The Critic

II

A dusky, pink twilight fell like a veil across the Paris rooftops. The rain in the southwest had not touched the capital. The air was autumnal soft, vibrating to the sounds of traffic in the boulevards. People sat at tables outside cafes enjoying an Indian summer, sipping chilled wine, animated chatter fusing with the sounds of birds that dived and swooped-in darting clouds between the buildings.

Enzo walked up the Rue de Tournon from the Boulevard Saint-Germain towards the Senat, the floodlit stone of the Upper House painted gold against blue fading to red. He stopped outside huge green doors that opened into a hidden world of Parisian courtyards, and hesitated for just a moment before tapping in the entry code.

From the courtyard beyond, he could see that Raffin’s windows were open to the night. Soft classical music from a stereo drifted in gentle evening air, carried on the light that fell from unshuttered windows across the cobbles. The indignation that days before had fuelled his determination to speak to Raffin, gave way now to a nervous apprehension.

Raffin, too, seemed nervous. He had been hesitant about his availability to see Enzo that night. But Enzo had stressed that it would be their only chance to meet, and so he had cancelled an engagement and called back to tell Enzo to come to the apartment.

There was a bottle of wine open on the table and two glasses set beside it. Raffin wore immaculately pressed, pleated pants that gathered around brown suede Italian shoes. His white shirt looked freshly starched, open at the neck, collar turned up to where soft brown hair grew to meet it. It was longer than when Enzo had last seen him. His sharp, angular jaw was shaved smooth and still carried the scent of some expensive aftershave that Enzo couldn’t identify and probably couldn’t afford. Raffin lit a cigarette, which he held between long fingers, and looked at Enzo with pale green eyes. ‘You’ll take a glass?’

Enzo nodded and sat down uncomfortably at the table.

Raffin poured two glasses. ‘So how’s the investigation going?’

‘Well. I hope this trip to America is going to help me crack it.’

‘Will you be away long?’

‘A couple of days.’ Enzo took a sip of his wine and glanced at the bottle. Of course, it was something good. A Clos Mogador 2001 Priorat. An inky-purple Bordeaux with rich, full tones of blueberry and raspberry and toasty new oak. Enzo thought that it probably cost fifty euros, or more.

Raffin sat down opposite. ‘Tell me.’

And so Enzo told him everything. About Petty’s coded ratings, and how they had broken the code. About his article on GM yeasts recommending a boycott of American wines. Which drew a whistle of astonishment from Raffin. About the attempt on Enzo’s life in the vineyards of Chateau Saint-Michel. Jean-Marc Josse and the l’ Ordre de la Dive Bouteille. Gendarme Roussel and his missing person’s file. The discovery of Serge Coste who, in the space of one evening, had moved from the missing person’s folder to a murder file all on his own. And, of course, Fabien Marre, whose vineyard had played host to two corpses, and who seemed consumed by an unnatural hatred of Gil Petty.

Raffin listened in silence. ‘And the trip to America?’

‘I’m taking soil samples for analysis. If we can match them to the wine taken from Serge Coste’s stomach, it might well lead us to our killer.’

‘Any thoughts?’

Enzo shook his head. ‘Not really.’

‘What about this Fabien Marre?’

Enzo pursed his lips grimly. ‘I hope not, Roger. Nicole seems to have formed a real attachment to him.’

Raffin raised an eyebrow in surprise, but Enzo didn’t elucidate. ‘And that’s it? That’s what was so important for you to come and tell me? You couldn’t have briefed me by e-mail?’

Enzo nodded. ‘I could.’

‘So what are you really here for?’

Enzo returned his unblinking gaze. ‘Kirsty.’ He saw Raffin’s jaw set.

‘I thought as much. How did you find out?’ But he raised a hand to preempt Enzo’s response. ‘No don’t tell me. It was Charlotte, right? She come down to see you in Gaillac?’

‘I had a right to know.’

‘It’s none of her damned business!’ Raffin’s voice raised itself in anger. ‘Jealous bitch!’

‘That’s not how she tells it.’

‘No. Well, she wouldn’t, would she?’

‘She figures you’re the one who’s jealous of me and her.’

Raffin flashed him a dark look. ‘The way I heard it, there is no you and her.’

‘Well, you might be right there. But I didn’t come to talk about me and Charlotte. Or you and Charlotte.’

‘Kirsty’s a big girl now, Enzo. She doesn’t need her daddy vetting her boyfriends.’

‘I don’t want you seeing her, Roger?’

‘Why?’

‘Because I don’t think you’re right for her.’

‘Why?’

Enzo stared at him and struggled to find an answer. It wasn’t their age difference, which was only seven years-no more than the gap between Enzo and Pascale. So what was it? Roger was a successful journalist. A good-looking young man. Widowed, so he was available. As much as anything it was what Charlotte had said: ‘There’s something dark about Roger, Enzo. Something beyond touching. Something you wouldn’t want to touch, even if you could.’ ‘You’re just not.’ Even to Enzo, it sounded like the most feeble of reasons.

‘Oh, fuck off, Enzo.’ There was no rancour in it, just a weary dismissal. Raffin stood up, but Enzo reached across the table and held his wrist.

‘I’m not asking you, Roger…’

‘Well, that’s really rich coming from you!’ Her voice startled him. He turned around to find her standing in the bedroom doorway. Enzo could see himself beyond her in the mirrored doors. He could see the shock on his own face.

‘Kirsty.’ He flicked an angry glance at Raffin. ‘You bastard, you set me up.’

‘No.’ Kirsty stepped into the room. ‘I set you up. I couldn’t believe it when Roger said he thought you might be coming to warn him off.’ Her long, chestnut hair fanned out over square shoulders. She wore a powder blue shirt knotted at the waist above cut-off jeans. She was tall and elegant, and Enzo thought her quite beautiful.

He stood up. ‘Listen, Kirsty-’

But she wasn’t listening. She moved into the room. ‘I couldn’t believe that the man who didn’t care about leaving his seven-year-old daughter would turn up twenty years later telling her who she could and couldn’t see. I didn’t believe anyone would have that kind of gall.’ She issued a tiny snort of self-disgust. ‘Shows you what I know.’ She looked very directly at her father. ‘Certainly not you, anyway.’

‘Kirsty, I’m not trying to tell you what to do.’

‘No?’

‘I’m just concerned, that’s all.’

‘Well, you know what, father? I never needed your advice in all the years you weren’t there. I don’t need it now.’

The three of them stood in a tense silence, and from one of the other apartments they heard someone playing the piano. Some jolly ragtime romp that seemed only to mock them.

‘I think you’d better go,’ Kirsty said. And when Enzo made no move to leave, she added, ‘I’m not asking you…’