‘You think she might be carrying a torch?’ he asked. ‘Is that your impression, from talking to her?’
‘She hasn’t said anything. But the way she spoke about him, when she did, there’s a fondness there, still. Not a torch, perhaps, but a small candle at least.’
‘If that’s so, I hope it burns out of its own accord. Andy’s happily married now, with a growing family.’
‘He never looks back?’
‘No. There was a time when he was a serial womaniser, before Alex, and then again, as a reaction, I suppose, to what happened. But then he and Karen. . found each other, I suppose. They’re a nice couple, and he won’t let anyone come between them. Plus, I like to think that my daughter wouldn’t. .’
‘In three hundred yards, turn right!’ The firm voice of the navigation system interrupted him.
‘Wouldn’t dream of even trying,’ he murmured, as he obeyed.
‘You have reached your destination.’
He looked along the road into which they had turned and saw, twenty yards ahead, a sign that read ‘Gendarmerie’.
‘Okay,’ said Bob, ‘this is where we split. You take the car and explore the town, if you’re happy doing that. I’ll call your mobile when I’m done and you can tell me where to meet you.’
‘Fine by me,’ Aileen replied. ‘I’ll probably have lunch first, unless you want me to wait for you.’
‘No, you do that. I can grab something later.’
He held the door open as she slid behind the wheel and drew the seat a little further forward, then waved her off as she turned and headed back to the junction. Only when she was out of sight did he turn and walk into the gendarmerie station.
Skinner had been in local police offices in seven countries, on three continents, and found them more or less interchangeable: busy, untidy, poorly furnished, and marked by the underlying body odour of those who worked there. The Collioure version was an exception to his rule of thumb. There were freshly cut flowers in the reception area, and a modern air-conditioning unit was going full blast, a blessed relief from the heat of the day outside.
‘Oui, monsieur?’ the desk officer greeted him.
‘Bonsoir,’ he replied. ‘Je suis Monsieur Skinner, d’Edimbourg, ici pour Lieutenant Cerdan.’ The words felt thick on his tongue. He wondered how far his limited French would carry him. Every sentence had to be thought out carefully before it was uttered: he knew that conversation would be very difficult.
He sighed inwardly with relief when a voice behind him said, in clear, confident English, ‘Good day, sir, and welcome to Collioure. I am Lieutenant Jérôme Cerdan.’ He turned, to see a slightly built man with dark hair and a small moustache, dressed, almost identically to him, in a white short-sleeved shirt and lightweight tan trousers. The two shook hands. ‘I am told you are here to find a young Englishman,’ the French officer continued.
‘That’s right: a lad called Davis Colledge. I’m grateful for your help.’
‘No, it’s you who have done me a favour: I am based in Perpignan, but on days as hot as this I take every opportunity to come to the coast.’
Skinner smiled. ‘Glad to be of service. Have you been told why I need to speak to the boy?’
‘His lady friend is dead, yes? Murdered?’
‘Yes, in Edinburgh, almost two weeks ago. We have no reason to regard the boy as a suspect, but we need to interview him.’
‘And there is a delicacy, yes?’
‘His father is a public figure. As far as I’m concerned that doesn’t win him any favours, but if our press found out about his involvement, they’d give him a hard time. We don’t have the privacy laws that you do in France.’
‘I understand, sir. You have an address for him?’
‘Yes; three Passage Jules Ferry, studio apartment.’
‘Then we will go there at once. It’s not far, but a local officer will take us.’
Cerdan led the way through the station, past a row of cells, of which three seemed to be occupied, to a courtyard at the rear, where a uniformed corporal waited beside a police car. He saluted as they approached, then opened the front passenger door for the lieutenant, and the rear for Skinner.
Rather than take the busy main thoroughfare, the driver showed his local knowledge by picking his way through a maze of back-streets, deserted but for parked cars, all with French registrations, and most of them covered with dust. As Cerdan had said, it was a short journey, less than five minutes, until they took a turn and the sea-front opened out before them, a tight bay bounded on the right by a tall domed tower, and on the left by a pier, leading to a rocky outcrop, on which stood a stone shelter, topped by a bell, and beside it, a life-sized figure of Christ on the cross.
The corporal pulled up at the roadside, on a red line that could have meant only one thing, and spoke quietly to the officer.
‘He says we have to walk from here,’ Cerdan explained. ‘These are old streets and only for pedestrians and cyclists.’
They stepped out of the car’s chilled air into the blazing afternoon heat, the corporal leading the way. He took them along the beach-front past a crowded restaurant, two art galleries, a busy crêperie and, improbably, an ancient Fiat Abarth motor-car that had been converted into a soft drinks bar, until they reached a street that was little more than a wide alley. They had gone no more than a hundred yards when he turned right into a cul-de-sac that was even narrower.
‘Ici,’ he announced.
There were no shops or bars in the passage, only a dozen or so houses. Number three was half-way along and beside it a blue door, bearing the word ‘Studio’. There was no sign of a lock, only a handle. Without bothering to knock, Cerdan seized and turned it, revealing a stone stairway behind that appeared to lead up to the roof. They climbed until they reached a landing, barely large enough for the three men, with a second door, this one brown, with a mortise lock, and a Yale, for extra security. Skinner rapped on it firmly and waited. He knocked again, harder this time, and called out, ‘Davis. Davis Colledge. Open up, please. I’m a police officer from Scotland.’
The corporal reached out and tried the handle, but the door was secure.
‘Bugger,’ Skinner muttered. ‘He’s probably gone out for lunch. I guess we might have to hang around and wait for him, Lieutenant.’
‘Maybe,’ Cerdan replied, ‘but let’s ask first.’ He spoke to the corporal, who nodded, and trotted back down the stairway.
He was gone for several minutes: Skinner filled them by asking the Frenchman about his career, about the structure of the gendarmerie, and about its interface with its parallel force the Police Nationale, the Sûreté of Simenon’s Maigret. Much of it he knew already from the research he had done in preparing his paper for Aileen, but he found it interesting to have the perspective of a serving officer in one of the forces. ‘It’s all right,’ the lieutenant said finally, ‘as long as we take care not to become involved together. That can lead to arguments over. .’ He paused. ‘I don’t know the word.’
‘Jurisdiction?’
‘That is it. Do you have such problems in Scotland, sir? I understand that you have a different way?’
‘Yes, but it’s relatively simple. We’re organised on a territorial basis; there’s the boundary line and we don’t cross it, operationally, other than in hot pursuit. There is a national body tackling serious crime, but that co-operates with forces like mine.’
The noise of footsteps on the stairway announced the corporal’s return. He was smiling and holding a key-ring, breathing slightly hard as he reported to his officer.
‘Some good news,’ Cerdan announced. ‘Madame Marnie, the lady in the house below, is the owner of the studio. She has given us keys. But now, not so good. The young man is not here. He left early this morning.’
‘He’s gone back to Britain?’
‘It seems not. He told her that, since he was alone, he was going to see some more of the coast. He asked her also that if his friend should arrive she should tell her that he would be back in a few days.’