‘I haven’t seen this before. Can’t imagine there’s anything very interesting in it.’
‘Then you’d be wrong,’ Enzo said, and for the first time he saw that Raffin’s interest was piqued.
The two men went back through to the sitting room, and as Raffin spread out the contents of the six copied files on the dining table to examine in more detail, Enzo told him about the fractured skull, written off by the original pathologist as collateral damage and now reassessed as the possible cause of death.
Raffin looked at him, his eyes suddenly clear and shining. ‘Well that changes everything, doesn’t it? If a blow to the head was the cause of death, it means that her killer strangled her post-mortem to make it look like it was Blanc.’
But Enzo shook his head. ‘She disappeared the day before Blanc was arrested.’
‘Yes, but it was well publicised that those prostitutes had been strangled, that the hyoid bones had separated and fractured.’
‘True — but until Blanc’s arrest nobody knew it was him.’
‘So the killer was simply trying to make it look like the work of whoever had murdered the prostitutes, without knowing it was Blanc.’ Raffin was clearly irritated by Enzo’s constant contradictions.
‘Which would be an extraordinary coincidence,’ Enzo said. ‘Given that Blanc had written to Lucie, and that, according to her ex-boyfriend, he had been having a relationship with her.’
This set Raffin back on his heels. ‘What? When did you learn that?’
‘A couple of days ago.’
‘He told you?’
Enzo nodded. ‘Under a little duress.’
Raffin drew him a curious look, but his excitement at the revelation was patent. ‘This is new. It’s going to make a great story.’ He paused. ‘So you think that Blanc might have killed her after all?’
Enzo stroked his jaw thoughtfully and felt the bristles on his chin, realising he hadn’t shaved for two days. He said, ‘There’s no way to know if that blow to the head killed Lucie or not. It might just have rendered her unconscious, and then she was strangled. After all, Blanc drugged his prostitutes with Rohypnol before strangling them. If you strangle someone, I guess you have to look them in the eye as you do it. And they look back at you. Maybe Blanc didn’t like that.’
‘So you do think it was Blanc?’
Enzo released a long, slow breath and ran his eyes sightlessly around the room, as if searching for inspiration in facts to back up his instinct. When he couldn’t find any, he looked at Raffin and said, ‘Actually, I don’t.’
He was saved from having to provide a rationale for his instinct by the sound of the door opening out in the hall. Cold air rushed in as Kirsty, with Alexis in her arms, manhandled a pushchair through from the landing.
‘Oh hi, Papa,’ she said, handing Alexis to Raffin before throwing her arms around her father. Enzo noticed that, although Alexis was six months old now, Raffin still seemed uncomfortable holding him. But Kirsty was looking over her father’s shoulder at the mess of papers on the table. She stood back and, with a twinkle in her dark brown, liquid eyes, said, ‘I see, once again, that Alexis and I were the reason for your visit.’
Enzo grinned. ‘Always.’ And he reached across to relieve Raffin from the burden of holding his grandson. Alexis chuckled and chortled as Enzo held him with the expertise of an experienced father and bounced him lightly up and down. Grandfather and grandson rubbed noses, and Enzo felt how cold the baby’s face was.
Kirsty crossed to the table, divesting herself of coat and scarf, to look at the photocopied documents and photographs that covered it. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a date and time for the appointment with the hearing specialist in Biarritz.’ She looked over her shoulder at Enzo. ‘Two days after your birthday. Will you still be able to make it?’
Enzo said, ‘Whatever else is happening, I’ll make the time.’ And he glanced at Raffin, who shuffled awkwardly in the knowledge that, unlike Enzo, he had made other things a priority.
Enzo turned back at the sound of Kirsty’s voice. ‘Who are these girls?’ She was lining up their photographs, one beside the other.
‘Mostly prostitutes, either missing or dead,’ Enzo said. He joined her at the table. ‘Their parents think that Régis Blanc was responsible.’
‘And was he?’
‘Probably not.’
‘Such sad faces,’ Kirsty said, running her fingertips lightly over grainy facsimiles of once-living human beings. ‘They’ll be middle-aged by now.’
‘If any of them are still alive,’ Raffin said.
‘And we know that two of them are dead,’ Enzo told her.
Kirsty shook her head, almost unable to drag her eyes away from them. ‘What a waste of lives.’
‘Speaking of which...’ Enzo turned back to Raffin. ‘Did you know that Charlotte has been visiting Régis Blanc in Lannemezan prison?’
Raffin seemed startled. ‘No, I did not. Why? I mean, why was she visiting him?’
‘Some kind of study of long-term prisoners.’
Raffin shook his head. ‘Then why didn’t she tell us? She knew you would be working on the Martin case.’
Enzo’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘That’s exactly what I’m on my way to ask her myself.’
‘Because my life is my own and my work is confidential, and you have no rights of access to either.’ Charlotte’s words were hostile, but her tone was indifferent, as if she didn’t really care.
They were in the small kitchen, three steps down from the living area, in her sprawling home in the thirteenth. Charlotte sat back with a glass of wine, the remains of a light meal on the table in front of her.
‘Don’t you want to see Laurent? I’ve just put him down.’
‘Stop trying to change the subject.’
‘Ahhh,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You see? Only when it suits you.’
But Enzo refused to be deflected. ‘You knew I had started working on the Lucie Martin case, and yet you never thought to tell me that you had been visiting the man suspected of killing her. That you knew him personally. And given the number of times you’ve visited, probably know him better than anyone else in this world.’
She sat forward, angry now. ‘In all the years I have known you, Enzo Macleod, you have never taken the least interest in my work. Except, of course, when it could be of some use to you. You’re selfish and thoughtless and, frankly, with you there’s always an ulterior motive.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Why would I even think of volunteering to provide you with information about my work? After all, if it was of any use to you, sooner or later you’d come looking for it.’
Enzo stood, face reddening, stung by her words. He was not so self-obsessed that he didn’t realise there was some truth in them. ‘I have never been anything but honest and totally open with you, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘You’re the one with the secrets. You’re the one who guards your thoughts and emotions, the one who keeps things from me.’
She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘And what is it you’re keeping from me? The real reason for your visit, Enzo? The ulterior motive? I mean, you didn’t drive all the way from Bordeaux to Paris just to accuse me of withholding information. Did you?’
Enzo reddened further. Charlotte always seemed to read him, like a large Métro map behind glass. Was his veneer really so transparent?
She smiled. ‘I thought so. What is it you want this time?’
He took a moment to try to salvage, at least in his own mind, what was left of his pride. ‘I want to talk to Blanc.’
A knowing smile spread across her face and she leaned back in her chair again. ‘Of course you do. I should have seen that one coming.’ She swirled the remains of her wine around in her glass, looking into it as if searching for enlightenment. ‘To what end? To try and establish some kind of connection between him and Lucie Martin?’