Inspecteur Bernard turned on his heel and walked in a slow, steady stroll along the path towards the lake, leaving Charlie in a disarmed state. She really would fancy a kiss of those lips, sooner rather than later.
As Charlie watched the inspecteur’s back disappear, she took his advice and ordered herself an ice cream, choosing a scoop ofcreamy vanilla. She leaned against the tree, licking the droplets off her hand, grateful for the ice cream and the shade on this scorching day. Her armpits were damp and sweat trickled between her shoulder blades. She did not wear a hat and for some reason, she found herself thinking about what impression she had created on the inspecteur when he saw her. She wondered if he’d taken in her curves under her slightly clingy, rose linen dress. She could still feel the impression of his hand in hers and the slight grip of his arm as it threaded through her elbow, the lines of his muscles evident beneath his suit.
Occasionally, when she sank into bed at night in her tiny apartment, she closed her eyes and it was not her ex-husband she imagined lying against her, peeling her nightdress from her sticky skin on a hot night, but Bernard.
Now was not the time—she needed to concentrate.
Charlie licked the last drops of her ice cream and discarded the cone in the nearest bin before returning to her designated spot near the tree. Over near the lake, she could see the line of Bernard’s shoulders where he sat on a park bench, reading a newspaper. Just a dozen steps from him stood Clementine Bell, shuffling nervously from foot to foot and clutching an oversized Hermès handbag. Charlie couldn’t believe the woman had chosen such an obviously expensive bag for the exchange—but then considered that, with the Bells’ wealth, this bag was not a splurge, but as everyday as groceries.
Charlie pressed her cheek against the bark of the tree, taking comfort from the rough and smooth variegations, all the while keeping her eyes on Clementine. The older woman wore a loose cheesecloth sundress in blue, white gloves and a white straw boater. She looked like the American tourist she was and even from where Charlie stood, she could see Clementine’s face was red and damp circles were forming under her armpits.
Charlie felt sorry for Clementine Bell. Here she was, expecting an ending for this terrible ordeal, a paltry amount of money exchanged for a precious niece. A duck splashed about in the pond and Charlie considered George’s words:If it looks like a duck…
She studied Clementine’s stout form, her drooping shoulders and slightly knock-kneed stance. Was she a Machiavellian aunt who was using her niece to break her brother and his control of the biggest oil company in the world? Or was Clementine Bell simply an aunt who’d given her adult niece the space she had requested to have some summer fun in Paris?
A listless student sat nearby, plucking at a patch of grass. A gardener strolled a fenced-off area, turning briskly with each lap, his fists clenching and unclenching with frustration.
Charlie checked her watch as Clementine turned her back: 12.17 p.m. The drop should have happened by now.
Something was wrong.
Inspecteur Bernard turned the page of his broadsheet and flicked it, perhaps with agitation. Or perhaps as a signal. To hisleft was another gardener trimming the lawn and yet another in matching new overalls a few feet along. A man stood near the lake holding a bunch of yellow balloons but selling them to no one. A tall man walked past carrying a tray of newspapers, which, again, nobody was buying. A man sweeping the path near Inspecteur Bernard had been going at the same corner for the forty minutes Charlie had been behind the tree. It was so clean somebody could eat their dinner off that spot tonight if they wished.
Inspecteur Bernard’s back straightened and his shoulders stiffened. He flicked his paper again before folding it in quarters and resting it on his lap, crossing his legs and jiggling one in an agitated manner. His body language confirmed something was amiss. He was no longer a nonchalant local on a park bench, but a frowning man twisting his head to survey the area.
A small boy in shorts, braces and long socks ran along the side of the lake, using a stick to push a little red boat with a blue sail. When he neared Clementine Bell, he plucked the boat from the water, giving it a shake to get all the droplets off before tucking it under his left arm along with his stick. Charlie watched him clamber from the edge of the lake and make his way to where Clementine stood.
