by LJ Ross
Gregory thought back to the woman he’d spoken to that morning and did the only thing any educated person would do—he doubted himself.
He thought back over every small gesture, every look, every word, and asked himself whether he had been duped. His profession relied in large part on interpreting subjective experiences reported by the patient, taking into account their surrounding circumstances. Therefore, the possibility of being misled was always a real one, and something he never overlooked in his daily work at Southmoor.
On the other hand, he had a certain capacity for stepping behind the veil and into the skin of those he met, walking around their minds as though he were walking in their shoes, and he hadn’t been fooled yet.
“Her reactions seemed genuine,” Gregory reiterated. “That doesn’t preclude the possibility that her mind has succumbed to amnesia as a defence mechanism of some kind; the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”
“Time will tell, Doctor. In the meantime, we have a victim with no identity, no suspect and no leads.”
Gregory smiled slightly, thinking of all the times he and Bill Douglas had argued over the diagnosis and prognosis of a patient.
Too many to count.
“One thing we may be able to agree on is that the factual evidence and the pathological traits Camille has displayed both seem to point towards the same thing, which is that she knew her assailant, or who they represented. It’s far more likely her mind would have blocked out all events prior to the attack if those memories were already unwanted.”
“A prior relationship, perhaps?” Durand wondered. “There had been signs of sexual activity, although not recent.”
Caron had been listening with interest.
“What about Missing Persons reports?” she asked. “Have there been any developments on that score?”
Durand stretched his arms above his head, revealing two perfectly circular sweat patches.
“Nobody’s made a report matching Camille’s description,” he replied. “And none of the people who have come forward fit the bill.”
“Let’s go over them again,” Segal surprised them all by saying. “We’ve got little enough as it is, so let’s make doubly sure we haven’t let something slip through the net.”
Whether his proactive attitude was intended to impress the Commissaire or was a genuine display of judicious policing, Gregory couldn’t tell, but it was a step in the right direction, and he took the opportunity to capitalise on the procureur’s sudden show of interest.
“I understand Camille listed Madeleine Paquet’s address on her bank account application form,” he said. “Did she keep the rest of her belongings at that address? There were very few items found at the hotel room.”
Segal looked mildly embarrassed, the thought never having occurred to him.
But it had occurred to Inspector Durand.
“I paid Mademoiselle Paquet a visit yesterday morning. Nice girl, nice place,” he added, with a knowing look for Gregory. “She had in her possession a small holdall belonging to Camille, containing some clothing and toiletries, but very little else. I’ve sent them to the lab, for testing.”
As the room began to disperse, a thought occurred to Gregory. “Was there any jewellery in the holdall?” he asked. “A necklace, for example?”
Durand smiled.
“There was a cheap silver locket, containing a picture of a little girl.”
“Hers?”
“Who knows, until the results come back, or she tells us otherwise? But, if we should ask Juliette Deschamps, I wonder if it may turn out to be hers.”
Gregory thought again of the woman he’d met that morning. Her manner had been so honest, and yet it was likely she’d stolen that necklace from one of her fellow models, then lied about it.
Doubts crept in again, this time much stronger than before.
CHAPTER 18
Later, as night fell over the city, Juliette Deschamps took a taxi from her mother’s house back into the city centre, intending to meet up with Leon, or some of the other people she called friends. The interlude with her family had been a painful one, stirring up emotions she spent most days trying to suppress, and had left her feeling lonely and in need of solace. But, as the bright lights of the city centre approached, she found she didn’t want to socialise after all and walked back to the studio apartment she rented on the top floor of a mansion block—not far from the safe house where Camille Duquette was staying, in the 7th Arrondissement near to the Eiffel Tower.
It was a poky place and smelled of damp, but Juliette didn’t need anything fancy; not when she was working so hard to save money for the future. It was only somewhere to sleep and, if she ever grew lonely or sad, she could look out of her window at the Tower and feel uplifted. Its magnificence was something she remembered first seeing when she was a child, no bigger than Anais was now…
Anais.
Juliette brought a hand to her stomach, which was flat and unlined despite the baby that had once grown there. It wasn’t unheard of, for catwalk models to have babies—only, they usually had them once their name was established and they could afford time off, without the risk of being forgotten in an industry where people were replaceable. Consequently, most of the models she knew were childless; some even actively against having children at all, being firmly of the opinion it would ruin their blossoming careers. She supposed they were right to be wary; outwardly, things seemed to be getting better, with the fashion industry hiring curvier models in an effort to be politically correct in the age of spin. But inwardly…
Things hadn’t changed all that much, and “perfection” was still their stock in trade. Thanks to genes and good fortune, Juliette was naturally a very slim person, but there were some who went to extreme measures never to gain weight, putting their health at risk in the process. Against that backdrop, the idea that a fashion house would hire a girl who’d recently had a baby—one who had yet to make her mark as one of the profession’s rising stars—had seemed a bridge too far when Anais was first born.
