Текст книги "Folly Du Jour"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

Chapter Sixteen

Harry Quantock was again performing front-of-house duties at the Embassy. He recognized Joe at once and greeted him breezily.

‘Good morning, Commander! Good morning! We got your message and it’s all laid on. Come along to the back quarters, will you? You don’t merit a salon rouge reception today,’ he teased. ‘Much more workaday surroundings, I’m afraid. Jack Pollock’s expecting you in his office. Being on the Ambassador’s staff, an attaché, if you like, at least he’s housed in relative comfort.’

Joe was shown into a ground-floor office at the rear of the building, looking out on to a courtyard garden. It was high-ceilinged, wood-panelled and stately. The walls were studded at intervals with sepia photographs of pre-war cricket teams. Joe noted the progression from public schoolboys to the undergraduates of an Oxford college whose first eleven was outstanding for its striped blazers, striped caps and ugly expressions. These were followed in the line-up by examples of the University side. The only touch of modernity was a black and gold telephone sitting on a mahogany desk next to a silver vase of spring flowers. A tall window was open, letting in the scent of lilac blossom and the sound of traffic rumbling along the Champs-Élysées.

The attaché was seated behind his desk thumbing through a file, one eye on the door.

Joe was prepared for a family resemblance but, even so, he was taken aback by the young version of Sir George who leapt from his seat and bounded across the room to greet him with a cheerful bellow. Pollock’s handshake was dry and vigorous, his welcome the equal of – and reminiscent of – that of any large yellow dog that Joe had ever met.

‘You’ll have a cup of coffee, or do you prefer tea, Commander? Tea? Harry – could you . . .? Let’s sit down, shall we? I won’t waste your time – busy man – I’ll just say how sorry I am that you’ve been dragged into this mess, Sandilands. Lucky for us you were here on the spot, or in mid-flight to be precise, when all this burst over our heads. But – first things first – how are the Varsity doing?’

‘Varsity? Doing?’ For a moment, Joe was perplexed.

‘The Surrey match,’ Pollock prompted. ‘First fixture of the season.’

‘Ah, yes. Last I heard, I rather think they were losing 3–1 at half-time.’

The stunned silence lasted only a second. Pollock threw back his head and laughed. ‘Of course – Edinburgh man, aren’t you? Like my old relative, George. And how you must be cursing him! He might have expected to get into some trouble or other by taking a box at the Folies – might even have been relishing the thought – but surely not trouble of this magnitude. Never heard the like! He has told you that the ticket didn’t come from me, has he? Good! I wouldn’t like it assumed that I was remotely responsible. Not my style! But, I say, Sandilands – if I didn’t send the fatal billet – are we wondering who did? It must be someone, apart from myself, who knew he was going to be in Paris and is aware of our relationship. It could only be known through an ambassadorial contact – here in Paris, in London or in Delhi, I suppose.’

‘You’ve just narrowed it down to a thousand people,’ said Joe. ‘Thank you!’

Jack Pollock grinned, leaned over the desk and added: ‘I can narrow it more usefully to someone who knows that there’s no way in this world my cousin would have recognized my handwriting. I’d swear the last sample he had was the gracious note I wrote in appreciation of the mechanical tiger he sent me when I was at school.’

Pollock’s eyes twinkled at the memory. He looked at Joe, friendly but calculating. ‘Wonderful contraption! With a bit of devilish skill, a dab or two of honey and lashings of schoolboy callousness I contrived to get my tiger to snap up flies!’

‘The Tipu Sultan of the Lower Third?’

‘Exactly! I was allowed to demonstrate it on Sundays after tea. George had taken me to see the original life-sized tiger at the Victoria and Albert – you know – the one Tipu had made . . . His tiger was in the act of eating a British soldier. I’ll never forget the roars and screams it emitted when someone wound it up! And the way the victim’s arm twitched as the tiger held him in his jaws!’

Joe laughed. ‘George would know how to please. He has a certain magic with children. I’ve watched it working.’

‘Pity the old feller has none of his own,’ said Pollock, suddenly serious again. ‘What a waste of many things.’ He snapped back into the conversation he had himself interrupted. ‘But the note – I have no reason to suppose he’d recognize my scrawl. We were never frequent – or even regular – correspondents. Distance and the exigencies of the war rather put paid to intimacy of that kind. And the transition from uncle–nephew to equal adult cousins has never had a chance to take place. Not sure how it will all pan out . . . we’ll just have to wait and see.’

