Читать книгу The Girl in the Shadows - Katherine Debona, Katherine Debona - Страница 13
ОглавлениеVeronique
Veronique curled her fingers around the crossbar at the top of the railing and pulled herself upward. The muscles in her back and shoulders tightened as she placed her foot in between the next two spikes then lifted her other leg over to drop to the gravel below.
Crouching low she swept the park with her good eye. The moon throbbed in the clear night sky, rich in its fullness and illuminating the ground. She made towards the line of trees at the side of the path, skipping under their canopy to conceal any giveaway shadows.
Black, iron street lamps stood on either side of the path like an upright railroad track, directing Veronique’s eye towards the fountain. It was still, the pumps turned off overnight, and the police tape had been removed as the investigation in this area was deemed complete.
Costume has been cleaned of red paint, Christophe texted in the early hours. Someone also left a wig behind in the wind section of the orchestra, which has been vacated.
Veronique bemoaned his attempt to communicate in code. Even using his mobile within police headquarters was a sackable offence, let alone if he was caught passing on information to an outsider. Sometimes she questioned whether having him as her informant was such a good idea, but his access level was worth the risk.
According to Christophe’s message, no body had been found, but DNA taken from blood on the necklace and a few strands of hair caught in the fountain’s pipes gave a clear indication that Mathilde had been here.
A car’s brakes cut through the shroud of silence and a creature in the tree above hissed its objection at Veronique.
Approaching the fountain she scoured for the patrolling night watchman and his unpredictable Alsatian. Time wasn’t about to wait for her to set her own pace so she slipped off her trainers and stepped into the water, registering its bitterness as the chill spread over her skin.
The fountain had been drained, its water already replaced in an attempt to hide the truth once the park was reopened. A PR stunt designed to cover up the fact the police had potentially ignored a murder, which made her own investigation all the more difficult.
Draining the fountain was a mistake in her mind. In so doing the police could have wiped away something that lay hidden in the debris at the bottom. But they were looking for physical evidence, not subtle clues. Once the press got hold of the story there was a danger of it turning into a full-scale murder hunt.
Guillaume would be under a lot of scrutiny, forced to explain how his task force dismissed the claims of a mother that her daughter hadn’t simply run away. He would be doing everything in his power to find Mathilde and fast, so Veronique needed to stay one step ahead of him if she were to win.
Is that all this was: a desire to prove him wrong? To prove that her methods, no matter how ruthless, were more effective than ticking every box, following every lead to the point of exhaustion? That what happened to Pascal wasn’t his fault and he needed to stop trying to make up for it every day of his life?
She should go and see Pascal. Ever since she and Guillaume broke up she had been avoiding him, refusing to visit due to her workload and ignoring all attempts by the family to contact her. It wasn’t Pascal’s fault. But she needed to cut all ties; it was the only way she could cope with the chasm that opened up in her the day Guillaume left.
Reaching the statue at the fountain’s centre she bent down, easing her arm into the water and feeling for the opening of the pipes where Mathilde’s hair had been found. The pumps being idle allowed her to push her hand inside of the pipe, wiping around the inside with her fingertips as she searched for any scrap of a clue.
Pulling her hand out she tugged at her sleeve, fabric clinging to wet skin as she looked around, deciding where next to go. The presence of hair alone would not have made the police take notice, but coupled with the blood found on the missing necklace they were compelled to investigate further.
As she turned to walk back through the water its surface rippled, disturbed by a movement nearby. A low rumble emerged from underneath and behind her, the vibrations too subtle to feel in her own body but visible as they spread out in circles towards the edge of the fountain. A droplet landed on her shoulder, followed by several more and she looked skyward as the pipes sucked water into their belly and propelled it up and over her.
Squatting down she shoved her arm back into the water, feeling the pull against her hand. She stood, staring into the water and watching it swirl around her legs. The fountain could not have been turned on if a body was here, otherwise the force from the pipes would have pressed skull against the metal’s edge, hair becoming further entangled and leaving traces of skin or blood.
