‘There was a lot of damage to the radius and the ulna on both arms. Either the attack was very frenzied, or there were more than one attacker.’
Marie Aucoin looked thoughtful. ‘Why do you think the killer—or killers—left clues leading to the next body part?’
‘It’s strange, isn’t it?’ said the judge, before Enzo could answer. He was clearly intrigued. ‘It’s almost as if finding one body part will lead inexorably to the others.’
‘If you can decode the clues,’ Enzo said. ‘But it’s clear that the pieces we have recovered so far were never meant to be found.’
‘Which somewhat undermines your theory, Jean-Pierre,’ the Minister said. She glanced at the judge and then folded her hands on the table in front of her, fixing Enzo with dark blue eyes. But there was very little warmth in them now. ‘Monsieur Macleod, I want to thank you on behalf of both the government and the police for the work you have done in bringing Jacques Gaillard’s murder to light. You have performed a very valuable service, and I will be making our gratitude public at a press conference tomorrow.’ She paused.
‘But?’
‘Now that the circumstances of his killing have been brought to our attention, I have appointed a special investigation team to look into it. The team will be led by Juge Lelong.’ Enzo glanced at the judge, who was watching him impassively. ‘Which means that your help will no longer be required.’
‘In fact,’ said Juge Lelong, ‘were you to involve yourself in further investigations, it might be regarded as interference in official police business.’
‘Although, of course, given your familiarity with the background of the case, any further insights that you might have would be gratefully received,’ Marie Aucoin added quickly, and she smiled sweetly across the table. A long silence hung in the soft light of the red lantern. ‘Well?’
‘Well what?’
The judge stressed each individual word. ‘Do you have any further insights?’
‘No.’ Enzo realised that Raffin’s words of warning had, indeed, been prophetic.
‘Good.’ Marie Aucoin sat back smiling, business accomplished. She lifted a little bell from the table and tinkled it. ‘Time for coffee, I think.’
Enzo sat in the back of the taxi and pulled off his tie. He stuffed it in a pocket and opened the top two buttons of his shirt. He took a deep breath. It was late. Nearly midnight. The air was still hot, heavy with humidity and pollution, and night had settled on the city like a warm, damp blanket. Streetlights drifted past, streaking darkness, like disembodied beings from another world. Enzo’s own world felt very small, confined to the space he occupied in his taxi. A world filled with confusion, anger, frustration. He was damned if he was going to give up his investigation just to save the further blushes of the government and the police. They had failed to make any progress in ten years. What guarantee was there that they would make any now? Perhaps they were hoping that Gaillard would simply go away again. And, yet, he knew how difficult it would be for him to proceed if the authorities were against him.
Interfering with official police business
. Juge Lelong’s words rattled around in his head. The warning could not have been clearer.
They crossed the river at the Pont de la Concorde. The Boulevard St. Germain was deserted at its eastern end. Enzo stared out bleakly at the empty pavements, shuttered shops, and darkened apartments. As they passed the junction with the Boulevard Raspail, he could see the lights of the sixth
arrondissement
ahead of them. The cafés would still be full, and only now would late-night diners be debouching from bars and brasseries. He could almost hear the narrow streets around his studio echoing with their laughter, and he was not sure that he could face it. On an impulse he told the driver to take him to the ële St. Louis instead, and he got out in the Rue des Deux Ponts.
The street was quiet as he watched the taxi recede into the night. The café on the corner where he had sat watching for Kirsty just a few days earlier was closed. They were sweeping out in the restaurant where he had eaten lunch. He stood on the pavement and wondered what he was doing here. He walked to a point opposite the entrance to her apartment. The buildings on this side had been recently renovated. There was a For Sale sign outside the first floor apartment above him. He craned his head up towards the attic studios opposite and wondered if Kirsty’s place looked down into the street. There were lights on in a few windows. Was one of them hers? Did she ever think about him, except in anger? His own father had died when he was a young man, so he knew what it was to be fatherless.
Why
had
he come here, drawn back like a moth to the flame? Guilt? The realisation that, in truth, he had given Kirsty every reason to hate him? He knew, after all, that his own pain was self-inflicted. He sighed. This was stupid. He thrust his hands in his pockets and turned towards the Rue St. Louis en l’ële. It would take less than fifteen minutes to walk back to his studio. A taxi passed on the other side of the street and pulled up outside the door to Kirsty’s apartment. A young couple stepped out and the taxi remained idling at the kerb. The girl had long, chestnut hair drawn back in a loose knot, and he heard her laugh, a familiar sound to him, even after all these years. He drew back into a doorway and watched as the young man cupped her face in his hands, talking to her earnestly for some moments, before drawing her face to his and kissing her. They embraced, then, and kissed once more. A long, lingering kiss. Enzo watched, with an ache in his chest and a knot in his stomach. When they broke apart, the young man said something and they both laughed. She was happy, and Enzo would have given anything to be able to share in that happiness. Her young man climbed back into his taxi, and she stood waving as it headed off towards the Pont de la Tournelle. She glanced back along the street, and Enzo pulled further into the shadows. For a moment he thought she had seen him, but then she turned and punched in her entry code and was swallowed up by the building.
