The Severance Trilogy Box Set Page 3

  Jamie was the next port of call.

  ‘Thought you’d be here earlier.’ Jamie pulled across the still vacant chair from Nick’s last visit. ‘You want his call list, I take it?’

  ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Given up on cracking the password for the moment, but it’s academic anyway. Here’s your list.’ He passed Nick a one page printout.

  It was definitely a short list. Simon had returned on the Friday and in the intervening five days he’d received and made only a handful of calls. There was nothing listed for the preceding month.

  ‘Here’s the Monday night call,’ said Nick. ‘Any more info on this number?’

  ‘Pay-as-You-Go number. And not a UK number either.’

  ‘So where’s it from?’

  Jamie consulted a Word document on his terminal briefly. ‘It’s a French number. It was used somewhere near Montmartre, in Paris, to call Simon. That’s all I know right now. I’ve got a request in with France Telecom to monitor it, but at the moment it’s switched off.’

  ‘Or thrown away.’

  ‘We’ll see. If it’s used again, we’ll know when and where.’

  ‘So the call was made in Paris. Plenty of time to get from there to here for Tuesday morning, I’d say.’

  ‘I bet she went Eurostar,’ offered Jamie.

  ‘Mmm, OK. Let me know if the phone is used again. Keep trying the password, I want to see his contact list.’

  The call from Paris gave him something to work with. Nick returned upstairs and dropped in on his two colleagues, who were feeding the details of the Neptune’s recent guests into the police database.

  ‘Just about done sir,’ said one as Nick approached.

  ‘Good. See if you can find anyone who came in late on Monday evening. Anyone French or with a French address.’ He turned to the second Detective Constable. ‘And I need the Eurostar passenger list for all services from Paris to Kings Cross after…’ he paused and consulted the printout, ‘6pm our time, 7pm French time.’

  ‘Will do.’

  As he made his way back to his desk, his mobile rang. It was Lauren.

  ‘Am I seeing you later?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll be there. Usual time?’

  ‘Yes. Can we grab a bite afterwards?’

  ‘Good idea. Can’t talk now, though. See you at the dojo at 7.’

  ‘OK, bye.’ She rang off.

  He smiled to himself. She often rang to remind him about training nights. His working hours could often be rather unpredictable but he made a point to try and keep Wednesday and Friday evenings free, for Aikido practice. He’d been studying the martial art for some five years now and had achieved some proficiency. He had reached first dan black belt status only a few months ago, but he knew Aikido was a lifelong journey, which made it all the more challenging and enjoyable. Two of the key principles were relaxation and non-involvement of one’s ego, using the force of the attacker to gain the advantage. Success was really a process of getting out of your own way as it were and letting intuition backed by training do the work.

  Lauren had appeared at the dojo one evening, about two years ago. She said she had a little experience and the instructor paired them off to practise a particular throwing technique. Nick thought it would be something of a mismatch, that his height and weight would make life difficult for this 5’6” smiling blonde in front of him. Much to his surprise she threw him effortlessly and when he hit the mat applied a faultlessly executed arm lock. He quickly revised his opinion. She was thirty-two then and had been involved with Aikido for twelve years, or so. She always seemed to be there when he went to training and after a while he asked her out. They’d been seeing each other ever since.

  He looked forward to meeting her later. A meal and some chat about something other than police work would be a welcome diversion. And she often came back to his place for the night after training sessions, which could be even more diverting.

  Later that afternoon, DC Sharpe, who had been the one charged with finding any French guests, came across to Nick’s desk.

  ‘Only two people of interest, sir. They checked in at 10.45 on the Monday evening and checked out again on Tuesday morning at 11.’

  ‘They were together you mean?’

  ‘Separate rooms, same company. A Mr David Le Roux and a Ms Sylvie Dajani. They both registered using the same company address in Paris.’

  ‘Have you checked it?’

  ‘Yes sir.’ Sharpe consulted his notes. ‘It’s a fine art dealer, he’s the director. And I cross checked them with the Eurostar passenger list. They came into London on Monday and went back Tuesday evening.’

