Seven Nights in Paris, page 13
‘Is he handsome?’
Olga blushed again, feeling like a schoolgirl.
‘Very.’
‘Then I approve.’
A man dressed in chef’s white approached the table. He looked a little older and broader than Angelo but the likeness was striking.
‘Olga, meet my brother Marcel.’
She stood and kissed him lightly on his cheek.
‘That was the most delicious brunch. It’s criminal how I’ve never been before.’
Marcel looked pleased.
‘I’m glad you enjoyed it.’
He glanced at Angelo and handed him a white envelope.
‘The pictures you wanted,’ he said. ‘We’re a small team. We have no security guard. But we had a break-in last year and now we have two cameras outside,’ he said, pointing towards the street. ‘My expertise is cake, not tech, but I looked at Friday night’s footage and printed off some images. I hope it’s what you’re looking for.’
‘Thank you, Marcel,’ said Olga, touching his floury hand. ‘I really appreciate it. If I can repay the favour in any way, just say.’
‘Just tell all your friends about Ginello’s,’ he said. ‘And I saw you say no to the mille-feuille. If you don’t take one away in a box, it will break my heart.’
Olga smiled. ‘In that case, how can I refuse?’
Walking across the road back to the hotel, Olga felt a lightness she hadn’t experienced in years. Angelo had given her permission to take a chance; and that, she realised, was all she had been waiting for. Sandy seemed a nice man and who knew whether there was any future to their budding relationship? But that didn’t matter, not really. It was as if Olga had opened a window and found that spring had begun outside. If her joints had been up to it, Olga would have skipped. And there was another reason for her excitement too. She had helped Zoe Green. It had given her quite the buzz, receiving the envelope from Marcel. She felt like the star of her very own detective show. She rode the lift up to the eighth floor and rapped smartly on Zoe’s door.
It swung open and Olga could see a gorgeous young man standing there. As Olga joined the dots, she felt a little burst of joy. This must be Mike Green. Zoe’s husband. He had returned!
‘Mike?’ she asked, her mouth forming a hopeful smile.
‘No. I’m afraid not,’ said the man, extending a hand. ‘Lucas Chatou, an old friend of Zoe’s.’
‘My name is Olga Lavigne,’ She said cautiously.
‘The lady who lives in the hotel,’ said the man. ‘You were so kind to Zoe, yesterday. Thank you,’ he said opening the door wider. ‘Please, come in.’
He had exquisite manners to accompany his good looks. Somehow it made Olga more suspicious of him.
Nevertheless, she walked slowly in, her eyes scanning the suite for clues. Who was this handsome young man?
‘I hope I am not interrupting anything,’ she said.
‘No, no, although I'm afraid Zoe isn’t here at the moment; she has gone to Gare du Nord to meet some friends from England. She wanted me to stay here in case, well…’
The old woman nodded.
‘In case her husband comes back.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, more soberly.
Olga put the envelope and pastry box down on the sideboard and looked this Lucas over again. He was matinee-idol good-looking, but that only added to Olga’s growing disquiet. Zoe had hated the hotel staff’s assumption that Mike might have had a lover hidden away in Paris, but what if the roles were reversed here? What if Zoe was the one with the lover? Could that be why Mike had disappeared?
‘Why are you here, Lucas?’
Lucas smiled.
‘Straight to the point, Madame.’
‘At my age, I find that there is less and less time available to waste on niceties. And please call me Olga,’ she said. ‘The hotel staff call me Madame Lavigne and it makes me feel about 100 years old.’
Lucas smiled, then gestured towards the sofa opposite.
‘I was just making tea, would you like to join me?’
‘Of course.’ There was no point in being uncivilised about it.
Lucas busied himself at the bar, then brought a tray across, setting it down between him and Olga.
‘You asked me a direct question and that deserves a direct answer,’ he said. ‘Zoe and I were in a relationship many years ago; we lived together in London. She called me yesterday because she needs help and I got the Eurostar immediately. I’m from Paris originally. I speak the language, I know the city well, I have contacts so…’ he held up his hands. ‘Here I am.’
