Peter May - Freeze Frames

For the first time, she noticed the walking stick in Enzo’s hands. He was running his palm over the smoothly carved head of the owl that was the handle.

“That was his,” she said. “He must have been carrying it when he was shot. It was found lying beside the body.”

And Enzo felt a sudden, strange connection with the man. In a way, it was as if he had just met him downstairs in his study. Already he had formed an impression of an ordered and obsessive mind. And now, holding his walking stick, it was almost as if he was making physical contact, reaching back through almost two decades to the night his life had been taken, and the curved head of the owl in his hand had been the last thing he touched on this earth.

He laid the walking stick carefully on the bed and stood up. “You know, Jane, even if he had told you that night, there was nothing you could have done about it. You were hundreds of miles away in another country.”

“I might have had some idea of who killed him. Mr. Macleod. I might have been able to put this behind me and move on. As it is, there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. Or a night when I don’t wake up in the small hours and wish to God I was free of it. It’s like he put a curse on me that night, and I can never escape it until the whole damned thing is resolved and his killer caught.” She looked at him, distraught, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t go on like this. I just can’t.”

Almost without thinking, Enzo extended an arm and drew her toward him. She offered no resistance, and pressed her face into his chest as he held her, trying to quell the sobs he felt rising from deep inside her. “If it was a message that only Peter could understand,” he said, “then we have to understand why, so that we know how to look at what he’s left us. We’re looking with eyes that aren’t Peter’s. That has to be the key.” And he remembered his words to Raffin in Paris. I hate to be anyone’s last hope. But for Jane, he realised, that is exactly what he was.

The Auberge du Pecheur occupied a three-story whitewashed building above the Eco-Museum, on the curve of the hill as it rose steeply up from Port Tudy toward Le Bourg. A hand-written menu chalked on a blackboard leaned against maroon doors in the yellow light of a coach lamp over the entrance. Heads turned curious eyes in the direction of the door as Enzo ushered Jane in ahead of him. A waitress in jeans and a knitted top led them to their table past tables and shelves crowded with island bric-a-brac: ceramic seagulls; pewter pots; an enormous, traditional, Groisillon cafetiere called a grek. Painted boats and seascapes hung on cream walls crowded with brass and glass and uplit by dozens of small table lamps.

Diners occupied several tables in the restaurant, and Enzo doubted if there was a single one of them who didn’t know who they were. With the possible exception of a young couple in hiking boots and heavy sweaters, anoraks over the backs of their chairs, who looked as if they could be late-season tourists on a walking holiday. There was an audible lull in conversation as Enzo and Jane took their seats, and interested ears strained to hear what they might say. Enzo took some satisfaction from the realisation that whatever discernible conversation might ensue between Jane and himself, it would be in English and unlikely to be understood.

“They do wonderful seafood here,” Jane said. “If you’re into that.”

Enzo smiled. “I am.”

The waitress brought a chalkboard menu to their table and sat it up on a chair for them to read. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Enzo, then she smiled. “Nice to see you again, Madame Killian,” she said in French. Jane just smiled and said nothing, and the waitress left them to make their choice.

“The shrimp are always good. And the dorade.”

“Then I’ll have shrimp for an entree, and dorade for my main course.”

Jane grinned. “Now I’ll feel bad if you don’t like them.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll pretend I do, even if I don’t.”

She laughed, and some of the tension seemed to leave her. “Such a gentleman.”

“Shall I choose a wine?”

“Please.”

Enzo cast his eyes over the wine list and picked out a 2005 M e moire Blanc from Chateau Clement Termes. When they had ordered, he rested his chin on interlocked hands and looked appraisingly at Jane Killian. “How come an attractive woman like you never remarried, Jane?”

She seemed to think about it for a long time. Perhaps deciding whether or not to speak the truth, or whether to brush his question aside, some superficial response to satisfy his curiosity. In the end her reply, Enzo was sure, came from the heart. “They say that for every one of us, somewhere in the world, there is the perfect partner. They also say that most people never get to find theirs. I was lucky. When Peter came along, I knew I had met mine.”

“How did you meet?”

“Oh, it wasn’t anything very exciting. We were both at Edinburgh University. Peter was from London. I came from Bristol. Edinburgh wasn’t either of our first choice, but that’s where we both ended up. As if fate had decided it for us.”

“You believe in fate, then?”

She smiled. “No. But sometimes it’s nice to think that something so right has been planned. That we actually do mean something in the great scheme of things.”

The wine arrived, and the waitress filled each of their glasses.

“Peter had always been interested in charity work. He was a great believer in the individual making a difference in the world. I never understood, after all that he saw and experienced, how he ever managed to hold on to that belief. He came back sometimes from his trips, usually to Africa, with stories that reduced him to tears in the telling. He saw awful things, Mr. Macleod. Hunger, disease, war. Terrible suffering on an unimaginable scale. And still he thought he could make a difference. For a few, maybe he did.”

“You were never tempted to join him?”

“I didn’t have his strength. In the face of such suffering, I think you have to remain resolutely dispassionate in order to be able to help. I would have been far too emotional, completely useless. Somehow Peter never let it affect him. Until afterwards. In the field he was only ever totally practical. He saved his tears for me. And in a strange sort of way, that made me feel very special. Admitted to a place in the very heart of him that no one else ever reached.” She looked very directly at Enzo. “So you see, Mr. Macleod, there was no way I could ever replace him.”

“It’s Enzo,” Enzo said. “Not even my students call me Monsieur Macleod.” He sipped his wine and let the smoky vanilla flavour slip back over his tongue. “So how did you fill your life during his long absences?”

“I had my career. In publishing. Very prosaic, I’m afraid. I got to live my life vicariously through the authors we published. And through Peter, of course. How I wish we’d had the Internet in those days. It would have been so much easier to keep in touch. And I might have had a more enduring record of our conversations. These days I keep every email I send and receive. As if keeping a record of my life might give it some meaning.” She laughed, but too late to hide the bitterness.

From the moment he had met her, Enzo had sensed an emotional charge within her, almost like a controlled explosion, a part of herself on which she kept the lid firmly shut. Now, for the first time, he felt the force of that charge escaping, involuntary words betraying her disappointment with life and a feeling of self-pity.

“Are you still in publishing?”

“I work for a small house in the east end of London. One of the few independent publishers left. But I’m not sure how much longer we can survive. Most of the small houses have been gobbled up by the conglomerates. Sales and profit are the only criteria that apply these days. Quality and diversity are dirty words in publishing.”