Scott Mariani - The Alchemist

He held out the money, offering it to her. ‘There’s enough here for you to check in at a decent hotel tonight and fly back to the States in the morning. Take it’

She looked down at the notes, then shook her head and pushed them away. ‘Listen, pal, I’m just as involved in this as you are. I want to find out what the hell’s going on. And don’t get any ideas about giving me the slip.’ Before he could reply she slid forward across the car seat and told the taxi driver an address in the tenth arrondissement of Paris. The driver muttered something under his breath and drove off.

As they arrived at Michel’s place, they found the street illuminated with blue flashing lights. An ambulance and a number of police cars were parked outside the apartment building, and crowds were milling about the entrance. Ben asked the taxi driver to wait, and he and Roberta pushed through the crowd.

People from nearby bars had gathered in groups on the pavement, watching, pointing, covering their mouths in shock. A team of paramedics were pushing a stretcher on a trolley from the entrance to Michel’s building. They weren’t in a hurry. The body on the stretcher was draped from head to foot in a white sheet. Where the sheet lay over the figure’s face, a huge bloody stain seeped through the cloth. They loaded the stretcher into the back of the ambulance and shut the doors.

‘What happened here?’ Ben asked a gendarme.

‘Suicide,’ the cop replied tersely. ‘A neighbour heard the shot.’

‘Was it a young guy called Michel Zardi?’ Roberta asked. Somehow she just knew.

‘You knew him?’ said the policeman unemotionally. ‘Go through, mademoiselle. The chief might want to speak to you.’

Roberta headed towards the entrance. Ben took her wrist. ‘Let’s get away from here,’ he warned. ‘There’s nothing you can do.’

She tore her arm out of his grasp. ‘I want to know,’ she retorted, and she pressed on ahead of him, through the police tape and in the door. He followed, cursing. A crowd of police blocked his way. ‘What a mess,’ one officer was saying to another. ‘Even the guy’s own mother wouldn’t recognize him. Blew his whole face right off.’

Amongst the uniformed officers, a small fat lieutenant in plain clothes was giving orders. He glared at Roberta as she approached him. ‘You from the press? Piss off, nothing to see here.’

Are you the officer in charge?’ she demanded. ‘I’m Dr Roberta Ryder, Michel is my-’ She checked herself. ‘Was my employee. It was his body they just took out of here, wasn’t it?’

‘We were just passing by,’ Ben cut in, catching up with her. In English he muttered in her ear, ‘Let’s keep this short and simple, OK?’

And your name, monsieur?’ the plain-clothes policeman asked, swivelling his dour gaze towards him.

Ben hesitated. If he gave a false name, Roberta’s reaction would give him away.

‘His name’s Ben Hope,’ she filled in for him, and he winced inwardly. ‘Listen,’ she went on in a loud, adamant voice, looking the lieutenant in the eye. ‘Michel didn’t kill himself. He’s been murdered.’

‘Madame sees murders everywhere,’ someone said behind them, and they turned. Roberta’s heart sank as she recognized the man coming into the room. It was the young police inspector from earlier that day.

‘Inspecteur Luc Simon,’ he said, striding towards them. He fixed Roberta with his green eyes. ‘I’ve warned you about this already. Stop wasting our time. This is a simple suicide. We found a note…What are you doing here, anyway?’

‘What note?’ she asked suspiciously.

Simon held up a small clear plastic bag. Inside, curled against the cellophane, was a small sheet of notepaper with a few lines of handwriting on it. Simon gazed at it. ‘He says it wasn’t worth it any longer. Stress, depression, debts, the usual problems. We see this all the time.’

‘Eh oui ,’ said the lieutenant, with a philosophical shake of the head. ‘La vie, c’est de la merde .’

‘Shut up, Rigault,’ Simon growled at him. ‘Madame, I asked you a question. What are you doing here? That’s twice today, when I get called out on a false alarm homicide, you turn up.’

‘Let me see that bullshit note,’ she snapped. ‘He never wrote that.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Ben said to Simon, jerking Roberta’s arm and cutting in before she said too much. ‘My fiancée’s upset. We’re leaving now.’ He pulled her aside, leaving the inspector standing there staring keenly at them as assistants scuttled around him.

‘Your fiancée ?’ she hissed at him. ‘What’s that supposed to mean? And let go of my arm, you’re hurting.’

‘Shut up. You don’t want to spend the next ten hours being grilled by the police, and neither do I.’

‘It’s not suicide,’ she insisted.

‘I know,’ he nodded. ‘Now listen to me. We’ve only got a few seconds. Is anything in here different, moved, changed in any way?’

‘Someone’s been through the place.’ She motioned towards his desk and tried not to look at the huge vertical splatter of blood on the wall and ceiling. The desk was empty, Michel’s computer gone.

‘Rigault, get these people out of here! Come on, let’s move!’ Simon was shouting from across the room, pointing at them.

‘We’ve seen enough,’ Ben said. ‘Time to go.’ He led her towards the door, but Simon intercepted them. ‘I hope you’re not thinking of leaving town, Dr Ryder? I might want to talk to you again.’

As they left the apartment, Simon watched them with a frown. Rigault gave him a knowing look and tapped his head with his finger. ‘Crazy Americans. They see too many of their Hollywood movies.’

Simon nodded pensively. ‘Maybe.’

Montpellier , South of France

‘Marc, pass me the screwdriver. Marc…Marc? Where are you, you dozy little shit?’ The electrician got down from his ladder, leaving loose wires hanging, glaring around him. ‘That little sod’ll never learn anything.’ Where had he disappeared off to now?

The kid was a liability. He wished he’d never given him a job. Natalie, his sister-in-law, doted on her son, couldn’t see that he was just a loser like his father.

‘Uncle Richard, look at this.’ The apprentice’s excited voice echoed up the narrow concrete corridor. The older man put down his tools, wiped his hands on his overalls and followed the sound. At the end of the shadowy corridor was a dark alcove. A steel door was hanging open. Stone steps led down into a black space. Richard peered down. ‘What the hell are you doing in there?’

‘You’ve got to see this,’ the kid’s voice echoed from inside. ‘It’s weird.’

Richard sighed and clumped down the steps. He found himself in a huge, empty cellar. Stone columns held up the floor above. ‘So it’s a bloody cellar. Come on out, you’re not supposed to be in here. Stop wasting time.’

‘Yeah, but look.’ Marc shone his torch and Richard saw steel bars glinting in the darkness. Cages. Rings bolted to the wall. Metal tables.

‘Come on, beat it out of here.’

‘So what is it?’

‘I dunno. Kennels for dogs-who gives a shit?’

‘Nobody keeps dogs in a cellar…’ Marc’s nostrils twitched at the smell of strong disinfectant. He shone his torch around and saw where the smell was coming from, a concrete sluice cut into the floor leading to a wide drain cover.

‘Move it, kid,’ Richard grumbled. ‘I’m going to be late for the next job-you’re holding me up.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Marc said. He stepped over to the glinting thing he’d seen in the shadows and picked it up off the floor. He studied it in the palm of his hand, wondering what it meant.