The French Widow

by Mark Pryor

  “I’ll talk to her. This thing . . . it’s shaken her up pretty badly.”

  “She saw it?” Lerens asked.

  “She was walking in with Erika as I was opening it. I made sure she didn’t see inside, though.”

  “Good,” Hugo said. “The other thing is we need to speak to Karine. Your mother has protected her, kept her from talking to us. We can’t do our jobs unless we speak to everyone.”

  “Yes, of course. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get in your way. Anything else?”

  “Yes,” Hugo said. “We’re thorough, Monsieur Lambourd, which means we sometimes come across information that is personal and sometimes embarrassing.”

  “Such as?” Lambourd was immediately defensive.

  “We understand you incurred some casino gambling losses.”

  “What of it?”

  “We were wondering if someone has been putting pressure on you to pay the money back.”

  “Ah, I see.” Understanding dawned on Lambourd’s face. “And you think it’s possible some people took Fabien to pressure me to pay up.”

  “The thought occurred to us.”

  “No, that’s not possible. Look, the casino I lost money in is owned by some disreputable people. Many of them are. But it’s not like it used to be. The owners hire experienced and legally responsible managers. When someone loses in, for example, an unsanctioned card game, that person negotiates a payment plan. He doesn’t get his kneecaps whacked with a bat.”

  “That’s good to know,” Hugo said. “So you’re saying you’ve not had any threats made related to those debts.”

  “I could pay those tomorrow, if I wanted. The delay is not that I can’t but that I think someone was cheating.” He waved a hand. “None of that stuff is relevant, and you don’t need to know about it. But yes, I’m saying no one has threatened me in any way.”

  “Glad to hear it,” Hugo said. “The only other thing is that I’d like a quick word with your gardener.”

  “Gardener?” Lambourd asked, both he and Lerens looking surprised.

  “Yes. It won’t take more than two minutes, just a couple of quick questions.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “It’s just that as a member of the museum’s staff—”

  “Monsieur Lambourd,” Hugo interrupted, working hard to keep his cool. “You just promised me access to every part of this house, including the people who live and work here. I appreciate you feel some responsibility toward them, but the idea that they might somehow be bullied or coerced into saying something detrimental without your guiding presence is a touch insulting to us and them.”

  Lambourd bristled. “Well, I wasn’t suggesting—”

  “And as you now know,” Hugo went on, “time is of the essence thanks to an unwelcome escalation by whoever is behind this. Which is to say, some of the conventional niceties you would normally enjoy are not appropriate.”

  “Of course, yes, I’m sorry.” Lambourd seemed chastened. “I’ll take you to him now. Would you like me to ask Karine to come up now, or later?”

  “Why don’t I talk to her while you’re getting gardening advice?” Lerens said to Hugo.

  Hugo nodded his agreement and followed Marc Lambourd out of the living room and down the main stairs. They walked to the French doors at the back of the house that led out onto the garden beside Parc Monceau, and Lambourd pointed out two men snipping at a laurel bush with shears. “The older one has been here twenty years. More. Giles Fremont. I’m sorry I don’t know who the younger one is— he’s new.”

  “Thank you, I’ll take it from here.”

  Hugo was true to his word, asking old man Fremont three questions before leaving him alone. Hugo wrote the answers down in his notepad and read them back to the gardener to make sure he’d not misheard, then thanked the old man and headed back into the house. At the foot of the stairs he was accosted by Édouard Lambourd.

  “Ah, Monsieur . . . I’m sorry, I’m terrible with names.”

  “Marston. Hugo Marston.”

  “Yes, yes. Marston. I suppose you saw the box and its contents?”

  “I did. Did you?”

  “No, no, I just heard about it. I wouldn’t want to see that, not at all. Just horrible. Awful.” He held up a hand as Hugo started to move away. “There is something I would like from you, though.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “A bodyguard,” Lambourd said emphatically.

  “Right.” Hugo took a deep breath. “I heard about your shadow yesterday, yes.”

