‘You shouldn’t be here,’ Gordon said. He looked exhausted.
‘I saw him a few hours ago,’ Fennimore said. ‘He was stable – he was doing okay.’ He heard himself apply the he-can’t-be-dead,-he-wasn’t-dead-when-I-last-saw-him logic of the grieving, but couldn’t stop. ‘What the hell happened?’
‘He was shot in the head, Nick.’ Gordon’s voice was hoarse with emotion. ‘It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to work out his chances of survival.’
Fennimore looked past him, through the window to Josh, breathing tube still in place, per protocol for deaths in hospital care; the chest drain in place, covered with a dressing stained with blood and plasma seepage.
‘Go home, Nick,’ Gordon said. ‘There’s nothing more you can do.’
Fennimore couldn’t help thinking that he had done too much – that if he had done less, Josh would still be alive.
He couldn’t stay in Aberdeen. Couldn’t even sit still – so he had made hurried arrangements to return to Paris. In the years since Rachel’s death and Suzie’s disappearance, Fennimore had become adept at compartmentalizing: he could shut off the part of his brain where worries and guilt and self-recrimination lurked, as long as he kept busy. But now he was here, he didn’t have enough busy-work to keep his mind from Kate, and Josh, and the part he’d played in Josh’s death.
His mobile rang on the table and his hand jerked, spilling coffee on to the screen. It was Kate. He hastily wiped the phone and thumbed the slider to accept the call.
‘Where are you?’ she said. ‘Are you in Paris again?’
‘What makes you think I’m—?’ Fennimore said.
‘The ring-tone.’
‘Ah.’ Hearing her voice, he swerved from regret to shame, and back again to sadness.
‘The Préfecture of Police in Paris monitors alien residents,’ she said, sounding all business.
He knew he should try to soothe her hurt feelings, but the notion that she might have something he could use to find Suzie overrode his worthier sentiments, so he kept his mouth shut, gripped the phone tight and willed her to go on.
‘A month ago they investigated the disappearance of a British national – a chauffeur by the name of Pete Slawson.’
A month ago? So Slawson had disappeared just after Fennimore received the anonymous email and the photo of the girl.
‘The limo firm he worked for said that Slawson was one of their regular drivers – he moved from the UK to France last winter.’
‘I was advising you on your drugs deaths in Manchester last winter,’ Fennimore said.
When the press found out that he and Simms were working together on that case, Fennimore and his missing daughter had become news again.
‘Yes,’ she said, and he knew she was thinking the same thing, reliving the pain she had gone through when Becky had been placed in danger.
‘I also launched Suzie’s Facebook page at that time – and the aged-up image of her went viral on the Web,’ he added.
‘Which is why I’m telling you this,’ she said evenly. ‘The Préfecture looked into Slawson’s disappearance: there’s been no activity on his credit card, but it was maxed out even before he vanished, so that’s hardly surprising. They checked out his flat – he wasn’t there – and there was nothing to say where he’d gone. There wasn’t much else they could do.’
‘What’s his address?’ Fennimore dipped in his jacket pocket for a notebook and pen.
‘No, Nick.’
‘I just want to cast a forensic eye over it.’
‘No,’ she said again.
‘You won’t tell me his address?’
‘I didn’t ask for it.’
‘Kate, I need more—’
‘I don’t want to hear it,’ she said firmly. ‘You have his name; what you do with it is up to you.’
Simms disconnected and he stared at the phone for a minute, wondering if he should call her back. He had already asked too much of her – he knew that. But he couldn’t help himself – he still wanted more from her.
He tried her number. It went straight to voicemail; this time he was on his own. He sat back to think. He was within sight of the bridge where his CCTV cameras had recorded the chauffeurs and their limousines. He didn’t expect to see another procession of them line up there, but it had seemed like a good place to come and think. Dimly aware of the conversations going on around him, and lulled by the static noise of traffic in the streets nearby, he watched a tourist boat approaching, the distant buzz of its engine deepening to a throaty rumble as it passed. Its backwash sloshed against the walls of the quayside and spilled on to the steps up to the bridge. Across the river, a dog barked.
He ordered more coffee and called all of the limo services again, asked to speak to Pete Slawson. When he got to the sixth on the list, the telephonist said, ‘Monsieur Slawson is no longer with the firm.’
‘Do you know where he went?’
‘Who is this?’ Her voice was heavily accented, but he could still hear the suspicion in it.
‘A mate,’ he said. ‘Pete said I should look him up if I was in Paris.’
‘Votre nom, monsieur?’ she said, reverting to French, her tone clipped. ‘You didn’t tell to me your name.’
‘Nick,’ Fennimore said.
‘Well, Neek, I am not permitted to give out private information about employees.’
‘Thing is,’ he improvised, ‘Pete said there were good driving jobs for English speakers in Paris. I was thinking—’
‘He was mistaken.’
‘I’ve got a clean licence, proof of no insurance claims, full UK passport—’
‘Désolée, monsieur,’ she said, sounding anything but. Then she hung up.
Even so, two hours later Fennimore was standing inside Slawson’s apartment. He’d hopped on the Métro and hung around the limo firm’s door, then followed one of the drivers to a bar. Where charm had failed, a few beers and a wad of euros had produced the goods.