Joe listened to the outpouring of eager speculation and confidences, smiling and agreeing.

‘Now tell me – what have you done with him? I’m assuming you’ve put the boot in imperially and sprung him from whatever hell-hole they’d banged him up in?’ The question was put abstractedly, Pollock’s attention on the tray of tea a manservant carried in. ‘Just set it down over there, will you, Foxton? Milk or lemon, Sandilands?’

‘Milk, please.’

Returning to the first question he’d been asked: ‘I’m afraid not,’ said Joe carefully. ‘Still incarcerated, I’m sorry to say. Reasonably comfortable, I insisted on that, but still in a lock-up on the island. The authorities appear to be unimpressed by Sir George’s standing. I shall have another try later today. It may come down – or rather up – to a personal representation from the Ambassador himself.’

Pollock was angry. Whoever said that blue eyes could only be cool should have seen Pollock’s at this moment, Joe thought. They blazed. ‘What impertinence! Poor old George! He must be let out before the end of the day. Ring in and reassure me he is comfortably settled back in his hotel – where’s he staying? The Bristol? Of course. Well, the moment he gets there I’ll go and see him. And you, Sandilands – where are you staying?’

‘I’m at the Hotel Ambassador on the boulevard Haussman.’

Pollock made a note.

‘And all went well with the widow yesterday? Thank you for undertaking that unpleasant task!’

‘Unpleasant perhaps but not the harrowing experience it most often is. The lady seemed not particularly grieved to find her husband dead.’ Joe wondered how far he could pursue this line but the slight nod of agreement he received from Pollock encouraged him. ‘In fact she emerged from the identification scene a changed woman, I’d say. Reassured. Confident. Feeling a certain amount of release, no doubt? She was looking forward to an evening’s assignation at Fouquet’s with a companion whose identity is as yet unknown to us.’ He caught the echo of deadly police phrasing and added: ‘Give a lot to know who the lucky chap was!’

‘Oh, I think I can help you with that!’ said Pollock, enjoying the intrigue. ‘Doubtless the gentleman she sat next to on the plane – her travelling companion. Her constant companion for the past year, I understand. A Major Slingsby-Thwaite.’ Pollock lowered his voice though there was no risk of his being overheard. ‘Between you and me – bit of an adventurer! But then . . . perhaps that’s exactly what the lady’s after – a bit of an adventurer – after all those bleak years of being married to a murderous swine. I take it my cousin has filled you in on the activities of the unlamented Somerton?’

‘I’ve had a pungent account of the case. And agree with Sir George – the man got no less than he deserved. But you seem to be very well informed as to his movements, Pollock? Why does His Britannic Majesty’s Government take such an interest in an ex-this, a disgraced-that? A wandering has-been?’

‘Current nuisance! For many a year. We’ve always kept tabs on him, watched his movements around Europe. Passed him on to the next chap with a sigh of relief. The man made many enemies – he was always likely to be a target for revenge or embarrassing mayhem of one sort or another. And a thorough cashiering, though well-deserved, doesn’t, in my experience, turn a villain into a saint overnight. “Off with his buttons!” is in no way as effective as “Off with his head!”’

Pollock frowned for a moment and looked at Joe with speculation. ‘You may not approve, of course. But I see you are a military man. You must agree with Richard III when he was having his problems with . . . now who was it . . .?’

‘Lord Hastings, it was, who provoked that famous order for execution, I believe,’ said Joe, coming to his rescue. ‘In Shakespeare’s play.’

‘Quite right! Someone ought to have advised Sir George similarly at the time – “Off with his head!” Overtly or covertly if necessary. Either method easily available in that locale, you understand. No questions asked. Death closes all. George slipped up there. When they’re given the sack, some of these villains take the honourable way out of their situation – the revolver and the brandy on the terrace after a good dinner, a friend’s steady hand on the elbow – but the ones who go on fighting the judgement – you need to keep an eye on them. Trained soldiers, used to command, wily and unscrupulous – can cause havoc if they take it badly! Even in death, the wretch Somerton’s causing problems. And it all happened on my watch! I’d have thought he was harmless enough boxed up at the Folies. Glad he’s gone!’

‘As perhaps may be his son? I understand that Somerton was a baronet? So, the title is a hereditary one and will pass – has already passed – down to his only son.’