  “Then you’ll understand why I need protection.”

  “I don’t mean to downplay your concerns, but I don’t think you’re in any imminent danger, so a bodyguard would be unnec—”

  “Not in danger?” Lambourd’s eyes were wide with disbelief. “You just told me you saw what was in that box. My nephew is missing and possibly . . . you know. And now I have someone stalking me, no doubt eying me up as their next victim. How can you possibly say I’m not in danger?”

  “Well, from what I heard—”

  “That’s absurd, ridiculous. Five times I saw him!”

  “Yes, I know. Five times you saw him, probably ten he saw you, and not once did he try to do you any harm, isn’t that right?”

  “Well, he’s not going to do anything in public, is he?”

  “You think he’s going to sneak in here and kidnap you?”

  “He did exactly that to Fabien! And almost killed that poor girl while he was at it.”

  “Possibly,” Hugo conceded. “I think if you’re out and about in public you’re perfectly safe, just as you were yesterday. I can ask Lieutenant Lerens to post a man here overnight, if you’re that concerned.”

  “I already asked her, she said no.” He was petulant now, like he was going to one parent after the other had denied him a treat.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Hugo promised. “In the meantime, keep the doors locked and you should be fine. I think if that person had wanted to hurt you, they would have remained hidden and done whatever they were going to do yesterday.”

  “Then who the hell was it? Why would someone spy on me like that?”

  “I don’t know yet. We’re working on it.”

  They both turned at the sound of footsteps. Adrien Marchand and another plainclothes detective were crossing the hall toward them. When Marchand reached them, he introduced himself to Édouard Lambourd but left his colleague to hang back and just watch.

  “Another detective on the case?” Lambourd said. “And a real one, that’s good.”

  “Real one?” Marchand asked, confusion on his face.

  “Well, the one upstairs . . . you know.” He looked away, but gestured toward Hugo. “And he’s American, so that’s not . . . ideal.”

  “I’m not working on this case,” Marchand said stiffly. “I’m here to speak with Monsieur Marston.” He turned to Hugo. “If you can spare me a few moments?”

  “Certainly, a few.” Hugo nodded toward the main doors. “It’s a pretty day—shall we go outside?”

  Marchand nodded and led the way. Once they were outside, the second detective pulled out a tape recorder, but Marchand shook his head. Not necessary right now, was the look on his face.

  “Sorry, I know you’re busy, but I had a couple of follow-up questions.”

  “You can call me any time,” Hugo said. “I might even answer.”

  “You’ve seen my office, right? Small, musty, and no window.”

  “Any excuse to get out, eh?” Hugo asked.

  “Right. And I’ve heard about this place, wanted to see it for myself.”

  “I’m sure someone would give you a tour if you asked nicely.”

  “Adrien, excuse me,” Marchand’s colleague spoke up, his phone in his hand. “We have to go. Right now.”

  “What are you talking about?” Marchand asked. “They identified the shooter. We have his address.”

  “I’m coming with you,”
Hugo said, matching Marchand stride for stride to his car. The French detective had huddled with his subordinate out of Hugo’s earshot, and then headed quickly to his car.

  Now Marchand paused. “What? No, you’re not.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  They reached the car and Marchand stopped, speaking to Hugo as if to a child. “You are a subject in this investigation—you cannot take part in it. You know that.”

  “I won’t be taking part. I’ll just be there, watching.”

  “No, you’ll be here conducting your own investigation into the disappearance of that young man.”

  “Adrien, listen to me. Half your country thinks I’m a hero, the other half thinks I’m a villain. I can’t function properly like this. I need to know who this person was. This person I killed.”

  “Exactement. And it’s because you killed him that you can’t—”

  “Dammit, Adrien, is there any question that I was entitled to pull the trigger? Is there any doubt at all that it was legally justified?”

  “Non.” Marchand pursed his lips. “Morally justified, too, if you ask me.”

  “What was his name, and where’s he from?”

  “Victor Roche, and he lives in a small house on Avenue Lejeune in Drancy.”

