by Jodi Taylor
I spent a few minutes trying to imagine a scenario where Leon entered the lift on the ground floor and someone else exited on the fifth floor, made their way to Monique’s flat and killed her. Someone who got in and out of the building completely undetected.
‘The fire escape,’ I said suddenly.
Markham shook his head. ‘Can only be opened from the inside and once opened, it can’t be locked behind you. Everything was in order. The police checked.’
‘What about the other flat opposite?’
Markham flicked through the file. ‘M Henri Pichon. Moved in two years ago and was away at the time in question, visiting family in Paris. Alibi sound. All checked and verified. They even checked the flat below this one. The whole fourth floor is taken by one family. A very large and noisy family who are all accounted for. There’s Dad, who’s rather small and skinny – they have six kids, so no wonder. Unlikely he had the strength to have strangled a woman so easily able to defend herself. Madame is enceinte again. No, I’m sorry, people. We’re looking for a man. A powerful man. Possibly with military experience himself. And the only person to enter the apartment block that night.’
Leon, in other words.
No one said anything. There wasn’t anything to say. I’d thought there would be something. Something that would raise even the tiniest shadow of doubt. Something we could latch on to, pursue, chase down – and there was nothing.
We pulled the door to behind us. Markham locked the door and while he and Peterson replaced the police tape as best they could, I walked ahead and summoned the lift. The doors opened with a musical ping and we rode downstairs in silence.
M Caron was waiting for us. He’d made us coffee, bless him, with the good crockery all laid out on a tray. There were even biscuits.
I took a sip because I was in desperate need of something hot. As coffee went, it wasn’t bad. I’d mostly learned to tolerate it during the mercifully short period I worked for the Time Police. I spooned in some sugar to make it more palatable and took another sip.
M Caron was enquiring whether we required anything else. The polite way of getting us off the premises before any of the residents noticed. He’d been helpful – now it was time for us to go.
Markham shook his head. ‘Thank you, Monsieur Caron. I think we have finished here. And thank you for your assistance.’
A blast of chilly air made me turn around. A man was pushing through the doors, bringing the outside in with him.
‘Ah, Georges,’ M Caron greeted him.
I recognised the name from the file. Monsieur Georges Bernard, the senior concierge. About the same age as Monsieur Caron, he was taller, slimmer and with a neatly trimmed beard.
‘We are with the Time Police,’ said Markham cheerfully. ‘Just checking a few small details. Monsieur Caron has been most helpful.’
M Bernard nodded, heading towards a door behind the counter. I assumed this was their private room. I shifted my position slightly for a better view just in case, but there was no window and no other door. No separate access of any kind. There were a couple of armchairs, a low table, a sink, a set of lockers, a fridge and a coffee machine. Just a normal staffroom.
M Bernard opened a locker, took off his overcoat and carefully placed it on a hanger. Equally carefully he took out the familiar crimson blazer, meticulously brushed the shoulders and put it on. Emerging back into the reception area, he pulled open a drawer apparently full of staff and visitor ID badges and began to rummage through them, looking for his own.
I sometimes wake up at night thinking how nearly I missed it. I was actually turning away, looking for somewhere discreet to put my coffee cup so as not to give offence when I thought I saw something.
Much more sharply than I intended, I said, ‘Arrêtez.’
He froze. Everyone froze.
M Bernard raised his eyebrows. ‘Madame?’
I didn’t move. I very carefully stayed exactly where I was, in full view of everyone, clutching my cup and saucer with both hands. I didn’t want anyone accusing me of planting evidence.
‘Monsieur Bernard, please, what is that?’
He seemed surprised. ‘This?’
‘Yes, that. That there.’
Markham appeared at my shoulder, saying in English, ‘What is it, Max?’
‘That.’ I pointed.
My hand was shaking. Because, there, in the drawer, tangled among the others, and partly concealed beneath an ID card for one Georges Bernard, lay another ID card. The name was printed quite clearly. Odette Duval.
But the picture was that of Isabella Barclay.
12
Markham was amazing. I mean, he’d been astonishing throughout. He’d been authoritative, calm, professional and so on. You could say almost like another person. He even seemed more imposing physically – don’t ask me how. His voice was different. He moved differently. Again, I thought – this is the real Markham. Carefully hidden beneath layers of something else. Someone else. Someone with . . . I don’t know . . . I was overwhelmed by the implications of the ID card, but typically, while I was struggling, he was acting.
‘Monsieur Caron, do you have an envelope, please?’
Wordlessly, M Caron fiddled under the counter, pulling out a brown A4 envelope.
‘Monsieur Bernard, it is very important that neither I nor my colleagues touch this in any way, and so I will ask you to place the badge in the envelope, please.’
M Bernard was no fool. Taking a pen from his top pocket, he hooked the lanyard, pulled out the badge and dropped it into the envelope.
‘Could you seal it, please, and you and Monsieur Caron write your names across the flap. Thank you. And the date, please. Thank you. And if you have a safe here . . . ?’
M Bernard nodded wordlessly.
‘If you could place it in the safe, please. Thank you.’
M Bernard spun the handle and turned back to us. ‘What is the meaning of this, m’sieur? Why is the badge so important?’