And so, she simply hadn’t mentioned it.
Just then, a group of young men rounded the corner, laughing and jostling each other as they made their way out for the evening. Juliette ducked her head, hoping they would pass by without comment. On another night, she would have stalked past them with her head held high, uncaring of what was said or by whom. But tonight, her reserves were low, and she couldn’t seem to muster the strength to deal with an unwanted exchange.
“Eh! Salut, belle femme! C’est quoi cette Barbie?”
She folded her arms and quickened her pace, heels clicking a staccato rhythm against the pavement.
“Casse-toi,” she muttered, and ran across the street as they jeered, calling out lewd suggestions she wouldn’t have repeated in polite company.
Once their cries grew distant, tears began to fall. She scrubbed them away with an angry hand, annoyed with them—and herself. It was hardly the first time she’d dealt with unwanted attention, was it? Since the age of thirteen, she’d been aware of eyes following her down the street, or into school. She hadn’t looked like most girls her age, much as she’d tried to hide it, and as she’d grown older the situation had become more pronounced and the advances more open.
Until, one day, she’d made a decision that had changed her life.
She’d been a fool, back then. A young, stupid fool who’d believed in things like love and marriage, and happily ever after. The silly fairy tales she’d read at bedtime, to escape the harsher reality she found at home.
But, as God was her witness, she swore that Anais would never know what it was to feel hunger or fear. She wouldn’t know humiliation or degradation…
It would be a bright world of opportunity for Anais.
She’d make sure of it.
Juliette reached for her door key, pausing for a moment to admire the lights blazing along the long, rusted columns of the Eiffel Tower which rose up over the surrounding rooftops. She stayed there unt
il the lights were extinguished again, not minding when a slight drizzle began to fall, coating her skin in a layer of fine moisture.
“La vie est belle,” she murmured.
She reached to put her key in the lock but found the outer door already ajar. That wasn’t unusual—it wasn’t the first time one of her neighbours had forgotten to close it properly, or had deliberately left it open while they dashed to the shop for some milk or cigarettes.
Juliette stepped into the dim hallway and, after a moment’s thought, left the outer door ajar again. It might be old Monsieur Gerard who had gone out in search of tobacco, and he routinely forgot to take a key. Then, she checked her post box, which was full of letters that had been delivered whilst she’d been staying at hotels around the city.
“Alors,” she murmured, and began rifling through the stack of mail as she climbed the narrow, spiral stairs to the top floor.
Payment remittance notice from Maison Leroux.
Monthly service charge invoice from the caretaker of the building.
Agency fees invoice from her modelling agent.
As she reached the third floor, she could no longer read the letters because the solitary light dangling from the ceiling had blown. That, too, was not unusual; she might have paid a monthly service charge for the maintenance of the building, but she couldn’t see how the investment was spent. The plasterwork on the walls was crumbling away, and the paintwork badly scuffed, not having been replenished for at least a decade. The ancient cast iron radiators on each landing hadn’t worked for months and consequently the air was always chilly, made even more so by the gaps in the wooden sash windows that were rotting away from lack of upkeep. With all these oversights, it was hardly likely the caretaker would trouble himself to replace a bulb.
If she had time before the shoot the next day, she’d replace it herself.
As she passed beneath the dangling shade, she heard a crunch as her boots met with fragments of broken glass that lay shattered on the stone floor. Assuming that the bulb hadn’t been fitted correctly and must have fallen from the ceiling, Juliette told herself that was the final straw and she’d make a complaint first thing in the morning. There were children living in the building as well as the elderly, and it might have caused an injury.
Fuelled by righteous indignation, she jogged the remaining flight up to the top floor, intending to seek out a dustpan and brush. She didn’t bother to close the door properly behind her, never suspecting that she was not alone, or that anyone had been waiting for her to return home.
She didn’t see the figure until they were almost upon her and, by then, it was too late.
Much too late.
And, when she knew the end was near, Juliette thought only of one thing.
Anais.
* * *
Eva Bisset watched the drizzle collect on her skin, holding her hands up to the night air, blinking as it fell into her eyes and settled on her lashes. People passed by on the street below, their footsteps clattering against the wet paving stones as they hurried to seek shelter before the rain grew heavier. She watched their blurred bodies moving back and forth and envied their freedom, wondering what that would be like.
She began to sing a lullaby, just a few bars of something she’d once heard, then rubbed her temple to soothe the throbbing headache that pounded around her skull.
CHAPTER 19
Gregory heard her voice as soon as he entered the hotel.
The sad, soft strains of My Funny Valentine filled the ground floor of the Hôtel d’Aubusson and he paused to listen for a while, letting the music wrap itself around him like a cocoon. It was coming from the direction of the Café Laurent, a venue which had attracted many of the jazz greats over the years and happened to be the hotel’s bar, connected by an open passage to the foyer.
