CHAPTER 12
TOURS
It was a bright, sunny afternoon in Tours and people had come out to drink pastis and play pétanque in the local square.
Others sat beside a fountain, reading books, chatting in groups and allowing their tanned limbs to sprawl in the sun.
A dewy couple pushed a pram through small market tables filled with bric-à-brac and antique linens, pausing to laugh and point out this and that, like they had nowhere to be.
Charlie wished she had more time to explore this city, famous for its parks, rillettes and nougat.
On days like today, when people ambled along hand in hand in the last of the summer sun, Charlie wondered what her life might look like if she hadn’t divorced her husband and moved to the other side of the world.
The moment was fleeting; Charlie knew she was far better off holding her own hand, yet sometimes she allowed herself to imagine what it would be like to have another to spend delicious idle time with.
It was just nerves. Charlie always started to second-guess herself when she was on the cusp of a big story.
She took a deep breath and tried to calm her racing heart.
She needed to put her failure with the Maisy Bell story to one side and reset.
Tours was a fresh case, a fresh story. A fresh chance to boost her career in Paris and put controversy behind her.
She had deposited Violet at the hotel and now sat in the back of a taxi as it wound its way through the old part of Tours, past jumbled, medieval, timbered houses that appeared to lean against one another.
The charming streets were narrow, curling through terraces filled with houses and pretty parks carved into the side of the river valley, and the drive was slow.
She wound her window down as they meandered through the ancient Roman city to better take in the clumps of lavender and rosemary and feel the sun and breeze on her face.
The warm air helped with the nausea creeping into her belly.
Whether it was from the constant turns or the impending cadaver, it was hard to tell.
This was Charlie’s second major story since she’d been back at work.
George had shown his belief in her by sending her out to cover this dead body, and Charlie wanted to prove to him that he was right—that she was a top investigative reporter.
And that meant finding some closure on this homicide case.
‘This is your park, Mademoiselle, Montsoudun Woods. As requested.’
‘Merci.’ Charlie opened the door, tipped the driver and sprang from the back seat.
The park was not unlike so many back in Paris, with symmetrical paths lined with towering elms that shed dappled shade onto the ground.
There was a large lake at the centre, around which mothers sprawled on picnic blankets with their sundresses hitched up to sunbathe while their barefoot children screamed and giggled as they splashed about at the lake’s shallow lip.
In the far corner of the park near the gate where she’d entered was a cheese monger, a lemonade stand, a boulangerie and a crêperie, and an ice-cream stand where children jostled good-naturedly in line.
This Touraine park was brimming with sunshine and joy. It was hard to imagine that in the forest just beyond the perimeter lay a dead body.
After about ten minutes of brisk walking, Charlie was on the far side of the park, where the chequerboard of manicured grass gave way to dense forest and damp leaf matter underfoot.
George had given her the exact path from his police contact.
Judging by the gully of muddy boot prints at the opening of the forest path, Charlie was in the right spot.
She was grateful that she had put on a pair of walking boots when she had returned to her little apartment to pack.
As she made her way along the path, she lost herself in the scent of pine and oak and the cool, fresh air—so different from the sweet, warm breeze in the Tours valley earlier that day.
Charlie followed the path for a few hundred metres, the muddy boot imprints assuring her that, with each step, she was drawing closer.
Eventually, the path widened to a small clearing and the footprints led to a wall of actual thick, black boots.
A dozen uniformed police officers stood blocking her view of the crime scene.
She caught glimpses of men in white coats—medical examiners, most likely—working behind the uniforms.
Charlie stood on her tiptoes and looked for a spot to try to get a view of the crime scene.
‘Stop!’ A burly police officer stepped towards her, holding up his palm. ‘This area is forbidden to tourists today. Go back to the park,’ he barked in French as he tried to wave her off like one might a pesky dog.
‘I’m press,’ Charlie said as she pulled her card from her satchel and held it up. ‘Charlie James from The Times.’
