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What did he think? Whatdidhe think? Clément had great difficulty thinking at all in his aunt’s presence. He thought that Barreau had proven himself a menace on the streets of Paris, that they had good cause to hold him and search his home, and that such a search would likely provide sufficient evidence to prosecute. That was what he thought, and so, with much stuttering and a rush of blood to his cheeks, he told his aunt.
His aunt had turned away from him. She had pulled open the window and was staring down at the street. While he spoke, she pursed and twitched her lips repeatedly in a gesture that he had come to recognise as a signal of her intense concentration or perhaps irritation – quite possibly both.
Commissaire Cloutier shut the window and once again fixed her expression to its sternest setting.
She turned to her nephew. ‘Les carottes sont cuites,’ she said.
Clément suffered a moment of dread panic until he realised that it was not his but Barreau’s goose which the commissaire considered cooked.
‘Allons-y,’ she said, brusquely. ‘Dépêchez-vous.’
To Clément’s enormous surprise, the Commissaire tipped her head sideways to indicate that he should go with her on the search.
‘Bien—’ She held forth an arm, indicating impatiently that he should get moving.
The strap of Clément’s black satchel was wrapped around the leg of his stool, which was unfortunate, as it meant that his intention of swinging hissaconto his shoulder in a capable and debonair fashion was rather ruined by the deafening crash of metal stool against metal filing cabinet.
At least, thought Clément, avoiding his aunt’s eye, it hadn’t gone through the window.
‘Bien—’ said Commissaire Cloutier again.
As Clément squeezed past her – and just before he would have been visible to the room at large – she clapped a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard.
‘Bien, Clément,’ she said, taking a third run at complimenting her brother’s son. ‘Ça marche.’
Bofinger
On the steps outside the police station, Claire paused to readjust the tote bag on her shoulder.
Ronan checked the time on the screen of his phone. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘give that back to me.’
‘It’s grand, honestly.’
‘No, let me take it – we’ll have to run if we’re going to make our dinner reservation.’
‘Oh.’ She had presumed they would grab a pizza or another kebab. ‘We could let it go, Ro. It’s been a long day.’
Their eyes met. He was weighing her up again, assessing whether or not to push her. In her head, Claire wasn’t sure which way she wanted him to go. And then, he winked. It was just the tiniest flicker of his eyelid, that shorthand message that spoke volumes.
She grinned. ‘Alright’ she said, holding the bag of books out to him. ‘Which way?’
* * *
‘Shouldn’t we be dressed up for a place like this?’ Having jogged up rue de Lyon as far as Place de la Bastille, Claire was red in the face and out of breath. The restaurant Ronan had booked stood on a corner, looking like an illustration from the Belle Époque.
‘We’re grand as we are,’ said Ronan, pulling her across the street. ‘Come on. We’re only a few minutes late.’
If the outside of Brasserie Bofinger was impressive, the interior was spectacularly spectacular. Tables for two and bentwood café chairs were lined up in front of buttoned leather banquettes. Tall arched mirrors covered every wall, repeating reflections of brass fittings and low lights into infinity. Claire and Ronan were led to a table in a corner. They sat close together at the angle of the banquette, within sight of a recklessly huge stained-glass skylight. Claire smoothed her hair and wished they’d had time to change.
‘Stop fretting,’ said Ronan.
‘I can’t help it.’ She fixed the neckline of her dress.
‘You look beautiful.’
She ignored him and carried on reading the menu. A waiter came almost immediately and, in a sharpish fashion, took their order.
‘I think that was a slap on the wrist for being tardy,’ said Ronan.
