Extraordinary People

Book 1: The Enzo Files

by Peter May

Genres: International Crime & Mystery; Private Investigators

Synopsis

IN THE FIRST BOOK OF PETER MAY'S CRITICALLY ACCLAIMED ENZO FILES, FORENSICS EXPERT ENZO MACLEOD WAGERS THAT HE CAN SOLVE SIX PERPLEXING COLD CASES--AND UNEXPECTEDLY PLACES HIMSELF DIRECTLY IN HARM'S WAY.

"ACTION-PACKED." --ENTERTAINMENT WEEKLY

"BRISK AND THRILLING." --THE BALTIMORE SUN

"THOROUGHLY ENGAGING." --LIBRARY JOURNAL

Half-Scottish, half-Italian Enzo MacLeod used to be one of the top forensics experts in Scotland, and now he lives in Toulouse, working as a university professor. Divorced in Scotland and widowed in France, he has an estranged Scottish daughter and a French daughter he has raised by himself.

As if his life isn't complicated enough, he soon finds himself unexpectedly on the hunt for solutions to some vexing cold cases thanks to an ill-advised wager about the power of forensic science.

Meanwhile, in Paris, a man desperately seeking sanctuary flees into a church. The next day, his sudden disappearance will make him famous throughout France.

Deep in the catacombs below the City of Light, MacLeod unearths disturbing clues deliberately left behind by a killer. But as the retired forensics expert draws closer to the truth, he discovers he may just wind up the next victim for his troubles.

Release date: May 30, 2013

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 448

Sample

He finds himself in a cobbled courtyard, breath hissing back at him from buttressed walls. A rasping, gasping breath, full of fear and the certainty of death.

He knows every window by heart in this cloister of the two charnel houses. Colours embedded in the glass with affixed enamel. Le Miracle des Billettes, Elijah’s Sacrifice, The Mystic Wine-press. Beloved images lost forever in the dark.

Moonlight glances off the shiny surface of cobbles worn smooth by the feet of holy men. His own feet slip and clatter as he scrambles through an alley between buttresses, heart squeezed by the hand of desperation. A green bin spins away in the darkness, spilling its decaying contents across the yard. The door ahead of him lies ajar, the corridor beyond bathed in the ghostly light of the moon, angling between tower and apse to slant through frosted glass arches. He sees a sign and a red arrow – Vitraux du Cloître – and turns the other way, past the sacristy.

The door to the church is open, and he is almost sucked through it into the vast, glowing stillness. The stained glass rises all around, its colours turned to black by the dead light of the nearly full moon. His panic fills the vaulted vastness with every painful breath. To his right a statue of the virgin cradling the baby Jesus watches impassively, impervious now to the prayers he has offered her so piously over so many years. The neighbouring chapel has been given over to noticeboards pasted with announcements that he will never read.

He hears the footsteps following in his wake, and breath rasping in lungs that are not his own. He flees along the north ambulatory; past the Chapel of St. Paul, the Chapel of St. Joseph and the Souls in Purgatory. At the end of the church, ninety silvered organ pipes rise in shining columns to the figure of Christ Resuscitated, flanked by two angels. He wants to scream, help me! But he knows they cannot.

He turns beneath the nine metre span of the only remaining screen in all of Paris, a delicate tracery of stone carving and spiral staircases curling around slender columns soaring into blackness, and he stops beneath Christ on the cross, a Calvary taken from the chapel of the École Polytechnique to replace a predecessor destroyed during the Revolution. How often he has knelt here, before the altar, to receive His flesh and drink His blood.

He stops here now, and kneels again for one last time, the footsteps almost upon him. And as he rises and turns, the last thing he sees at the far end of the nave, before red turns to black, is a sign commanding him to SILENCE.

The Rue des Deux Ponts cuts across the centre of the Île St. Louis, from the Pont Marie straddling the Seine on the north side, to the Pont de la Tournelle on the south. The island is no more than two hundred metres across and, side by side with the Île de la Cité, stands at the very heart of old Paris.

