Текст книги "Folly Du Jour"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

They sipped the coffee appreciatively for a moment or two and then Joe said mildly: ‘So – your attempt to pervert the course of justice by withholding vital information (six months in La Santé if Acid Drop were to find out) was occasioned by a feeling of solidarity for a fellow working girl? No more than that? Am I expected to believe this?’ He left a space in which she was meant to reflect on her predicament and assess his power to carry out his threats, veiled, as they were, by a charming smile and delivered in a pleasantly husky voice. ‘But loyalty is something I can understand. It is my motivation also in pursuing this case,’ he confided. ‘The suspect, Sir George Jardine, is an old friend of mine, a distinguished public servant, a much-decorated soldier and a man of impeccable honour. He is not a man to sink a dagger into the throat of a fellow officer, to hear his death rattle, to soak up his blood.’

Fearing he was raising George’s virtue to an unbelievable height, he paused.

‘Are you telling me such a man never killed before?’ she said, cynically. ‘Come on! A politician and a soldier? To me that combination shrieks power and violence. I saw him – you forget. He is a man capable of killing.’ She surprised him further by looking him in the eye and adding: ‘Like you.’

Joe was alarmed by the accuracy of the girl’s insight. ‘He’s a competent man. Such a messy killing is not his style at all. Completely implausible. If circumstances ever forced a man like Jardine to contrive the death of a fellow man – and I can’t imagine what they might conceivably be –’ he lied, ‘he would do it from afar . . . He would not do it before an audience of two thousand. And – I can tell you – he would not be discovered floundering about with blood on his own hands.’

‘Exactly! You’re getting there! From afar – you’ve said it! Perhaps the victim was no pushover? A soldier might be expected to fight back? Your elderly friend not too keen to get close enough to sink a blade in him? I wonder how much your Sir George laid out for the distancing? Money can take you anywhere in this city, Inspector. If you know where to go. The right address. A thousand francs will buy you a night of passion you never dreamed of . . . If your desires are of a more sinister nature, the same sum will buy you a death.’

Chapter Ten

‘And if all I hear is correct, both may be obtained at the same establishment,’ she whispered.

‘Établissement?’ he queried, apparently not understanding the word, and waited for her explanation. A trick he must use sparingly, he thought. She was clever and would soon realize that, in offering a simplified and expanded version of her comments, she was giving away more than she had intended. He listened carefully to her reply and nodded his understanding.

She made an effort not to look about her and Joe was aware of a lowering of her voice even though they were unobserved. Was this done for effect? He thought he’d better be prepared to reserve judgement on Mademoiselle Raissac.

‘If this is an agreement you’re offering, Inspector,’ she went on, ‘I have to accept, but I want your assurance that it will not be known that this information comes from me. Nor will I involve others. They don’t like loose ends. They cover their tracks and they don’t leave witnesses.’

‘They?’ he questioned lightly. ‘Did you mention a name? Did I miss it?’

‘They have no name but they have a reputation, amongst those who need to know these things, for efficiency and even –’ she shuddered – ‘a certain style.’

‘What are you suggesting?’ He glanced around at the couturier’s silk and satin confections. ‘An element of design in their deaths? Bespoke killing? Made-to-measure murder?’

‘Don’t scoff! You have no idea!’

The words burst from her, raw and vehement. What emotion inspired them, he wondered – fear, despair or fury at his wilfully obtuse comments? He had a knack of making people fizz with rage when he chose to use it. Anger frequently knocked down carefully erected defences and left his suspect exposed. But this girl had not yet reached that pitch. Her emotion – whatever it might be – was still surging and gathering. In an anxious effort to impress on him the gravity of her situation, the gestures accompanying her words became intense and urgent.

‘If they found out I’d spoken of this . . . I’d be discovered dead, my mouth sewn up with scarlet thread and a pair of scissors through my heart. Do you understand?’

He affected dismay. ‘Am I to suppose, then, that the – shall we now call it “assassination”? – of Somerton was a commercial undertaking? That someone approached the nameless organization you have in mind and ordered up his death?’

‘Yes. The dead man was probably lured there by this blonde girl who at an agreed moment abandoned him to his fate. At the finale, I’d guess, the killer entered and cut his throat, leaving the knife behind. They usually take the weapon away with them. This knife must have been significant, wouldn’t you say? I caught a glimpse of it. They picked it up with a handkerchief from the floor at the man’s feet. It looked foreign to me. And it wasn’t a zarin, which is the most popular knife in use in Paris.’

