Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Claire gave herself a tiny mental shake. “Of course she would. I’m just being neurotic.” She moved over to the doorway, to him. “You’re leaving?”

He hesitated. “It seems wisest. I imagine the police will be keeping an eye on you. You’ll be safe here.”

“I imagine,” she echoed.

“Unless you want me to stay?”

Yes, she thought. “No,” she said. “Would you call Inspector Malgreave for me and tell him Nicole is here and safe? I don’t want to have to hassle with trying to get through to him.”

“Of course.” He still didn’t move. The apartment was brightly lit, the rain had stopped, and Claire could smell the faint scent of the cognac he’d poured for her. “I’ll call you later.”

“I don’t think I’ll be answering the phone. I don’t really like to, and I’ve had some crank calls recently.”

Tom’s hand had been on the brass doorknob, but he let it fall. “What kind of crank phone calls?”

“Just silence. No heavy breathing, no obscenities. Just absolute silence. I suppose it could be someone who simply doesn’t understand English and doesn’t know what to say. I could be jumping to conclusions.”

“I’ll ring twice, hang up, and then call again.”

“All right.”

“If you don’t answer I’ll come back.”

“I’ll answer.”

“I don’t want to go,” he said flatly.

“I know,” she said.

He stood there, indecisive, frustrated, angry. “Be careful,” he said finally. And without touching her he left, slamming the heavy door behind him.

She moved to the window, staring out into the wet streets, waiting for him to emerge from the building. He appeared moments later, pausing in the lamplight, staring up at her. And then his gaze drifted sideways, across the length of the building, then back to hers, and he nodded, satisfied.

Suddenly she was desperate to call him back. She tugged at the window, but it had been painted shut years ago. She rapped at it sharply, but he’d already turned away, heading down the busy Paris streets.

For a moment she was tempted to slam her fist through the pane of thick glass. But common sense prevailed. She was safe, locked in the apartment. And spending the night with Tom Parkhurst was probably more dangerous than any imaginary threat from the serial killer or Marc Bonnard.

She moved away from the window, reaching for the glass of cognac Tom had poured before he left. Sinking down on the sofa, she curled her bare feet up under her and leaned back, sighing. At least Nicole was safe.

The small house in the Paris suburbs was dark and silent when Malgreave let himself in that night. He called Marie’s name, but there was no answer.

He shouldn’t be surprised. He was home earlier than usual. The killers usually struck late at night, rousing Malgreave from a troubled sleep. Tonight he or they had been thoughtful enough to do it while Malgreave was still on duty. He’d had time to take care of the formalities, view the initial evidence, and make it home before nine.

He needn’t have hurried. Not with Marie gone. He could have stayed late, called Rocco Guillère back in, and pounded at him until he made the little weasel confess to prior knowledge. Malgreave wasn’t a man who believed in coincidence. Rocco never came near the police if he could help it. For him to have chosen to appear at a time the killer struck was just a bit too fortuitous. A few minutes alone with him, after hours, with no one to interfere, and Malgreave could work off some of his anger …

Who the hell was he kidding? Rocco was twenty years younger, a great deal taller, and perhaps a bit more ruthless. He hurt people for a living. No matter how much rage and frustration were building up inside of Malgreave, he was no match for Guillère’s brute strength. But God, he needed to hit someone. On nights like these, he needed to hit someone very badly.

He’d seen one corpse too many. Harriette Langlois, with her silks and her spotless apartment, with her silver-framed photographs and her hothouse roses. She should have been allowed to die in peace.

That was one curious aspect of this latest case, Malgreave thought, some of his anger leaving him as his brain started traveling down the familiar twisted pathways. He sat down on the new sofa he and Marie had bought last year, not bothering to turn on the lights, and thought back to the old woman’s face.

Usually the old women were peaceful, laid out in state, their arms folded across their wounds. But Harriette Langlois hadn’t died peacefully. Her wrinkled face was still twisted in rage, settled forever into an expression of absolute fury, her blue eyes still and staring.

She hadn’t been frightened. Of that Malgreave was fairly certain. A cursory examination of her medicine chest had given him a reason for that. She’d already come to terms with impending death. No, she’d been angry, very angry, at the form it had taken, but not afraid.

He shook his head, sinking down into the sofa. Something was eluding him, something hadn’t quite clicked into place. He thought back to the photographs, the serene, rather beautiful young woman, the handsome, oddly familiar young man, the plain little girl.

At least the child had been found. Word had come through just as he was leaving work. Apparently she’d left early, missing the murderer. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. While he didn’t want another murder, particularly not one of a child, the girl might have seen something.