‘Charlotte James.The Times,’ he read. ‘You must have driven straight here.’
‘Train, actually. Your public transport is efficient.’
‘You are English?’ He looked confused.
‘Australian.’ She smiled. ‘Marginally better.’ She winked.
‘If you say so.’ He shrugged as he chuckled and handed her card back. ‘I put all journalists in the same basket.’
‘Do you work here? In the forest?’ asked Charlie, who was keen to move the conversation on from the follies of reporters.
‘Here, in the forest?’ The man’s eyes twinkled. ‘Today perhaps, maybe tomorrow … but usually no.’
‘Can I ask how you came here? With your shovel?’
‘Came here? Well, the shovel belongs to the Tours Police Department and I was giving it a clean so my colleagues could take some samples. Detective Gilles Allard.’ He wiped his hand on his pants and offered it to Charlie to shake. ‘I’m the detectivesous-chefand I’m the officer in charge of this case, dispatched from Versailles. We oversee all homicides this side of Paris.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Detective.’ She shook his hand and was surprised at its warmth and vigour. Nothing gentle or patronising about this handshake. ‘In charge of this investigation? I met your friendly colleagues.’ She tweaked her head over to the wall of uniforms, who glared back at her.
‘The local police are just doing their jobs. I’m sure you can appreciate that every crazy person in town comes out to look ata dead body. This crime scene will be more popular than the evening river winery cruise once word gets around.’
‘Understood. So, what can you tell me?’
‘Walk with me,’ he said as he ushered her around the police line to the perimeter of the rope so she could see the body.
Charlie took a deep breath and surveyed the scene. A short, round, fair-skinned man in a black suit and matching chauffeur’s hat lay on the soil. The skin on his face was a pale blue, almost translucent. There was no blood on the ground, but congealed blood on the collar and on the peep of neck flesh.
Charlie continued to breathe and steadied her heartbeat. She’d now reported on numerous homicides and accidental deaths, but seeing a lost life with one’s own eyes was always a heavy moment. Each body had dreams, families and stories of their own. Stories that had finished—or that Charlie tried to finish. Her shoulders fell a little as she studied this portly man nestled among decaying oak and elm leaves on damp soil. The man still had half a lifetime due.
‘What can you tell me about the deceased?’ she asked the detective as she pulled out her notebook.
‘Male, dark hair, white, about eighty kilograms and one hundred and seventy-five centimetres tall. Thought to be shot in the back of the neck at least twenty-four hours ago, given the state of the rigor mortis. The victim may have been killed elsewhere and dumped here after dark. But it would be difficult to carrya dead body through that park, as you can imagine. More likely the victim was marched here and killed on the spot. I’m about to send my officers out to the park to start questioning people. The stallholders. Anyone who might have seen this man yesterday.’
‘Do you have a name?’
‘Not yet.’ He pointed to the silver star badge on the lapel and Charlie immediately recognised it from seeing Lady Ashworth’s chauffeur recently.
‘Paris Opéra Limousines,’ she said quickly.
‘You sure?’
‘I have an acquaintance in Paris who books the same company. I recognise the badge on the lapel.’
‘Impressive, Mademoiselle James. Thank you.’ He went and whispered in the ear of one of the uniforms, who turned and gave a grudging nod at Charlie before pacing off towards the park.
Charlie looked up, searching through the leaves for the sun. ‘Any other facts?’
‘Look,’ the detective said in a low voice, ‘I can’t really tell you any more than you know. A bullet hole in the base of the skull and estimated time of death is all we’ve got.’
‘That’s pretty much what I had in Paris,’ said Charlie, shaking her head. George would be furious if she returned to Paris empty-handed. ‘Now you know the company, you’ll be able to get the client.’
‘Indeed.’
Two young men, one holding the lead of a sniffer dog, walked back into the clearing and towards the detective. As they got closerto the body, the skinnier of the two staggered back and covered his mouth with his hands, gagging. The officer holding the dog’s lead grabbed his colleague’s elbow and gave him a consoling thump on the back. The officers’ uniforms were brand new, with fresh crease marks. Charlie couldn’t imagine that these fresh recruits had seen many corpses. She remembered her rookie reporter days, working her first homicide case back in Sydney: the roiling stomach; the ghosts across her eyelids when she tried to sleep.
Detective Allard led the two young men to his shovel, imploring them to sit on a log, put their heads between their knees and suck in some deep breaths. ‘It’ll help stop the gag reflex,’ he explained with kindness. ‘Happens to everyone the first time.’ He met Charlie’s eyes across the tops of their heads. His gaze held a sympathetic look. She nodded in agreement.
The dog sat patiently at the skinny officer’s feet. The detective reached behind the log and produced a metal lunch set and thermos. He poured tea and offered it to his young uniforms, then a baguette filled with ham and cheese from his lunchbox, tearing it in half so each officer had some sustenance.