‘In the case of Maisy Bell, there is no real evidence of a crime. No substantial evidence.’
‘You still think Maisy was having a raging love affair with a Saint-Cloud local called Louis?’
The inspecteur looked sheepish. ‘I never said that. It was a theory put forward by my officers. But sometimes these theories turn out to be true.’
‘Even so. Two weeks, Inspecteur! I can’t help thinking, if it was a twenty-two-year-old man who was missing, the case would have been treated with more gravity from the outset. The disappearance would not have been dismissed as a lover’s folly.’
‘Perhaps,’ he replied as he rested a finger on his fork. ‘It troubles me that a young woman with her whole life ahead of her has gone missing. It troubles me that we do not have any answers, just that ridiculous ransom note.’
He frowned and Charlie noticed fatigue in the feathered wrinkles at the edge of his eyes and between his brows. When he met her gaze, Charlie saw his dark eyes were filled with sorrow.
‘I understand if you want to pursue this case, I really do. But I’m afraid there is not much more I can do.’ He topped up their wineglasses, emptying the carafe.
Charlie slumped back in her chair, frustration coursing through her veins. She took a gulp of her wine and studied the inspecteur—drinking in his sadness.
‘How many cases go unsolved every year? Missing women in particular?’ she asked.
‘Too many.Oneis too many. I’m so sorry, Charlie. You know how I feel about reporters, but if I could resolve this and give you the conclusion you need, I would.’ He put his hand over hers. They sat there for a minute, each consumed in their own thoughts about Maisy Bell. If she was kidnapped, or worse, the uncertainty, the fear she must now feel. The confusion at being kept against her will.
Charlie studied Inspecteur Bernard’s warm hand sitting atop hers, his fingers fine and elegant.
The inspecteur also looked at their hands, then removed his and wiped them with a serviette. ‘Why are you so obsessed with this story when there is nothing to go on?’
‘I keep thinking about my mother and father at home. Dad in his wood-lined office, poring over cases he’s prosecuting, Mum in the living room reading French literature—she’s French!’
‘That explains your excellent accent.’
‘For an Australian.’
‘I did not say that.’ He smiled and the edges of his eyes creased pleasantly.
‘Imagine their hurt if I went missing and nobody helped them find me. Their grief. I can see why it has eaten away at Clementine. She stepped in to parent when Dolly was consumed with looking after her husband.’
‘So you don’t really think Clementine is trying to usurp the family business?’
‘You and I both know, sometimes, people aren’t everything they seem.’ Charlie stared at the inspecteur and finished the last of her wine. ‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind and do my job properly.’
‘I know,’ replied Bernard as he signalled to the waiter for the bill. ‘It’s one of the many things I admire about you, Mademoiselle James.’
As Inspecteur Bernard signed the cheque, Charlie leaned forward to allow her hair to fall across her face so he could not see the heat that had crept to her cheeks.
Chapter 10
THE TIMESOFFICE, PARIS
‘James! In my office now,’ George bellowed into the newsroom from the doorway to his office.
The other journalists stopped typing and looked from George to Charlie in her tiny cubicle and back again, some shaking their heads, others muttering under their breath. She knew what her colleagues were saying:Charlie James.Le kangourou. Teacher’s pet.
Charlie swallowed, stood up and tried to block out the resentful glares. Her rapport with her editor, George, had mellowed in the months since she’d first moved to Paris, when he’d expected the new Australian reporter, Charlie James, who came with excellent references, to be a man.
To his chagrin, it was a female reporter who stepped off the Night Ferry train from London.
She’d acquitted herself well on the front line of news—even to the point of putting her life on the line to chase a story. This had earned Charlie grudging respect from her editor. However, there had been no such softening from the rest of her colleagues in the newsroom. To them, now that case was over, Charlie James should know her place and go back to covering musical theatre and writing about stockings and lipsticks for the women’s pages ofThe Times.
Charlie was determined that her by-line was never going to appear on those vacuous pages again. From now on, it was only to be news and features.
Violet swivelled in her seat, grimacing in sympathy as Charlie strode towards George’s office.