  ‘Good work. Did we get CCTV footage from the hotel?’ Sharpe nodded. ‘In that case, see if you can get a still of them checking in or out for me, will you?’

  Someone would have to go to Paris and get a statement from Le Roux and Dajani. That would require some assistance from the French police. Nick put a call through to his International Liaison Officer, Charlie Stevenson. He explained his request.

  ‘OK, Nick. Put it all in writing for me and I’ll pass it on to the Police Judiciaire in Paris. I suppose you want to do this as soon as possible?’

  ‘Ideally.’

  ‘I know a captain in the Brigade Criminelle. He speaks good English. I’ll call him and as long as we can assure him the paperwork is on the way, he may agree to help you straight away. Well, in about a week, I’d say. He will set up the meeting between you and your suspects and he will be present when you interview them.’

  ‘They aren’t suspects, yet. Just need to know what they were doing and when they were doing it.’

  ‘Then do you need to go to Paris yourself?’

  ‘Yes. I’d prefer to do it face to face. Better for my peace of mind.’

  ‘OK, I’ll get back to you.’

  He rented a flat in Chislehurst, two bedrooms. It was a half-hour journey from the City by train and he liked the fact that in fifteen minutes by car he could be in the heart of the Kent countryside, the so called Garden of England. The flat was above an antique shop in a parade of shops and he had no neighbours to worry about. He liked the privacy that offered and it meant he could come and go at all hours, which fitted the routine of his job, without disturbing anyone or being disturbed. That evening, after training and dinner with Lauren at a nearby Italian, they sprawled lazily in his lounge with a bottle of red, discussing the case in as much as he was able to.

  ‘Are you involved in investigating the guy who was shot on Tuesday?’ she asked. ‘You must be, it was practically on your doorstep.’

  The press officer had issued a release and the Evening Standard had carried the story on the Tuesday evening, so he’d wondered if she would raise it.

  ‘It’s my case. All I can tell you is that because we’re short staffed, I’m doing all the leg work right now. Only about five people in the team presently and they’re working on other things, too. Fortunately, I’m not.’

  She topped up his glass. ‘You know the art of management is delegation, don’t you?’

  ‘You should know.’

  Lauren worked for a management consultancy, advising on enterprise resource planning, which was a cute name for streamlining and integrating all of your business functions and processes. In theory she could be posted anywhere on assignment, but had managed to keep herself busy in London for the most part, at least since Nick had known her. With her consultancy background she took a theoretical interest in how murder investigations were managed and might better be managed, and sometimes took him to task over his reluctance to delegate his workload.

  ‘I just don’t want you to overdo it, that’s all,’ she said. ‘You detectives work ridiculous hours at times.’

  ‘When we have a definite suspect, I’ll hand over to an Investigating Officer and just direct things. At the moment there isn’t too much to go on. Let’s not talk shop.’

  She moved closer to him on the sofa. ‘There’s something you should kn
ow.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I’m late this month.’

  She had his attention. ‘Ah, well maybe you’re just late.’

  ‘I’m never late.’ She was looking at him steadily, gauging him.

  ‘How can we have possibly managed that? You take your pills, don’t you?’

  ‘Maybe I missed a day. I don’t know. I’ll give it a week and then do a test.’

  Children had never been on Nick’s to do list. Or more to the point, he’d never seriously considered the prospect of fatherhood. He felt slightly unsettled. He could see that his lack of immediate enthusiasm for the idea was not being well received. He made a stab at retrieving the situation.

  ‘We never talked about kids. In fact, we really haven’t discussed where this relationship might be going.’ Not a great response.

  She was alternating between irritation and guilt now. ‘Just thought you should know.’

  He put his arm around her. ‘It’s a surprise, that’s all.’ Then changed the subject. ‘I think I’ll be in Paris next Thursday or Friday. Can you arrange a long weekend? It’s work, but it won’t take very long.’

  She allowed herself the distraction and smiled. ‘A long, romantic, dirty weekend?’

