Blacklight Blue (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-One

Cahors, November 2008

As they crossed the square, Enzo looked up beyond the red brick of the old town to the tree-covered hills rising all around the far side of the river, cutting a high, dark line against the deep blue of the winter sky. ‘I’m going to get the bastard.’

As if he hadn’t spoken, Simon said, ‘I have a flight from Toulouse at four.’

They had walked together without speaking down through Cahors, past the imposing Palais de Justice, where Enzo might yet stand trial, across the busy Boulevard Gambetta and into the Rue Marechal Foch, leading into the Place Jean Jacques Chapou.

The cathedral stood in chilly silence, casting its shadow of Christian disapproval on the thoughts of revenge that filled Enzo’s head. He had been so wrapped up in them as they passed through the town that he had failed to register Simon’s unusually sombre mood.

Simon had always been mercurial. At one moment the manic extrovert, saved only by his charm from the consequences of a destructive impulsiveness. At another, the manic depressive who, in the blink of an eye, might descend into a black funk from which it could be almost impossible to rouse him.

His mood this cold November morning, as a pale sun sent long shadows sprawling north across the square, was neither manic nor depressive. He was subdued, and his breath clouded in frigid air as he spoke.

‘I’m in the middle of a court case in Oxford. I only got the judge to agree to a two-day suspension of proceedings by pleading a family emergency.’

A woman with big, yellow rubber gloves was packing ice around freshly displayed fish in the L’Océan fishmonger on the corner.

‘Well, at least come up to the apartment and have a glass of wine with me. I could do with a drink.’

‘No, I need to talk to you.’

‘We can talk in the apartment.’

‘In private.’

For the first time, Enzo detected something ominous in his friend’s tone. He glanced at him, and saw the shadows beneath his orange-flecked green eyes. ‘I’ll buy you a drink in Le Forum, then.’

He steered him past a blue and white 2CV with a crumpled fender and into the café on the south side of the square, opposite the indoor market of La Halle. A butcher’s van was unloading fresh meat in the street under the watchful gaze of an alsation dog whose dreadlocked owner squatted in a doorway, begging cup on the sidewalk in front of him.

Inside, steam issued from a coffeemaker behind the redbrick bar. Enzo ordered a couple of brandies, and several customers shook his hand as Simon followed him in back. A rerun of a rugby game was being shown on a television screen high up above the door. They slipped into leather bench seats to face each other across the booth by the
cheminée
. They both felt the warmth of smouldering oak embers that filled the place with a sweet scent of winter woodsmoke.

They sat in silence until the brandies came, and Enzo could feel Simon’s tension. ‘
Santé
.’ He lifted his glass to his lips and the liquor burned its way down into his chest.

Simon just stared at his glass before looking up and meeting his friend’s eye with a curiously loaded stare. ‘You’re a fucking idiot, Magpie, you know that?’

‘What?’ Enzo was startled. This was no idle jibe made half in jest. This was a heartfelt criticism made whole in earnest.

‘She was better off before.’

‘Who?’

‘Kirsty. When she wasn’t talking to you. When you had no contact. Nobody was trying to kill her then.’

Enzo sighed and let himself slip back in his seat. So that’s what this was all about. After Enzo and Linda had broken up, Simon had stayed in touch with Enzo’s ex, playing the role of surrogate father to the surly Kirsty. It was Simon who had been there on school sports day. It was Simon who had taken Kirsty and her mother out for a celebration meal when Kirsty graduated. It was Simon, during all the years that Enzo wasn’t around, who had kept a mindful eye on his absent friend’s daughter.

‘She almost died in the catacombs in Paris. Someone’s just tried to murder her in Strasbourg. And why? Because of you. Because of your stupid bets and your stupid pride, and this crazy crusade to solve every cold case in France.’ He paused. ‘Or, at least, all the ones in Raffin’s book.’ He was on a roll. ‘Just to show the world how fucking clever you are. Enzo Macleod. Great mind, great scientist. Smarter than all the rest. Look at me, mammy, I’m dancing.’

