A Death in Time, page 8
Zoë smiled at Inès. ‘Oh, Marvellous. And you?’
‘Excellent. But more later. Desperate for a shower.’
‘Uh… Jackie waited up for you,’ Zoë called out in the direction of his retreating back.
‘Good girl! Down in a minute.’
Inès sighed heavily. ‘I do feel tired now, actually, Maman. I’m off to bed.’
Zoë embraced her. ‘I’m sorry, darling. He… I’m sorry.’
‘He’s the one who should be sorry, Maman.’
They released one another.
‘I do love him, you know, Inès. Very much.’
‘I know you do.’
After the women had said their good nights, Zoë went in search of Gilles’s kitbag. Not finding it just inside the front door where he usually left it, she went upstairs. No luck on the landing, either. She finally came across it in the bedroom.
‘Just picking up Samira’s laptops,’ she called through the open door into their en suite bathroom but the sound of the shower masked it. She unzipped the bag and under an assortment of damp sports gear, there they were, a note bearing the name Samira Padar attached to the new one. Padar, that’s it, Zoë murmured but then her eye was taken by something else, something not usually found among Gilles’s sports things. It was a small bag. A gift bag, indeed, one bearing the name of the upmarket jewellers Bijouterie Daumier. Nestled in it was a blue presentation box.
Zoë’s heart thumped but sank a little, too. Her anniversary present for Gilles was a newly published collection of pieces by a favourite sports writer of his. The box was not locked or sealed. She glanced over her shoulder. The coast was still clear but for how long? Feeling a transgressive thrill alongside pure old-fashioned guilt, Zoë opened the box and a moment later, her heart shot back to the surface and kept rising. Bearing the maker’s name Michel Vignot, the watch was delicate, elegant, beautiful. She turned it over in her hand and then she saw it. An engraved line of verse.
Had we but world enough and time…
Time didn’t so much stand still for Zoë as fly backwards. On the eve of their wedding thirty years ago, Gilles had inscribed the flyleaf of a book of love poems with the same quote and given it to her as a present. It was her most treasured possession. And now, after all she had been worrying about, look at what he had… But she had to act quickly. Clumsy-fingered with the joy of it, Zoë took three attempts at returning the watch to the box. She closed it, put it back where it had been lying in the kitbag, and then, in a moment of sudden clarity, put the laptops and note back where they had come from. She stole out of the bedroom, padded lightly down the stairs and lingered at their foot.
A towel around his waist, Gilles soon appeared on the landing and, opening the airing cupboard door, caught sight of Zoë below, apparently heading to the front door.
‘Ah, good, you’re finished,’ she called up the stairs. ‘Did Samira What’s-Her-Name hand over her laptops?’
‘She did but my bag’s up here. I’ll bring it down in a minute.’
‘OK,’ she said, holding the look.
‘Are you alright?’
Oh, yes, Zoë had not felt this good in some time. Everything that she feared was happening was clearly not. She had been a fool and never had she felt so glad about it.
‘Perfectly. It’s lovely being all together again, isn’t it? That’s all.’
‘Isn’t it,’ Gilles said, and disappeared into the bedroom.
THIRTEEN
Darac had always felt enriched by living and thinking on the cusp, the points at which different, even opposing, spaces and ideas cohered or crashed into one another. He had moved into his apartment in Place Saint-Sépulcre ten years ago and had felt at home immediately. A roof-top eyrie hovering between the spice-toned knot of the old town – the Babazouk – and the modern tree-lined Nice of the boulevards suited him right down to the ground.
While all that went with leading a double life held no particular fascination for Frankie, she too loved the apartment’s Janus-like setting. At some stage in the future, the pair might have to consider a move but, sitting out on their roof terrace on this starry night in Spring, it was difficult to imagine ever saying goodbye to the place. Just for a change, they had arranged their loungers top to toe.
‘I haven’t asked about Port Lympia,’ Frankie said, taking a last sip of her rosé. ‘How did it go?’