Enzo had wondered how his daughter could afford an apartment here, where four square metres of real estate could cost upwards of three hundred thousand euros. But Simon had told him that she was in a tiny sixth-floor studio up in the roof of her apartment block, and that the rental was being subsidised by her employer.

The previous night in the small hours, at home in Cahors, he had questioned the wisdom of trying to see her. He had to go to Paris, anyway. The stupid wager! But in the end, it was Sophie who had made his mind up.

It had been a hot twenty-one degrees, humid and sticky. Somewhere across the jumble of mediaeval red-tiled roofs a clock had chimed two, a deep, sonorous ring that pealed across the centuries. The old quarter of this ancient town in southwest France dated back to Roman days, and in some of his lonelier moments here Enzo felt only a breath away from the beginnings of human history. His armchair reclined by the open window, his guitar laid across his chest, he stared at the ceiling and brushed his steel slider along the length of the fretboard, strings softly weeping, evoking the blues of a not so distant past. By leaving for Paris the next day he would miss the start of the annual Cahors Blues Festival.

Floorboards creaked in the hall. ‘Papa?’

He’d turned his head to see Sophie in her nightdress framed in the doorway, and had to blink away sudden tears, surprised sometimes by just how much he loved her. ‘You should be sleeping, Sophie.’

‘Go to bed, Papa. It’s late,’ she’d said softly. She always spoke English to him when they were alone. English with an oddly incongruous Scottish accent, like the sweet scent of whisky drifting in the warm air of a summer’s night. She’d padded across the salon and perched on the arm of his chair. He’d felt her warmth.

‘Come to Paris with me.’

‘Why?’

‘To meet your sister.’

‘I don’t have a sister,’ she’d said. There was no rancour in it. Just a cold statement of fact, as she saw it.

‘She’s my daughter, Sophie.’

‘I hate her.’

‘How can you hate her? You’ve never met her.’

‘Because she hates you. How could I ever like anyone who hates you?’ She had lifted his guitar away then, and laid it against the sill, and slid down into the seat beside her father, laying her head on his chest. ‘I love you, Papa.’

*

He had found the apartment block quickly enough. Number 19 bis, on the west side of the street, next to Le Marché des Îles fruit and vegetable store. He had no idea what the entry code was for getting into the courtyard. He could have rung for the concierge, but what would he have told her? That his daughter lived here, on the top floor? And if the concierge had taken him up, what would he have said if Kirsty had shut the door in his face?

So he lunched in the L’Îlot Vache bistro on the corner of the Rue St. Louis, sitting on his own in the window, watching the faces drift past, sunlight slanting down between tall old buildings that leaned at sometimes curious angles. He sat until the restaurant was empty, his waiter hovering impatiently nearby, waiting for him to pay so that he could go home for the afternoon. Finally he settled up and walked across the street to the Louis IX Bar, and found himself a table in the doorway and nursed a beer for nearly two hours. More faces passed. More time. The angle of the sun grew more acute as it slid down the sky into early evening. And still the tourists filed by, perspiring in the July heat, and private cars and taxis belched their fumes into the fibrillating air of a long Parisian summer’s day.

Then he saw her, and in spite of all the hours of anticipation still felt as if he had been punched in the gut. It was twelve years since he had last laid eyes on her, a brittle, difficult fifteen-year-old who wouldn’t speak to him. She was crossing the Rue des Deux Ponts from east to west, carrying groceries in pink plastic bags dangling from both hands. She was wearing denims that cut off inches above the ankle and sat low on her hips beneath a short, white, sleeveless top that bared her belly to the world. It was the fashion, although very few girls had the figure to carry it off. Kirsty was one of them. She was tall, like her father, with square shoulders and fine, long legs. And she wore her hair long, again like her father, but not tied in a ponytail like his. It was a rich, chestnut brown, like her mother’s, and flew out behind her in the warm breeze like a flag of independence.