  “That’s northeast of Paris?” Hugo associated the name Drancy with the confinement and transportation center set up there by the Nazis in World War Two, but he’d never been there.

  “Yes. We have a team headed there now to get eyes on the place. Our intel says it’s just him and his mother who live there.”

  “So he was a kid?” Hugo asked. “How old?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “Shit. So his mother’s the one who called in with the identification?”

  “No, that was a male voice. Anonymous caller, and the number he used belonged to a prepaid phone, so no way to trace him.” Marchand opened the car door. “Sorry, gotta go.”

  “And I gotta go with you.”

  “Hugo, you know—”

  “You just said I was in the legal and moral right. I’m not going to jeopardize any investigation or prosecution by riding in the car with you. Let me see where he lives. This is what I do, it’s what I’m good at. He’s dead but I might be able to tell you something about him from how he lived.”

  “Just watching, I thought you said.”

  “Well, yes. But I’m always open to questions, should someone have any.”

  “I’m sure you are.” He sighed and jerked a thumb to the back seat. “Get in. But I mean it, Hugo—you stand back and let us do our thing.”

  “I promise,” Hugo said, and hurried to the back of the Renault before Marchand changed his mind. “And thank you.”

  Once in the car Marchand introduced his colleague. “This is Pierre Laland, just joined us.”

  “And I thought you were the new kid on the team,” Hugo said to Marchand, while shaking Laland’s hand.

  “Not anymore.” Marchand put the car in gear and the wheels spun on the gravel as he accelerated away from the house toward the road. “Thanks in part to your help on the last case, as it happens.”

  “You’re welcome,” Hugo said with a smile.

  “Yeah, well.” Marchand glanced at him in the rearview mirror. “Consider your presence the favor repaid. And buckle up—I’m hitting the lights and sirens.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The house was one story and built in the 1950s, a brick box that would withstand a hurricane but did little to pretty up the drab street it sat on. By the time they got there, the advance unit had cleared people out of the homes either side of the Roche home, and across the street from it, the yellow crime scene tape that marked the perimeter swayed gently in the breeze. Pretty soon, Hugo knew, the tape would attract curious onlookers like flies, eyes and cameras watching every move.

  As he, Laland, and Marchand watched from a safe distance, a remote-controlled robot drove down the ramp of the bomb squad’s truck and made its way to the overgrown path that led to the front door.

  “Here, look at this.” Marchand handed Hugo his cell phone. “It’s an app that connects to the two cameras on the robot. There’s one stationary one in the front, a stationary one in the back, and one that revolves on the top. The robot operator sees all three and makes one of the screens the main one, and you see it all here.”

  “Very neat,” Hugo said. “The robot is checking for booby traps?”

  “Yes. They’ll use it to breach the door and then the RAID team will go in. You know what RAID is, yes?”

  “Research, assistance, intervention, deterrence. What we would call a SWAT team.”

  “Right, pretty much. Anyway, they’ll make entry and clear the house without disturbing too much, and then we’ll go in. I’ll go in.”

  “You got it right the first time with we,” Hugo said.

  “Maybe.”

  They watched in silence as the robot went up to the front door. A metal voice rang out over the street, identifying the house by number and ordering anyone inside to come out with their hands raised. This went on for fifteen agonizing minutes, but there was no movement.

  “Anyone know where the mother is?” Hugo asked.

  “No, the neighbors that we moved out haven’t seen her in days.”

  “Not a good sign,” Hugo said quietly.

  Marchand put a finger to his ear, pressing the earpiece in so he could hear better. “They’re about to blow the door.”

  Hugo would have guessed that from the line of six heavily armed men who were scuttling toward the house. The entry team. The men paused, kneeling at the far end of the pathway to the front door, and ten seconds later the robot joined them, having placed explosives on the door’s lock. Five more seconds and the explosives blew, sending debris into the air and imploding the door. The RAID team was through it in a flash, voices at first loud and then muffled as they swept through the house.