‘Zarin?’

‘It’s like a stiletto. The street gangs use it. For ripping and stabbing. Like this.’ She held an imaginary weapon in her hand using a backwards grip and demonstrated. Her face was impassive but her breathing was increasingly fast and shallow.

‘I’ve seen just that action somewhere,’ he said vaguely.

‘Well, this weapon was no zarin. It was short . . . fancy carved hilt.’

‘Ivory. Very distinctive. The dagger in this case was from Afghanistan,’ he said calmly. ‘A country in which Somerton had served some years ago, before the war.’ He calculated he was giving nothing away. It would be all over the newspapers tomorrow. And her response would tell him what he needed to know about Mademoiselle Raissac. Would she fall for the stimulus of the exotic blade he was offering and be inspired to spin out her story?

Yes, she would. Her eyes gleamed, her hands fluttered in expressive embroidery of her tale: ‘Well – there you have it, then! You should be looking for someone with a grudge going back to that time. A clear case of vengeance, wouldn’t you say? Someone with enough money and enough hatred, after all these years, to have the man very publicly killed. Payback for something murky in the past? That’s what the scene would have shown if your poor old friend hadn’t stumbled into the box prematurely. And now he’s got himself arrested and it all looks like an exhibition of jealous rage between two old codgers who ought to know better. A fit of rage that got out of hand.’

She considered for a moment and added: ‘They might not like that. An expensively staged act of retribution reduced to a sordid squabble. The customer who paid for his bit of theatre might not be entirely satisfied at the outcome.’

‘Not sure where you’re going with all this. He – whoever he is . . . Client of them perhaps? – can hardly say: “Excuse me – may we see that bit again, from the top?” can he? It’s not a dress rehearsal we’ve been treated to! More of a live – or rather death – performance.’

She scowled. ‘Nothing I can say will make you take this seriously. I’ve said enough. I’ve said too much. Who knows what he’s deciding at this moment? What they are planning? You’d better leave now. But before you go – I’ll remind you of our bargain. What was it? Six months in La Santé or spill my guts? Now, the question is, do I trust a policeman? (Am I naïve?) An English one? (Am I barmy?)’ She put her head on one side and considered. ‘No. I’m not stupid. And I’m not taken in by an affected lack of understanding that comes and goes, or by a handsome face and a pair of grey eyes that, with a little guidance, could find my soul. I’m going to take you for an honourable man. I couldn’t serve time in prison. Not even a day. I know what it’s like. The river . . . or the canal . . . would be my way out of that. So, unless you want my death on your conscience, you’ll keep your word.’

It was not the moment to tell her that so far she’d revealed nothing he could use. He . . . They . . . Nonsense. But sensing that she was still working her way through to offering something he stayed silent.

‘Look, can I ask you to do something for me before I give you the one bit of information I have that may help you? By coming here you’ve put me in danger. You must do what you can to put things right. No effort on your part involved! Agreed? Good.’

Ten minutes later Joe emerged into the sunshine. He looked around him, a man in an unfamiliar street, getting his bearings. He appeared oblivious of the passers-by though he was noting them through eyes narrowed against the sun: the two men strolling down the middle of the road, the tramp scavenging for cigarette butts in the gutter, the fashionably dressed young hostess on her way to her shift at one of the jazz clubs. Any one of them could be disguising an interest in a man leaving Mademoiselle Raissac’s apartment. Joe loitered on the doorstep as he’d promised Francine he would. She leaned briefly from the window, hitching up the shoulder of her silk gown, and called down to him: ‘Darling – I should have asked – can you make it two hours later next week?’

As a bonus, Joe made a show of adjusting his trousers with a louche smirk. Francine ducked back inside the room, unable to hold back a burst of throaty laughter. He looked at his watch, sighed with satisfaction and made off back to the square, whistling.

Better to compromise her good name rather than her neck, she’d judged. He’d been impressed by Mademoiselle Raissac. Mannequin? Dancer? No. Her modest stature might have deprived the boutiques or the Folies of her talents – but it was the stage of the Comédie Française that was the true loser. She would have graced any one of Molière’s plays. Dorine in Tartuffe? Perfect! What a performance the girl had put on for him! Emotion threatening to overflow at every verse end.

