Текст книги "Folly Du Jour"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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‘A body of a young man fished from the canal. No identification but the description fits Alfred.’

‘Have you had time to go and see it?’ said Joe.

He had a memory of walking past three dripping bodies on slabs on his way to view Somerton. ‘The night’s catch,’ the pathologist had commented. ‘A poor haul.’

‘No. Been too caught up with your business, Joe.’

‘Cause of death? Is it known?’

‘Oh, yes. It was very clear. And it wasn’t drowning.’ Bonnefoye’s sentences were growing shorter and shorter as his tension increased. ‘The ultimate cause of death was a stiletto to the heart.’

‘Ultimate?’ Joe picked up the word.

‘Yes. That’s what killed him. Finished him off. But before he died, his lips had been sewn together. With a length of black cobbler’s thread.’

Chapter Twelve

Joe groaned and put his head in his hands.

Not histrionics, he thought, but hysterics or verging on it. Francine Raissac had been mourning her brother, still raw from the Inspector’s description of his death, bruised, no doubt, by what Bonnefoye called ‘his rough-tough image’, when the English policeman had come bumbling in on his two left feet, making, with insouciance, silly remarks about her panda’s eyes. Eyes swollen not, as he’d unthinkingly assumed, by interrupted sleep but by grief. Mascara smudged by tears.

Joe tormented himself and Bonnefoye by insisting on going over some of his worst remarks. ‘“Bespoke killing . . . made-to-measure murder,” I said! Can you believe that? How crass! How hurtful!’

‘How were you to know? You weren’t, Joe. And with all that sewing equipment about the place – I have to say – rather an apt if unfortunate image. Now stop this!’

‘She hinted at it, you know . . . said she might herself be discovered with her mouth sewn up with – I think she said scarlet – thread. And scissors in her heart. She was using the facts of the death you’d just dropped into her lap to illustrate something – something she was frightened to disclose but . . .’

‘I think her grief pushed her to tell you too much. She didn’t tell me, she was still stunned. Gave me nothing. I’ve seen this before. Shock makes them clam up. Then the anger begins to build up. By the time you got to her and flashed your understanding eyes at her, the desire for revenge had taken over and she was ready to pop. You were treated to her explosion and didn’t have the facts to help you to make sense of it. But her insinuations – that there’s a clandestine assassination agency with a flair for the dramatic out and about and doing business in Paris – what do we make of that? Ludicrous, surely? And it has no name. What in hell would you call it?’ He grinned. ‘Shakespeare & Co.? No, that’s been used. Bookshop, I think. How about Death by Design?’

‘Bonnefoye, there are two corpses laid out side by side in the Institut Médico-Légal. Alfred Raissac and Sir Stanley Somerton, unlikely morgue-mates. Knifed to death, the pair of them, and they’re not laughing with us.’

‘Sorry, Joe.’ He sighed. ‘Sometimes it’s the only way through the nastiness. But it’s not like you to be such an old misery guts? La belle Francine seems to have had quite an effect on you. Always a danger with these girls.’

‘No, Jean-Philippe! That’s the problem. She isn’t just one of “these girls”. I thought she was a very fine young woman. And I’m deeply sorry that I must have – albeit unconsciously – offended and upset her at a distressing moment in her life.’

‘Hard to avoid that in this job,’ commented Bonnefoye. ‘Always offending someone. But – look – put her out of your mind and concentrate on the most important character in all this. We’ve hardly given him a thought since it started.’

‘Yes, of course. Somerton. The victim. The moment George wakes up I’m going to want to know exactly how the two are connected. There’s something he’s not told us. George is an accomplished liar. It’s not like him to do it badly. That’s what concerns me. But, if he hasn’t told us, can you blame him? – we haven’t got around to asking him yet. Though I’m sure old Fourier must have made the attempt.’

They both turned to the bed where, from his pillows, George gave a fluttering and extended snore. They waited for him to turn and settle again before they continued their hushed conversation.

