across the bridge.
The Président looked up. Enzo moved his head around as if his neck was troubling him. ‘Good God, man, I’d get that seen to,’ the Président said. He opened a drawer and pulled out that morning’s edition of Libération, and Enzo slipped the broken halves of the glasses into his pocket. ‘And then this appears in the paper this morning.’ He held it up. But Enzo didn’t need to look. He had read Raffin’s account of the find in Toulouse during his flight down from Paris. ‘I know your background is in forensic science, Macleod, but that is not the capacity in which you are employed by this university. Your antics are attracting unwelcome publicity. We require state as well as private funding, and we cannot afford to offend our political masters. There could be financial implications. You understand?’
‘Yes, Monsieur le Président.’ Enzo was wondering what to do with the broken pieces of the Président’s glasses, which were burning a hole now in his pocket.