Enzo left several coins rattling on his table, and hurried along the street to intercept her. He caught up with her as she was juggling with her shopping bags to punch in the entry code. ‘Here, let me take one of these,’ he said as the electronic lock buzzed and she pushed the door open with her foot.

She turned, startled. Whether it was the unexpected Scottish voice in the middle of Paris, or the odd familiarity of this strange male, it took her some moments to realise who he was. By which time he had taken the bags from one of her hands and was holding the door open for her. Her face flushed with confusion and embarrassment and she pushed past him into a passageway that led to the inner courtyard. The time it took for that simple act was long enough for her to find her anger. ‘What do you want?’ she hissed, keeping her voice low as if she was frightened they might be overheard.

He hurried after her as she strode along the passage and into a tiny, paved courtyard filled with potted trees and a tangle of lush, green plants. Apartments rose dizzyingly all around them into the small square of blue Paris sky above. Ground floor windows were barred, and the door of the guardian’s apartment stood at the foot of an ancient wooden staircase. ‘Just to talk, Kirsty. To spend a little time with you.’

‘Funny …’ Her voice was coarse with bitterness. ‘You were never around when I wanted to spend time with you. You were too busy with your new family.’

‘That’s not true, Kirsty. I’d have given you all the time in the world if you had only let me.’

‘Oh, yes!’ She turned on him at the foot of the stairs. All the colour had drained from her face. ‘Of course. It was my fault. I should have known. It was my fault you left us. It was my fault you chose to go and live in France with some other woman and start another family. Why didn’t I see it? All those nights I lay awake listening to mum crying herself to sleep in the next room, and I never realised it was my fault. All those birthdays and Christmases you weren’t around. All those moments in a girl’s life when she wants to know that her dad’s watching, that he’s proud of her. The school concert. Sports day. Graduation. Why didn’t I understand then that it was my fault? After all, you always had a great reason to be somewhere else, didn’t you?’ Her emotion finally choked off the diatribe, and she was working hard to catch her breath. The intensity in her eyes made it hard for Enzo to meet them. He had never before felt the full force of her anger. He was shocked. ‘Give me those!’ She snatched at the bags of shopping he was holding, but he held them away from her.

‘Kirsty, please. There’s never a day in my life that I don’t think about you, or the hurt I caused you. You’ve no idea how hard it is to try to explain these things to a child. But I’m still your father, and I still love you. All I want to do is talk. To tell you how it was. How it really was.’

She stared at him for a moment in silence, anger turning to contempt. ‘I don’t have a father,’ she said finally. ‘My father died a very long time ago.’ Her eyes dropped to the bags he was still holding. ‘Are you going to give me those?’ But she barely gave him time to respond. ‘Oh, well, fuck it!’ she said. ‘Keep them.’ And she turned and ran up the stairs leaving him standing in the courtyard, feeling foolish and bereft.

He had no idea how long he stood before finally laying the bags carefully on the first step. There didn’t seem any point in going after her with them. He turned slowly and went back out to the street.

He was sitting alone at Kong’s rooftop restaurant above the Kenzo building on the Rue du Pont Neuf when Simon finally showed up. The place was packed with diners enjoying the Paris panorama. Enzo had hoped to dine at the Samaritaine, where the view was better, taking in all the familiar landmarks in the fading light: the Panthéon, Notre Dame, the Eiffel Tower. But it had closed down, and he’d had to make do with the more restricted view of the Tour de Saint Sulpice and the Vedettes du Pont Neuf, along with the inane babble of the Paris in-crowd. A crowd in which Enzo had rarely felt so alone. The fact that everyone else was in company seemed only to emphasise his isolation. He’d had little or no appetite, and left his main course almost untouched, preferring instead to work his way steadily through the bottle of Pinot Noir he had ordered.