As the boy approached Clementine, he called loudly, ‘Excuse-moi.’ He tugged Clementine’s sleeve and said something into her ear as the older woman leaned down to meet him, looking very confused. ‘Merci, au revoir,’ Charlie lipread as the slip of a boy turned his back and scurried away on skinny brown legs. Hedisappeared into the crowd and then through a bent bar in the boundary fence before the gardeners, balloon sellers or newsagents could grab him.
Clementine Bell opened up a piece of crumpled paper in her hands and read it, then pressed her hands over her eyes as her body started to shake. Inspecteur Bernard stood and ran the few steps to console her, coaxing her across to the park bench to sit down, still clutching her bag.
Realising the ransom exchange was not going to happen, Charlie jogged towards where Clementine sat on the park bench, leaving the undercover officers to scratch their heads and scour the park. They had been duped.
‘Clementine, are you okay?’ Charlie dropped onto the seat beside the older woman and grabbed her limp hand in consolation. While there was a flurry of plain-clothed police officers in the park who were now conducting an extensive search behind every tree, ice-cream station and drinks fountain, there was no sign of Mason Bell.
Charlie considered this, thinking it strange a brother would not turn out to support his sister. But perhaps, as he was a recognisable relation of Maisy Bell, Mason Bell had been instructed to stay away. Or maybe, as he wasn’t mentioned in the ransom note, those who took Maisy didn’t know he was in Paris. It would look suspicious if he attended, as the letter clearly statedTell nobody.
Inspecteur Bernard stood beside Clementine Bell, casting a shadow across the seat. ‘Très désolé, Mademoiselle Bell, mymen are securing the perimeter and sweeping every inch of this park. If there is someone related to this case, we will find them, I assure you.’
‘Will you though?’ cried Clementine. She turned her head away from Bernard to glare at Charlie James. ‘I showed you the note—it was you who took it to the police.’ She wrenched her hand away.
‘I did, and I stand by that, Clementine,’ said Charlie so gently it was as though she were approaching a skittish horse. She could not afford to lose the trust of Clementine Bell if she had a hope of reporting this story with accuracy. And of finding Maisy Bell.
‘If you were so right, why did some filthy little street urchin hand me this?’ demanded Clementine in a steely voice.
Charlie chose to ignore the unkind tone and hint of snobbery, as Clementine was clearly distraught. Her eyes were bloodshot from what Charlie presumed was lack of sleep and tears streamed down her face. Charlie thought of George Roberts’s theory that this was simply about money, and looked across at the ducks diving in the pond.If it looks like a duck …Was Clementine’s distress the anguish of losing a loved one or of a staged kidnapping going awry? Or both? Families were complicated. Would Clementine, or Clementine and her twin, Mason, really hatch an elaborate plan to disappear their niece? Based on what Lady Ashworth had told Charlie, Maisy Bell was an only child and her father was ill. Charlie assumed Maisy would inherit her father’s controlling share of their family oil company.
Clementine clearly had wealth and freedom to travel as she pleased; would that change substantially with a heftier dividend? Or could her motive have been more sinister—to hurt her brother? Or, at its most basic, could Clementine be jealous of her niece, her youth, her beauty? Were Clementine’s tears just for show?
Inspecteur Bernard frowned and unfurled the piece of paper Clementine handed him. His shoulders sank as he read the note. He flattened it in frustration against his thigh before handing it to Charlie.
Charlie shivered as she read the barely legible line in black ink:I said no police.
Chapter 8
PALAIS GARNIER, PARIS
Frustrated with the thwarted ransom drop for Maisy Bell, Charlie had decided to spend the weekend retracing the young Texan’s steps in Paris. So far, Charlie had been to Galeries Lafayette, Chanel and Schiaparelli and wandered the Louvre and Tuileries Garden, trying to see Paris afresh. Through Maisy’s eyes. She wanted to honour the missing woman and get in her head. Try to walk in the shoes of a pretty American heiress. Tonight, Charlie was going to the opera performance Maisy had booked to attend. She hoped Maisy would surprise everyone and appear in a designer dress at the opera, but after the failed ransom drop her hope was thin.