Seen and Not Heard (23 page)

Who the hell was he kidding? Rocco was twenty years younger, a great deal taller, and perhaps a bit more ruthless. He hurt people for a living. No matter how much rage and frustration were building up inside of Malgreave, he was no match for Guillère’s brute strength. But God, he needed to hit someone. On nights like these, he needed to hit someone very badly.

He’d seen one corpse too many. Harriette Langlois, with her silks and her spotless apartment, with her silver-framed photographs and her hothouse roses. She should have been allowed to die in peace.

That was one curious aspect of this latest case, Malgreave thought, some of his anger leaving him as his brain started traveling down the familiar twisted pathways. He sat down on the new sofa he and Marie had bought last year, not
bothering to turn on the lights, and thought back to the old woman’s face.

Usually the old women were peaceful, laid out in state, their arms folded across their wounds. But Harriette Langlois hadn’t died peacefully. Her wrinkled face was still twisted in rage, settled forever into an expression of absolute fury, her blue eyes still and staring.

She hadn’t been frightened. Of that Malgreave was fairly certain. A cursory examination of her medicine chest had given him a reason for that. She’d already come to terms with impending death. No, she’d been angry, very angry, at the form it had taken, but not afraid.

He shook his head, sinking down into the sofa. Something was eluding him, something hadn’t quite clicked into place. He thought back to the photographs, the serene, rather beautiful young woman, the handsome, oddly familiar young man, the plain little girl.

At least the child had been found. Word had come through just as he was leaving work. Apparently she’d left early, missing the murderer. He didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed. While he didn’t want another murder, particularly not one of a child, the girl might have seen something.

She still might have noticed something. The killer might have been waiting for her to leave, for the apartment to empty. She may have passed him, unknowing. Skillful questioning could bring out all sorts of information, and Vidal was nothing less than inspired when it came to questioning children. He put them at ease with his ridiculous clothes and his hot-dog ways. First thing tomorrow he would send him over to get a statement. The
Américaine
had looked protective, but Vidal could get around that too. Who knows, tomorrow they might be a little bit ahead of the game. While each murder was an outrage, a victory of darkness over light, each murder also brought new chances for the killer or killers to make mistakes. To start the chain of events that would lead to their being caught. To justice.

His stomach growled, but Malgreave ignored it. He
should partake of something besides strong coffee and cigarettes, but right now he hadn’t the energy. Something was holding back, there was something he noticed tonight that hadn’t moved into his consciousness. No matter how he tried to force it, it stayed buried.

He reached for his crumpled pack of cigarettes. Marie didn’t like him to smoke in the living room. But then, Marie wasn’t there. If he got up, went to the kitchen, he’d probably find a note and instructions on where to find a frozen dinner. She’d probably gone out with one of her friends, to the ballet, to the movies, to one of a thousand innocent places she’d taken to frequenting. Or so she said.

Or maybe, just maybe, there’d be no note at all on the kitchen counter. Maybe it would be in the bedroom, and all her clothes would be gone. Each day brought that possibility closer and closer.

Merde
, he was being a maudlin, neurotic old fool! One of Marie’s American frozen dinners, a good night’s sleep, and he’d feel better. And maybe, just maybe, he’d remember what he’d never really known.

His arms slid around her in the darkness, scooping her up from the couch. Claire stirred, putting her arms around his neck and turning her face against his shoulder. She didn’t want to wake up. All that mattered to her sleep-dazed brain was that Tom had changed his mind, had come back to her. If she woke up completely they’d have to talk, to work things out, to face issues that she wasn’t ready to face. All she wanted right now was comfort, comfort and faceless sex. Tomorrow they could sort things out.

He didn’t bother to switch on the light when they reached the bedroom. He kicked the door shut behind him, carrying her over to the bed and dropping her down on the cool cotton sheets. There was a moon that night, but the clouds covered it, and no light penetrated the cavernous room.

