by L. S. Hilton
I took the final gift Dave had sent me from the holdall and laid it on the floor. The latest catalogue raisonné of Rothko, produced for the Tate Modern exhibit in 2009. It had taken a lot of e-mails to New York gallerists from Gentileschi, who were looking out for a Rothko for a private client, but I’d been able to trace the sales of nearly all the pictures that had passed through private hands in the last three years and none matched Renaud’s details. He had been too confident, naming the bank, Goldman Sachs.
Still, that wasn’t enough to confirm it. That Renaud had lied about who he was didn’t necessarily make him a cop. Yet the ease with which he’d taken care of Leanne, the sirens appearing in the wake of Moncada’s death? I don’t think he fully understood the power of Google. In a program for the proceedings of a conference on “Cultural Methods of Money Laundering” at the University of Reggio Calabria, I found a scheduled talk by one Ispettore Chiotasso, R., on the use of artworks as “capital covers” for illegal funds. He and da Silva were colleagues after all. Renaud had spoken to the conference at three p.m. I could imagine him, shirt damp under the arms, in some dusty southern classroom, the delegates nodding after a heavy lunch. So he did chase money, after a fashion. It was only when I read the abstract of the talk that I’d had an inkling of what Renaud might have planned for Moncada. He wanted revenge.
• • •
IN THE EARLY NINETIES, a magistrate named Borsellino was murdered in Sicily by the Mafia. It was an easy name to remember, because it happened to be the same as my favorite Milanese hatmaker. The killing shocked Italy, and in its aftermath, police squads were drafted into Sicily from different regions of the country in an attempt to break the pattern of collusion between official forces and the Mafia. The Direzione Investigativa Antimafia was made up of combined teams from across Italy, among them several divisions of Financial Guards from Rome, including one Chiotasso, R. The Sicilian case twenty years later, where the police investigating the fake Greek artifacts got a lot more than froth with their coffee, had involved Renaud’s colleagues. The culprits were never arrested, but they were believed to have been connected with the established international art scene.
Renaud must have known that Moncada was involved in the bombing that killed Renaud’s fellow police officers. Sure, he and da Silva were investigating Mafia art fraud, but as I had learned from my research, Mafia cases could drag on for decades, a few gains here, a few losses there. Cracking the money-laundering ring hadn’t been Renaud’s real motive. Revenge, and a warning to Moncada’s employers in the true Sicilian style. That’s why I hadn’t stiffed him sooner; I liked him enough to want him to have his moment of triumph. His story had been pretty damn good, all told. And I had to admit, I’d been amused by the game.
There were many things I could never know. Had da Silva’s apparent belief in my innocence back in Como been an act too? Either way, Renaud had obviously convinced him at some point not to haul me in, because it suited the long game with Moncada. They’d assumed they’d have me in the end. I was the bait for a little old-school justice.
How much da Silva knew of the way Renaud worked the sting wasn’t my business, and I guessed since he was a family man, he didn’t want to know more than he had to. It might have upset Franci. Nor did he look like the sort of guy who would cheerfully fuck his suspects. Renaud was the maverick cop, working the case on his own terms, regretfully bringing the femme fatale to justice. The awful clothes had been a nice touch, though. Quite a sacrifice, I guessed, for an Italian. So Renaud planned to deliver his warning to Moncada’s associates, da Silva would plausibly smooth over the killing as an officer’s self-defense, and I’d be stopped at the airport with a murdered girl’s passport.
• • •
I THOUGHT ABOUT SLEEPING, but I didn’t want to miss the post office opening, so I went out for a walk, circling the perimeter of the Luxembourg to keep warm until seven, when I found a café tabac that was open and bought myself a noisette and an elderly postcard of a Parisian panorama. I borrowed a pen from the waiter, his day’s scowl already in place, and wrote out the address of my white knight in Finsbury, then added:
“D,
This is not a gift. You owe me £1. I’m sure Rupert will handle the sale with pleasure.
J xxx.”
