The Secret (Dr Steven Dunbar 10) (6 page)

‘And I you,’ murmured Tally. ‘Take care. Come back to me.’

Steven sensed that the French police were enjoying his discomfort. He was being interviewed by three officers in a bare room that smelt vaguely of sweat and tobacco.

‘You come with impeccable references,’ said the senior detective
who had introduced himself as Philippe Le Grice, in charge of the inquiry into the death of Aline Lagarde. ‘The British Home Office apparently thinks highly of you.’

Steven acknowledged with a slightly awkward nod.

‘Such pleas on your behalf, of course, mean little when affairs of the heart are concerned where desire can turn to anger in the blink of an eye and with disastrous consequences for all concerned.’

‘There was no affai
r of the heart,’ Steven said coldly. ‘I’d never met the lady before. We were both attending the funeral of our friend.’

‘Ah, yes, Dr
Ricard . . . a fatal fall, an unfortunate accident I understand. So here you were in Paris, the city of love . . . on your own . . . staying overnight . . . and you meet Dr Lagarde . . . an extremely attractive woman by all accounts . . .’

‘It was nothing like that,’ Steven insisted. ‘We talked at the funeral and arranged to have a meal together later before I returned to
London and she travelled back to Afghanistan. That’s all there was to it, and then Aline didn’t turn up.’

‘Where did you intend having this meal together?’

‘The Monsonnier.’

Le Grice looked to his right where a younger man nodded. ‘So she didn’t turn up; your evening was ruined; you went to her hotel to demand an explanation . . .’

‘You were angry,’ interjected the man who had verified the Monsonnier booking.

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘But you did go to her hotel . . .’

‘Well, yes, but only to see if she was all right.’

‘And was she?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t go in,’ said Steven, conscious of how implausible it sounded in the circumstances.

‘Pathetic,’ snorted the one remaining officer who had sat throughout with a sneer on his face. He got to his feet and leaned across the table, his face close enough for Steven to smell the tobacco on his breath. ‘Of course you went in and when Dr Lagarde rejected your advances, you had your way with her anyway. Then you strangled her and left her like a piece of trash you’d finished with.’

Steven kept calm but he was struggling. ‘Are you telling me that
Aline Lagarde was raped?’ he asked.

‘Are you pretending she wasn’t?’ retorted Le Grice.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Steven angrily. ‘This the first time I’ve heard it mentioned.’

‘You’re angry,
doctor.’

‘Damn right I’m angry. I didn’t know
Aline Lagarde well but from what I saw I liked and respected her. She, like my friend Dr Ricard, was doing an incredibly difficult job – one that I couldn’t do – for very little in the way of thanks or reward and she ends up being raped and strangled in the heart of the “civilised” world and the best you and your bozos can do is question me about it.’

Le Grice turned to his colleagues. ‘Leave us.’

This was something Steven hadn’t expected.

Le Grice offe
red Steven a cigarette which Steven declined, then lit one himself, drawing on it deeply before exhaling and making sure the smoke went upwards by protruding his lower lip. At least we’ve avoided that little cliché, thought Steven.

‘Dr
Lagarde wasn’t raped,’ Le Grice said matter-of-factly.

‘Then what the hell was that all about?’

‘She wasn’t robbed . . . and she wasn’t strangled.’

Steven’s eyes opened wide. ‘Are you telling me that she’s still alive?’ he exclaimed.

‘Unfortunately not. She’s dead, shot through the back of the head with a nine millimetre pistol. Her money and her passport were still in the room and there were no signs of sexual assault.’

‘A professional hit?’

‘All the signs,’ agreed Le Grice.

Steven took a few moments to come to terms with
the information before asking, ‘Why all the play-acting?’

‘We couldn’t imagine Dr
Lagarde coming across too many hit men in her line of work but, by some strange coincidence, she was about to have dinner with a man who might conceivably fit the bill . . .’

Steven screwed up his eyes for a moment, reluctantly accepting the logic. ‘I’m hardly that,’ he said softly.

‘A Sci-Med investigator with a military past including service with British Special Forces.’

‘I had nothing to do with
Aline’s death.’

‘No, I know you didn’t,’ said Le Grice, ‘but I had to be sure. You had nothing to do with Dr
Ricard’s death either; we checked you weren’t in Prague at the time of the “accident”. Any idea what’s going on?’

