He looked around the room. It was like most hotel rooms of this kind. Not a dump, exactly, but shabby all the same. A double bed with a cover on it that had seen better days; a bedside table and a lamp, the shade of which had turned from beige to grey. A frayed rug. There was a single chair by the window, but no desk. Hanging above the bed was a gaudy print of an Apsara, one of the dancing goddesses depicted on Khmer temple walls and reliefs.
Morel walked over to the spot where Hugo Quercy had been found slumped, on the opposite side of the room to where the bed stood. The wall had been cleaned half-heartedly and there remained a faint brown smear.
Morel looked carefully at the bedspread and at the floor. He examined the windowsills and the glass on the windows. Without any forensic work, there was little to see.
Morel stood with his back to the wall and lowered himself to the ground. Remembering Sarit’s description of where Hugo Quercy had been found, he arranged himself with his legs splayed before him, his head lolling forward, chin facing towards his chest. Pran had said a man could die rapidly from a depressed skull fracture. Though you’d have to open up his skull to gauge the extent of the haemorrhage and to confirm the type of bleeding that had occurred. The Khmer doctor had said they shouldn’t count on an X-ray.
Morel remembered that Quercy would probably have lost consciousness when his head slammed against the wall.
He leaned back. He was close enough to the bed to see that the synthetic bedcover had some dubious-looking stains on it. They didn’t look recent. Whoever had pushed Quercy must have been right against the bed. Or on it? Was that possible? Either way, his attacker had pushed him with enough force for him to hit the wall and crack his head. He had then left Quercy there. Or perhaps he had waited long enough to make sure his heart had stopped beating.
Morel stood up and looked around the room once more. What had Quercy been doing here anyway? It didn’t seem like the sort of room you’d rent for a romantic tryst. Then again, it was just right for a quick fuck. Functional and cheap.
‘What do you think?’
Morel turned to find Glaister standing at the door, looking at him. He wondered how long the man had been there.
‘What time did he check in?’ Morel asked.
‘Just after eight.’
‘And during the night, did anyone hear anything? In the neighbouring rooms?’
‘The rooms on either side were occupied. The occupant of that room,’ Glaister said, pointing to the wall behind the bed, ‘he was out for the night and only got back around two in the morning. He said he had a bit too much to drink and went straight to sleep. Didn’t hear anything. There was a couple in the other room. They went out for dinner and got back just after nine. They watched TV for a while. He said he was asleep before his wife. She said she dropped off soon after her husband but before that she heard a thump.’
‘A thump?’
‘Something hit the partition. It gave her a fright. But then she said she wasn’t sure whether she was awake or not. She and her husband had had a few drinks. She wondered whether she might have been asleep already, and dreaming.’
‘And this woman, she didn’t hear any other sounds? Like two people moving around the place, knocking over furniture, that sort of thing? Angry voices?’
Glaister shook his head. ‘She heard a thump. And she thought she heard crying.’
‘Did she say what time it was?’
‘She wasn’t sure. It was late and she was tired. I have all this written down,’ he said. ‘Which is lucky, because the people who were staying on either side of this room have since checked out.’
‘We’ll need contact details for everyone who was staying here on the night,’ Morel said.
‘Of course.’
So Quercy might have died some time around ten o’clock. According to a woman who might or might not have been awake. It wasn’t much to go on, but it was something. Morel looked at the hotel manager’s unshaven face. He wondered for the first time whether Glaister was telling the truth when he said he didn’t know Hugo Quercy.
‘What about the sheets?’ Morel enquired. Sarit appeared behind him.
‘What about them?’ Glaister asked.
‘Have they been changed since the murder?’
‘No. There hasn’t been time. But I don’t think anyone used the bed. They didn’t get a chance, did they?’
‘Perhaps not.’ Morel approached the bed. For a long time, he stared at the dirty cover and the pillows. No one said anything. Sarit cleared his throat.