Olga raised her eyebrows sceptically. Lucas made it sound so simple – he was here to support his ex-girlfriend – and yet Olga could sense that this was a more messy situation. She could see a black rucksack and a silver case by the window. Was the young man actually staying in Zoe’s suite?
‘I assume there’s been no word about Mike,’ she asked.
Lucas shook his head and looked genuinely disappointed. Despite herself, there was something about the young man she liked.
‘We filed a missing person report with the police last night.
Now I’m trying to find security footage along Rue D’Aster to see where Mike was headed. A camera at the entrance of the residential building didn’t catch him. The sandwich bar is closed and the owner is on holiday and I need to try the restaurant again. They were not being very helpful.’
‘I think I can help you there,’ said Olga.
‘You know the owner? I’m being stonewalled.’
She handed Lucas the white envelope that Marcel had given her.
‘I have some contacts too,’ she smiled.
Lucas opened the envelope carefully. With a bemused look on his face, Lucas pulled out a sheaf of papers: print-outs of grainy images from the CCTV camera, along with a slim flash drive.
‘Image captures from Ginello’s security camera,’ said Olga. ‘My friend’s brother works at the restaurant and at my request, he took some images from their footage. I hope you don’t mind, but I had the quickest look. There is a dark-haired man who left the Rue D’Aster exit of the hotel at 7.23. I’m sure Zoe can confirm if it’s Mike.’
She watched Lucas shuffle through the shots, his eyes opening wide as he recognised the figure in the pictures. A man who seemed to be leaving L’Éclat and getting into a car.
‘Someone picked up Mike from the hotel?’
‘It looks that way,’ said Olga.
The young man looked ready to spring into action. The look on his face was one of fierce determination. Olga couldn’t help but admire his obvious desire to help his ex-girlfriend find her husband. Many men wouldn’t.
‘I trust you know what to do with this information?’
‘I do. Thank you, Olga. You’ve saved us so much time. This is key information.’
His expression was serious. There was a familiarity about him she couldn’t place. The name too.
‘You are Parisian?’ she said. ‘Lucas Chatou you said?’
He nodded.
‘You aren’t by any chance one of the Maisons-Laffitte Chatous?’ asked Olga.
‘I’m afraid so.’
She couldn’t quite read the tone of his voice. Embarrassment? Discomfort? She knew the family, how wealthy and respectable they were – perhaps a cool young man like Lucas Chatou was rebelling against it.
‘Then I believe my husband Eduardo was acquainted with your father. Do you ride too?’
Lucas shook his head. ‘My father’s thing, not mine.’
Horses were more than just ‘a thing’ in the Chatou family. Lucas’s father Olivier was a senior-level banker, on the fringes of Les Republicains politics, but he had also been an Olympic show-jumper and the family were old money. They owned a world-renowned stud and stables in Maisons-Laffitte, a chic town outside Paris known as one of the equestrian centres of France. Something else stirred in her memory, but she filed the information away for a later date. There were other more pressing matters at hand. Olga put down her tea.
‘You will give this to the police?’
‘The police, and my press contacts also.’
Despite her earlier misgivings, Olga trusted him. Lucas Chatou seemed to know exactly what to do.
‘Look after her,’ she said quietly. ‘I fear Zoe is going to feel some jolts over the next few days. She will need a good friend.’
‘I will do my best.’
She walked to the door and when she turned around and looked back into the suite, he was already on the phone.
Chapter 18
Mimi stood against the glass of the giant clock on the top floor of the Musee D’Orsay, looking down at the grey-green river far below. Hidden behind the number ‘four’ on that clock face, Mimi could see all of Paris, yet should anyone care to glance up at this flat grey building, no one would see her watching. Perhaps that was why the architects had kept the clock in place when they had transformed the former railway station into this temple of high art; some philosophical comment on the artist’s eye perhaps? Either way, the clock room was one of Mimi’s favourite places in the city. You could see everything unobserved.
‘Who accuses me?’
