by Ian Rankin
Barclay laughed at one of his country's own Prime Minister, showing the premier emerging from a bowl of soup. Written at the bottom was
'Prime Minestrone'.
Separt seemed inordinately pleased at Barclay's response. He chuckled and went back to inking some wild hair on his latest caricature.
There was a computer close by, which Barclay studied too. He thought maybe it would be a Paintbox, one of those extraordinary machines used by some artists and graphic designers. But it was just a plain old personal computer.
At the other end of the room, Dominique had already settled on the extremely long sofa. Empty wine bottles and beer bottles were strewn around the floor, and ashtrays brimmed with cigarette ends and the roaches from several joints. Separt, who had known from their intercom conversation that two police officers were on their way up, didn't seem bothered in the slightest. Two walls of the room were made up of windows, one side opening onto a small rooftop patio. The view of the city was breathtaking.
'How can he work with a view like that in front of him?' Barclay marvelled.
Dominique translated the question, and Separt, who had thrown down his pen with a flourish, beamed again before saying something.
'He says,' Dominique replied, 'that he no longer sees the view. It is something for visitors, that's all.' Separt and Barclay shared a smile, and Separt motioned for his English guest to sit on the sofa beside Dominique. Barclay did so, and Separt, ignoring the spare chair, flopped on to the floor in front of his visitors, resting with legs out, one foot over the other, hands stretched behind him so he sat up. He had an impish look, as though every moment of his life was both revelation and opportunity for humour. But Barclay noticed that Dominique pressed her knees together and kept them like that, and he wondered if there were some more sordid reason for Separt's choice of seat ...
His French was coming on fast, and he understood most of the dialogue which followed.
'Your car was stolen, monsieur,' Dominique began, her pen held above the clipboard.
'Of course, otherwise you would not be here.' Separt beamed again.
'Of course,' said .Dominique. She was a good trainee police officer.
But Barclay wondered how she would have talked her way out of it if Separt had asked for identification. They'd considered the question on the way over here. Considered it, and come to no solution.
'We'll handle it when the time comes,' she had said, leaving it at that.
'But you are one of the lucky few,' she was saying now, 'who not only have their car stolen, they also have it recovered.'
'So I understand. But it's an old car.' He shrugged. 'It would not have been a catastrophe if the car had disappeared from my life for ever!'
'You reported the car missing quite late, I believe?'
'No, not late, just before midday I think.' He chuckled again.
Dominique managed the faintest of official smiles. 'I meant, monsieur—'
'Yes, yes, I know what you meant.' Another shrug. 'I reported it stolen when I realised it had been stolen. You've seen the parking around here, mademoiselle. A nightmare. I had parked the car around the corner in Rue des Fetes. It was not visible from the apartment.' He laughed, gesturing towards the huge windows. 'Unlike most of the motor vehicles in Paris.'
She smiled a cool smile, scratched on the pad with her pen. 'You were ill, is that correct?' This much they had read in the Calais police report.
Separt nodded. 'I wasn't out of the apartment for four days. Some sort of bug, I don't know exactly.'
'What did the doctor say?'
'Doctors?' He wrinkled his face. 'I can't be bothered with doctors.
If I get better, I get better; and if I die, so be it. I'd rather give my money to tramps on the street than hand any over to a doctor.'
'And the tramps might give you a more accurate diagnosis,' added Dominique, causing Separt to collapse into a laughing fit, which then became a coughing fit. He rose to his feet, shaking his head.
'You are making my day, believe me,' he said. 'I must write that down.
It's a good idea for a cartoon. Give the money to the beggars instead of the doctors, and the beggars give you a diagnosis - on the state of society's health.'
Barclay and Dominique sat silently while he went to his work table and wrote something on a sheet of paper, which he then tore from its pad and pinned to the wall.
'You know,' he called, 'my best ideas come this way -from other people.
I feel a little guilty sometimes, I do so little work myself.'
When he returned, he chose the chair rather than the floor, sinking into it and crossing his ankles. Now that he was seated on a level with her, Dominique relented and released the pressure on her knees.
'So the car could have been taken any time during those four days?'
she asked.
'That's right. I went outside on the fifth day, and I was puzzled at first, I wondered if I'd parked it where I thought I had. I walked around all the neighbouring streets. No sign. So I called the police.'
'This was on the first of June?'
'Was it? I'll take your word for it.'
'According to the records it was.'
'Then it was.'
'But your car's outside now?'
'And as rusty as ever. There are a few scratches on it that weren't there before. Well, to be honest maybe they were there before — it's hard to tell.'
'Nothing missing from the car?'
'No.'
'And nothing there that wasn't there before?'
He laughed again. 'You mean, did the thief leave me anything? No, not a sou.'
'Why do you think someone would steal a car from this arrondissement and take it to Calais?'
Separt shrugged. 'Joy riding. They may have been all over the place, and just run out of petrol there. Or maybe they were considering a trip to England, but changed their minds. Something like that, I imagine.'
Dominique nodded. 'On the whole, monsieur, you're happy to have your car returned?'