‘I understand you’ve interviewed the staff?’ Morel said to Glaister.
‘Yes. The five lads who were working reception that night and in the early part of the morning. One of my staff remembers Quercy checking in. Only he checked in as Jean Dupont.’
‘How does he know it was Quercy?’ Nizet had already explained this in the car, on the way in from the airport, but Morel wanted to hear it first-hand.
‘On Monday morning he identified the body, before we moved it,’ Sarit said.
‘I can give you the interview notes I took,’ Glaister told Morel.
‘My colleague and I would like to talk to them ourselves, if you don’t mind,’ Morel said.
‘Of course. They are not all here now, though.’ Glaister’s tone was curt, his blue gaze disconcerting.
‘If you could organize a time today when we can talk to all five, we’d appreciate it,’ Morel said. ‘And,’ he continued, ‘I’d like that list of everyone who was staying in the hotel on Sunday night.’ Morel turned to Sarit, who was lighting another cigarette without bothering to check whether it was OK to smoke in the room. If he was going to be spending much more time with his chain-smoking Cambodian counterpart, he might as well start smoking again, too.
Glaister walked them back through the lobby and down the front steps.
‘Strange, isn’t it? That he lived just a few minutes away and checked into our hotel. Under a different name. I wonder what he was hiding.’
Morel looked at him. There was nothing in Glaister’s eyes except mild curiosity.
‘We’ll be looking into that.’
‘Want to know what I think?’ Glaister said, and Morel waited. He could guess what was coming.
‘Chances are he was having a good time with a girl and she was already spoken for. You’d be amazed how many married men get away with having a bit of fun on the side.’
‘I’m not so easily amazed,’ Morel said. He held out his hand to Glaister. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your help.’
Before they got into the car, he called out, ‘You’re welcome. Who should I contact then, if I’ve got anything new to pass on?’
Morel looked at Sarit. He was the officer heading this investigation, even if, so far, he’d been acting more like a disinterested guide.
‘Call Monsieur Morel,’ Sarit said.
What the hell was he playing at?
Morel turned to Glaister and smiled, hoping his face didn’t betray what he was feeling.
THIRTEEN
They found the Quercy home in a narrow lane of single-storey dwellings. The white-painted house was unassuming, with a carport just big enough for the grey Kia parked inside it, and a modest front lawn. White and pink bougainvillea grew out of large clay pots and a small dog of indeterminate breed was standing at the gate. He started barking the moment Morel and Sarit got out of the car.
They rang the bell and after a few moments, a woman came out of the house. She was Japanese, Morel guessed, dressed in a black short-sleeved shirt and white shorts, and her black hair was pulled back from her face with a bandanna.
‘The widow’s friend,’ Sarit said quietly to Morel.
‘Come on in,’ she called out, and she opened the electronic gate.
They stepped tentatively around the dog, growling and lunging at their heels. The woman came down the front steps to greet them.
‘Don’t worry about the dog,’ she said, pushing the creature aside with her foot. ‘It’s l
oud but it’s harmless. Mariko Arda,’ she added. She had a firm handshake and she looked at Morel with undisguised curiosity.
‘Commandant Serge Morel of the French brigade criminelle. So it’s your hotel I’m staying at,’ Morel said, making the connection.
‘My husband’s. I have nothing to do with it,’ she said in perfect French. He felt slightly unnerved by the way she continued to gaze at him. ‘I heard you were here. Are you running this investigation?’
‘No. I’m here to assist my Cambodian colleague,’ Morel said, despite Sarit’s assertion earlier. He introduced Chey Sarit and Mariko responded briskly in Khmer, shaking Sarit’s hand too. The way she moved from Khmer to French was impressive.
‘Let’s go inside. I’ll fetch Florence for you. Though I should warn you she’s fragile,’ Mariko said, speaking in a lowered voice as they entered the living room. She invited them to sit down and then left to fetch Quercy’s widow.
