Blowback

by Peter May

  ***

  Dominique looked at the suicide note that Enzo had spread out on her desk in front of her. The blood that stained it was rust brown, the paper distorted by pools of blistered blue where the ink had run in the rainwater. She read it in silence then looked up at Enzo with searching eyes. “And she just confessed to everything?”

  “She thought that Guy already had. It was like a damn had burst inside her, Dominique. Guilt and grief and fear given vent in a moment of absolute relief after seven years of deception. She wanted to tell me.” He laid out the menu next to the note so that she could make the comparison herself. “He hand-wrote the menus every day, so we are not short of examples of his handwriting.”

  Dominique studied the two documents. “They certainly look identical. But I guess we’ll need a handwriting expert to verify it.” She shook her head then, perching on the edge of her desk and allowing herself a rueful smile. “So that’s it. Not a murder at all. A suicide covered up to defraud the insurance company. How could we ever have guessed that?” She folded her arms. “There’ll be charges, of course. Fraud. Obstruction. Tampering. Providing false statements to the authorities.” She glanced at Enzo and immediately saw the doubt in his eyes. She was almost startled. “What?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  She stood up again. “Yes, you do. You’re not convinced, are you?”

  He thought for a long moment before finally responding. “No,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “For one thing…” he picked up the suicide note and rubbed it gently between his thumb and fingertips, “…the quality of this paper.”

  She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Elisabeth told me that after Marc got his third star nothing was too good for him. He had high quality stationery specially watermarked with the logo of the auberge.” He held up the note to the flickering fluorescent strip in the ceiling. “This is bog standard writing paper, not particularly good quality. And there’s no watermark. Would it not be reasonable to assume that he would have used his best writing paper to record his last words?”

  But he didn’t give the gendarme too much time to dwell on that thought.

  “He also habitually used a fountain pen. A very expensive fountain pen with which he wrote out his daily menus. Why didn’t he use it to write his suicide note?”

  “Didn’t he?”

  “Look at these together.” Enzo laid the note out on the desk again, next to the menu. “See how the nib of the fountain pen used to write the menu creates a variation in the thickness of the up and down strokes? But the pen used to write the note doesn’t. And it couldn’t have been a ballpoint. Ballpoints use oil-based inks, which wouldn’t have run when exposed to water. This was more likely to have been a rollerball pen, which uses water-based ink and wouldn’t have produced any variation in the up and down strokes.” He looked at Dominique. “He would almost certainly have written this note sitting at his roll-top desk in his private study. Why didn’t he use his beloved fountain pen and his watermarked writing paper?”

  Confusion had written itself all over Dominique’s face. “You think it’s a forgery, then?” She glanced once more the two sheets of paper lying side by side on her desk. “If it is, someone’s done an amazing job.”

  But Enzo shook his head. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s Marc Fraysse’s own handwriting.”

  Dominique’s frown deepened. “Then what on earth are you thinking?”

  Enzo scratched his head. “Have the autopsy pics that the pathologist took of the dead man’s hands arrived yet?”

  “No. Are they that important?”

  “I’d really like to look at them.”

  “Then I’ll call him personally, and get him to fax them as soon as possible.”

  Enzo nodded. “And I have a big favor to ask.”

  She sighed. “What now?”

  “Hold off on reporting any of this until I get back from Paris.”

  She seemed shocked. “You’re going to Paris again?”

  “I’ll catch the night train from Clermont Ferrand and be back by tomorrow night.” He hesitated, then lifted up the suicide note. “But I’ll need to take this with me.”

  She gasped her frustration. “Enzo, I could be in so much trouble over this already.”

  He grinned. “I thought you told me you could look after yourself.”

  A smile spread reluctantly across her lips. “Don’t you just hate it when someone uses your own words to back you into a corner?”

  “That’s why you should always choose your words very carefully in the first place.”

  She glared at him. “Bastard!”

  “Is that a yes?”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Paris, France, November 2010

  Paris gave the impression of a flickering, monochrome movie from another age when he stepped off the train at the Gare de Lyon shortly after seven. A bitter north-easterly had driven the inhabitants of the city into winter coats, and hats, and scarves, and the Parisian penchant for blacks and greys seemed to have leeched all color from the seething mass of commuters that thronged the platforms. Summer was both a distant memory, and a far off prospect, and the winter months that loomed ahead had subdued the usually passionate populace. The dull murmur of voices was barely discernible over the constant announcements of departures and arrivals.

  Enzo shouldered his way silently through the crowds, head lowered, and ran down the steps to the métro. His compartment was packed and uncomfortable, a human cattle truck filled with the warm, sour smell of body odour and cigarette breath. The twenty minute ride to the Gare du Nord seemed like an eternity.

  Enzo was glad to step out of the station to breathe cold, fresh air again. He walked south on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, barely aware of the city around him, wrapped up in a confusion of thoughts. Of suicide notes and fountain pens, confessions and deceptions. And in amongst all of that, the sense of being close again to his son. Existing under the same sky, in the same city. He had an almost overwhelming urge to hold him.