Charming girl, but she’d clearly been watching too many overblown dramas – onstage and backstage. Probably spent her spare time at the matinées in the Gaumont cinema, terrifying herself watching the adventures of Fantômas, Emperor of Evil. Joe shuddered as he recalled the image on the posters, known all over the world, but very particularly French in flavour: a mysterious gentleman, elegant in evening dress, inhuman green eyes glowing through his black mask, stalked a city-scape of Paris with giant strides. His left hand, kid-gloved, cupped his chin thoughtfully, as he selected his next victim. His right hand, slightly behind him, held in a backwards grip a blood-smeared dagger. And the grip was the very one Francine had demonstrated with such vigour. He wondered whether her storytelling was a part of her character, her way of enlivening an otherwise hardworking but humdrum life, or whether she was making a special effort to mislead the police.

The young nightclub hostess he’d marked down earlier must have doubled back. He was disconcerted to find her suddenly in front of him, coming towards him. How had she slipped by? He was getting careless. A few more strides and she was face to face with him on the narrow pavement. With an exclamation of apology Joe stepped to the side. But he chose to hop to the unexpected side, away from the road. Put out by his clumsiness, she dodged. They got in each other’s way, setting to the side and back again, partners in a country dance, disguising their impatience with embarrassed smiles. She began to speak to him. ‘I wonder if monsieur is looking for an encounter of a more intimate nature?’ she murmured, and then the familiar, shyly delivered, ‘Tu viens?’

Joe relaxed. A street walker after all. All was well. Training made him keep up his pretence of Englishman eminently satisfied by his experiences in Montmartre and he said politely: ‘Awfully sorry, my dear. Couldn’t possibly! I’m afraid you’ve picked just the wrong moment . . . if you understand me? Ha! Ha! Some other time?’ He rolled his eyes in an expression meant to convey both satiety and anticipation of a pleasure deferred and walked on.

Francine’s nervousness must be affecting him. ‘They don’t leave witnesses,’ she’d said, wide-eyed. Once round the corner, Joe’s pace increased. Belatedly catching her anxiety, he broke into a trot. Witness? He was thinking of another witness who’d had a clear view of the murder box. The chief witness, you might say, and one who had yet to make his full testimony. One he’d personally removed from the protection of police custody and left behind asleep in a hotel room. He began to run. Had he abandoned, unguarded, a loose end to be tidied up?

Chapter Eleven

With a crowded lift just taking off upwards from the lobby, Joe ground his teeth and dashed for the stairs. He arrived panting and took a moment outside the door of George’s room to ease and check the Browning revolver in his pocket and to put his ear to the woodwork.

‘Liar!’ George’s voice boomed. ‘You’re not getting away with that! Lying cheat!’ he added.

Joe burst in, revolver in hand.

‘Oh, I say! Great heavens! Don’t shoot! I was just about to come clean anyway!’ Heather Watkins put her hands in the air and shook with laughter. The playing cards she was holding began to slide from her hands and flutter on to the counterpane between herself and Sir George.

George was sitting up in bed, rubicund with rage or good humour or bruising, it was hard to tell. He was crisply dressed in nightshirt and dressing gown. ‘Ah! Commander!’ he said. ‘There you are. What an entrance, my dear fellow! As you’re positively bristling with authority, you may as well arrest this young lady. Cheating at cards is the charge.’

‘What . . . what in hell’s going on here?’ Joe blustered, slipping the Browning away in confusion.

‘Good afternoon, Joe. I see you are well,’ said Miss Watkins, primly ignoring his loose language.

‘But . . . Heather . . . You weren’t at your hotel when I called . . .’

‘I imagine not. I was summoned this morning by Jean-Philippe to come to the assistance of a fellow countryman. He’s very persuasive, your French friend, Joe.’ She smiled and Joe saw for the first time that she had a very pretty dimple in her left cheek. ‘Well, in less time than it takes to tell, I was here receiving instructions in the nursing care of a distressed old gentleman.’ She waved a hand at George who put on a pathetic face. ‘Not so old, not very distressed and I’m not so sure about the gentleman bit of the billing either. He’s ruthless when it comes to cards! We were playing Cheat. Do you know it?’

Joe could only nod in reply.

‘I was told to bring a book and to expect to sit by his bedside while he slept and be there, all cool hands, reassuring smile and soothing words when he woke. Which I was led to believe might be in eight hours or so. Hmm! It was difficult to get him to agree to go to bed at all and he only slept for three hours and then snapped awake. It’s taken a lot of ingenuity and force of character to keep him where he’s supposed to be – in bed,’ she huffed in a nannyish way.