  He grinned back. ‘Of course. Beats Brighton don’t you think?’

  Chapter 3

  The Gare du Nord was buzzing. A full Eurostar disgorged its cargo of visitors and returning French nationals, who then proceeded to negotiate a concourse of travellers of all nationalities, headed for destinations all over Europe. Nick noted what he thought must surely be the regular London to Paris mob. They revealed themselves by their stern expressions and fleet footedness as they outdistanced their less experienced rivals in a sort of subdued sprint towards the nearest taxi rank.

  ‘They’re getting away,’ said Lauren. ‘We’ll never get a taxi.’

  ‘Fortunately, we don’t need one. The hotel is just around the corner.’

  She gave him a sideways stare. ‘Right next to the station? What happened to the “romantic” part of your suggestion?’

  He laughed. ‘As I recall, it was you who came up with that. Don’t worry. If it’s anything like the pictures on the website, you’ll love it.’

  The Hotel Mademoiselle was a five minute walk away. They entered a light and airy reception area and booked in and then made their way upstairs.

  ‘We have an “Allure” room,’ said Lauren. ‘Hope it lives up to its name.’

  It wasn’t a large room, but it was tastefully furnished and decorated in a muted grey theme, with a silky matching bedspread and large flat screen TV. The one large window on the sloping outer wall opened to reveal a view of the hotel courtyard. Lauren nodded her approval.

  ‘It’s nice.’ She smiled. ‘I think the word is “intimate”.’

  ‘Yes, and there’s a hell of a lot to see and do around here. We won’t be bored.’

  ‘When are you seeing your French counterpart?’

  ‘Tomorrow at 10. He’s picking me up. In fact, this whole thing will only take half a day at most, I hope. Then we have a completely free weekend.’

  ‘Come on then, let’s start now by finding a good restaurant. I’m starving.’

  The Friday morning dawned with billowing white clouds in a blue Paris sky. After breakfast, they considered Lauren’s itinerary.

  ‘There’s a huge indoor market close by, that should keep me going till you’re back again,’ she said. ‘The girl on reception gave me directions.’

  ‘Buy lots of wine and cheese please, as much as you can carry.’

  The room phone interrupted their deliberations. Nick picked up.

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m expecting him.’ He turned to Lauren. ‘Captain Michel Bonnaire is downstairs. Time to go to work.’

  She kissed him. ‘Call me when you’re done.’

  Bonnaire sat in reception, reading Le Monde. A big man in his forties, he had the bulk of a prop forward, with one slightly mauled ear and a nose that looked to have been broken at some stage and not properly reset. Nick wondered if it was a souvenir of a rugby injury or whether it had been inflicted on the job. He certainly looked like the type of guy you wouldn’t want to upset. Casually dressed in jeans and leather jacket, the tough guy image was briefly dispelled when he rose to greet Nick with a broad smile.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Severance. Welcome to Paris.’

  They shook, Nick’s hand enveloped in the other man’s strong grasp. ‘Bonjour. Let me warn you, my French isn’t good.’

  Bonnaire relaxed his grip. ‘That’s OK. Mine is.’ He laughed and then his features relapsed into a serious professional stoicness. ‘My mother was English. You have nothing to worry about. Let’s go.’

  There was a Peugeot parked outside. They pulled out into the busy morning traffic.

  ‘Always crazy around here,’ remarked Bonnaire. ‘We have an appointment with Mr Le Roux in half an hour. I will translate if necessary, but he speaks English when he wants to.’

  ‘You know him?’

  Bonnaire kept his eyes on the road and deflected the question. ‘I wasn’t told very much about your visit, but I arranged the appointment and simply said you wanted a statement to eliminate him from your enquiry. Correct?’

  ‘Yes, and his colleague, or whoever she is. Sylvie Dajani.’

  ‘She will be there. She is his personal assistant. We’re going to his gallery.’ He stole a quick glance at Nick. ‘Tell me about the murder in London, please.’

  Nick filled in the blanks. Bonnaire nodded his head once or twice throughout, but ventured no comment.