Simon waved away the waiter and pulled up a seat. He’d already eaten, he said, and poured himself a glass of Enzo’s wine. He turned to take in the view of the city as he sipped it, perhaps guessing the answer to his unasked question. Then he turned and said, ‘Why do you always look so damned miserable, Enzo?’

Enzo grinned. ‘Maybe because I am.’ He gave a little Gallic shrug, an unconscious gesture acquired over many years. ‘So when are you going back to London?’

‘Tomorrow.’ Simon looked at him directly and sighed. ‘I don’t know what your problem is. Take a good look at yourself, Magpie.’ It was the nickname Simon had given his friend when the white streak first grew into his dark hair during his early teens. And it had stuck. ‘You’ve got a great life here. A beautiful apartment in Cahors. A daughter most parents would die for …’ No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he cringed at his gaffe. ‘Jesus, Enzo, I’m sorry.’

Enzo smiled ruefully and shook his head. ‘Daft bastard,’ he said. ‘You’re just lucky you never had any kids. Bringing home boyfriends with stupid hair and extraneous pieces of metal stuck in their faces.’

‘Bertrand?’

‘He’s too old for Sophie.’

‘What age is he?’

‘Twenty-six.’

‘And Sophie’s what? Eighteen?’

‘Nineteen.’

‘So he’s seven years older than her. You were what? Thirty, when you set up home in Cahors with Pascale? And what age was she?’

Enzo growled, ‘Twenty-three. But that was different.’

‘No it wasn’t. Seven years is seven years.’

‘I didn’t encourage Pascale to give up her studies. And I think I had more to offer than a lifetime pumping iron in some stupid gymnasium.’

‘Like what? The brilliant career in forensics you nearly had?’

Enzo glowered dangerously. He folded his arms and crossed his legs, body language drowning out what he didn’t want to hear.

Simon said, ‘I’m not being judgmental here, Enzo. But she was just twenty-three. A kid, for Christ’s sake. Have you had a conversation with a twenty-three-year-old recently?’

‘Not as many as you,’ Enzo shot back. ‘Twenty-three must be about the average age of the women you’re screwing these days.’

‘Probably. And, you know, the sex is great, but the conversation sucks. Why do you think none of the relationships lasts more than a few weeks?’

‘Because you’re too damned old. They tire you out.’

Simon grinned. ‘You might be right.’

They sipped in silence and listened to the animated voices of the diners at tables all around them.

Until Simon said, ‘So what happened?’

Enzo avoided his eye. ‘She wouldn’t talk to me.’

When he glanced up he saw Simon gazing at his glass thoughtfully and suddenly saw him looking old. For years he had only ever seen Simon as the boy he had gone to school with, played in the band with, shared girlfriends with. Now, his head slightly bowed, the once dark beard peppered with grey, the light caught the scalp beneath his thinning hair and cast shadows beneath his eyes. He looked his age – a man approaching his fiftieth birthday. Simon stopped staring at his glass and drained it instead. ‘I thought things might have changed.’

‘Why?’ It was Simon who had told him that Kirsty was in Paris.

‘Her mother.’ He signalled the waiter and ordered a brandy. ‘You know we’ve always kept in touch.’

Enzo nodded. He had never been sure quite why. The three of them had grown up together in Scotland, on the south side of Glasgow. Simon had gone out with Linda before Enzo, and then all but lost contact when he went south to study law in England, returning only once to be best man at their wedding.

‘Linda thought things might have changed. After all, Kirsty’s a big girl, now. Nearly finished her postgrad in translation and interpretation. And you don’t win a year’s internship with a company in Paris unless you’ve got your head pretty well screwed on.’

‘Well, nothing’s changed. Not for Kirsty, anyway.’

‘What did she say?’

‘She told me to fuck off.’

Simon’s brandy arrived and he sipped on it contemplatively. ‘So what now?’

‘I might as well just go home.’

‘I thought you had an appointment with Raffin?’

