Cast Iron

Chapter three

It was almost dark by the time Enzo got to the Rue des Tanneries. The narrow street was deserted. This was a commercial and industrial rather than residential area, in a corner of Paris once famous for its Gobelin tapestries and the tanneries that polluted the River Bièvre. The nearby market, ‘La Mouff’, in the Rue Mouffetard, derived its name from the word mouffettes, a slang term describing the putrid exhalations of the river. But the smells and dyes and the pollutants from the tanneries were long gone, and it was here, in a former coal merchant’s, that Charlotte had made her home and set up her cabinet, dispensing wisdom to those wrestling with their inner demons.

He had not called in advance, because he did not want to give her the opportunity to tell him she was busy, or had company, or was simply somewhere else. And so he was taking a chance on catching her at home, alone and off guard.

He pressed the button on the door-entry system and waited to hear her voice.

‘Oui?’

‘It’s Enzo,’ is all he said. There was a long silence, and he could almost hear her thinking, before the buzzer sounded and the lock on the door disengaged.

It was cold in the little downstairs entry hall. A door off to the left, he knew, led to the indoor garden, with its tiny stream and paths and trees and bushes, a glass roof thirty feet overhead that let light flood in during the day. It was where she practised her skills as a psychologist, conducting séances with her patients in an incongruous and wholly unexpected environment.

He felt the cold retreating as he climbed the staircase to her apartment, and then the rush of warm air as she opened the door to let him in. To his relief, Janine, Laurent’s nanny, had left for the day and Charlotte was on her own. He looked around for some sign of Laurent, and Charlotte said, ‘I’ve already put him down for the night.’ Which Enzo took as being her way of telling him he couldn’t see his son.

‘I’ll just go and take a look,’ he said, mounting the steps from the tiny kitchen to the living room, then down on to the grilled metal gallery that ran beneath the glass roof to the bedrooms at the far end.

He heard her hurrying along behind him. ‘It’s really not convenient,’ she said.

He kept walking, his footsteps clattering on the grille. ‘It never is.’

A light glowed beyond the glass walls of Charlotte’s bedroom, where Laurent still slept in his cot.

‘Enzo...’ Her voice was shrill.

He turned and put a finger to his lips, softly shushing her, and pushed open the door to the bedroom. The sight of her bed, still unmade, made his stomach flip over. How often had he made love to her between those sheets? How often had they lain talking in the dark, overheard only by the imagined ghosts of the Italian soldiers killed and buried in the cellar by the previous owners on the liberation of Paris? It was the bed where Laurent had been conceived, and a bed Enzo had not slept in for more than two years.

He quickly turned his attentions towards the cot and the sleeping child. Laurent was twisted up in his woollen blanket, lying on his side, his thumb in his mouth. The gentle rasp of his breathing seemed to fill the room.

Enzo gazed down with unglazed love at the son he hardly ever saw, luxuriant black hair curling around the boy’s ear, and he leaned over to brush his head very lightly with soft lips.

When he stood up and turned around, Charlotte was standing almost silhouetted in the doorway. Tall and willowy. Long curling black locks, shot through now faintly with silver, tumbled over square shoulders. She was dressed simply in a long-sleeved black T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. And, even without a trace of make-up, he still thought her beautiful, black eyes like polished coals reflecting light in the dark.

A flick of her head towards the gallery made it clear she wanted him out. He pushed past her into the light, and she pulled the door shut, following him then back along the walkway to the steps that took them up to the living room. Computer screens set on a work desk displayed video of the garden below from cameras mounted on the walls. She recorded all her sessions for later review. She closed the door. ‘What the hell—?’

‘I have a right to see my son.’

She controlled her anger and her voice by clenching her teeth. ‘You call me first.’

‘Oh, sure. To be told that, well, you’re busy. Or you’re just about to go out. Or you’re not at home. You’re at a conference somewhere with Janine along to look after Laurent. Or — and I’ve had this a few times — it’s just not convenient.’

‘Well, given how rarely you’re in Paris, it’s hardly surprising that I can’t just drop everything at a moment’s notice simply because you’re in town. If you really were interested in seeing your son, you might have thought about moving to the capital.’

‘You know I can’t do that.’

‘Oh, no, of course. I forgot.’ Her words oozed sarcasm. ‘They can’t do without you at Toulouse. A big fish at a silly little university.’

Enzo was stung. ‘The forensics department at Paul Sabatier is the biggest in the south-west.’

