CHAPTER 7
LUXEMBOURG GARDENS, PARIS
Charlie stood inside the eastern gate of Luxembourg Gardens and surveyed the park.
Long paths weaved their way through green islands of lawn.
Lines of mature plane and oak trees bordered every path, casting a dancing patina of light and shadows.
Pairs of tanned young lovers were sprawled out on the grass, messy hair, lying on a lap or resting on an elbow as they took turns reading from the tatty copies of Baudelaire or Rimbaud the students had no doubt just picked up from one of the many second-hand bookshops dotted along the adjacent streets.
Older men in linen jackets walked with canes, while women in splendid modern suits and sun frocks walked with an elbow threaded through their beaus’ arms and often carried a small parasol to keep off the hot August sun.
Sun chairs were arranged in strategic spots—moved every day so they did not mark the precious lawn—and people dozed or chatted, their faces turned to the light like sunflowers.
Close to the centre of the park lay a huge, octagonal lake with a fountain.
Boys and girls screeched and splashed one another as they pushed tiny sailboats about with long sticks while their weary mothers looked on and yelled occasionally for a child to not fall in.
Or to stop poking their little sister with a stick.
It was a typical summer’s day for these park-goers, none of whom had any idea that a young American woman’s life was about to be exchanged for a paltry amount.
Strange how a monumental moment was taking place among the humdrum of ordinary Parisian life.
Charlie shivered, trying not to remember how her own life had almost been sliced from her mere weeks ago on a balmy evening in a beautiful park not unlike this one.
She pushed her bad memories to one side and started to walk to the heart of the garden near the pond.
On her left a police officer blew a whistle and she froze.
The ransom note had specified no police, but Charlie quickly realised that this policeman was only instructing wayward visitors to move their canvas chairs from the cordoned-off area where the grass was regrowing.
The French took their green grass very seriously and it would be even more suspicious to have no uniformed officers in the gardens, bossing about hapless tourists and cheeky locals who did not pay attention to the strict lawn management regime.
A Parisian park with no grass police was like a boulangerie with no baguettes.
She walked another few steps before a suit-clad arm threaded through her own, took her hand in a firm hold and twisted her about to walk back in the opposite direction.
‘I knew you’d come, but that doesn’t mean I think your presence is a good idea,’ hissed Inspecteur Bernard through his teeth as he smiled and pretended Charlie was a lover he was taking for an ice cream.
‘You owe me. This was my lead. I gave you the letter.’ She could feel the tension in his bicep pressed against her shoulder. His hand was slightly clammy, though not unpleasantly so.
The inspecteur chuckled and said, ‘I am not doing this again, Mademoiselle James. If this is a kidnapping—’
‘Which you still don’t believe?’
He clutched her hand even tighter and she caught the scent of cedarwood at the collar of his pressed white shirt, which he wore beneath a slim-fitting navy suit.
Even for a hostage exchange, Bernard looked like he had stepped from the men’s pages with his shiny, polished shoes and neat-clipped hair.
The inspecteur turned to face her. They were standing in the shade of a tree with a thick trunk and Charlie realised that between the tree and his body, she could not see the rendezvous point by the lake and that this was his intention.
‘We have people in plain clothes—’
‘I can see. You dressed up!’ she teased and saw a slight flush creep into his cheeks.
Then Bernard sighed and relented. ‘You stay here. Get yourself an ice cream, seem to be doing something else. This is a public park, but if I see you take even one step from behind this tree, I will have that officer arrest you.’ He pointed to the officer still trying to shoo a pair of kissing teenagers with entangled limbs off a bald patch of grass.
‘I knew he was one of yours. Looks like he’s got a real job on his hands.’ She chuckled as the teenagers sat up and howled protests at the officer. ‘Oh, the French youth and their declarations of love, liberté and égalité.’
The corners of the inspecteur’s lips rose with the hint of a smile as he watched the protesting teenagers for a beat before turning again to Charlie.
