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Claire pulled a tissue from the packet of Kleenex in her bag and handed it to him. ‘I’m glad we came to get it,’ she said.
* * *
The door of the interview room swung open and crashed into the bin that stood against the wall behind it. Clément Cloutier had returned.
‘Alors,I have taken a digital copy of the relevant photograph, madame,’ he said, passing Claire her memory card. ‘I will need to ask you to give your permission.’
Claire took the pen he offered and scrawled her name at the bottom of the proffered form.
‘Was the photo helpful?’ asked Ronan.
‘Extremely.’ Clément Cloutier placed a printed copy on the desk between them and pointed to a small man in the far left of the picture, just emerging from the coffee shop. He had a tall coffee cup in one hand and a pastry in the other. ‘Do you recognise this man?’
Claire and Ronan leaned in, shoulder to shoulder, for a closer look. The man had turned to walk in the opposite direction from where Claire and Ronan stood at the centre of the square but, at the very moment the photo was taken, had given a shifty glance over his shoulder, his amber eyes staring right down the camera lens. He had dark hair, slicked back from a pointy face, and he wore a navy-blue suit.
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Claire. ‘I’m not good at faces.’
‘Sorry, me neither,’ said Ronan.
Clément Cloutier gave a little shrug of disappointment. ‘It does not matter so much,’ he said. ‘The photograph will be sufficient.’
‘Is this the man who stole my wallet?’ asked Ronan.
‘It would seem so. It was found on the suspect’s person.’
‘Then he stole it even before the photograph was taken, while we were milling about with the crowd.?.?.’ Claire was thinking out loud.
‘Why do you say that, madame?’
Claire and Ronan answered simultaneously.
‘Because the bank said that whoever took it .?.?.’ said Claire.
‘The thief bought coffee and cake in that café,’ said Ronan.
‘Aha!’ said Clément Cloutier with a look of sheer delight on his face that made Claire and Ronan laugh out loud.
‘And you can send me those bank records?’
‘Of course,’ said Ronan. ‘Avec plaisir.’
Clément Cloutier made a slight bow of thanks. ‘Vous avez été d’une aide précieuse, monsieur,’ he said. ‘Et madame.’ And he nodded his head again in Claire’s direction. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘If you could just sign these few more papers .?.?.’
Clément Cloutier’s Office
Clément didn’t have an office. He didn’t even have a desk. He walked past all the senior officers, who were tapping importantly at their computer keyboards, and made his way to the space at the front of the room between the filing cabinets and the window. Looking out, he could see Ronan (34, 1.9m, broad build, pale skin, blue eyes, red hair, teacher, from Cork, Ireland) and Claire MacNamara (34, 1.8m, medium build, pale skin, blue eyes, fair hair at shoulder length, librarian, also from Cork, Ireland) standing on the station steps, holding hands. Clément sat down on the small stool he’d squeezed into the space, stretched his legs out in front of him and studied the printed-out photograph in his hand.
Clément leaned back against the filing cabinet and chewed the nail of his index finger. He was going to have to tell Aunt Mathilde about this.Commissaire Cloutier, he reminded himself. Only once had Clément called his aunt by her given name at work. He had received such a comprehensive and memorable tongue-lashing that he was more scared of repeating that mistake than he was of anything the criminal classes of Paris could ever or would ever throw at him. Also, he was very scared of going to Commissaire Cloutier with anything other than hard and fast evidence that he was right.
‘Qu’est-ce que tu fais ici?’
It was his aunt. Clément leaped to his feet.
‘Commissaire,’ he said, ‘j’ai quelque chose à te montrer.’
He held out the photograph, explaining the facts as succinctly as he could. His aunt stood looking at it for several moments, her lips pressed firmly together, before handing it back.
‘Et qu’en penses-tu, Clément?’