‘Like I said, big fish, small pool. How was it they described you in their brochure? Scotland’s leading forensics expert? Specialist in blood pattern and crime-scene analysis?’ She laughed. ‘Scotland? Well, now, the pools don’t come much smaller, do they? And when was the last time you practised any of these dark arts? As far as I’m aware, you’ve been teaching biology to giggling girlies for the last twenty-five years.’

Enzo kept his voice low and steady. ‘I’ve resolved five out of Roger’s seven cold cases. The best efforts of the French police failed to crack one of them.’

‘Yes, well, you know what I think about the French police.’ She swanned past him and dropped into an armchair by the huge window that overlooked the street below. ‘But don’t flatter yourself, Enzo. You’ve had Roger, and me, and several others to help you on more than one. And you still have two to go before you win your silly bet.’

There must have been something in his expression, and he saw realisation dawn suddenly on her face. ‘That’s why you’re in Paris. Roger’s been briefing you on the Lucie Martin case.’

It irked him that he should be so transparent. But then, Charlotte and Raffin had been lovers at the time Raffin was writing his book, and so she was intimately acquainted with each of the seven cold cases, and had followed the resolution of every one with more than a passing interest. For some reason that Enzo had never quite understood, Charlotte and Raffin had remained confidants, even after the fractious break-up of their affair, and it was probably true that, these days, she was closer to Roger than to Enzo. Something that seemed to Enzo even more extraordinary in light of the warning she had once given him: There is something dark about Roger. Something beyond touching. Something you wouldn’t want to touch, even if you could.

Enzo was defensive. ‘I have other reasons for being here, too.’

But she wasn’t interested in those, at least not for the moment. ‘So what do you think?’

He frowned. ‘About what?’

‘The Lucie Martin case, of course.’

And he recalled what he had said to Raffin. ‘There’s not much to go on.’

‘No.’ She ran long, elegant fingers back through her hair to take the fringe out of her eyes. ‘A skeleton stripped clean by fish. Death by strangulation. A broken hyoid. The signature of a serial killer who was nowhere near the scene of her disappearance at the time. And not a single suspect. Is that about right?’

‘Yes.’

‘So where will you begin?’

He was annoyed by this digression. They were in danger of straying well away from the purpose of his visit. ‘With the family.’

‘You’ll go to see the Martins?’

‘Yes.’

‘And then?’

He shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’

She smiled. ‘Well, that sounds like a promising start.’

He decided to take back the initiative. ‘I want you to come to Cahors next week. And bring Laurent.’

The sudden change of tack caught her off balance. ‘Why?’ Perhaps if she’d had more warning, she might have been able to lie about a previous engagement, or a trip to Angoulême to see her parents, or some other such concoction.

‘Sophie’s organising a birthday party for me. Originally it was supposed to be a surprise. But — you know Sophie — she can never keep a secret. She’s trying to get the whole family together.’

Charlotte frowned. ‘It’s not your sixtieth, is it?’

‘Fifty-sixth.’

‘Yes, I didn’t think you were quite that old.’ She paused. ‘It’s not a particularly auspicious birthday. Why the party?’

He shrugged. ‘Sophie turned twenty-five this year. I paid for a big bash for her and Bertrand. I guess she’s just trying to return the favour.’

She smiled. ‘Except, of course, you’re the one who’ll be picking up the tab.’

Enzo was unable to prevent a wry smile crossing his lips. ‘Of course.’

‘So, what other reasons?’

Which took him by surprise. ‘What?’

‘You said you had other reasons for being here in Paris — other than Roger’s briefing and asking me to your birthday party.’

He shrugged. There were no other reasons.

‘Perhaps you have a secret lover you’re not telling me about. Some child, half your age, beguiled by the Celtic charm she hasn’t yet seen through.’

He hid his hurt. ‘There’s no one else in my life, you know that.’

‘I know nothing of the kind. All I know about is the succession of younger women you have somehow persuaded to share your bed. Star-struck students and God knows who else.’

His voice was raised in anger for the first time. ‘I have never had a relationship with any of my students. And you know perfectly well that, if you hadn’t pushed me away, I would never even have looked at another woman.’

‘You can tell yourself that all you like, but I know you, Enzo. And I know you are not fit to be the father of my son. Grandfather, maybe. At a stretch. But, even then, what kind of example would you set? A drinking, womanising old hippy who left his wife and child in Scotland and never had a serious relationship in his life.’ She quickly raised a hand to pre-empt his protests. ‘And don’t tell me about Pascale. I’m sick of hearing about how Sophie’s mother was the love of your life. If only she hadn’t died in childbirth... How long do you think the relationship would have lasted if she hadn’t? Really. I mean — be honest, Enzo — your track record’s not that great.’

