Last Kiss (20 page)

‘Just as well we had something to eat on the plane.’

‘Oh, we’ll eat, all right. I’ve made a reservation for dinner this evening at a restaurant close to our hotel.’

‘For a man who hasn’t been here before, you’re certainly organised. Look,’ she said, ‘we’re getting closer to the centre.’ She pointed up a narrow street with a glimpse of the Seine at the top, and a florist on the corner.

‘It certainly looks good, I’ll give you that.’

‘It’s magical. There are plenty of reasons why Parisians are proud of their city.’ Once again she stared out of the window, taking in the sights as they flew past. ‘We’re in the centre of the
Latin Quarter now.’ She sounded like an excited child. ‘It won’t be long until we can see Notre Dame.’ It was the first time he had seen or heard her so enthusiastic about her surroundings. He liked it. It reminded him of his younger self, the guy who hadn’t fucked things up. ‘There it is now,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Wait until you go inside – the atmosphere is like nowhere else on earth.’

‘So, what’s it like?’ His curiosity was spiked.

‘It’s quite dark at first, but there is an amazing stillness despite the throngs of moving tourists. There’s a sense of peace, with hints of light everywhere. You can see thousands of small candles flickering, each one lit by someone saying a prayer. The stained-glass windows let in light too. They have the deepest shades of blues and reds you can imagine. Each one tells a different story.’ She turned to him. ‘I’m afraid I’m not doing a great job of explaining it.’

‘You’re doing okay.’

‘They still have mass there, you know. And there are glass confessionals too. I thought it was the strangest thing the first time I was here, being able to look inside a confessional and see the priest and the sinner talking to one another. Of course, you can’t hear what they’re saying, but it still felt odd compared to Ireland, where people sit in coffin-like boxes telling a barely visible priest their sins.’

‘The last time I was at confession, I was probably wearing knee-length trousers.’ He laughed.

The taxi turned away from the Seine and darted down some narrow streets that Kate didn’t recognise. It pulled up outside
the Hôtel Saint Christophe, and Kate got out. She waited on the footpath while Adam paid the driver. The air felt cooler and crisper than it did in Dublin. Under any other circumstances, she mused, the two of them could have a great time exploring the city, but there was little chance of that, with all the work ahead and the flight to Rome booked for the following day. Still, she couldn’t resist smiling when he carried both their bags up the steps and through the hotel’s double doors. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was pretending they were simply two people on holiday in one of the most romantic cities in the world.

‘Once we sign in,’ he said, ‘I can book another taxi for us. How long do you need in your room?’

So much for the most romantic city in the world, she thought. ‘Give me ten minutes to freshen up, and I’ll meet you back here at Reception.’

‘Wrap up warm, Kate. There’s a chill in the air.’

In the hotel room, she took a quick shower and felt better for it. Her hair was still wet, so she tied it into a long side plait, then put on jeans, comfy Ugg boots and a warm top. She had a feeling that at some point they’d be walking around this city and it was best to be prepared.

When they disembarked from the next taxi, the Hôtel du Maurier looked far grander than the modest, but convenient, Hôtel Saint Christophe.

‘Another opulent affair,’ she said, as they went into the lobby for their first appointment. The interior was impressive too.

‘I like your hair that way,’ Adam remarked.

‘What?’

‘Put in a plait like that. It’s cute. It makes you look younger.’

She wasn’t sure if he was teasing or serious. ‘I told you,’ she said in jest, ‘older men prefer the younger model.’

‘Steady on there. I’m in my mid-thirties. As a man, my choices are still wide open. I can look one way, age wise, or the other.’ He grinned.

She liked his sense of humour, and that he could get away with saying things others couldn’t, but before she could answer him, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the hotel mirrors. She looked about twelve.

‘This must be Inspector Girardot now.’ He pointed to a man coming through the front door.

‘How do you know?’

‘I’m a detective, aren’t I?’

‘Very funny.’

The tall, elegant, dark-haired man, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit and an open trench coat, made his way towards them. He looked older than Adam, and with a sophistication that an Irishman could never adopt.

‘Monsieur O’Connor, I’m very pleased to meet you.’

‘Likewise, Inspector Girardot. May I introduce you to Dr Kate Pearson?’

‘
Docteur
.’ He bowed his head briefly. ‘Shall we get on with it?’ His tone was friendly but efficient.

They went in silence in the lift to the second floor. It seemed Inspector Girardot was a man of few words.

‘This way,’ directed the French detective, as the lift doors opened, and they followed him down an exquisite corridor with ornate architrave, glistening chandeliers and beautiful tapestries on either side.

‘Are all the floors the same?’ Kate asked.

‘No, no.’ He stopped. ‘The second floor is the most luxurious within the hotel. It has all the private suites.’

‘And presumably extremely expensive.’ Adam glanced around him.

‘That, Monsieur O’Connor, is very much dependent on your budget, but the price would be out of reach for the average Parisian.’

‘Did Pierre come from a wealthy family?’ Kate asked.

‘No, not particularly.’

‘Any record of who paid for the room?’ Adam quizzed, as they neared their destination, Room 133.

‘I understand it was paid for in cash. Pierre Laurent used his real name, but gave a false address.’

‘Any theories as to why he did that?’

The inspector shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is possible he didn’t wish to give the address of his student quarters. An art student with lots of cash might have been considered suspicious.’

‘Was he involved in anything suspect or shady?’ Adam was pushing Girardot, doing what he did best: police work.

‘Not that we could ascertain.’ Girardot stopped outside a room. Before turning the key, he said, ‘It is unoccupied at present. You will find it very similar to how it was nine years ago. The Hôtel du Maurier had a complete revamp for the millennium, investing in good furnishings. The rooms have barely been altered since.’