‘While you’re filling in background on Somerton, I’ll go off and take a look at this address in Montparnasse,’ said Bonnefoye. ‘The one Francine confided. I’m getting to know that area quite well. I’ll be able to make more sense of it than you would, I imagine. Oh – and don’t forget you’re due to escort the Lady Somerton to the morgue.’

He took out a notebook and checked a page. ‘A message came to headquarters. I ring in every hour and there’s usually something for me. Six o’clock at the British Embassy. Can you pick the lady up there? The Embassy’s just down the road from here. Very convenient. Oh, they stipulated number 39, rue du Faubourg St-Honoré. That’s the residence of the Ambassador – not the offices next door. That gives you forty minutes to smarten yourself up. No time to go back to your hotel . . . Why not borrow one of Sir George’s shirts? You’re about the same size. He’s got a drawer full of them over there. And a hat? Never did get your louche fedora back but you’ll find something suitable if you look in the wardrobe.

‘And look, Joe . . .’ Bonnefoye weighed his next announcement, suddenly unsure of himself. ‘You’ll probably think I’m overreacting to circumstances . . . put it down to Gallic hysteria if you like . . . but I think we should move Sir George out of here. To a safer place.’

‘I agree. Sensible proposal,’ said Joe. ‘What do you have in mind?’

‘The rue Mouffetard,’ he said. ‘My mother’s apartment. She’s used to soldiers. My father and uncles were in the army. She’ll take good care of him. I’ll take him out the back way through the kitchens. When you’ve finished at the morgue why don’t you come along and check his accommodation? He’s technically in your custody, after all! It’s above the baker’s shop halfway down. Got a map? Here let me show you . . .’

‘Before you start dressing to impress the widow, Joe, why don’t you get acquainted with my razor?’ George’s jovial voice was brisk. Not in the least sleepy. ‘No newfangled patent safety razor on offer, I’m afraid. I always use an old-fashioned cut-throat. You must pardon the expression in the circumstances.’

Bonnefoye shrugged and grinned and went with the smooth efficiency of a valet to select a shirt.

‘Let me mark your card, Joe.’ This was the old Sir George, good-humouredly in charge, presiding. ‘Now, the present Ambassador is the Marquess of Crewe. Can’t help you there. Never met the chap. Though I was well acquainted with his predecessor. Hardinge. Viceroy of India for many years. And a good one. Anyway, play it by ear and if it seems appropriate to do so, convey my respects and good wishes to whoever seems to be expecting them . . . you know the routine, Joe.’

‘I don’t suppose the top brass will be parading for a mere Scotland Yard detective and a widow on a lugubrious mission, sir.’

George pursed his lips for a moment, assessing the social niceties of the situation. ‘You’re probably right, my boy. Six o’clock. Dashed inconvenient time for them to be landed with handing a distraught old lady over to the bluebottles. They’ll be preparing to welcome guests for whatever shindig they’ve got planned for tonight. Sociable lot at the Embassy! Always some sort of soirée on. You’ll probably find they’ve tethered the old girl to a gatepost outside, awaiting collection.

‘No, Bonnefoye! Not that one! Wherever did you get your training? He’s not bound for the golf course! Find a boiled shirt, my dear chap! Yes, that’ll do. Collars top left. Grey felt hat in the cupboard. Nothing grander. Don’t want to look as though you’ve turned up for the canapés.’

At five minutes to six Joe stood, getting his breath back, in front of the Embassy, transfixed by the perfection of the Louis XV façade. Balanced and harmonious and, in this most grandiose quarter of Paris, managing to avoid pomposity, it smiled a welcome. He almost looked for George’s gatepost but of course there was none. An elegant pillared portico announced the entrance; doors wide open gave glimpses of figures dimly perceived and moving swiftly about in the interior. As he watched, electric lights flicked on in all the windows of the first two floors. The reception rooms. Obviously a soirée about to take place.

