Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

And Marc, she amended swiftly. Of course leaving Marc would be the worst. Would he forgive her for not telling him?

Three hours later Claire stepped outside the U.S. embassy, relief, irritation, and confusion all warring for control. It had been nothing, a minor bureaucratic hassle that took only a moment to clear up. She hadn’t applied for her residence permit, something all foreigners were required to do after they’d been in Paris for three months. For some reason Marc hadn’t mentioned it to her, but the workings of the French government were extremely efficient, tracking her down and ready to extend a sharp reprimand.

James Donner, a Southern aristocrat of indeterminate age and sexual preference, took care of it all with bland charm, dismissing her into the Paris streets and the prospect of another harrowing taxi ride, and Claire, dizzy with relief, couldn’t stop herself from asking one question.

“Is there anything else?” Marc had told her the American police were looking for her, that they’d been in touch with the embassy. The police would have no interest in a French residence permit; it had to be something else. Unless Marc lied, and he’d have no reason to do so.

“Nothing for now,” Donner had said with practiced political charm. “If we need you we know where to find you.”

For a moment the words rang ominously in her head. And then she dismissed them as she headed out into the bright, chilly sunshine. Marc must have misunderstood, though that was unlike him. He was such a perfectionist that he seldom made mistakes, and his command of English was almost that of a native.

It must have been some inept employee of the embassy, getting the messages garbled, and Claire’s understandable paranoia had done the rest. She’d suffered three days of panic, all for nothing. Deliberately she shut off the little voice in her head, the one that told her she deserved all the panic and guilt she got. She would celebrate.

During the taxi ride to the embassy she had recognized an area of wonderful shops only a brisk walk northward, shops where obsequious employees spoke a dozen languages, English among them. She would go and buy herself something—perhaps a new silk dress or a clinging nightgown for when Marc returned. Or maybe, just maybe, she’d find a shop specializing in comfortable jeans and running suits and wear only what she wanted until Marc returned. Maybe she’d even find a pair of jeans for Nicole.

The sky was very blue—the brisk winds of Sunday had blown the pollution over to England where the Parisians no doubt felt it belonged. Puffy white clouds were scudding through the heavens, and Claire could smell the wet damp smell of newly awakening earth, even in the midst of the city. For the first time in longer than she could remember, she was happy. Surely nothing terrible could happe

n in such a beautiful world as this.

Chief Inspector Malgreave sat at his desk, pushing papers around. The weather report called for days of sunshine—no rain in sight. There would be no more murders, for a few days at least, and that would give them time. Time to find where Rocco Guillère was the night Marcelle Boisrond was murdered, time to follow up on other leads. There were too damned many of them. Too many leads, and Malgreave’s intellect told him there couldn’t be so many murderers.

His instincts told him there could be.

Thirty-nine files spread out over his desk, some fat, some thin. All elderly women who’d been neatly stabbed in the heart and then laid out like medieval corpses. There were photographs in each file, photographs Malgreave knew by heart. They were all starting to blur in his mind, all the old ones, and he was beginning to forget important details. Were the fingerprints found at the nun’s body or with the twins in La Défense? Had the Comtesse de Tourney been the one who’d been sexually molested after her death, or was it Marthe Hubert?

He pushed away from the desk, running a weary hand through his thinning hair. Somewhere there was an answer, something he was overlooking. He would start again, read through the reports one by one, stare at the gory photos with a jaundiced eye, memorize each insignificant detail until it all began to coalesce and make sense.

Josef came in several times during the long afternoon, bothering him with questions, distracting him with his reverent silence. Someone brought in fresh coffee, stale brioches; someone, probably not the disapproving Josef, replaced his empty pack of cigarettes with a fresh box. The dank room was blue with smoke, a layer of oil had formed on Malgreave’s half-drunk cup of black coffee, and at six forty-seven he sat back, dropped his half-smoked cigarette into the cold coffee, and sighed.

Josef was still there, sitting patiently by the door. “I called your wife,” he said. “I told her you were delayed.”

Malgreave reached for another cigarette. “What did she say?”

Josef flushed. Mme. Malgreave had said a great many things, none of them encouraging or even kind. “She said she understood.”

Malgreave laughed, a short, cynical bark of a sound. “I imagine she did. What about your wife? Did you call her?”

“Helga knows we can’t keep regular hours when something like this is going on.” Josef gestured to the littered desk. “Once we catch the murderer I’ll make it up to her.”

“The difference between your wife and mine,” Malgreave sighed. “Your wife has only been neglected for the seven years you’ve been in the department. Marie has had to suffer for more than twenty.”

Josef swallowed. “And Helga is ambitious.”

Malgreave grinned suddenly, appreciating Josef’s frankness. “True enough. Helga has more ambition for you than Marie ever even dreamed of. Do you mind?”

“Helga’s ambition? No. I am not a driven man—I need Helga to give me a push now and then, or I would be content to do nothing.”

“And does she ever push too much?” Malgreave inquired, tapping a pencil against his long, thin fingers.

“Not yet.”

“Bon,” said Malgreave. “And there are four.”

“Pardon?”

“You said you’d make it up to Helga once we caught the murderer. There are four of them.” He gestured to the piles of manila files littering his desk. “In the left corner I have the files of those I’m sure are the work of Rocco. Next to that pile is a smaller one, with those I only suspect are his. The rest of them fall into three categories, each with its own subtle differences. Then we have the two files where we found a fingerprint, and another couple of folders where I’m not sure where they fit. In other words, Josef, my desk is such a mess that I’m giving up and going home to my wife.” He rose, and glared at the littered desk.

“Er …” said Josef. “Madame Malgreave said she wouldn’t be back until late.”