‘What?’ Violet looked at Charlie like she was crazy. ‘And leave you to greet a strange man at his door alone?’
‘It’s just a standard interview. I doorstop strange men all over Paris every month. It’s a routine part of my job.’
‘We both know this is far from a standard interview, Charlie,’ Violet said softly. ‘I know you very much want to nail these homicide stories to prove you are a great reporter. To earn George’s respect. But guess what?’ Violet threw her hands in the air. ‘You already have it. You’re a great reporter: intuitive, nuanced, and you submit clean copy.’
‘Sounds like you’ve been reading my report card,’ Charlie joked. ‘I’m on some kind of weird unofficial probation, you know that. I just need this interview to go well.’
Violet’s voice dropped. ‘George is worried about you after you ended up in hospital chasing a story. He feels responsible.’ She touched Charlie’s cheek. ‘He’s just looking out for you. We all are.’
‘The Maisy Bell story …’ Charlie gritted her teeth and clenched her fists in frustration. ‘I lost it. I let it go and now it’s like everyone’s forgotten about her. They said she went with a man freely to visit that villa, like that exonerates him somehow. Butshe never came back. Why do men get treated so lightly? All the people we’ve spoken to seem to think it was Maisy’s fault.’ Charlie counted the excuses on her fingers. ‘Her skirt was too short. She wanted to be famous. She wanted to have a fling with arealman. Just another silly American tourist losing her head over Paris.’
Violet put her hand over Charlie’s and clasped it tight. ‘I understand. Really, I do. Maisy could have been you or me. God knows I’ve been to some strange houses with even stranger men since I’ve been in Paris. You stayed in a strange house with a strange man last night.’
‘Violet—’
‘All I’m saying is that it’s not Maisy Bell’s fault she trusted a man. What are we even doing on this planet if we can’t trust? If we can’t make connections? Now, let’s go do this interview. I’m staying right beside you, like you were for me last night. Besides, don’t you need me to translate?’
‘Thank you,’ said Charlie as she straightened her skirt and approached the apartment. She knocked on the door, stood back and waited.
Nothing.
After a minute passed, Charlie knocked again, this time louder and faster.
A barrage of words came from the other side of the wooden door as chains rattled and locks turned. The door was yanked open and a middle-aged head with day-old beard, watery red eyes and jowly cheeks poked out from behind it.
‘Ja? Guten tag?’
‘Good afternoon. I’m Charlie James and this is Violet Carthage. Are you Herr Hugh Koch?’
He eyed Charlie with suspicion and his confusion grew when he saw Violet standing beside her.
‘We were wondering if you could help us, please? We’re looking for someone. Do you know Alain Schmidt?’ She held a copy of Carl Schmidt’s business card up so he could see it. ‘Alain is the nephew of Carl Schmidt.’
The door didn’t move and he looked at them blankly.
Violet stepped forward and translated Charlie’s words into German. She took the copy of the card from Charlie and passed it to the man, who eased the door open a little wider as he took the paper. Koch nodded, indicating he recognised the name.
Violet asked how he knew the man.
Her eyes widened as he answered and she turned to Charlie. ‘Koch is also an uncle of Alain’s—your missing man. On his mother’s side, though—hence the different name.’
‘Ask him if he’s spent any time in Nice lately? With either of the Schmidt gentlemen.’
The bewildered man shook his head. He looked at Charlie and Violet and started to close the door but Violet put her hands up and spoke in rapid German. She seemed to be pleading with him. Koch held the door and looked at her expectantly.
‘Have you got his old address?’ Violet asked Charlie. ‘It might help.’
Charlie reached into her satchel and produced the address from the reference on the identity card Allard had shown her, handing it to the man. Koch’s brow furrowed before his shoulders sagged.
He spoke again to Violet, who offered some soothing words. When she was done, she said out of the corner of her mouth, ‘He’s asking where you got this stuff. I told him Alain owed you money and disappeared. Imayhave implied there was a bit of a bond between you two and you were heartbroken.’
‘Violet,’ hissed Charlie.
The man studied Charlie. Evidently, she did have the look of someone with a broken heart, as he started to speak.
Violet translated: ‘Alain usually came for dinner on a Sunday night. Roast with potatoes. Sounds delicious. Alain hasn’t appeared these past few weeks—Herr Koch thought it was because Alain had started hanging around with his criminal friend Hans again.’
Koch waved his arm at Charlie, then pointed at her face before looking her up and down.