Angélique

by Guillaume Musso

Genres: City Life; International Crime & Mystery; Crime Fiction

Synopsis

The new thriller from #1 international bestselling author Guillaume Musso.

PARIS, CHRISTMAS 2021. After a heart attack, Mathias Taillefer wakes up in the hospital with a stranger at his bedside. The mysterious girl reveals herself to be Louise Collange, a volunteer who has come to play the cello for patients.

When she finds out that Mathias is a cop, she asks him to look into a very special case. Her mother, a former ballerina at the Paris Opera Ballet, died last year after falling from her balcony, and Louise has a hunch she was pushed. Though hesitant at first, Mathias agrees to help her, sending them both headfirst into a deadly chain of events. And at the centre of it all, a woman named Angélique, whose angelic intentions may not be all they seem.

Feverous, surprising and uplifting, Musso's newest novel is a labyrinth of emotions where nothing is certain from one page to the next.

Release date: January 7, 2025

Publisher: Little, Brown and Company

Print pages: 288

Sample

1

Paris

Pompidou Hospital

Monday, 27 December

A shaft of light in a storm-tossed sky. That was the image the music conjured in his mind. The cello’s long phrase rose and fell hypnotically, like an invitation to surrender. In his semi-conscious state, Mathias felt his breathing melt to the rhythm of the melody. Carried by the notes, he retreated into himself with a calm he hadn’t known in a long time. Sensations flashed back to the surface. The blue of the Mediterranean, bodies lazing on the sand, kisses on salty lips.

But his joy was fragile. A storm was brewing nearby, dissonant feelings entwining in a fraught mash-up of frivolity and calamity. Suddenly the harmony was shattered, as if the bow had screeched off its strings, dashing all promises of pleasure.

Mathias Taillefer opened his eyes.

He was lying on a hospital bed, dressed in one of those hideous, washed-out cotton gowns that put the buttocks at the mercy of every passing draught. Two tubes snaked from the catheter that had been planted in his arm, while a cardiac monitor to his left traced the feverish beating of his heart. In the next bed, his geriatric roommate hadn’t stirred all day, giving him the nasty impression of having been admitted to intensive care rather than a cardiology ward. The mournful patter of rain had replaced the warm thrum of the cello, and instead of the Mediterranean, the murky Paris skies cast everything in grim shades of grey. For a moment, the music in his dream had transported him away from the hospital, but the respite had been short-lived.

Life was a bitch.

With some effort, Mathias rearranged his pillow to prop himself up. And that was when he saw her, half-steeped in shadow: the outline of a young woman, sitting ramrod straight on a chair, with a cello angled between her legs. So, the music hadn’t just been in his head.

‘Who are you?’ he grunted.

‘My name’s Louise. Louise Collange.’

From her girlish voice, she couldn’t be more than a teenager, but she didn’t seem remotely intimidated.

‘And what the… and what are you doing in my room, Louise Collange? You think this is the place to be practising for your school concert?’

‘I’m a volunteer for a charity called Musicians in Hospitals,’ she replied.

As she moved closer, Mathias narrowed his eyes for a better view of her. Oval face framed by sheets of blonde hair, dimpled chin, Peter Pan collar jumper, flared velvet skirt, leather ankle boots. A beacon of light in the gloom of the hospital.

‘Didn’t you like it?’

‘What, your scrap of Schubert? No, it set my teeth on edge… and my head on fire.’

‘That’s a bit strong.’

‘… And it woke me up.’

Louise shrugged, visibly miffed.

‘People normally enjoy it.’

‘They enjoy someone hassling them in their sickbed?’

‘It’s called counter-stimulation,’ the girl explained, dragging over the red faux-leather chair to perch next to him. ‘The music fires up alternative sensory pathways that distract the patient from the pain.’

‘What a load of crap,’ he huffed, shaking his head. ‘Fancy yourself as a doctor, do you? Where did you read that?’

‘In a medical textbook, as it happens. I’m a second-year med student.’

‘But how old are you?’

‘Seventeen. I skipped two years.’

If she thought that would impress him… Taillefer remained stubbornly unmoved. In the chrome-plated bed rails, he glimpsed flickers of his haggard reflection: wild hair, greying temples, a week’s worth of stubble, dark-blue eyes dulled by exhaustion.

‘Right, Louise,’ he continued. ‘If you’ve finished your little recital, you can leave us in peace now.’

He nodded at the neighbouring bed. ‘I don’t think your music stands a hope of reviving Colonel Sanders here.’

‘Your call.’

As the young woman replaced the cello in its case, Taillefer rubbed his eyes wearily. He’d been admitted the previous day after a seemingly mild heart attack, but had still required a raft of tests, given his history as a transplant patient. If the results passed muster, he might have a chance of being discharged the following day. In the meantime, he was stuck in that grim room, waiting out the hours in its haze of looming death.

