Cast Iron

Chapter forty-five

He had been waiting for hours, and it seemed like a lifetime. Overhead lights dazzled off polished hospital floors. The sound of voices, always hushed, permeated the corridors. Porters passed with patients on trolleys, on their way to or from theatre. Nurses gave him sympathetic smiles as they walked by, plimsolls squeaking on shiny linoleum.

For the longest time possible he had focused on simply not thinking. About anything. For every time he did he was unable to stop the tears. Tears for the woman he had once loved, a woman who had given him a son and who would spend the rest of her life in prison. Tears for the horrors poor Sophie had suffered because of him. And Bertrand, with his broken leg and battered face, still lying in a hospital bed in Montpellier. And, most of all, tears for the young woman who had taken a bullet in her chest for the singular crime of being his lover.

The only glimmer of light in the whole foul business was that Kirsty had not, after all, borne a murderer’s son. Raffin, whatever else he might be, was neither corrupt nor a killer. He was as much a victim as the rest of them. And Enzo felt guilt for the hatred he had harboured for him in his heart.

‘Monsieur Macleod?’

Enzo jumped to his feet as the young surgeon approached. He wore a long white coat over jeans and white tennis shoes, his hands and nails scrubbed almost painfully clean. Skin scarified by the scouring demanded before entry to the operating theatre. But it was nearly twenty-four hours since he had operated on Dominique. Enzo searched his face for light or hope.

‘She’s awake, finally,’ he said. ‘To put it crudely, we sewed up the lung and put in a tube to drain the blood. There is a broken rib, but fortunately no tracheobronchial damage. The bullet missed the heart and, by some miracle, all of the arteries. If it hadn’t lodged in the rib it might well have entered her spine. Best prognosis... She’s a strong young woman. She should be on her feet in four to six weeks. Full recovery, four to six months.’

Enzo’s legs nearly folded under him. The young doctor put a hand on his arm to steady him as he staggered slightly.

He said, ‘She’s still heavily sedated. But you can have a few minutes with her. It’ll be good for her morale.’

Sunlight bled in around the blinds that darkened her room, and the sense of something shining bright out there in the world beyond them offered hope and optimism for the future.

There was a hush in here, broken only by the beeping of the equipment that monitored all her vital signs. The air was sickly warm and smelled powerfully of disinfectant. She turned her head a little as he came in, and the tiniest smile stretched dry, cracked lips. She was deathly pale, eyes red-rimmed and distant. Her right hand reached tentatively for his as he pulled up a chair at the bedside. He took it, feeling how small it was, and squeezed it gently.

Her voice was pared thin and clotted by the mucus in her throat. ‘When I was lying there,’ she said, ‘with the blood bubbling into my mouth, I thought I was going to die... and my only regret was that I would never see you again.’

‘Well,’ Enzo said, and he grinned in spite of the hurt he felt inside, ‘twenty years from now, when you’re wiping my arse and heaving me into a bath chair, maybe you’ll regret that you did.’

‘Oh, stop it!’ She laughed and winced from the pain. Slowly the smile faded, and she put all her effort into concentrating on his face. ‘I love you, Enzo Macleod.’

It was all he could do to stop the tears from coming again. ‘I love you, too, Dominique Chazal,’ he said. He blinked furiously and reached for his back pocket, pulling out the copy of today’s Libération that he had folded into it. He opened it up to show her the front page. ‘Look.’ There were photographs of both Charlotte and Jean-Jacques Devez, and smaller inset pictures of the three murdered prostitutes from Bordeaux. The story, beneath the headline, DEATH OF A DREAM, told of the arrest of the secret twins. An explosive story threatening a political earthquake that would shake the country to its foundations. Raffin had been busy since Enzo’s call to him yesterday morning.

She forced another smile. ‘You’ll win your bet now, then.’

But he shook his head. ‘Not quite.’ He paused. ‘There’s still the question of who murdered Lucie Martin.’

She blinked clarity into her eyes and frowned a little as she focused them on him. ‘And do you know who that was?’

He sighed. ‘I have an idea. But no proof.’ Then he thought about it. ‘Yet.’