Enzo’s face stung as shock brought colour to cold cheeks. He felt as if he had been struck. There was vitriol in Simon’s accusation, searing words smeared with Scottish sarcasm. And he wasn’t finished.

‘Do you care at all that you’re putting at risk the very people you profess to love?’

Enzo remembered how Simon had been the leading light in the school debating society. And while he could at times be vulgar and foul-mouthed along with the rest of them, he’d had a talent for being able to articulate his opinions with cutting clarity. Making him, of course, an ideal lawyer. And if he meant to pour petrol on the coals of Enzo’s anger, then he succeeded.

‘Don’t lecture me on fatherhood, Sy. You’ve never stayed in a relationship long enough to be one. You’re more likely to be having sex with a girl Kirsty’s age than worrying about her well-being.’

Simon glared back at him, stung by the rebuke. Perhaps because there was more than just a grain of truth in it. ‘You just walked away from her.’

‘Not my choice.’

‘Of course it was. You were the one who left. Not Kirsty. She didn’t ask for that. Now she’s suffering the consequences of reconciliation. And what are you going to do? You’re going to go after this guy. You’re going to put her in even more danger. You just don’t care, do you?’

‘Of course I care! Jesus Christ, man! If I don’t stop this guy, no one else will. And now that I know it’s not just me he’s after, do you not think I’m going to do everything I can to protect the people I love?’

‘How? How are you going to do that, Magpie? Send them to Mars? Get real. You don’t know who this guy is. You don’t know the first thing about him. But he knows everything about you. He could be sitting in this café and you wouldn’t even know it.’

Involuntarily, Enzo’s eyes strayed beyond the booth to the customers smoking and drinking at other tables. It was true. Apart from the regulars whom he recognised, he could not have said who any of the others were. A young man,
La Dépêche
open on the table in front of him, was sipping a steaming
noisette
. He glanced up and caught Enzo watching him, before his eyes dipped self-consciously back to his newspaper A middle-aged man at the bar was engaged in an animated conversation with the proprietor. He was dark, muscular, a fading tattoo on his right forearm. Enzo had never seen him before. He forced himself to meet Simon’s critical gaze. ‘Nothing’s going to happen to Kirsty or Sophie or anyone else. I’ll die before I’d let that happen.’ Even as he spoke the words, he realised how hollow they were. And he could see in Simon’s eyes that he knew it, too. How could he possibly keep his children safe from an enemy he couldn’t even see?

Simon leaned slightly towards him and lowered his voice. ‘Just so you know, Enzo…Anything happens to that girl…’

‘And what?’

But whatever response might have reached the tip of Simon’s tongue remained behind pursed lips. He simply got up, his brandy untouched, and weaved his way between the tables to where cold sunlight slanted across the cobbles outside.

***

Enzo had forgotten that Raffin was there. The journalist had not visited him at the
caserne
, but Enzo remembered seeing his bag in Kirsty’s room when Commissaire Taillard brought him to the apartment to look for the doctor’s letter. He was not particularly pleased to see him. And barely had time to consider why Simon’s disapproval did not extend to Kirsty’s relationship with Raffin, before he was mobbed by the girls. They took it in turns to hug and kiss him and fretted and fussed collectively. Enzo caught Raffin watching him with a slight, sardonic smile. The old sage surrounded by his adoring acolytes.

He had been surprised, too, to see Nicole. ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked her.

‘She’s sharing with me.’ Something in Sophie’s tone communicated a certain discontent. ‘Where’s Uncle Sy?’

Enzo turned away towards the
séjour
. ‘He’s had to go back to England.’

Bertrand rose from the table, where he was poring over papers and catalogues. He gave Enzo a strong handshake. ‘Good to see you back in the land of the living, Monsieur Macleod.’

Enzo nodded towards the papers strewn across the table. ‘What’s all this about?’

‘Just trying to work out how much I need to borrow from the bank to cover the cost of new equipment.’

‘How much?’

‘A lot. I don’t think I can afford my wish list, so I’m trying to cut it down.’

Enzo crossed to his bureau and returned to the table with his cheque book. He sat down opposite Bertrand and held out his hand for the two estimates. ‘Let me see.’ He scanned the sheets that Bertrand had handed him, then opened his cheque book and started writing.

