Peter May - Cast Iron

‘Oh hi, Papa,’ she said, handing Alexis to Raffin before throwing her arms around her father. Enzo noticed that, although Alexis was six months old now, Raffin still seemed uncomfortable holding him. But Kirsty was looking over her father’s shoulder at the mess of papers on the table. She stood back and, with a twinkle in her dark brown, liquid eyes, said, ‘I see, once again, that Alexis and I were the reason for your visit.’

Enzo grinned. ‘Always.’ And he reached across to relieve Raffin from the burden of holding his grandson. Alexis chuckled and chortled as Enzo held him with the expertise of an experienced father and bounced him lightly up and down. Grandfather and grandson rubbed noses, and Enzo felt how cold the baby’s face was.

Kirsty crossed to the table, divesting herself of coat and scarf, to look at the photocopied documents and photographs that covered it. ‘Oh, by the way,’ she said. ‘We’ve got a date and time for the appointment with the hearing specialist in Biarritz.’ She looked over her shoulder at Enzo. ‘Two days after your birthday. Will you still be able to make it?’

Enzo said, ‘Whatever else is happening, I’ll make the time.’ And he glanced at Raffin, who shuffled awkwardly in the knowledge that, unlike Enzo, he had made other things a priority.

Enzo turned back at the sound of Kirsty’s voice. ‘Who are these girls?’ She was lining up their photographs, one beside the other.

‘Mostly prostitutes, either missing or dead,’ Enzo said. He joined her at the table. ‘Their parents think that Régis Blanc was responsible.’

‘And was he?’

‘Probably not.’

‘Such sad faces,’ Kirsty said, running her fingertips lightly over grainy facsimiles of once-living human beings. ‘They’ll be middle-aged by now.’

‘If any of them are still alive,’ Raffin said.

‘And we know that two of them are dead,’ Enzo told her.

Kirsty shook her head, almost unable to drag her eyes away from them. ‘What a waste of lives.’

‘Speaking of which...’ Enzo turned back to Raffin. ‘Did you know that Charlotte has been visiting Régis Blanc in Lannemezan prison?’

Raffin seemed startled. ‘No, I did not. Why? I mean, why was she visiting him?’

‘Some kind of study of long-term prisoners.’

Raffin shook his head. ‘Then why didn’t she tell us? She knew you would be working on the Martin case.’

Enzo’s mouth set in a grim line. ‘That’s exactly what I’m on my way to ask her myself.’

‘Because my life is my own and my work is confidential, and you have no rights of access to either.’ Charlotte’s words were hostile, but her tone was indifferent, as if she didn’t really care.

They were in the small kitchen, three steps down from the living area, in her sprawling home in the thirteenth. Charlotte sat back with a glass of wine, the remains of a light meal on the table in front of her.

‘Don’t you want to see Laurent? I’ve just put him down.’

‘Stop trying to change the subject.’

‘Ahhh,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘You see? Only when it suits you.’

But Enzo refused to be deflected. ‘You knew I had started working on the Lucie Martin case, and yet you never thought to tell me that you had been visiting the man suspected of killing her. That you knew him personally. And given the number of times you’ve visited, probably know him better than anyone else in this world.’

She sat forward, angry now. ‘In all the years I have known you, Enzo Macleod, you have never taken the least interest in my work. Except, of course, when it could be of some use to you. You’re selfish and thoughtless and, frankly, with you there’s always an ulterior motive.’ She swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘Why would I even think of volunteering to provide you with information about my work? After all, if it was of any use to you, sooner or later you’d come looking for it.’

Enzo stood, face reddening, stung by her words. He was not so self-obsessed that he didn’t realise there was some truth in them. ‘I have never been anything but honest and totally open with you, Charlotte,’ he said. ‘You’re the one with the secrets. You’re the one who guards your thoughts and emotions, the one who keeps things from me.’

She regarded him thoughtfully. ‘And what is it you’re keeping from me ? The real reason for your visit, Enzo? The ulterior motive? I mean, you didn’t drive all the way from Bordeaux to Paris just to accuse me of withholding information. Did you?’

Enzo reddened further. Charlotte always seemed to read him, like a large Métro map behind glass. Was his veneer really so transparent?

She smiled. ‘I thought so. What is it you want this time?’

He took a moment to try to salvage, at least in his own mind, what was left of his pride. ‘I want to talk to Blanc.’

A knowing smile spread across her face and she leaned back in her chair again. ‘Of course you do. I should have seen that one coming.’ She swirled the remains of her wine around in her glass, looking into it as if searching for enlightenment. ‘To what end? To try and establish some kind of connection between him and Lucie Martin?’

‘I don’t have to establish anything. The links already exist.’

‘Oh, do they? The famous letter that purports to be from Blanc to Lucie?’

‘Oh, he wrote it alright. His handwriting. Confirmed by a graphologist.’

Which was clearly news to Charlotte. Her eyes lifted quickly from her glass to meet Enzo’s. ‘Really?’ She thought about it for a moment. ‘You said “links”. Plural.’

‘Lucie dumped her childhood sweetheart. He suspected a third party and followed her one night to see who.’

‘Blanc?’ Charlotte’s eyes opened wide with amazement. And he could tell that, for the first time, he had really caught her interest. He could see her thinking rapidly behind guarded eyes. And she reached, it seemed, an equally fast decision. She drained her glass. ‘Alright. I’ll bring Laurent to your birthday party in Cahors. And if you can get someone to look after him, we’ll drive down to Lannemezan the next day.’

‘You can get me in to see him?’

‘No guarantees, but I’ll try.’ She stood up. ‘Will you stay over?’

Enzo was startled. ‘What? Here?’

She shrugged. ‘Of course.’ Then paused. ‘In the spare room, naturally.’

Enzo was stung, just as much as if she had slapped him, and he remembered the John Lennon song ‘Girl’, and just how easily Charlotte could manipulate him. He said determinedly, ‘I’m staying over at the studio.’

She smiled with weary resignation. ‘And he would pass up the chance to be with his boy, just so that he could snub Charlotte.’

He gave her a look. ‘Snub Charlotte how?’

She raised both eyebrows. ‘Did you really think I could bear to have you under my roof for a whole night and not also have you in my bed?’

The trees in the Boulevard Léon Gambetta were finally beginning to shed. In just a few days, leaves had turned from yellow and green to orange and red, and a slight breeze rattling the branches sent them tumbling to gather in drifts along the pavements.

There was a chill in the breeze, too. Perhaps the first breath of winter to stir the air across the south-west. Enzo felt it when he stepped from his car in Cahors at the end of the second long drive in as many days. It was not the raw cold of a grey and humid Paris, but a crisper cold, like chilled wine on a summer’s day. He loved the south-west in all its seasons, except winter. For when it came, finally, it stole away the softness of the light, and the land felt harsh and lifeless. And all that lay ahead were the long months of waiting for spring.