Slawson’s apartment was tiny, in a rundown block of flats in a seedy area of the city. The propriétaire was a tall man, unshaven, and thin as a pipe-cleaner. He had the drooping shoulders of someone who had been badly let down early in life and had shaped his future existence from that first disappointment. He agreed to let Fennimore check out the apartment – as he was a friend of Monsieur Slawson – for ‘a consideration’. He insisted on being present, but Fennimore made him stand by the door so that he didn’t contaminate any evidence.
Fennimore himself was gloved and wore disposable slip-ons over his own shoes. He moved through the place, checking drawers and cupboards. There was no sign that a girl had ever been there. The sitting room was furnished with an armchair, a small TV and DVD player, a drop-leaf table with two ladder-back chairs, and a side table with lamp. None of them looked new; so how had Slawson maxed out his credit card?
‘You didn’t re-let the room?’ Fennimore said, scanning the dusty surfaces.
The landlord spread his hands. ‘He paid his rent on time – but only until the end of this month – after that …’ He shrugged.
Fennimore bent to get a better perspective on the table top; it was painted white, but from this angle he could see a void – a faint oblong where the dust did not lie as thickly. He took out a penlight and played the beam across the surface. Yes – something had lain here and been removed. He changed position and saw something caught between the dropped leaf of the table and the wall. He shone the light down the gap, before carefully tilting the table to retrieve the item: a slip case for a small laptop.
‘Do you know what happened to this?’ he asked.
The landlord spread his hands in a caricature of Gallic surprise. ‘Non.’
He was lying.
‘I want the computer,’ Fennimore said.
‘I don’t know where it is.’
Fennimore was no genius when it came to reading people, but he could spot a lie at fifty paces. He smiled. ‘This is what will happen next: I will go to the police
and tell them that my friend Monsieur Slawson is missing and some of his property has been stolen from his apartment. I suspect the propriétaire. They will search your place, see what else you have squirrelled away.’
‘No-no-no. Non – it’s not like that,’ the man protested. ‘I didn’t steal anything.’
‘So where’s the computer?’
‘Some fellow came for it.’
‘What “fellow”?’
‘He said he was a friend.’ The propriétaire paused. ‘Like you.’
‘And you just gave this complete stranger your tenant’s property?’ Fennimore said. ‘Or was this for a “consideration”, too?’
The man ran his tongue over his teeth. ‘This fellow, he paid two months’ rent, cash – he said Monsieur Slawson sent it.’
‘You told the police this?’
The man looked at his feet.
Fennimore watched him closely. ‘You planned to take the cash and sell Slawson’s property for non-payment of the rent.’
The man glanced up in alarm. ‘No, I—’
‘What did this “friend” look like?’
‘He dressed well – propre – and he was well-spoken.’
‘English?’
The man gave him a scornful look. ‘Parisien.’
Fennimore took out his phone and showed him the photograph of the man and the girl taken from the bridge.
‘Oui! Bien sûr,’ the landlord said. ‘That’s him.’
Fennimore held the man’s gaze, hoping that Monsieur le propriétaire wouldn’t notice the tremor in his hand as he pocketed the phone.
The landlord’s gaze slid away from his, and sweat popped on his brow. ‘Here,’ he said, holding out the handful of euros he had just accepted in return for granting Fennimore access to Slawson’s apartment. ‘Take it. I don’t want it.’
‘Keep it,’ Fennimore said. ‘I’ll make you a deal.’
The man held the notes out for a second longer, then snatched them back and they disappeared into his grubby shirt pocket. He tilted his head, listening with an avid, untrustworthy expression on his face. ‘Votre plaisir, m’sieur?’
‘You will go to your apartment and bring me any items belonging to Mr Slawson – phones, cameras, thumb drives, recorders, SD cards, notebooks – anything that can store data.’
He looked doubtful.
‘I know you removed property from here,’ Fennimore said.
‘Perhaps a few things,’ the man said. ‘To keep them safe – this is a bad neighbourhood, monsieur. But the police—’
‘If I am convinced that you haven’t held anything back, I will pay for everything I take,’ Fennimore said. ‘And I’ll keep the police out of it.’
‘Certainly,’ the man said, brightening. ‘I will bring them to you.’
While the landlord went to retrieve the stolen goods, Fennimore resumed his search. The kitchen contained a sink, a cooker and a narrow dresser, which Slawson used for storing food and cookware. Tinned food, mostly; a few packets of pot noodles; a jar of instant coffee, almost empty; British teabags; sugar in an earthenware jar. He stirred the sugar with his finger – such places were favourite hiding places for anything from cash to keys, to drugs. But not for Slawson, it seemed. Then, at the back of one of the lower cupboards, behind a box of cornflakes, he found an old tea box containing leaf tea. Slawson didn’t seem a leaf tea kind of man. He dug to the bottom of the box and, with the tang of Darjeeling dust in his nostrils, withdrew a plain key fob with two keys attached. The smaller one looked like it might work a door latch, but the larger of the two looked like a spare car key, though it had no distinctive markings. He pocketed the fob as the landlord returned, carrying a shoulder bag.
