Blowback

Chapter Forty

Paris, France, November 2010

Paris gave the impression of a flickering, monochrome movie from another age when he stepped off the train at the Gare de Lyon shortly after seven. A bitter north-easterly had driven the inhabitants of the city into winter coats, and hats, and scarves, and the Parisian penchant for blacks and greys seemed to have leeched all color from the seething mass of commuters that thronged the platforms. Summer was both a distant memory, and a far off prospect, and the winter months that loomed ahead had subdued the usually passionate populace. The dull murmur of voices was barely discernible over the constant announcements of departures and arrivals.

Enzo shouldered his way silently through the crowds, head lowered, and ran down the steps to the metro. His compartment was packed and uncomfortable, a human cattle truck filled with the warm, sour smell of body odour and cigarette breath. The twenty minute ride to the Gare du Nord seemed like an eternity.

Enzo was glad to step out of the station to breathe cold, fresh air again. He walked south on the Boulevard de Strasbourg, barely aware of the city around him, wrapped up in a confusion of thoughts. Of suicide notes and fountain pens, confessions and deceptions. And in amongst all of that, the sense of being close again to his son. Existing under the same sky, in the same city. He had an almost overwhelming urge to hold him.

At the Rue du Chateau d’Eau, he turned left and found the apartment block he was looking for around a hundred and fifty meters south-west on the opposite side of the street.

Raymond Marre was still in his dressing gown when he answered the door on the second floor landing. It took a moment or two before recognition banished his frown and he greeted Enzo like a long lost brother, kissing him on both cheeks and ushering him into the warmth of his apartment.

“ Mon dieu, mon ami, comment vas-tu? It’s been years. I’m just having breakfast. Will you join me?”

“With pleasure. I’m starving.” Enzo discarded his coat and gloves, his face flushing with the heat after the cold outside, and followed Raymond into a small dining room which overlooked the street below through French windows. He watched the old man as he fussed to find another cup and saucer, and a plate for the croissants. The bag from the boulanger lay torn open on the table.

“I’m fortunate to have a neighbour who always fetches me fresh croissants in the morning. I’m not really a morning person. It’s usually ten or later before I’m dressed and my brain is functioning.” He grinned. “It gets harder and harder to kick-start it these days. How’s my God-daughter?”

“Sophie’s well, Raymond, and training to be a chef.”

“Mmmmh, then you’ll need to invite me to dinner sometime soon so I can sample her progress.” He looked at Enzo. “And how are you?”

“I’m fine, Raymond.”

Raymond had been Sophie’s mother’s mentor, an old hand in the police scientifique when Pascale was just starting out on her career in forensics. Enzo had asked him to be Sophie’s God-father after Pascale died in childbirth. He was well into his seventies now, and long retired. He poured Enzo a coffee, and they ate in silence for some moments.

“So, what brings you to Paris? Still showing the French police how it should be done?”

Enzo smiled. “I’m trying to find out who killed Marc Fraysse.”

“Ah.” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “I’m beginning to make connections already. Sophie, Fraysse, haute cuisine.” He paused. “Figured it out yet?”

“Nearly. But I need your help. You spent several years working in the questioned documents lab.”

Raymond looked doubtful. “It’s a long time since I retired, Enzo. QD was my specialty, sure. But there have been a lot of scientific advances since my day.”

“And you haven’t kept up with them?”

“Of course I have. What else am I going to do all day?”

Enzo grinned. “And I’m assuming you still have some influence at the lab on the Ile de la Cite.”

Raymond tipped his head to one side. “They tolerate the odd visit.” Hard though he was trying to hide it, his interest was piqued. “What’s your problem?”

Enzo went into his satchel and took out Fraysse’s suicide note, safely sealed inside a clear plastic ziplock bag. He laid it on the table between them. “I want to know if it’s possible to recover the words obliterated by the water damage and the blood.”

Raymond picked it up and looked at it with thoughtful concentration, then he held it up to the light of the window. “Shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Really?”

“A video spectral comparator should do it. The VSC uses various light-filtering systems, infrared, ultraviolet and so on, to enhance effaced, faded, or stained writing.”

“Even although the original text has been lost?”

“Sure. I mean, the writing’s not actually lost, it’s still there. You just can’t see it.”

“How does that work?”

“Visible and invisible radiant energy can excite inks to emit longer wavelengths of energy which make them luminesce. Of course, you still can’t see it with the naked eye. But the comparator has an integration feature which allows you to adjust the exposure time of radiant energy entering a black and white video camera. Weak luminescence can be enhanced, in the same way as slowing the shutter speed on a conventional camera allows you to record images in low light. So the original writing will show up, even though it appears to have been wiped out.”

Enzo glanced at the blood and water stains that seemed to have erased almost a third of the text on the page, and wondered what secrets the comparator might reveal. If any.

“And you would have access to a machine like this?”

“I believe the lab at the Quai de l’Horloge has the VSC6000.”

“Yes, but that’s not the question. Would they let you use it?”

The old forensic scientist sat back in his chair and laughed. “Enzo, Enzo, Enzo. Is the Pope a catholic?”