He couldn’t stop thinking about his dog, alone in the house, and about the dire weather that had been lashing Paris as the year petered to an end: weeks of torrential rain and heavy skies, a horizon that had been clogged for so long, it was impossible to imagine spring ever returning. And now, this girl who wouldn’t leave…

‘Are you still here?’ he snapped.

‘Two minutes! I’m putting my sheets away.’

‘Don’t you have better things to do than going around hospitals, acting like you’re Jacqueline du Pré?’

Louise shrugged again.

‘Who’s Jacqueline du Pré?’

‘Look her up later. Seriously, get out of this hellhole and do what people your age should be doing.’

‘And what should “people my age” be doing?’

‘I dunno, going out with your girlfriends, hanging around with boys, getting off your face…’

‘Very inspiring.’

His tone hardened. ‘That’s enough. Scram, get lost. Go home, if you don’t have any friends.’

‘You really are a charmer.’

‘You’re the one coming in here giving me earache!’ he retorted.

A long gurgle rippled from his gut. He patted his stomach with a grimace.

‘And I’m starving. Actually, if you want to make yourself useful, you can find me something to eat before you go.’

‘I’ll ask the nurses.’

‘No, for pity’s sake! I don’t want their godforsaken mush. There’s a café in the lobby – Relais H. Grab me a ham baguette with butter or a smoked salmon roll.’

‘Sure you don’t want a beer while I’m there? Salt isn’t good for the heart, you know.’

‘Just do what I’m asking, please. It’ll cheer me up more than your Schubert.’

Louise paused for a second.

‘Will you watch my cello?’

He nodded.

‘Don’t worry.’

2

Once he and Colonel Sanders were alone again, Taillefer checked his watch. It wasn’t yet 4 p.m. and already it was nearly dark. He raised his hand to the scar that sliced his thorax in two. For five and a half years now, he’d been living with someone else’s heart. Over time, as the mark had faded, so had his fear grown that one day the replacement would give up on him. He closed his eyes. The previous day, by the beehives in Parc Montsouris, he’d truly believed his hour had come. He’d been hit by a searing feeling in his chest, then the sensation of a vice crushing his heart. The pain had spread as far as his jaw, causing him to stumble, gagging and gasping for breath, as if he’d just run a cross-country race.

He’d only regained consciousness in the ambulance, on the way to Pompidou Hospital. While the initial tests had been reassuring, his fear refused to leave him. The hospital terrified him. Its sinister atmosphere, the rank food, the infantilisation of the patients, the plastic bottle you were forced to piss into, the high risk of catching an infection while you were there. He couldn’t shake the visceral conviction that you might come in for a scratch and be carted out feet first.

‘Grub’s up!’

Taillefer jolted to attention. Louise Collange was waving a paper bag in front of her.

‘I got you this,’ she announced, pulling out a salad box. ‘It’ll do you more good.’

‘Are you having a laugh?’ he blurted. ‘Why the fuck did you do that? I asked for a salmon or…’

‘Relax, the salad’s for me. Here’s your sandwich!’

He glowered back at her – not the kind of joke he found funny – and unwrapped his roll while muttering darkly.

‘Don’t feel obliged to keep me company,’ he told her as she reoccupied her seat next to him. ‘Really, don’t.’

‘Is it true you’re a cop?’

He scowled. It was going to be a long day.

‘Who told you that?’

‘I heard the nurses talking. They were saying you work for the Major Crime Unit.’

Taillefer shook his head.

‘That was in another life. I quit the police five years ago.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Forty-seven.’

‘That’s young to retire.’

‘That’s life,’ he replied, biting off a hunk of bread.

‘What happened?’ she pressed. ‘Was it because of your heart problems?’

‘That’s absolutely none of your business.’

‘And what are you doing now?’

‘I’m listening to you giving me the third degree,’ he sighed, ‘and wondering what the hell I’ve done to deserve it.’

‘You’re a tough customer, aren’t you?’

‘Well spotted.’

He finished his sandwich in silence, then took a firmer tack.

‘Listen, Louise, you’re obviously a very exceptional young woman, but I don’t like people bothering me. I’m sure there are patients down the corridor who’ll love your do-gooding. But I couldn’t give a flying fuck about your life, your feelings or anything you might care to tell me about. And contrary to appearances, I’m not a nice guy. So I’m going to ask you politely, one last time, to leave me in peace. Otherwise—’

‘Otherwise what?’ she interrupted. ‘You’ll call for a nurse?’

‘Otherwise, I’ll get up and kick you out of here myself,’ he replied calmly. ‘Arse first. Is that clear?’

‘If you’re at a loose end, I might have a job for you.’

‘I’m not looking for a job!’ he shouted. ‘I’m trying to get some rest!’

‘I could pay you. I have money, you know.’

Amazed by her gall, Taillefer faltered for a moment. With her infuriating persistence, she reminded him of a female François Pignon – a slapstick comedy-style nuisance that he was seriously going to need military force to see off.