‘Yes. The world now has Sir Frederick Somerton to reckon with. An effortless way of acquiring a degree of nobility. Though a tarnished title. And one some might not be eager to parade. I’ll look into all this. The contents of the will, if the man left one, are not yet known. I’ll inform you if anything interesting comes up. Are you thinking that the young man got fed up with waiting for his absent reprobate father to drop off the twig? Young Frederick can’t have been easy, aware that the old man was roving about Europe, spending the family fortune. I understand this to have been quite sizeable at one time. Perhaps he decided to hurry things along a bit? Makes sense to me. He’ll have an uphill task, trying to burnish up the family name again, though. Old Somerton left quite a stink behind him!’

Intrigued by the nuances of speech and the unusual ideas they hinted at, Joe felt himself steered into asking with more familiarity than he would normally have assumed: ‘How are you placed, Pollock – dynastically speaking?’

He seemed ready enough to reply. ‘I’m not impressed by dynasties, successions, and all that family rubbish. I suppose I take that attitude from my father. My mother – oh, it’s well known – married beneath her, as they say, and my father brought me up to be very dismissive of all that inheritance nonsense. I went to a Good School where the other boys merely confirmed me in my prejudices. On the whole, the grander the nastier, I concluded. But – the system seduces us all, I suppose you’d say. Did I refuse my cousin’s offer of a recommendation to the right person? No. And I have to confess, Sandilands, that . . .’ Again he lowered his voice, taking Joe into his confidence, slightly embarrassed at what he was about to reveal. ‘ . . . there’s a chance . . . a good chance . . . that there’ll be an honour in the offing for me before very long. Knee on the velvet cushion, sword on the shoulder, “Arise, Sir John” stuff! And, do you know – I shan’t feel inclined to turn it down. I’ll have earned it. It will be my own achievement and will owe nothing to a scheming old ancestor having pleased some capricious monarch in the dim and distant.’

‘So, if we were making a book on the runners and riders in the Somerton slaying, we’d be giving short odds on the new baronet?’

‘I’d certainly leave him on the list until we have more information. And his mother. At slightly longer odds, of course. Any more suspicions?’

‘Vague ones. Tell me, Pollock – there’s been a suggestion that the whole thing was staged deliberately to be witnessed by Sir George . . . or for the delectation of someone else in the audience. What’s your opinion on that?’

Pollock frowned. ‘A bit far-fetched but not out of the question, I suppose,’ he replied cagily.

‘I wonder if it had occurred to you that there might be a similarity with another crime scene you were dragged into some four years ago? I only mention this because the officiating pathologist at both crimes turns out to be one and the same – efficient fellow called Moulin.’

Pollock’s face livened at the name. ‘I remember. Yes, indeed. Good man! Effective and businesslike. And the scene was in the Louvre of all places! Good God, is it really four years? To me it’s as clear as if it happened yesterday. Did he fill you in . . .?’

‘Yes, he gave me the details of the discovery of the body, the means of killing, the identity of the corpse and so on. But the most interesting thing he had to say was that, in common with that of Somerton, the murder was undertaken as a form of display to an invited audience of Egyptologists and academics, who all had reason to hate the man. Did you have the same feeling, I wonder?’

‘Certainly did! The whole event was – well, just that! – an event. Apart from the representatives of law and order, there were three of us non-combatants, so to speak, caught up in the sorry scene. A very nice couple of Americans who raised the alarm when they caught sight of the blood pool under the coffin box – and me.’

‘What on earth were you doing in the Louvre? Did anyone orchestrate your movements on that day?’

‘Do you know – that thought never occurred to me! No . . . I’d say it was impossible. I was newly at the Embassy. Relatively low-ranking, of no significance in this context. Has George told you how I spent the war years? No? Well, knowing something of Egypt, and speaking a few languages, I was posted into Intelligence there. I picked up first-hand experience of the tricky political situation in the country. Powder keg! Wanting its independence from Britain, France, Italy, Turkey and every other piratical nation that thought it had a claim on its archaeological resources, to say nothing of its strategic and geographical advantages. After demob which came at very long last – always one more dispute to preside over – it was thought I could use the skills I’d acquired on the ground, here in Paris.

