Peter May - Extraordinary People

He knew immediately that there was something wrong. The light did not come on. The light always came on. It was on a timer which kept it burning long enough to reach each landing and hit another switch to take you up to the next. It saved electricity. But without it, the stairwell was pitch dark. Enzo stood, holding his breath, listening intently. His own heartbeat seemed deafening. But above it, he heard the unmistakable creak of the wooden staircase, like a footstep in dry snow. And then silence. There was somebody on the first floor landing. Somebody waiting in the dark. Somebody waiting for him.

He made his way across the lobby in the darkness, arms extended, until he felt the stair rail cool and smooth in his hand, and one by one he began climbing the stairs as quietly as he could. The silence in the building was pervasive and unnerving.

Enzo stopped at the mezzanine level and listened. Now he could hear the slow, regular sound of someone breathing, and realised that if he could hear them, they could hear him. On the half-landing he stopped and listened again. A dim light shone through a window from the street outside, but it only seemed to plunge the shadows on the landing above into deeper darkness. This time he heard nothing. As hard as he strained to hear, it seemed that the breathing had stopped. Was it possible for someone to hold their breath that long? It was time to take the initiative. Another half dozen stairs and he would be at his door.

He sprinted up, two at a time, with a rush of adrenaline, and was blinded by a light that shone suddenly and directly into his eyes. He yelled and swung out blind, with a clenched fist, punching the wall and gasping in pain.

He heard a startled exclamation and a woman’s voice. ‘For God’s sake, Enzo, what are you doing?’

As he hopped around the landing, waving his injured hand, and dredging up infantile swear words from his childhood, it occurred to him that it was a voice he knew. He shielded his eyes from the light and saw Charlotte’s frightened face peering at him out of the dark. ‘Could you please stop shining that thing in my face?’ And when she diverted it to the floor, he saw that it was the kind of small penlight you might carry on a key ring. ‘How did you get in?’

‘I remembered the code from the night you brought me up for coffee. The lights weren’t working, but I had this little flashlight, so I decided to sit on the stairs and wait till you got back.’

Enzo was opening and closing his hand, flexing bruised joints.

Charlotte added, ‘But I didn’t expect you to try to assault me.’

‘I didn’t know it was you.’ Enzo realised he wasn’t making a very good impression.

‘So do you normally try to punch people you meet on the stairs?’

‘I thought someone was waiting to jump me.’

‘Why on earth would you think that?’

‘Because it wouldn’t be the first time someone had tried it tonight.’ Enzo unlocked the door to the studio and reached in to switch on a light.

Charlotte laughed. ‘Wha-at?’

‘I was being followed. On the ële St. Louis. At least, I think I was.’

‘What were you doing on the ële St. Louis? I thought you were having dinner with the Garde des Sceaux.’

‘It’s a long story.’

She followed him into the studio and watched as he poured himself a large whisky. ‘What on earth have you been up to?’ She looked at the state of his suit. ‘You’re covered in sand. And your trousers are ripped.’

‘I jumped off the Pont St. Louis into a passing barge.’ He avoided her eye.

‘I think I’d better have one of those, too.’ She nodded towards the whisky bottle. ‘And maybe you should tell me what happened.’

As Enzo related the story to Charlotte, his fears seemed absurd, and his response to them verging on the ludicrous. She was hardly able to drink her whisky for laughing.

‘It’s not funny,’ he said. ‘I really thought these guys were after me.’

‘But why?’

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe I’m just getting paranoid. This whole Jacques Gaillard thing is getting out of hand. His killers must know I’m getting close to them.’ He looked up, struck by a sudden thought. ‘How did you know I was having dinner with the Garde des Sceaux?’

‘Roger told me.’

‘Oh, did he? You two seem to do a lot of talking for a couple who’ve just broken up.’

‘It wasn’t an acrimonious split,’ Charlotte said, and then immediately qualified herself. ‘Well, not really.’ But it wasn’t something she was going to discuss further. ‘So what did Marie Aucoin have to say for herself?’

‘She’s set up a special team to investigate Gaillard’s killing. And it was made clear to me that I was to have nothing further to do with it.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to have everything further to do with it.’

Charlotte smiled. ‘Of course you are.’ She took his whisky glass from him. ‘Why don’t you take off your trousers and sit up on the breakfast bar, and I’ll dress that wound for you.’

‘Best offer I’ve had all night.’ Enzo kicked off his shoes, undid his belt and stepped out of his trousers. He hoisted himself up on to the breakfast bar, his legs dangling, and for the second time that night felt like a big kid. He remembered his mother sitting him up next to the kitchen sink to clean the gravel out of skinned knees when he was a little boy in Scotland.

Charlotte found a sponge in an unopened pack under the sink, and some disinfectant. She boiled a kettle and mixed up a solution of water and disinfectant to clean out the gash on his knee. It stung, and he yelled out, flinching from the sponge. ‘Don’t be a baby,’ she said. ‘You don’t want to get an infection in that.’ She discovered a roll of bandage in a drawer and taped it over the wound. ‘I think you’ll live.’

Enzo wanted to keep her close. ‘Tell me, in your considered opinion as a forensic psychologist, why would Jacques Gaillard’s killers leave clues with each of his body parts?’

‘Clues to what?’

‘To the location of the next body part.’

She shrugged. ‘Without knowing more about the case I can only offer an uninformed guess.’

‘Which is?’

‘He, she, they…want to be caught.’

‘But that’s crazy. Why?’

‘Well, if they don’t get caught, no one will ever know how clever they were. After all, they got away with murder. It’s not uncommon for a killer to want to be caught so he can claim the credit.’

‘But they went to great lengths to hide the body parts so that they would never be found.’

Charlotte sighed. ‘Then your guess is as good as mine.’

Beyond the initial jagged pain when she dabbed his knee with the sponge, he had enjoyed the cool, soft touch of her fingers on his skin. And after she had finished, she left a hand draped over his thigh, her belly still pressed against his other leg as they talked. He could smell her perfume, and felt the warmth of her through her dress. She looked up at him, and her face was very close. Her eyes were like big, dark saucers, and they fixed him with a twinkle that was half serious, half amused. He felt blood rushing to his loins, and on an impulse leaned forward to kiss her. To his surprise and delight, she made no attempt to move away. Her lips were soft and moist, and there was a sweetness on her tongue. He cupped the back of her head in his hand, feeling the soft, silky texture of her curls, the smooth curve of her skull as it swooped down to her neck. He felt her hand on his chest, fingers moving up to his face.

And then it was over, and they broke apart and looked at each other for a long time without a word passing between them. Finally Enzo said, in almost a whisper, ‘Stay over.’