find a way into the prison.”
“You could always get yourself arrested.”
“And when they identify my fingerprints?” Foch shook his head. “I need someone else for that job.” 100
Tess Gerritsen
“Then I’ll find you someone,” came the reply. “For now, let’s work on one thing at a time. Beryl Tavistock.” A Turkish man now owned the building on Rue Myrha.
He’d tried to improve it. He’d painted the exterior walls, shored up the crumbling balconies, replaced the missing roof slates, but the building, and the street on which it stood, seemed beyond rehabilitation. It was the fault of the tenants, explained Mr. Zamir, as he led them up two flights of stairs to the attic flat. What could one do with tenants who let their children run wild? By all appearances, Mr.
Zamir was a successful businessman, a man whose tailored suit and excellent English bespoke prosperous roots. There were four families in the building, he said, all of them reliable enough with the rent. But no one lived in the attic flat—he’d always had difficulty renting that one out. People had come to inspect the place, of course, but when they heard of the murder, they quickly backed out. These silly superstitions! Oh, people claim they do not believe in ghosts, but when they visit a room where two people have died…
“How long has the flat been empty?” asked Beryl.
“A year now. Ever since I have owned the building.
And before that—” he shrugged “—I do not know. It may have been empty for many years.” He unlocked the door.
“You may look around if you wish.”
A puff of stale air greeted them as they pushed open the door—the smell of a room too long shut away from the world. It was not an unpleasant room. Sunshine washed in through a large, dirt-streaked window. The view looked down over Rue Myrha, and Beryl could see children kicking a soccer ball in the street. The flat was completely In Their Footsteps
101
empty of furniture; there were only bare walls and floor.
Through an open door, she glimpsed the bathroom with its chipped sink and tarnished fixtures.
In silence Beryl circled the flat, her gaze moving across the wood floor. Beside the window, she came to a halt. The stain was barely visible, just a faint brown blot in the oak planks. Whose blood? she wondered. Mum’s? Dad’s? Or is it both of theirs, eternally mingled?
“I have tried to sand the stain away,” said Mr. Zamir.
“But it goes very deep into the wood. Even when I think I have erased it, in a few weeks the stain seems to reappear.” He sighed. “It frightens them away, you know. The tenants, they do not like to see such reminders on their floor.” Beryl swallowed hard and turned to look out the window. Why on this street? she wondered. In this room?
Of all the places in Paris, why did they die here?
She asked quietly, “Who owned this building, Mr.
Zamir? Before you did?”
“There were many owners. Before me, it was a M. Rosenthal. And before him, a M. Dudoit.”
“At the time of the murder,” said Richard, “the landlord was a man named Jacques Rideau. Did you know him?”
“I am sorry, I do not. That would have been many years ago.”
“Twenty.”
“Then I would not have met him.” Mr. Zamir turned to the door. “I will leave you alone. If you have questions, I will be down in number three for a while.” Beryl heard the man’s footsteps creak down the stairs. She looked at Richard and saw that he was standing off in a corner, frowning at the floor. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
102
Tess Gerritsen
“About Inspector Broussard. How he kept trying to point at that photo. The spot he was pointing to would be somewhere around here. Just to the left of the door.”
“There’s nothing to look at. And there was nothing in the photo, either.”
“That’s what bothers me. He seemed so troubled by it.
And there was something about a briefcase….”
“The NATO file,” she said softly.
He looked
“You could always get yourself arrested.”
“And when they identify my fingerprints?” Foch shook his head. “I need someone else for that job.” 100
Tess Gerritsen
“Then I’ll find you someone,” came the reply. “For now, let’s work on one thing at a time. Beryl Tavistock.” A Turkish man now owned the building on Rue Myrha.
He’d tried to improve it. He’d painted the exterior walls, shored up the crumbling balconies, replaced the missing roof slates, but the building, and the street on which it stood, seemed beyond rehabilitation. It was the fault of the tenants, explained Mr. Zamir, as he led them up two flights of stairs to the attic flat. What could one do with tenants who let their children run wild? By all appearances, Mr.
Zamir was a successful businessman, a man whose tailored suit and excellent English bespoke prosperous roots. There were four families in the building, he said, all of them reliable enough with the rent. But no one lived in the attic flat—he’d always had difficulty renting that one out. People had come to inspect the place, of course, but when they heard of the murder, they quickly backed out. These silly superstitions! Oh, people claim they do not believe in ghosts, but when they visit a room where two people have died…
“How long has the flat been empty?” asked Beryl.
“A year now. Ever since I have owned the building.
And before that—” he shrugged “—I do not know. It may have been empty for many years.” He unlocked the door.
“You may look around if you wish.”
A puff of stale air greeted them as they pushed open the door—the smell of a room too long shut away from the world. It was not an unpleasant room. Sunshine washed in through a large, dirt-streaked window. The view looked down over Rue Myrha, and Beryl could see children kicking a soccer ball in the street. The flat was completely In Their Footsteps
101
empty of furniture; there were only bare walls and floor.
Through an open door, she glimpsed the bathroom with its chipped sink and tarnished fixtures.
In silence Beryl circled the flat, her gaze moving across the wood floor. Beside the window, she came to a halt. The stain was barely visible, just a faint brown blot in the oak planks. Whose blood? she wondered. Mum’s? Dad’s? Or is it both of theirs, eternally mingled?
“I have tried to sand the stain away,” said Mr. Zamir.
“But it goes very deep into the wood. Even when I think I have erased it, in a few weeks the stain seems to reappear.” He sighed. “It frightens them away, you know. The tenants, they do not like to see such reminders on their floor.” Beryl swallowed hard and turned to look out the window. Why on this street? she wondered. In this room?
Of all the places in Paris, why did they die here?
She asked quietly, “Who owned this building, Mr.
Zamir? Before you did?”
“There were many owners. Before me, it was a M. Rosenthal. And before him, a M. Dudoit.”
“At the time of the murder,” said Richard, “the landlord was a man named Jacques Rideau. Did you know him?”
“I am sorry, I do not. That would have been many years ago.”
“Twenty.”
“Then I would not have met him.” Mr. Zamir turned to the door. “I will leave you alone. If you have questions, I will be down in number three for a while.” Beryl heard the man’s footsteps creak down the stairs. She looked at Richard and saw that he was standing off in a corner, frowning at the floor. “What are you thinking?” she asked.
102
Tess Gerritsen
“About Inspector Broussard. How he kept trying to point at that photo. The spot he was pointing to would be somewhere around here. Just to the left of the door.”
“There’s nothing to look at. And there was nothing in the photo, either.”
“That’s what bothers me. He seemed so troubled by it.
And there was something about a briefcase….”
“The NATO file,” she said softly.
He looked
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