Fennimore kitted and gloved up, examining the exterior of the vehicle carefully before trying the other key in the car door. He checked the boot and the interior using a portable UV black light and filters. There was nothing of use and no signs of foul play. In fact, he didn’t find so much as a latent print – Slawson must have polished the car inside and out before he disappeared, and worn gloves when he parked it up.
Or the Parisien did, a voice whispered.
Either way, he wasn’t getting anything from the car. He was about to withdraw when he noticed the fascia of the car stereo bore an SD symbol. It seemed Slawson had kitted his classic car with a state-of-the-art sound system. Fennimore scrutinized the fascia. Odd – there was no SD card slot.
He looked for a catch release, but couldn’t find one; he felt under the dashboard for a switch of some kind – there was none. But when he pressed the front of the fascia at the centre, it sprung free. Startled, he almost dropped the thing, but caught it and placed it carefully on top of the dash. The card slot was behind the fascia, and there was something in there.
He should let the police know, but they had ignored Slawson’s disappearance for weeks. He couldn’t risk them screwing things up again. So he took the card and slotted it into his own laptop: he could replace it as soon as he knew what was on it – call the police when he had what he needed.
The DCIM file contained three folders; he hovered the mouse pointer over each and checked ‘Date modified’. He clicked on the one dated last month, which was when he had received the email with the photograph attached. There was no preview. The pulse thumping in his throat, he clicked on the first photograph: the girl in the orange sundress and the man he now called the Parisien. There were others of the girl – some with the man, some not. Candid portraits, taken through the window of a restaurant, through glass doors – a hotel maybe? He scrutinized the photos, trying to make out a small diamond-shaped scar on the girl’s left temple. At the age of ten, Suzie had injured herself in a skateboarding accident. But the way the girl styled her hair, and reflections from the glass, made it impossible to see clearly.
He clicked on the next image. The girl was walking head-on towards the camera; the wind had lifted the hair from her face and the scar was clear against the pallor of her brow.
Suzie. Tears sprang to Fennimore’s eyes. It was Suzie.
He touched the image onscreen and, as if he had flicked a switch, the garage was flooded with alternating flashes of vivid blue and red light. Police.
He cast about for an another way out, but he was trapped.
53
Offices of the Police Judiciare, Paris, Saturday Morning
Fennimore was seated in an interview room, looking about as helpless and lost as Simms had ever seen him. He had his hands in his lap, his head bowed to his chest. He had a greyish pallor, despite his tan and he looked like he hadn’t slept.
When he’d called her just before midnight, he sounded half mad with grief and worry. Even as she listened to the things he’d done, the outrageous risks he’d taken, Simms was preparing herself for a difficult conversation with Kieran and her mother.
Fennimore didn’t even look up when she opened the door. Her instinct was to go to his side, to embrace him. But she hardened her heart – she had to make him understand that he needed to start playing by the rules. So she placed both hands, palms down, on the table and leaned over him.
‘You’re an idiot,’ she said.
His head jerked up and he gasped. The desperation and gratitude in his eyes was so pitiful she had to look away.
‘Kate.’ He reached for her, but she withdrew her hand.
She pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. ‘I should let them lock you up and leave the consulate to sort out the mess you’ve made.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘But, Kate – it’s Suzie. I swear, it’s Suzie.’
She began to shake her head and he leaned across the table.
‘I saw the scar, Kate.’ He touched his left temple and his fingers shook. ‘We need to process those images – there are geographic markers – they could give us a location.’
She blinked, lifted her chin and spoke to a point on the wall behind him, because she couldn’t bear the torment in his eyes.
‘That may be. But this is a French investigation. It’s their call – they will decide if there’s evidence to follow up. And if they do, they will liaise with the investigative team in the UK, and you will be kept informed only as a family member.’
He ran a hand across his face and his palm rasped over his unshaved skin. ‘Kate, I can’t—’
‘You have to – if you want to walk out of here today, you have to let the police do their job.’
He clasped a hand over his mouth and again she steeled herself against her natural impulse to comfort him. ‘Do you understand?’