Mimi smiled at the familiar voice, turning to see Capitaine Ivo Renaud standing there. He was unshaven, and slightly slouched in a crumpled raincoat, but he still had that old twinkle in his eye.
‘I’m amazed you remember that,’ smiled Mimi. But then of course Ivo would remember. ‘Who accuses me’ was a line from a movie they had seen together, Orson Welles’ adaptation of The Trial. It had been filmed here at the D’Orsay, back when it was still a derelict railway station. And once, the two of them had gone to see it at a little cinema on the Left Bank. A long time ago, when they had both been young.
‘Who accuses you?’ said Mimi. ‘I should think the list is long, Ivo. Very long.’
The policeman’s smile faded.
‘Mimi, what’s all this about? It’s a Sunday.’
‘So? Did you have any better plans?’
He shrugged and held out his hands.
‘I guess you do still know me,’ he said.
She hadn’t seen the inspector for several months, but Mimi and Ivo Renaud had history, a lot of it. Mimi had first met Ivo as an ambitious young policeman when she was setting up her agency over thirty years earlier. Renaud was the first ‘flic’ to grasp what Mimi was trying to do at Rapido – and the potential benefit of an informal collaboration over information. All journalists needed friends inside the emergency services, and they had become much more than friends. For a while at least.
‘Quite the view,’ said Renaud, walking up next to her and looking out over the river. ‘Can you see Promenade Plantée? Before Sunset – that was one of my favourites.’
As their relationship had grown, Mimi and Ivo had graduated from watching arthouse movies at cinemas on the Left Bank to lazy afternoons touring around Parisian film locations.
‘Before Sunset?’ laughed Mimi. ‘You always were too soft for this job. Anyway, enough of the nostalgia, Ivo, we’re here to do business.’
He looked disappointed but nodded anyway. ‘Fair enough. What can I do for you this fine afternoon?’
Mimi showed him her phone, clicking on the Le Monde website. The newspaper didn’t have a Sunday edition, but the digital site had a bigger reach. Mike Green wasn’t a splash story but it would do for now - a human interest news item about a missing husband and the heartbroken wife on their romantic Parisian honeymoon.
Renaud read it, then sighed.
‘The English girl with the missing husband? I spoke to her last night at le commissariat. What’s your interest in this, Mimi?’
‘I’m a romantic,’ she said.
The funny thing was, it was true. Or at least it had been when she had been with Renaud. You wouldn't think it to look at him now; he was the very picture of a rumpled French detective broken down by a lifetime spent chasing low-lifes. Back then, however, Ivo had been dashing and full of life and together they had seen themselves as the glamorous stars of their own film noir. Perhaps that had been their mistake; film noirs always ended in tragedy, didn’t they?
‘Seriously Mimi, you have an angle – I can see it,’ he said, pointing at her. ‘What is it?’
‘I just want to help.’
He rolled his eyes.
‘You want to help?’ he said cynically. ‘Are you a marriage counsellor now?’
‘Ivo, Mike Green has disappeared.’
‘He walked out.’
‘You really think that’s all that’s happening here? He walked out on his honeymoon?’
‘It happens, Mimi,’ he said, with a shrug. ‘And I do have actual crimes to deal with. You know: murder, arson, robbery?’
He handed the phone back and Mimi looked at him. ‘Disappointing,’ she said, turning away. Renaud trailed behind as she walked through to the next room, les néo-impressionnistes. Degas, Renoir, Seurat. It was all a bit bright for Mimi.
She stopped at a Cezanne still-life, tilting her head. ‘I could never get my head around these,’ she said. ‘It always looks as if the apples and oranges are about to roll onto the floor.’
‘Dual perspective,’ said Renaud. ‘We all have two eyes, therefore two different views of everything; Cezanne was trying to capture both in one painting.’
She glanced across at him, seeing a little of the old Ivo, the one whose eyes lit up when he spoke. He’d never been afraid to share his intelligence with her; in her turn, Mimi had never been able to intimidate Ivo Renaud. And that was really saying something.
‘Well, if you’re not interested in the news, perhaps you'd like to look at these.’