Markham said quietly, ‘Messieurs, that is the most valuable piece of evidence in this sad case. I hope you will feel able to testify that none of us have approached that drawer and that none of us could possibly have tampered with the badge.’
‘Of course, but why? Is Odette in some trouble?’
His concern for his colleague was commendable and none of us felt like saying it was extremely unlikely they would ever see Odette Duval again.
‘I am afraid I cannot comment further. My colleagues and I are not part of the investigative arm of the Time Police and our task here is finished. Someone will contact you very shortly about that badge. Please keep it safe until that moment.’
‘Of course,’ said M Bernard again.
‘And now,’ said Markham, ‘I think we are finished here. Thank you, messieurs, for your cooperation.’
They murmured something.
Markham picked up his file. We all said goodnight and headed for the door.
Outside seemed very cold after the warmth of the apartment block and I shivered as we strode down the pavement.
‘They’ll call her,’ I said, panicking. ‘They’ll tell her what just happened.’
‘She won’t be there,’ said Markham with confidence. ‘I suspect she was gone ten minutes after she gave her last statement.’
‘Wouldn’t she want to see it through, though? You know, make sure Leon is convicted?’
‘And stand up in court as Odette Duval with Leon in the dock telling everyone she’s Isabella Barclay?’
‘They might not believe him.’
‘Why would she take the risk? She’s given her statements. There’s still enough evidence to convict him.’
‘What do we do now?’ said Peterson. ‘Do we take this to the civilian police or the Time Police?’
‘Sadly, the Time Police,’ said Markham. ‘They
have more clout.’
I stopped.
‘Max? What’s up?’
‘I’m very happy to go with you, but it does occur to me that my presence might not be . . . conducive to an amicable transaction.’
‘Well,’ said Markham, comfortably, ‘as long as you don’t actually set fire to anyone, I’m sure we’ll be fine.’
The building site was dark. Security didn’t seem to be an issue at all. The plastic flapped and rustled in the chilly breeze. Apart from that, everything was very quiet. Deserted. Peterson remarked on it. ‘It’s so quiet, Max. I know the weather’s not that good, but even so . . .’
I stopped and looked around. ‘It’s the aftermath of a massive catastrophe. People are still in shock. I know we have flu epidemics regularly but this one was a bastard. Mostly it took the very old and the very young. Think of the Spanish flu pandemic in 1918 and double the death toll. Then add a bit more.’
‘Well,’ said Markham, ‘if we get a move on, we can save one life anyway. Inside, everyone.’
I left Peterson to do the coordinates and get us to TPHQ. I was exhausted. I was cold, thirsty and my mouth tasted of coffee. And I was off to visit the Time Police who might well shoot me on sight.
Markham came to sit beside me. ‘All right?’
I nodded. ‘I’m worried they’re executing Leon at this very moment.’
‘That won’t be happening, Max. We’ll be in plenty of time.’
Peterson appeared with a mug of tea. ‘Here. Warm your hands on this.’
‘Shouldn’t we be going now?’
‘Ten minutes won’t make any difference. Drink your tea.’
I curled my hands around the mug and thought.
Bloody Isabella Barclay. Bitchface Barclay herself. Back from the dead to cause trouble. I knew she was dead. I was there when Van Owen had shot her. In our barn, back at St Mary’s. Right in the middle of our fête. Yes, I’d been injured myself and was face down on the ground slowly bleeding to death, but I’d seen her die. She’d fallen to the ground alongside me. I was the last thing she’d ever seen. I’d watched her eyes close. I’d heard her last breath.
But sometime before that happened – before Leon and I were together – she’d done this. Somehow, she’d got herself here. She’d looked much, much younger in her photograph. She’d done this in her youth. This was her revenge. She’d wanted Leon. Wanted him badly and he hadn’t returned her love. At some point she’d hacked his personal file. She’d been Head of IT; it wouldn’t have been difficult for her – and then she’d come here – and done this. Killed Monique de Maupassant. An innocent woman had died in Bitchface Barclay’s quest for revenge.
And the tragedy was bigger than anyone thought. Monique could have been on her way to England. She could have given her blood. There might have been a chance to save the boys’ lives. Had they also died because of Isabella Barclay?
How Isabella must have hated Leon. With what patience she must have planned this. To come here – take a job as concierge – work normally for months – certainly long enough to avoid being the newcomer on whom suspicion would automatically fall – and then, when the moment was right . . .
And the images of Leon entering the block. She’d been our IT expert. Somehow, she’d got hold of an image of Leon from somewhere and she’d cut and spliced it so expertly that even the Time Police hadn’t been able to spot the join. Although now I came to think of it, it was only his entrance that had been closely examined. I could well imagine the glee with which the Time Police had jumped on the image of Leon entering the building. The perfect suspect in the right place at the right time.
Pieces began to fall into place. Mlle Duval hadn’t telephoned to Monique requesting entry. She’d let an accomplice in to the building, handed him her master key and he’d let himself into Monique’s flat. Monique would have been completely unprepared.
Barclay would be familiar with Leon’s signature. With the equipment at her disposal she could easily have doctored the visitor’s book.