He collected his thoughts and strode to the door.

The liveried doorman barely glanced at the card in his extended hand. ‘You are expected, Commander. Will you follow me?’

He passed Joe on, into the care of an aide in evening dress who came hurrying into the vestibule to shake his hand. ‘Sandilands? How do you do? So glad you could come. Harry Quantock. Deputy assistant to the Ambassador. You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid, sir. His Excellency sends his greetings – he’s at the moment rather tied up with the string band.’ At the upwards flick of an elegant hand, Joe caught the sounds of a small orchestra essaying a piece of Elgar somewhere above their heads. The deputy assistant grimaced. ‘French band, English tunes . . . not a good mix. I sometimes think they do it on purpose.’

‘Still seeking revenge for Waterloo?’ suggested Joe. ‘Ouch! I’d surrender at once.’

‘We won’t hear them in the red salon, come with me.’ Quantock led him across the impressive space in front of them. Airy, well proportioned and sparely decorated. ‘Le hall d’entrée,’ announced his guide with a perfect accent.

Joe had an impression of cool grey and white marble tiles leading the eye to the graceful curve of a great staircase. The delicate wrought-iron handrail outlining it sparkled with gold and bronze, promising further wonders as it wound upwards.

Quantock leaned to him and confided: ‘Most of the refurbishment was done with impeccable taste by Napoleon’s favourite sister. And there she is – Pauline Borghese.’

Joe nodded in acknowledgement as they passed her portrait. The young princess, slim and lovely in her high-bosomed gown, was as handsome as her house.

‘Pity about the curtains, don’t you think? Red velvet!’ Quantock was shuddering. ‘Too Edwardian for words! And the theme continues through here in le salon rouge.’ He paused by a closed door. ‘Your charge, Lady Somerton, is in here, taking sherry and flirting with the Duke of Wellington. They will do it! His Grace still exerts a certain power over the ladies.’

Joe entered a room richly decorated, in contrast with the restrained hall. In the centre, a gleaming round mahogany table stood precisely in the rosette of a deep red turkey carpet and was overhung by a stunning chandelier. Gilded mirrors applied to each of the red walls reflected the flickering lights of candles in sconces, and in the middle of all this magnificence Joe had to hunt for the figure of Lady Somerton. She was standing at the end of the room, empty sherry glass in hand, still, black-clad, almost a shadow. She was looking up at a portrait. Transfixed, she did not hear them enter.

As they drew near she began to speak: ‘Arthur Wellesley. The Iron Duke. Now there was a man one can admire! So handsome! So competent! I’m just surprised, after what he did to the French, that they allow us to display him, Mr Quantock.’

‘His Grace was himself Ambassador for a year here in 1814, immediately before his victory at Waterloo, your ladyship,’ Quantock reminded her. ‘And therefore takes his rightful place on these walls.’ He performed the introductions. ‘May I refill your glass? And how about you, sir? Would you like some sherry?’ He went to pour the drinks himself from a sideboard, tactfully leaving Joe to continue the conversation.

‘His quality leaps from the canvas, don’t you agree?’ she continued, determined apparently to hear his views.

‘It’s all in the nose, I believe,’ said Joe, annoyed that the widow appeared far more interested in Wellington than in himself.

‘I beg your pardon? The nose, did you say?’

‘Yes. Look at it. An ice-breaker! Apromontory! Your hero could have fought a duel with Cyrano and they would have needed no other weapons.’

At last she smiled. ‘Noses. In the Bois. At dawn. I’d have put my money on the Duke.’