She checked her watch. It was just before 6 a.m. The park closed at 11 p.m., giving seven hours in which to move the body. But how? The park was surrounded on three sides by eight-foot-high fencing and the only open exit was by the Place de la Concorde where someone dragging a body would be noticed no matter what time of day or night. Which meant either Mathilde was hidden in the park somewhere or she was still alive.
The water lapped in a false tide around her calves as she returned to the fountain’s edge and stepped over its ledge. The soles of her feet stuck to the damp earth, leaving behind two clear imprints. Next to them, facing away from the stone was another, fainter footprint. The edges weren’t clean, but Veronique could identify the outline of a heel and five toes, the second of which was longer than the first. It was the same footprint she had often seen on her bathroom floor as its owner dried himself with an oversized towel.
‘I should have known he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.’
Veronique turned to see a besuited man sitting on a bench not ten feet away, lacing up black brogues.
‘Who?’
‘Don’t pretend to be stupid.’ He rose from the bench, sipping from a polystyrene cup. ‘It doesn’t suit you. Christophe can’t afford another stain on his record and you know it. He’s a phenomenal forensics expert, one of the best we have, and yet due to some misplaced loyalty towards you his career is constantly being put on hold.’
‘Shouldn’t you be at the station, Guillaume?’
‘Shouldn’t you be running along the riverbanks rather than scaling fences?’ He walked towards her.
‘Touché.’ She smiled, trying to ignore the suggestive aroma of tea tree that accompanied him as he drew close. Did the amber glass bottle still sit on his window ledge? Did he think of her when he rubbed the ointment into the persistent psoriasis at the edge of his scalp? How many more weeks until he would need to replenish his supply, to retrace steps taken together upon their chance discovery of an apothecary shop hidden behind their favourite restaurant? The wooden drawers hiding treasures used over the centuries to treat ailments even modern medicine could not cure.
‘What happened to your face?’ A raised hand, her step away in response.
‘Nothing, just a boxing accident.’
‘Now why do I find that hard to believe?’
‘Believe what you want. It’s hardly your concern any more.’
A twitch, his eyes shifting. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
‘You shouldn’t have dropped the case.’
‘Stop goading me, Veronique. You’re way over the line here and you know it.’
‘Did you find a body?’
Even in the half-light of dawn she saw the shadows underneath his eyes, shadows that hadn’t been there a few months ago. Was it Pascal? Had something happened to him?
‘You know I can’t tell you.’ He turned his head, showing her the temptation of hair that curled against the nape of his neck.
‘Does the mother know?’
‘So that’s the connection.’ He faced her. ‘Why this case? It doesn’t fall within your usual remit. What happened? Did all the one per cent disappear to their tax havens for the summer, leaving you without any clients?’
He was taunting her, the tone of his voice like a petulant child’s.
‘Has Madame Benazet been informed of the findings?’
‘Stay out of it, Veronique.’ Guillaume threw his cup into a nearby bin. ‘Don’t force me to fire him.’
‘You don’t have the authority to do that.’
‘No? Set foot on one of my crime scenes again and you’ll find out if that’s true.’ He stared at her for a moment, a thought left hanging. ‘Take the exit by the Musée de l’Orangerie.’ He indicated behind her with a nod of his head. ‘That way you won’t be seen.’ His phone rang and he pressed it to his ear, one quick glance at her permitted before he walked away.
Like a magician he had managed to unravel her careful work of the past months, reaching down inside of her to pull everything back to the surface.
She left the park, crossing the river and heading west along its banks. The top of the Eiffel Tower was like a lighthouse, guiding her as she tried to push all thoughts of Guillaume away.
But no matter what she did, he was there. Whenever she drank her morning coffee, made using a machine he bought her as he didn’t understand how she could spend a fortune each morning at the café down the street. When she browsed the Marché Mouffetard, just as they had most Sunday mornings, never buying anything but part of her hoping he would be there too.
