Peter May: Extraordinary People

Samu pulled him away as Bertrand bent over the prostrate form of his daughter, pinching her nose, and putting his mouth to hers. He blew air into her lungs, and then placed his hands on her chest to pump it out again. Water spluttered and spurted from her mouth. He repeated the action. More water. A third attempt, and this time a cough, and then an involuntary gasp, followed by a fit of coughing and water bubbling from her lips and nostrils. Her eyes opened, full of fear and incomprehension.

Warm summer rain poured down on them out of the night as Bertrand slid aside the heavy IDC plaque. He pulled himself up on to the pavement, and then knelt to help Enzo out after him. Kirsty was still only semi-conscious. Enzo had insisted on carrying her, and now he laid her out on the hard wet paving stones, easing her down from an aching shoulder, before collapsing beside her, utterly exhausted. He saw neon lights in the window of the Brasserie Les Facultés. Traffic lights on the corner of the Rue Joseph Bara were at green, but there was no traffic. He rolled his head the other way and saw, at the far end of the street, the Faculté de Droit et Sciences Économiques d’Assas, from which the young Jacques Gaillard had graduated all those years before.

Hands helped him to sit up, and he turned to find himself looking into dark eyes full of concern, and something more. Something he couldn’t quite define. Charlotte smiled and kissed him on the forehead. ‘No more secrets,’ she whispered.

Samu and Bertrand pulled him across the pavement so that he was propped up against the wall below a line of billboards. And then they leaned Kirsty against his chest, and she drew up her legs like a child in the womb. He put his arm around her shoulder and let his head fall back against the wall, and he found himself looking up at Bertrand. He held his gaze for several seconds, and then reached up a hand. When the young man gave him his, he held it tight. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

He was only vaguely aware, then, of Bertrand talking on a cell phone, and no idea how much time had passed before he heard a car draw up at the kerbside, and the sound of sirens in the distance. There seemed to be people and voices all around them. He saw Nicole’s pale-faced concern drift in and out of his field of vision. He heard Raffin say something about the police. He looked up and saw a tearful Sophie looking down at them. ‘I promised you I’d come back,’ he said.

She nodded. ‘I still hate her, though.’

Kirsty turned her head, something in the voice that dragged her back from the deep. That strange, whisky-sweet Scottish accent. ‘Who? Who does she hate?’

‘You,’ Sophie said.

Kirsty looked at her father with eyes that she could barely keep open. ‘Who is she?’

Enzo smiled. ‘She’s your sister, Kirsty. But she’s only kidding. Aren’t you, Sophie?’

Kirsty looked up at her again. Sophie smiled. ‘Sure I am.’ And she got down on her knees to put her arms around them both, and buried her face in her father’s neck.

Enzo stood in front of the Président’s desk. Sunlight streamed in through the windows and lay in geometric patterns across the blue carpet. The Lycée Bellevue shimmered distantly in the August heat. Summer courses were drawing to a close. A fresh intake would soon be arriving, young minds exercised in the arts of science and technology. The Président’s desk was as untidy as it always was. He came through from the outer office with his nose buried in an open folder. He wore a pair of frameless designer glasses perched lightly on the bridge of his nose.

He looked up and over the top of them at Enzo, and shook his hand. ‘Congratulations, Macleod. Damn fine job.’

Enzo was surprised. After their last meeting he was half-expecting to be sacked. ‘Thank you, Monsieur le Président.’

‘Take a seat, take a seat.’ And he took his own advice, flopping into the captain’s chair behind his desk and dropping his folder in front of him. He removed his glasses and let them swing gently from his thumb and forefinger. He rubbed his chin and regarded Enzo thoughtfully. Enzo pulled up a chair and sat down, and the Président picked up his folder again and held it out. ‘You’ll have seen most of these, no doubt.’

Enzo opened the folder to find it full of newspaper cuttings about the Jacques Gaillard case. He looked up. ‘Yes, Monsieur le Président.’

The Président leaned forward on his elbows. ‘There’s been a lot of interest, Macleod. We’ve had offers of funding.’ He waved a hand to indicate the paper blizzard on his desk. ‘A proposal to establish a Chair of Forensic Science. That would be quite a feather in our cap. Of course, I’d expect you to head up the department.’

Enzo raised an eyebrow. ‘Interesting idea, Monsieur le Président.’

‘It’ll take time, naturally, to set things in motion. So I’ve appointed a new head of biology, and I want you to take some time off. A sabbatical. Paid, of course. Come up with a concrete plan of implementation. A budget. Nothing too outrageous, mind.’

‘No, Monsieur le Président.’

‘And while you’re at it, it wouldn’t do any harm at all if you applied your very particular talents to unravelling a few more of those unsolved cases that Raggin’s been collecting.’

‘Raffin.’

‘What?’

‘Raffin. His name’s Roger Raffin.’

‘That’s what I said.’ The Président replaced his glasses carefully on the bridge of his nose and looked over them again at Enzo. ‘So what do you say?’

Enzo cocked his head and looked at him for a very long time. ‘Are those new glasses, Monsieur le Président?’