drift of his lips. Her nipples should be rosily soft from the heat. They are not; they are brown and solid as chalk stubs and they ache for—
Inès knows her place.
She grabs a towel and scrubs herself with it. ‘Get out.’
Her eyes are windows to her soul. His reaching hand drops. He takes a breath to speak, thinks better of it and backs away, shaking his head. ‘
Pardon. J’suis désolé. Pardon.
’
Luc never apologizes. Not ever.
She asks, ‘Why are you here?’
‘They said … The fire.’ He looks haggard, as if he, too, has had no sleep. He pulls himself together, gives a brief, apologetic shrug. ‘I thought you wouldn’t be here.’
‘That’s why
now
, not why
here
.’
‘I needed some clothes.’ He glances down at the heaps on the floor, one filthy, one ironed by the day-woman. ‘Like you.’ He has backed right to the door. He makes another conciliatory gesture with his hands, palms up, submissive. ‘I’ll come back later. If that’s all right?’
She shrugs; she cannot trust her voice. He eases himself out. His head is the last to go, his eyes feasting on her, his voice a caress. ‘You are so very beautiful.’
Now, he says it:
now
, and her father not alive to tell. Listening to him leave, she stands dry-eyed in the folds of her towel, and wonders what it will take to make her weep.
CHAPTER SIX
O RLÉANS,
Monday, 24 February 2014
08.45
THE CAR RADIO speaks to her endlessly of the fire, and of the possible identity of the body.
A woman from the US State Department says the National Security Agency is focusing its considerable resources on Jaish al Islam. The implication is that America will succeed where France has failed.
Picaut hits the column switch. The hush that fills the car could all too easily be filled by Luc. He hovers half a thought away, and his closeness threatens to melt her marrow.
She stares ahead, but he smiles back at her from every second billboard: Votez Bressard!
The trams are no better. She turns on to the bridge across the Loire, looks down at the heavy, chocolaty water. Here is the bridge to the tower of les Tourelles. Here is the site of the battle that launched the Maid as the city’s hero. Here are the crowding memories of her father, which are not useful. Two deep breaths and she’s safely across and on into the new development south of the river, that didn’t exist in the Maid’s time.
She considers the water. Yesterday it rained and today, here, now, the Loire is gorged to fullness. But it was not raining last night, when the fire was lit. The arsonists have one eye on the weather forecast, which, if nothing else, is part of a pattern and it is in patterns that answers are found.
The traffic is easing. Just before nine, she pulls into the car park of the pathology suite adjacent to the Hôpital de la Source in southern Orléans. The receptionist nods as she passes, heading for the second floor.
‘Have you a name for me yet?’
Black on silver, cased in white, the roasted body of the unknown maybe-American lies curled on a stainless steel table in the shining new white-tiled autopsy room.
Free of Luc, dressed and clean, Picaut feels sharper than she has any right to do after a night of so little sleep. She docks her phone in the slot on the wall and hitches up to sit on a stainless steel table.
‘Not yet.’ Éric Masson does not raise his head. ‘One eighty-six, Caucasian, fitter than average, a runner, or more probably a climber; his upper body has muscling here – here – here’ – his pointer circles shoulders, pectorals, biceps. ‘No ID so far.’ He looks up. ‘X-rays. Get clear.’
Picaut hitches off the table, slides behind a screen of leaded glass and watches him work with a professional appreciation for his clinical precision.
The facility is a little over two years old, a relic of Sarkozy’s pre-election largesse. Beneath the scents of antiseptic and death, it’s still possible to smell the faint new-build aura of paint
Inès knows her place.
She grabs a towel and scrubs herself with it. ‘Get out.’
Her eyes are windows to her soul. His reaching hand drops. He takes a breath to speak, thinks better of it and backs away, shaking his head. ‘
Pardon. J’suis désolé. Pardon.
’
Luc never apologizes. Not ever.
She asks, ‘Why are you here?’
‘They said … The fire.’ He looks haggard, as if he, too, has had no sleep. He pulls himself together, gives a brief, apologetic shrug. ‘I thought you wouldn’t be here.’
‘That’s why
now
, not why
here
.’
‘I needed some clothes.’ He glances down at the heaps on the floor, one filthy, one ironed by the day-woman. ‘Like you.’ He has backed right to the door. He makes another conciliatory gesture with his hands, palms up, submissive. ‘I’ll come back later. If that’s all right?’
She shrugs; she cannot trust her voice. He eases himself out. His head is the last to go, his eyes feasting on her, his voice a caress. ‘You are so very beautiful.’
Now, he says it:
now
, and her father not alive to tell. Listening to him leave, she stands dry-eyed in the folds of her towel, and wonders what it will take to make her weep.
CHAPTER SIX
O RLÉANS,
Monday, 24 February 2014
08.45
THE CAR RADIO speaks to her endlessly of the fire, and of the possible identity of the body.
A woman from the US State Department says the National Security Agency is focusing its considerable resources on Jaish al Islam. The implication is that America will succeed where France has failed.
Picaut hits the column switch. The hush that fills the car could all too easily be filled by Luc. He hovers half a thought away, and his closeness threatens to melt her marrow.
She stares ahead, but he smiles back at her from every second billboard: Votez Bressard!
The trams are no better. She turns on to the bridge across the Loire, looks down at the heavy, chocolaty water. Here is the bridge to the tower of les Tourelles. Here is the site of the battle that launched the Maid as the city’s hero. Here are the crowding memories of her father, which are not useful. Two deep breaths and she’s safely across and on into the new development south of the river, that didn’t exist in the Maid’s time.
She considers the water. Yesterday it rained and today, here, now, the Loire is gorged to fullness. But it was not raining last night, when the fire was lit. The arsonists have one eye on the weather forecast, which, if nothing else, is part of a pattern and it is in patterns that answers are found.
The traffic is easing. Just before nine, she pulls into the car park of the pathology suite adjacent to the Hôpital de la Source in southern Orléans. The receptionist nods as she passes, heading for the second floor.
‘Have you a name for me yet?’
Black on silver, cased in white, the roasted body of the unknown maybe-American lies curled on a stainless steel table in the shining new white-tiled autopsy room.
Free of Luc, dressed and clean, Picaut feels sharper than she has any right to do after a night of so little sleep. She docks her phone in the slot on the wall and hitches up to sit on a stainless steel table.
‘Not yet.’ Éric Masson does not raise his head. ‘One eighty-six, Caucasian, fitter than average, a runner, or more probably a climber; his upper body has muscling here – here – here’ – his pointer circles shoulders, pectorals, biceps. ‘No ID so far.’ He looks up. ‘X-rays. Get clear.’
Picaut hitches off the table, slides behind a screen of leaded glass and watches him work with a professional appreciation for his clinical precision.
The facility is a little over two years old, a relic of Sarkozy’s pre-election largesse. Beneath the scents of antiseptic and death, it’s still possible to smell the faint new-build aura of paint
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