‘I haven’t anything concrete with Jouet.’ Charlie clenched her jaw. ‘But if I just had more time …’
‘Leave the time to the police.’ George shook a finger at Charlie. ‘You know, James, sometimes being an investigative reporter means jumping on the story that you can resolve. Leads. Consequences. Resolutions.’ He clicked his fingers in front of her face. ‘Haven’t seen much in the way of that from this little cubicle of late. Don’t make me regret slipping you this lead. If you can’t do something with this tip’—he whistled—‘then maybe one of the lads might be willing to.’
Charlie shivered. There was no way she was going to let one of the others snatch her story.
George lowered his voice and continued. ‘Look, I know the Ashworth case knocked you about. Ending up in hospital after chasing a story would shake the confidence from anybody … but you’re a damn fine reporter. The Maisy Bell story’—he shrugged—‘was unfortunate, but we’re reporters, not magicians. We can’t conjure facts from thin air. This is a real dead body.’
He marched back to his office as he threw the words over his shoulder: ‘Bring me something big.’
Charlie leaned back in her seat and sighed. She could hear the chortling from her newsroom colleagues and didn’t want to look up to see their smug faces. She straightened her shoulders and selected the fuchsia dress to give to the subeditors.
Piling the Jouet evidence neatly in the far corner of her desk, she wiped her eyes with her palms, then wiped her hands on the emerald silk crepe pants Violet had ‘gifted’ her because they didn’t fit. She picked up the envelope.
It had already been opened and a series of photographs fell out onto her desk. They were shot from some distance, perhaps from behind a tree or from a building. They certainly were not police shots, up close. This pleased Charlie in a rather petty way. She knew Inspecteur Bernard would rather chew his arms off than voluntarily send police images to a member of the press, and Charlie assumed George and Detective Allard would never have crossed paths. But she did know that George liked to have a series of photographers on retainer from time to time to send off on the police beat when he heard news. Perhaps it was one of them.
She spread the black-and-white photographs across the desk.
A Citroën parked under a tree. Charlie picked up her magnifying glass to examine a shapeless blob in the front seat.
The next image was also of the Citroën, but looking back to vaults and gravestones. There was a modest sign that readCimetière de Neuilly.
The third image was of an indistinct shape wrapped up in dark material. It was small, but she assumed this was the body wrappedin some kind of makeshift shroud. She moved her magnifying glass over the body, looking for anything that stood out. Blood. Mud. She froze when she got to the end of the shroud where the corner had become unfastened.
Dark leather, an elm leaf stuck to a thick sole. Black boots with a distinctive pointed toe. Charlie shivered. Even though the face and body were obscured by the shroud, Charlie knew exactly who this was. Mael, the philosophical traveller she had met on the park bench in Tours.
She put her magnifying glass down and scratched her head, before picking it up and looking again. It was a coincidence. It had to be.
But Charlie knew never to let coincidences slide. She couldn’t afford to suspect that her life in Paris was on the line, so she picked up the phone and dialled the number for Inspecteur Bernard.
The phone rang three times before the familiar crisp voice answered. ‘C’est Bernard.’
‘Inspecteur, this is Charlie James.’
She heard silence on the end of the phone before he gave a terse, polite reply.
‘How can I help you, Mademoiselle James?’
‘I’ve just come into possession of some images of what looks to be a corpse near a cemetery near Neuilly.’
‘It looks like a corpse or it is a corpse?’
‘A corpse. Has it been called in yet?’
‘Not yet. But this is under the provincial jurisdiction. Often they fall to Detective Allard, who I believe you met in Tours?’ He said ‘provincial’ with such scorn, Charlie was left in no doubt as to what Bernard thought of his country colleagues.
‘I did.’ Charlie tried to keep her voice steady and professional even though her stomach did a flip at the mention of Allard.
‘So perhaps Detective Allard can help you? Do you have anything else?’
‘I do, Inspecteur. If you’ll allow me another minute. I believe I recognise the corpse. I met him, a wanderer, in the park near where Jouet was found. Mael … He wouldn’t give me his surname. Does that mean anything to you?’
There was a loud sigh into the phone, then silence for a beat. Charlie waited.
‘You can’t see the face in the photograph?’ the inspecteur asked at last. ‘You don’t know for certain?’
‘His short stature was distinctive.’
‘There’s more than one short man in the world.’