‘I’m not sure I’ll bother.’

Simon cocked an eyebrow. ‘Two thousand euros, Enzo. You can hardly afford that on your salary.’

Enzo glared at him. Simon had been instrumental in forcing the issue to a bet in the first place. And as the only lawyer present had promised to bear witness to the parties involved and keep the cash in escrow until an outcome was agreed.

*

The tables beneath the candy-striped awning of Le Bonaparte were nearly all full when Enzo arrived, Parisians and tourists alike indulging in the café culture that so characterised the city, sitting in serried rows sipping drinks, watching the endless ebb and flow of humanity in the Place St. Germain des Prés. It was nearly dark now, the biscuit-coloured stone of the ancient church of St. Germain floodlit starkly against a deep blue sky. Enzo took a table on the corner, beneath a No Entry sign, and ordered a brandy. He checked the time. It was after ten, and he was late. He wondered if, perhaps, Raffin might have come and gone already. He had told the journalist that he would recognise him by his hair, tied in a ponytail, a silver stripe running back from his left temple. He never thought about how other people might view him, with his baggy cargo trousers and white running shoes, and his large selection of voluminous, collarless shirts, which he rarely tucked in. And, of course, the ubiquitous canvas satchel that he slung across his shoulder. Sophie’s favourite fond insult was to call him an old hippie. Which was probably how most people saw him. But he was also a big man, and kept himself fit by cycling, so he tended to stand out in a crowd. He was aware that women found him attractive, but he had always shied away from committing to another relationship after Pascale.

By twenty past he had finished his brandy and was contemplating leaving. As he searched for coins in his pocket, he became aware of a figure standing over him. He looked up to see a tall, thin man with longish brown hair swept back to the upturned collar of his white shirt. He carried a light summer jacket carelessly across his shoulder, and his trousers, belted at a slim waist, were immaculately creased, gathering in fashionable folds around neat, black-leather Italian shoes. He had a cigarette carefully held at the end of long fingers, and took a final draw before flicking it away across the cobbled street. He held out his smoking hand. ‘Roger Raffin,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘That’s okay,’ Enzo said, shaking his hand. He was surprised at how cool it was.

Raffin sat down in the vacant seat, and with the practised ease of a vrai Parisien, signalled a waiter with a black apron and white shirt who materialised almost immediately at their table. ‘A glass of Pouilly Fumé.’ He nodded towards Enzo’s glass. ‘Cognac, is it?’

While they waited for their drinks, Raffin lit another cigarette and said, ‘I checked you out on the internet, Monsieur. It says you are a professor of biology at Paul Sabatier University in Toulouse. Why am I even talking to you?’

‘I was with the police scientifique in Scotland. But it’s a long time since I practised. The internet didn’t even exist then.’

‘So what makes you think you are qualified to pass an opinion on anything today?’

‘I was trained as a forensic biologist, Monsieur Raffin. Seven years with Strathclyde police in Glasgow, the last two as head of biology, covering everything from blood pattern interpretation at major crime scenes, to analysis of hairs and fibres. I was involved in early DNA databasing, interpretation of damage to clothing, as well as detailed examination of murder scenes. Oh, and did I mention? I am one of only four people in the UK to have trained as a Byford scientist – which also makes me an expert on serious serial crime analysis.’

‘Made you an expert, Monsieur Macleod. Things have changed.’

‘I’ve kept myself apprised of all the latest scientific developments in the field.’

‘So why aren’t you still doing it?’

‘Personal reasons.’

Raffin looked at Enzo appraisingly, fixing him with startlingly pale green eyes. He looked no older than thirty-five or thirty-six. He had a creamy-smooth tanned complexion and pale lips. His nose was thin, and sharp, and a little too prominent, but he was a good-looking young man. He sighed as their drinks arrived and took a delicate sip from his misted glass. ‘Why should I co-operate with you on this?’