‘None at all.’

‘What’s Sci-Med’s interest?’

‘It’s personal,’ said Steven,
‘not official. Simone Ricard was my friend. I felt I owed it to her to make sure her death was accidental. I thought it was and now this happens . . .’

Le Grice smiled distantly. ‘Dr
Ricard was French but her death is being regarded by the Czech police as an accident so there is no call for us to become involved. Dr Lagarde’s death is quite another matter. We will continue to investigate her murder using all means at our disposal, although the involvement of a professional assassin will . . . complicate things.’

Steven nodded his agreement.

‘If, however, you intend to maintain your interest, perhaps we might exchange notes . . . cooperate on our findings?’

‘Of course,’ said
Steven, ‘although to be honest I don’t quite know where to start.’

‘Then we are as one already,’ said Le Grice, getting up. He offered his hand then gave Steven his card. ‘You’re free to go,
doctor.’

The air tasted sweet: freedom did have a taste, Steven decided as once again he headed towards a river. It made him reflect on how often he did this in
London. There was something about flowing water that drew him, something about the continual motion that calmed his mind and helped him think clearly. What he had to decide was if there was anything he should do in Paris before he returned to London. He couldn’t think of anything offhand but this was more a reflection of what little he had to go on than a conviction that there was nothing more to be done here. He needed to think things through logically to be sure, but first he would call Macmillan and Tally.

‘So they let you go; must have been the impeccable reference I gave you,’ said Macmillan when told of his release.

‘Must have been,’ agreed Steven. ‘We have to talk when I get back. Things aren’t what they seem.’

‘I feared as much.’

Tally didn’t answer her phone and Steven concluded she must still be on duty at the hospital. He left her a text message before returning to river watching.

The spat between Simone and the rival aid organisation had to be his starting point. I
t didn’t seem much but Aline had injected more into the mix by suggesting there might be more to it. If only she’d lived long enough to say what it was. It had been her intention to talk to her bosses at
Médecins Sans Frontières
about it but that was scheduled for the day after she’d been murdered . . . There was a chance, however, that she might have had some sort of conversation with someone at the aid organisation when she called to make the appointment. He needed an address for Med Sans. He used his BlackBerry to establish a web link and Googled it.

Armed with an address in rue Saint
-Sabin he flagged down a taxi and was there in under fifteen minutes, asking at the desk for Guy Monfils, the man who had spoken at Simone’s funeral. He was invited to wait and used the time to examine the posters on the office walls, something that left him surprised at how large the organisation was: he was quickly disabused of his previous belief that it was primarily French.
Médecins Sans Frontières
had offices in many countries including the UK where it had premises in Saffron Hill in London. He noted that in several countries it was known as Doctors Without Borders, much more prosaic than the French name which rolled so easily off the tongue.

‘Dr Dunbar, this is a s
urprise,’ said Monfils, entering the room. ‘What brings you back to Paris?’

‘
Aline Lagarde’s murder,’ Steven replied briefly.

‘Why don’t we go through to my office?’

Monfils settled into his chair and invited Steven to do likewise with an outstretched hand. ‘I just hope the police catch the swine,’ he said. 'We have lost two of our most dedicated workers in the space of two weeks. It’s beyond belief.’

‘Tragic,’ agreed Steven.

‘I’d like to think this a social visit, doctor, but I have a feeling it’s not. What can I do for you?’

‘I had a letter from Simone
Ricard just before she died. In it she confided that she felt something was very wrong.’

Monfils
appeared to consider for a moment before asking, 'Did she say what?’

‘She didn’t
, and now she’s dead . . . as is her colleague Aline Lagarde.’

‘But surely this is some awful coincidence? Simone’s death was an accident and
Aline was murdered by some lunatic the police are currently hunting for.’

‘Maybe,’ said Steven
, remaining expressionless.

‘You can’t be suggesting a link?’

‘Let’s say I’m not ruling it out.’

‘My God, what possible reason could there be?’

‘I was hoping you might help with that. The Pakistan/Afghanistan border is a wild, untamed place. Is it conceivable that the women might have upset some people there, some gang, some faction that weren’t too keen on having foreigners around?’