The familiar scent of his aftershave on someone else’s skin, making her turn her head in hope. The feel of his arms around her, drawing her close and blocking out all her nightmares. He was there when she closed her eyes at night, the space in the bed next to her cold because she couldn’t bring herself to cross the invisible line over to his side.
You couldn’t simply brush away the best part of two years. Close the door on all the memories made together and expect them never to come back. She still remembered the first time she saw him, would cling to that picture in her darkest moments and try to recall the exact curve of his lip as he held out his hand to her.
***
‘Guillaume,’ he said with a smile that stretched the full width of his face as he strode across to her. ‘Enchanté.’
‘Veronique,’ she replied, registering the warmth of his palm and how it enveloped hers completely. His grip was assured, eyes the colour of forget-me-nots, and he had a smattering of stubble along his jaw. She was lost in an instant, the sensation of falling through time and seeing herself as an old woman with him sat beside her.
‘Christophe was just telling me about what it is that you do.’ He kept hold of her hand and with reluctance she let go, moving around the table to put a barrier between them. ‘About how you have a knack for finding things, people, and getting them to talk.’
‘Was he now?’ Veronique looked over at Christophe, at the way he was hopping from one foot to the next like a child who needed the toilet. Add to that the two thumbs up he was giving her as he left the office and she had a feeling that she wasn’t here to take Christophe out to lunch. ‘And what is it you do?’
‘I’m a Capitaine for the National Police here in Paris.’
She couldn’t help but widen her eyes.
‘Does that surprise you?’
‘Only that I’m not used to requests from the police.’ Normally they were trying to block her investigations rather than hire her. ‘Christophe hasn’t mentioned you before. I assume you work together – that’s how you know one another?’
‘Non, I have only recently transferred across from the Ministry of the Interior. Christophe and I met here, at the clinic.’
And it all fell into place. The impossibly handsome man Christophe had, with the subtlety of an axe, been dropping into conversation of late. The new Captain who voluntarily gave up his post at the Ministry to help with an on-going narcotics investigation. A man who had also been attending rehabilitation sessions at the clinic with his brother and then asking questions about the increasing number of patients being admitted with similar symptoms.
‘You’re Pascal’s brother, n’est-ce-pas?’ Veronique asked, the shroud that came across the Captain’s features too apparent to miss.
‘I am.’ He cleared his throat. ‘In a way it’s him I wanted to speak to you about. Specifically the drugs he was taking when he overdosed.’
‘Ecstasy?’
‘Yes. No doubt you are aware that there have been several cases in recent months of young people overdosing from MDMA laced with lethal quantities of methamphetamine.’
‘It’s been all over the news.’
‘What hasn’t been in the news is that we suspect each batch is coming from a single supplier. One who is bringing the drugs in from outside of France and mixing them here, in Paris.’
‘Based on what evidence?’
He broke eye contact for the first time since she walked into the room. ‘That’s confidential.’
‘With all due respect, Capitaine, if you’re asking for my help you’re going to have to give me more than that.’
The look on his face – one that she would come to recognise without the need for words – it was an internal process, a weighing up of the odds and potential risks involved, a process she never would be able to understand or empathise with. Especially when it involved family.
Guillaume’s brother ended up in a coma after taking what he thought was a pure ecstasy pill on a night out. He was only seventeen years old and under the care of his older brother whilst their parents were at a wedding in Toulouse. The end result was that Pascal now required round-the-clock care, his future wiped out through one bad decision. A decision that Guillaume felt responsible for.
If the same thing had happened to Christophe, Veronique didn’t know what she would have done, what lengths she would go to in order to find, and obliterate, the people responsible.
But Guillaume was a veritable knight in shining armour. His mistake that night, allowing Pascal to go out even though he had a test at school the next day, was the driving force behind all subsequent decisions. He would not allow himself to make any more errors in judgement, and that meant following the rules to their absolute limit.