His hands were deft, careful as they unfastened the row of tiny pearl buttons on her silk blouse, pushing it off her shoulders and down her arms. His mouth followed, hot, wet, covering her skin, tasting, biting. He tugged at the skirt,
pulling it down over her legs and yanking her slip and panties with it. She wanted to say something, to protest, but she didn’t. Tom was shy—she didn’t want to inhibit him by any hint of criticism. Perhaps he was used to women who liked a rough approach.

She considered waking up long enough to take his hand and slow his assault. But waking up would require more of a commitment, one she wasn’t ready to make. He knew what he was doing with his hands; he was arousing her in a crude, efficient fashion.

She tried to will her mind back into a dreamlike state. To imagine the gentle, protective Tom in this businesslike lover. But his hands were hurting her even as they were arousing her, and his mouth on her breasts was painful, and when he climbed on top of her, suddenly naked, he gave her no time to prepare for him, simply shoved his hard penis into her.

She couldn’t pretend anymore. Tears of pain stung her eyes, and her mouth opened in a tiny cry. He put his mouth on hers, shoved his tongue in deep, in rhythm with his invasive body, thrusting, pushing, his body hunching beneath her vainly protesting hands, slick with sweat and coiled strength.

She wanted to say something, wanted to slow him, stop him, but his mouth was raping hers, his fingers dug into her breasts, and she lay there, desperate, praying for it to be over.

It ended quickly enough, his body jerking, then collapsing against hers. His mouth left hers, his head lolling against her shoulder, and she could feel his hot breath panting against her tear-streaked face.

Misery and confusion washed over her as she lay imprisoned beneath his sweat-slick body. How could she have been so mistaken? How could she have let herself in for such a nightmare? As the calm, quiet night air flowed around her trembling body, common sense and understanding began to filter through, and the answer was almost worse than what she’d imagined.

The man raised his head, and in the heavy darkness she
could see his eyes glittering down at her. “Miss me,
chérie?
” Marc said.

And Claire, numb with guilt and distaste and a sudden, unreasoning fear, said, “Yes.”

Malgreave was up early the next morning. Marie slept soundlessly in the narrow bed beside his, her mouth open, soft, sweet snores fluttering the tranquility of the morning. He’d heard her come in last night, had lain there, pretending to sleep, all the time knowing that it was almost two in the morning and that instead of being furtive, she was being almost defiantly noisy. He could tell from her jerky movements that she wanted a confrontation. He wasn’t about to give it to her, not then. A confrontation could result in steps being taken, steps which could never be reversed.

No, as long as he avoided it, avoided meeting her angry, reproachful gaze, she wouldn’t leave him. Marie was too honest to sneak out, no matter what he sometimes feared. So he lay very still, ignoring the thump of her shoes on the floor, the thud of the drawer pushed shut, the rush of water from behind a bathroom door left deliberately ajar.

No matter what time he got to work, Josef was there before him. It must be hell to be so ambitious, Malgreave thought with a trace of wry humor as he drove through the empty morning streets of Paris. You always had to be one step ahead of the game, one step ahead of the boss, and even then it wasn’t enough. He could remember his own ambitious years as if they were yesterday. And where had they gotten him? Old before his time, his marriage on the skids, children he’d never had time to know. It wasn’t worth it.

He’d tried to tell Josef that, and if it weren’t for Madame Summer it would probably have sunk in. But Josef didn’t have a soul to call his own, and Malgreave knew with grim certainty that Josef would continue to appear at work before he did, even at six in the morning.

Vidal was another matter, always late, always rushing in at the last moment with coffee and excuses overflowing. He shouldn’t complain about Josef, Malgreave thought, moving
through the empty offices to his own cluttered desk and dropping down. At least he had coffee in the morning, and someone to bounce ideas off. He wouldn’t be nearly as efficient without Josef.

He was nowhere in sight, but Malgreave wasn’t fooled. The spotless desk just outside his private office had a folder sitting atop it. Josef’s gray polyester jacket rested on the wooden hanger he’d brought from home. He was somewhere about, bound to appear when needed.

The file on Harriette Langlois was waiting. Malgreave lit a cigarette, picked up the coroner’s preliminary report, and stood there in the outer office, waiting for Josef to appear with the coffee and brioches Malgreave was old-fashioned enough to still love.

