the game away to Hera about one of his many affairs? No, that had been Lara. Or was that Laodice? So it was true, then. His brain was definitely going. ‘My name is Calque. Joris Calque. Ex-Captain in the Police Nationale.’
‘Well, Ex-Captain Calque, do you have any aspirin on you? I have a splitting headache. And your associate – for you mentioned an associate, didn’t you? – appears to have overlooked my handbag in his headlong rush to kidnap me.’
25
Lamia emerged from the unisex washroom at the back of the fisherman’s café near the Pointe de la Pinède. She had scrubbed her face and fluffed out her hair with her fingers, but the corrugations in her slacks were moreterminal. She bent down, yanked at the slacks one final time, and then gave up.
Calque saw some of the early morning regulars watching her. Despite the catastrophic blemish on the side of her face, she was still a self-evidently handsome young woman.
Calque stood up as she approached his table. ‘I thought you might have run away. Or gone to call the police. You would have been perfectly within your rights to do so.’
‘I know that.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
Lamia sat down. She stared at Calque, her eyes unwavering. ‘Because you offered me your jacket when you thought I might be cold.’
The waiter interrupted to bring them their café-crèmes and a metal basket of croissants.
Lamia looked up at him. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
She pinched two of her fingers together. ‘Two? With a glass of water? I’d be eternally grateful.’
Calque saw the waiter’s eyes hovering anywhere but on the woman’s strawberry birthmark. He felt an unexpected rush of pity for her – almost as if she were his daughter, instead of the pathetic, alienated girl who truly fulfilled that role, and who, terminally brainwashed by her termagant of a mother, hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak to him for the past fifteen years.
Lamia pecked at her coffee. ‘I suppose you’ve got everything on that tape machine of yours? The full record of what took place in the Corpus chamber? Or did you hide your recorder in the kitchen by mistake?’
Calque thrust his sentimental nature resolutely to the back of his mind, where it belonged. He took a preparatory breath – something he always did when he was about to tell an untruth to someone he wasquestioning. ‘To answer your questions in reverse order, Mademoiselle – no I did not leave my recorder in the kitchen. And yes I do have a full record of what went on.’ The lie sat uneasily with him for some reason, and he could feel the strain telling on the muscles below his eyes.
For Joris Calque had always been susceptible to women – it was a fact that he had been obliged to live with during his thirty years as a police officer. But he was not so naive that he didn’t realize that women, at their worst, could be just as lethal as men. Look at the Countess. And here he was, calmly chatting away to the woman’s daughter as if she were a work colleague – or his next-door neighbour.
He forced himself to remember that he was still dealing with a potential accessory before the fact. A woman who might even be a joint principal in the
actus reus
committed by Achor Bale against his subordinate, Paul Macron.
‘So I’ve no need to explain anything to you, Captain?’
‘No.’
Lamia prodded at her croissant, but didn’t make any further stab at eating it. ‘So what are you planning to do about it?’
Calque dipped his croissant in his coffee and transported it to his mouth, one hand automatically protecting his shirt from drips. ‘What do you suggest?’
Lamia took the glass of water and the two aspirin from the saucer the waiter was offering her. Still watching Calque, she tossed back the pills and swallowed the water. ‘You could alert the police, for a start.’
The waiter flinched, then backed away, as if he had inadvertently wandered too close to an open
‘Well, Ex-Captain Calque, do you have any aspirin on you? I have a splitting headache. And your associate – for you mentioned an associate, didn’t you? – appears to have overlooked my handbag in his headlong rush to kidnap me.’
25
Lamia emerged from the unisex washroom at the back of the fisherman’s café near the Pointe de la Pinède. She had scrubbed her face and fluffed out her hair with her fingers, but the corrugations in her slacks were moreterminal. She bent down, yanked at the slacks one final time, and then gave up.
Calque saw some of the early morning regulars watching her. Despite the catastrophic blemish on the side of her face, she was still a self-evidently handsome young woman.
Calque stood up as she approached his table. ‘I thought you might have run away. Or gone to call the police. You would have been perfectly within your rights to do so.’
‘I know that.’
‘So why didn’t you?’
Lamia sat down. She stared at Calque, her eyes unwavering. ‘Because you offered me your jacket when you thought I might be cold.’
The waiter interrupted to bring them their café-crèmes and a metal basket of croissants.
Lamia looked up at him. ‘Do you have any aspirin?’
‘Yes, Madame.’
She pinched two of her fingers together. ‘Two? With a glass of water? I’d be eternally grateful.’
Calque saw the waiter’s eyes hovering anywhere but on the woman’s strawberry birthmark. He felt an unexpected rush of pity for her – almost as if she were his daughter, instead of the pathetic, alienated girl who truly fulfilled that role, and who, terminally brainwashed by her termagant of a mother, hadn’t been able to bring herself to speak to him for the past fifteen years.
Lamia pecked at her coffee. ‘I suppose you’ve got everything on that tape machine of yours? The full record of what took place in the Corpus chamber? Or did you hide your recorder in the kitchen by mistake?’
Calque thrust his sentimental nature resolutely to the back of his mind, where it belonged. He took a preparatory breath – something he always did when he was about to tell an untruth to someone he wasquestioning. ‘To answer your questions in reverse order, Mademoiselle – no I did not leave my recorder in the kitchen. And yes I do have a full record of what went on.’ The lie sat uneasily with him for some reason, and he could feel the strain telling on the muscles below his eyes.
For Joris Calque had always been susceptible to women – it was a fact that he had been obliged to live with during his thirty years as a police officer. But he was not so naive that he didn’t realize that women, at their worst, could be just as lethal as men. Look at the Countess. And here he was, calmly chatting away to the woman’s daughter as if she were a work colleague – or his next-door neighbour.
He forced himself to remember that he was still dealing with a potential accessory before the fact. A woman who might even be a joint principal in the
actus reus
committed by Achor Bale against his subordinate, Paul Macron.
‘So I’ve no need to explain anything to you, Captain?’
‘No.’
Lamia prodded at her croissant, but didn’t make any further stab at eating it. ‘So what are you planning to do about it?’
Calque dipped his croissant in his coffee and transported it to his mouth, one hand automatically protecting his shirt from drips. ‘What do you suggest?’
Lamia took the glass of water and the two aspirin from the saucer the waiter was offering her. Still watching Calque, she tossed back the pills and swallowed the water. ‘You could alert the police, for a start.’
The waiter flinched, then backed away, as if he had inadvertently wandered too close to an open
Similar Books