Monfils
spread his hands and pursed his lips as if doubting the suggestion but wanting to find some way of agreeing. ‘Aid organisations are always walking on eggshells in such places,’ he said, ‘and bandits are a continual problem. But surely the scenario you are suggesting might have accounted for their deaths if they’d died out there . . . not in Prague or Paris.’

Steven had to agree. It was unlikely they would have been followed abroad. He changed t
ack. ‘I understand Aline made an appointment to come and see you before she returned to Pakistan.’

‘She did,’
Monfils agreed.

‘Can I ask what about?’

‘She was worried Simone might not have made her concerns known to me in Prague.’

Steven was disappointed. He’d hoped for some new slant. ‘You mean that Children First weren’t doing a good job?’

‘Precisely that.
Simone expected the best from everyone where children’s lives were concerned.’

‘But no one wanted her speaking about this at the
Prague meeting?’

Monfils
picked up a pen and appeared to scrutinise it closely as he pondered a reply. Eventually, he said, ‘Simone approached both Dr Schultz and myself about speaking but we decided there was no need for her to labour the point publicly. Children First is supported by a number of American charities. Americans tend to be very generous – they are by nature a very generous people.’

Steven thought he saw what was coming next and said, ‘And any criticism might have upset the cash flow?’

‘Worse than that,’ said Monfils. ‘We are on the brink of something special. All of us working on the eradication of polio have been disappointed by the persistence of the disease in the region where Simone was working, but now money has been found for a massive attack on the problem – American money.’

‘Government money?’

Monfils shook his head. ‘No, charity money. Money from film stars, pop stars, business magnates, people all coming together to wipe out this awful disease for once and for all. It hasn’t been publicly announced yet but it’s going to happen soon. There will be a rapid expansion of aid teams in the area and cash made available for the latest, most effective vaccine.’

‘Sounds wonderful.’

‘The money, of course, will be channelled through American aid teams.’

‘Like Children First,’ s
aid Steven, suddenly seeing where Monfils was leading.

‘It is
, of course, perfectly understandable that American benefactors would like to see the work being carried out by American teams and credit being given to their country of origin.’

‘Only human nature,’ Steven agreed. ‘It’s a pity Simone
didn’t know about this. It sounds like too big a boat to rock.’

‘She did,’ said
Monfils. ‘I told her in confidence in Prague.’

Steven was taken aback. ‘So what was her reaction?’

‘She went straight to Thomas Schultz and demanded an opportunity to speak to the meeting, saying that it was now more important than ever.’

‘Why?’

‘She wouldn’t say, just that she wanted to make a public statement.’

‘And now we’ll never know,’ said Steven with a sigh. It was becoming clear that there was nothing more to be gained from continuing the conversation. He thanked
Monfils for agreeing to see him at such short notice and left for the airport.

John Macmillan rubbed his temples in a circular motion with his fingertips when Steven told him he was convinced that both
Médecins Sans Frontières
women had been murdered. ‘I can sense your desire to get involved, Steven,’ he said. ‘I can even understand it, but the French police are investigating Dr Lagarde’s death. Perhaps we should give them some time? They may uncover a link.’

‘All the signs are that it was a professional hit, John. Chances are they’ll get nowhere
, and as for the Czech police, they’re satisfied that Simone’s death was accidental.’

‘We can’t be sure it wasn’t.’

‘My fear is that the police there will be only too happy to accept it was an accident. Murder at an international science meeting would be bad for the conference business. I suspect they didn’t question anyone too closely.’

Macmillan took a moment to digest this before saying, ‘I seem to remember the accident or otherwise occurred at a private showing of the monastery library to the meeting delegates?’

‘It did.’

‘Then you do realise you are suggesting that Dr
Ricard was killed by one of her own colleagues?’

‘Or someone pretending to be one of her colleagues,’ argued Steven. ‘Not everyone knows everyone at these medical conference things.’

‘And motive?’ asked Macmillan.

‘Someone wanted to stop her speaking at the meeting.’

‘And Dr Lagarde?’

‘She must have known what Simone knew.’

‘But you don’t.’

‘Not . . . yet?’ said Steven, knowing that he was throwing himself on Macmillan’s merc
y. ‘There has to be something more to all this than just a territorial spat.’

‘This really isn’t a
Sci-Med affair, Steven. I don’t see how we could justify the cost of an investigation . . .’