‘I owe my present position to George – were you aware of this? When I got here I found that the war was still being fought out amongst the archaeological cliques! And that’s what I was doing at the museum that day. On neutral territory, away from embassies, we were having a meeting, trying to reach an agreement between four nations growling like dogs over a bone. Well, several thousand bones, as it happened. A whole newly discovered burial chamber. And the digging rights were in dispute. Not as straightforward as you might expect – many borders were still being negotiated in those days after the war.

‘We’d come to something approaching a position all could accept and were gratefully on our way home when we were accosted by a frightfully concerned American who thought he’d discovered someone bleeding to death in a coffin case. Well, I assume the doctor who arrived shortly after that has filled you in?’

He paused, marshalling his thoughts. ‘Moulin did not mislead you. I agree with him. There was something very strange going on. I was so occupied with keeping the peace I was perhaps a bit slow to catch on. It wasn’t until later at police headquarters . . . The Americans – the Whites – fled. The wife was feeling ill. Got clean away. But their consciences overcame them afterwards and they duly reported to the police, who set up the interview and took their statement. Mr White asked particularly if I could be present to help with the language. A sensible arrangement and a task I was pleased to carry out. Very nice people, as I said. He was an army sergeant who’d been decorated for bravery on the Marne, I believe. I’ve never understood why they call those Yanks “doughboys”, have you? Most unfortunate. Conjures up images of puffy-faced, spotty youths, soft to the touch. This man was as hard as a well-seasoned oak beam. And smart. We talked later, off the record, so to speak, and he put his ideas to me. I had to agree with him. He’d seen more than I had and made better sense of it. And his wife’s insights were even more acute!

‘Sandilands, the audience were there by invitation, I’d swear it. Someone had arranged the whole thing. A ringmaster of sorts. Set the scene, knowing it would go down well. A much-hated man had got his just deserts.’

‘Would it be too fanciful, do you think, to assume that this, um, ringmaster had gone on cracking his whip? Organizing spectacles of this kind? Perhaps this wasn’t the first? Perhaps it wasn’t the last?’ Joe suggested tentatively as though the idea had just occurred to him. He spoke with the diffidence of one putting such a ridiculous suspicion into words.

Pollock was astonished. Then he smiled. ‘You didn’t know? Well, how could you be expected to know? Just nipped over the Channel for a few days . . . no access to records . . . Oh, I do beg your pardon! How rude of me! It’s just that . . . you’ve shown such insight . . . delved so deep in no time at all – the temptation is to assume Scotland Yard is omniscient. It takes a diplomat with fingers in many pies, a nosy bugger like me, someone with months to reflect on it, to get the full picture.’

Joe’s easy smile showed that he was not at all put out by Pollock’s frankness.

‘The murderer was indeed in the room. Enjoying his little show. When I thought about it, I was only surprised he didn’t take a bow or lead the applause.’

Pollock became suddenly serious and Joe caught sight of the tenacity and moral muscle that lay beneath the insouciant surface. ‘There were several nationalities involved, you understand, Sandilands. At least three Englishmen present and participating. There were men I had had dealings with in the past and with whom I could expect to deal in the future, men whose hospitality I would be accepting, men on whose good will I would have to count. But I hadn’t been so long in the business that I no longer cared whether the hand I was shaking had blood on it. I made a few enquiries, put two and two together and came up, I believe, with the right answer.’

‘You have his identity?’ Joe tried to keep his voice level.

‘Certainly have! And the excellent Maybelle White confirmed my suspicions!’

Chapter Seventeen

Joe waited, allowing him to savour his moment of intrigue.

‘The murderer wasn’t concealing himself or his motive with very great care. What a show-off! I expect you, sharp fellow that you are, would have been waiting by the door to finger his collar.’

The ball had been patted back into his court and Joe wondered whether he was being tested in some mildly playful way. Readying himself to provide an entertaining belly-flop, he slipped a hand into his trouser pocket and checked that what he was seeking was there. He remembered the details of Dr Moulin’s story and plunged in. ‘It was, of course, the jocular prestidigitator who pulled the gold amulet of the god Set out of his victim’s mouth! Rather in this manner . . .’

Joe flourished the trinket he’d palmed, holding it between finger and thumb, enjoying Pollock’s astonishment. This was followed swiftly by a burst of laughter.

