The Secret

EIGHT

Steven sensed that the French police were enjoying his discomfort. He was being interviewed by three officers in a bare room that smelt vaguely of sweat and tobacco.

‘You come with impeccable references,’ said the senior detective who had introduced himself as Philippe Le Grice, in charge of the inquiry into the death of Aline Lagarde. ‘The British Home Office apparently thinks highly of you.’

Steven acknowledged with a slightly awkward nod.

‘Such pleas on your behalf, of course, mean little when affairs of the heart are concerned where desire can turn to anger in the blink of an eye and with disastrous consequences for all concerned.’

‘There was no affair of the heart,’ Steven said coldly. ‘I’d never met the lady before. We were both attending the funeral of our friend.’

‘Ah, yes, Dr Ricard… a fatal fall, an unfortunate accident I understand. So here you were in Paris, the city of love… on your own… staying overnight… and you meet Dr Lagarde… an extremely attractive woman by all accounts…’

‘It was nothing like that,’ Steven insisted. ‘We talked at the funeral and arranged to have a meal together later before I returned to London and she travelled back to Afghanistan. That’s all there was to it, and then Aline didn’t turn up.’

‘Where did you intend having this meal together?’

‘The Monsonnier.’

Le Grice looked to his right where a younger man nodded. ‘So she didn’t turn up; your evening was ruined; you went to her hotel to demand an explanation…’

‘You were angry,’ interjected the man who had verified the Monsonnier booking.

‘No, I wasn’t.’

‘But you did go to her hotel…’

‘Well, yes, but only to see if she was all right.’

‘And was she?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t go in,’ said Steven, conscious of how implausible it sounded in the circumstances.

‘Pathetic,’ snorted the one remaining officer who had sat throughout with a sneer on his face. He got to his feet and leaned across the table, his face close enough for Steven to smell the tobacco on his breath. ‘Of course you went in and when Dr Lagarde rejected your advances, you had your way with her anyway. Then you strangled her and left her like a piece of trash you’d finished with.’

Steven kept calm but he was struggling. ‘Are you telling me that Aline Lagarde was raped?’ he asked.

‘Are you pretending she wasn’t?’ retorted Le Grice.

‘I’ve no idea,’ said Steven angrily. ‘This the first time I’ve heard it mentioned.’

‘You’re angry, doctor.’

‘Damn right I’m angry. I didn’t know Aline Lagarde well but from what I saw I liked and respected her. She, like my friend Dr Ricard, was doing an incredibly difficult job — one that I couldn’t do — for very little in the way of thanks or reward and she ends up being raped and strangled in the heart of the “civilised” world and the best you and your bozos can do is question me about it.’

Le Grice turned to his colleagues. ‘Leave us.’

This was something Steven hadn’t expected.

Le Grice offered Steven a cigarette which Steven declined, then lit one himself, drawing on it deeply before exhaling and making sure the smoke went upwards by protruding his lower lip. At least we’ve avoided that little cliché, thought Steven.

‘Dr Lagarde wasn’t raped,’ Le Grice said matter-of-factly.

‘Then what the hell was that all about?’

‘She wasn’t robbed… and she wasn’t strangled.’

Steven’s eyes opened wide. ‘Are you telling me that she’s still alive?’ he exclaimed.

‘Unfortunately not. She’s dead, shot through the back of the head with a nine millimetre pistol. Her money and her passport were still in the room and there were no signs of sexual assault.’

‘A professional hit?’

‘All the signs,’ agreed Le Grice.

Steven took a few moments to come to terms with the information before asking, ‘Why all the play-acting?’

‘We couldn’t imagine Dr Lagarde coming across too many hit men in her line of work but, by some strange coincidence, she was about to have dinner with a man who might conceivably fit the bill…’

Steven screwed up his eyes for a moment, reluctantly accepting the logic. ‘I’m hardly that,’ he said softly.

‘A Sci-Med investigator with a military past including service with British Special Forces.’

‘I had nothing to do with Aline’s death.’

‘No, I know you didn’t,’ said Le Grice, ‘but I had to be sure. You had nothing to do with Dr Ricard’s death either; we checked you weren’t in Prague at the time of the “accident”. Any idea what’s going on?’

‘None at all.’

‘What’s Sci-Med’s interest?’

