Peter May - Cast Iron

‘I’m here to see you,’ Enzo said. ‘There have been developments.’

Raffin looked uncomfortable. He glanced at his companion. ‘Jean-Jacques, this is Enzo Macleod, and...’ His eyes flickered towards Dominique.

‘Dominique Chazal.’ Enzo filled in the blank for him.

Raffin nodded and turned to introduce the other man. ‘Jean-Jacques Devez.’

And Enzo realised now that they were in the presence of the Mayor of Paris. He had seen photographs of him many times in the press, and in television debates and news items. The would-be future president. But he had not recognised him out of context. And yet there was something about him that seemed more familiar than a face seen on television. Something oddly, indefinably personal. In the smile. Or the impenetrable darkness of his eyes. The two men shook hands, and Devez nodded a dismissive acknowledgement towards Dominique. He was more interested in Enzo, and cast appraising eyes over him, his smile faintly sardonic. ‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘The great Enzo Macleod. One hears so much about you these days. You’re quite the celebrity.’

Enzo inclined his head a little. ‘I didn’t mean to be.’

Devez widened his smile. ‘None of us ever do. A man like you would be a welcome addition to any government department dealing with crime. In an advisory capacity, of course. If I ever get elected, we must talk.’ He turned to Raffin. ‘I’ll wait for you in the car.’ And glanced at his watch. ‘Don’t be long. We’re a little pushed.’

‘I’ll be right down,’ Raffin said. And as the scrape of Devez’s leather soles on the steps receded down the stairwell Raffin lowered his voice and turned to Enzo. ‘What is it? I’ve got a really important meeting.’

Not even an enquiry about Sophie. Enzo bit back his annoyance. ‘One of the Bordeaux Six, the girl with the feather tattoo on her neck... She was the best friend of Pierre Lambert.’

Which finally got Raffin’s full attention. He stared at Enzo. ‘You’re kidding?’

Enzo shook his head. ‘There’s a link, Roger. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s important. And someone’s been paying a fortune to keep Régis Blanc’s daughter in a specialised care clinic for the last twenty-three years.’

Raffin frowned. ‘Who?’

‘We don’t know yet. But we hope to very soon.’

‘Well, what’s the connection?’

‘I don’t know that, either.’

Raffin glanced at his watch. ‘Look, we’ll talk about this when I get back in a couple of hours. I’ve really got to go.’ He hesitated a moment, as if replaying what Enzo had just told him. Then repeated himself. ‘Got to go.’ And he hurried off down the stairs.

Dominique looked at Enzo. ‘Any word on Sophie?’ She mimicked Raffin’s voice. The question he had failed to ask. Then she shook her head. ‘So that was the great Roger Raffin. What a charmer.’

It was the first thing Kirsty asked when she let them in, anxious eyes searching her father’s face. And when he shook his head, his disappointment was reflected in hers. She hugged him before turning with moist eyes to kiss Dominique on each cheek.

‘Come through,’ she said. ‘Can I make you coffee? Or maybe you need something stronger?’

‘Coffee would be good,’ Enzo said.

Alexis was crawling around the floor amid a colourful clutter of plastic toys contained within a baby frame designed to limit the extent of his wanderings. He didn’t appear to hear them come in, but as soon as he saw Enzo his face lit up, and Enzo stooped to lift him high into his arms and rub the child’s nose with his. A chortle of delight burst from the baby’s lips, and he grabbed his grandfather’s ears and held on tight.

Kirsty had just brought a cafetière of freshly made coffee through from the kitchen on a tray with cups and sugar cubes when the phone rang. ‘I’ll take that in the study,’ she said, and left them to pour their own.

The gloom from the courtyard outside seemed to permeate the whole apartment, the dying of the light at the end of the day casting the corners of the séjour into darkness. Enzo found a switch for one of the uplighters and it threw light across the table as Dominique poured their coffee. The pianist upstairs was back to practising scales. Chromatic. Endlessly repeating semitone steps up and down. Stiff fingers still hesitant, even after all these years. And Enzo wondered what the point of it was. He felt depression settle on him like dust.

Somewhere Sophie was being held hostage to his investigation. Wherever she was the light would be dying, too. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what it was she must be feeling. Only to unlock the horrors of his own imagination. He quickly opened his eyes again, and wanted to cry out. To throw his fists wildly about him, to hit anything and everything in his way. In his head he heard his scream, but the room remained silent. Invaded only by the distant sound of the piano.

He turned to find Dominique looking at him. She didn’t ask. She didn’t have to.

The door from the study opened and Kirsty emerged, as if in slow motion. Her eyes were lost in a focus somewhere far beyond the room they were in. Enzo saw how pale she was. All the blood had drained from her face, and she looked almost ghostlike in the gloom. ‘What is it?’ he said.

It took some moments for his words to cross the distance to that place her thoughts had taken her. Her delayed reaction to his words was startled, and she responded as if he had just spoken. ‘What?’ She seemed confused.

‘Who was on the phone?’

‘Doctor Demoulin. From Biarritz.’

Enzo stood up, immediately. Something was wrong. ‘What did he say?’

Again his words appeared to travel a long way before they reached her. She looked at him. ‘Alexis has a congenital condition. There’s no treatment. Nothing that can be done.’ She glanced at her son in his playpen. But he was oblivious, focused on trying to fit plastic shapes into the correct holes in a yellow board, before giving up in frustration to throw them on to the floor. Hand — eye — brain coordination not yet developed enough to fulfil the desire. ‘He’ll have to wear hearing aids all his life.’

Enzo said. ‘The technology’s amazing these days, Kirst. You won’t even see them.’

Her eyes flickered back to her father. ‘That’s what Doctor Demoulin said.’

‘See?’ Enzo tried to force a smile. ‘I told you he was a good guy.’

She suddenly took two steps towards him, bursting into tears and throwing her arms around him, just as she might have done as a child. She buried her face in his chest and he cradled her head in his hand and remembered all the times he had held her like this. Before a loveless marriage and a new-found love had torn them apart. The greatest regret of his life. She drew her head back and looked up at him, eyes filled with tears and a strange intensity. ‘I love you, Dad,’ she said.

No longer Papa , he was Dad again. And he felt tears running down his own cheeks, strangely hot in the cold of the apartment.

‘I love you, too, pet,’ he said, and held her all the tighter.

‘He said he would put it all in a letter.’ Her voice came muffled from his chest. ‘A detailed explanation, along with a prescription for the hearing aids.’ She drew away from him now. Wiping the tears from her cheeks with the flat of her hands. ‘I’ve got to get out. Take Alexis with me and get some air. Time to think.’

‘It’s raining, Kirst.’

‘Doesn’t matter. He’ll be fine in his pram.’

‘Do you want me to come with you?’

‘No,’ she said, almost too quickly. ‘I need time to myself. Besides, you have other things to think about.’ She squeezed his hand. ‘But you could get my coat from the wardrobe in the bedroom while I get Alexis ready. The fawn one with the belt.’ And she went to lift her son from his playpen.