Cara Black - AL05 - Murder in Clichy

Aimée searched for an address book, a daytimer, anything with an address in London. But all she found was a selection of Clarins eye lift and skin serum cosmetics in the modern bathroom that Aimée wished she could afford.

In the pantry-sized kitchen, a glass coffee pression with its tin plunger screwed tight for coffee to drip through was still warm. She found Surgelé croque-monsieur frozen food boxes in the trash.

Aimée turned the garbage can over, its contents spilling onto the turn of the century mosaic tiled floor. Among the receipts, she found an airplane boarding pass and a crumpled piece of paper. She spread it open on the counter. A postcard, with a picture of Big Ben, written but never sent. Sprawling black script, crossed out words, and blotched letters. Tears?

She read the fragment:

‘You bastard! Promises broken again and again. How can I believe you, Thadée? I sold the paintings, all of them and the exhibition here’s a success. Don’t deal with that scum Blondel. The last shipment passed customs. Yours, Sophie.

The rest was torn off. Shipment . . . art . . . that made sense, but who was Blondel?

Now she had a name, something to check.

And then a footstep sounded behind her. Before she could dive behind the kitchen cabinet something hard was stuck into her ribs.

“Hands up!” Mado said. “You salope! Trashing our place.”

“Wait, let me explain . . .”

“Explain to the flics ,” she said. “Turn around slowly, eh!” Mado was another one who had watched too many movies.

Aimée spun and knocked the gun to the floor. Mado slipped on the frozen food box and fell, as Aimée grabbed for it. “What’s this? A cheap party favor?” She pulled the trigger and a small plastic sheet with the word BANG! on it, dropped from the snout of the gun. Aimée pointed it at her, stuffing the postcard into her pocket.

“The flics are on the way,” said Mado, her lip quivering.

“Nice try,” Aimée said. “Listen, as I tried to tell you before, Thadée was murdered. Your sister’s in danger. Real trouble. Start talking to me about this Blondel.”

“Who?”

“The one who strung your sister up to a Turkish toilet because he figures she knows where some stolen jade is. If she knows, she’s in trouble. And she’s in deeper trouble if she doesn’t, because they think she does.”

“What’s that to you?” Mado scowled.

“They’re after me, too! And it’s my job.”

“Who hired you?”

Sirens blared from in front of the house.

Merde . . . Mado had called the flics!

No time to explain to them. She doubted they’d listen to her. For the second time one of the Baret sisters was blaming her. That’s all Commissaire Ronsard needed to put her in garde à vue .

“You’re as stubborn as your sister, Mado,” Aimée said. “I have to find out about Thadée. They won’t give up, and she’s next.”

Mado said, biting her lip, “An old man was asking questions. A pain in the derrière. I told him to get lost. Like I want you to.”

Old man . . . Gassot?

“What did he look like?”

“Gray hair,” Mado said. “With a wooden leg.”

Gassot!

“You’re in cahoots with him, aren’t you ?”

“When you realize I want to help Sophie, let me know.”

Aimée kicked the back door open and ran. The small yard, enclosed by a rusted wire fence, was filled with wet leaves and tufts of crabgrass. The Portuguese cleaning lady next door was shaking out a carpet and beating it with a stick. A vacuum cleaner roared behind her.

Aimée waved. “I’m locked out,” she said and mimicked trying to turn a key.

But the cleaning lady bent over and whacked harder. She wore headphones and was beating in a rhythm. Aimée pulled an old wheelbarrow over to the fence, gathered her leather coat, and climbed over, ripping her stockings. The spindle-branched thorn bushes offered little protection from observation as she ran behind them. Sirens wailed from the small lane.

Beyond lay the schoolyard containing a climbing structure and a sand box. Perspiration beaded her lip despite the cold air. The flics would talk to Mado and, any second, they would come after her. At the next fence, she shoved old clay flower pots together, stepped on them, and heaved herself over. She landed on a tricycle, the handlebars bruising the arm that had needed stitches, but cushioning her fall. And then she stumbled into the sandbox.

“That’s mine,” said a serious-faced child wearing ladybug rainboots. “It’s not your turn.”

“Sorry, of course,” she stood, brushing the sand off her coat and scanning the playground. “Go ahead, take your turn.”

“Big people aren’t supposed to ride tricycles,” the child said. “I’m telling the teacher.”

Aimée didn’t like the flash of blue uniforms she glimpsed through the fence. She thought fast.

“I made a mistake, I’m here to pick up my daughter,” she said.

“You’re in the wrong place. Parents wait over there,” the little girl said.

“Of course, you’re right.”

Aimée edged toward the throng of teachers and laughing students lining up at the school gate.

“What are you doing here?” said a teacher with a clipboard. “You must wait outside, it’s the law. Who let you in?”

“Forgive me, but I had to run to le cabinet , Madame,” she said, patting her stomach. Aimée wiped the perspiration from her brow. “It’s morning sickness, but with this second one it happens all day long.”

The teacher’s eyes softened as Aimée joined the waiting parents on the curb. Aimée melted into the crowd, careful to avoid the police cars.

Thursday

RENÉ SQUIRMED ON THE dirt floor and thumped his feet. The dank chill, and the diffused light from the kerosene lantern, reminded him of the ancient cave in the Loire Valley he and his mother had camped in one August holiday. With its thick walls it stayed cool despite the heat of summer. But he hadn’t had his ankles taped up then.

“Time for pipi ?” asked the gravel-voiced man.

He nodded and tried to talk but the tape over his mouth garbled his voice.

“Water?”

He nodded harder. The mec came into view, blocking the pile of bricks, and the ants still pushing their crumb. He had to get out of here.

“Let’s see, it’s been a while,” said the mec .

A while . . . more like six hours!

The mec was wearing denim overalls, snakeskin boots and his brown hair was pulled back in a stringy ponytail. He slit the duct tape binding René’s ankles with a knife and pulled René to his feet. Were they going to kill him?

“Little guys like you have an interesting sex life, eh?”

René snorted.

“What’s that?” he grinned. “Oh I forgot, you can’t speak.”

René’s cheeks burned with a searing pain as the mec ripped the duct tape off his mouth. He groaned.

“Quiet!”

“Sick. I’m going to be sick,” René whispered, his voice hoarse.

“Watch the boots,” the mec said, pushing René toward a rusted iron bucket by a pile of old newspapers. “Over there.”

René gagged. “I’m dizzy,” he gasped, heaving. “Help me.”

“Hold the wall,” said the mec , a look of disgust on his face.

“Can’t.” He gagged, spitting near the man’s boots.

“Not on the boots, dwarf, or I kick you with them.”

René heard the slow rip of duct tape and felt his wrists being freed. Numbed, tingly, but free . He leaned on the wall for support, pushed off and shot out his left leg, kicking the surprised mec in the kidney. The man doubled over. René’s next powerful straight kick landed under the mec’s chin and whipped his head back.