‘It was grisly, as every strangling is. But the lines of enquiry are well defined. Drugs involved.’
A car horn blared below.
‘There’s a likely perp?’
‘Another tenant, a pusher, looks nailed on for it but he’s using an alias and he’s skipped. We have an APB out using a couple of sketches Astrid produced: one via the victim’s landlord who we believe isn’t implicated in either the murder or the drugs part of it; the other via a barman from just along the quayside.’
‘Playing Find The Pusher can take a while but it is usually just a matter of time.’
‘Absolutely.’ Darac drained his Leffe and the pair settled back.
‘So did you make it back to the club afterwards?’
‘I think I could have just about made the encores.’ Frankie’s left foot was just too close for his guitarist’s right-hand fingernails to ignore. ‘But I had another date, anyway.’
‘Ah, ah… Not the sole!’ Frankie pulled her foot away but she slid it back immediately. ‘Paul, do you think we’ll ever tire of flirting, et cetera?’
‘Me? No – the et cetera part, especially. You? I think the rot’s already set in.’
‘Think so, huh?’
Her kohl-black hair spilling over his face, she rose and broke over him like a wave on a midnight shore. Not for the first time, the absence of any sight line to the terrace was soon proving a blessing.
Looking in on Lily before they finally went to bed, Darac was reminded of a lyric from a number he hadn’t heard in years.
‘What?’ Frankie whispered, reading him.
‘I was thinking of a song. By Jacques Brel.’
‘Brel?’ Frankie eyebrows lowered in disbelief. ‘Really?’
‘Not one of the fiercely melodramatic ones. It’s about the love he feels for his daughter, Isabelle. There’s a verse about watching her asleep in her cot.’ He recited it. ‘Sweet?’
‘Very.’
It was only when they finally climbed into bed that Darac realised he had forgotten to ask Frankie about her get-together with Chantal the previous day.
‘It was lovely. Something odd happened, too, which was interesting.’
‘Tell me.’
She recounted the story of their most entertaining shopping expedition and the visit to Noëmi and little Fabien at home in Place Wilson.
‘Chantal must have enjoyed meeting Noëmi at last.’
‘I’m sure she would have but there was no meeting. Some sort of issue with an elderly neighbour came up en route – nothing too serious I gather – but Chantal went off home to sort it out. Despite young Monsieur Fabien Tardelli’s initially tired and emotional mood – picture a young Genghis Khan in a strop – we proceeded to have a lovely time. Noëmi is such a fabulous cook and lunch was wonderful. Lily was on her most charming form. Eventually Fabi followed suit and the pair of us left in high good humour.’
‘If he’s anything like his father, the tantrum probably had sartorial origins. A smudge on a loafer has been known to push Armani over the edge.’
‘Fabi doesn’t wear loafers. Yet. But the strange thing had nothing to do with him. We set off down Gubernatis, crossed Postes, and it was only then I remembered I’d intended to call in at that chocolatier on the corner. Mariette had been so brilliant dealing with all our rearrangements and things last week that I wanted to get something for her. So we did a quick about face and set off back. That is the moment the strange thing happened.’
Building the suspense, Frankie’s eyebrows lifted expressively but she went no further.
‘Go on. I’m riveted.’
‘Correct response. I bumped almost literally into… Noëmi’s twin sister.’
‘What?’
‘Yes. Those cheekbones, the Sally Bowles-style bob, the eyes, figure – everything. Apart from wearing earphones, which I’ve never seen Noëmi do, she was even dressed like her. As twins sometimes are.’
It was well over a decade ago that Darac and Armani had first run into each other at the Brigade Criminelle’s HQ, the Caserne Auvare. Sharing just one overnight stake-out with the man had been sufficient to learn a great deal about him, and the pair had shared many such nights in the intervening years. If Noëmi had a twin sister, Darac would most certainly have heard about it.
‘No, Frankie.’
‘No, of course not. I’m being figurative. But I tell you the woman was so like Noëmi, I actually spoke to her.’