‘Please.’ His voice had softened now and he gazed at her with his brown eyes.
‘Stay here and do as I ask. There will be nothing to tell you at all if we make a mistake. Now, I must report to my station. We have twenty minutes. I hear the lemon sorbet is bien. Have one, enjoy the sun and we shall see.’
Charlie searched the inspecteur’s dark eyes and tried to ascertain if he was being glib or overly cautious. His lips looked soft but were unsmiling.
Inspecteur Bernard turned on his heel and walked in a slow, steady stroll along the path towards the lake, leaving Charlie in a disarmed state. She really would fancy a kiss of those lips, sooner rather than later.
As Charlie watched the inspecteur’s back disappear, she took his advice and ordered herself an ice cream, choosing a scoop of creamy vanilla.
She leaned against the tree, licking the droplets off her hand, grateful for the ice cream and the shade on this scorching day.
Her armpits were damp and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades.
She did not wear a hat and for some reason, she found herself thinking about what impression she had created on the inspecteur when he saw her.
She wondered if he’d taken in her curves under her slightly clingy, rose linen dress.
She could still feel the impression of his hand in hers and the slight grip of his arm as it threaded through her elbow, the lines of his muscles evident beneath his suit.
Occasionally, when she sank into bed at night in her tiny apartment, she closed her eyes and it was not her ex-husband she imagined lying against her, peeling her nightdress from her sticky skin on a hot night, but Bernard.
Now was not the time—she needed to concentrate.
Charlie licked the last drops of her ice cream and discarded the cone in the nearest bin before returning to her designated spot near the tree.
Over near the lake, she could see the line of Bernard’s shoulders where he sat on a park bench, reading a newspaper.
Just a dozen steps from him stood Clementine Bell, shuffling nervously from foot to foot and clutching an oversized Hermès handbag.
Charlie couldn’t believe the woman had chosen such an obviously expensive bag for the exchange—but then considered that, with the Bells’ wealth, this bag was not a splurge, but as everyday as groceries.
Charlie pressed her cheek against the bark of the tree, taking comfort from the rough and smooth variegations, all the while keeping her eyes on Clementine.
The older woman wore a loose cheesecloth sundress in blue, white gloves and a white straw boater.
She looked like the American tourist she was and even from where Charlie stood, she could see Clementine’s face was red and damp circles were forming under her armpits.
Charlie felt sorry for Clementine Bell. Here she was, expecting an ending for this terrible ordeal, a paltry amount of money exchanged for a precious niece. A duck splashed about in the pond and Charlie considered George’s words: If it looks like a duck …
She studied Clementine’s stout form, her drooping shoulders and slightly knock-kneed stance.
Was she a Machiavellian aunt who was using her niece to break her brother and his control of the biggest oil company in the world?
Or was Clementine Bell simply an aunt who’d given her adult niece the space she had requested to have some summer fun in Paris?
A listless student sat nearby, plucking at a patch of grass. A gardener strolled a fenced-off area, turning briskly with each lap, his fists clenching and unclenching with frustration.
Charlie checked her watch as Clementine turned her back: 12.17 p.m. The drop should have happened by now.
Something was wrong.
Inspecteur Bernard turned the page of his broadsheet and flicked it, perhaps with agitation.
Or perhaps as a signal. To his left was another gardener trimming the lawn and yet another in matching new overalls a few feet along.
A man stood near the lake holding a bunch of yellow balloons but selling them to no one.
A tall man walked past carrying a tray of newspapers, which, again, nobody was buying.
A man sweeping the path near Inspecteur Bernard had been going at the same corner for the forty minutes Charlie had been behind the tree.
It was so clean somebody could eat their dinner off that spot tonight if they wished.
Inspecteur Bernard’s back straightened and his shoulders stiffened.
He flicked his paper again before folding it in quarters and resting it on his lap, crossing his legs and jiggling one in an agitated manner.
His body language confirmed something was amiss.
