Blacklight Blue

by Peter May

  Enzo was already dreaming of a hot shower as they climbed the steps opposite the Lion d’Or Chinese restaurant, and glass doors slid aside to draw them into the warmth of the hotel reception.

  ‘I have a reservation. Two rooms under the name of Macleod.’

  The girl behind the desk tapped on her keyboard and scrutinised her screen. ‘I’m sorry, monsieur, we’ve given those rooms away.’

  Enzo stared at her in disbelief. ‘What? Why?’ His hot shower was suddenly fading into an uncertain future.

  ‘I’m afraid your credit card was rejected.’

  Enzo snorted his frustration. He had given them the number over the phone. ‘That’s not possible. There must be a mistake.’ He fished in his wallet for his card. ‘Here, try it with the actual card.’

  ‘I’m afraid it won’t make any difference. The hotel is full.’

  ‘Just try it, will you?’ Enzo snapped at her and she winced, but decided not to argue. She slipped the card into the machine. He tapped in his code. They waited, and then she shook her head, with an undisguised pleasure. ‘I’m sorry, monsieur. It’s still rejected.’

  He sighed heavily and gave her another card. ‘Try with this one.’ The girl set her jaw in sullen acquiescence and they went through the same procedure again. The second card was also rejected.

  Kirsty pushed a card at the girl. ‘Try one of mine.’

  The same thing.

  Enzo looked at his daughter. ‘So it wasn’t a faulty ticket machine at the tram stop. It was our cards.’ He waved his hands in frustration. ‘All of them. And that can’t be a coincidence. Like the mugging in the park that left us without any cash. We’re being shafted, Kirsty. Royally screwed.’

  The girl behind the desk smiled at them with an infuriating smugness. ‘I’m sorry. Like I said, the hotel is full. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.’

  Outside, Kirsty fought to hold back the tears. She was very close to the end of her tether, and Enzo wasn’t far behind. But crying about it wasn’t going to help. She went into her purse in search of her cellphone. ‘I’m going to call Roger.’

  Enzo felt an irrational spear of anger jab at him through his misery. ‘Why? What can Roger do? He’s in Paris.’

  ‘He can use his credit card to book us into a hotel by phone. And maybe he can come and get us in the morning.’

  Enzo cast her a surly look. To involve Raffin would be like admitting that somehow he had failed. Good old Enzo charging to the rescue and falling flat on his face. But right now, he couldn’t think of a viable alternative.

  They sat in a bar nursing coffees paid for with the handful of coins they had managed to scrape together from pockets and purses. Enzo stared morosely out into the street, watching each passer-by on the sidewalk, wondering if any one of them might be the stranger who was so efficiently deconstructing their lives. He tried not to listen as Kirsty explained their predicament to Raffin. He could just imagine how the young Parisian journalist would interpret their circumstance as somehow being Enzo’s fault. He could picture the look of supercilious superiority on the face of his daughter’s lover.

  And then they waited, for nearly half-an-hour, before Raffin phoned back with the news that he had found them rooms at the Hôtel Regent in La Petite France.

  The River Ill divided in the centre of Strasbourg, sending a loop around the very heart of the old city, before it rejoined the main flow a couple of kilometres downstream. So the original mediaeval city centre, with its cathedral and six churches, was effectively an island. The east end of the island, with its wharves and waterways, and ancient narrow streets, was known as La Petite France. In the middle ages, it was home to the city’s merchants and burgeoning middle class. It was now a main tourist attraction, filled with restaurants and hotels and souvenir shops.

  Enzo and Kirsty turned down through a deserted square, the last customers sitting in the window of a vegetarian restaurant. A seventeenth century house on three floors, white-painted wattle and daub transected by ancient oak beams, was in the process of renovation. Staff were washing out the kitchens in the Maison des Tanneurs restaurant, with its Alsacienne specialities of choucroute and tarte flambée. It exhaled tantalisingly warm air at them as they passed. A revolving bridge led them across the river to where the Hôtel Regent had established itself in an old mill which had once served tanneries lining the riverbank.

