‘I am. It’s time for my meeting with the detective.’
The shop owner perked up and fiddled with her Hermès scarf. ‘Goodness. But of course, you are a reporter and you are in townabout this … murder, they say,’ she whispered. ‘Not local, from Paris. But I hate to think that anyone came to harm from one of the Touraines. It just feels … frightening. I take my own children to that park every Sunday. I walk my dachshund on the forest paths where the body was found.’
‘Yes, I can imagine this is a shock.’ Charlie hated how the discovery of a body tainted an area for the innocent locals. ‘A homicide in such a beautiful place.’
The shop owner winced at the word ‘homicide’ and Charlie recognised her cue. ‘Au revoir,’ she muttered quickly as she turned on her heel and escaped the cool temperatures of the cave before Violet could read her face and see that there was just a tiny piece of Charlie that was looking forward to meeting the detective again.
Chapter 14
HOTEL MIRABEAU, TOURS
Thirty minutes later, Charlie was sitting on the terrace of the Hotel Mirabeau with Detective Allard, overlooking the Loire River. The only other person on the terrace was a middle-aged man with dark hair wearing a light linen suit and tucking into a hearty serve ofsteak frites. The leather briefcase by his feet suggested he was a travelling businessman stopping at a favourite spot for dinner. The waitress who poured his white wine giggled and bantered a little, suggesting he was a regular.
Charlie and the detective sat at a small marble table at the edge of the terrace, their notebooks out, softly discussing the case of the dead man in the forest. Vineyards tumbled down the far side of the riverbank, while closer to the hotel, the city was filled with markets, shops and bistros, tourists and locals alike wandering the footpaths, studying menus, deciding where to have their eveningaperitifs in the last scraps of the sunlight. Dark clouds were gathering on the horizon and the air was thick and still.
Charlie had ordered a dry martini with a twist of lemon, Allard a whisky served neat. Charlie was still in her work suit, but the detective had showered and changed into casual trousers, a white shirt open at the neck and a navy blazer. He looked like he was on holidays. At ease.
‘Is there anything you would like to eat?’ Allard asked as he handed Charlie the menu. ‘You look like you’ve been on your feet all day. You must be hungry.’
This was refreshing; the few times she had been out for a meal involving work with a French man—or any man—they usually assumed the responsibility of ordering.
‘Thank you. I’d like a glass of the local white—Vouvray, is it?’
‘We have an excellent one from a small village five minutes from here.’
‘And the potted trout rillette.’
‘They make these in-house,’ he said with pride. ‘People travel to Tours for the rillette.’
‘So I hear. More enjoyable than my reason to visit.’ She grimaced.
‘Thank you for your tip about the man who spoke with the companion of the deceased. Unfortunately, my officers were unable to locate this Mael—they searched every corner of the park. They even went down several kilometres of paths in the forest, but it seems the man you spoke to has disappeared.’
‘He mentioned a soup kitchen that served quality comté.’
‘That would be all of them. I’ll ask around tomorrow.’
‘He was dressed a little like a magician. All I have is his first name. Obviously, that could have been a performance.’ Charlie took a sip of her martini. ‘The deceased’s companion was tall and dark with a moustache and blue eyes. German accent.’
‘German? Was he sure?’
‘He implied he was from a Romani family, wanderers, with an ear for languages and dialect, and I have no reason not to believe him. Other than he had almost finished a flask of red wine—probably not the first for the day. He didn’t give a full name. And he disappeared when I went to find an officer.’ She tapped all the points out with her fingers on the linen tablecloth for emphasis.
‘I’m sure, from your experience, you know that killers often hang around to see what becomes of their crime scene?’
‘I do,’ she conceded. ‘I considered that when I spoke to him. But honestly, he was so small, barely five feet. I’m just not sure he could have carried the victim.’
‘Drink enough red wine and a man could carry a bear,’ replied Detective Allard.
‘True. But what about motive?’
‘Thanks to your eagle eye, we were able to get in touch with the limousine company. The deceased has been confirmed as Pierre Jouet. Worked for the company for fifteen years. The Cité Metro Police are currently interviewing his wife. We haven’t been able to deduce a motive yet. The operator who took the booking said the caller—a man—spoke perfect English.’
‘Odd to book a French car in Paris using English.’
‘Happens all the time. Most foreigners speak English when they book theatre tickets, cars, hotels. They use the language they are comfortable with and expect everyone else to keep up.’ He sat back and looked at her with amused eyes.
Charlie raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She wasn’t going to take the bait from this gorgeous detective who teased and flattered his way through life.