He stood in the dark for ten, maybe fifteen, minutes. After all the misery with which he had tainted her life, she was still capable of laughter, and happiness. He had no right to make her unhappy again. He was just being selfish, in search of forgiveness to exorcise the guilt which had haunted him all these years. It was the same selfishness which had prompted him to leave in the first place. To steal away the father she had loved.
Nor all thy piety nor wit shall lure it back to cancel half a line, nor all your tears wash out a word of it.
He made a decision, standing in the doorway, her laughter still echoing distantly in his memory, that he would never bother her again. She didn’t want him. It was her choice to make. And he had no right to try to change her mind. He had had his chance once and failed her. The least he could do now was let her get on with her life, free of him, free of the past. A past that he, too, must put behind him, and move on.
He stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street, turning left into the Rue St. Louis en l’ële. The lights of shop windows fell out across the street. Patches of shadow where apartment buildings and doorways stood in darkness were like missing teeth. It was oddly quiet here in the heart of the city, the calm at the centre of a storm. The traffic was a distant rumble. There was no one else in the street. At the far end, the Brasserie St. Louis was shut, tables and chairs stacked up on the pavement under its awning. He heard his own footsteps echoing back from the apartment blocks rising on either side, each step laden with resignation.
But the echo seemed odd, unsynchronised, and he realised that they were not his footsteps. There was someone else in the street. He stopped, turning to look behind him, but he could see no one. The dislocated echo had stopped, too. A trick of acoustics, perhaps. He continued towards the end of the street and heard the sound of following footsteps again, some way back. He swivelled and caught a fleeting movement in the shadows of a gateway leading to a courtyard. Again the echoing footsteps had ceased abruptly. Was there someone lurking there? His mouth felt dry, and he became aware for the first time that his pulse rate had increased. He realised he was afraid, and was not sure quite why. Except that someone seemed to be following him, and didn’t want to be seen.
He picked up pace towards the Brasserie St. Louis. And there it was again. An echo that wasn’t quite an echo. He glanced over his shoulder and this time saw a man following in his wake, about twenty meters back. He was making no attempt to conceal himself. His pace had picked up to match Enzo’s. As he neared the end of the street, Enzo started to run. Scaffolding forced him off the pavement. He thought he could hear the other man running behind him. He stole another glance over his shoulder, but the scaffolding obscured his view. He turned left at La Chaumière en l’ële, emerging from the darkness of the narrow Rue St. Louis into the brightly lit expanse of the Pont St. Louis leading over to the ële de la Cité and the floodlit towers of Notre Dame.
If he had hoped to find people here, he was disappointed. The bridge was deserted, and he could still hear footsteps in the street he had just left.
He was half way across the bridge when he saw the second man. A thickset figure in a dark suit standing on the far side, silhouetted against the lights of the cathedral behind him. Something about the way he stood, legs slightly apart, hands at his sides, gave Enzo the immediate impression that this man was there to bar his way. He stopped running, and stood staring breathlessly at the man, uncertain of what to do. Behind him, footsteps emerged from the Rue St. Louis and came to an abrupt halt. Enzo looked back. His pursuer stood at the other end of the bridge, and Enzo could hear him breathing hard in the night air. He was trapped. There was no way off the bridge. Enzo looked around in a panic, willing a taxi to appear, or a group of revellers to spill out from a bar somewhere. But there was no one. No traffic. No redemption. No escape. The man behind him began moving forward. In the distance Enzo could see the lights of traffic drifting past on the Quai de l’Hôtel de Ville. But they might as well have been a million miles away.
The sharp blast of a horn startled him. He turned to see the lights of a
péniche
approaching on the river below. In fact, there were two barges, end to end, being shunted down river by a small tug. They sat dangerously low in the water, weighed down by their cargo of sand. Enzo could see the figure of the helmsman in the window of the wheelhouse. The first of the barges was already passing under the bridge immediately beneath him. The sand looked soft and inviting. A drop of four or five meters. He turned and clutched the rail. It would be a desperate thing to do. If he jumped and misjudged it he could break his legs and God knows what else on the crossbars, or even end up in the water.
Almost as if they realised what was in his mind, the two men started moving towards him. Enzo no longer had any choice. He hoisted himself on to the rail, balancing precariously for a moment. He heard one of the men shouting, and he jumped. Even as he fell through the air, it occurred to him how absurd this was. What on earth was he doing?
