Cast Iron

Chapter thirty-nine

They met Franck at the L’Ecritoire, in the tree-lined Place de la Sorbonne. Smokers, mostly students, sat out of the rain under a red canopy that cast its gloom over the tables and chairs lined up along the pavement outside, yellow light and laughter spilling out into the darkening day. At the far end of the square, floodlit figures atop high columns flanked a clock set into the arch of a tall, stone building that dominated everything else around it. Fountains played in a rectangular water feature, lit along its length by concealed underwater lighting. The whole square resounded to the sound of voices. Student voices, animated by youth and aspiration and unbounded optimism. They made Enzo feel very old and tired.

Franck was a good-looking young man in his mid-thirties. He had a mischievous smile and rich brown hair that fell in luxuriant curls over quizzical eyebrows. He still carried about him the natural confidence of youth, and so seemed not at all out of place among all these students from the university. His black coat hung open and a red scarf dangled from his neck. A scarred leather satchel lay on the chair next to him.

He was waiting for them at a table at the back of the café, and rose to greet Dominique with a warm embrace and a kiss on each cheek. Then he looked at Enzo. ‘Who’s this? Your dad?’

Dominique gave him a dangerous look. ‘This is Enzo Macleod. If you were even remotely in touch with the real world, Franck, I wouldn’t need to make the introduction.’

Franck’s liquid brown eyes opened wide with sudden recognition, and he pumped Enzo’s hand enthusiastically. ‘Monsieur Macleod. What an honour.’ And Enzo wasn’t sure if the younger man was mocking him or not. ‘Sit down. What can I get you to drink?’

They ordered coffee, since they had never got around to drinking the ones that Kirsty had made, and Franck reached across the table to take both of Dominique’s hands in his. To his annoyance, Enzo found a tiny seed of jealousy germinating inside him at such casual and not unfamiliar intimacy. Dominique blushed with embarrassment and avoided his eye.

Franck said, ‘It’s been too long.’

Dominique nodded. ‘It has.’

He gazed into her eyes with unglazed affection. ‘I still miss you.’ He turned a smile of regret in Enzo’s direction and sighed. ‘Life, monsieur, is full of might-have-beens. The moments we missed, or didn’t see until they were gone. Dominique is one of those. The one who got away.’

Dominique took back her hands. ‘Oh, stop it, Franck.’ She risked a glance at Enzo. ‘He was always a fantasist.’

‘A man’s entitled to dream, isn’t he?’ He looked to Enzo for confirmation.

Enzo said, ‘Sometimes the dream is all we’re left with.’ And somehow that stole away all the levity, leaving a moment of awkward silence among them.

Dominique broke it. ‘So? Did you find anything?’

Franck said, ‘I did.’ The smile was gone now, and the twinkle with it. He sat back and looked at them thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know what you two are involved in. And I don’t want to know. In fact, I’m beginning to regret I ever agreed to do this.’

‘You owed me, Franck.’

Franck looked at her. The merest nod of his head and a downward turn of his eyes acknowledged it. ‘I know.’ He examined his hands for a moment, before looking up again. ‘It wasn’t that hard, actually. Money, even the electronic variety, leaves indelible traces wherever it goes. You just have to follow the tracks.’

‘And?’ Dominique could hardly contain her impatience.

Franck sucked in a deep breath, as if stealing himself to reveal some dirty little secret. ‘That little girl’s medical care has been paid for over the last twenty-odd years by money transferring automatically out of a private account in the BNP Paribas.’ Again he paused, before adding reluctantly, ‘A personal account belonging to someone who might conceivably be the next president of France. A certain Jean-Jacques Devez. The Mayor of Paris.’