Her attention caught, Joe moved easily into the routine of expressing sorrow for the death of the lady’s husband. His smooth sentiments were graciously received, helped along with sighs and sips of sherry. Quantock politely sought the most recent information on the tragedy and Joe gave him an acceptable and highly edited account. The task before him was to point this uncertain dark horse at a rather taxing fence and he wanted to avoid scaring her off. Without appearing to do so, he studied the widow, assessing her strengths and qualities. Exactly what he was expecting. Apart from her age. She was middle-aged, possibly as much as forty, but at any rate, more than a decade younger than her late husband. Quite a normal age gap in military families. He could imagine that, with promotion in mind – possibly Colonel the next step – Somerton had been taken on one side by a superior officer and advised to marry. And, one summer, on home leave, he’d met and courted this woman. What had she said her name was? She’d rather particularly during the introductions corrected young Quantock. ‘Lady Somerton no longer,’ she’d informed them. ‘With Sir Stanley dead and the title gone to his son, my daughter-in-law is the present Lady Somerton. I am now to be addressed as Catherine, Lady Somerton.’ The voice was educated, Home Counties.

Her face was pale, enlivened by a gallant touch of rouge along the cheekbones. Quenched but pretty. Her hair was light brown, not greying yet, her eyes hazel. She’d chosen her dress well. Black, of course, but silk and well cut. The drama was relieved by a double strand of pearls around her throat and matching pearl earrings that peeped out just below her bobbed hair.

Joe enquired amiably and sympathetically about her flight over the Channel. She declared she’d enjoyed it but he set her brave comment against the betraying rise and fall of her pearls as she failed to restrain a gulp. The conversation, which was never going to be an easy one, felt as discordant as the strains of the Gallic version of ‘Nimrod’ filtering along the corridor and all three were relieved to draw it to a close.

Harry Quantock escorted his guests back to the front door where, to Joe’s surprise, an Embassy car was waiting for them. A manservant hurried forward with madame’s cape and monsieur’s hat. After routine farewells, Quantock handed Catherine Somerton into the back seat, closed the door and turned to speak softly to Joe: ‘His Excellency will be keen to hear the outcome of this business, you understand, Sandilands?’ A light smile softened the command. ‘As will Jack Pollock. Sir George’s cousin. He sends his respects and good wishes. He’ll be in touch.’

The morgue, illuminated as it now was by electric bulbs, was all the more sinister. The light had the effect of deepening the many dark corners, emphasizing the roughness of the walls and highlighting things better left in the shadows. Like shining a torch in the face of an old whore, Joe thought. Disturbing and unkind. But at least they were not faced, on entry, with a line-up of freshly delivered corpses to pass in review as had been the custom from the Middle Ages to the recent past. All the bodies apart from one had been filed away in the sliding steel cases along the back wall, Joe was relieved to see.

Dr Moulin was still at his post and waiting for them. He greeted Joe warmly and the two men went into their routine. Dignified and considerate, he checked that the lady was prepared for the sight of her husband’s corpse. Catherine Somerton hugged her cape about her, clutched her pearls, shivered and nodded.

‘Do you think we might take a look at Exhibit A before we begin?’ Joe asked and Moulin nodded his agreement. The dagger was produced for her inspection.

She made no attempt to handle it but looked at it carefully and turned a co-operative face to Joe. ‘I’m sorry, Commander. I’ve never seen it before.’

‘Did Sir Stanley keep a collection of knives at home?’

‘Ah. Where was his home? We had no such objects in the house in Kent. But you should be aware, Commander, that my husband lived for many years in India. He had a passion for the country that I could not share. I joined him there for the first year of our marriage but the climate did not agree with me and I returned. He could have amassed a collection of such artefacts and I would be unaware of their existence. This is, I take it, the very blade that did the deed?’

Joe and Moulin murmured in unison.

She peered at it more closely, then shook her head. On the whole, a good witness, Joe thought. When the doctor moved to the head of the sheeted figure she moved with him and stood waiting on the other side. Joe watched her carefully as the cover rolled downwards to the waist. There was at first no reaction. Finally, she drew in a deep breath and whispered: ‘That’s Somerton. My late husband.’ And, as Joe had predicted, there came at last the inevitable question: ‘Tell me, doctor, did he suffer?’

