‘You think me callous? Or unprofessional?’ He folded his hands together and pursed his lips.
‘Neither.’ Charlie shook her head. He wouldn’t be the first man to dismiss the story of a young woman. Inspecteur Bernard was scrupulous and professional in his investigation—it was a problem with the system, not the inspecteur. ‘Perhaps next time, the Metro Police will find some resources to track down the missing woman.’
‘You make a valid point, but unfortunately, some men are monsters,’ Bernard said through gritted teeth. ‘I agree, we could have eased the heartache of the Bell family by giving them answers sooner. By doing more.’
Charlie shuffled through the old and new photographs of Maisy Bell. ‘Maisy Bell was already dead by the time I spoke with you,’ she said sadly.
‘Yes, she was killed the day they went to the villa. Fischer forged the telegram that Clementine received.’
After a beat he took the rest of the photos from the envelope—they were an assortment of tourist pics of the Eiffel Tower, pigeonson the steps of Sacré-Coeur, a vase of roses, presumably in the foyer of the Hotel Ritz, the stained-glass windows of Notre-Dame. Charlie continued looking through Maisy’s holiday snapshots. The last half a dozen made her freeze. They were of Fischer among a stand of elm trees. Fischer smiling and leaning against the stone wall of the villa, sitting on the front terrace having coffee. And then the last—Fischer standing and leaning towards her … a pink palm obscuring the image.
She touched the elm leaf in her notebook, tracing the veins as she tried to gather the pieces of her sadness.
Maisy Bell’s photos were a record of her final days.
‘The prosecutor has a set of these,’ said the inspecteur sadly.
Charlie pulled all the photographs into a neat pile and shoved them back into the envelope. ‘Thank you for showing me these … but I’ve seen enough.’ Her reporter’s instinct told her she could ask for one of the photos and Inspecteur Bernard would probably give it to her. She could hear George’s voice barking at her for an image of the ‘stiff’, as they called it in the newsroom. It would guarantee Charlie a front-page story.
But the trial was yet to come. In the French courts, even a confession needed to be corroborated, the judge and jury convinced of its veracity. There were still five murders to prove. Charlie had learned in the small, brutal pond of the Sydney press pack, and from her barrister father and ex-husband, that trial by media did not always lead to fair convictions. The law had its processes and she’d spent enough evenings in her father’s studywhile he worked to understand how hard the police and officers of the court work to build a case. How hard Inspecteur Bernard and Detective Allard and their teams were working to build the evidence to prosecute the Fischer case.
‘This will be the biggest murder trial in France since Bluebeard, and I don’t want to pre-empt the result …’ He opened his palms and spread them wide on the table.
‘French people tend to be sensible and rational, and their legal system reflects this,’ Charlie said in an even voice. ‘It’s fair.’
Inspecteur Bernard raised an eyebrow. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment for my country, Mademoiselle James.’ He gave a bemused nod.
‘Surely they cannot plead insanity for someone who planned so meticulously? Someone with such a high IQ? He listened, voluntarily, toThe Ring, for goodness’ sake.’
Inspecteur Bernard shrugged. ‘I’m not going to guess the outcome. It would be unprofessional.’ He gestured for the cheese trolley to be brought to their table.
Charlie sat back in her chair.
They looked outside at the markets and chatted about the case for a few more minutes, before moving on to the merits of mulled wine and football. Here were two people connected by tragedy and loss talking about the most mundane things. The newspaper was a direct reflection of life in that way. People needed beauty, fashion, football, food, the latest gloves, but also news ofweapon stockpiles, the German economy and the shadowy edges of society. Bluebeard.
‘It seems, Mademoiselle James, that once again you found the story. Your editor must be pleased?’
Charlie thought of George’s grunted, ‘Good work, James. No changes,’ as he filed her piece. He had softened a fraction when he’d added, ‘I’m glad you’re safe. I have beef with hospitals.’
‘George, nobody enjoys hospitals.’ She’d rolled her eyes and insisted she would be back in the office to work on fresh stories until the trial. ‘I’ll be back in Paris Monday. Promise.’
‘About time. All this gallivanting is costing me a pretty fortune. I need you in Paris.’
Charlie had grinned, as they both knew her two-star hotels and cab fares were certainly not breaking the newspaper’s kitty. George spent more on his weekly lunch at the club.
Charlie lifted her glass and made a toast. ‘Merci. Once again, it’s been a pleasure working with you.’
‘The honour is ours. This lunch is courtesy of the Metro Police.’ The inspecteur pressed his chest and nodded formally as they clinked glasses.
‘If I’d known that, I would have had the Sauternes and thecrème brûlée!’
‘I’m sure there will be another time, Mademoiselle James. Although I hope on a more positive story.’
‘At least this story has a conclusion.’
‘Almost. Let’s not pre-empt the trial, shall we?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’