It was a little after eight o’clock—early by Parisian standards—but already a crowd had gathered beside the bar to listen, some of them regulars who lived thereabouts, others guests of the hotel like himself.
He didn’t intend to join them.
He shouldn’t.
And yet, he found himself crossing the foyer, drawn inexorably to the siren’s call.
When he stepped into the bar area, he saw that Margot, or Madeleine, was sitting on a stool beside a pianist and a saxophonist, though she needed little accompaniment to capture the audience, who gazed up at her from plush leather seats while they nibbled caviar and macarons from small silver platters. It was a very different setting to the one she’d graced two nights before, but the feeling was just the same, and hit him just as hard.
Alex kept to the shadows at the back of the room and braced a hand on the wall, telling himself that, in another minute, he’d leave.
Just as soon as the song finished.
But he stayed there as one song melted into another, a lump rising to his throat as she sang the blues. People came and went, some of them casting an interested eye over the tall, dark-haired man with bold green eyes that were only for her.
He knew he should leave; that’s what Doctor Gregory would do.
But what would Alex do?
He raised a hand to loosen the tie at his neck, yanking it from his body with short, sharp movements. Next, he shrugged out of his jacket and folded back the cuffs of his white shirt, as if loosening his clothes would transform him from the man he told himself to be, to the man he really was.
Very deliberately, he stepped out of the shadows and began to weave his way through the tables, keeping his eyes on the stage until he found a spare seat, where he could listen to the whole set.
He saw her eyes widen as she recognised him, heard the tiny falter in her voice, and then…
Then, he saw her smile.
* * *
“Can I buy you a drink?”
She had a break at eight-thirty, and he rose to hold out a chair as she approached his table.
“Water will be fine.”
White-coated waiters were circulating the room and Gregory placed her order, alongside a Negroni for himself.
“You sing beautifully,” he said, when they were alone again. “But I’ve told you that, already.”
A smile hovered around her lips.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “If it paid a little more, I’d much rather spend my life doing this than working in fashion.”
“You don’t like it?”
Soft, shaded lights cast her face in shadow as she looked away from his eyes, which were altogether too probing.
“It pays the bills,” she said carefully. “Lots of women—and men, too—would love to be in my shoes.”
He thought of the adverts he’d seen in shop windows bearing her face and thought that she was right; there would be some who looked on and envied her life, or what they imagined it to be.
“But not you,” he said quietly, and she looked up again.
“No, not really,” she admitted. “It’s—”
The waiter arrived with their drinks and the conversation was interrupted for a moment while he laid out little trays of nuts and olives, then exchanged a word with Madeleine to compliment her singing. Gregory watched her body language throughout, noting the smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and the way her mouth immediately turned down as soon as the social pleasantries were complete.
“You give a very good impression,” he remarked.
“Of what?”
“Happiness,” he said simply. “You can flick it on like a switch, and then turn it off again just as easily. That’s quite a skill.”
She selected an olive and popped it in her mouth, chewing idly.
“I could say the same of you,” she replied. “I’ve seen you three times now, and each time it feels like I’m meeting a different man.”
Was it so obvious? he wondered. Was it so brazen, the fact he didn’t truly know himself, or the man he’d fashioned from the leftover scraps of the boy he’d once been?
“What makes you say that?”
He was stalling for time—curious, he supposed, to see if there might be another person as perceptive as himself. It was a lonely road, the path he’d chosen to take, and a hard one. How could he hope to seek out the darkness in other people’s souls, to help them to heal, and not be burned during the process? With every new case, some of their torment crept into his heart and made a home there, so he could no longer be certain of where they ended, and he began.
“At the club, you were warm and playful, with plenty to say about music and art,” she began. “I thought…I was looking forward to seeing you again. But then, when you turned up at the reconstruction yesterday, I saw a different side. You were aloof, distant. As if you didn’t want to know me.”
“You’re a witness in the case,” he said.
“Even so.”
“I shouldn’t be sitting here with you, now,” he added, so they were both absolutely clear on where things stood. No matter how flippant Inspector Durand might have been the previous day, he and his superiors wouldn’t take kindly to their criminal profiler becoming romantically entangled with a material witness in their investigation—one who could still, conceivably, be a suspect.
But Madeleine was right about one thing.
She wasn’t seated beside Doctor Gregory, the clinician. She was with Alex, who was a very different man entirely.
“How long do you have left, before your next set begins?” he asked softly.
She read the unspoken question in his eyes.
“Long enough,” she replied.
He rose from the table and held out his hand.
After a moment’s hesitation, she took it.
CHAPTER 20
The ground was hard and brittle beneath his feet, tearing the soles of his feet as he stumbled through the darkness towards the open doorway.
Where do you think you’re going?
“I’m leaving,” he said. “I’m never coming back.”
You can never leave.
He walked a little faster, feeling the shards of broken glass nick his skin and not caring, so long as he made it to the doorway before the light was extinguished.