The doctor also was prepared for this. But he was a scientist, not a diplomat, and he gave an honest reply. ‘His death must have come very quickly, madame. He did not linger in pain. But the wound – you may see for yourself – is a savage one, almost severing the head. The initial assault would have caused a degree of pain, yes.’

‘Good!’ said the widow, suddenly bright. ‘But however painful it was, it could never have been painful enough!’

In the stunned silence, she rounded on the corpse and for a moment Joe felt his muscles tense. Fearing what? That she was about to inflict a truly painful blow of her own? Incredibly – yes. The doctor had put out a restraining hand. She gestured it away impatiently and went to stand close by the head. She bent and spoke directly to the corpse, her lips inches from his ear: ‘I hope you’re in hell, you rotter! I hope that Lucifer in person is turning your spit. Look at you! Oozing your stinking essence on to a slab in a foreign dungeon. Dyed hair! Pomaded moustache! You lived – a disgrace; you died – a disgrace.’

She took a step back and gave her last, formal farewell: ‘Down, down to hell; and say I sent thee thither.’

Joe was uneasy. The vehemence was spontaneous but the quotation from Henry VI had been, he calculated, prepared with some forethought. The whole outpouring appeared the distillation of years of resentment. He looked again at the dead face, softening in decay, and speculated on the qualities that could provoke such hatred.

The widow collected herself and struggled for a more level tone, addressing the two men: ‘You may have his remains burned or whatever you do. I don’t want to take them away with me or have them posted on. Send the bill to the Embassy. And now, if you’re ready, Commander . . .? We must be on our way.’

She threaded her arm through Joe’s and turned for the last time to her husband, unwilling even now to let him go in peace, her parting words meant for him: ‘I have an engagement on the Champs-Élysées. At Fouquet’s.’

She began to drag Joe towards the door, calling out still over her shoulder her taunts: ‘Champagne . . . foie gras . . . asparagus . . . the first of the wild strawberries . . .’

Joe paused in the doorway and looked back at the startled doctor, mouthing silently: ‘Not with me, she hasn’t!’

Chapter Thirteen

She swept out ahead of him and stood by the car door until he opened it. When they were settled inside she gave him his instructions. ‘Tell the driver I’ll drop you off before he goes on to Fouquet’s. Where would you like to be set down, Commander?’

Without waiting for his answer, she took a velvet bag from the deep pocket of her cape and fished about until she found a small flacon of perfume. ‘Do you mind if I apply something a little fresh? I’m quite sure I must smell of – what was that fluid? Ugh! Formaldehyde, would it be? That stink?’

‘Death and bleach, Lady Somerton,’ said Joe tersely.

He addressed the driver, who was sitting patiently waiting for instructions. ‘Driver – would you take me across the river on to the Left Bank, please? I’m bound for the place de la Contrescarpe. Do you know it? And then, the lady requires to be set down in the Champs-Élysées. She will direct you.’

The big car moved off and Joe reeled at an overenthusiastic application of perfume. Rose and sandalwood? Chanel’s Number 5 was easily recognized. And what had Mademoiselle Chanel saucily said about her creation? ‘Perfume should be applied in the places where a woman expects to be kissed.’ Joe watched in fascination as Catherine Somerton dabbed the contents of her tiny flacon behind her ears, at the base of her throat – and, when she thought he’d turned to look out of the window, he saw, in the reflection in the glass, her forefinger steal down into the hollow between her breasts to lay a seductive trail.

For whose nose? For whose lips? Joe smiled to himself. He hoped Fouquet’s had got the champagne on ice.

The car rolled to a halt, held up by the press of early evening traffic fighting its way across the Pont Neuf on to the island. On an impulse, Joe spoke to the driver again. ‘Look – I’ll get out here. With the traffic as it is, Lady Somerton will find herself late for her assignation in the Champs-Élysées if she makes a detour to drop me off. I’m happy to take a taxi.’

