Charlie marvelled at this gentle kindness from a senior police officer on the fringes of a forest. It was charming, almost fatherly.
She surveyed the clearing. A sheet was being pulled over the body in front of the unshifting row of uniforms. The young men, barely out of their teens, munched on their commanding officer’s lunch with stooped shoulders and bowed heads. It wasat once mundane and extraordinary. Provincial warmth mixed with a homicide.
The senior medical officer stood and gestured for Detective Allard to join him. Before he went to inspect the body, the detective made a point of speaking with Charlie. ‘I should be out of here in a few hours. The police station will be closed. Please, meet me on the terrace of Hotel Mirabeau. It’s central, but away from the crowds, and I’ll share what information I have. It’s the least I can do.’
‘That’s where I’m staying,’ replied Charlie.
‘You must have a better expenses budget than the police force,’ quipped Allard and Charlie found herself quietly thanking Violet for the second time that day.
‘An update would be appreciated. I cannot go back to Paris without a story.’ Charlie wondered if Allard had aperitifs with all reporters who sought information. The detective was nothing if not professional, but there was an added warmth and openness to him that was lacking in his Parisian police colleagues.
Allard studied her for a minute with a bemused smile. His eyes were hazel and matched the leaves on the forest floor. ‘Hmm, there’s some backstory there, by the sounds of it. Have something to prove, do you?’
Charlie was a little rattled by how easily this stranger had read her. Like reporters, police officers were well versed in body language and making quick assessment of people, but this was so much more.
‘The other journalists will be here like rats tomorrow, if not this evening. I’ve already sent all the local reporters away—they were only going to write a beat-up. The whispers will already be going around the market stalls by now. But I promise I’ll speak with you first.’
‘Why me?’ asked Charlie. ‘WhyThe Times?’
Allard laughed. ‘If an Australian reporter has travelled to the other side of the world for a story, I’m going to give her a story. That’s some determination.’ He tilted his head sideways and grinned.
Charlie’s stomach flipped in a very unprofessional way.
‘Well,’ she said, trying to regain her composure, ‘I would appreciate that very much. Six thirty p.m. Hotel Mirabeau,’ she confirmed.
He nodded, then turned as he said, ‘Now, I must get back to work.’
He walked in silence back to the park, leaving Charlie to wonder what just happened. She was used to discussing cases with Inspecteur Bernard over a meal, but only because he ran his days with military efficiency. Like a true Frenchman, Bernard made no exceptional circumstances for his daily lunch at the bistro across the square from his office. This felt different. Was Detective Allardflirting?
Was Charlie?
As she stepped from the forest path into the civility of the park, Charlie noticed an elderly man with a beard sitting ona park bench, watching her, a filthy pillowcase at his feet. There was something about the bag and the way the man studied Charlie with narrowed eyes. Despite his short stature he had the feel of a courtier surveying his kingdom. Something about his demeanour—his straightened spine and curious gaze—beckoned her over.
As she stepped closer, Charlie realised that she had been mistaken and this man was about her age. It was just his unkempt beard and shabby clothes that made him appear older. With his burgundy velvet vest laced up over a white dress shirt, matching burgundy pantaloons and thick-soled black boots with a pointed toe, he looked like a cross between a magician, a traveller and a beggar. He was only missing a top hat.
The man graciously shuffled aside for Charlie, sliding his pillowcase to make room for her feet. It clinked with glass. She plonked herself on the seat and wondered how to start the conversation.
Charlie went through her notes as she collected her thoughts. Eventually, she made eye contact and gave a tentative smile.
‘Did you see the dead man?’ she asked softly in textbook perfect French. Charlie’s taxi driver had told her proudly that Touraine French was the purest dialect in the whole country.
‘Oui,’ the wanderer answered. ‘Was he in a black suit? I tried to go and look and speak with the young uniforms, but they shooed me away. Like a cat.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘I guess my eyes don’t count.’
Charlie closed her notebook. ‘May I ask your name?’ she replied politely.
He turned and looked at her with concern. ‘They call me Mael. Are you police?’
‘No. A reporter. Charlie James,The Times.’
‘Bah! Even worse.’ He kicked his pillowcase and the bottles clinked as he slumped back in his seat.
‘Why do you say that?’ Charlie asked, trying not to sound offended. It wasn’t unusual for people to distrust reporters, especially those on the edge of society. Invisible people generally distrusted authority—they’d been let down so many times.
As if to prove his disgust, he said, ‘Look at you, hunting dead bodies for people to get their kicks over in the morning paper as they have their coffee. A dead body is entertainment for the masses.’
The candour of this man clad in burgundy velvet was unsettling. But if he’d seen something, Charlie wanted to know.
‘I tend to agree, Mael … I want to honour this moment. Not use it for entertainment. Do you have a last name?’