‘You’ve got him! Good Lord! I never would have expected to see that piece of nonsense again! Wherever did you come by it? And the murderer produced it that day in front of that learned crowd, just as you’ve demonstrated! Probably with a wink for his admirers, but I’ll never know – he had his back to me at the time. And, like everyone in the room with the exception of Harland C. White, I was able to interpret the symbolism of the gesture: here was a man who was opening his mouth one last time to Spew Out Evil. Mrs White had a good deal of interesting remarks to make about the Egyptian burial rite of “The Opening of the Mouth” but we decided that line of thought might be a little over-adventurous.’

‘And what’s become of your ringmaster?’ Joe asked. ‘Your entrepreneur of crime? Is he still flourishing? I should very much like to talk to him. Is he still here in Paris?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes, he is! He’s in Père Lachaise. The cemetery. Committed suicide last year. Down in the south somewhere . . . Cannes, that’s it. Left a full confession. More tea, Sandilands?’

Joe accepted a fresh cup using the mechanical gestures to disguise his surprise and disappointment.

‘The murder in the Louvre wasn’t the only thing he had on his conscience.’ Pollock shook his head, in distaste. ‘A really terrible man! Almost the equal of the man he’d had done away with. Two of a kind! But then, the profession, which it now claims to be, has always attracted unscrupulous rogues of all nationalities. And all ranks of society. From Napoleon to the ten-year-old native tomb-robber.’

After a carefully calculated interval, Joe put down his teacup and began to draw the interview to a close, thanking Jack Pollock for his help and interest: formulaic phrases cut short by Pollock’s bluff response: ‘Think nothing of it, old chap!’ His warm hand reached again for Joe’s and gripped it firmly. ‘If there’s anything – the slightest thing – I can do, I’m your man. Keep me informed, won’t you?’

At the door he paused. ‘French views of Law and Order not the same as ours, you know. Stay alert, Sandilands!

‘And where have you decided to have luncheon today? May I recommend somewhere?’ he asked as they crossed the hall on the way to the front door. ‘At your hotel? The Ambassador, I think you said? Excellent reputation for its cuisine. Good choice!’

So. Moulin and Francine Raissac – and he swiftly added himself to the list – had fallen victim to an over-coloured story, a lurid, crime-novel notion of villainy. Relief and disappointment were flooding through Joe, fighting for control. Of course Pollock’s theory was correct and it was supported by a confession. The scene at the museum had to have been staged by a man with influence enough to clear rooms, to lure in the victim, to have him dispatched with all that chilling ceremony, to arrange for an independent witness to stumble on the body, and to have the insider’s knowledge to invite just the right people to participate in the finding. No one but the Americans and Pollock was there by chance.

The whole presentation had been a work of art. A labour not of love but of hatred. And, with a final directorial twist, the case had been solved and brought to a conclusion by the perpetrator himself. Very proper. Inevitable. The death had occurred down south in Cannes and Moulin had not been aware or involved. ‘I’ve saved the best till last,’ the doctor had told him. And the best – the most astonishing – case in the series of unexplained crimes now proved to have been no such thing. A one-off. Solved. Case closed with Père Lachaise finality. And, with that key element dislodged, the whole house of cards tumbled down.

Joe surrendered to relief. And yet he was left feeling foolish. He was still saddled with the problem of assigning responsibility for Somerton’s killing and had wasted a precious day. But at least now he could concentrate on the motive he had originally thought most likely: vengeance. And he could probably discount the unlikely phone calls from the Somerton residence in England to an undisclosed agency in Paris: ‘The name’s Somerton. You’ll find him at the Crillon . . . Dagger would be most suitable . . . How much? You are joking, of course? Ah well . . . I suppose it will be worth it . . .’

He could forget about Sir George’s presence being an element in the planning. It was most likely that there had been no planning at all. Perhaps some Anglo-Indian, retired from the army, someone with a grudge against the man, had seen him lording it in a box at the Folies accompanied by an attractive young girl and this had been the trigger for a vengeful act of fury. It was the unconsidered flaunting of power and position that could incite lesser men to rage. Many men had come back from India with daggers in their possession. They might, with all the alarming stories of the revived Apache gangs, have chosen to carry a knife from their collection instead of the more usual swordstick as a means of self-defence in this dangerous capital.

Joe wondered wearily if he could ask Bonnefoye to release names from the information he knew the French police kept on foreigners residing in the city, permanently or temporarily. Hours of patient checking would be called for and he was very far from certain that such a request would be taken seriously by the police authority. In any case, Fourier would have lost patience long before results were available and rearrested George.