  At the Rue du Château d’Eau, he turned left and found the apartment block he was looking for around a hundred and fifty meters south-west on the opposite side of the street.

  Raymond Marre was still in his dressing gown when he answered the door on the second floor landing. It took a moment or two before recognition banished his frown and he greeted Enzo like a long lost brother, kissing him on both cheeks and ushering him into the warmth of his apartment.

  “Mon dieu, mon ami, comment vas-tu? It’s been years. I’m just having breakfast. Will you join me?”

  “With pleasure. I’m starving.” Enzo discarded his coat and gloves, his face flushing with the heat after the cold outside, and followed Raymond into a small dining room which overlooked the street below through French windows. He watched the old man as he fussed to find another cup and saucer, and a plate for the croissants. The bag from the boulanger lay torn open on the table.

  “I’m fortunate to have a neighbour who always fetches me fresh croissants in the morning. I’m not really a morning person. It’s usually ten or later before I’m dressed and my brain is functioning.” He grinned. “It gets harder and harder to kick-start it these days. How’s my God-daughter?”

  “Sophie’s well, Raymond, and training to be a chef.”

  “Mmmmh, then you’ll need to invite me to dinner sometime soon so I can sample her progress.” He looked at Enzo. “And how are you?”

  “I’m fine, Raymond.”

  Raymond had been Sophie’s mother’s mentor, an old hand in the police scientifique when Pascale was just starting out on her career in forensics. Enzo had asked him to be Sophie’s God-father after Pascale died in childbirth. He was well into his seventies now, and long retired. He poured Enzo a coffee, and they ate in silence for some moments.

  “So, what brings you to Paris? Still showing the French police how it should be done?”

  Enzo smiled. “I’m trying to fin
d out who killed Marc Fraysse.”

  “Ah.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “I’m beginning to make connections already. Sophie, Fraysse, haute cuisine.” He paused. “Figured it out yet?”

  “Nearly. But I need your help. You spent several years working in the questioned documents lab.”

  Raymond looked doubtful. “It’s a long time since I retired, Enzo. QD was my specialty, sure. But there have been a lot of scientific advances since my day.”

  “And you haven’t kept up with them?”

  “Of course I have. What else am I going to do all day?”

  Enzo grinned. “And I’m assuming you still have some influence at the lab on the Ile de la Cité.”

  Raymond tipped his head to one side. “They tolerate the odd visit.” Hard though he was trying to hide it, his interest was piqued. “What’s your problem?”

  Enzo went into his satchel and took out Fraysse’s suicide note, safely sealed inside a clear plastic ziplock bag. He laid it on the table between them. “I want to know if it’s possible to recover the words obliterated by the water damage and the blood.”

  Raymond picked it up and looked at it with thoughtful concentration, then he held it up to the light of the window. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Really?”

  “A video spectral comparator should do it. The VSC uses various light-filtering systems, infrared, ultraviolet and so on, to enhance effaced, faded, or stained writing.”

  “Even although the original text has been lost?”

  “Sure. I mean, the writing’s not actually lost, it’s still there. You just can’t see it.”

  “How does that work?”

  “Visible and invisible radiant energy can excite inks to emit longer wavelengths of energy which make them luminesce. Of course, you still can’t see it with the naked eye. But the comparator has an integration feature which allows you to adjust the exposure time of radiant energy entering a black and white video camera. Weak luminescence can be enhanced, in the same way as slowing the shutter speed on a conventional camera allows you to record images in low light. So the original writing will show up, even though it appears to have been wiped out.”

  Enzo glanced at the blood and water stains that seemed to have erased almost a third of the text on the page, and wondered what secrets the comparator might reveal. If any.

  “And you would have access to a machine like this?”

  “I believe the lab at the Quai de l’Horloge has the VSC6000.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the question. Would they let you use it?”

  The old forensic scientist sat back in his chair and laughed. “Enzo, Enzo, Enzo. Is the Pope a catholic?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Charlotte was surprised to see him, although it was difficult to tell whether the surprise was pleasant or otherwise. An experienced psychologist, trained in the detection of the smallest micro signes in the faces of others, she was herself a master of obfuscation.

  “I’m with a client just now. But Janine will bring Laurent through.” She showed him into the combined office and sitting room, floor-to-ceiling windows looking down on to the Rue des Tanneries. A bank of computer monitors flickered on a long work table, and one of them showed a black-and-white image from a camera installed somewhere above the indoor garden below. A middle-aged man in a suit fidgeted nervously in a wicker chair by the little pool at the center of the garden. Charlotte’s client. Her chair opposite remained empty.

  He turned as Janine came up the steps from the gallery, carrying Laurent in her arms. “It’s not long since he was fed,” she said. “So he might be a little sleepy. I’ll be along in the video room if you need me.” The babysitter disappeared back down the steps, and he heard her footsteps retreating along the metal catwalk. He turned, holding the baby to his chest, and saw that Charlotte had resumed her place opposite the client.