Capital gains, after all. The money I’d pocketed from Moncada was unofficial: by selling the Richter to Dave for a quid, I’d got my original investment back, plus the profit, and let myself in for 28p in tax. At least I’d learned something in the department.
After that, it was eight, and the Richter and I were the first in line at la poste.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
I GAVE THE CONCIERGE a hideous potted carnation and a Rykiel print scarf I’d never much liked. The sleepless night and the endless cigarettes had left me with a tinny ache in my ears and a twitch in my hands, but behind my eyes my mind was as shiny as the bathroom in the flat. The purple shadow of my eye sockets was also useful when I handed her a neat cardboard carton containing Renaud’s few clothes (minus the plastic wallet in which he’d taped up my passport and credit cards) and asked, as a great favor, if she could look after it in the lodge in case monsieur ever came back for his things. Feckless lovers doing a moonlight flit were standard fare in the telenovele, and despite her voluble commiserations I managed to imply that it was just too painful to talk about. I reminded her that the movers would be arriving later that day and explained that a friend was giving me a lift to the airport, thanked her in between agreeing that No Man Was to Be Trusted and lugged the holdall to the end of the street, waiting at the bus stop where I had once watched Renaud waiting for me. The bus was crowded with passengers on their way to work, and I had to stand clutching the rail with my bag wedged between my knees as we swayed across the city. How long since I had been on a bus? How long until the mysterious friend at the prefecture realized that “Leanne” wasn’t turning up at the airport? I had a day or two, I reckoned, before they came to question the concierge. At least she’d enjoy that. I’d miss my things, but I could always buy more. It was time for a new look, anyway.
By the time the bus had waddled through the commuter traffic to the depot behind Sacré-Cœur, I was the only occupant. I trailed behind a tourist coach staggering up to the church, then flopped down on the steps among the early-morning backpackers. Someone was playing the bongos; I could already smell weed. I rooted in the holdall and pulled out Renaud’s wallet. Empty, as I thought, except for a couple notes, the “fake” police badge he’d used on the Goutte d’Or, and a postal slip, a receipt for a special delivery to be collected from Amsterdam. It had been a convincing touch, the fake passport. And the Amsterdam address would be useful, as I’d be needing another new one imminently. Next was Renaud’s crappy old-school Nokia, the same model as the one I’d used on Balensky’s boat. I assumed he must have had something more up to date somewhere, but he hadn’t been taking any chance on having it near me. Bless. I didn’t expect to find much, that would have been too neat, and the log lists and inbox were wiped clean, except for an offer from France Telecom that morning. The only call registered was the one he’d made to me while I was in the hotel room with Moncada.
What I did find was photos, beginning with the sequence he’d shown me from Rome, then from the period when he was spying me out in Paris, buying the newspaper, smoking a cigarette in the Panthéon café, running in the park. And then shots I’d never seen him taking, me sleeping, a close-up of my hair on the pillow, me sprawled naked on the wreck of my bed looking like a pornographic Hogarth. Eeeew. But then, the heel of my shoe as he followed me upstairs, me stooping to spit as I brushed my teeth, a half angle, caught through the bedroom door of me fiddling with a shopping bag. Hundreds of them. I looked for a long time, and the more I looked, the less voyeuristic and controlling they seemed. There was something softly intimate about the pictures, even a tenderness in the way he had recorded so many glancing moments of my life.
A Spanish couple, hefty and acne-pocked, brandishing a phone. Another effing phone. I smiled and snapped as they posed with their arms round each other with the marble façade behind them. Happy times.
I looked around for a dustbin, preparing to chuck Renaud’s Nokia, but it buzzed in my hands. 06, a French mobile number. The text read merely No sign yet. How thoughtful of them to remind me. The one thing that had been nagging at me was that when Renaud vanished, da Silva would blame me, not Moncada’s crew. And now Renaud was still alive, texting away from Montmartre, where the two of us had first met. So take a punt, Judith. I texted back: En route. Does the name Gentileschi mean anything to you? I had to know if Renaud had told them where I kept my money. The dustbin stank of the vomit of putrid fast food, and a vendor came up and offered me a tray of plastic friendship bracelets.