She made no demur, not even noticing his slight reproof, even thanking him for his consideration. Mind elsewhere. Impatient to be off. In the advancing headlights her eyes flashed, her pearls gleamed, and although nothing about her appearance had substantially changed, Joe suddenly saw, where had been the downcast widow in her weeds, a sophisticated woman, elegantly dressed and eagerly looking forward to an adventure.

‘Give my regards to the Duke,’ he called to her before he slammed the door shut. ‘I trust his olfactory powers will be in fine fettle this evening.’ He enjoyed her puzzled expression.

Joe watched the car crawl away again and turned on his heel, trotting back across the bridge to the morgue. Hoping he wasn’t too late.

The lights were still switched on. Moulin was there, putting away instruments and equipment, when Joe burst in. He seemed pleased to see him.

His cheerful voice echoed the length of the room, dispelling the shadows. ‘Oh, hello there! You managed to escape? I’m glad of that! Wouldn’t want to find you on one of my slabs with a mysterious mark on your throat. It can be pretty poisonous, the bite of Latrodectus mactans, I’ve heard. The black widow spider. Its venom is thought to be sixteen times more virulent than the rattlesnake’s.’

‘I leapt out of the car! If I weren’t so exhausted, I’d have been tempted to go along to Fouquet’s, bribe someone to give me a table in a corner, and lurk to see who she’s got caught up in her web.’

Moulin eyed Joe with concern. ‘You do look all in, Commander. Come and have a mug of coffee in my lair. I’ve just put a pot on. Take the weight off your feet. Get your breath back and ask me the question you’ve passed up an evening at Fouquet’s to come back and ask.’

They sat clutching mugs of strong coffee in the small and calculatedly bright study across the corridor from the morgue building. Not so much a study as a retreat, an affirmation of his humanity, Joe thought, looking around with pleasure. And wouldn’t you need one! He’d sunk gratefully into the depths of one of a pair of old-fashioned armchairs piled with cushions and topped off with lace antimacassars. Thoughtfully, Moulin kicked up a footstool for him. The room had probably, in its first use, been some sort of torture chamber, Joe calculated, but no signs of a lugubrious past lingered after the determined application of rich lengths of drapery to the walls, Tiffany shades to the lamps, rows of books, and a gently puttering gas fire warming the room. On a desk and smiling out into the room, the silver-framed photograph of a very pretty dark-haired woman. The ticking of a deep-throated clock soothed Joe to a point where he had to shake himself awake and take a sip or two of his coffee.

Under the influence of the strong brew, the good company and fatigue, Joe recounted his day to a pair of willing ears. But the warm smile, the understanding comments and the ready humour dried up at the mention of Francine Raissac’s flight of fancy. Joe caught the sudden stillness.

‘Yes, that’s what I’ve come to ask. I try not to leave any accusation unchecked however ridiculous it sounds on first hearing. The girl’s theories began to sound less crazy when I heard – from another source – that her brother is a customer of yours. Filed away in a steel drawer, I should think? Fished out of the Canal St Martin.’

‘Alfred? Drawer number 32,’ said Moulin. ‘She hasn’t been in to identify him yet. Poor girl! It’s all deeply unpleasant, I’m afraid. I’ve taken the waxed cobbler’s twine out of the lips so it doesn’t look quite so frightful but I can’t obliterate the wound altogether. The lad was very young. But physically in rather bad shape. Emaciated. Taking drugs, I shouldn’t wonder. And are you saying you see a connection between this poor specimen of humanity and an organization run by some sort of super criminal? A Fantômas reborn?’ Dr Moulin laughed and pointed to a shelf of lurid novels over the desk. ‘I have the whole collection, you see! You’re very welcome to help yourself if you like.’