Steven knew Macmillan was right but couldn’t bring himself to say so.

‘Unless of course . . . you can see a way?’

Steven snatched at the lifeline Macmillan had thrown him. ‘I was thinking,’ he began. ‘
Médecins Sans Frontières
is not solely a French organisation. It’s international. There’s a British branch here in London which recruits British doctors and nurses.’

‘D
octors Ricard and Lagarde were both French,’ Macmillan reminded him.

‘But the French police are unable to investigate Simone’s death officially.’

‘Your point being?’

‘Simone and
Aline were not just French citizens, they were members of an international organisation – an organisation which includes the UK. Would it not be possible for us to help a sister organisation investigate the unlawful deaths of two of their people?’

Macmillan smiled. ‘You’re stretching things, Dunbar but if as you say there’s a branch of the organisation in London I’m willing to approach them, see what they
think about your idea. If they don’t want to have anything to do with it, it’s a straight no from me. Agreed?’

Steven agreed.

‘And another thing. If we should get a green light and this should go any further, you do not step on the toes of the French police at any point.’

‘We’ve already reached an agreement.’

Macmillan raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. ‘I’ll let you know what transpires.’

Steven went to his office and found among his mail the list of participants at the Prague meeting he’d asked Thomas Schultz for
, and also the names of the people who went on the library visit from the Czech organiser, Mazarek. He scanned through Schultz's list first, looking for British delegates, and found five including Tom North and his post-doc Dan Hausman. Dr Celia Laing worked at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine; Dr Clive Rollison worked at Birmingham University. Dr Neville Henson worked at the Microbiological Research Establishment at Porton Down.

This last name and affiliation caused Steven to let out a snort. He supposed there was no reason why a scientist from the government’s germ warfare establishment should not be present but the very idea of microbiological warfare always made his blood run cold.
Running his eye down the rest of the list, he noted that the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention at Atlanta Georgia were also represented at the meeting by a Dr Mel Reznik.

Steven checked his watch and decided there was time to put in a call to Celia
Laing before setting off for Leicester. He watched raindrops start to patter against the window as he waited to be transferred from the switchboard: the sound made his heart sink. Driving a low-slung Porsche in rain on the motorway was always a less than joyful experience, a bit akin to swimming underwater in a dirty river.

Celia
Laing answered and Steven identified himself. It took him a few moments to become accustomed to the sound of her voice. She spoke as if she had too many teeth in her mouth.

‘Dr
Laing, I understand you attended the recent polio eradication meeting in Prague?’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘The organisers arranged a trip for delegates to the Strahov monastery where a tragic accident occurred. Did you go on that trip by any chance?’

‘Yes, I did
. It was a beautiful place but, as you say, a French aid worker fell to her death from the gallery in the library. It was absolutely horrific.’

‘I’m sorry if this sounds insensitive
, but did you see it happen?’

‘No. That is,
I was in the gallery at the time but I didn’t see her go over, if that’s what you mean.’

‘I suppose you’d be admiring the ceiling like the others?’

‘Actually no, I was looking down at my feet. Someone had lost a contact lens and we were all too scared to move.’

Steven felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck. ‘Was this anywhere near where Dr
Ricard fell?’

‘Yes, quite near.
Why do you ask?’

Steven ignored the question. ‘Do you happen to know who it was who lost their contact lens?’

‘No, sorry. Why are you asking these things?’

‘Just routine, d
octor. Thank you for your help . . . Oh, shit,’ murmured Steven as he ended the call. ‘A diversion.’

‘So where do you go from here?’ Tally asked, soaping Steven’s back. It was ten o’clock; she had only been home for half an hour and Steven had just arrived after a hellish trip up the motorway in heavy rain. They had decided that a warm, relaxing shower was called for and Tally’s newly installed wet room was proving ideal.

‘Depends what Med Sans in London think about us getting involved when John puts it to them. In the meantime I’ll talk to some other folk who were on the library trip and see if I can find out who the contact wearer was.’

‘In the meantime . . . you’ll do no such thing,’ purred Tally, becoming more wide-ranging with
her soapy hands. ‘Stop thinking about work.’

Steven sighed appreciatively. ‘Yes ma’am.’

‘Good heavens . . .’ said Tally. ‘I do believe I’m gaining your attention . . .'