He nodded miserably.
‘A police officer is about to come in and ask you some questions,’ she said. ‘If you want to avoid going to prison, you need to answer honestly – and be civil.’ She paused. ‘Are we clear?’
He gave a juddering sigh that almost shattered her resolve.
‘We’re clear,’ he said.
She exhaled, letting go of some of the tension that had built up over the past nine hours, and slid a business card across the table.
He frowned. ‘What’s this? A lawyer?’ He looked horrified. ‘Do I need a lawyer, Kate?’
‘This is the private investigator you hired to track down Pete Slawson,’ she said, raising her eyebrows and adding with heavy emphasis: ‘Should the question arise.’
‘Kate, I—’
A shadow at the door window warned her the police inspector had arrived. ‘Put it away,’ she said softly.
Fennimore pocketed the card. ‘Thank you,’ he said, his voice hoarse with emotion.
The officer was in plain clothes, mid-thirties, with jet-black hair and a weather-lined face that aged him by five years. He carried a document wallet and a buff envelope.
He nodded to Simms and she gave up her seat, moving to the other side of the table to sit next to Fennimore.
The officer remained standing, his eyes fixed on Fennimore as he tipped the contents of the envelope on to the table.
Two thumb drives, two SD cards, a car key and a smaller latch key on a fob. The items Fennimore had taken from Slawson’s apartment, she guessed. ‘Is this everything?’ the detective demanded; his English was accented but clear and precise.
Fennimore frowned. ‘No,’ he said. ‘The SD card I found in the car radio isn’t there.’
‘The SD card you stole from Monsieur Slawson’s car?’
‘I was about to call you when—’
The cop held up a hand to stop him.
‘You may tell it to the juge d’instruction,’ he said.
Fennimore shot her an alarmed look and Simms said, ‘The examining judge – the French judicial system is inquisitorial – a judge directs investigations into serious crimes.’
‘You have – how does one say, “faites vos devoirs”?’ the detective said.
‘Done my homework?’
‘You speak French, madame?’ Instantly, he seemed to warm to her.
‘My daughter does,’ Simms said with a smile. ‘And she’s had lots of French devoirs over the years.’
He straightened up and offered his hand. ‘Inspecteur Guerin,’ he said. ‘And you must be Chief Inspector Simms. It is my pleasure to meet you.’
Fennimore stirred restlessly by her side and Simms subdued an impulse to dig him in the ribs: he never was any good at the social niceties.
‘Inspector,’ he began, ‘my daughter is in the hands of an abductor. I understand you’re angry – I know I messed up your chain of evidence – but I was careful, I followed forensic protocols. Please, tell me you’re working on that SD card.’
Inspector Guerin’s right eyebrow twitched, but he didn’t answer. Simms could see the Frenchman making a mental calculation, deciding
how much he would reveal.
‘We retrieved a fingerprint from the card,’ he said at last, addressing Simms, cop to cop. ‘It matched Pete Slawson’s employee record. So he probably did take the photo of the girl. Unhappily, we cannot confirm that he emailed it to Professor Fennimore, because Monsieur Slawson’s computer is still missing.’
He paused, and Fennimore took a breath and let it go slowly, folding his hands in front of him on the table top. Simms could see he was close to cracking, that he was doing all in his power to hold himself together.
‘I told you, the landlord sold Slawson’s laptop computer to the man in the photo,’ Fennimore said.
‘This man?’ Guerin placed a copy of the photo of the man with the girl in the orange sundress on the table and Fennimore touched the figure of the girl tentatively.
‘Yes.’ He looked into the inspector’s face. ‘Yes. You should be out looking for him.’
‘Nick,’ Simms warned.
‘I’m sorry.’ He clasped his hands together and stared at the knuckles for a few moments; the tension in him seemed to crackle like an electric charge.
‘Slawson took that picture,’ he said. ‘You know that. Maybe he even chauffeured the man in this photograph.’ He jabbed the image of the businessman with his forefinger. ‘Ask the limo company who Slawson chauffeured in the two months leading up to his death and you will find this man.’
