– the one you wrote for her. I’m holding it right now. She gave it to me and I’m reading it. So if you
get this message, please call me back on my mobile. I’m on my
way to your place now: I’ll be there in forty-five minutes at the
latest.’
Marc quickly strode back towards the metro station. Grand-Duc
lived at 21 Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. In his head, Marc envisioned
all the main lines on the metro map. Line 13, towards Châtillon-Montrouge, would take him into the centre, past Saint-Lazare,
the Champs-Elysées, Invalides, Montparnasse . . . Grand-Duc’s
street must be towards Nation, on Line 6, between Glacière and
Place d’Italie. So, he would have to change at Montparnasse. About
twenty stations in all.
Marc took the stairs down into the metro and as he turned the
first corner, he noticed a man sleeping on a dirty sheet alongside his
dog, a thin yellow mongrel. The man was not even begging. Without even breaking his stride, Marc dropped two francs on the sheet.
The dog raised its head and watched him walk past, a surprised
look on its face. After two years of using the Paris metro, Marc still
gave money almost every time he saw a homeless person. He had
formed this habit in Dieppe, where his grandmother always gave
money to people who lived on the streets. She had taught him these
fundamental principles as he grew up: solidarity with his fellow
man; never to be afraid of poor people; never to be ashamed of
giving. This was still part of his moral landscape now, in Paris, just
as it had been in Dieppe or would be in any other city in the world
he might visit. Lylie gently teased him for the amount of money his
principles cost him. No Parisian would do that, she said. True, but
he wasn’t a Parisian.
The metro platform was almost deserted. Some good luck at last,
thought Marc. Forty-five minutes on the metro, twenty stations . . .
he would have time to read more of Grand-Duc’s notebook, and
that might help him to understand what was going on, to walk in
Lylie’s footsteps.
But five words haunted Marc: ‘Cut away the dead branches . . .’
What did she mean?
Cut away the dead branches .
The train entered the station. Marc got on board and took out
the green notebook.
An idea had become lodged in his brain, and he couldn’t stop
thinking about it: what if the toy aeroplane had been nothing but
a decoy, a form of misdirection? Lylie had not told him everything.
What about that ring, for instance? The sapphire she was wearing:
where had that come from? There were too many unknowns.
What if Lylie did not intend to go far away, after all? What if she
was still here, close to him, with another goal in mind.
To distance herself from him.
Why?
Because she was going to do something risky, something
dangerous.
Because it was something he would not have agreed to.
Cut away the dead branches . . .
What if Lylie had discovered the truth and was now out for
revenge?
12
Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal
The advantage of dealing with journalists from the regional press is
that they rarely break stories before the Parisian press. Even when
the events take place in their backyard, a Parisian newspaper is usually alerted before the regionals, arrives before them, and scoops the
interviews with the main protagonists in time for the evening news.
So, when a regional paper gets hold of a story with national appeal,
it does not do things by halves. It milks the story for all it is worth.
Fifteen minutes after Pierre Vitral’s telephone call, a journalist
from Informations Dieppoises, the local weekly paper, was sent to
their house in Rue Pocholle. The Est Républicain belonged to the
same media group, so Lucile Moraud had opted for the fastest solution. The freelance journalist’s mission was to extract the main story,
take the first pictures, and fax everything over to the company’s
headquarters in Nancy. Lucile Moraud was already negotiating her
scoop with the regional
get this message, please call me back on my mobile. I’m on my
way to your place now: I’ll be there in forty-five minutes at the
latest.’
Marc quickly strode back towards the metro station. Grand-Duc
lived at 21 Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles. In his head, Marc envisioned
all the main lines on the metro map. Line 13, towards Châtillon-Montrouge, would take him into the centre, past Saint-Lazare,
the Champs-Elysées, Invalides, Montparnasse . . . Grand-Duc’s
street must be towards Nation, on Line 6, between Glacière and
Place d’Italie. So, he would have to change at Montparnasse. About
twenty stations in all.
Marc took the stairs down into the metro and as he turned the
first corner, he noticed a man sleeping on a dirty sheet alongside his
dog, a thin yellow mongrel. The man was not even begging. Without even breaking his stride, Marc dropped two francs on the sheet.
The dog raised its head and watched him walk past, a surprised
look on its face. After two years of using the Paris metro, Marc still
gave money almost every time he saw a homeless person. He had
formed this habit in Dieppe, where his grandmother always gave
money to people who lived on the streets. She had taught him these
fundamental principles as he grew up: solidarity with his fellow
man; never to be afraid of poor people; never to be ashamed of
giving. This was still part of his moral landscape now, in Paris, just
as it had been in Dieppe or would be in any other city in the world
he might visit. Lylie gently teased him for the amount of money his
principles cost him. No Parisian would do that, she said. True, but
he wasn’t a Parisian.
The metro platform was almost deserted. Some good luck at last,
thought Marc. Forty-five minutes on the metro, twenty stations . . .
he would have time to read more of Grand-Duc’s notebook, and
that might help him to understand what was going on, to walk in
Lylie’s footsteps.
But five words haunted Marc: ‘Cut away the dead branches . . .’
What did she mean?
Cut away the dead branches .
The train entered the station. Marc got on board and took out
the green notebook.
An idea had become lodged in his brain, and he couldn’t stop
thinking about it: what if the toy aeroplane had been nothing but
a decoy, a form of misdirection? Lylie had not told him everything.
What about that ring, for instance? The sapphire she was wearing:
where had that come from? There were too many unknowns.
What if Lylie did not intend to go far away, after all? What if she
was still here, close to him, with another goal in mind.
To distance herself from him.
Why?
Because she was going to do something risky, something
dangerous.
Because it was something he would not have agreed to.
Cut away the dead branches . . .
What if Lylie had discovered the truth and was now out for
revenge?
12
Crédule Grand-Duc’s Journal
The advantage of dealing with journalists from the regional press is
that they rarely break stories before the Parisian press. Even when
the events take place in their backyard, a Parisian newspaper is usually alerted before the regionals, arrives before them, and scoops the
interviews with the main protagonists in time for the evening news.
So, when a regional paper gets hold of a story with national appeal,
it does not do things by halves. It milks the story for all it is worth.
Fifteen minutes after Pierre Vitral’s telephone call, a journalist
from Informations Dieppoises, the local weekly paper, was sent to
their house in Rue Pocholle. The Est Républicain belonged to the
same media group, so Lucile Moraud had opted for the fastest solution. The freelance journalist’s mission was to extract the main story,
take the first pictures, and fax everything over to the company’s
headquarters in Nancy. Lucile Moraud was already negotiating her
scoop with the regional
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