The Nemesis Program

Chapter Fifteen

Whoever was holding the party on the second floor of the apartment building in Rue des Trois Frères obviously wasn’t put off by the recent murder that had taken place above. It was a warm, sultry night, and light and music and laughter spilled out of the open balcony windows to mingle with the carefree noise of the crowded café-bar down below.

At the building’s entrance, Roberta stared as Ben punched the buttons on the door buzzer system one after another. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Crashing a party,’ he said. Moments later, there was a click and Ben pushed open the little inset door, stepping through into the echoey stone passage that led into the central courtyard. To one side was the concierge’s apartment, to the other a set of stairs.

Up and up the bare spiralling steps. The second floor was alive with the clamour of the party, couples drinking and smoking and necking on the stairs and on the landing. Ben and Roberta threaded their way past and climbed upwards, leaving the noisy chatter and music behind them. By the time they reached the top floor, it was quiet and dark.

The L-shaped landing was dimly lit by a pair of iron-barred windows. One overlooked the streets and rooftops of Montmartre and the Sacré Coeur basilica in the distance, glowing like a golden idol from the highest point of the city. The other smaller window less picturesquely opened up onto a side alley and pulsated with the red neon sign of a neighbouring hotel.

There were just two black-painted doors on the top floor, one at each end of the landing. Roberta silently pointed out Claudine’s, nearest the neon-lit window. There was no sign of life from behind the other door. Ben imagined that the old woman who had been Claudine’s neighbour, and the one who had found her body, was either fast asleep in her bed or else staying with friends or family in the aftermath of the traumatic incident. But still, he didn’t want to risk drawing attention.

He unslung his bag, took out his mini-Maglite and discreetly shone it at Claudine’s door. The entrance was barricaded with bilingual police tape, as if the citizens of Paris needed to be told in both French and English not to cross the line into a crime scene.

‘Maybe this wasn’t such a useful idea after all,’ Roberta said in a low voice. ‘No way we can get in there without a key, and we can’t exactly ask the concierge to open the place up for us.’

‘But someone did get in there,’ Ben said. He reached past the tape and nudged the old door. There was no sign of forced entry. The wood felt thick and solid, and if the many Parisian apartments he’d seen were anything to go by, the inside of the door was festooned from top to bottom with heavy iron deadlocks and bolts — the kind of low-tech security that was almost impossible to crack without using violent force. It still perplexed him that Claudine’s killer could have got inside without a crowbar or sledgehammer, especially when his victim was already frightened about her safety and must have had every lock and bolt tightly shut.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ Roberta said. ‘Maybe he was someone she knew. Or maybe he was pretending to be someone, like a cop. He could have tricked her into opening the door to him.’

Ben stepped across to peer out of the smaller window. The alley pulsed blood-red from the neon hotel sign. He craned his neck upwards, scanned this way and that, then withdrew from the window and thought for a moment or two.

‘I don’t think she opened the door to anyone,’ he said. Before Roberta could reply, he added, ‘Wait here,’ and turned towards the head of the stairs.

‘What? Where are you going?’

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ he said.

Knowing there was little point in pressing him for an explanation, Roberta reluctantly stayed where she was. She listened to his footsteps padding down the stairs, wondering where he was going all of a sudden, and at the same time thinking how lightly and silently he could move.

After a minute or two she suddenly felt very alone, and as more minutes went by she was beginning to feel resentful towards Ben for leaving her. She didn’t understand what his game was, slipping away like that with barely a word. It was typical of him, his whole damn ‘I work alone’ routine, the infuriating way he had of not telling her what he was thinking. He hadn’t changed a bit.

Roberta paced up and down outside Claudine’s door and tried to contain her restlessness, but it was no use. Within moments, thoughts of the brutal stalker began to invade her mind. She didn’t believe for an instant that he was the psychopathic maniac the police claimed, but the idea of a cold-blooded paid assassin was no less terrifying.

She couldn’t stop imagining him standing right here on this very spot, just days ago, preparing to enter Claudine’s apartment and snuff her out as if she were nothing. What kind of monster would do such a thing? Why would anyone slaughter poor Claudine? What harm had she ever done to a living soul? It made Roberta shake with rage and want to cry, all at once.

Another question crept into her mind. Her ingrained scientific instinct screamed out ‘Irrational!’, but her flesh couldn’t help but crawl at the idea. What if the killer came back?

But there it was, gnawing at her as she waited there in the darkness. What if he was still watching the place, keeping an eye out for anyone who came snooping after clues? Or what if he decided to revisit the scene of his crime, looking for something he might have missed the first time around? And here she was, all alone …

She glanced nervously into the long, eerie shadows on the landing and froze, her stomach knotted in fear, suddenly convinced she’d seen a movement there.

Nothing more than her foolish imagination. She breathed. Just then, the unexpected whoop of a car alarm in the street far below made her jump. ‘Jesus, Ryder, get it together,’ she muttered irritably to herself. The car alarm stopped. She clasped her arms around her and went on pacing, shivering despite the warmth of the night. ‘Where the hell are you, Ben?’ she said out loud, and hated herself for the worry she could hear in her voice.

The door of Claudine’s apartment suddenly swung open with a rattle of the latch chain.

Roberta spun round with a gasp.

A figure stood silhouetted in the doorway.

A man’s figure, his face in shadow, looking right at her.