Another buzz. “Bien. Non.”
So he hadn’t told them, which meant they wouldn’t be applying for a warrant for the depository in Vincennes, which meant that if his head was ever fished out of the Seine it would be attributed to old-fashioned omertá. I wasn’t dumb enough to think that this phone contained the only evidence of my meeting with Fitzpatrick and my tie with Renaud. Da Silva would surely have the shots, and there was the small matter of the dead junkie, but Gentileschi could be hiring again tomorrow. Definitely time for a new look.
I tapped back. “Merci. A plus.” Until later. Still, I somehow didn’t want to relieve myself of the phone. I’d never had a love letter before.
I spent the afternoon wandering the west of the city. I could have gone to a museum to pass the time, but there were no pictures I wanted to look at. I trudged to the Parc Monceau and, despite the cold, managed to sleep an hour or so with my head on the holdall, waking to the offended glance of a chic young mother whose toddler was fiddling with my shoelaces. She probably thought I was a street drunk or a runaway, not the sort of thing one would wish to find in this most elegant and lifeless of Parisian gardens. I bought a coffee and a glass of water to wake myself up and looked at the papers to pass the time, more from habit than from anxiety. It seemed remarkable how many people one could kill without making the news.
At about seven that evening, I texted Yvette. Are you at home? I need to come over. We’d been messaging from time to time. I had explained my disappearance from the scene during the weeks with Renaud by saying I’d hooked up with a fantastic new guy. When she replied, I waited at a cab rank, thinking about how city life was turning back to a time when everyone lived in lodgings and conducted their existence in public spaces. I’d known Yvette nearly a year and it had never occurred to me to learn where she lived. It turned out to be the fifteenth, one of the rare ugly modern buildings that disfigure the façades of Paris like bad dental work. She took a while to buzz me in, as though she’d thought better of it, but in the end I heard her “Allo” over the intercom and hauled myself up five flights of concrete stairs.
It was obvious Yvette had just got up. Her hair looked like an old Brillo pad, her skin patchy without foundation, arms and legs liverish where they showed under the skimpy crumpled sweatshirt she’d dragged on over her knickers. I thought she must make up her limbs too. The small studio was close and stuffy, a cheap patchouli incense stick failing to disguise a heavy fug of scent, smoke and garbage. Yvette’s clothes were heaped everywhere, toppling pyramids of leather and lace that half obscured the futon mattress that was her only furniture. She looked defiant, as I would if I’d had to show off a home so squalid.
“So. This is me. Do you want some tea?”
“Thanks, that would be lovely.”
She had an electric ring, a kettle, and a microwave in a cupboard. While she took out two cups and two peppermint tisane bags, I asked for the bathroom. “There.”
Another cupboard; a tiny shower, loo, and basin smeared with grime; toothpaste coagulated on the tap. The towel on the floor stank of mildew, but I ran the water hot and rubbed myself down, brushed my teeth, quickly moisturized and made up my face. The Glock peered snubly from the jumble in the holdall. I’d thought of just killing Yvette to take her identity card, but I’d never get away with the skin color.
“So,” I said brightly, emerging. “Feel like going out? My treat.”
“Sure,” she said suspiciously. “It’s early, though.”
“We can have a drink, and then I thought Julien’s place?”
“Okay.”
We drank our tea and I spooned in a couple mouthfuls of Nutella from the friendless jar in Yvette’s tiny fridge. While Yvette began the long process of assembling herself for the night, I lay on the futon and flicked through the TV news. Now she was focused, there was something concentrated, even balletic, about her movements, a professional appraisal of her back view in an emerald vintage shantung sheath, the grimaces that accompany eyeliner and mascara, securing the ankle strap of a perilous Tribute sandal. When she was done it was impossible to believe, looking at her, that she might have crawled off this dungheap of a flat. My own toilette took two minutes, a simple Alexander Wang black jersey minidress and plain black pumps, no fuss.