52
The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing.
ALBERT EINSTEIN
Paris, Friday Evening
Fennimore had booked a room near the bridge so he could be on the spot if anything interesting came up on the surveillance cameras. He ordered room service and worked methodically through the items Slawson’s landlord had handed over: a camera, two thumb drives and an SD card. The thumb drives contained hundreds of files – all music.
Setting these aside, he picked up the digital camera, retrieved its SD card and slotted it into his laptop. The first image was labelled ‘Lola’.
Oh, hell …
He took a breath, braced himself and clicked on the image.
It was a red Mercedes convertible.
Fennimore exhaled, laughing.
He clicked through the images – dozens of them – some of the car alone, but most with a man standing next to it or seated in the driving seat, a Paris landmark in the background.
Was this Slawson?
He struck gold with the SD card the landlord had given him: Slawson had taken photographs or scans of his bank statements, receipts, invoices and bills going back two years. There were images of his car documents, insurance certificates, driver’s licence and passport. Fennimore compared the two photo IDs with the man in the sports car. It was Slawson all right.
Pete Slawson, it seemed, had a serious shopping addiction: a new TV, just three months ago; an iPod, DVD recorder and Xbox, all bought on the same day; a sofa and a new bed … none of which matched the sparsely furnished apartment Fennimore had seen a couple of hours earlier. It seemed the landlord had taken more than a camera and a few thumb drives. Had he stolen the car, too? Fennimore doubted it – items like electronics equipment were easily accounted for – or disposed of – but a car … well, that was more tricky. The bank statements showed a monthly payment of €547 to a loan company. Maybe this was for the car.
He scrolled through the images and found a jpeg of the purchase agreement – the amount matched, and the most recent payment was just a couple of weeks before. Slawson was still paying for the car. If future payments weren’t met, the company would come looking to make good their losses, and M. le propriétaire did not seem the type to risk that kind of attention. So where was the car? It must be around, unless Slawson had taken it and fled the city and his debts.
Fennimore shook his head. A bright red Mercedes was too conspicuous for a moonlight flit. He scrolled through Slawson’s bank statements; going back two years, his account had been in constant overdraft. Had he hoped to tap Fennimore for cash? Had he tried to blackmail the man in the photo?
That same man had bought Slawson’s computer from the landlord – possibly to destroy all of the remaining copies of the photograph of him with the girl. So why hadn’t he taken the camera Fennimore now had in his possession? Because the landlord had already stolen it? That was the likely explanation.
But if the evidence boiled down to a single photograph, surely he would have come after me, Fennimore thought. Which meant that Slawson must have had something more incriminating.
Emails. He exhaled. If Slawson had emailed him the picture, and if he had emailed the Parisien as well, Fennimore might be able to put a name to the Parisien – that’s if he could find those emails, trace them. But Fennimore had clicked and scrolled through every image and file on Slawson’s thumb drives and SD cards – there were no emails. No photographs of the mystery man with the girl in the orange sundress either. So where were they?
The simple answer was, there had to be another cache of images.
He searched the shoulder bag the propriétaire had given him, checking its pockets and linings, turning it inside out to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. He hadn’t.
He dumped the empty bag on the bed. The mystery man – the Parisien – had taken it, he must have. Unless … Fennimore’s head began to swim and he had to sit down to think the next one through.
Slawson backed up his data in a way Fennimore had never seen before, taking screenshots or photographs of every invoice and document and then filing them. A man like that wouldn’t risk keeping everything in one place – and he wouldn’t leave the job half done – so … the emails and photographs rela
ting to the girl must be stored elsewhere. Another thumb drive or SD card.
‘Either the Parisien has them,’ Fennimore murmured, ‘or …’ He stared at the photograph of Slawson’s gleaming red sports car.
Slawson lived in a dodgy part of town; he was hardly likely to park the car outside his apartment block, which meant he must have rented garage space. Was the missing data hidden inside his precious car? What could be safer – or harder to find – in a city of five million households?
Fennimore snatched up his laptop and went back through Slawson’s bank statements, looking for regular payments, cross-matching them to invoices received. He found one biannual payment that matched a remittance note made out by R. F. Doucet from what looked like a private address in Chesnay, to the west of the city, near Versailles.
He searched on Google Maps and switched to Street View. The address was a house with a garage attached; if this was the place, Slawson was paying more for the garage than he was for the car itself.
With Slawson’s key fob safely tucked in his jacket pocket, Fennimore packed his forensics kit and a laptop computer into his shoulder bag and set off to find a taxi. Thirty-five minutes later, he asked the driver to drop him a block away and he walked the rest. It was well after 9 p.m., and getting dark. The house was well-maintained, but all of the shutters were closed. He trotted up the steps to get a better view of the street, and pretended to ring the doorbell. There was no one around. He went straight down to the garage and tried the key in the lock; it worked. Heart pounding, he swung the door open. Slawson’s car gleamed dully in the gathering gloom.
He slipped inside and shut the door, located the light switch, and a second later, two striplights above the chauffer’s car flickered into life.
Truth Will Out Page 27