Lethal Profit (5 page)

Eva nodded.

‘He would have gone far, he was so very bright and he had such a desire to do good.'

M. Huillet smiled at her, obviously wanting to convey once again his condolences. Eva remembered when she had met up with Jackson for the first time after finding out he was still alive. He had seemed overjoyed to see her, but very reserved, and by the end of the conversation she realised, almost consumed by guilt. Perhaps that was why he had taken a job so focused on helping others and ‘doing good'. Eva could understand that he felt terrible about lying to his family for more than ten years, but there was something else in his eyes that spoke of a deeper pain. He'd had a pleading, slightly wild, look that she hadn't understood when she saw it – it was that look which had made her believe the story of his suicide at first. She'd thought perhaps he just couldn't take any more.

‘Did you notice anything strange about him just before he died?' she asked.

M. Huillet frowned. ‘Strange?'

‘Yes, issues with Valerie or turning up late to the office. Did his work suffer at all, was he rude or difficult to be around?''

M. Huillet shook his head. ‘No, nothing like that. If anything, the opposite – he was working late all the time and he seemed especially committed to his work.'

‘Do you know exactly what he was working on?'

‘No, I'm afraid not. Unfortunately, his computer was destroyed on the day he disappeared and we don't have much in the way of resources for IT support,' he said, apologetically.

‘His computer was destroyed?'

‘Yes, it just suddenly stopped working and we couldn't turn it on again.'

‘Odd.'

‘Yes. But the machines we use here are hardly state-of-the-art – almost everything is donated or second-hand, it does tend to happen rather a lot.' He smiled again, apologetically.

Eva wondered whether she believed the coincidence. She looked at the little man in front of her, but she sensed he had nothing to hide.

‘Eva – do you mind if I call you Eva, Miss Scott?'

‘No, please do.'

‘I get the sense that there's something unsettled in your mind about the way Jackson died. Perhaps you're not here just to tie up loose ends.'

He looked at her steadily, his bright eyes piercing.

‘I don't feel comfortable with what happened to him, no. It's really nothing more than an instinct,' Eva replied honestly.

For a second M. Huillet looked like he wanted to say something. She waited to allow him to speak but he seemed to hesitate.

Finally, he said, ‘Sometimes our instincts are the most accurate tools we have.'

The two sat in silence for several seconds. Eva sensed he wasn't going to say anything more.

‘OK. Well, I had better take this then.' Eva pulled the bag towards her. It was heavy. Getting it back to the hotel would be difficult.

M. Huillet stood up. ‘Shall I call you a taxi?'

‘No, really, I'll be fine.'

The old man looked doubtfully at her struggling with the huge bag.

‘Eva?'

Eva stopped and looked at him.

‘Jackson really was a lovely young man. He was kind and helpful and a wonderful campaigner. We miss him.'

‘Thank you.' She coughed to rid her voice of the wavering. ‘I miss him, too.'

With a mammoth effort, she picked up the handles of the rough canvas holdall and hoisted it up onto her shoulder before making her way to the door.

T
HE
POLICE
STATION
WAS
NOT
dissimilar to an English police station on the outside, a fairly nondescript building with a number of marked police cars parked in front. With few other sources of information available to her, Eva had decided that her next stop should be the police report on Jackson's death. Valerie, not the family, had identified Jackson's body after his death and thanks to the physical distance and the grief, Eva and her father had challenged very little. Maybe, just maybe, the report might reveal something that would give some foundation to what she thought might have happened – possibly even provide a new lead.

Steeling herself for a conversation in French, Eva clutched at the soft leather of her bag, feeling for the shape of the dictionary inside. She hauled Jackson's enormous holdall up onto her shoulders once again and pressed forward. It was late afternoon in Paris now and the rain had cleared, allowing the sun to cast pink and orange rays across the clear blue expanse of sky with the last of its light. Once inside the police station, Eva had trouble getting anyone's attention. There was no desk sergeant but instead the entrance door seemed to open onto a series of unmarked corridors. Eventually, she came across a reception area, or at least a room with chairs. There was a slightly open door to one side, behind which a heated argument was taking place in fast-paced French. Eva dropped the huge bag and took a seat on one of the old fabric-covered chairs. She sat and watched a spider attempting to bind a pot plant in its silvery web.