While she was gone, Morel took a look around the room. The Quercys had done it up tastefully. There were paintings and photographs everywhere. Morel’s eye was drawn to a handwoven kilim saddlebag hanging on one wall. On the opposite side of the room, there were a series of black-and-white photographs. Morel went to take a closer look.
‘Florence will be here in a minute,’ Mariko said as she returned. She went over to where Morel stood. ‘They’re good, aren’t they? Florence is the photographer. She develops them herself too.’
‘They’re very good,’ Morel said, impressed. In this age of digital photography, where you could take hundreds of shots and discard them as you pleased just by pushing the delete button, manual photography seemed like an elegant, if somewhat old-fashioned, occupation.
Sarit took a cigarette out of his pack. Mariko gave him a sharp look but said nothing. When Sarit pulled out his lighter, Morel shook his head.
‘That’s not a good idea.’ Seeing the Cambodian’s puzzled expression, he added, ‘The widow is pregnant.’
Sarit gave him a long, hard look, as though Morel were to blame, before returning the cigarettes to his pocket.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting.’
Florence Quercy was tiny. The pregnancy looked like it might be too much for her diminutive frame; her unborn baby seemed to be swallowing her whole. Her hair was a pale blonde and her eyes wide and blue, and she appeared visibly shaken.
Mariko steered her to the sofa and sat her down like a child.
‘You wanted to talk to me?’ Florence said, addressing Morel.
‘Yes. We won’t take up too much of your time.’ He glanced at Sarit, to see whether the Cambodian would finally take the lead, but he was looking downward and carefully rubbing at an invisible stain on his knee.
‘Can you tell us when you saw your husband last, Madame Quercy?’ Morel asked in French.
Her voice barely rose above a whisper. ‘On Sunday.’
‘So the afternoon before he died?’
‘Yes.’
Morel saw Mariko take a seat next to Florence and reach out for her hand. She cupped it in both of hers and her thumb moved delicately back and forth across her friend’s knuckles. The bereaved woman seemed to find this comforting.
‘What time was it when you saw your husband? Do you remember?’ he asked.
Florence Quercy chewed on her lip before answering.
‘Around half past four. I remember because he doesn’t usually go to work on a Sunday. He went in that day because he had a lot to catch up on, he said. But he promised he would be back by half past four. And he was.’
‘How did he seem?’
The widow’s eyes filled up. Morel waited.
‘Happy.’
‘Was he different from his usual self?’
‘No, not really. I mean, I remember he was excited and happy.’
‘Was that unusual?’
‘No. Well. Not really. Hugo was always exuberant . . . but he was really excited. He couldn’t sit still.’
‘Excited about what?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did he say anything to you? About his day at work, or anything else?’
‘No. He just asked how my day had gone.’
‘And then?’
She looked at him beseechingly, unsure what he was asking of her.
‘He went out again,’ Morel suggested. Florence nodded.
‘Did he say where he was going?’ Morel asked. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Sarit get up and pace the room impatiently. Mariko remained still and attentive. She continued to hold the widow’s hand in hers. Morel kept his eyes trained on Florence, encouraging her to look at him and not to get distracted.
‘He said he had to go back to work.’
‘But he didn’t,’ Sarit said. The two women looked at him as if they’d quite forgotten he was in the room. Morel spoke quickly.
‘At this stage we don’t know what his next steps were. This is what we need to determine. Madame Quercy, what time did your husband leave the house on Sunday?’
‘Shortly after 7 p.m.’
‘And he said he was going back to work. Those were his exact words?’
‘He said he had to go back to the office.’
‘She’s already told you this,’ Mariko said. Morel nodded.
‘Did he take the car?’
‘No.’
‘So how did he get to work?’
‘Paul took him.’
‘Paul?’
‘My husband,’ Mariko said. ‘He is – was – Hugo’s closest friend. He came by to pick Hugo up.’
‘Did the two of them work together in some capacity?’