  As they trailed across the foyer to the reception desk, wretched and cold, Enzo noted with some satisfaction that a room cost nearly three hundred euros a night, and petit-déjeuner another twenty. Raffin would be less than happy with a bill on his credit card of more than six hundred euros.

  Their rooms were high up in the roof, with windows overlooking the water below cutting deep into steeply sloping walls washed by subtly concealed lighting. The original supporting beamwork was painted white. Enzo carried Kirsty’s bag into her room and they shed sodden coats. She went into the bathroom to fetch towels and threw him one to dry his hair.

  He perched on the luggage rack at the end of her bed, weary and defeated, and loosened his hair from its band before rubbing it briskly with the towel. His skin was stinging in the warm air of the hotel room. He looked up and saw that Kirsty was flushed, and that her eyes were raw and puffy. He stood up. ‘Come here.’

  And she dropped her towel and let him fold his arms around her.

  ‘We’re going to be alright.’ He wanted to say that they should make the most of their time together, because there was so very little of it left. But he didn’t have the heart to tell her that he was dying. ‘Have you finally forgiven me?’ he whispered. And she immediately drew away.

  She looked at him with a strange, distant hurt in her eyes, like a pet dog that has just been kicked by its trusted master. ‘No,’ she said simply. ‘I’m not sure I can ever do that. You stole half my childhood, and that’s not something I can ever get back.’

  He wanted to tell her it wasn’t like that, but there didn’t seem any point. Linda had used her as a weapon against him and ended up poisoning her own child in the process. All he could think to say was, ‘I’m sorry.’ As he had said a thousand times before. ‘If I could do it all again …’

  ‘You’d what? You wouldn’t leave us for your French lover?’

  ‘I never left you. If I could have taken you with me I would.’ But in his heart of hearts he knew that even if he could have done it all again, he would still have left for Pascale. And as he looked his daughter in the eye, he knew that she knew it too.

  She said, ‘When you came back into my life, you brought the pain back with you. And I had to confront the realisation then that the reason it hurt so much was because I loved you. And still do. Even if I can’t forgive you.’

  They were both startled by the shrill ring of his cellphone. The emotion between them dissipated like smoke in the wind. He glanced at the display and saw that it was Sophie, and he realised the irony in that. She was jealous of Kirsty and the place that her half-sister had in her father’s heart. She might have taken some satisfaction from knowing that she had interrupted an intimate moment between them. But the thought quickly vanished when he heard the distress in her voice.

  ‘Papa, there’s been a disaster!’

  ‘What is it, Sophie? What’s happened?’ He glanced up to see Kirsty watching him with her mother’s dark eyes.

  ‘There was a fire tonight. Bertrand’s gym’s been burned to the ground.’

  Enzo closed his eyes and felt Bertrand’s pain. At first, he had disapproved of his younger daughter’s boyfriend. He was seven years older than her, wore studs and earrings and gelled his hair. But time had revised first impressions, and Bertrand had earned his grudging respect. He knew how much the gym meant to the boy. How he had held down two jobs to pay off the loan he had taken to convert the old miroiterie into a successful gymnasium, how he had worked to graduate from the CREPS centre in Toulouse with his degree in musculation, all the while supporting his widowed mother.

  ‘
Is he okay?’

  ‘He closed up about an hour before it happened. We heard the fire engines before we saw the light in the sky. Someone phoned to say it was the gym.’ He heard the catch in her voice. ‘We stood on the Pont de Cabessut and watched it burn.’

  ‘He’s insured, though, yes?’

  ‘Papa, you know how long that’ll take to pay out. Bertrand doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He’ll have to find the money to repay all the customers who’ve paid subscriptions.’ He could tell that she was on the verge of tears. ‘Papa, where are you?’

  ‘I’m still in Strasbourg.’

  There was a strange moment of silence, and then her voice fell away to barely a whisper. ‘The police have been looking for you.’

  ‘What? Why?’

  ‘They wouldn’t say. They’ve been at the door twice. Several of them. Papa, it wasn’t a social call. I told them you’d gone to Strasbourg, but they didn’t look like they believed me when I said I didn’t have an address.’