After several minutes, an elderly man in a highly starched uniform flew out of the open door at an unfeasibly fast pace and marched past Eva without a second glance. The door slammed behind him. Eva looked at the floor and tried not to anticipate the painful situation that was bound to ensue if she was going to be forced, as appeared to be the case, to knock on the door and explain herself in French. Taking a deep breath, she stood up, smoothed a non-existent set of creases out of her already skin-tight jeans and walked slowly towards the door, leaving the bag by the chair in reception. She knocked gingerly at the dark wood.

‘OUI!' roared the occupant.

Eva considered coming back later.

‘OUI??' The door flew open and she found herself facing a large man with a red face and a huge moustache, who was looking at her as if he would like to run her through with the knife he held in his left hand. The knife had a knob of butter attached to it.

The man grunted quietly as his face collapsed from rage to irritation and the butter-knife fell to his side.

‘Qu'est ce que vous voulez?'

‘Um, je voudrais…

‘In English if you prefer.'

He ushered Eva into the room and casually indicated a chair positioned in front of a huge mahogany desk.

Thank God, thought Eva, taking a seat and gratefully putting away the dictionary.

‘My name is Eva Scott. My brother, Jackson, died in Paris just over three months ago.' Eva hesitated; it still felt like such an odd thing to say out loud. She waited for a reaction from the man opposite but saw only an almost imperceptible twitch in his right eye. She pressed on. ‘My family and I never saw all the documents relating to his death, my father just spoke to someone on the phone and I think there was some kind of summary report – a single page. I was hoping I would be able to see the full report into his death, just so that we can lay ghosts to rest. If you know what I mean.'

If he did know what she meant, the rotund man in the uniform opposite showed no sign of it. Nor did he show any sympathy or even any interest as he carried on slowly buttering a hard piece of baguette.

‘There is nothing for you to see.'

His response took Eva quite by surprise. She had expected that at the very least there would be some sort of procedure to follow, details to be taken, more questions asked, a file to be located.

‘I'm sorry?'

‘There is nothing for you to see,' he repeated, tossing the buttered baguette end into his mouth and crunching loudly on it as little crumbs launched themselves through his fleshy, parted lips.

‘But there must be.'

‘Nothing.'

‘Don't you need to check a database or something?'

‘I am sure.'

Eva felt herself getting riled. The man was not even looking at her as he spoke; he appeared to think he was addressing the coat hook on the back of his door.

‘Look, I just want to see the documents, that's all. I'm not here to make trouble.'

Suddenly the man's eyes moved so that they were fixed firmly on hers. ‘For what are you asking these questions? This matter has been closed.'

‘There are still unanswered questions.'

‘There are not.'

‘There are.'

‘What –
exactement
?'

‘My brother was not a drug addict.'

The man snorted and folded his arms across his rotund gut with a disdainful expression on his face.

‘I worked on your brother's case, Mademoiselle Scott, and I can assure you your brother had quite a history with drug use.'

‘Yes, but that's just it – he had a history with it, it was
history
.' Jackson had spent a year before he arrived in France in a well-known rehab centre in Hampshire. He had been reluctant to tell her why but eventually had admitted addiction to an assortment of mind-numbing substances, from Class As to painkillers.

‘My brother was clean for two years before he died.'

‘How do you know that? I was aware of his family circumstances and you were rarely in Paris with him.'

‘He told me. I believed him. Besides, he didn't behave in a way that would have led any of us to believe he was still having issues.'

‘He was an addict and that caused him to kill himself.'

‘He was
not
.'

‘Calm down, Mademoiselle Scott.'

His tone was utterly emotionless and completely cold. Eva realised the volume of her voice had been rising. She decided to try another approach.

