Peter May: Extraordinary People

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 elevator 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 lais 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 mid-thirties 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.