The warm smile she exchanged with her patient told Joe all he needed to know about the developing relationship.

‘An inspired idea! And what luck Jean-Philippe had your telephone number, Heather,’ he said innocently. ‘Thank you indeed for giving up your day to ride herd on my old friend. Did the Inspector tell you – we had to wrest him from the hands of the Police Judiciaire who were determined to wring something – anything – from him by means of the third degree?’

‘He did!’ Heather reached over and squeezed George’s hand. ‘Monsters! If I ever get hold of that dreadful Fourier, I’ll give him what for! If only I could be trapped in a lift with him with a tennis racquet in my hand! How could he? And Sir George already distressed by the death of his friend . . . So unfeeling!’

George grimaced, trying and failing by a mile to look pitiable. ‘Well, Joe, with all this female sympathy deployed, how could I not have perked up and made a full recovery? Miss Watkins has been wonderful! A breath of crisp English air in all this overheated foreign nonsense.’ He looked sideways at Joe and added: ‘And – as it seems you’re counting, Joe – she’s been good enough to give me her address too. Her address in England. Look forward very much to continuing our acquaintance, my dear,’ he said, turning to Heather, ‘when you get back from your tennis tournament. You must tell me all about it . . . show me your medals, swap gossip from the Riviera. I shall want to know the truth behind that liaison we were speaking of . . .’

‘The gigolo and the English countess?’

‘Shh! Discretion, my dear Miss Watkins!’

‘Of course!’ Heather Watkins stood up and began to collect her things together into the small travelling bag she’d brought with her. ‘Well, it would seem my work is done here, for the time being at any rate. Look, Joe, Sir George, I consider myself on hand if required, for the rest of my stay in Paris. Don’t hesitate and all that . . .’

‘Heather, you don’t have to rush off?’ Joe began.

Her eyes twinkled as she looked from one to the other. ‘I’m quite certain you have things to discuss. Serious things. Crime things. I’m very happy to go about my business which – you won’t be surprised to hear – involves a quick trip to the Galeries Lafayette. I saw a darling little day dress in their window on my way here in the taxi.’

After an affectionate goodbye to George she tucked him up again under his covers, ran a hand over his brow and spoke gently to him: ‘Why don’t you try to take another forty winks now that Joe’s back? You’re quite safe, you know.’

She paused, bag in hand, by the door and Joe went to open it for her and show her out. ‘Hang on a minute! Gosh, I wouldn’t make a good agent, would I – I nearly forgot! Jean-Philippe told me to tell you he’d be back by French teatime.’

‘Five o’clock, then.’ Joe grinned.

‘Oh . . . and you might like to tell him that he was quite right to warn me about attempted incursions by strangers.’

Suddenly chilled and alert, Joe asked quietly: ‘What was that, Heather? Are you saying someone tried to force his way in here?’

‘Not force, no,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Much more subtle. And I’m probably being over-suspicious in the light of Jean-Philippe’s warning . . . Well, you can judge, Joe. About a quarter of an hour after he’d left, there was a tap on the door. I looked around. George hadn’t gone to bed – he was in the bathroom with the door shut. Avoiding me, I think. Hoping I’d go away. The bed was made up, the room neat. I chucked that mucky old trench coat away behind the chair, picked up my bag, looking for all the world as though I’d just that minute arrived, and opened the door a crack. There was a stranger there. A man. Thirties? Forties? French, I’d say. Dressed in black jacket and trousers. Room service, you’d have said. Except that no one had called for room service.’

‘Go on!’ Joe could hardly bear the pause as she mar-shalled her impressions.

‘Well, I took the initiative. “Yes? Who are you and what do you want?” I said in English.

‘“Reception, mademoiselle, I have a message for the gentleman,” he said. He was trying to speak English. And doing it well, I thought.

‘“What gentleman?” I asked. And without looking up at the number on the door I said: “This is Room 205. You must have got the wrong number.” At this point I opened the door properly . . . didn’t want to appear to be hiding anything . . . or anybody. His eyes darted . . . yes, they darted . . . inside. I thought for a moment he might try to get in so I squared up to him, barring his way.

‘“Sir George Jardine,” he said. “It’s very urgent. I must deliver the message directly and into his hand.” He was holding something in his right hand which was stuffed into his trouser pocket, I remember.

