Peter May - Extraordinary People

‘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 post grad 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. ‘Brandy, 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 meters 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.