He was no longer a nonchalant local on a park bench, but a frowning man twisting his head to survey the area.
A small boy in shorts, braces and long socks ran along the side of the lake, using a stick to push a little red boat with a blue sail.
When he neared Clementine Bell, he plucked the boat from the water, giving it a shake to get all the droplets off before tucking it under his left arm along with his stick.
Charlie watched him clamber from the edge of the lake and make his way to where Clementine stood.
As the boy approached Clementine, he called loudly, ‘Excuse-moi.’ He tugged Clementine’s sleeve and said something into her ear as the older woman leaned down to meet him, looking very confused.
‘Merci, au revoir,’ Charlie lipread as the slip of a boy turned his back and scurried away on skinny brown legs.
He disappeared into the crowd and then through a bent bar in the boundary fence before the gardeners, balloon sellers or newsagents could grab him.
Clementine Bell opened up a piece of crumpled paper in her hands and read it, then pressed her hands over her eyes as her body started to shake. Inspecteur Bernard stood and ran the few steps to console her, coaxing her across to the park bench to sit down, still clutching her bag.
Realising the ransom exchange was not going to happen, Charlie jogged towards where Clementine sat on the park bench, leaving the undercover officers to scratch their heads and scour the park. They had been duped.
‘Clementine, are you okay?’ Charlie dropped onto the seat beside the older woman and grabbed her limp hand in consolation.
While there was a flurry of plain-clothed police officers in the park who were now conducting an extensive search behind every tree, ice-cream station and drinks fountain, there was no sign of Mason Bell.
Charlie considered this, thinking it strange a brother would not turn out to support his sister.
But perhaps, as he was a recognisable relation of Maisy Bell, Mason Bell had been instructed to stay away.
Or maybe, as he wasn’t mentioned in the ransom note, those who took Maisy didn’t know he was in Paris.
It would look suspicious if he attended, as the letter clearly stated Tell nobody.
Inspecteur Bernard stood beside Clementine Bell, casting a shadow across the seat. ‘Très désolé, Mademoiselle Bell, my men are securing the perimeter and sweeping every inch of this park. If there is someone related to this case, we will find them, I assure you.’
‘Will you though?’ cried Clementine. She turned her head away from Bernard to glare at Charlie James. ‘I showed you the note—it was you who took it to the police.’ She wrenched her hand away.
‘I did, and I stand by that, Clementine,’ said Charlie so gently it was as though she were approaching a skittish horse. She could not afford to lose the trust of Clementine Bell if she had a hope of reporting this story with accuracy. And of finding Maisy Bell.
‘If you were so right, why did some filthy little street urchin hand me this?’ demanded Clementine in a steely voice.
Charlie chose to ignore the unkind tone and hint of snobbery, as Clementine was clearly distraught.
Her eyes were bloodshot from what Charlie presumed was lack of sleep and tears streamed down her face.
Charlie thought of George Roberts’s theory that this was simply about money, and looked across at the ducks diving in the pond.
If it looks like a duck … Was Clementine’s distress the anguish of losing a loved one or of a staged kidnapping going awry?
Or both? Families were complicated. Would Clementine, or Clementine and her twin, Mason, really hatch an elaborate plan to disappear their niece?
Based on what Lady Ashworth had told Charlie, Maisy Bell was an only child and her father was ill.
Charlie assumed Maisy would inherit her father’s controlling share of their family oil company.
Clementine clearly had wealth and freedom to travel as she pleased; would that change substantially with a heftier dividend?
Or could her motive have been more sinister—to hurt her brother?
Or, at its most basic, could Clementine be jealous of her niece, her youth, her beauty? Were Clementine’s tears just for show?
Inspecteur Bernard frowned and unfurled the piece of paper Clementine handed him. His shoulders sank as he read the note. He flattened it in frustration against his thigh before handing it to Charlie.
Charlie shivered as she read the barely legible line in black ink: I said no police.