‘You people are insufferable,’ the officer snorted with contempt, reminding her of her encounter with Officer Rose back in Paris. ‘I don’t care if you wrote Les Misérables, there is nothing for you here.’
‘I disagree. There’s a dead body.’ She stood on her toes again to try to peek over his shoulder, but the officer shuffled sideways to block her view.
He pursed his lips and pointed at the path she’d arrived on. ‘Go!’
The uniforms beside him chuckled their support and crossed their arms to make an intimidating human wall.
Realising there was nothing she was going to get from this man who had the demeanour of concrete—or from his equally unfriendly colleagues—Charlie turned and walked to the edge of the path then stepped behind a tree to gather her thoughts.
She was going to make another attempt to cross that police line, she just needed a different approach.
She was certainly not quitting this story before it even began.
A few metres from where she stood was a man about her age dressed in khaki work pants, boots and a cotton shirt, leaning on a shovel, deep in thought.
He was broad of build, with chiselled cheekbones and light curls that tumbled over his forehead and collar.
Charlie’s mind clicked into gear. Perhaps he was a local forester or builder, given his workmanlike clothing.
Perhaps he was one of the unfortunate locals who’d discovered the body.
The handsome man certainly looked like he knew his way around a forest.
Charlie stepped from behind her tree and approached the man, who had propped his shovel against a large oak to bend and tie his shoelaces.
A twig snapped under her foot and his head shot up. He surveyed Charlie’s approach with bemused eyes.
‘You from Paris?’ he asked warily. ‘News travels fast.’
‘Guilty,’ she said, pulling her press pass from her satchel and passing it to him. ‘It’s kind of my job to see to that.’ She smiled nervously.
‘Charlotte James. The Times,’ he read. ‘You must have driven straight here.’
‘Train, actually. Your public transport is efficient.’
‘You are English?’ He looked confused.
‘Australian.’ She smiled. ‘Marginally better.’ She winked.
‘If you say so.’ He shrugged as he chuckled and handed her card back. ‘I put all journalists in the same basket.’
‘Do you work here? In the forest?’ asked Charlie, who was keen to move the conversation on from the follies of reporters.
‘Here, in the forest?’ The man’s eyes twinkled. ‘Today perhaps, maybe tomorrow … but usually no.’
‘Can I ask how you came here? With your shovel?’
‘Came here? Well, the shovel belongs to the Tours Police Department and I was giving it a clean so my colleagues could take some samples. Detective Gilles Allard.’ He wiped his hand on his pants and offered it to Charlie to shake.
‘I’m the detective sous-chef and I’m the officer in charge of this case, dispatched from Versailles.
We oversee all homicides this side of Paris. ’
‘Pleased to meet you, Detective.’ She shook his hand and was surprised at its warmth and vigour. Nothing gentle or patronising about this handshake. ‘In charge of this investigation? I met your friendly colleagues.’ She tweaked her head over to the wall of uniforms, who glared back at her.
‘The local police are just doing their jobs. I’m sure you can appreciate that every crazy person in town comes out to look at a dead body. This crime scene will be more popular than the evening river winery cruise once word gets around.’
‘Understood. So, what can you tell me?’
‘Walk with me,’ he said as he ushered her around the police line to the perimeter of the rope so she could see the body.
Charlie took a deep breath and surveyed the scene.
A short, round, fair-skinned man in a black suit and matching chauffeur’s hat lay on the soil.
The skin on his face was a pale blue, almost translucent.
There was no blood on the ground, but congealed blood on the collar and on the peep of neck flesh.
Charlie continued to breathe and steadied her heartbeat.
She’d now reported on numerous homicides and accidental deaths, but seeing a lost life with one’s own eyes was always a heavy moment.
Each body had dreams, families and stories of their own.
Stories that had finished—or that Charlie tried to finish.
Her shoulders fell a little as she studied this portly man nestled among decaying oak and elm leaves on damp soil. The man still had half a lifetime due.
‘What can you tell me about the deceased?’ she asked the detective as she pulled out her notebook.