But, looking on the bright side, Sir George was no longer to be considered the target of some mysterious Set or Fantômas figure, stalked through the streets of Paris by a scar-faced acolyte. And Joe could now return safely to his hotel without slinking along like a polecat. He badly needed to change his clothes. Toothbrushes and other essential items had been provided by the industrious and early-rising Madame Bonnefoye and he had spent a comfortable night in a pair of Jean-Philippe’s pyjamas, but he wanted to touch base.

But what of Heather Watkins? Her encounter had been with a flesh and blood menace. Twice. Could the shadowing of Miss Watkins be explained by the girl’s obvious attractions? Her vivid hair and fresh Celtic looks would always attract masculine attention, he thought. They had attracted his. He knew that many men on the lookout for just such loveliness haunted the foyers of even the best hotels. Perhaps she was being pursued by some theatrical impresario? To be recruited into the ranks of high-kicking chorus girls? She had exactly the right height and athletic appearance. And he didn’t doubt that, like every other English girl he knew (always excepting Dorcas Joliffe of course), she’d been to ballet classes. Bonnefoye had confessed that certain nameless limbs of the government actually kept lists of spectacular girls – attractive and good conversationalists – who might be summoned to escort visiting royalty or the like about the city. Joe wasn’t quite sure he believed him. At the worst, she might be the target of the gangs of confidence tricksters who ran the ‘badger games’ from hotel lobbies. Beautifully dressed, well-spoken and plausible, the female bandits they employed would lure men freshly arrived and looking forward to adventures with a sob-story or an involving smile and in no time they’d have the gold out of their pockets – and their teeth.

He reined in his thoughts. Nonsense! There were more loose fragments of tinsel swirling about in this kaleidoscope than he could pull into focus at the moment and he was not going to lose track of a single element. The face of Francine Raissac had stayed with him. He remembered clearly her terror. Her warnings. He’d take her seriously and he’d listen to Pollock’s parting words of advice and stay alert.

He performed his automatic checks for surveillance as he strolled along the rue du Faubourg St Honoré but with no sense of urgency. If anyone cared to follow him from the Embassy to his hotel, they were welcome to do so. He paused in front of the window display in one of the bookshops along the street, decided they probably didn’t have what he was looking for and moved off. Finding what he wanted a few yards further on, he went in and spent a few minutes examining the stock before he made his choice.

The receptionist at the Hotel Ambassador greeted him and told him a telephone message had just arrived for him. Joe took the note. A brief one from Bonnefoye.

We have Wilberforce. Has agreed to meet Fourier at 11.30. Be there!

Joe telephoned to congratulate Bonnefoye on his speed of performance.

‘Not difficult! He was at the third hotel on our list. Having breakfast. Confirms he was at the theatre that night and says he’ll be pleased to be of help. I’ll see you both at Staircase A?’

Joe, freshly bathed, shirted and suited, met Bonnefoye at the entrance to police headquarters and waited with him for Jennings’ taxi to drop him off. The man stepping out was easily identified by his English overcoat, bowler hat and rolled umbrella. Bonnefoye suppressed a snort of laughter at the image of propriety the man presented as Joe stepped forward to enquire: ‘Mr Wilberforce Jennings, I presume? How do you do, sir. Commander Sandilands of Scotland Yard liaising with the Police Judiciaire. May I introduce my colleague, Inspector Bonnefoye?’

Jennings relaxed on hearing Joe’s suave voice and shook hands with each man.

‘This is to do with the killing at the theatre, night before last, eh? What? Not sure I can be of much help. I know people always say they saw nothing but, in this case, it’s absolutely true! I saw nothing of the killing, that is!’

Joe allowed him to chatter on nervously as they crossed the courtyard. These forbidding surroundings would give anyone the jitters – even a man fortified by a bowler and a brolly. At the door to Staircase A, he turned to Jennings, reassurance in his voice. ‘Don’t be alarmed, sir. Just a few questions to be put to you by the French Chief Inspector in charge of the case. He’s obliged to cover all bases, you understand? Explore all avenues.’

Jennings nodded vigorously to indicate he understood this calming drivel.

‘Many people are being interviewed – one of them may have seen something he was not aware that he had seen. Just answer the questions carefully. I will be on hand to translate.’

Chairs, Joe noted, had been provided in Fourier’s office. The files and papers were aligned in rows. After introductions all round, he and Bonnefoye settled in a group with Jennings between them, facing Fourier and a sergeant who was taking notes at his elbow.