She handed him the envelope that Lucas had sent over; the CCTV shots of Mike Green getting into a car outside L’Hôtel Éclat. Renaud flipped through them, then looked up.
‘What am I supposed to do with these?’
‘You're supposed to do your job, Ivo - find Mike Green.’
She watched him wrestle with that one. His job – and hers – had been the crack in their relationship; work had always been a priority for them both; Mimi in setting up Rapido, Ivo climbing the greasy pole to detective, taking the difficult jobs that no one wanted, keen to make his mark. Neither one of them could put work aside, not even for each other.
‘I’m glad that you still think you know my job better than me, Mimi, but this just isn’t worth my time.’ He waved the sheets. ‘So this guy got into a car. Great. That just means our search area got a whole lot bigger.’
‘That’s all you can say?’
‘What do you propose I do?’ Ivo asked, his exasperation plain.
‘Perhaps you could get in touch with the UK Border control, and see if Mike Green has fled back to the UK.’
‘We are not entirely clueless, Mimi: already done. Mike Green has not left France.’
‘So where is he?’
‘Mimi…’
‘Seriously Ivo, what do you think? This guy comes over for his honeymoon, checks into an expensive hotel, then minutes later he’s gone. Are you not intrigued?’
He held up a photograph of the car.
‘Gone into the 100 square kilometres of the city, maybe even further away. The English have the saying “a needle in a haystack”, non?’
‘Why can’t you trace his phone?’
‘Because for the real detectives, Mimi, there are actual rules. Privacy laws. If Mike Green doesn’t want to be found – which is his right, by the way – he could sue us for the intrusion. Maybe he doesn’t want his wife to know where he is.’
‘I doubt that. You’ve met Zoe Green – would you run away from her?’
Ivo looked at her shrewdly.
‘How do you know this girl?’
Mimi paused for a moment.
‘Lucas.’
Renaud closed his eyes. ‘God, Mimi, what are you doing? I thought you’d got past all that?’
‘I am simply helping a friend.’
‘Don’t tell me you’ve grown a conscience all of a sudden?’
‘Conscience?’ she snapped. ‘I have nothing to feel guilty about.’
He raised a sceptical eyebrow.
‘Don’t look at me that way, Ivo, we all have our crosses to bear.’
They walked out of the gallery and, going past a second giant clock, strolled out onto a terrace overlooking the river.
‘What do you want me to do?’
Mimi kept on walking.
‘The licence plate is indecipherable. Perhaps you’ve got some tech that Rapido haven’t.’
‘Mimi, I suspect your company has all the tech.’
Their eyes met and Mimi smiled. She missed him; she missed this. Perhaps Renaud sensed the shift in mood. He glanced back at the top photo on the pile, squinting as he looked at it. ‘The lab guys might be able to get a read of the driver’s face…’
He said it wearily, but Mimi broke into a smile.
‘That was the right answer, Ivo.’
‘I’ll run it through the system. And yes, if we find the driver, I will speak to him, and see what he can tell us. But that’s all I can do. No promises.’
Mimi touched him lightly on the shoulder.
‘And that’s all I’m asking.’
‘Thank you for the call, and for,’ he gestured towards the building. ‘For this.’
Mimi gave a wry smile.
‘You should get out more, Ivo. Paris is full of beautiful places.’
‘It’s not the location, it’s the company.’
Mimi raised her eyebrows.
‘You can say that again.’
She pressed an elegant finger against Ivo’s chest.
‘Find him, Ivo. For me.’
‘For you?’
‘Like I said, I’m a romantic.’
And she turned on her heels and left him standing in the sun.
Chapter 19
Kate’s hotel was a five-minute walk away from the Éclat, on the Eastern side of the Opéra. Her room had a decent-sized bed, a desk and chair, a full-sized bath, and even a bit of a view – if you were prepared to lean out of the window – down the bustling Boulevard des Italiens. Zoe knew that a few weeks ago, she would have been over the moon to be staying in a room like this, but Zoe’s first thought was how small it was and how sorry she felt for Kate and Rick to be staying in it.
