Scott Mariani - House of War

Had they been following her in the street earlier that morning? Had she been on her way somewhere, maybe to work, when she’d noticed them tailing her, become frightened and doubled back towards home where she felt safer? If so, it hadn’t done her much good. But it also meant that she must have known the identity of the man, or men, following her.

Which suggested she was definitely involved with them somehow. Ben found it hard to believe that someone like Romy Juneau could be knowingly mixed up with terrorists. But then, what did he really know about her? He had barely even met her. For all he knew, she was a top operative for ISIL. Or maybe a CIA field agent they needed to eliminate. Which seemed just as unlikely to Ben, but you never could tell.

Whatever she might have been involved in, he doubted whether her phone would reveal much. But with so little to go on, he had to start somewhere.

Turning the device on he felt none of the self-conscious pangs he’d felt earlier. Now that she was dead, things were different. It would no longer seem like prying into someone’s personal affairs. In any case she was no longer in a position to resent the intrusion.

He stubbed out his cigarette, drank some more coffee and got to work.

The first time Ben had gone through Romy Juneau’s phone he’d gone no further than her address book, which had told him all he’d needed to know at that point. Now it was time to delve a little deeper.

He began with the call menus, starting with sent calls. There were plenty of them for him to sift through. Some were identifiable as names from her contacts list, like her parents, whom she seemed to call often, her workplace and the person called Michel Ben had noted earlier, whoever he was. She’d called Michel frequently over a period of a few months, though the phone correspondence seemed to have stopped a month or so ago, with the exception of one brief call two days ago and another even briefer one just that morning. The last call had happened just minutes before Ben’s encounter with her in the street.

Ben wondered if the call had had something to do with the fact that she seemed so distraught. Out of curiosity he used his burner phone to call Michel’s number, but got no reply and didn’t leave a message. Then he listed the other numbers she’d called that weren’t stored in her address book, and called each in turn. There was a television repair man, a home insurance company and other assorted useless stuff that he crossed off his list one by one until there was nothing left.

Moving on to received calls he went through the same process. The mysterious Michel had also phoned her often, though not in the last month or so. Her parents phoned her from time to time, less often than she called them. The rest of it was just as inconsequential. This kind of detective work was seldom very exciting.

Next, texts and emails. Which were all work-related and concerned various dull administrative matters that Ben couldn’t make head or tail of. The outgoing mails bore an automatically added text at the foot of the message, which said ‘R. Juneau, Research Development Officer, ICS’, with the Institute’s address in the eighth arrondissement of Paris. A fairly swanky location, even though it was probably knee-deep in riot wreckage these days.

Ben keyed the Segal Cultural Institute into his search engine. It was a private organisation founded in the early nineties and run by a top French archaeologist called Julien Segal. Ben had never heard of him, though there was no reason why he should have. The Institute’s website described its mission as the preservation and protection of ancient art treasures, specialising in the ancient Middle East. They were one of the leaders in the development of new technologies to digitally reconstruct art treasures damaged by war, natural disaster or the ravages of time, and restore them using 3-D printing.

Middle East. War. Ben thought, Hmm.

Then he thought, Middle East. War. Nazim al-Kassar. ISIL.

Hmm again. Tantalising. Not exactly what a detective would consider hard evidence of an actual connection. But enough to make Ben curious to know more.

The website featured a little ‘About Our Founder’ bio of Julien Segal. A small photo showed a man in his early fifties, with a full head of silver hair and a craggily handsome face with striking, penetrative eyes like a hawk’s. He had spent decades travelling the world and been personally responsible for the rescue of countless ancient artifacts that otherwise would have been lost. He supplied museums, private and corporate collections, gave lecture tours and worked closely with international cultural heritage groups such as UNESCO and ECCO, the European Confederation of Conservation Organisations.

Ben dialled the Institute’s number on his burner phone and was put through to a female receptionist. He could tell right away from her tone of voice that the police must already have been in touch. She sounded as if she’d been crying, and might be about to burst into tears again at any moment.

Ben asked to speak to Monsieur Segal. The woman replied, ‘I’m afraid he’s currently out of the country. He travels a great deal. Can I be of any—?’ She’d been about to say ‘assistance’, but before she got that far her emotions got the better of her and she choked up. It took her a few moments to regain her composure. ‘Please forgive me. We’ve just received the most awful news. In fact the Institute is closing early for the day. One of our colleagues was found dead this morning. It’s … it’s just so heartbreaking. Romy was so loved by everyone here. She had only recently returned from a field trip overseas. And now …’ Her voice trailed off with a sigh.

‘That’s shocking. My sincere condolences. I’m so sorry if I called at a bad time.’

She’d sounded at first as though she wanted, or needed, to talk, which Ben was pleased about because the more information he could fish for, the better. But now the woman seemed to compose herself and tighten up, as though suddenly conscious that she was blurting out her heart to a total stranger. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t catch your name.’

‘Dubois,’ Ben said. ‘Bernard Dubois. And you must be—?’

‘Jeanne.’

‘Of course, that’s right,’ he said, bluffing like hell. Sometimes you could win them over with a little charm. ‘Jeanne, I wonder if you can tell me when Monsieur Segal is expected back in the country?’

‘Not for several more days at least.’

Ben didn’t know whether she was telling the truth or giving him the brush-off. She sounded as though she wanted to get off the phone, so he pressed a little harder. ‘Is there another number I could reach him on? It’s really rather important.’

‘No, I’m sorry, I can’t help you there. It would be better to call back in a few days.’

‘I’ll do that, thanks.’

She sniffed and said, ‘I really must go. Everyone here is very upset.’

‘Just one more question, Jeanne. Was Romy expected at work today?’