CHAPTER 12 #2
‘Male, dark hair, white, about eighty kilograms and one hundred and seventy-five centimetres tall. Thought to be shot in the back of the neck at least twenty-four hours ago, given the state of the rigor mortis. The victim may have been killed elsewhere and dumped here after dark. But it would be difficult to carry a dead body through that park, as you can imagine. More likely the victim was marched here and killed on the spot. I’m about to send my officers out to the park to start questioning people.
The stallholders. Anyone who might have seen this man yesterday. ’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Not yet.’ He pointed to the silver star badge on the lapel and Charlie immediately recognised it from seeing Lady Ashworth’s chauffeur recently.
‘Paris Opéra Limousines,’ she said quickly.
‘You sure?’
‘I have an acquaintance in Paris who books the same company. I recognise the badge on the lapel.’
‘Impressive, Mademoiselle James. Thank you.’ He went and whispered in the ear of one of the uniforms, who turned and gave a grudging nod at Charlie before pacing off towards the park.
Charlie looked up, searching through the leaves for the sun. ‘Any other facts?’
‘Look,’ the detective said in a low voice, ‘I can’t really tell you any more than you know. A bullet hole in the base of the skull and estimated time of death is all we’ve got.’
‘That’s pretty much what I had in Paris,’ said Charlie, shaking her head. George would be furious if she returned to Paris empty-handed. ‘Now you know the company, you’ll be able to get the client.’
‘Indeed.’
Two young men, one holding the lead of a sniffer dog, walked back into the clearing and towards the detective.
As they got closer to the body, the skinnier of the two staggered back and covered his mouth with his hands, gagging.
The officer holding the dog’s lead grabbed his colleague’s elbow and gave him a consoling thump on the back.
The officers’ uniforms were brand new, with fresh crease marks.
Charlie couldn’t imagine that these fresh recruits had seen many corpses.
She remembered her rookie reporter days, working her first homicide case back in Sydney: the roiling stomach; the ghosts across her eyelids when she tried to sleep.
Detective Allard led the two young men to his shovel, imploring them to sit on a log, put their heads between their knees and suck in some deep breaths.
‘It’ll help stop the gag reflex,’ he explained with kindness.
‘Happens to everyone the first time.’ He met Charlie’s eyes across the tops of their heads.
His gaze held a sympathetic look. She nodded in agreement.
The dog sat patiently at the skinny officer’s feet.
The detective reached behind the log and produced a metal lunch set and thermos.
He poured tea and offered it to his young uniforms, then a baguette filled with ham and cheese from his lunchbox, tearing it in half so each officer had some sustenance.
Charlie marvelled at this gentle kindness from a senior police officer on the fringes of a forest. It was charming, almost fatherly.
She surveyed the clearing. A sheet was being pulled over the body in front of the unshifting row of uniforms. The young men, barely out of their teens, munched on their commanding officer’s lunch with stooped shoulders and bowed heads.
It was at once mundane and extraordinary.
Provincial warmth mixed with a homicide.
The senior medical officer stood and gestured for Detective Allard to join him.
Before he went to inspect the body, the detective made a point of speaking with Charlie.
‘I should be out of here in a few hours. The police station will be closed. Please, meet me on the terrace of Hotel Mirabeau. It’s central, but away from the crowds, and I’ll share what information I have. It’s the least I can do.’
‘That’s where I’m staying,’ replied Charlie.
‘You must have a better expenses budget than the police force,’ quipped Allard and Charlie found herself quietly thanking Violet for the second time that day.
‘An update would be appreciated. I cannot go back to Paris without a story.’ Charlie wondered if Allard had aperitifs with all reporters who sought information.
The detective was nothing if not professional, but there was an added warmth and openness to him that was lacking in his Parisian police colleagues.
Allard studied her for a minute with a bemused smile. His eyes were hazel and matched the leaves on the forest floor. ‘Hmm, there’s some backstory there, by the sounds of it. Have something to prove, do you?’
Charlie was a little rattled by how easily this stranger had read her. Like reporters, police officers were well versed in body language and making quick assessment of people, but this was so much more.
‘The other journalists will be here like rats tomorrow, if not this evening. I’ve already sent all the local reporters away—they were only going to write a beat-up. The whispers will already be going around the market stalls by now. But I promise I’ll speak with you first.’