Separt gave this a little thought. 'On the whole, I suppose I am. Not that it would bother me unduly if someone stole it again .. . Listen, I'm being rude, can I get you a glass of wine?'
'That's very kind, but we've already taken up enough of your time. We appreciate your talking to us like this.'
'Not at all.'
Dominique rose to her feet. Barclay rose too. He was glad they didn't have to drink anything. His head still ached from the pastis. Separt seemed disappointed that they were leaving so soon.
'When the survey is complete,' Dominique said, T may have to return with a few final follow-up questions . . . without my colleague here, I'm afraid.'
'Oh, yes?' said Separt. 'You'll be welcome any time, believe me.'
Barclay had never seen anyone chatting up an on-duty policewoman before. Trust the French. Separt took Dominique's hand and brushed his lips against it. Then he shook Barclay's hand warmly.
A few words of English came to the cartoonist.
'Urrr . . . good luck, chum. Have a nice day.'
'Merci' said Barclay. He waved a hand around him. 'You have a beautiful home.'
Nodding, grinning, laughing to himself now and then, the cartoonist showed them out of the apartment. When Dominique and Barclay were alone in the lift, and it had started its descent, he turned to her.
'Seemed like a nice chap,' he said.
'And genuine?'
'Not entirely.'
'A complete fake. He was worried as hell, that's why he kept laughing like that. Nervous laughter.'
'You think he knows something? So what do we do now? Keep a watch on him?'
She bit her bottom lip. 'Better than that, I would like to bug him.
But I don't think my superiors would allow it.'
'Why not?'
'Separt's politics. If a bug was discovered, the left would have a ...
what do you say?'
'A field day?'
She nodded. 'A field
day.'
Barclay had a thought. 'What if you didn't bug him?' he said.
'What do you mean?'
'Do you know how to make a listening device?'
'No.'
He nodded. 'What if someone created a bug of their own? Not the French security service. Maybe the British.'
She gasped. 'You're mad. If it got back to your superiors . . .'
'Or if it got back to your superiors that you'd helped me .. .'
They were both silent for a moment, considering these thoughts. Then Dominique turned to him. 'What would you need?'
'A shop selling electronic parts, an enthusiast's shop. And entry to Separt's apartment, preferably when he's out.'
'We can find such a shop,' she said. 'As for entry to the apartment, did you notice, he does not have a burglar alarm?'
'I didn't notice, no.'
She nodded. 'And only two locks on the door. It shouldn't be difficult.
After all, I got into your hotel room, didn't I?'
'I thought you said . . . ?'
'The manager? No, he told me your room number. I went upstairs to see if you were in. You weren't, so I opened your door.'
'Where did you learn tricks like that? Part of the training?'
She shook her head. 'My father taught me,' she said quietly. 'A long time ago.'
One phone call to a friend who was a 'buff, and Dominique had the address she needed. The shop was a wonderland of chips and processors and wiring and tools. The assistant was helpful too, even though Dominique had trouble translating some of Barclay's requests into French. She wasn't sure what a soldering-iron was, or what it might be in French. But eventually Barclay had just about everything he needed. It wouldn't be craftsmanship, but it would do the job.
'And maybe some computer disks too,' he said. He inspected the available stock and picked out the type he needed. 'A couple of these, I think.'
They returned to Dominique's apartment where the spare bedroom was handed over for his use.
'My very own workshop,' he said, getting down to work. Work stopped quite quickly when he found they'd forgotten to buy a plug for the soldering-iron. He removed the two-pin plug from the room's bedside lamp and attached it to the soldering-iron. Then he had to borrow a pair of tweezers from Dominique, and a small magnifying-glass (which she used for reading) from Madame Herault.
As he worked, he could hear Dominique and her mother talking in the living-room. Whenever Madame Herault spoke too loudly, her daughter would 'shush' her, and their voices would drop to a whisper again. It was as if he were the surgeon and this some particularly difficult operation. It wasn't really. It was the sort of stuff any teenage kid could accomplish with the aid either of inspiration or the plans from a hobby magazine. It took Barclay just over an hour. The wire he was using was no thicker than thread. He feared it would snap. Using runs of shorter than a centimetre, he dropped countless pieces and then couldn't find them, so had to cut more tiny lengths.
'A kid would have a steadier hand,' he muttered. But at last he was finished. He washed his face, splashing water into his bleary eyes, then had tea with Dominique and her mother. Then, with Dominique in her room and Barclay outside the front door, they tested the two small devices. Their range was not great. He hoped it would be enough. A neighbour passed him as he was standing in the stairwell with the receiver. He smiled at her, and received a mighty and quizzical frown in return.
'All right,' he said at last, after Dominique had hugged him briefly for being a genius, 'now it's your turn.'
But before they left, he tried telephoning Dominic Elder at his London hotel. He didn't know why exactly. Maybe he just wanted the assurance he felt Elder would give. But Elder wasn't there.
They drove back to Separt's block and squeezed the car into a parking space, then Dominique went to the phone-box on the corner and tried Separt's number. She returned quickly.
'An answering-machine,' she said. 'And I don't see his car anywhere.'
'That doesn't mean he's out. He may just be working. Did you see his car when we were here earlier?'