  In less than two minutes they were filing out, and Marchand had nodded to Hugo that the house was clear.

  “No mother?” Hugo asked.

  “They didn’t see her, but they won’t have done an exhaustive search,” Marchand said. “That’s my job.”

  The Frenchman started forward with Pierre Laland right behind him. Hugo let them get a few steps ahead, and then followed. As they walked, Marchand pulled three pairs of blue gloves from his pocket and handed two of them to Laland and Hugo.

  “These don’t mean you get to touch anything. Watching only.”

  “Got it,” Hugo said, relieved that Marchand was even letting him in the house.

  At the front door, the smell of smoke and something chemical made Hugo’s nose twitch, but inside another odor took over.

  “They didn’t notice that?” Hugo asked.

  “They had masks on.” Marchand wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Well, we know she’s in here somewhere.”

  Hugo had seen the floorplan and knew that the front door opened into a large living area, which he now saw included two sagging sofas, a pair of worn armchairs, and a small dining table that had four wooden chairs tucked under it. To their right, there was an opening, which he knew led to a narrow hallway, which in turn led to two bedrooms separated by a relatively large bathroom. The kitchen was at the back left of the house, partly visible through a pair of open glass doors.

  “Pierre, check this room and the kitchen,” Marchand said. “Hugo, you can watch me check the bedrooms.”

  They split up, and Hugo followed Marchand down the narrow hallway to the first bedroom. Inside, the walls were covered with wooden crosses, cheap artwork showing Jesus being crucified, and crocheted quotations from the Bible.

  “Mother’s room,” Marchand said. He paused at a small trunk at the foot of the bed, one too small for a person to fit in. He bent and lifted the lid, immediately dropping it closed and staggering backward into Hugo, his forearm across his mouth as he gagged. “My God. Excuse me, I was not expecting that.”

  “She’s inside?” Hugo
asked, glancing at the tiny box, and covering his own nose as the stench rolled into him.

  “Some of her is. Torso only, from what I saw.”

  “Monsieur?” It was a female voice from the front door. “Crime Scene Unit. You need us to come in and start photographing?”

  “In a minute,” Marchand called. “We’re taking a quick look first.” He glanced at Hugo. “Very quick.”

  “Agreed.” Hugo looked around the room and pointed to the chest of drawers against a wall. “Want me to check these?”

  “Yes, I do. But I better do it.” Marchand stepped up to the chest and took in a breath through his mouth, and then opened the top drawer. He shook his head, in disgust not disappointment, Hugo thought, and quickly opened and closed the other three drawers. Marchand retreated to the bedroom doorway and gestured for Hugo to follow. “A limb in each drawer.”

  “Interesting,” Hugo said.

  “Revolting,” Marchand replied. “Now we’re just missing the—”

  “Monsieur.” Laland appeared in the opening to the main living area. His face was pale and his eyes were wide. “J’ai trouvé la tête.”

  “As you were saying,” Hugo said dryly. “Let me guess, the freezer?” Laland nodded.

  “You didn’t touch it?” Marchand asked.

  “Her head? No, no. I shut the door as soon as I saw it.”

  “Good,” Marchand said. “Who the hell kills and cuts up his own mother?”

  “You’d be surprised,” Hugo said, thinking of two serial killers he’d interviewed who’d done just that. “You mind if we take a peek at his bedroom?”

  “We should,” Marchand said. He led them to the open door and Hugo and Laland followed him inside.

  “This is weird,” Laland said.

  “A little,” Hugo agreed.

  The room was spotless, and dominated by a queen-size bed that was perfectly made up, as if an army drill instructor had overseen the operation. The walls were painted white and bare of pictures or other adornments. A bedside table carried a lamp, and when March-and opened its single drawer Hugo saw a new-looking Bible inside. To Hugo’s right was a bookshelf, and he stepped to it to look at the books on it. The complete set of Astérix and Obélix adventures, same for the Tintin comic books. All of the books on the shelves were comic books, Hugo saw. Every single one.