‘I’d like you to investigate my mum’s death.’

‘I thought I said…’

‘She died three months ago.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

Louise nodded, and Taillefer felt duty-bound to continue.

‘How did she die?’

‘In an accident, according to the police.’

‘And according to you?’

‘I think she was murdered.’

At that moment, a nurse swung open the door to do her rounds. She checked the drips, the vital signs on the monitor and the saturation levels on the oximeter, while making limp attempts at conversation. Taillefer toyed with asking if she could give the girl her marching orders while she was there, but ultimately kept silent. As soon as she was gone, Louise picked up from where she’d left off.

‘I’d like you to have a look at the case, make a few calls, maybe—’

‘What case?’

‘Start by reading the press coverage of her death. Type her name into a search engine.’

‘No way.’

‘It’ll take a couple of hours of your time. And you can ask me for anything in return.’

There was a spirited glint in the young woman’s eyes. A brilliant and troubling light.

‘Yeah, right. Seriously?’

Suddenly a thought occurred to him, one which could at least relieve part of the anxiety that had been nagging him since he’d arrived at the hospital.

‘Will you go and feed my dog? I left him back home.’

‘And in return you’ll pick up the investigation about my mum?’

‘No, no! In return, I’ll spend a couple of hours reading news articles about your mum’s death. Not the same thing.’

‘Done. What kind of dog is he?’

‘A German shepherd. He’s called Titus.’

‘Is he friendly?’

‘Not in the slightest. And he doesn’t like nuisances either, so watch yourself.’

Taillefer gave Louise his keys, the alarm code and his address in Square de Montsouris.

‘Here’s the deal: you go in, you feed Titus and you come straight back out again, without touching anything in the house. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ she agreed. ‘How will we catch up afterwards?’

‘Leave me your number. I’ll call you. What was your mum’s name?’

‘Petrenko. The prima ballerina, Stella Petrenko.’

1

7 p.m.

Lying back on his hospital bed, Mathias Taillefer connected his laptop to his phone. The signal wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. From his headphones came the familiar strum of Pat Metheny’s guitar. Through the window, the desolate, rain-lashed darkness of the Parisian night. Taillefer tapped away on his keyboard in search of information about Louise’s mother. Although Stella Petrenko’s name rang a bell, he was incapable of putting a face to her. And the news of her death had completely passed him by.

He downloaded a selection of articles from the main national newspapers, then studied them in chronological order until a fairly complete portrait of the ballerina emerged.

Standing at five foot seven, with her beanpole legs and swan-like neck, Stella Petrenko had been one of the stars of the French classical dance scene of the 1990s and 2000s. Born in Marseille in 1969, to an unassuming family originating from the Ukrainian city of Lviv, she’d moved to the capital at the age of twelve to join the Paris Opera Ballet School. As an archetypal product of the Palais Garnier system, she’d climbed the ranks with steely determination. At seventeen, she’d progressed to the main company and had continued her rise over the years that followed – first as a junior quadrille, then as a coryphée and a sujet, before landing the dual lead role of Odette and Odile in Swan Lake at the age of twenty-two. But that same year, she’d been hit by a motorbike in central Paris. The accident had left her needing surgery, followed by a long spell of rehabilitation, putting her career on hold. For the rest of her life, Stella was plagued by back and knee troubles. Yet despite that blow from fate, she’d fought her way back to the top and, through sheer perseverance, pulled off a return to the stage. She’d finally reached the hallowed status of prima ballerina relatively late, at the age of thirty.

Petrenko had worked with the leading choreographers of the day – the likes of Maurice Béjart, William Forsythe and Pina Bausch – and had delivered some memorable performances in the Rite of Spring and Ravel’s Boléro. She’d netted roles in highbrow ad campaigns for Repetto, Hermès and AcquaAlta, but successive injuries had marred the final years of her career: always her back, and the ligaments in her bad knee. On turning forty-two, the mandatory retirement age for Paris Opera ballerinas, she’d ruefully hung up her pumps.

Her daughter was born in 2004, conceived with her then-partner Laurent Collange, first violinist with the Radio France Philharmonic Orchestra.

Taillefer unplugged his headphones and cracked open a can of Coke Zero, which an unscrupulous nursing assistant had procured for him in exchange for a ten-euro note. On YouTube, he loaded a clip from Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet, in which Stella had danced the lead. The footage disturbed him.

Stella Petrenko was a far cry from the lithe, doll-faced stereotype of the ballerinas who featured each year in the Épinal ice championships. At first sight, her appearance lacked any real grace, her features bearing no obvious mark of her Ukrainian roots. Ripped torso, overlong legs sculpted by eight hours a day of training, skeletal-looking arms. There was the same jarring, severe quality about her face. Sunken cheeks, disproportionately large, ha. . .