He hit the sand with more force than he had been expecting. His legs folded under him, and he landed on his back. The sand was not as giving as he had hoped, and all the air was knocked from his lungs. He found himself looking up at the underside of the bridge passing overhead, unable to breathe, unable to move. If either of these men had a gun, he would be an easy target when he emerged on the far side.
He lay helplessly, face up, as the star-studded sky emerged once more, and he saw the two men peering down at him from the parapet. One of them seemed to be laughing, the other serious and unsmiling. What if the danger had only been imagined, and the two men on the Pont St. Louis were simply on their way home after a night out. Here he was, leaping off the bridge like a madman. Enzo tried to imagine how he would have reacted, had he encountered a man who had suddenly, and for no apparent reason, thrown himself off a bridge on to a passing barge.
With something between a cough and a retch, his lungs were suddenly released from their paralysis, and they filled painfully and rapidly with air. His first few breaths were difficult. He seemed to have to fight to empty and then refill them. He inclined his head to see the two men still standing on the bridge watching as the barge took its course around the north side of the ële de la Cité. He saw the flare of a match as one of them lit a cigarette. He let his head fall back, and lay for several minutes waiting for his breathing and his heartbeat to stabilise.
Apparently the helmsman had not noticed him drop from the bridge. Enzo could still see him in the wheelhouse. He was smoking a cigarette and occasionally lifting a mug of coffee to his lips. They passed under four bridges and were clearing the tip of the ële de la Cité, emerging again into the full flow of the Seine. Enzo scrambled unsteadily to his feet and began shouting and waving his arms. If he didn’t get off this thing now he could end up in Rouen.
He saw the helmsman’s expression of incredulity in the light of the wheelhouse, and the man’s mouth began working. Enzo could only imagine the stream of imprecations which issued from it. He couldn’t hear him above the thrum of the tug’s motor. A group of young people passing across the pedestrian Pont des Arts looked down in astonishment. Enzo heard the motor slip into reverse. And as it roared and revved, the
péniche
slowed, turning in towards the quay at the Port des Saint-Pères. Enzo clambered up out of the hold and on to the near side skirting. As the barge drew alongside the quay, he took his life in his hands and leaped across the narrowing gap, slipping on the cobbles and landing on his hands and knees. He felt his trousers tear at the right knee, and when he staggered to his feet saw blood smearing white flesh revealed by the tear. The palms of his hands were grazed and stinging.
The helmsman was out of his wheelhouse shouting at Enzo, who could hear him now. He reflected briefly on how colourful and expressive the French language could be. The crowd on the bridge had doubled in size and a dozen people or more gathered along the rail watching with interest. Enzo wondered why there couldn’t have been more people around when he needed them. Across the river, he could see the long, south-facing elevation of the Louvre, huddled in muted lighting down the length of the quay. Above him, the floodlit dome of the Institute de France was stark against the night sky. He realised he was only minutes away from his studio.
Still the helmsman was shouting. What on earth could Enzo tell him? How could he explain? He decided not to even try, and he turned and ran, fleeing from the scene of the crime like a schoolboy playing truant, up the ramp to the Quai Malaquais, slithering in his haste, shedding sand in his wake.
The Rue Mazarine skirted the Institute de France, and he ran up it without stopping until he reached the Café Le Balto on the corner of the Rue Guénégaud. There, he stood gasping for several minutes, leaning against the wall beside the door to his apartment block, until he was collected enough to tap in the entry code and step into the safety of the hall.
He knew immediately that there was something wrong. The light did not come on. The light always came on. It was on a timer which kept it burning long enough to reach each landing and hit another switch to take you up to the next. It saved electricity. But without it, the stairwell was pitch dark. Enzo stood, holding his breath, listening intently. His own heartbeat seemed deafening. But above it, he heard the unmistakable creak of the wooden staircase, like a footstep in dry snow. And then silence. There was somebody on the first floor landing. Somebody waiting in the dark. Somebody waiting for him.
He made his way across the lobby in the darkness, arms extended, until he felt the stair rail cool and smooth in his hand, and one by one he began climbing the stairs as quietly as he could. The silence in the building was pervasive and unnerving.
Enzo stopped at the mezzanine level and listened. Now he could hear the slow, regular sound of someone breathing, and realised that if he could hear them, they could hear him. On the half-landing he stopped and listened again. A dim light shone through a window from the street outside, but it only seemed to plunge the shadows on the landing above into deeper darkness. This time he heard nothing. As hard as he strained to hear, it seemed that the breathing had stopped. Was it possible for someone to hold their breath that long? It was time to take the initiative. Another half dozen stairs and he would be at his door.