‘Perhaps.’ Guerin’s calm brown eyes revealed nothing.
Fennimore ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand up in wild tufts. ‘Have you even looked at the images on the card yet?’
The inspector ignored Fennimore, again addressing Simms. ‘You knew Suzie Fennimore, I understand?’
She nodded. ‘Before she disappeared, Suzie and my daughter were inseparable.’
The inspector opened the folder in front of him and handed her a photograph. Fennimore reached for it, but the cop gave a curt ‘M’sieur!’ and he subsided.
Kate stared at the photo and tried to catch her breath.
‘Chief Inspector?’ Guerin said.
‘It looks—’ Her voice had no strength and Simms cleared her throat, tried again. ‘It’s so like her. And the scar – it’s exactly like one Suzie had—’ She shot Fennimore an apologetic look. ‘Like Suzie has.’
She passed the photo to Fennimore and he began speaking in a flat, quiet tone: ‘You’ve seen the other photographs. I think Slawson was convinced the girl is Suzie – I know I am. And I’ve seen Slawson’s bank statements – he was under a ton of debt.’
‘You think he intended to sell to you information about this girl?’ Inspector Guerin said.
‘I think it’s possible.’
‘But he didn’t contact you again after the first email …’ Guerin shrugged.
‘No,’ Fennimore said tiredly.
Guerin frowned. ‘You think that Monsieur Slawson is dead?’
‘I do.’ Fennimore swallowed. ‘I know I overstepped the mark, Inspector. I should have come to you earlier. But I didn’t think you would listen – even Kate stopped listening for a while.’
Simms winced, placing the flat of her hand on her stomach where a pain, half physical, half emotional, was centred, and Fennimore went on:
‘This is your investigation, Inspector. I accept that – but you have to—’ He broke off, his jaw working. ‘I’m … asking you.’ He took a breath. ‘Please help me.’ He didn’t take his eyes off the image once in his entire speech.
Simms looked for Guerin’s reaction. He was a cop, with a cop’s ability to hide his feelings, but the Frenchman’s swift glance at her revealed he was not without compassion.
‘Very well,’ Guerin said, and Fennimore’s head jerked up to meet his gaze. ‘I will speak to the juge d’instruction. I will relate to him everything you and Chief Inspector Simms have told to me. We will conduct a search of the city morgues.’ He took a slip of paper from the document wallet and slid it across the table to Fennimore. ‘You will see the judge at four o’clock this afternoon at this address. It would be unwise to be late. For now, you must return to your hotel. This is a police investigation, Professor. Chief Inspector Simms’s médiation and your own professional reputation have kept you from criminal charges on this occasion. But I will tolerate no further interference.’
Simms waited outside the police station while Fennimore had his confiscated belongings returned to him. The offices of the Police Judiciare were housed in a wedge of stained concrete and shit-brown tile. Wider at the top than at the base, it seemed to crowd the more traditional shops and apartment buildings on either side. Her friend emerged on to the narrow street looking dazed. He seemed to cast about for a moment, uncertain which way to turn. She called his name and relief flooded his features.
‘Thanks for coming,’ he said. ‘I – I mean, for everything.’ She hadn’t seen him so unsure of himself since Suzie and Rachel first disappeared.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But keep in mind that my “médiation” won’t count for anything if you pull any more stunts like this.’ He had a distant look in his eye as if already deciding his next move. ‘Nick, are you listening? They’re looking into Slawson. It won’t do you or Suzie any good if you get yourself arrested again.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I can see that.’
She almost believed him.
‘Drink?’ he asked.
‘I can’t. I told Kieran and my mother a blatant lie about coming here – I said I needed to see Becky.’
‘Becky’s here?’
‘Has been since Thursday. I need to arrange to meet up with her – undo the lie, at least a little.’ She checked her smartphone for the nearest Métro station, but hesitated to leave him looking so shell-shocked. ‘Will you be all right?’
‘I’ll be fine,’ he said.