‘No. But Paul sometimes gave Hugo a lift places. Hugo didn’t like to drive,’ Florence Quercy said.
Morel paused. ‘So his friend drove around here in the evening just to give him a lift somewhere?’
‘That’s right.’
‘A good friend indeed. And this was quite normal? Did he do it often?’
‘I wouldn’t say it was often.’ Florence grew defensive. ‘Once in a while, maybe.’
‘Why didn’t your husband like to drive himself?’
‘He told me when we first met that as a younger man he’d been in a horrific car crash. He was with a friend. Poor Hugo, he was the one driving but it really wasn’t his fault. A dog ran across the road and he swerved to avoid it.’
‘What happened?’ Morel asked.
‘He smashed into a tree. His friend was killed on the spot. Hugo was incredibly lucky to survive. But it left him with a real phobia of driving. He tends – tended – to let others drive him. Including me. Otherwise he got around in those tuk-tuks,’ she said.
‘Why didn’t he take a tuk-tuk to his office instead of calling Paul?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you hear from your husband after he left the house?’
‘He called around nine. I was sleeping, actually. I was very tired. He said he was sorry for waking me up and that he would be a couple of hours more.’
‘How did he sound?’
Her eyes filled up again.
‘He sounded like Hugo. He told me he loved me.’
‘I know this is very difficult,’ Morel said. ‘But anything you remember might help us find who did this to him. Do you understand? I promise we won’t keep you any longer than we need to.’
‘Yes. I want to help you, I do,’ she said.
‘So if you could just go back to that last conversation you had with your husband, Madame Quercy. Did he sound preoccupied? Different in any way?’
‘No.’ Her voice was shrill. She had gone pale, her eyes frightened. ‘He was the same as ever.’ She paused, then said slowly, ‘I wish there was more I could tell you. I really do.’
‘There is actually something else you should know,’ Mariko said. She had let go of Florence’s hand. ‘Someone broke into this house on Sunday night. The night Hugo was killed.’
Morel had been standing but now he sat down, opposi
te the women. He noticed Sarit had stopped pacing and was paying close attention.
‘Is this right, Madame Quercy? Can you tell me about it?’
Florence’s face was filled with fear. She shook her head and turned to her friend.
‘When Florence woke up in the morning, she found dirty footprints all over the place. There were a number of prints right outside her bedroom door. She called me. She was beside herself, understandably. Of course I came over straight away. It’s lucky Paul and I live nearby. Florence was in a bad way and I drove her to the hospital. They kept her in for an hour or so, to make sure she was OK.’
No wonder the widow looked frightened, Morel reflected. He thought of something.
‘Were there any prints anywhere else, apart from the footprints on the ground? On the walls or on any objects around the house?’
The women both shook their heads. ‘No.’
There was a moment’s silence, followed by a long spell of coughing from Sarit.
‘Would you mind if my colleague and I took a look at those prints?’ Morel said.
‘They’re gone,’ Mariko said. ‘Like I said, Florence called me and I came straight away.’
‘You cleaned up?’ Morel tried to keep his voice neutral but he couldn’t believe they had been so thoughtless.
‘Yes. She asked me to. Given Florence’s state, it was unthinkable to leave the place as it was.’
Morel fell silent. He could hardly berate the woman for her actions. Still, this was bad news.
‘We will have to go through the house, Madame Quercy. To make sure the intruder didn’t leave any clues behind.’ Sarit had come over and sat himself down on one of the two sofas. Mariko had just noticed the Cambodian’s leg, Morel saw. Now Sarit was sitting, it was more obvious that he wore a prosthetic limb.
There was a small sound, like a whimper. Florence was fidgeting on the sofa, like she couldn’t get comfortable. There were dark circles under her eyes.
‘Perhaps you could continue this another time,’ Mariko said. ‘Florence isn’t well. The doctor says she needs to rest. It’s been such a shock and there’s the baby to consider.’ She stood up, expecting the two men to do the same.
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