‘What if the victim in Tours, Jouet, also had leaves on the soles of his shoes?’
‘Jouet was found in a forest, there’s every chance he would have leaves on his shoes.’
‘Sure, but Jouet was not killed where he was dumped. If there was a leaf on his sole, it can’t have come from the forest where his body was found.’ It could be a lead, even if it was a tenuous one.
George looked at the leaf in her notebook. ‘Elm trees are all over Europe,’ he said, scrunching his face. ‘But I’ll buy they were both shot in the nape of the neck. Maybe there’s something.
‘Finish that piece on autumn hats then get your expenses from Violet for the Versailles trip. Might be time to take a break from these homicide stories if you don’t find anything concrete. Won’t solve a case if a random bloody leaf and a red suit is all you’ve got.’
Chapter 20
VERSAILLES POLICE STATION
Charlie met Detective Allard in the foyer of the Versailles Police Station with two croissants wrapped in baking paper. The corner of his mouth twitched.
‘Did you bring me morning tea?’
‘Oui.’ She handed him the croissants.
‘You know I cannot be bribed into handing over police evidence?’
‘I do. But I haven’t eaten and I’m hungry. Thought it might be rude to eat in front of you.’
If Versailles was known for its oversized châteaux and villas, manicured parks and elegant boulevards, the police station was equally grand. The foyer stretched out, featuring black and white marble tiles and huge archways that presumably led to different departments. Unlike the Cité Metro Police Station in Paris, whichappeared to have offices and corridors peeling off in all directions much like a rabbit warren, Versailles Police Station was spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the town square.
They walked up a central set of marble stairs until they reached Allard’s office. It was set up like a bank manager’s with a large wooden table floating in the middle of the room, flanked by velvet chairs either side. There was an overstuffed armchair by the window with a matching footstool and side table covered in notes, a pair of spectacles and a pen sitting on top. It looked a bit like a gentlemen’s club and Charlie immediately thought how her boss, George, would love a large-scale office like this. Unfortunately, nothing in Paris was large scale.
The detective caught Charlie surveying his chair and looked sheepish. Then he shrugged. ‘I work long days and sometimes I prefer to sit in a comfortable chair to read my notes.’
‘This is lovely. I wish I had an office with two chairs,’ Charlie said. ‘Or even an office. My desk is squeezed into a cubicle in a row of six in the middle of the newsroom. The sun doesn’t even reach that far in from the windows.’
Allard held up the croissants. ‘Would you like to eat? Should I get some plates? I can make coffee?’
‘Perhaps after our meeting,’ replied Charlie, wanting to sound professional even as her stomach growled.
‘Since you brought me croissants, I’d like to show you something.’ He put the treats on a shelf for later and took a pile of photos out, laying them on the desk in a neat row. On the boardbehind him was a map of France with red thumb tacks stuck in multiple towns.
‘We found Pierre Jouet in a forest just outside Tours. We know he was a Paris Opéra Limousines chauffeur. He was shot in the back of the neck at close range with a suspected nine-millimetre weapon and his body dumped in the forest within twenty-four hours of his death.
‘The limousine company estimates twenty-five hundred francs was stolen from his kitty. They have no record of the client—he called the office, or someone with a German accent did, and then the client was picked up off the street outside L’Opéra.
‘Thanks to your quick thinking with the witness in the park, Mael, we have a description of the man accompanying Jouet: a tall, dark-haired, blue-eyed man with a moustache and an accent. Germanic, most likely. Perfect English. And a strong whistle. He is a suspect.’
Charlie frowned, concerned.
‘Anyway’—he tapped the next photo—‘not one week later, we find a dead body, which closely matched your description of the traveller you spoke to, in some woodlands opposite a cemetery near Neuilly.’
He took more photographs out and placed them on his desk. Charlie’s breath caught in her throat. For there, in the photos, still and lifeless, was the complete image of the charming man she had met on the park bench in Tours. The same dark curlsand eyes; dressed in the tell-tale velvet suit. His head was crusted with blood.
‘Oh,’ Charlie sighed. ‘That’s Mael.’ She took in his swarthy skin, remembering his smile and the way he had studied her hand.
‘We can now confirm he had identity papers in his vest. His name is indeed Mael, Mael Albu. It’s an old Romani last name.’
Charlie wrote the nameMael Albuin her notebook. A wanderer whose travels had come to a tragic end. ‘I trust he did not put that bullet hole in the back of his own head?’ she said.
‘No. There was no weapon at the site.’ He put the postmortem shots labelledALBUon the table, as well as an image of his body wrapped in a shroud covered with blood.
‘This’—he indicated the material—‘is a curtain. Albu was shot in the back of the neck at close range—suspected nine-millimetre weapon. Then dumped in the forest opposite the graveyard.