Joe shivered. ‘I gave up after the second book. Too utterly terrifying for a law enforcer like myself. Fantômas, if I remember rightly, never died,’ he explained. ‘He’s immortal – a god of Evil. Nightmare! But yes, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the third one in your line-up. Le mort qui tue, I think it’s called.’

Moulin gave him a startled look and counted along the shelf, extracting the book he’d mentioned. ‘Here you are. I shall leave the gap there! I’m going to insist on having it back, then I can be sure you’ll come again and entertain me with a further episode in your horror story. Will you have a little brandy in your coffee? It can strike chill in here in spite of my efforts to dispel the gloom.’ He reached behind a row of leather-backed novels and found a bottle of cognac.

‘I think you can guess what I’m going to ask,’ said Joe seriously. ‘Inspectors each have their own case loads. Three corpses is what Bonnefoye’s got on his books at the moment. They may not have the time to exchange theories with each other, or see anything but their own narrow picture of crime in the city . . . You would see it. You examine all – very well, most – of the bodies. They pass through your morgue and under your scalpel for an hour or two – a day possibly – and you move on. But you see the wider landscape of murder . . .’

‘I know where you’re going with this. And I know you don’t want to wait while I dig out screeds of notes, sheets of records – all of which are available, by the way – so I’ll ask – will memory be a good enough guide? It will? Let me think then . . .’ He got up and wandered to his stove, pouring out more of the liquid inspiration.

‘Over the last four or five years? Is that enough? That’s as far back as my current appointment goes.’

Joe nodded, thankful that his notion hadn’t been dismissed out of hand with a pitying shake of the head.

And then he waited, unwilling to press Moulin, understanding that this was the doctor’s first and alarming overview of the crime pattern.

‘Like your Jack the Ripper – a killer in series – but yet quite unlike him. The victims in his case were all of the same profession, sex and situation. They – and the killer most probably – were living within a few doors of each other. The Paris corpses I have in mind are male and from varied backgrounds, they’re of different nationalities, killed over a period of years and in vastly different scenarios. No one would dream of linking them together as a group because apart from their being male – which the victims of violent death predominantly are – they have only one thing in common – a totally fanciful notion. In Francine Raissac’s head, in yours and now – in mine! Curse you! No, it won’t do, Sandilands.’ He shook his head in an attempt to dismiss ideas too shocking to entertain.

‘And there’s the question of motive,’ he persisted into Joe’s silence. ‘Motive could be guessed at in most of the cases. Or should I say motives? They were varied but run-of-the-mill.’

‘Financial gain, provocation, revenge, hatred . . .’ Joe started to list them.

‘Yes, yes . . . a bit of everything. And I’m not sure it tells us much in these cases.’

‘Would you like to bring some of them into the daylight again – just as a matter of speculation, of course,’ Joe encouraged.

‘No, I try rather to forget them.’ Moulin stirred uneasily and turned up the fire a notch. ‘Working here, you’d think I’d become – if I wasn’t already – some sort of automaton. I haven’t. I don’t think I could do the job adequately if I had. I feel something for each “customer”, as you call them. And bury a little bit of myself with each one.’ He smiled to see Joe’s eyes flare with concern. ‘Don’t worry! I shall know when to stop.’

Moulin pointed to the row of thrillers. ‘You’re not to think, on the cold winter evenings between post-mortems, I allow my imagination to be fired by these things! Lots of people you might admire enjoy them. Jean Cocteau, René Magritte, Guillaume Apollinaire, Salvador Dali . . . Blaise Cendrars called them “the Aeneid of Modern Times”!’

‘And you can add to your list of playwrights, poets and artists: Sandilands of the Yard,’ said Joe comfortably, sensing that the learned doctor was slightly embarrassed to be caught out in his enthusiasm.

‘Very well – you’re prepared, then? To explore a really outlandish idea?’

Joe nodded.

‘Before we start, I must insist – no notes! This is just a chat between two weary men whose brains are ticking over faster perhaps than they should. Agreed?’