  He crossed to the settee, then, and sank into it, sliding Laurent down to cradle in his arms, the tiny pink face upturned toward his. Nonsense noises gurgled from the baby’s mouth, and his wide open dark eyes stared up at Enzo in fascination. Enzo wondered if, even at that age, a child had any instinct about who his father might be. And decided that he probably didn’t. Only time and exposure would provide that recognition. Still, the child seemed completely relaxed with him. And Enzo had his experience with Sophie to draw on. He was no stranger to babies and their needs.

  He gave his son his right index finger, and the baby immediately seized it, clutching it tightly in impossibly tiny fingers, and holding on for dear life. Enzo grinned at him, and to his delight Laurent grinned back. A smile that turned to a chortle, and then a laugh. And Enzo laughed, too.

  “What’s so funny?”

  Enzo looked up to see Charlotte breezing into the room. “I thought you were with a client.”

  “I got rid of him. What are you two laughing at?”

  “Each other I think. He obviously figures it’s pretty funny for his dad to have different colored eyes.”

  She perched on the edge of an armchair opposite and watched them for a moment. “Enzo, we never really had a chance the other night to talk about Kirsty.”

  He looked at her, surprised. “Kirsty?”

  “And Roger.”

  And her ominous tone sent a chill of recollection through him. Kirsty was pregnant, and she and Roger were to be married. Revelations he had almost consciously chosen to bury.

  “I imagine you’re not very happy about it?”

  “That would be an understatement. You know I’ve never liked Roger.”

  “And you know how much I dislike him.”

  “And yet you still see him.”

  “From time to time, yes. You know what they say about your enemy. Keep him always in plain view.”

  Enzo frowned. “Your enemy? Charlotte, he was your lover for eighteen months.”

  “Which is how I know.” She paused. “He is a dark and dangerous man, Enzo. You need to do everything in your power to stop him from marrying Kirsty.”

  ***

  Enzo passed the fifteen minute métro ride from Gobelins to Pont Neuf on Line 7 lost in a deep despond. He remembered once before that Charlotte had warned him about Raffin. There’s something dark about Roger, Enzo, she had said. Something beyond touching. Something you wouldn’t want to touch, even if you could. Enzo had never witnessed that dark side. But he had seen him flirt with other women in Kirsty’s presence, and experienced first hand an unpleasant and ruthless streak in him.

  Kirsty, however, was her own person. He had no right to tell her what, or what not, to do. Not least because he had abandoned her to her mother at the tender age of twelve, to pursue a new life in France with Pascale. He had often wondered if, given the chance, he would do it all differently. But if he had, there would have been no Sophie, no Charlotte. No Laurent.

  And Kirsty was an intelligent girl, sensible. She clearly saw something in Roger that her father didn’t. But Charlotte must once have been beguiled by him, too. And only time and experience had led her to disillusionment. Kirsty had not had sufficient of either to arrive at that conclusion, and Enzo knew that there was nothing he could either say or do about it that would not lead him into conflict with her.

  There was sleet in the air, blowing in on the edge of a north-east wind as he emerged from the métro at the Pont Neuf in the shadow of the decaying icon that was the Samaritaine building. The Ile de la Cité split the river in two, a classical skyline anchored to both banks by bridges at various points along its length, as if it might otherwise float away. On the far side was the headquarters of the Paris police, the Quai des Orfèvres. On the nearside, the forensic laboratories of the police scientifique at No. 3 Quai de l’Horloge. Enzo pulled up his collar and hurried off through the sleet.

  Raymond Marre was waiting for him at the main entrance to see him through security, then lead him upstairs to an upper floor where the VSC6000 was housed in a small, windowless room. The machine itself wasn’t much
bigger than the average laser printer. It was connected to a computer terminal, keyboard and monitor. A gooseneck lamp on the desk cast light over a profusion of papers spread across its surface. Enzo spotted the suicide note in its ziplock bag among them.

  “Well?” Enzo looked at him anxiously.

  Raymond beamed. “It seems that for once the French police scientifique can actually do something for the great Enzo Macleod.” He held up a sheet of photocopy paper. “Here it is, all cleaned up and perfectly readable. Although what illumination it might throw on your investigation probably only you can tell. It certainly doesn’t mean anything to me.”

  Enzo took the sheet and read it in full. His immediate reaction was one of disappointment. There was nothing in the text recovered from the top or bottom of the note that added anything to what was already there. And no signature. He frowned.

  “Doesn’t make much sense to you either, I see,” Raymond said. “I guess you’d need the missing pages to get anything more out of it.”

  Enzo looked at him, confused. “Missing pages?”

  But even as he said it he understood for the first time exactly what he was holding in his hand.

  ***

  Rows of dark blue police vans were lined up along the quai outside, and people with hoods pulled up, and umbrellas lowered against the sleet, hurried by, heads down. The Théatre de la Ville across the river was almost obscured by it.

  Enzo fumbled in his pocket for his cellphone and hit the speed dial key for Dominique’s cell. It was important she knew, and could move immediately. He felt his fingers stiffening in the cold as he waited for a reply. Eventually her messaging service kicked in and he left a quick message asking her to call him back immediately. He called the gendarmerie on the off-chance that she might be there and not have access to her cellphone. The duty officer replied and told him that Gendarme Chazal was not on duty until the following morning.