  Enzo was suddenly on full alert, his mind working overtime, slicing through the fatigue, making connections, drawing unpleasant conclusions. ‘Sophie, I want you to leave the apartment immediately. You and Bertrand pack a bag each. Get him to take you to Nicole’s father’s farm in the Aveyron. You know where it is, don’t you?’

  ‘Papa, why?’

  ‘Just do it, Sophie. Trust me. It may be that the fire at the gym wasn’t an accident. It’s possible that there’s a connection with what’s been happening here in Strasbourg.’

  ‘I don’t understand …’

  ‘You don’t need to. Just believe me when I tell you that you could be in danger. I’ll call Nicole’s papa to let him know you’re coming.’

  When he hung up, Kirsty was looking at him perplexed. ‘How can a fire in Cahors be connected with someone trying to kill me here?’

  Enzo met her gaze with a steady intensity. ‘I’m beginning to think that what’s happened in Strasbourg isn’t about you at all.’

  ‘I think someone trying to kill me is very much about me.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. There’s too much else going on. The mugging in the park. The credit cards – yours and mine. Bertrand’s gym burning down, the police looking for me.’

  ‘What do the police want you for?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I think there’s a good chance that none of this has anything to do with you, or Bertrand, or Sophie. I think this might be about me.’

  She looked at him long and hard, then picked up the towel she had dropped on the bed. She sighed wearily. ‘It’s always about you, Dad, isn’t it? Always has been, always will be.’ She turned towards the bathroom. ‘I’m going to have a shower. You can let yourself out.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Yellow light reflected darkly off polished wooden floors. Rusted cogs and wheels and screws dipped down into dark waters behind glass walls, the machinery that once powered this old mill. There was only one other person at the bar, a woman nursing a champagne flute of pale, sparkling Dom Perignon.

  Enzo hoisted himself onto a stool at the far end next to a large glass bowl filled with champagne bottles cooling in ice. The room was illuminated by the upward glow of backlit sheets of wafer thin marble that dressed the bar. He ran his eye along glass shelves lined with bottles. Although the hotel promoted this as a champagne bar, it had a decent selection of whiskies. He ordered a Glenlivet from a bored-looking young barman who poured him a large measure and then retreated to polish glasses at a discreet distance.

  Enzo slumped over his drink for some time, simply looking at it, trying to find solace in its pale amber. But it wasn’t the colour that would bring comfort, it was the alcohol. And if not comfort, then perhaps oblivion. A painful journey, on which he seemed reluctant to take the first step. And so he continued to stare at it, fighting to keep conflicting and unpleasant thoughts from his mind.

  ‘It’ll evaporate before you drink it.’

  He looked up to see the only other customer regarding him with a quizzical smile. Until now he had paid her no attention. But looking for the first time, he saw that she was attractive. Not in a pretty way, but with a strong jawline and well-defined cheekbones. Her eyes were dark, almost black, and she had an unusually small mouth with full lips. Until she smiled. It was a smile that split her face.

  Long, silky brown hair was pulled back from her face and piled up loosely, untidily, behind her head. She was a woman well past the first flush of youth. Enzo thought she could be around forty, tall and lean. But she dressed younger. A short, black leather jacket, jeans and sneakers, and not a trace of make-up. Which was unusual for a woman of her age. She was either supremely self-confident or simply didn’t care.

  Her skin was tanned, as if she had just spent time somewhere in the sun, and examining her hands he saw that they were strong and elegant, with unpolished nails cut short.

  ‘Maybe that’s what I’m waiting for.’

  ‘Why would you do that?’

  ‘If I drink it, I’ll only order another.’

  He held her gaze for a moment, then returned it to his drink. He reached for the water jug, poured in a little water to release the flavour locked into it by the distiller, then filled his mouth to let it slip slowly over his throat. The aromatic flavour of it filled his nostrils, and its warmth burned all the way down into his chest. It felt good, but there was a long way to go before he would find the solace he sought.