Kate felt as though they were stepping back in time with the room’s marbled floor, wooden parquet insert, Napoleonic
furniture, ornate gold table lamps, paintings, the austere blood-red drapes, and the twenty-armed chandelier in the centre of the high decorative ceiling. While the two policemen talked, she walked around the suite, taking in as much as she could. It was only when Girardot opened the door to a smaller room off the main area, speaking about where the body had been found, that she turned her concentration back to them.

All three of them stood in what Girardot described as a dressing area, with one window, a panelled wall of mahogany wardrobes, a lady’s chair and a chaise longue, both in mahogany and upholstered in red silk with a large fleur-de-lis design. The door opposite the one they had walked through led to the en-suite bathroom. Kate stood in the viewing point, with the small window behind her. ‘The victim was laid out here.’ Girardot pointed to a rug on the floor, but Kate had already visualised Pierre Laurent’s body there, seeing the rug reflected in the framed bathroom mirror. ‘It was over here that the lantern was placed, directly beside the body. I understand from the detectives who investigated the original case, the young man looked almost as if he was asleep.’

A frame within a frame, Kate was saying over and over in her mind. This was all about form, position and proportion. ‘It was from here she created her perfect picture,’ she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

‘I don’t understand.’ Inspector Girardot looked confused.

Kate continued, ‘The killer moved the body to the position on the rug because she wanted to frame it that way in the mirror.’ Then she pointed to the window behind her. ‘I’m
standing in a frame, don’t you see? A frame within a frame. It’s where the killer stood to ensure she got the perfect re-creation of the card.’

Both men stared at her, and almost as if she was thinking aloud, she began taking small, steady steps around the room. ‘Our killer sees the world in pictures, one frame at a time.’

‘Why?’ Adam asked.

‘I’m not sure yet, but the reflection, the mirrored glass, the framing …’ She trailed off.

‘What about them?’

‘We could be looking at this the wrong way.’

‘I don’t get you, Kate.’

‘She’s doing more than re-creating the card within the framing. She’s also controlling and containing the image, almost as if she needs to perfect a different visual slant on the world, an alternative reality.’

Inspector Girardot seemed content to stand back in silence.

‘You said you didn’t think Pierre was the first victim, Kate.’

‘He was strategic in the progression, certainly, but if my analysis is correct, and we’re dealing with the aftermath of sustained early trauma, there will have been a primary event, where she first stepped over the line.’

‘When?’

‘We could be talking early adolescence. If she’s the planner I think she is, she would have been careful the first time. She wouldn’t have wanted to get caught, looking on that killing as a possible means of freedom.’

‘Are you talking about another male victim, Kate?’

‘I’m thinking parental figure, or figures, some early primary influencer.’

‘Maybe the art college will tell us more about Pierre and why she picked him.’

Inspector Girardot coughed. ‘Everyone at the college was interviewed during the original investigation.’

‘With all due respect, Inspector Girardot,’ Adam was quick to reply, ‘we will want to talk to anyone who was around at the time of Laurent’s murder.’

Kate took a couple of steps back from the two men, then entered the bathroom, with a view of the main suite and the dressing area to her left. She knew why the killer had created the scene in the smaller area, but why such opulence for the room, similar to where Rick Shevlin had been killed? It meant something to her. The killer may be affluent now, Kate thought, but there was every chance her beginnings were much more humble.

‘Is there anything else you want to see in here, Kate?’ Adam asked.

‘No, I’ve seen enough.’ Then she asked Girardot, ‘When Pierre booked the room, did he request a specific number?’

‘I’m not sure. We have the files ready for you to inspect, but why do you ask?’

‘It makes sense that she would have chosen it. The room number is important.’

‘Why?’ Adam asked.

‘The second two digits, 33. It’s another master number.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘At the Earlbrook Hotel, Rick Shevlin was murdered in Room 122, the second and third digit another master number.’

‘What does it mean?’

‘I don’t know yet, but it means something to our killer.’

INSPECTOR GIRARDOT HAD set up the meetings for Kate and Adam at the Beaux-Arts de Paris. They were expected there at two p.m., initially to talk with the director of the Institute, Julien Chéry, and then Jacques Guéguen, the head of fine arts, under whom Pierre Laurent had studied.

Having spent the remainder of the morning going through the case files with Girardot, Kate and Adam were left with less than an hour to grab lunch before their scheduled meeting with Chéry. The day was still chilly, but bright, and they decided to walk to the college instead of taking a taxi. Kate was familiar
with the route, and it reminded her of her previous visits. The aroma of strong coffee from the various cafés opposite the Seine was tempting, but they opted for a couple of hot panini and takeaway coffees from a street stall as they walked down a flight of stone steps to the river below. There, the chill wasn’t quite so bitter, protected by the riverbank walls.

Sitting on a public bench, it felt strange to Kate to be in Paris with Adam. All of her previous associations with the city had been personal and pleasurable, not work-related. It was hard to avoid slipping into recreational mode, but eating her lunch, she was content to sit in silence and take in the surroundings. It was Adam who spoke first, bringing the conversation back to work and their sole purpose for being there.

‘Kate, earlier on I got the impression that more things have slotted into place for you.’

‘It’s good to visit the crime scene, but you’re right. I feel I’m getting a deeper grasp of our killer – her motivation, and the level of anger and hurt involved.’

‘Hurt?’

‘There’s no doubt she has been hurt and damaged emotionally. Her actions are fuelled by and infused with hate. The fact that she used a similar level of attack on both Pierre Laurent and Rick Shevlin opens up other possibilities too.’

‘Like what?’