Peter May - Freeze Frames

“Nothing that anyone else will make sense of, Jane. But Peter will know straight away.” He had absolute confidence that his son would understand. And with understanding would come illumination. “It’s just ironic that it’s the son who will finish the job.”

“Why can’t you tell me?”

How could he tell her that it was too great a responsibility for a mere daughter-in-law? That he couldn’t trust her with something so important. He tried to soften it. “It’s too much to place on the shoulders of a young woman, Jane. Peter will know what to do.”

“Papa…”

But he wasn’t listening any more. A dull thud from somewhere deep in the building reverberated faintly through the bed. He felt it more than heard it. And as he got do his feet, he let the receiver fall back in its cradle. He lifted his walking stick, this time to use as a weapon rather than as an aid to walking, and shuffled toward the door.

The light from the bedroom spilled down the stairs to the tiny hall below, casting his shadow before him as he made his way slowly, step by step, down to the door of his study. It stood slightly ajar, but he remembered that he had closed it. Fear tightened around his heart like a clenched fist. Using his stick, he pushed it wide and saw the light that pooled on the green leather below his desk lamp, throwing his desk diary into sharp, clear focus. Beyond its ring of light, the rest of the room lay shadowed in semidarkness. The door to the little kitchen stood fully open. He knew, too, that he had left it closed. He tried to listen, but the ringing in his ears obliterated all else.

He stepped into the room, and almost immediately was aware of a movement in his peripheral vision. He swivelled around as the intruder stepped into the light, the pistol in his hand raised and pointed at Killian’s chest. His face was set and grim, and Killian thought he saw fear in his eyes. “I figured it would be you,” Killian said. “I knew it was a mistake to tell you. I could see it in your eyes.”

“Could you?”

“I saw all this, probably before you did.”

“Then you’ll know how it ends.”

“Yes.” He was resigned to it now.

“I couldn’t let you tell anyone.” It was almost as if he were pleading for understanding.

“No. You couldn’t.”

The three shots from the pistol reverberated with deafening intensity in the stillness of the night. Propelled by the first of them back against the wall, Killian was dead before the other bullets left the gun.

The distant echo of gunshot was followed by the sound of a phone ringing in the bedroom upstairs. Frozen momentarily by the act of murder, the killer seemed startled by it and then moved to sudden action. He had no idea how much time he might have. But it was imperative that he find and destroy the evidence.

Paris, France, October 28, 2009

Enzo pulled up the collar of his baggy linen jacket and buttoned it against the bite of the wind. Beneath it, his light cotton shirt billowed around the hips of his cargo pants, and he wished he had dressed more appropriately for the weather. It had been sultry when he left his home in the southwest the day before. Cahors had been enjoying something of an Indian summer, and the cold winds blowing along the streets of Paris had come as a shock. Only the smokers sat out on the sidewalks along the Boulevard Saint-Germain. A hardy, if dying, breed.

His leather overnight bag bulged with the clothes he had crammed in to last him a week. He had told himself that a week really ought to be enough. In fact, he seriously wondered how he was going to occupy himself for that long. A look at the map had revealed that the tiny Ile de Groix was only eight kilometers long and three wide. With a population of just over two thousand, there were only a handful of villages, in addition to the small town above the main harbour at Port Tudy. It did not offer the prospect of very sophisticated living. And being out of season, his guide book had warned him, many of the restaurants would be shut.

He found a seat at a table in the Cafe Boneparte and glanced anxiously at his watch. His train left Montparnasse at one, connecting with the ferry from Lorient late afternoon. There would be no time for lunch. He would have to grab a sandwich at the station to eat on the train. The waiter brought him a glass of the house red, and he sat sipping it impatiently, watching the faces drift by in the place. He should have known that Charlotte would be late. She was always late.

It was nearly three months since he had last seen her. An encounter consummated by a bout of frenetic lovemaking at her eccentric home in an area of the thirteenth arrondissement, where once tanneries and tapestry-makers had lined the river. In the weeks that followed she had failed to return a single one of his calls, and he had finally determined to put his relationship with her behind him. A decision he had taken with some regret, for she was an attractive women, intellectually challenging, sexually stimulating. But she had made it clear, on more than one occasion, that while she enjoyed his company, they would never be more than friends, and occasional lovers.

She was more than fifteen years his junior, and he could see her point. He would be past retirement age when she was still in her forties. But after more than twenty years of widowhood, and with both daughters reaching their twenties, Enzo was looking for more now as he drifted toward the troisieme age.

“Still the old hippie, I see.”

He looked up to see her standing over him, dark curls tumbling luxuriantly over fine, angular shoulders, even darker eyes fixing him with their slightly quizzical smile. She wore a long, black coat over black jeans and high-heeled boots. A colourful knitted scarf was thrown carelessly around her neck. He immediately felt his heart leap and butterflies stir. She had always had that effect on him, and all his resolve to put an end to it immediately dispersed like a dawn mist as the morning breeze gets up.

“Hippie?”

“Last time we spoke you were talking of cutting off the ponytail. I’m glad you didn’t.” She sat down and waved to the waiter. “A Perrier,” she said when he arrived at the table, then turned to Enzo. “Another of those?”

“No, I won’t. I don’t have much time.”

“Oh.”

He saw her disappointment immediately. The meeting had been at her suggestion. Roger, she said, had told her he would be in town. Enzo couldn’t understand why she maintained contact with the journalist. They had been lovers for eighteen months, then broken up in acrimony. She had subsequently made it clear that she disliked him intensely. Yet for some reason they still exchanged calls, and met for the occasional drink.

“What’s so pressing?”

“I have a train to catch in just under an hour.”

“Where are you going?”

“An island off the coast of Brittany. One of Roger’s cold cases. Didn’t he tell you?”

“No, he didn’t.” She seemed put out that he hadn’t. “So how long will you be?”

“I don’t know. A week anyway. Maybe longer.”

“Will you come back to Paris afterward?”

“I hadn’t been planning to.” He noticed for the first time the dark smudges staining ivory skin beneath saucer eyes. And he wondered if she had lost weight. “Are you all right?”

Her Perrier arrived and she took a long, slow sip, bubbles effervescing around her lips. “I haven’t been very well.” But she added quickly, “Nothing serious.”

He reached out a hand to brush tumbling curls from her eyes, and held his fingertips to her cheek. He looked at her fondly, filled with concern. “You need to take better care of yourself.”

“How would you know if I did or not? You’re never around.”