Enzo tipped his brandy glass to his lips and the stuff burned all the way down. He felt reckless and brave and in need of something to fill a vacant place in his life. And it seemed like a good idea not to mention the wager at this point. ‘Because I’m going to find out what happened to Jacques Gaillard,’ he said. ‘With or without your help.’

Raffin’s apartment was in the Rue du Tournon, on the first floor, above two art galleries. It was within a hundred metres of the floodlit splendour of the Senate building, the home of the French government’s Upper House, tiers of classical pillars supporting its crowning dome at the head of a long, narrow street running all the way down to the Boulevard St. Germain, and the Seine beyond that.

Raffin tapped in his entry code, and pushed a huge, heavy green door into a cobbled corridor. At the far end, they emerged into an L-shaped courtyard dominated by a tall chestnut tree. Lights burned in windows which lay open, cooling apartments after the build-up of heat during a long, simmering day. They could hear people talking, laughing, still seated around dinner tables. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano, an uncertain rendition of Chopin.

‘I’ll want a guarantee of exclusivity,’ Raffin was saying. ‘No one else gets to publish the results of your investigations. I’ll have sole publication rights. Perhaps we should put that in writing.’

‘Whatever you like,’ Enzo said.

Raffin pushed open a half-glazed door and they began up wooden stairs that circled a narrow lift shaft. He had made up his mind in an instant, draining his glass of Pouilly Fumé at Le Bonaparte in a single draft and getting to his feet. ‘Okay, let’s do it. I have reams of notes made during my research. Only a fraction of the stuff ever made it into the book. Come back to my place and you can take them away to look at.’ He had already started across the street when he stopped, and almost as an afterthought turned back to Enzo. ‘And you can pay for the drinks.’

On the first floor landing he fumbled in his pocket for his key and opened the main door into a square entrance hall. Pale light from streetlamps in the courtyard slanted through venetian blinds in long, narrow slats.

Enzo immediately sensed the journalist’s tension. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.

Raffin raised a quick hand to silence him. Double doors from the hall lay open into the dark of the main salon. Beyond, bright yellow light fell across the floorboards from an opening in mirror-glazed bedroom doors which stood ajar. They could hear someone moving around beyond them, and Raffin tensed as a shadow passed through the light.

‘Cambrioleurs, he whispered. Burglars. He placed his jacket carefully over the back of a chair and turned to a bookcase with shelves ranged up to the ceiling. He selected a large-format, heavily bound encyclopaedia from one of the lower shelves. Clutching it above his head in both hands, he advanced into the salon. Enzo followed, thinking that the journalist looked just a little ridiculous. The History of the World E to F seemed an unlikely weapon. Waving an encyclopaedia around his head, he was more likely to frighten a burglar to death than do him physical damage.

Suddenly the bedroom door opened wide and electric light flooded the room. Raffin froze in mid-stride, the History of the World raised in readiness. A woman stood in the open doorway looking at him in astonishment. She was tall, wearing a long, black dress gathered at the waist. It was sleeveless, with a quite daring neckline. Dark hair, shot through with hints of silver, tumbled in luxuriant curls around her face and over her shoulders. Her skin was clear and lightly tanned, and large, startled black eyes held them both in their gaze. Enzo thought she was quite the most beautiful woman he had seen in a very long time.

She looked up at the book above Raffin’s head. ‘For Heaven’s sake put that away, Roger,’ she said. ‘History never was your strong suit.’

Slowly, Roger lowered the book. ‘What are you doing here?’ There was no disguising his annoyance.

She half glanced back into the bedroom. ‘Came to get the last of my things. You weren’t here, and I still have a key.’

He laid the History of the World on the dining table and held out an open hand. ‘Well, I’ll relieve you of that now, thank you,’ he said. She slipped long, elegant fingers into a pocket hidden among the pleats of her dress and produced the key on a length of leather thong. He snatched it from her. ‘Have you got everything?’ There was still tension in his voice.