“Shall we get some coke?”
“I’m good now, maybe later. You ready?” She nodded, fiddling with her phone, sensing that something was off, but the thought of a free night on the razzle was too much for her.
“You can leave that here. I mean, you can stay if you like.”
“Nah, I might need my stuff.”
“Meeting your new bloke?”
“Maybe later.”
I hoiked the holdall unsteadily onto my shoulder, thrown off by my heels.
“Let’s go, then.”
Freed from her squat of a home, Yvette was more herself, telling me about a massive night someone was organizing in a warehouse by St. Martin, an art and fashion happening that was bound to get a lot of attention. Yvette was “styling” it, though as far as I could see from the swag in the flat, her styling career began and ended with half-inching whatever samples the press offices were mug enough to let her call in. It was still only nine, so we had an aperitif at a neighborhood place before making for the Rue Thérèse. Apart from the Nutella, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, so I grabbed a handful of urine-soaked peanuts from the bar. I couldn’t have my hands shaking.
We got to Julien’s at about ten, just as the door was opening. I’d hoped to put off Julien from asking any questions by going in with Yvette, but it was the bartender on reception, and he waved us through and we made our way down into the deserted club. He dashed after us to fix us up with a cognac.
“This is lame,” Yvette said pointlessly, kicking her leg against her stool.
“It’ll warm up. Look.”
Two guys were coming in, tall, fair, gym toned.
“Check out the Hitler youth.”
They came straight over and offered us a drink. The music was switched on and after half an hour of chat the room started to fill up. Yvette was getting a little drunk on the cognac, left for the cubicles, and returned in a black lace thong and bodice, oozing herself round her Aryan, who didn’t need any more invitation to drag her to the darkroom.
“Are you coming?”
“In a while.”
They skipped off while I watched the girls intently. There weren’t too many of them, and I needed someone with roughly my hair color at least. The last Amsterdam train from the Gare du Nord left at twelve minutes past midnight, but it was eleven-twenty when they walked in. A youngish woman with a much older man, he clutching her hand possessively, she more composed, experienced. She brushed his lips lightly and headed for the cubicles while he approached the bar. In a few minutes she was back, in a pink high-cut lace leotard, her nipples squashed and dark against the fabric. Perfect. I nodded to my blond, who was already checking out the bonbons, slid off my own stool, and went the way she had c
ome, still clutching the bulging holdall. Only one of the changing booths was closed. I had no idea how to pick a lock. I just crawled under the slatted door and made straight for the bag, a soft black Prada clutch. I tipped it out, rifled through the usual detritus for the wallet, scattered a few credit cards and receipts until I had the ID in my hand. It was hard to see in the dim light, but Marie-Hélène Baudry was my lucky doppelgänger for the night. She was married, and somehow I doubted it was to her old chap. Naughty girl. I considered leaving her Leanne’s passport, but it had my picture on it, so I reassembled the wallet, scooped the junk back into the clutch, and slipped the ID into the pocket of the holdall. Eleven-thirty-two. Tight, but possible.
I took a quick peek into the darkroom before I left. Yvette was under her blond boy, heels spiking at his back. She’d be stuffed for the bill, but then she’d never even offered to pay back that five hundred—not that I’d have taken it, but still, good manners. I was in the lobby at eleven-thirty-five, the curtain ajar, my hand on the door, when Julien swam up out of the shadows.
“Mademoiselle Lauren?”
“I’m sorry, Julien, I’ve really got to leave.”
He reached round and gently closed the door. “Not just yet. I need to speak to you.”
“Okay, okay. But quickly.”
“Bien sûr, mademoiselle.”
He stopped under the reception counter and showed me into the back office. No pretense of louche luxury here, just a desk with a computer, a cheap office chair, a spike of receipts in the glare of a strip light. I put the holdall on the desk.
“Mademoiselle Lauren, I’ve had another visit. The police this time. Asking questions. Again.”