‘What did you say?’
‘Something along the lines of, “Oh, uh, hello? Aren’t you… No, sorry. You’re obviously not.’ At that, the poor woman scuttled off. And one could hardly blame her.’
‘There’s that old saw about everyone having a dead ringer somewhere, isn’t there? A doppelganger.’
‘True. You remember from the wedding that one of my many times removed Greek cousins looks very like me – Selene.’
‘She one of the doctors?’
‘The one who kept calling you Pavlos.’
‘Ah, yes. She does resemble you but it’s inadmissible. She’s a relative, however distant.’ Taking her hand, Darac looked into Frankie’s eyes. ‘And she is nowhere near as beautiful.’
‘Uh… Again, Paul?’
Whether Frankie was impressed by his ardour, amused at his pretension, or gently cautioning him against further activity, Darac couldn’t quite tell. Feeling utterly spent, he hoped it was the last.
‘I was just saying.’
‘That’s a relief.’
‘Isn’t it?’ He blindly patted the bedside table. ‘Of course, I have, or rather had, a doppelganger.’ He found his mobile. ‘On your rare visits to The Blue Devil, have you ever wondered why Ridge calls me Garfield? Usually after he’s asked if I’ve kicked anybody’s ass that day?’
‘Oh, that’s what it is. I can’t always follow what he’s saying.’
‘It’s French à la Bronx. You need to get your ear in. Anyway, here look.’
On the screen, the broad-boned face of 50s Hollywood star John Garfield looked back at the pair with a decided twinkle in his eye.
‘Good Lord,’ Frankie said. ‘You really do have a look of him…’ She yawned. ‘Scroll down. Yes, that same tough but amused by everything look... Oh, really brooding in that one. That’s you, too.’
‘Seen enough?’
She sank back on to the pillow and closed her eyes. ‘Uh-huh.’
‘That looks like a good idea.’
A goodnight kiss and the pair settled down. Or rather, Frankie did. After no more than a moment, Darac found himself staring at the ceiling. Of all the times to air a potentially concerning thought, moments before drifting off to sleep ranked among the worst. Save it for the breakfast table, he told himself. You and Frankie could use a good night’s sleep, too. And yet…
Agnès had long contended that when investigating a murder case, or any sequence of events, one seldom encountered the phenomenon known as a complete coincidence. What appeared to be the accidental or uncanny conjunction of apparently disparate entities almost always involved some logic that explained it. And on occasion, for logic, read meticulous planning.
Still, “seldom” didn’t mean “never.” A case in point was Darac’s connection to an actor from the other side of the Atlantic long dead before he was even born. No planning involved there. Aside from the striking resemblance, nothing linked the two men in any way. So to which category did Frankie’s encounter with Noëmi Two belong? Frankie, a senior police officer, visiting the wife of another senior police officer, and then bumping into a woman who could have been that woman’s twin more or less directly outside her apartment house? He couldn’t help it. ‘There’s quite a difference between our two doppelganger stories, you know,’ he whispered.
‘Hmm?’
‘Nothing. Go to sleep, darling.’
The couple may have been leaving it for the night but the matter definitely required further discussion. If the appearance – in both senses – of Noëmi Two was not an accident, then what was it? Tomorrow, he decided, they should at least call the Tardellis. Or if they were at home, call on them on their way to work.
Sunday, March 16th
FOURTEEN
Good morning, darling. Happy anniversary!’
Emboldened by the discovery of her gift, Zoë’s hand began to explore Gilles’s chest. And then his stomach. Those tightly packed muscles had always aroused her. The waistband of his boxers was next. Alright, he had been too tired the night before. Understandable. But this was a new day, a new dawn, a new life.
‘Happy anniversary, angel.’ Gently removing her hand, he swung his legs out of bed and stood. ‘But my morning breath, it’s really not…’
‘Brush your teeth and come back to bed. I want you.’
‘Sweetheart, you know we have so much to get through before the party. Plus we’ve both got places to go and people to meet this morning.’