It was something they argued about, over and over. His refusal to go with her, to punish the drug dealers in a way far more appropriate than prison. He’d stopped her then, just as he’d tried to stop her every time since.
***
Coming to a halt she rested her palm against the wall, its bricks soaking up heat from the threatening sun. She leaned against the door, waiting for her heartbeat to return to a more normal level as a wet nose found her shin. She bent down to ruffle behind the dog’s ears.
‘Bonjour, Barney.’
‘Barney! Allez!’ An elderly woman shuffled across the small courtyard, waving at the dog.
‘Delphine, how are you today?’ Veronique enquired as Barney continued to jump at her like a small child, desperate for attention.
‘Pas mal, pas mal,’ Delphine replied between heavy breaths and Veronique couldn’t help but notice the yellow tinge to her skin.
‘Have you been outside lately?’
She avoided Veronique’s eyes. ‘Now and then,’ she said, walking back to an armchair positioned in an open doorway. She sank into its battered cushions, swollen ankles spilling out of stained ruby slippers.
‘And what does the doctor say?’ Veronique reached inside the door and poured Madame a glass of chilled lemonade from the turquoise ceramic jug set on a narrow table in the hallway. She took it with shaking hands, chapped lips sucking the liquid into her mouth.
‘What do they know? Barely old enough to write their own name and yet they want to pump me full of drugs I can’t even pronounce.’
‘Has your son been to visit this week? I thought he was going to take you to the house near La Rochelle?’
‘He is busy with his work. I understand he will come another time.’
More likely busy with another woman, Veronique thought. He probably lay in bed at night, imagining the size of his bank balance once the cancer destroyed what was left of his mother.
‘Why don’t I take Barney for a run tomorrow?’ she offered, squeezing Delphine’s hand.
Delphine smiled in response. ‘Yes, he would like that. Tires him out for the rest of the day.’
‘And perhaps later we can go for a walk to the bistro. Some of their home cooking would do you the world of good.’
‘Peut-être.’ She smiled, sorrow clouding her eyes. ‘But for now you have a visitor.’
Veronique looked up towards the small balcon on the top floor of the building where the shadow of a man could be seen.
***
‘Remind me to ask for your key back,’ she said as she opened the door to her appartement and walked through to the open-plan living area. Christophe was sitting at the wrought-iron table out on the small balcon, plucking tomatoes from a nearby plant and popping them into his mouth like sweets.
‘Why is it that your fridge is empty and yet you have an entire farm out here?’ Christophe replied as she bent to kiss him on both cheeks.
Veronique stole a tomato for herself, the skin warm against her lips. ‘I like being able to eat something I’ve grown myself. That way I know it’s not full of pesticides or things grown in labs.’
‘Like me, you mean?’
‘You’re the perfect experiment gone wrong.’ She smiled, going back inside and through to the bedroom. Shrugging out of her running gear she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower. ‘I bumped into Guillaume.’
Christophe’s head appeared around the doorway. ‘Really? Is he still tall, dark and ever so handsome?’
‘Tired.’ Veronique ducked her head under the stream of cool water then picked up a loofah and began to massage her ankles, then continued up the length of her body to finish at the back of her neck.
‘The stress of being Mr Perfect is obviously getting to him.’ Christophe opened the mirrored cupboard above the sink and began to apply mascara to feathery lashes. ‘What did he want?’
‘He caught me at the park.’ She scrubbed at her hands.
Christophe pushed back from the sink to stare at her. ‘He was there? Merde. What did he say?’
‘That he knows it was you who told me.’ Stepping out of the shower she reached for a towel on the rail opposite, her hand lingering on the soft cotton.
‘So what? He can’t prove it.’
‘You need to be more careful.’ She dried herself from the face down, following the line of her scar.
‘I was careful.’