‘Why me?’ asked Charlie. ‘Why The Times?’
Allard laughed. ‘If an Australian reporter has travelled to the other side of the world for a story, I’m going to give her a story. That’s some determination.’ He tilted his head sideways and grinned.
Charlie’s stomach flipped in a very unprofessional way.
‘Well,’ she said, trying to regain her composure, ‘I would appreciate that very much. Six thirty p.m. Hotel Mirabeau,’ she confirmed.
He nodded, then turned as he said, ‘Now, I must get back to work.’
He walked in silence back to the park, leaving Charlie to wonder what just happened.
She was used to discussing cases with Inspecteur Bernard over a meal, but only because he ran his days with military efficiency.
Like a true Frenchman, Bernard made no exceptional circumstances for his daily lunch at the bistro across the square from his office.
This felt different. Was Detective Allard flirting?
Was Charlie?
As she stepped from the forest path into the civility of the park, Charlie noticed an elderly man with a beard sitting on a park bench, watching her, a filthy pillowcase at his feet.
There was something about the bag and the way the man studied Charlie with narrowed eyes.
Despite his short stature he had the feel of a courtier surveying his kingdom.
Something about his demeanour—his straightened spine and curious gaze—beckoned her over.
As she stepped closer, Charlie realised that she had been mistaken and this man was about her age.
It was just his unkempt beard and shabby clothes that made him appear older.
With his burgundy velvet vest laced up over a white dress shirt, matching burgundy pantaloons and thick-soled black boots with a pointed toe, he looked like a cross between a magician, a traveller and a beggar. He was only missing a top hat.
The man graciously shuffled aside for Charlie, sliding his pillowcase to make room for her feet. It clinked with glass. She plonked herself on the seat and wondered how to start the conversation.
Charlie went through her notes as she collected her thoughts. Eventually, she made eye contact and gave a tentative smile.
‘Did you see the dead man?’ she asked softly in textbook perfect French. Charlie’s taxi driver had told her proudly that Touraine French was the purest dialect in the whole country.
‘Oui,’ the wanderer answered. ‘Was he in a black suit? I tried to go and look and speak with the young uniforms, but they shooed me away. Like a cat.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I guess my eyes don’t count.’
Charlie closed her notebook. ‘May I ask your name?’ she replied politely.
He turned and looked at her with concern. ‘They call me Mael. Are you police?’
‘No. A reporter. Charlie James, The Times.’
‘Bah! Even worse.’ He kicked his pillowcase and the bottles clinked as he slumped back in his seat.
‘Why do you say that?’ Charlie asked, trying not to sound offended. It wasn’t unusual for people to distrust reporters, especially those on the edge of society. Invisible people generally distrusted authority—they’d been let down so many times.
As if to prove his disgust, he said, ‘Look at you, hunting dead bodies for people to get their kicks over in the morning paper as they have their coffee. A dead body is entertainment for the masses.’
The candour of this man clad in burgundy velvet was unsettling. But if he’d seen something, Charlie wanted to know.
‘I tend to agree, Mael … I want to honour this moment. Not use it for entertainment. Do you have a last name?’
‘Oh, no, I’m not falling for that trick. I won’t be in the paper.’ He waggled his finger at her.
‘Understood.’ She moved along quickly, keeping her notebook closed so she didn’t spook him. ‘If I promise that I won’t reveal my source, will you tell me about the dead man?’
‘How are you so sure I know anything about a dead man?’
‘Because you’re sitting here watching everyone who moves along that path.
In my line of work, I’ve learned it’s not uncommon for the killer to stick around.
Sniff out the investigation. Sometimes they’re family, other times a colleague or friend.
It can be a stranger too’—she gave the man a long, steady look—‘but less often. The killer might even go to the funeral.’ She shook her head.
‘Honestly, the chutzpah of killers rarely surprises me.’
‘You speak like you’ve seen many dead bodies. Like a woman far older than you are.’
‘Death and destruction … reporting of the darker stories … it can age you,’ she said simply.
‘Hmm.’ Mael pulled a silver hip flask from his internal vest pocket, twisted off the lid and passed it to her for a sip.
Charlie caught a whiff of cheap red wine and shook her head. ‘Merci. Have to work when I get back to the hotel and I’ll fall asleep here in the sunshine if I have that.’