Bertrand watched him, perplexed. ‘What are you doing, Monsieur Macleod?’

Enzo tore out the cheque he had written and held it for Bertrand to take. ‘Get your wish list, Bertrand. Tell the bank you don’t need their loan. You can pay me back when the insurance money comes through.’

Bertrand looked at the cheque and shook his head. ‘You can’t afford this, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘With all due respect, Bertrand, how would you know what I can afford?’ He snapped his cheque book shut. ‘I’ve been to the bank and transferred money from my savings account to my checking account.’

‘Papa, that’s all the money you’ve got in the world.’ Sophie was staring at him in disbelief.

Enzo smiled. ‘You know, one thing that occurred to me, Sophie, when I thought I only had a few months left? What a crime it would be to die with money in the bank.’

‘But you’re not going to die now.’

‘We’re all going to die sometime, Soph. And, anyway, I expect Bertrand to pay me back before then. So don’t worry, your inheritance is safe. Or, at least, what’ll be left of it after the French government have taken their pound of flesh.’

‘Oh, Papa!’ she scowled at him.

Bertrand stood, still frozen, with the cheque in his hand. ‘I can’t take this, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘Of course you can. And anyway, I need a favour in return, Bertrand. There’s no such thing as a free loan.’

‘Anything.’

‘I need you to come with us. Someone to look after my girls.’

Nicole pre-empted both daughters, including herself without a second thought as one of Enzo’s
girls
. ‘Where are we going?’

‘There’s someone out there trying to destroy me, Nicole. Someone who burned down Bertrand’s gym, who tried to kill Kirsty. Someone who murdered a woman the same way he murdered a young man in a Paris apartment nearly seventeen years ago.’ He lifted his eyes to meet Raffin’s, and he saw the journalist frown.

‘The Pierre Lambert case?’ And when Enzo nodded, ‘How do you know that?’

‘M.O. A trademark killing. Spinal cord severed between the third and fourth vertebrae. A mistake, because it gives us a starting point. But this guy is still a ruthless, cold-blooded killer who’s prepared to do anything to stop me finding out who he is. So no one’s safe. None of us. Not until we get him.’ He let his gaze wander around the five sets of eyes fixed upon him. ‘We need somewhere that’s not known to him. Somewhere safe. A base from where we can start to track him down.’

Sophie said, ‘What about Charlotte’s cottage in the Corrèze?’

Enzo shook his head. ‘He knows everything about me, Soph. Charlotte’s in the States right now, so she’s safe. But he’s bound to know about her. So he’ll know about the cottage. We need to make a complete break with everyone and everywhere we know.’

Kirsty said, ‘Do you have someplace in mind?’

Enzo reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of hotel notepaper. ‘Actually, I do.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

Bertrand drew his van into the curb beneath the stark, leafless skeletons of the plane trees in front of the station. Enzo held the door open for Nicole to step down and glanced anxiously across the street.

There were a couple of men in the Hertz car rental office, bent over the counter, intent on signing paperwork. The Maison du Vin de Cahors appeared deserted. A man sat reading a newspaper in the weak winter sunshine outside the bar of the Melchior
brasserie
. He didn’t look anything like either Kirsty or Xavier’s description of the man with the missing earlobe. But that made no difference. The man whom Kirsty had seen in Strasbourg was not necessarily the killer. And the murderer had already employed someone to play the role of Enzo’s oncologist. They had no way of knowing who else might be in his employ.

Sophie leaned out to kiss her father and squeeze his hand. ‘Take care,’ she whispered. Only by dividing and subdividing themselves, could they hope to shake off anyone with a watching brief. Raffin had already set off in a hire car with Kirsty.

Enzo slammed the door, and Bertrand revved his engine, peeping on his horn before pulling away, and accelerating up the steep incline of the tree-lined Avenue Charles de Freycinet.

