LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

found, but DNA taken from blood on the necklace and a few strands of hair caught in the fountain’s pipes gave a clear indication that Mathilde had been here.

      A car’s brakes cut through the shroud of silence and a creature in the tree above hissed its objection at Veronique.

      Approaching the fountain she scoured for the patrolling night watchman and his unpredictable Alsatian. Time wasn’t about to wait for her to set her own pace so she slipped off her trainers and stepped into the water, registering its bitterness as the chill spread over her skin.

      The fountain had been drained, its water already replaced in an attempt to hide the truth once the park was reopened. A PR stunt designed to cover up the fact the police had potentially ignored a murder, which made her own investigation all the more difficult.

      Draining the fountain was a mistake in her mind. In so doing the police could have wiped away something that lay hidden in the debris at the bottom. But they were looking for physical evidence, not subtle clues. Once the press got hold of the story there was a danger of it turning into a full-scale murder hunt.

      Guillaume would be under a lot of scrutiny, forced to explain how his task force dismissed the claims of a mother that her daughter hadn’t simply run away. He would be doing everything in his power to find Mathilde and fast, so Veronique needed to stay one step ahead of him if she were to win.

      Is that all this was: a desire to prove him wrong? To prove that her methods, no matter how ruthless, were more effective than ticking every box, following every lead to the point of exhaustion? That what happened to Pascal wasn’t his fault and he needed to stop trying to make up for it every day of his life?

      She should go and see Pascal. Ever since she and Guillaume broke up she had been avoiding him, refusing to visit due to her workload and ignoring all attempts by the family to contact her. It wasn’t Pascal’s fault. But she needed to cut all ties; it was the only way she could cope with the chasm that opened up in her the day Guillaume left.

      Reaching the statue at the fountain’s centre she bent down, easing her arm into the water and feeling for the opening of the pipes where Mathilde’s hair had been found. The pumps being idle allowed her to push her hand inside of the pipe, wiping around the inside with her fingertips as she searched for any scrap of a clue.

      Pulling her hand out she tugged at her sleeve, fabric clinging to wet skin as she looked around, deciding where next to go. The presence of hair alone would not have made the police take notice, but coupled with the blood found on the missing necklace they were compelled to investigate further.

      As she turned to walk back through the water its surface rippled, disturbed by a movement nearby. A low rumble emerged from underneath and behind her, the vibrations too subtle to feel in her own body but visible as they spread out in circles towards the edge of the fountain. A droplet landed on her shoulder, followed by several more and she looked skyward as the pipes sucked water into their belly and propelled it up and over her.

      Squatting down she shoved her arm back into the water, feeling the pull against her hand. She stood, staring into the water and watching it swirl around her legs. The fountain could not have been turned on if a body was here, otherwise the force from the pipes would have pressed skull against the metal’s edge, hair becoming further entangled and leaving traces of skin or blood.

      She checked her watch. It was just before 6 a.m. The park closed at 11 p.m., giving seven hours in which to move the body. But how? The park was surrounded on three sides by eight-foot-high fencing and the only open exit was by the Place de la Concorde where someone dragging a body would be noticed no matter what time of day or night. Which meant either Mathilde was hidden in the park somewhere or she was still alive.

      The water lapped in a false tide around her calves as she returned to the fountain’s edge and stepped over its ledge. The soles of her feet stuck to the damp earth, leaving behind two clear imprints. Next to them, facing away from the stone was another, fainter footprint. The edges weren’t clean, but Veronique could identify the outline of a heel and five toes, the second of which was longer than the first. It was the same footprint she had often seen on her bathroom floor as its owner dried himself with an oversized towel.

      ‘I should have known he couldn’t keep his mouth shut.’

      Veronique turned to see a besuited man sitting on a bench not ten feet away, lacing up black brogues.

      ‘Who?’

      ‘Don’t pretend to be stupid.’ He rose from the bench, sipping from a polystyrene cup. ‘It doesn’t suit you. Christophe can’t afford another stain on his record and you know it. He’s a phenomenal forensics expert, one of the best we have, and yet due to some misplaced loyalty towards you his career is constantly being put on hold.’

      ‘Shouldn’t you be at the station, Guillaume?’

      ‘Shouldn’t you be running along the riverbanks rather than scaling fences?’ He walked towards her.

      ‘Touché.’ She smiled, trying to ignore the suggestive aroma of tea tree that accompanied him as he drew close. Did the amber glass bottle still sit on his window ledge? Did he think of her when he rubbed the ointment into the persistent psoriasis at the edge of his scalp? How many more weeks until he would need to replenish his supply, to retrace steps taken together upon their chance discovery of an apothecary shop hidden behind their favourite restaurant? The wooden drawers hiding treasures used over the centuries to treat ailments even modern medicine could not cure.

      ‘What happened to your face?’ A raised hand, her step away in response.

      ‘Nothing, just a boxing accident.’

      ‘Now why do I find that hard to believe?’

      ‘Believe what you want. It’s hardly your concern any more.’

      A twitch, his eyes shifting. ‘You shouldn’t be here.’

      ‘You shouldn’t have dropped the case.’

      ‘Stop goading me, Veronique. You’re way over the line here and you know it.’

      ‘Did you find a body?’

      Even in the half-light of dawn she saw the shadows underneath his eyes, shadows that hadn’t been there a few months ago. Was it Pascal? Had something happened to him?

      ‘You know I can’t tell you.’ He turned his head, showing her the temptation of hair that curled against the nape of his neck.

      ‘Does the mother know?’

      ‘So that’s the connection.’ He faced her. ‘Why this case? It doesn’t fall within your usual remit. What happened? Did all the one per cent disappear to their tax havens for the summer, leaving you without any clients?’

      He was taunting her, the tone of his voice like a petulant child’s.

      ‘Has Madame Benazet been informed of the findings?’

      ‘Stay out of it, Veronique.’ Guillaume threw his cup into a nearby bin. ‘Don’t force me to fire him.’

      ‘You don’t have the authority to do that.’

      ‘No? Set foot on one of my crime scenes again and you’ll find out if that’s true.’ He stared at her for a moment, a thought left hanging. ‘Take the exit by the Musée de l’Orangerie.’ He indicated behind her with a nod of his head. ‘That way you won’t be seen.’ His phone rang and he pressed it to his ear, one quick glance at her permitted before he walked away.

      Like a magician he had managed to unravel her careful work of the past months, reaching down inside of her to pull everything back to the surface.

      She left the park, crossing the river and heading west along its banks. The top of the Eiffel Tower was like a lighthouse, guiding her as she tried to push all thoughts of Guillaume away.

      But no matter what she did, he was there. Whenever she drank her morning coffee, made using a machine he bought her as he didn’t understand how she could spend a

Скачать книгу