Rocco revised his opinion of her financial acumen. She had evidently made more than he’d guessed.
‘A drink or coffee?’ said Viviane.
‘Coffee would be nice,’ agreed Rocco.
She smiled knowingly. ‘I know how you like yours, but what about you?’ She looked at Claude. ‘You look like a man with hair on his chest, too.’
Rocco was surprised to see Claude blushing, before he replied, ‘As it comes.’
‘Give me a second or two.’ Viviane shuffled away through a glass door and they heard cups rattling.
Rocco briefly filled Claude in on Viviane’s history. He knew she wouldn’t mind; she’d always been honest about her trade, with no concessions or apologies to anyone. Claude looked surprised but said nothing, merely lowering his bottom lip and eyeing Rocco with renewed interest.
‘So, what can I help you with?’ Viviane entered bearing a tray with three cups, cream and sugar. She served the two men before sitting down, then glanced at Claude. ‘This man is a gentleman,’ she said disarmingly, ‘for a Paris cop, anyway. Always treated us like ladies and never expected or took a freebie. Not once.’ She sipped her coffee, then seemed to realise what impression she might have conveyed and added, ‘Actually, he wasn’t a client, either. Strictly professional.’ She beamed at Rocco then said softly, ‘I heard about Emilie. A great pity; you two seemed set for the long one.’
Rocco shrugged. ‘It happens.’
Viviane nodded and changed the subject. ‘So, are you on a case? I heard you had left the city.’
‘I am and I have,’ confirmed Rocco, adding, ‘in fact, I have an interest in one of your tenants.’
Viviane put her cup down. ‘Who?’
‘Nathalie Bayer-Berbier.’
The name dropped into the room and left a lengthy silence. A car hooted outside and a woman’s laughter echoed along the street, followed by a truck engine and a scooter puttering past like an angry wasp. Normal noises off, lives being lived.
Rocco waited patiently for Viviane to say something.
‘She’s up on three. Number twelve. What has she done?’
‘We know the number,’ Rocco told her. ‘I’d like to see inside her flat.’
Viviane eyed him carefully, then Claude. ‘She hasn’t been in for over a week. I heard she was going to a friend for the weekend, possibly longer. She’s a good tenant.’
‘I’m sure she is. Can we see inside? It’s important.’
Viviane nodded but didn’t move, her whole manner wary. ‘It’s bad? You’re looking for something?’
‘Yes to both. Not sure what, though.’
‘It won’t do you any good, Lucas.’
Rocco felt his gut tighten. ‘Why do you say that?’
The old woman shifted in her chair. ‘Because some men came here late last night and took her stuff away.’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Rocco cursed under his breath. They were too late. ‘Any idea who they were?’
‘Her father’s employees, I suppose. Polite but firm — you know the type. Not the kind to argue with. And they had a cop with them.’
Rocco and Claude exchanged a look. More official help. ‘What did they want?’
‘They took some stuff away. Not furniture — but boxes and bags. It looked like correspondence and things like that. I couldn’t stop them because Berbier pays the rent.’ She shrugged. ‘Half my tenants have their rent paid by parents… or others.’ She stood up and went to a flat wall cabinet behind the door. Opened it to reveal several hooks hung with keys and numbered cardboard tags. Taking one of the keys, she handed it to Rocco. ‘Is the girl all right?’
‘No. I’m afraid not.’ Rocco took the key. ‘How about friends, boyfriends, people she worked with?’
Viviane gave a huge shrug. ‘You think I can keep track of that kind of thing? She’s a young woman — she has more friends than I have ever known, probably more admirers than she can ever hope to enjoy. But she used to share meals with Sophie in number ten, across the hallway. I think they shared boyfriends, too, on occasion, but that’s the old woman in me talking.’ She gave a quick smile. ‘Lucky her, if you ask me.’
Rocco stood up. ‘It might be best if nobody knew we were here.’
‘Nobody?’
‘Not the local cops, not Bayer-Berbier or his polite but firm employees, and certainly nobody who knew Nathalie.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re working off our patch.’ He waggled his hand from side to side. ‘It’s a jurisdiction thing.’
‘Ah. Understood.’ Viviane would know all about jurisdictions, had probably played with them from time to time, too, to avoid too much interest from the law.
They left her alone and walked up three flights of tiled stairs. If there were any other tenants in the building, they were being very quiet. Flat 12 was at the end of a short corridor. A woman’s bicycle stood outside, with another door — No. 10 — directly across the hall. Rocco knocked on No. 10 first. Best to try and see the friend, if she was in. He watched the peephole in the middle for signs of movement, of the light changing. But there was nothing.
He turned to the door of No. 12 and inserted the key. Pushed the door open.
The air inside smelt of soap and polish, with a hint of perfume. The atmosphere was warm and pleasant, a place to call home. He led Claude inside, noting coats on a rack inside the door, a small table piled with newspapers and some circulars. No mail, though. A pair of walking shoes stood neatly against the skirting board, and alongside them, a furled umbrella, bright and fragile-looking, as if a faint breeze would turn it inside out.
‘What are we looking for?’ said Claude softly.
‘Anything,’ said Rocco, ‘that tells us where she was last week. A note, a letter, train ticket — anything.’ He didn’t expect to find much, after what Viviane had just told them. But all it needed was something the other men might have dismissed as inconsequential.
It took them ten minutes to search the three rooms and discover that the men had dismissed nothing. Most of that time was spent going through pockets, handbags and drawers, because there were no other obvious hiding places, nor, Rocco concluded, any reason for having one.
The flat was neat, plain, if expensively furnished, and spoke more of money wisely spent than a young woman splashing daddy’s wealth around. It was comfortable and light, with white walls, and to Rocco looked like something copied from American tastes, currently sweeping Europe in the wake of the Beach Boys and other left-coast music.
It took a further two minutes to establish that there was not a scrap of paperwork in the flat. No letters, receipts, bills, postcards; no jottings or scribbled memos, no REMEMBER board; no notebooks, pads or work notes, no portfolios.
‘They cleaned it out,’ said Claude, huffing at the lack of evidence. ‘Not even a single photo. Why?’
‘Because it was quicker than going through it here,’ said Rocco. Easier to just bundle it up in boxes or bags and look through it at their leisure. The last time he’d seen this level of cleansing was when he’d taken part in a raid on the house of a Turkish drug dealer. The man had got a tip-off just prior to the raid and had used his gang to clear the house of every scrap of paper, right down to his wife’s magazines and shopping lists, in case someone had made a careless note which could implicate him.
He walked through the flat, absorbing the atmosphere and wondering whether Nathalie had had anything worth hiding or whether her father was merely being ultra cautious in the wake of her death. Maybe she was simply a young woman, as Berbier and Viviane had variously described her, working in the fashion business and having a good time. If so, she wouldn’t have needed to hide anything.
Unless somebody else knew different.
He stepped into the living room. Looked at a telephone on a small side table near the front window. It was facing the window, as if someone had sat in the window seat to use it. There was a button on the base of the phone, the kind that releases the note tray in the base, like his own. He pressed it. The tray shot out, revealing a small notepad. On it was scribbled a name and a number in a neat hand.