‘“Well, I’m sorry about that,” I said. “But, hard luck – you’ll have to enquire elsewhere. I’ve just been shown to this room which of course has been vacated. There’s no one under the bed – I always check. Silly, I know! And now if you wouldn’t mind – I’m just about to take a bath. Look – obvious question, but you did check with Reception before you came up, didn’t you? Perhaps,” I suggested helpfully, “your Sir John was here last night? But he’s not here now. Perhaps they gave you the wrong floor? Yes, I’d go back to Reception and ask them what on earth they think they’re doing. They’ll set you straight.”’

Joe must have been looking shocked. With a wary eye on him, Heather asked anxiously if she’d done the right thing.

‘Exactly the right thing. Wonderful presence of mind, Heather!’

She was encouraged to ask quietly: ‘Who was he, Joe?’

‘I’ve no idea,’ he said and, displeased by his answer which, though true, was unsatisfying and unworthy for a girl who had, by her quick thought and courage, most probably saved George’s life, he added: ‘Someone sent to tidy up a loose end, I fear. Thank God you were here, Heather, holding the gate!’

When Heather had left, Joe turned from the door to survey the loose end. Sir George had fallen fast asleep again and a gentle, rhythmic rumbling suggested it might go on for a few hours.

Thoughtfully, Joe picked up the deck of cards and put them away, then settled to write up some notes in his book. He had depressingly little. He drew arrows from one word to another, isolated some in balloons, began again. Times might prove vital, he felt, and he reconstructed the day as accurately as he could from several perspectives. He looked again at his material, searching for links, threads, coincidences even and finding none. The only words that compelled his attention were the words Francine had used: ‘He . . . They . . .’

And an address in Montparnasse.

* * *

At precisely five o’clock, Joe was waiting by the door and heard Bonnefoye’s quick rap and his voice identifying himself. He entered, seemed reassured by the peaceful scene and said as much.

‘Yes, old mate, and it’s by the grace of God and Miss Watkins that George there is sleeping the sleep of the just and not the just dead. Why didn’t you tell me you knew his life might be at risk? I’d not have left him!’

‘What! You mean to say . . .? But tell me, man!’ Bonnefoye’s dismay was acute.

Joe repeated Heather’s account of her sinister visitor and Jean-Philippe groaned and exclaimed. ‘And, coming after my interview with Francine Raissac who raised not a few suspicions in my mind, I’ve been sitting here, imagining horrors.’

‘But I didn’t seriously expect anyone to try to get in,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘You know me – careful, exact, always taking precautions . . .’ Joe wondered whether he really did know Bonnefoye. ‘I thought . . . just in case those buggers at headquarters decided to change their minds – not unknown! – and rearrest Sir George, we’d give them the runaround for a bit. Good girl, though! I say – I would think twice about playing tennis against her, wouldn’t you . . . or any other sport, come to that. I told her to repel boarders, yes. And I took the precaution of asking them at Reception to cancel George’s booking. Said he was shaken up and going to stay down the road at the Embassy and all enquiries should be sent there. Meantime my friend Miss Watkins would be pleased to take the room for the next two days. I gave them her details. It ought to have looked right in the books. The management know who I am,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘They wouldn’t annoy the PJ. And I can’t see them divulging details of an English guest to anyone. Large part of their clientele are British diplomats. They wouldn’t want to upset one.

‘But, Joe, what’s all this about Mademoiselle Raissac? What were you doing over there in Montmartre? And what’s the connection?’

‘Like you, I saw from Fourier’s notes that the girl was only telling a part of the story. In her job, she would be able to give a far more detailed description of the disappearing witness. She was hiding something. I thought I’d get over there and find out what it was before she disappeared herself.’

Joe recounted his interview, down to the last detail of his confrontation with the streetwalker. ‘Well, that’s me. And now – do tell – what did you and your moustache manage to charm out of her?’

Bonnefoye looked aside shiftily, Joe thought.

‘Not charm. No time for charm. Living up to the rough-tough image of the PJ, I’m afraid. And I had some bad news to impart.’

‘What have you got on her? She seemed to me, if not innocent exactly, at least uninvolved in shady goings-on?’

‘She’s a law-abiding woman – your impression was right. Agreeable and hard-working. And very protective of her younger brother who is none of those things. We have nothing against Mademoiselle Raissac but young Alfred has a sheet as long as your arm.’

‘Good Lord! She didn’t mention him. A Parisian?’

‘Lives in the thirteenth arrondissement. On the fringes of the student quarter. Bad area. Full of thugs and villains. Thirty years ago, he’d have been running with a gang of Apaches.’