  ‘You know, it’s funny …’

  He looked up, surprised to find her still watching him. He had almost forgotten her already. ‘What is?’

  ‘It’s not often that I find myself alone in a bar, and not being pestered by some man.’

  ‘You should make the most of it, then. Some man might come in at any moment and try to pick you up.’

  She gave a small shrug of resignation. It seemed that Enzo was not going to be the one to try. ‘I guess maybe I’m getting to an age where men just stop noticing me.’

  Enzo found a smile from somewhere. ‘They’d have to be pretty blind.’ He took another mouthful of whisky. ‘Don’t be offended. It’s not you. It’s me.’

  She cocked an eyebrow. ‘Gay?’

  Which made him laugh unexpectedly. ‘No. It’s just … I have other things on my mind.’

  ‘A problem shared is a problem halved.’

  ‘Two swallows don’t make a summer.’

  For a moment, her forehead creased in a frown. And then she saw what the game was and a smile snuck across her lips. ‘Two minds are better than one.’

  ‘An empty barrel makes the most noise.’

  ‘Wise men agree, and fools seldom differ.’

  But now his smile was strained. The game was already losing its power to distract, puerile and pointless. He had come here to get drunk. He drained his glass and ordered another.

  She watched in silence as the barman refilled his glass, then she ordered another glass of champagne for herself. When the barman had poured it, bubbling to the rim of her glass, she lifted it and moved along the bar, slipping on to the stool next to Enzo. On another day, in other circumstances, he might have felt a tiny frisson of sexual excitement. Instead he felt that she was encroaching on his space, and he might have resented that. Except that she didn’t give him the time.

  ‘Why don’t I buy you that one? I’ll do the talking, and maybe that’ll take your mind off whatever’s worrying you.’

  He was surprised for the second time by the smile that found his lips. ‘Never fails.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Every time I go into a bar on my own, I get pestered by some woman.’

  It was her turn to laugh. ‘Then I should introduce myself. That way I won’t just be “some woman”.’ She held out her hand. ‘Anna.’

  He hesitated for just a moment before taking it. ‘Enzo.’ Her handshake was firm and warm. ‘Women adore me.’

  She grinned. ‘Oh, do they?’ She tilted her head and her look became appraising. ‘Maybe I can see w
hy.’ She paused. ‘Different coloured eyes. Very unusual.’

  ‘Waardenburg Syndrome. Goes with the white stripe in the hair.’

  ‘Is it fatal?’

  He flicked her a look. But, of course, there was no way she could have known. ‘Not the Waardenburg, no.’ He drained his glass and felt the alcohol going straight to his head. He had still not eaten since breakfast. He waved the barman to refill the glass.

  ‘Put them all on my room,’ she told the barman. She sipped her champagne and looked at Enzo speculatively. ‘Enzo. Short for Lorenzo, right? But you don’t sound Italian.’

  ‘Scottish.’

  ‘And what brings you to Strasbourg?’

  ‘I thought you were going to do the talking.’

  ‘Well, I’d tell you what brings me to Strasbourg, but you probably wouldn’t be interested.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘Parents,’ she said, and she pursed her lips in a smile of regret. ‘Elderly and failing, and full of recriminations about the daughter who doesn’t come to see them often enough.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because I’m never here.’

  ‘In Strasbourg or in France?’

  ‘Both. I’m a ski instructor. Based in Switzerland in the winter. I spend summers in the Caribbean teaching scuba diving. Which keeps me fit for the winter months.’

  In spite of all the thoughts crowding an already overcrowded mind, Enzo finally found himself interested. Distracted. ‘How does someone become a ski instructor?’

  ‘There’s not much else to do when you can’t compete at the top level any more.’

  ‘You were a professional?’

  ‘Skied for France in two Olympics. Didn’t win any medals, but I made the top ten. Trouble is, the body starts to decline just as the brain starts to develop. The intrinsic contradiction faced by every athlete. When you’re young the flesh is willing, but you lack the experience. When you have the experience, the flesh is no longer willing. Et voilà. Those who can, do, and those can’t, teach.’