And then, naturally, she’d been too upset to come into work. Markham was right. The moment suspicion fell on Leon, her job was done and she’d just disappear. They wouldn’t need her personal evidence. They had her statements. They had the tape. They had everything they needed and Bitchface Barclay would have vanished into the wind.
But – who had actually killed Monique? Well, that was easy. I was prepared to bet everything I owned that Clive Ronan was all over this. How else would Isabella have been able to jump here? She’d replaced images of Ronan entering the building with those of Leon. Unable to find anything suitable to substitute for Ronan leaving, she’d simply messed with the quality of the tape, rendering it virtually useless as identification.
And then it all came crashing down. The thought exploded into my brain, shattering all my hopes. Because I’d remembered. I’d remembered that Ellis knew Barclay. Knew her well enough to identify her. If he’d been present at the interviews or reviewed the tapes afterwards, he’d have known who she was. Why hadn’t he said anything?
The answer came almost at once – because I was wrong. It wasn’t Barclay – it was just someone who looked like her. I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. I’d raised our hopes for nothing.
I don’t cry often but I could have cried then.
I looked up to find them both watching me.
‘What?’ said Markham.
I shook my head. Perhaps if I didn’t say anything. No – that wouldn’t work.
I took a deep breath and said, ‘There’s something wrong. Ellis knows Barclay. As the investigating officer, he would have recognised her immediately. Why didn’t he say anything?’
Markham opened the file and turned to the first page. I closed my eyes and tried to formulate plans for breaking Leon out of TPHQ. Nothing sprang to mind.
‘Because . . .’ said Markham, slowly, and stopped.
‘Yes?’ said Peterson. ‘Don’t stop. Because what?’
‘Because he wasn’t the investigating officer. According to their immaculate records here, that was a Captain Jelani.’
‘But Ellis arrested Leon.’
‘Because Ellis is the arresting officer. The two are separate. As the arresting officer, he wasn’t involved in the investigation, so he never knew Barclay was involved.’
‘So Max is right?’ said Peterson.
Markham grinned at me. ‘Well, the law of averages says she must be, sooner or later. No, I think our Max has cracked it. They need another word with Izzie Barclay.’
‘Bitch,’ I said, and meant it.
Peterson nodded. ‘Good job she’s already dead.’
I agreed. It was. It was a very good job she was already dead. She’d done this in her past and our future. Because that’s the problem with time travel. People approach the same event from different directions.
My thoughts stopped dead. Almost as if they’d run into a wall. This was exactly what Commander Hay and I had argued over. Argued bitterly. They’d let Ronan go because there were actions in his life that he hadn’t yet performed. Things he’d done in my past and his future and he’d had to be released in order to do those things. Because if he didn’t, then my past would start to unravel and that’s not good at all.
This thing with Barclay was exactly the same. This was something she’d done in her past and my future. And there’s no way of stopping it. You can only wait for events to unfold and then deal with them as best you can. Effect sometimes happens before cause. Which was exactly what Commander Hay had said. She’d been right. And somewhere, deep down inside me, I’d known she was right.
They were both looking at me.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Are you all right?’ said Peterson anxiously.
I nodded. ‘Absolutely fine.’
‘Good,’ said Markham briskly, ‘because I want to talk
about our strategy at TPHQ.’
‘We tell them about Barclay,’ said Peterson. ‘Won’t that be the end of it?’
Markham frowned. ‘I don’t want you to be alarmed, Max, but we may need more. They might well claim we planted the name badge.’
‘Messrs Bernard and Caron can testify that she worked there as Odette Duval.’
‘That only makes her guilty of working under an assumed name.’
‘She has history with Leon,’ said Peterson. ‘Everyone knew it. And she’s a known associate of Clive Ronan.’
Markham nodded. ‘All true, but that only implicates her. It doesn’t exonerate Leon.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘The Time Police will claim they were in it together. That she was his lover at the time and he killed his wife to make room for her. Sorry, Max.’
I waved that away. ‘I’m fine.’
‘And it was Barclay who grassed us up to the Time Police. About the incident at Troy. They’ll say this is our revenge.’
Peterson was in his traditional thinking position, his arms folded, chin sunk on his chest, long legs stretched out in front of him. He looked up. ‘Actually, Max, thinking it through, this is bloody diabolical. This is a specific attack on Leon – and through him, you, and through you, St Mary’s. There’s virtually no risk to themselves. They’ve just done it and disappeared, leaving everyone else to deal with the consequences. It’s like a . . . like a time bomb.’
Markham nodded. ‘Yes, exactly like that. A future time bomb.’
There was silence as we grappled with the implications. There could potentially be any number of these lying in wait for us. The Time Police had left Ronan at liberty so he would be free to carry out events in his future and our past, but had any of us actually given any thought to the other way around? Actions in his past that would – almost literally – blow up in our faces, and there was nothing we could do to prevent them? Just deal with them as they arose. Like this one. We’d uncovered evidence that threw huge doubt on the Time Police case but, as Markham had said, if they didn’t believe us . . . if they thought . . . if only we had something incontrovertible . . .