‘Christophe, if anyone gets their hands on your phone they’ll be able to see who and what you have been messaging so I hope you really have deleted everything, including any back-ups. You can’t afford another warning and I’d hate for you to lose your job. You love it there, surrounded by other like-minded science geeks.’
‘I’ll ignore that. Science is the key to everything and you know it. Did you find anything?’
Veronique went back into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe. Two rails of clothing, one pale and the other dark, arranged by fabric and then season. The drawers contained both her lace underwear and workout gear, all folded and stored away amongst layers of tissue paper. At the bottom stood row upon row of stacked boxes, each labelled with a Polaroid photograph of the shoes contained therein.
Her eye fell on a box pushed to the back. Inside was the sweatshirt Guillaume had left behind, fire engine red with bleached stitching and bare patches bleeding out from the elbows. Like a favourite teddy she had cocooned her frame in the soft cotton, wishing she could tattoo the memory of him onto her skin.
You asked him to leave, remember? she told herself, pushing the box out of sight and pulling on a pair of ivory chinos and silk T-shirt the colour of a midnight sky.
‘Nothing specific, but I think she’s still alive. Unless of course you can tell me otherwise? Did Guillaume search the park?’
‘Didn’t you just tell me to be more careful?’
‘Did they find a body?’ Veronique went into the kitchen and poured two cups of muddy coffee, adding a teaspoon of honey to one and handing it to Christophe.
‘Don’t you think I would still be at the park if they had?’
‘So someone either moved the body or she left of her own accord.’
Christophe took a mouthful of coffee. ‘Pretty much, but I’m under strict instructions not to divulge any information to the press.’
‘I’m not press.’
Christophe smiled. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t tell Guillaume about visiting the boyfriend? Nor that he’s the one responsible for the rather alarming bruise on your face that I wasn’t going to mention?’
‘Don’t worry, his broken nose more than makes up for it.’
‘And?’
‘And I don’t think we can rule out the possibility that he had something to do with Mathilde’s disappearance. Frederic is violent, arrogant and thinks he’s untouchable.’
‘Sounds a little like someone else I know, minus the arrogance of course.’
‘I’m never unnecessarily violent.’
‘Who said I was talking about you? I’ve come across plenty of men in my time who accurately fit that description.’
Veronique rolled her eyes. ‘Back to Mathilde. I need to do some more digging, find out about Frederic’s past.’
‘I can do that. George owes me a favour.’
‘Fine, but don’t let him in here. I can’t risk having anything traced back to my IP address, not now we’re being watched. I also need to get to the boss before Guillaume.’
‘Where did the girl work? Perhaps I can meet George there, scout out the place for you, faire d’une pierre deux coups and all that.’
‘A bar near Montmartre.’
Christophe pulled a face. ‘When you say “bar”, do you mean upstairs or behind the curtain?’
‘No idea. All we have is the name of her boss, Valentine Dubois, which just so happens to be the same name as the eyewitness the police were too quick to dismiss. Guillaume is bound to go back and question him, unless I can get there first.’
Christophe looked at her. ‘Promise me this is about the girl and not him.’
‘It’s about the girl. And he wasn’t the only one to blame.’ Veronique’s phone beeped and she slid her thumb across the screen, frowning at the reminder that popped up.
‘All the more reason never to go back there, no matter how good the sex was.’ Christophe peered over her shoulder. ‘You can’t keep avoiding that.’
Veronique tucked the phone in her pocket. ‘Who says I’m avoiding it?’
‘I’ll come with you. Isn’t the clinic on Boulevard Jourdan? I know a girl from the clinic who lives there and used to work in Montmartre. If Mathilde was more than just a barmaid, Giselle might recognise her or at least point us in the right direction.’
Veronique looked at him then drained her coffee and rinsed the cup in the sink before placing it in the dishwasher. ‘Fine. But you’re not coming in with me.’
‘No need to be so shy, darling,’ he whispered into her ear, ‘it’s not as if I haven’t already seen what you’ve got.’