'To be honest, no. It may be parked in another street.'
'So what now?'
'We'll have to try the intercom. If he answers, that's too bad.' So they walked to the front door and tried the intercom. There was no reply.
'So now we know he's out,' she said.
'Which doesn't get us in.'
He looked up and down the street. A woman was heading in their direction, pausing now and again to chastise her poodle about something, it either had or had not done. 'Back to the car,' he said. They sat in the car and waited. 'When I call you, don't come,' he ordered. While Dominique puzzled over this, the woman stopped finally at the front door to the block, and then opened the door. Barclay sprang from the car and held the door open for the woman, who was having trouble persuading her poodle to enter the building.
'Merci, madame,' Barclay said. Then he called towards the car:
'Dominique, ici! Vite!' Dominique sat still and looked at him. She had changed, back at her apartment, into faded denims and T-shirt, and she was wearing her
lipstick again. She now checked her lipstick in the rearview mirror, ignoring his calls.
Barclay made an exasperated sound and shrugged to the woman. But now the woman was inside the building and making for the lift. 'Ici, Dominique!' Barclay glanced behind him, saw the lift doors close with the woman and her dog inside, and now gestured for Dominique to join him. She lifted the plastic bag from the back seat and got out of the car. He gestured her through the door, and it locked behind them. They waited for ages while the lift took its cargo to the third floor, paused, then started down towards them. After their own ascent, the lift opened on to Separt's private floor. There were two doors, one unmarked, the other belonging to Separt's apartment. Dominique got busy on this door.
She had brought some old-fashioned-looking lockpicks with her from her apartment. No doubt they had belonged to her father before her. Barclay had his doubts whether they would be up to handling modern-day locks.
But within two minutes, the door was open.
'Brilliant,' he said.
'Quick, in you go.'
In he went. It was his job now. Hers was to stand by the lift. If it was called for, if it started back up from ground level, then she'd call to him and he'd clear out. What they would do after that was unclear to him. "We'll think of something,' she'd said. 'Don't worry.'
Don't worry!
Well, after all, what was there to worry about? He was only bugging someone's private home, having broken into it. That was all. And in foreign territory, too. And without permission from Joyce Parry. That was all. It was a breeze ...
The telephone was on the floor beside the desks, next to the answering-machine. He unscrewed the receiver and fixed the small transmitter in place, screwing the receiver shut again and shaking it to check it didn't rattle before replacing it in its cradle. Then he placed another transmitter down at the other end of the room, stuck to the underside of the sofa. Recalling how Separt liked to sit on the floor, he slouched on the floor himself. No, the bug wasn't visible. He'd no way of knowing if either bug would work.
In theory they would, but in practice? And as for getting them out again afterwards . . .
Now he went to the computer. It was switched on, which saved a bit of time, but also indicated that Separt wouldn't be gone for long. He opened the box of computer disks beside the terminal. There were half a dozen disks, none bearing helpful markings. He pulled his own disks out of his pocket. The shop assistant had formatted them already, and Dominique had given him some French computer commands. The keyboard was slightly different from British models, but not so different. It didn't take long to copy a couple of Separt's disks.
A hiss from Dominique at the open door. 'Lift's coming!'
He closed the disk box and checked the screen display. There was no indication that he'd accessed the computer. Dominique was calling out floor numb
ers as he took a last look around. It might be another resident.
The lift might stop before the penthouse. But it didn't look like it was stopping.
'Two . . . three . . .'
He was out now. She closed the door and did what she had to do with her picklock. Just the one lock needed reworking, the other being a Yale-type which had locked itself on closing.
He looked at the lift. 'Four,' he said. 'Five. Christ, Dominique, it's this floor next!'
She swivelled from the door and pushed him backwards. His back hit the landing's other door, which opened, and suddenly he was on the emergency stairwell, his kidneys colliding with the banister. He gasped while Dominique pushed the door closed again, just as the ping of a bell from the landing signalled the arrival of the lift. They both held their breath and listened as Separt unlocked his door. He closed it behind him, and all was quiet again.
'He didn't notice anything,' she hissed, leaning her head against Barclay's shoulder. 'He's gone inside. Come on.'
They crept stealthily down one flight of stairs, entered the fifth floor landing, and summoned the lift from the floor above to take them to ground level. Back in the 2CV they smiled at one another, releasing the tension.
'That was too close,' Barclay said.
Dominique shrugged. 'I have been in tighter places.'
'Tighter spots,' Barclay corrected. But when she asked him what was wrong with the way she'd phrased it, he couldn't think of an answer.
Then came the moment of truth. He switched on the receivers. There were two, each with its own local frequency. One would pick up the telephone, one the bug under the sofa. They might jam or feed back on one another, but he didn't think so. A more real problem was that they might pick up other frequency-users: local taxis, CB radios .. . The signal was weak. A hiss, nothing more. Then the sound of a cough. Dominique thumped him on the shoulder in triumph.
'That's him!' she said. Then she clamped her hand over her mouth. Barclay laughed.
'He can't hear you, don't worry,' he said. Now came the sound of music.