Peter May: Freeze Frames

Enzo consulted his own notes. “A professor of tropical medical genetics at London University.”

“Yes, he worked for the university’s tropical medicine group. But insects were what really turned him on. According to his daughter-in-law, it was an obsession. He’d been a member of the Amateur Entomologists’ Society in the UK for years, and couldn’t wait to retire to devote himself to it full time.”

“Time wasn’t on his side, though, was it? I mean, even if he hadn’t been murdered, he didn’t have long to live.”

Raffin shook his head. “No. The lung cancer was diagnosed in the spring of 1990, and he wasn’t expected to see out the year.”

Not for the first time, Enzo turned this information over in his mind and found it puzzling. “Okay. And what about Kerjean? Is he still around?”

“He was when I was there. A thoroughly unpleasant character, from all accounts. Of course, he wouldn’t talk to me. Hasn’t given a single interview since the trial.”

“You don’t give much of an account of the trial in the book.”

“It didn’t merit it, Enzo. Sure, the guy had motive and opportunity, but the evidence against him was entirely circumstantial. It should never have gone to court.” He drained his glass and refilled it. “Anyway, I had a long talk with Jane Killian on the phone last night. You can cancel your hotel booking. She’s agreed to let you stay at the house, in the little attic room above the study.” He chuckled, but there was no humour in it. “I think she sees you as the last hope of ever solving this case. I got the very firm impression that if you can’t figure it out, she’s going to give up and sell up.”

Enzo nodded slowly. “So, no pressure, then.”

Raffin grinned. “I’d have thought it was right up your street, Enzo, given that your specialty was crime scene analysis.”

Enzo canted his head in acknowledgement. “I have to confess, it’s an intriguing challenge. But I hate to be anyone’s last hope.” He looked up to see Raffin pursing pale lips in faint amusement. “Tell me…What was it you saw in that room that Jane Killian wouldn’t let you write about?”

“Oh, I think I should leave you to see that for yourself.” Raffin looked at his watch, and Enzo noticed how his hands trembled. “Shall we lunch at midi? I can call and book a table at the Marco Polo.”

Enzo felt the colour rising slightly on his cheeks. “I can’t today. I’m meeting someone.”

Raffin looked at him speculatively and nodded without comment. He took another sip of his wine, then after a moment, “Have you seen Charlotte, lately?”

“No. Not lately.” Which was the truth. But he wondered why he was reluctant to confirm Raffin’s obvious suspicion that it was the journalist’s former lover that Enzo was meeting at midi. He wanted to leave right there and then, but it would have been churlish to do so. And he wasn’t due to meet Charlotte for over an hour. “Maybe I’ll take that glass of wine now,” he said. As Raffin crossed to fetch a glass from the cabinet, Enzo glanced from the window into the courtyard below. Drifts of leaves from the big old chestnut blew across the cobbles on a chill fall breeze, and he wondered why anyone would want to kill a dying man.

Ile de Groix, Brittany, France, August 12, 1990

At the far side of the garden, beneath the shade of a gnarled oak, stood the shed that Killian used as a workshop. He had spent many hours here, pursuing his passion. Collecting and breeding, killing and preserving. He had constructed a rough workbench and lined the walls with shelves that were crowded with specimen jars and light traps, an insect tray, and a tullgren funnel for trapping apterygotes.

In the corner stood a rack where he kept his nets. Several large ones for capturing flying creatures. A strong sweep net for sampling insects on vegetation. A pond dipping net for catching those that lived and bred on water.

He had just constructed a new pooter, two lengths of 3mm clear plastic tubing protruding from either end of a transparent plastic film canister. A small square of fine-meshed cotton was taped over the end of the mouthpiece which was inside the canister. Thus he would avoid the danger of sucking one of the insects into his mouth. Carefully he inserted the other length of tube into the glass breeding jar where gossamer-winged creatures, trapped, demented, and hungry, whined and darted through the light that slanted from the window. He put the mouthpiece between his lips. A short, sharp intake of breath drew a single insect through the tube and into the canister.

Killian took a large magnifying glass from the drawer and lifted the canister to the light, peering at it through the lens with some satisfaction. This was what he had wanted. A female of the culex pipiens species, the world’s most common mosquito. Unlike its malaria-carrying cousin, the culex fed mainly on birds, although was not averse to feeding on man to spread such delights as Saint Louis encephalitis and West Nile virus. It could be found on every continent on earth, except Antarctica, and was a common irritant here on this tiny, rocky island in the unpredictable Bay of Biscay.

Killian withdrew the collecting tube and sealed the hole in the lid with a square of tape. Fastidiously, he replaced the breeding jar in its heated container and cleared away his workbench. Everything had a place and had to be in it.

Satisfied, finally, with his work, he stepped out into the garden and locked the door of the shed. The shadows of trees fell darkly across the lawn toward the whitewashed cottage, in sharp contrast to the sunlight that slanted between their branches. Beyond, the same light shimmered on the sparkling waters of the strait that separated the island from the mainland port of Lorient, just visible in the far distance. The white triangles of sailing boats flashed in the clear summer air, tacking back and forth in the breeze that breathed through the channel.

The hum of myriad insects filled the hot air, music to Killian’s ears as he turned away from the house and headed across the grass to the little annex where he had his study. A separate building with a tiny guest bedroom in the attic, Killian spent more time in the annex than he did in the house. Sometimes, when he worked late into the night, he would sleep upstairs. He had passed many more nights there than any houseguest. Visitors were rare these days, and when Peter and Jane came they always took a room in the main house.

The outside door of the annex opened into a tiny square of hall, from which narrow stairs led up to the bedroom. Straight ahead, a door opened into a small bathroom, while the door to the right led into his study. He knew he would have to take care not to leave it open for more than the few seconds it would take his visitor to enter. He closed it behind him now and crossed to his desk. He placed the film canister in his in-tray and went to the window. He opened it to lean out and pull the shutters closed, adjusting the slats to let in some light, before closing the window once more and turning the key in its lock. Only the fan turning lazily in the ceiling stirred the hot air of the room.

Killian returned to his desk and eased himself into his captain’s chair. He took out a handkerchief to mop away the perspiration that formed like dewdrops on his forehead, and ran a hand back through his head of thick, white hair. He looked at the book lying on his desk. A thin, well-thumbed paperback. He opened it at random, somewhere around the halfway point, and ran the heel of his hand up between the pages, breaking the spine so that it would remain open, an act that caused him some distress. But necessary, he knew, to accomplish his goal.

In the top, right-hand drawer, he found a small jar of clear liquid, and a clean wad of cotton wool. He smeared the cotton with a little of the liquid, and dabbed it lightly across the pages of the open book, then leaned forward to blow it dry. The combination, he knew, of lactic acid and carbon dioxide would prove an irresistible attractant to the winged messenger in the film canister.