Zoë knew Gilles had a point and she could see he was slightly unsettled by her show of naked desire but she sensed he was turned on by it also.
‘And besides…’ He cast an anxious glance at the wall and when he continued, his voice was barely above a whisper. ‘Jackie might hear us.’
‘When she was small, we used to say we were play fighting. Do you remember?’
‘Really, I do think we need to …’
‘Rain check? For tonight?’
‘Sure. Now let’s…’
‘Coming.’
FIFTEEN
Having left Lily in the more than capable hands of nounou Mariette, Darac and Frankie did something they had hardly ever done before. They drove off to work together.
‘You know....’
In the adjacent lane, the front wheel of a bicycle suddenly emerged in the narrow gap between two stationary vehicles.
‘Bike left, Paul. Watch him!’
A raised fist was Darac’s reward for avoiding flattening the man. He lowered his window but by the time he’d advised the cyclist that slaloming blindly across the road could lead to his arrest or death whichever came first, the lycra-clad lemming was continuing his run on the opposite carriageway.
‘Nothing like issuing a rhetorical threat to change minds,’ Darac said.
‘I nearly totalled Death Wish On A Bike there, last week. I think it was him, anyway.’
‘At least he wasn’t a dead ringer for Noëmi.’
The discussion resumed.
‘OK, let’s recap who Noëmi Two might be if turning up where she did wasn’t a coincidence. It’s not all that convincing but I think our best benign explanation is that she’s a relative from a side of the family Noëmi knew nothing about – and possibly vice-versa - until say, a spot of family history research brought Noëmi One into Two’s orbit. She then finds an up-to-date photo of One on the internet, is immediately struck by the resemblance and decides it would be fun to contact her. A surprise visit.’
‘Unless Two happens to be a police officer or other official of the State, she would need to have been pretty resourceful to discover the Tardellis’ home address.’
‘Two might be such an official. And if she isn’t, there are ways for amateurs.’
‘It’s possible, Paul, though I still don’t buy it. And don’t forget, Noëmi Two hasn’t actually contacted her long lost whatever she is.’
‘True and another thing against this particular interpretation is why a woman seeking to introduce herself to a newly discovered relative might dress in just the manner that person does? Even in Benign Land, that would be an odd thing to do, wouldn’t it?’
Frankie made a moue. ‘I was struck by it, yes. But now I’ve stopped exaggerating my story for effect, the clothing part of it wasn’t that odd a coincidence, really. Our Noëmi may not dress as conventionally as I do but it’s not as if she goes around got up as a Hawaiian hula dancer or anything.’
‘White trainers and a dress? That’s pretty unusual and Noëmi Two was wearing the same, you said.’
‘Check out Vogue – it’s the new thing. More and more women are doing it.’
He smiled. ‘OK, I concede that one, as well. So let’s turn to our less benign interpretations of the appearance of Noëmi Two.’
Frankie shrugged. ‘Don’t think it’s really necessary. And neither, significantly, did Noëmi or Armani.’
‘Nevertheless, they gave their blessing to my running the story past Agnès this morning.’
‘True.’
‘And I wouldn’t be surprised if Armani didn’t ask folk they know around the Place to keep an eye open for anything suspicious. On the QT, so as not to worry Noëmi.’
Frankie gave a conceding nod. ‘That would be like him. Al-right. Malign Land, it is. First, although the concept rather appealed to you, I think we can overlook the realms of Sci-Fi and Fantasy for a motive, don’t you?’
‘Sadly.’
‘Hmm. So that leaves us with the possibility that Noëmi Two, or someone controlling her, is planning a crime in which a convincing impersonation of our Noëmi is essential to its success.’
‘Right.’
‘According to Noëmi herself, the archival work she’s doing at the moment is so… what was her phrase?’
‘Teeth grindingly unimportant, I think it was.’
‘Yes – to the extent that installing a dead ringer in her place would yield to the impostor nothing of any commercial, intellectual or political value.’