  ‘It’s all routine, I hope,’ said Nick. ‘But with the phone call from Montmartre and Le Roux being French and in the vicinity of the killing, I just need to tick him off the list.’

  ‘But you have a feeling about him, perhaps? I’m sure there were many Frenchmen in London that day.’

  ‘Yes, but they weren’t all staying at the Neptune hotel.’

  Bonnaire grunted and said nothing more. Nick wondered what he was keeping to himself and decided not to force the issue. Not yet, anyway.

  By now they had crossed the Seine, in a virtual straight line from their starting point. ‘This is Montparnasse,’ explained Bonnaire. ‘Many art galleries here.’ He turned off the Boulevard St. Michel into a quiet residential street consisting of smart apartments spread over several storeys, many sporting elaborate wrought iron balconies and fronted at street level by solid, high wooden doors.

  ‘Not exactly Bond Street,’ muttered Nick. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Very discreet, I think. Just here, on the right.’

  They pulled in. The gallery certainly didn’t advertise itself. There was a simple gold plated sign on the door, which read: ‘La Oasis - Galerie d’Art Islamique’. The window to the left of it looked as solid as the door and was protected with a black latticework iron grille. Bonnaire rang the bell. A voice emanating from the entrance speaker asked him who he was and once that was established, the door clicked open.

  They stepped into a hallway, which extended for some distance before terminating in a flight of stairs. A set of double doors halfway down the hall opened and a woman emerged to greet them. Of medium height and slim build, she wore a long sleeved, three quarter length dark blue silk dress, with fine silver stitching on the cuffs and hem. Her jet black shoulder length hair was loose but brushed into perfect order and her face had a light Middle Eastern texture, with full lips and very brown eyes. No older than forty guessed Nick, and elegantly understated in a way that shrieked money.

  Bonnaire introduced himself and gestured at Nick as a few words were exchanged in French.

  ‘I’m Sylvie,’ she said. Her accent was part French and part something else. ‘You came all the way from London to see us, I believe.’ She smiled and shook his hand briefly. ‘Please, come through.’

  They entered the gallery, which was a spacious room running the length of the place, with a high plain white ceiling an
d a large skylight and azure painted walls. French doors at the rear opened on to a small garden. There were a few paintings on the wall, some showing scenes of court life in exotic Middle Eastern settings of centuries past, others with examples of calligraphy that meant nothing to Nick. And a few ceramic pieces on plinths throughout the room, dishes of deep blue with complex geometric patterning and vases of all shapes, covered in intricate, swirling motifs. For a minute he was distracted by the sheer beauty of these objects.

  ‘Where is Monsieur Le Roux?’ asked Bonnaire.

  ‘I’m here.’ David Le Roux had come in behind them. Impeccably dressed in a tailored dark suit, he was a silver haired fifty-something, with sharply defined features and a darker complexion than Sylvie. They shared the same Middle Eastern heritage, in Nick’s opinion. Le Roux’s English was very deliberately spoken and as a result only slightly accented, as though he’d spent a lot of time on getting the pronunciation just right. All part of establishing his credibility with his cultured English clients, perhaps.

  ‘Come over here, we can sit down.’ He led the way towards a table and chairs situated by the doors, overlooking the garden. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Would you like something to drink?’ offered Sylvie.

  Both Nick and Bonnaire shook their heads, as one. ‘If you could join us Ms Dajani, this won’t take long.’

  She sat facing him, Le Roux to his right. ‘I’m investigating a death in London, as I think Captain Bonnaire has told you. And we’re taking statements from all French nationals who were staying in the vicinity. Just routine.’

  ‘This was a shooting, was it not?’ said Le Roux, a look of concern clouding his features. ‘Why French nationals?’

  ‘We have reason to believe a French national was involved. Can you tell me the purpose of your visit to London?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I was meeting a potential client. We had a meeting on the Tuesday morning.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Mayfair. We met at 11 for about an hour, I think. He was interested in acquiring some tenth century Iranian ceramic pieces.’