Nicole clutched her suitcase nervously. It was, as always, huge, and packed to capacity. Enzo had no idea what she took with her on her travels, but her
valise
was invariably too heavy for her to lift. He was pleased to see that she had invested for the first time in a case with wheels and offered to take it from her without fear of slipping a disc. ‘Do you think he’s watching?’ she said in a low voice, trying not to move her mouth.

‘Probably not, Nicole. But even if he is, I doubt if he can lip-read.’

He trundled her case across the tarmac, and doors slid open to admit them to the main concourse. It was crowded with passengers awaiting the imminent arrival of the train to Paris. Others were gathered to greet friends and family travelling up from Toulouse. Through yet more sliding doors, they stood in a queue at the
billetterie
, until waved forward to a
guichet
. The girl behind the glass said a weary
bonjour
. Enzo slipped her a sheet of paper containing the code and details of the booking they had made on the internet just an hour before.

The girl glanced at the two faces watching her through the window. ‘Just the one ticket?’

Enzo nodded. ‘Just the one.’

A dot-matrix printer chattered and spat it out. The girl slid it under the glass.
‘Bonne journée
.’

They passed back through to the concourse, and Enzo made an extravagant show of validating the single ticket in the
borne
by the door to the platform, and then handing it ostentatiously to Nicole. The message would be clear to anyone watching. Only Nicole was travelling. Enzo bumped her case downstairs to the underpass, and then up again to the platform, where they stood shivering in the cold wind that blew down the railway lines from the north.

‘I’m scared, Monsieur Macleod,’ Nicole whispered. Her eyes were darting back and forth along the length of the
quai
, flickering from face to face, assessing each as a potential killer, ruling some out and some in. ‘Do you really think he might be here?’

‘Impossible to know, Nicole. Which is why we’re not going to take any chances.’

The SNCF jingle echoed high among the steel girders of the steeply pitched glass roof, and a voice warned passengers to stand back from the edge of the platform. The Paris train from Toulouse would be arriving in just a few moments. Enzo peered south and saw the train rounding the bend in the distance.

When finally it groaned and creaked to a halt, doors flew open up and down its length and passengers streamed out to fight for space with those queuing up to get on, a confluence of conflicting interests. Enzo waited until others ahead of them had climbed into the train before he hoisted Nicole’s case up to chest level to push it through the door. The effort left him perspiring, tiny beads of sweat turning immediately cold as they formed around his eyes. Nicole threw her arms around him and kissed him on both cheeks. ‘Goodbye, Monsieur Macleod.’ Enzo could almost believe she had tears in her eyes.

He stood back as she climbed aboard and swung the door shut, and then he walked along the platform, following her progress through the coach until she found her seat. She sat by the window and pressed her forehead against it, looking down at him with concern. She gave a tiny wave. Enzo waved back, and as the crowds thinned, swallowed by the stairway that led down to the underpass, the guard raised his hand and gave a sharp blow on his whistle.

Several more doors slammed, and the train jerked and sighed, and began its slow progress out of the station. Enzo walked with it, waving at Nicole as it gathered speed, until he could only have kept up with it by running. He glanced down the platform. There were just a handful of people left on it now, and he grabbed a door handle as it passed, running with it and swinging the door wide. He heard the shouts of the guard somewhere behind him. If he mistimed his leap he would be in serious trouble.

He took off, and felt himself flying through the air, hovering for what seemed like an eternity on the swing of the door, before his feet found the steps, and he scrambled up into the train. As he leaned out to pull the door closed, he glanced once more back along the platform. No one else had attempted to jump aboard the moving train, and he felt confident that if anyone had been following him, then they had just lost him. The door slammed shut and he stood breathing hard, back pressed against the wall. He was too damned old for this.

Nicole was watching for him as the carriage door slid open, and he staggered unsteadily along the central aisle. She gave him another hug. ‘I was so worried you were going to break your neck, Monsieur Macleod.’

‘Yeh, well that’s exactly what’ll happen to me if we let this guy get too close.’ He slumped into the seat beside her and glanced at his watch. They would be at Souillac in an hour and meet up again with Bertrand and Sophie. He looked up and saw the conductor approaching from the far end of the carriage. He sighed. The more immediate problem was going to be trying to explain why he didn’t have a ticket.