‘No point. They are focused on my perfect brother and his perfect wife and children. Everything I do is a disappointment.’
‘That’s neither true, nor fair,’ said Charlie, who missed her own parents and pesky little siblings madly. They were sad when she’d moved to France but had understood she’d needed a new horizon and to leave her sadness and ex-husband behind.
She turned to survey the couples drinking martinis at small tables near the front windows and the older gentlemen in shabby workwear enjoying a pint or small glasses of pastis. ‘I can’t wait to see the pieces on the streets in spring,’ Charlie said. ‘The collection last night was a knockout.’
‘Not too many on the streets, I hope.’ Violet winked. ‘I want to keep Aleksandr haute couture for now. But we may look at some ready-to-wear pieces down the track. We’ll need more money, more employees.’
‘After last night, I can’t see that’s going to be an issue. I still don’t understand why you don’t quit being a secretary and work with Aleksandr full time. Or open that store selling all the beautiful things you collect. Seriously, Violet, you could do whatever you dream.’
Violet lifted her flute. ‘To dreams coming true.’
‘Salut,’ said Charlie. ‘Now we need to find Hugh Koch.’ She beckoned to the barman and asked if he’d heard of the name.
He snorted. ‘Koch? Koch—he a Boche with a name like that? Ask those Boches at the end of the bar.’ He waved at the huddle of middle-aged men hunched over the far end of the bar, nursing pints.
Galvanised by the bubbles, Charlie wandered over to the group. ‘Excuse me, kindly, could you tell me of a Hugh Koch who has recently moved to Rue Véron?’
The men stopped talking and took in her black kitten heels, black pencil skirt and aqua silk shirt.
A man with a pug face and half a mouthful of teeth slammed his glass on the counter and lifted his chin. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘It’s personal. A family matter.’ There was no way she was letting slip that she was a reporter. That news would travel through the neighbourhood as quickly as a gas leak—and be just as destructive.
The group’s speaker snorted. ‘You don’t sound like you’d be family of Koch.’
‘I represent the family’s interests,’ snapped Charlie, pulling herself up to her full height.
‘Take it easy,’ growled the pug-faced man. ‘If he’s home from the factory, you’ll find him next to mine … thirty-eight. Top floor on the left.’
‘Merci.’ Charlie smiled and turned away.
‘And when you’re done with Koch, you can come next door and conduct some family business with me,’ the ugly man said as his friends roared with laughter.
Charlie flinched but refused to look at the man who’d delivered this insult. She did not want to give him the satisfaction of her attention and fury. It saddened her to know she’d crossed the oceans to find the same belittling behaviour and mockery of her sex and appearance in a bar on the other side of the world.
She thought of the photos she’d seen of Maisy Bell, the twinkle of hope in her eyes, the exuberant smile. The college graduate had had the world at her feet and now she was nowhere to be seen. Had her life been taken by a man she’d trusted to show her a little of France’s history?
She elbowed her way back to Violet and said, ‘Bingo. Got the address. Let’s go.’
‘You work fast,’ said Violet as she tipped her head back and skolled the rest of her bubbles.
Charlie grabbed her hand, elbowed her way through the crowd again and pushed open the wooden door to the street. They walked the next block in silence, Charlie still squirming over the German’s comments back at the bar, while Violet counted street numbers.
‘Thirty-eight!’
They surveyed the building. A front door with broken glass, a collection of terracotta pots with rosemary and basil by the entrance, a line of baby clothes and rompers on the first-floor balcony. They pushed open the door and walked up the curved staircase. As she climbed the stairs, Charlie considered Auclair, the card belonging to Schmidt beside his dead body—Schmidt’s nephew. A German nephew who was still missing. Like Maisy Bell.
There was nothing concrete to connect all the cases. Detective Allard was looking into possible links. Charlie had seen the red pins on the map on his wall—he was keeping his mind open to every possibility. She thought of the leaf in her notebook. The leaves on the shoes. It was a reminder to look for connections.
Theories, coincidences and circumstantial evidence swirled in Charlie’s head as she stopped to catch her breath on the landing. Schmidt, Koch and Schmidt’s nephew Alain were German. And Ludwig, whose name sounded German, while Louis did not. Could they be the same person? Could Alain have booked the limousines under the name Ludwig? They were both tall, dark and German. It was a stretch … but not implausible.
Perhaps if they could find out where Alain was, he would lead them to the killer.
She hadn’t told George or the police she was paying this unofficial visit. The last time she’d tried to do a doorstop interview, the Cité Metro Police knew her whereabouts. She had emergency back-up when plans went askew.
Charlie glanced at Violet, who was puffing slightly from the stairs. She shouldn’t have dragged her into this. George really would send Charlie packing if she put Violet Carthage in danger.
Charlie held a protective hand up to stop Violet passing her on the landing. ‘You should go downstairs. I’ve changed my mind—I think it best to do this interview alone.’