Seen and Not Heard (Maggie Bennett 4)

Malgreave nodded. “We’re assuming it is part of the string of murders plaguing Paris.”

“Where is her granddaughter? We were coming to fetch her …”

“There was no one else in the apartment.”

“But she would have waited for me.”

“No one else was here, and there was no sign of a struggle. My men are searching most diligently, and of course we shall want to talk with her when she’s found. But I suspect she left long before anything happened. Fortunate for her sake, unfortunate for ours.”

“But …”

“Go back home, mademoiselle. We will be in touch as soon as we find out anything. And you will call us if the child is waiting for you at home, yes?”

“But …”

“I will send you in a squad car. We will need to talk to you, but tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“But …”

“Bon soir, mademoiselle, monsieur.”

They were being dismissed, like obnoxious children. For one moment Claire considered behaving like one, throwing herself on the floor and refusing to move, and then thought better of it. The French equivalent of a coroner was examining Harriette’s body, moving the stiffening hands to expose a red, gaping wound, and Claire felt her stomach turn.

“Let’s get out of here,” Tom said quietly. “He is right—if we’re lucky Nicole is already at home, waiting for us. She probably doesn’t have any idea what happened.”

“But I told her to stay until I came!”

“Does she always do what you tell her?”

“What nine-year-old would?” Claire countered miserably. “You’re right. Let’s go home.”

If she’d hoped the apartment would be a blaze of lights she was disappointed. Everything was dark and empty when she let herself in the front door. Tom followed, looking about him with a curious air, and his hands were gentle and impersonal as they stripped her of her sodden sweater and took her purse out of numb hands.

“I suppose I’d better call the police and tell them she’s not here,” Claire said woodenly.

“I’ll do it. Why don’t you go and make us both drinks? Something very strong.”

She nodded, not moving. She wanted to sink back against Tom, lean against his strong, comforting body, but she wouldn’t allow herself that luxury. “If he’s hurt her I’ll kill him,” she said, her voice low and fierce.

“Who? Marc?”

“No. It couldn’t have been Marc. If there was even the faintest possibility I would have said something to the police.”

“Do you think,” Tom said gently, “that you have the right to make that determination? Don’t you think you should have told Malgreave about the old lady’s fears?”

She shook her head fiercely, fighting the doubts. “Impossible,” she said. “It was a coincidence, a random murder.”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” Tom said.

She looked up at him. “Neither do I,” she said finally. “You make the drinks. I’m going to check Nicole’s room.”

The faint glow of the street lights cast a tiny pool of light into the spotless confines of the room. Claire reached for the light, then stopped. She could see the small figure lying in bed and, as her eyes grew accustomed to the dark, make out the sodden shape of a raincoat lying on the floor.

She moved into the room and sat down carefully on the bed. “Nicole?”

The small, familiar shape shifted. “I don’t feel well, Claire,” she said in a tiny voice. “I just wish to sleep.”

“When did you leave your grandmother’s?”