‘It’s personal,’ said Steven, ‘not official. Simone Ricard was my friend. I felt I owed it to her to make sure her death was accidental. I thought it was and now this happens…’

Le Grice smiled distantly. ‘Dr Ricard was French but her death is being regarded by the Czech police as an accident so there is no call for us to become involved. Dr Lagarde’s death is quite another matter. We will continue to investigate her murder using all means at our disposal, although the involvement of a professional assassin will… complicate things.’

Steven nodded his agreement.

‘If, however, you intend to maintain your interest, perhaps we might exchange notes… cooperate on our findings?’

‘Of course,’ said Steven, ‘although to be honest I don’t quite know where to start.’

‘Then we are as one already,’ said Le Grice, getting up. He offered his hand then gave Steven his card. ‘You’re free to go, doctor.’

The air tasted sweet: freedom did have a taste, Steven decided as once again he headed towards a river. It made him reflect on how often he did this in London. There was something about flowing water that drew him, something about the continual motion that calmed his mind and helped him think clearly. What he had to decide was if there was anything he should do in Paris before he returned to London. He couldn’t think of anything offhand but this was more a reflection of what little he had to go on than a conviction that there was nothing more to be done here. He needed to think things through logically to be sure, but first he would call Macmillan and Tally.

‘So they let you go; must have been the impeccable reference I gave you,’ said Macmillan when told of his release.

‘Must have been,’ agreed Steven. ‘We have to talk when I get back. Things aren’t what they seem.’

‘I feared as much.’

Tally didn’t answer her phone and Steven concluded she must still be on duty at the hospital. He left her a text message before returning to river watching.

The spat between Simone and the rival aid organisation had to be his starting point. It didn’t seem much but Aline had injected more into the mix by suggesting there might be more to it. If only she’d lived long enough to say what it was. It had been her intention to talk to her bosses at Médecins Sans Frontières about it but that was scheduled for the day after she’d been murdered… There was a chance, however, that she might have had some sort of conversation with someone at the aid organisation when she called to make the appointment. He needed an address for Med Sans. He used his BlackBerry to establish a web link and Googled it.

Armed with an address in rue Saint-Sabin he flagged down a taxi and was there in under fifteen minutes, asking at the desk for Guy Monfils, the man who had spoken at Simone’s funeral. He was invited to wait and used the time to examine the posters on the office walls, something that left him surprised at how large the organisation was: he was quickly disabused of his previous belief that it was primarily French. Médecins Sans Frontières had offices in many countries including the UK where it had premises in Saffron Hill in London. He noted that in several countries it was known as Doctors Without Borders, much more prosaic than the French name which rolled so easily off the tongue.

‘Dr Dunbar, this is a surprise,’ said Monfils, entering the room. ‘What brings you back to Paris?’

‘Aline Lagarde’s murder,’ Steven replied briefly.

‘Why don’t we go through to my office?’

Monfils settled into his chair and invited Steven to do likewise with an outstretched hand. ‘I just hope the police catch the swine,’ he said. 'We have lost two of our most dedicated workers in the space of two weeks. It’s beyond belief.’

‘Tragic,’ agreed Steven.

‘I’d like to think this a social visit, doctor, but I have a feeling it’s not. What can I do for you?’

‘I had a letter from Simone Ricard just before she died. In it she confided that she felt something was very wrong.’

Monfils appeared to consider for a moment before asking, 'Did she say what?’

‘She didn’t, and now she’s dead… as is her colleague Aline Lagarde.’

‘But surely this is some awful coincidence? Simone’s death was an accident and Aline was murdered by some lunatic the police are currently hunting for.’

‘Maybe,’ said Steven, remaining expressionless.

‘You can’t be suggesting a link?’

‘Let’s say I’m not ruling it out.’

‘My God, what possible reason could there be?’

‘I was hoping you might help with that. The Pakistan/Afghanistan border is a wild, untamed place. Is it conceivable that the women might have upset some people there, some gang, some faction that weren’t too keen on having foreigners around?’

Monfils spread his hands and pursed his lips as if doubting the suggestion but wanting to find some way of agreeing. ‘Aid organisations are always walking on eggshells in such places,’ he said, ‘and bandits are a continual problem. But surely the scenario you are suggesting might have accounted for their deaths if they’d died out there… not in Prague or Paris.’

Steven had to agree. It was unlikely they would have been followed abroad. He changed tack. ‘I understand Aline made an appointment to come and see you before she returned to Pakistan.’

‘She did,’ Monfils agreed.

‘Can I ask what about?’

‘She was worried Simone might not have made her concerns known to me in Prague.’