Something that had piqued Grace’s interest was that Tony Suter was one of the numerous aliases that Crisp had used in past years. Of course, it could have been coincidence. What could also have been coincidence was the appearance of the sex worker. She was in her early twenties, with long brown hair.
The exact profile of every single one of Crisp’s known female victims to date.
The car had been valeted and already gone out with another customer. The French police were now urgently looking for it. In response to Roy Grace’s confirmation that this could indeed be his suspect, they were currently in the process of obtaining the CCTV footage from the rental company’s premises, and a manhunt was under way for the young woman.
‘A big place, Lyon.’
‘I’ve been there.’
‘One of the largest metropolitan areas in France,’ Branson said, helpfully.
‘Thanks for the geography lesson.’
‘You’re welcome. Here’s one for you — The French Connection, with Gene Hackman, remember that?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘That was partly set in Marseilles. The second largest city.’
‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
‘Nothing. Just trying to use any opportunity to educate you. And it had a great ending.’
‘You trying to tell me something?’
Branson was hesitant suddenly. ‘Oh, yeah, right,’ he said. ‘I forgot. Maybe not so tactful.’
‘You could say that,’ Grace said. ‘Unless you’re trying to give me some kind of message?’
Branson grinned, then raised his hands submissively. ‘No message.’
‘I’m glad about that, because the bad guy got away.’
6
Tuesday 17 February
After a week of hanging around, dealing with French officialdom, before Walt Klein’s body was finally released after the post-mortem, Jodie accompanied her fiancé back to New York. She travelled up at the pointed end, sipping vintage bubbly in First Class, appearing to the cabin crew every inch a grieving lover consoling herself with alcohol. Walt travelled in less style, in the rear cargo hold of the plane. Although to be fair, she reasoned at one point, drifting off into a pleasant doze, he had more legroom in his coffin than those poor bastards back in economy.
And also, to be fair, she had not scrimped on the coffin. It was a top-of-the-range hand-carved rosewood affair, with a satin taffeta border and genuine brass handles. There was no finer coffin to be had anywhere in the Alps, the undertaker in Moûtiers had assured her. And certainly, when she saw the price, none that could possibly have been more expensive.
That would have been fine by her late fiancé, had he been in a position to help with the decision. Walt was dismissive of bargains. ‘You buy cheap, you buy twice,’ he had told her on more than one occasion. He’d have been proud of just how expensive this beauty had been, she thought. His final little treat to himself! She would present the bill to his lawyer, who would reimburse her.
The champagne she had been quaffing throughout the journey, from her constantly topped-up glass, was still in her system, maintaining her pleasantly woozy haze through the lengthy immigration queue. Although she hoped she did not reek too much of alcohol when, questioned by the immigration officer at passport control as to the reason for her visit, she had replied, trying to look and sound suitably grief-stricken, ‘To bury my fiancé.’
She collected her bags and entered the arrivals hall, then instantly felt in need of another top-up of alcohol when she saw the frosty faces of Walt’s two children — Don, his tall, serious, forty-year-old son, and Carla, his softer, warmer, thirty-five-year-old daughter, who had come to the airport more out of respect for their deceased father than any love for their gold-digger of a potential stepmother.
‘Carla,’ Jodie said, throwing her arms round her. ‘Oh my God, this is so terrible. So terrible.’ She burst into tears.
‘Dad was an expert skier,’ Don said, drily. ‘He’s skied off-piste for years. He wouldn’t make a mistake.’
‘It was a white-out, in a blizzard,’ Jodie sobbed. ‘We couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces.’
‘Dad wouldn’t have made a mistake,’ he repeated.
‘We’re staying at Dad’s apartment until the funeral,’ Carla said. ‘Hope that’s OK with you?’
‘But as we figured you might want to be alone, to grieve for our father, and avoid all the hassle from the press, we took the precaution of booking you into a hotel,’ Don said. ‘Your choice.’
Suddenly she heard a male voice call out, ‘Jodie!’
She turned, saw the strobe of a flashgun and heard the whirr of a camera motor. Another voice called her name and, as she glanced to the right, another flashgun went. Then another.
There were a dozen paparazzi lined up, all now shouting her name.
‘Jodie, did you know about Walt?’
‘How much did you know about Walt’s finances?’
Jodie had met Walt in Las Vegas just over six months earlier. He’d been sitting at a table on his own, in a smoking bar at the Bellagio, drinking a Martini and lighting a cigar. She’d sat a few tables away, smoking a cigarette and drinking a margarita, eyeing potentials. This was one of the city’s most expensive hotels; people who stayed here or even just came in for a drink were likely to be reasonably well off at worst, seriously loaded at best.
She’d travelled from Brighton, arriving the day before, to have a break, play some blackjack at the high-stakes tables, and try to find a new man. Her kind of man. A nice, lonely, elderly man. Someone who would be grateful for her attentions. But, most importantly of all, someone rich. Very rich.
This trip was an investment, just like her profiles on the high-end dating agencies were.
She chose blackjack because it was sociable, you got a chance to talk to your fellow gamblers and there was a steady turnover of players. She’d made a study of it, read books and knew all the tricks of the game. There was no strategy that could guarantee winning, but there was one that enabled her to stay at a high-rollers table for hours on end, losing very little money. A small cost for the opportunities it gave her to size up the men who perched beside her at the table.
And you could get married in this city, with no fuss at all, any time from 8 a.m. to midnight, on any day.
It looked like she was getting lucky sooner on this trip than she had expected. The jackpot on day one?
A little overweight and flabby, in his mid-seventies, she guessed, with a thick head of wavy silver hair. He was dressed in a yellow Gucci cardigan over a shirt with gold buttons, and blue suede Tod’s loafers.
He looked lonely.
And sad.
And had no wedding ring on his finger.
Hunched up over the table, he was peering at his phone, reading something. Wall Street prices? After a while he put it down, ate the olive from his Martini, then drained the drink and signalled to a waiter for another. Then he puffed on his cigar — a Cohiba, she could tell from the yellow and black band.
She stared at him, holding her cigarette between her fingers, the smoke rising. It took some moments before he finally looked up and caught her eye. She smiled. He gave her a brief, slightly embarrassed nod of acknowledgement, blinked his heavy-lidded eyes, then made a play of looking back down at his phone and tapping the keys, as if to show he wasn’t any kind of Billy-No-Mates, but a busy man.