‘I think so. I just need a bag to put it in.’

‘There are some large, plastic carriers in the dressing room.’

But she made no move to go and get one. Instead she looked beyond him to Enzo. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’

Raffin glanced at Enzo, as if he had forgotten he was there. He said dismissively, ‘He’s just come to pick up some papers.’

Enzo stepped past him and held out his hand. ‘Enzo Macleod.’ He smiled. ‘Je suis enchanté, Madame.’

She shook his hand and held it in hers for just a moment longer than was necessary. Her eyes were compelling, and Enzo felt trapped by their gaze. She said, ‘I’m Charlotte. You’re not French.’

‘Scottish.’

‘Ah.’ A pause. ‘What papers?’

‘That’s really not any of your business, Charlotte,’ Roger said.

‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Jacques Gaillard,’ Enzo told her.

Raffin sighed deeply. ‘Now you’ll never get rid of her. Charlotte’s a … psychologist.’ He spoke the word as if it made a bad taste in his mouth. ‘Trained in criminal profiling.’

Enzo raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Where did you train?’

‘As a profiler? The United States. I spent two years there before coming back to set up my own psychology practice. From time to time the Paris police deign to seek my advice.’ She glanced in Roger’s direction. ‘But I make my living from people with everyday hang-ups. In my case, crime doesn’t pay.’

Roger said, ‘I’ll get you that bag.’ And he headed off through a tiny door in the wall to the left of what had once been a fireplace.

Charlotte advanced towards Enzo, and he tried to put an age on her. She was a little younger than Roger. Early to midthirties perhaps. ‘What are you?’ she said. ‘A policeman? A private detective?’

‘I used to be a forensic scientist.’

She nodded as if that explained everything.

Roger reappeared with two large plastic carriers. He thrust one at Charlotte and said to Enzo, ‘I’ll get those notes for you.’ And he disappeared through double doors into his study.

‘I suppose I should pack, then,’ Charlotte said, and she retreated to the bedroom.

Left on his own for a few moments, Enzo looked around Raffin’s salon. Tall windows opened on to the courtyard below. Bookshelves lined the walls on two sides of the dining table at one end of the room. The remaining walls were covered in art: still-lifes, classical scenes from Greek and Roman literature, oriental tableaux, and what looked like original artwork from old French movie posters. There was an upright piano next to the window, and an old, enamel stove sat in what had been the cheminée. Everything seemed to have a place, and was in it. There was a marked absence of those small, personal items that clutter up people’s homes providing clues to their character. Raffin had a certain style, in his deportment, the clothes he wore, the items he had chosen to furnish his apartment. But none of it gave much away, as if it were all a well-polished veneer designed to conceal what lay beneath. He reappeared, the plastic carrier now filled with heavy box files.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘That should keep you busy for a while.’ He turned towards the bedroom. ‘Excuse me a moment.’ He closed the door behind him, and Enzo stood in the stillness of the apartment, unable to avoid hearing the voices raised in angry whispers on the other side of the mirrored panels. It didn’t take long for the whispers to become shouts. Enzo focused his attention on one of the still-lifes. He did not want to be involved in other people’s domestic problems. After several minutes the voices subsided again, and there was a brief period of silence before the door opened and Charlotte emerged with her plastic carrier full of clothes, her face flushed with anger and embarrassment.

‘Goodbye, Monsieur Macleod,’ she said without looking at him, and she walked straight out of the apartment.

Raffin appeared in the doorway. He too, looked flushed. ‘Sorry about that.’ Although he didn’t sound sorry at all. ‘Things are never easy at the end of a relationship.’ He tilted his head towards Enzo’s bag. ‘When you’ve read through that stuff, any questions give me a call. Meanwhile, I’ll get some kind of agreement drawn up on publication rights.’

When he reached the Boulevard St. Germain, Enzo saw her searching in vain for a taxi. There was still a lot of traffic in