Peter May: Blowback

“I imagine you’re not very happy about it?”

“That would be an understatement. You know I’ve never liked Roger.”

“And you know how much I dislike him.”

“And yet you still see him.”

“From time to time, yes. You know what they say about your enemy. Keep him always in plain view.”

Enzo frowned. “Your enemy? Charlotte, he was your lover for eighteen months.”

“Which is how I know.” She paused. “He is a dark and dangerous man, Enzo. You need to do everything in your power to stop him from marrying Kirsty.”

Enzo passed the fifteen minute metro ride from Gobelins to Pont Neuf on Line 7 lost in a deep despond. He remembered once before that Charlotte had warned him about Raffin. There’s something dark about Roger, Enzo, she had said. Something beyond touching. Something you wouldn’t want to touch, even if you could. Enzo had never witnessed that dark side. But he had seen him flirt with other women in Kirsty’s presence, and experienced first hand an unpleasant and ruthless streak in him.

Kirsty, however, was her own person. He had no right to tell her what, or what not, to do. Not least because he had abandoned her to her mother at the tender age of twelve, to pursue a new life in France with Pascale. He had often wondered if, given the chance, he would do it all differently. But if he had, there would have been no Sophie, no Charlotte. No Laurent.

And Kirsty was an intelligent girl, sensible. She clearly saw something in Roger that her father didn’t. But Charlotte must once have been beguiled by him, too. And only time and experience had led her to disillusionment. Kirsty had not had sufficient of either to arrive at that conclusion, and Enzo knew that there was nothing he could either say or do about it that would not lead him into conflict with her.

There was sleet in the air, blowing in on the edge of a north-east wind as he emerged from the metro at the Pont Neuf in the shadow of the decaying icon that was the Samaritaine building. The Ile de la Cite split the river in two, a classical skyline anchored to both banks by bridges at various points along its length, as if it might otherwise float away. On the far side was the headquarters of the Paris police, the Quai des Orfevres. On the nearside, the forensic laboratories of the police scientifique at No. 3 Quai de l’Horloge. Enzo pulled up his collar and hurried off through the sleet.

Raymond Marre was waiting for him at the main entrance to see him through security, then lead him upstairs to an upper floor where the VSC6000 was housed in a small, windowless room. The machine itself wasn’t much bigger than the average laser printer. It was connected to a computer terminal, keyboard and monitor. A gooseneck lamp on the desk cast light over a profusion of papers spread across its surface. Enzo spotted the suicide note in its ziplock bag among them.

“Well?” Enzo looked at him anxiously.

Raymond beamed. “It seems that for once the French police scientifique can actually do something for the great Enzo Macleod.” He held up a sheet of photocopy paper. “Here it is, all cleaned up and perfectly readable. Although what illumination it might throw on your investigation probably only you can tell. It certainly doesn’t mean anything to me.”

Enzo took the sheet and read it in full. His immediate reaction was one of disappointment. There was nothing in the text recovered from the top or bottom of the note that added anything to what was already there. And no signature. He frowned.

“Doesn’t make much sense to you either, I see,” Raymond said. “I guess you’d need the missing pages to get anything more out of it.”

Enzo looked at him, confused. “Missing pages?”

But even as he said it he understood for the first time exactly what he was holding in his hand.

Rows of dark blue police vans were lined up along the quai outside, and people with hoods pulled up, and umbrellas lowered against the sleet, hurried by, heads down. The Theatre de la Ville across the river was almost obscured by it.

Enzo fumbled in his pocket for his cellphone and hit the speed dial key for Dominique’s cell. It was important she knew, and could move immediately. He felt his fingers stiffening in the cold as he waited for a reply. Eventually her messaging service kicked in and he left a quick message asking her to call him back immediately. He called the gendarmerie on the off-chance that she might be there and not have access to her cellphone. The duty officer replied and told him that Gendarme Chazal was not on duty until the following morning.

Enzo hung up, thought for a moment, then called Sophie. With a growing sense of disquiet, he listened as her phone rang unanswered. Eventually he heard her voice. “Hi, this is Sophie. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you.”

He said, “Sophie, call me as soon as you get this. It’s important.”

He slipped his cellphone into his pocket and checked the time. It was after 5:30 and the rush-hour, like the river, was in full flow. The city seemed to roar all around him, but the alarm bells of disquiet set in motion by those unanswered calls grew to such a crescendo in his mind that they began to blot everything else out. He knew he had to get back as soon as possible. There was a TGV high speed train leaving from the Gare de Lyon just after six. That would get him into Clermont Ferrand at nine-thirty, and back to Saint-Pierre by around ten.

He waved at an approaching taxi but it swept past him on the quay and vanished into the gathering gloom. In this weather, taxis would be like gold dust, and even if he got one, there was no guarantee it would get him through the traffic in time. There was no choice but to take the metro.

He turned and began running back along the quayside toward the Pont Neuf.

Clermont Ferrand, France, November 2010

By the time his train pulled slowly into the platform at Clermont Ferrand’s central station in the Avenue de l’Union Sovietique, a sick sense of apprehension filled Enzo’s gut like a dead weight.

He had called both Dominique and Sophie several times, leaving frustrated messages on each occasion with their respective answering services. Not one of his calls had been returned, and he knew by now that something was seriously wrong.

With a growing sense of despair, he had watched the sleet in Paris turn to snow as the train headed south, up on to the frozen central plateau. Big, fat, wet flakes flew at the train through the night like warp speed in a Star Trek movie. Even in the dark he could see that the countryside was blanketed now in white.

He hurried from the station out into deserted, snow-covered streets, only a few tire-tracks cutting through crisp, virgin white. Six inches of snow had accumulated on the roof of his 2CV. With gloved hands, he quickly cleared the windscreen and climbed in to turn the engine several times before it coughed and belched carbon monoxide into the night.

Crouched over the wheel, peering out into the dark, his Citroen slipped and slithered its way through side streets almost obliterated by the snow. Not until he reached the main road east, where ploughs and gritters had turned white snow to black slush, was he was able to pick up speed.

The ploughs had been out on the autoroute, too, spreading salt as they went, but the snow was already starting to lie again, and Enzo could only drive as fast as he dared, feeling the occasional slip of his wheels beneath him.

The roads deteriorated markedly when he turned off the motorway and began the long climb up to Thiers. The main highway snaked its way across the hillside, mitigating the worst of the incline, but still Enzo was finding it increasingly difficult to keep the car moving. His experience of driving in snow in Scotland had taught him to keep the car in second gear, or even third, to maximise traction. No sudden acceleration, or breaking.