“You’re in early, sir.” Josef came up behind him, discreet as ever, and only a man of Malgreave’s trained senses would have heard him coming. “I thought you might be.”

“You are phenomenal, Josef.” He took the cup of coffee and drank it down in one gulp, ignoring the searing heat of it, ignoring the delicate taste. “What’s the latest?”

“You have the report.” Josef followed him into his office, shutting the door behind him. “She was dying of cancer. Riddled with it, as a matter of fact. She must have been in great pain.”

“Do you think that has anything to do with her killer?” Malgreave blew a stream of smoke above Josef’s head.

It was his assistant’s turn to be startled. “How could it?”

Malgreave leaned back, a satisfied smile on his face. “I noticed two things about Madame Langlois, my friend. One, that she wasn’t afraid of death, of her killer. Only very, very angry.”

“The cancer would explain that. She already knew she was going to die. I expect she’d prepared herself for the inevitable, and having a stranger break into her apartment with a butcher knife was not what she’d accepted.”

“That was the other thing. I couldn’t pinpoint it last night—it wasn’t until just after dawn that I realized what it
was. I don’t think it was a stranger, Josef. I think Madame Langlois knew her murderer.”

Josef shook his head in disbelief. “So you don’t think it’s part of the chain of murders? You think this was someone with a personal grudge, copying the others? I would think you’d be disappointed.”

“I’m not the slightest bit disappointed. I think this was someone with a personal grudge, someone the victim knew. But I think Madame Langlois’s murderer has killed many times over. This was his first mistake, to choose someone he knew.”

“His second mistake.” Josef slid a piece of paper across Malgreave’s cluttered desk. “I just got this from the lab. There were fingerprints in the old one’s apartment, lots and lots of them. We have a match with the one found at the convent and in the twelfth arrondissement.”

Malgreave felt positively buoyant with excitement. He stubbed out his cigarette. “Why didn’t you tell me this at once?”

“It may mean absolutely nothing. The matching fingerprint was quite old, half-covered over by new ones.”

“Even better. Don’t you see, if Madame Langlois knew her killer, he would have been in her apartment before. He would have no reason to wear gloves as he did last night. We’re getting somewhere, Josef. I can feel it in my bones.” The troubles with Marie vanished in his excitement, and he rubbed his chilly hands together.

“But what if it is a copycat killer?” Josef protested stubbornly.

“You’ve forgotten the feet.”

“The feet?”

“Madame Langlois’s feet were bare, just as all the victims had bare feet. That’s the one piece of information we’ve kept from the papers. No, last night’s killer was one of the men we were looking for.”

“As you say.”

“We have our work cut out for us today, Josef. I need you to go down to Marie-le-Croix and see what you can discover
about the orphanage and any of its inhabitants. I’m going back to the apartment and have a look around again. I particularly want to look at her photographs. Something, someone looked vaguely familiar, and it’s been teasing my brain.” Malgreave positively beamed at his assistant. “It won’t be long, Josef.”

“No, sir. It won’t be long.”

It was cold in the apartment, bitterly cold. Claire sat at the well-scrubbed table, drinking inky black coffee, trying to warm her hands on the thin Limoges cup. Her mugs had disappeared, and she had to hold very tightly to the delicate china to still the trembling in her hands. The coffee still sloshed against the eggshell-thin sides of the cup.

It was late. After eight o’clock in the morning, and Claire hadn’t done all the myriad things required of her on a normal morning. She hadn’t gone to get Marc’s paper and croissants, she hadn’t picked up the laundry, she hadn’t dressed in a silk dress and applied the expensive makeup Marc had insisted she buy. She had crawled out of the bed like a wounded puppy, pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt, and gone to make herself coffee. Waiting, dreading the moment when Marc would wake up and join her.

Did he know about Harriette’s murder? He must, why else would he have returned from his so-called tour of the
? Did he have her and Nicole’s passports? Who else would have them? Did she have a chance in hell of escaping, of taking Nicole with her? She didn’t know. All she knew was that she had to try.