‘Apaches? Why do you French always speak of those villains in a hushed tone? Dead and gone, aren’t they? Nothing but a musical-comedy memory?’

‘I looked up the word one day,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘Couldn’t think why French gangsters should be named after a tribe of North American Indians . . . you know – Geronimo’s mob. And, after a while, you realize you’ve left it too long and it becomes impossible to actually ask anyone without being laughed at. It’s from a native word, àpachu, meaning “enemy”. And the tribe in question was notorious for the savagery and boldness of its attacks. They had a certain style.’

There it was again, that word. Francine Raissac had used it, hadn’t she? Or had he used it himself?

‘And a dashing image was what the Parisian Apaches aimed for! They wore hats with visors pulled low over their faces, red scarves, polished boots, waistcoat, black trousers and a stiletto. A uniform. Liked to see themselves and their exploits all over the front pages of the press. They swore undying loyalty to each other and, though gangs fought each other all over Paris, they’d always join forces to take on the police. There were those who found that sort of skulduggery attractive. Smart. Some romantic fool wrote a poem about them. It’s suspected that they actually hired themselves out to stage knife fights on the pavements in front of particular cafés to attract customers. Nothing like a little frisson with your absinthe!

‘And they had a very short way with informers. They didn’t take bribes and they didn’t squeal. Vermin! But stylish vermin. They disappeared in the war. Swept up for cannon fodder. And now it seems they’ve been reborn.’

‘The Sons of the Apaches?’ Joe’s voice was laced with irony.

‘Just so. They’re alive and kicking on the fringes of the boulevards. And this lot are tougher and smarter and less conspicuous. They don’t advertise themselves and they avoid being written up in the press but the crime figures speak for them. Never stray south of the boulevard St Michel after dark, Joe!’

‘And poor little Francine has a brother mixed up with this crew?’

‘Francine doesn’t acknowledge her brother. Claims to have cast him off. Never mentions him. Did she mention him to you? No! She pretends he doesn’t exist. But I’ve seen the records. She’s always there in court pleading for him with the magistrate, bailing him out, when things go wrong for him. I think he’s used up a lot of her money. Drug user when he can get his hands on the stuff. Do anything for the price of the next shot . . . you know the sort of thing. But if he’s not in the centre exactly of the criminal underworld, he hears things that ripple out. Might have passed them on to his sister. That’s probably the stuff she was spinning into a tale for you. The framework of a few authentic details and a lot of embroidery on top – she’s good at that. Send the impressionable copper away thinking he’s heard something useful from a helpful citizen when all he’s got is a headful of nonsense.’

‘Not a very flattering picture but I do hope you’re right,’ said Joe soberly. ‘Because the alternative might be to suppose that Heather and George were standing a whisker away from the stilettos of the Sons of the Apaches.’

Bonnefoye laughed silently.

‘But before you write off my fishing expedition as a trip down the garden path, answer me this – is there any reason why Francine Raissac might decide to confide in a bloke like me? I didn’t invoke my charm particularly, nor did I resort to strong-arm tactics . . . A little light coercion, perhaps, but nothing she couldn’t have seen through and side-stepped if she’d wanted to. I’d say she was playing my game. Why would she choose to pass on to a man she’s never met before, and a foreign policeman at that, a piece of information that might be vital to the solution of last night’s murder?’

Bonnefoye was silent, tugging at his moustache, unable to meet his eye.

‘What reason?’ Joe insisted.

Finally, ‘Listen,’ he said quietly. ‘I told you I had three urgent cases on my books?’

Joe nodded.

‘I was supposed to shelve them or delegate them until the end of the week for this conference. But, you know how it is . . .’

Again Joe nodded. ‘Can’t be done. Especially when you see threads running through them which fresh eyes might not be able to connect.’

‘Right. Well, one of them involves this hooligan brother, this Alfred. It’s thought he was in a fight with three or four other men down by the Canal St Martin. Some bargees reported a scuffle and screams. Nightly occurrence! No one took much notice. Alfred disappeared on that night and hasn’t been seen again since. His sister reported him missing. She was supposed to be having coffee with him as she always does on a Sunday afternoon – passing on some of her wages no doubt. She gets paid on a Saturday. He didn’t turn up. She made an incursion – brave girl – into his territory and caught hold of one of his pals. He told her nothing but the terror in his reaction, she reports, was enough to make her fear the worst. And then, late last night, before I came out to meet you at the airport, on my desk, a note from the morgue.