‘Inspector…?'

‘Gascon. Inspecteur Gascon.' He leaned back in his chair and rested a pair of badly groomed hands on the top of his fat stomach, his small black eyes looking at her challengingly, almost as if he were enjoying her discomfort.

‘Inspecteur Gascon. I've come a very long way to see you. Jackson was the only brother I had, my only sibling. I can see that now the file is closed it would not be particularly… convenient… to open it again but I would be incredibly grateful if you would allow me to deal with some of my unanswered questions. So that I can let Jackson rest in peace.'

She looked steadily at Gascon.

The fat man sighed, stretched, leaned forward and rested his arms on his desk, unaware that his left elbow was now heavily greased with pale yellow butter. He took a slow draught from a large tumbler of water on his desk and then carefully replaced it on a coaster. Eva wanted to throw it in his face.

‘Mademoiselle Scott.' His beady black eyes rested on her, almost pinpricks beneath the fat folds of his eyelids and the dark, saggy skin pulling down his lower lid. ‘I don't know if it is because you are just a stubborn Englishwoman or just because you do not understand. There is no reason to start hunting around for these documents, or to re-open this issue and I will… not… do… so.'

He sat back in his chair, looking haughtily content.

Eva felt utterly depressed as she slowly made her way back to her hotel after the encounter with the policeman. Another avenue firmly closed off. And still she really had nothing to go on but instinct. It was dark now and she could feel how exhausted she was. She forced herself to take steady, firm paces, properly supporting Jackson's bag so that she didn't damage her back, but she felt like hurling it on the floor and collapsing on top of it.

She looked up and realised she was almost back at the hotel. She needed to get some supplies as she didn't feel like another night of dining alone. She changed direction and walked towards a supermarket several streets from her hotel. Her back was aching from carrying the bag. She tightened her stomach muscles and forced herself to stand up straight until she was in front of the supermarket, its bright strip-lighting spilling out onto the wet pavements. Inside she picked up a two-litre bottle of water, a bag of apples, a pack of madeleines and a pre-made cheese and ham baguette. On a whim she added a large bar of salted almond chocolate and a packet of menthol Vogue cigarettes to her basket. She hadn't smoked for three years but she couldn't think of a better time to take it up again.

The cashier was surly and threw her purchases back at her, peering out from under a greasy fringe with tiny dark eyes like a sullen pig. Eva was too tired to be annoyed and meekly packed her things into a flimsy carrier bag, hoping it would hold the weight of the water until she got back to the hotel. Then she set off again, lugging the enormous holdall. What was inside it? It wasn't until she was two blocks away that she heard footsteps on the street behind her. They were quiet – too quiet – as if someone was trying very hard not to be heard. She tried to turn her head to look but the enormous bag on her shoulder was blocking her view. She picked up her pace and behind her the footsteps quickened too. She was walking down dark, wet, deserted roads, at least five minutes jog from the nearest busy Parisian street. She had chosen this area because it was cheap. Safety had never been a major concern – this was only supposed to be a fact-finding trip. Eva pushed energy through her muscles as she forced her body to move faster. She kept moving, driving herself forward, not daring to look behind in case she lost the advantage and found herself staring straight into the face of her pursuer. Suddenly she was one street from the hotel, one empty road to cross. The footsteps behind her quickened to a run. Eva's senses suddenly went into overdrive and, despite everything she was carrying, she began running too. She could see the hotel right in front of her. She jumped off the pavement and, too late, noticed the car coming at speed to her left. She felt the car clip her painfully on the leg, sending her sprawling to the floor. She saw her bag of shopping and Jackson's holdall fly through the air as she fell, landing heavily against the curb. There was a burning pain across the back of her skull and then nothing.

‘I cannot kill the English girl.'

Wiraj Hasan turned slowly from his position at the window of the grubby hotel room in the 18
^th
arrondissement
of Paris where he was leisurely smoking a cigarette. ‘You are joking of course, Nijam,' he said slowly to his brother.