Enzo felt the cold blade of her cruelty slide between his ribs and into his heart. And he remembered again the awful night that Sophie was born. Climbing the hill above his hometown in south-west France and weeping in the dark. It was for Pascale that he had left Kirsty and her mother in Scotland and come to France to begin a new life. A life, it had seemed to him then, that ended the day she died. Charlotte had been the first woman in twenty years to touch his heart, and now she was turning her blade in it. Deliberately inflicting pain. And she wasn’t finished.

‘So, next time you want to come and see Laurent, you call me first and I’ll tell you if it’s okay.’

‘I have a right to see my son!’ He repeated his refrain of earlier.

‘Your son? Is he?’ Her words struck him like bare-knuckled fists swinging out of the dark.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, how do you know I wasn’t seeing someone else?’

His heart seemed to be trying to escape through his mouth. ‘Were you?’

‘Actually, I was. But then, you wouldn’t have known, would you? You were never around.’

‘Are you saying—?’

‘I’m not saying anything, Enzo. I’m telling you. Don’t take anything for granted.’

He stood, gazing at her, filled with pain and uncertainty. Thoughts flashed through his mind like the frames of a movie spooling backwards. Words, pictures, memories. All too fast to catch and register. He felt sick.

She stood up. ‘And I’m afraid Laurent and I won’t be able to make it to your birthday party. We’re much too busy.’

The Métro was full of Parisians out for the evening, heading for cafés and restaurants and to queue at cinemas. Enzo pushed his way through them, up the steps and into the Boulevard Saint Germain. He bumped and jostled shoulders as he ploughed west, head down, oblivious to the protests of people around him. But no one was seriously going to challenge this big, ponytailed man with a white stripe through his greying dark hair. He was well over six feet, and built like a man who had played rugby in his youth — which he had, at Hutchesons’ Grammar School, in Glasgow. His cotton jacket was open and flew out behind him, tangling on one side with the canvas satchel slung from his left shoulder. His cargoes were crumpled and gathered around heavy brown lace-up boots, his stride lengthening with every step, fuelled by the anger that simmered inside him.

He barely registered the young people sitting under canopies outside cafés, smoking and drinking coffees and cognacs, or the restaurants, full and noisy behind steamed-up windows, or the lights of a Carrefour Contact spilling out into the Rue Mazarine, late shoppers buying last-minute items to eat at home.

His mind was full of a dread fear. That Charlotte had not just been idly bating him. That Laurent really wasn’t his son. He could hardly bring himself to entertain the thought. It had never before occurred to him that Charlotte might have had a relationship with someone else. Who? She had never given any indication. And yet, how would he have known? He was in Toulouse, she in Paris. Although, how different that might have been if only she hadn’t constantly kept him at arm’s length. She valued her independence too much, she had said. She simply didn’t want another relationship — it was too demanding. And now she was telling him there had been another man. Hurtful enough, but with its inherent implications regarding Laurent’s paternity, Enzo felt wounded.

He turned into the Rue Guénégaud. The Café le Balto lay in unexpected darkness, and he pushed open the door to the neighbouring apartment block, climbing wearily to the first floor, fumbling to get his key in the lock. This tiny studio was where he always stayed in Paris. An apartment owned by a very elderly man passing his final days in a residential care home, and loaned to Enzo by friends in Cahors. When their uncle died, they would have to sell to pay the inheritance tax. Enzo wished he had the money to buy it, and, not for the first time, hoped that the old man would live forever.

The studio smelled of old age and was full of souvenirs collected during years spent travelling the world. All that remained of a life almost spent. Light fell in from the streetlamp outside and Enzo opened the windows for some fresh air. He let his bag fall to the floor and dropped heavily into a worn leather armchair.

He remembered Charlotte coming to him on the Île de Groix to break the news that she was pregnant. She had made it clear then that she did not want Enzo to have any part in her child’s life, and threatened abortion if he made legal demands. Might that have made some kind of twisted sense to her, if she had known that Enzo was not the father? Try as he might, he could not see the logic in it. Because, just as suddenly, she had relented. She would have the baby, and she would allow Enzo access, but wanted complete control of his upbringing. And most confusingly of all, she had called the child Laurent. The French equivalent of Lorenzo. Of which ‘Enzo’ was a shortened form. A name that owed its own origins to his Italian mother.

Enzo sat in the dark, feeling confused, and hurting like an old injured stag. Why would she have called him Laurent if he were not Enzo’s child?

He reached for a bottle of whisky on the table, pouring himself a stiff measure into the glass he had used the night before, and drizzled liquid gold back over his tongue. The only certainty on this dark autumn night was that the bottle would be empty by morning.