She placed a hand on his arm and felt a shudder run through him. ‘Look, if you want, I could—’
He took her hand and kissed the palm, tears glistening in his eyes. ‘You should go and see Becky,’ he said. ‘I’m going to walk back to my hotel along the river. Get some air.’
She watched him go. At the corner of Rue Lagrange, he seemed to stagger, and she almost went after him, but then he was off, walking with purpose and, with some misgivings, she turned in the opposite direction.
54
I am an omnivorous reader with a strangely retentive memory for trifles.
A. C. DOYLE, ‘THE ADVENTURE OF THE LION’S MANE’
Back at his hotel, Fennimore showered and changed. With a few hours to kill before his interview with the instructing judge, he lay on his bed and tried to rest. Twice, as he began to drift off, he heard the steady blip of a heart monitor and saw Josh’s face swim in front of him, bruised at the temple, the brow-bone distorted as if the bullet in his brain were about to burst through the skin. Twice, the blip-blip-blip of the monitor stuttered and stopped, and he jerked awake, sweating and breathless.
He gave up on resting, and began pacing the room. He opened his laptop and started working through his email – it was mostly academic admin – end-of-term round-ups, staff awards, admissions news, research funding and requests for new book orders. He skimmed through, but doubled back to a subject line that didn’t fit the list. It was a request for a meeting from Laurent Wealth Management. His shoulders slumped: he still hadn’t got back to Mr Vincent. He dialled the number and announced himself, apologizing for the weekend call.
‘Not at all, Professor Fennimore.’ Vincent sounded in a bit of a fluster at hearing his voice. ‘I’m pleased you found the time. Just let me pull up your file, I’ll be right with you.’
Fennimore heard a flurry of activity at the other end of the line.
‘Here it is, sir. Ah, yes – the unhappy fact is that your income is down by forty per cent on last year.’
‘Forgive me, Mr Vincent,’ Fennimore said, ‘but that’s bullshit. A matter of days ago I had a magnum of champagne from my US publisher because I made the New York Times bestseller list.’
‘I’m looking at your actual income here, Professor,’ the man said. ‘Sales are all very well, but publisher discounting can have a marked – and detrimental – effect on the bottom line.’
Fennimore hadn’t considered that; he supposed it was just possible his publishers had drawn a veil over their discount strategy: sales figures sounded so much more impressive.
‘If you like, we could look at some aspects of your spending you might, um – rein in,’ the accountant suggested.
‘What spending?’ Fennimore asked. ‘I drive a four-year-old car; I have a one-bedroom flat in Aberdeen and a two-bedroom cottage in Cumbria, both of which I own outright. I do spend money on cameras and computer gadgets from time to time, but not a huge amount.’
‘Sir, your outgoings in the last month alone were £6200.’
‘Look,’ Fennimore said, ‘I was working in the USA for at least three weeks over the past month. My publisher paid for internal flights; I stayed mostly at a cheap roadside motel in Oklahoma; St Louis PD paid my hotel bills while I was there and my publisher paid for accommodation in Chicago. I don’t have a lavish lifestyle, Mr Vincent.’ Something Vincent had said a moment ago struck Fennimore as odd.
‘How do you know how much I spent in the last month?’ he asked. The way it worked was, he forwarded receipts, invoices and remittance notes, and they compiled a set of accounts that made sense, worked out his tax return and advised on investments.
‘Your tax accounts.’ Vincent’s voice was faint.
‘Really – are you guys clairvoyant?’ Fennimore said. ‘Because I haven’t even gathered together my invoices yet – I might get around to it by autumn.’ The silence at the other end of the line was like the pause before a violent thunderclap. ‘Mr Vincent?’ he said.
‘I’m sure there’s a rational explanation,’ Vincent said, delivering the words staccato. ‘I’ll get back to you as soon as possible, Professor Fennimore.’
The line went dead.
Who was this Vincent anyway? Fennimore hadn’t even heard the name until this month. He dredged up the first phone conversation they’d had – ‘auditing accountant,’ the man had said – which he took to mean an internal audit – and the likely target was Fennimore’s financial adviser. Whose name is …
Truth Will Out Page 28