Seen and Not Heard (2 page)

And when Marc was gone, the doubts began to build, as they were building right now, doubts that she tried to push away. He was handsome, he was gentle, he was marvelous in bed, and he loved her. He was even wealthy—his wife had left him a great deal of money when her car had plunged over an embankment on the way to one of his performances in Nice. What more could she ask from life?

She stood, and the scraping of the chair on the parquet floor scraped along her nerves. It was early April, and it was raining. It seemed as if it had been raining for months, that the fabled Paris spring was a figment of some travel agent’s imagination. Who could help but be depressed? The sordid, distressing news made things worse. The situation in Lebanon, in Central America, the politics of her homeland
seemed as out of control as ever. And another old woman was found murdered. That brought the number to thirty-eight. Thirty-eight women over the age of seventy-five found murdered in their apartments. The Grandmother Murders, they called them. Claire found herself grateful that she couldn’t understand French, couldn’t find out the gory details. She’d seen the blurred news photo and known more than she wanted to.

Maybe that was her problem. When she’d flown over to join Marc she’d blithely assumed that most people spoke English. Marc, in his eagerness to have her come, had encouraged that arrogant assumption.

But the street signs and magazines and newspapers and television shows were in French, and they might just as well have been in Swahili. Claire was like a deaf-mute, unable to hear, to communicate with most of the people around her. That sense of isolation was probably to blame for her depression, her anxiety, her sudden, unreasoning longing for the narrow streets of Brockton. Streets where she’d seen a child struck down, seen and said nothing, she reminded herself with a stray shiver, rinsing her coffee cup out in the sink.

She looked around the kitchen. It was spotless, of course. It hadn’t taken her long to realize that Marc was scrupulously neat, and that the only way she could be happy was to alter her cheerfully sloppy ways and be as compulsive as he was. She set the mug on the draining board, resisting the impulse to dry it and put it away. Marc wouldn’t be back till late. He was a careful driver—he wouldn’t take risks in this sort of weather. She’d have time to clean everything.

She leaned against the iron sink, staring out into the silver gray rain. She was going to have to give Marc an answer before long. And she knew, without his saying so, that there was only one answer that was acceptable. And her fingers clutched the edge of the sink, her knuckles white with strain.

Chief Inspector Louis Malgreave of Homicide swore fluently under his breath. God damn the murdering bastards!
Another one, another helpless old lady found stabbed to death in her pitiful little apartment.

This time it was Felice Champêtre, an eighty-year-old widow. Three weeks ago it had been Marthe Bernard, a week before that Hélène Mersot. And thirty-five other women in the last two and a half years.

Two hundred extra policemen had been assigned to areas frequented by the elderly. A small fortune had been budgeted in the quest for the killers. They had come close, so very close. And still the death toll rises, he thought wearily.

There had to be more than one murderer. While he had no proof, he was certain that rotten little punk Rocco Guillère had been responsible for Marguerite Debenet and the nun in Notre Dame. Not to mention the ninety-year-old twins in La Défense.

But he couldn’t have killed the Comtesse de Tourney—his alibi was airtight. And three more women were killed while Malgreave tried to keep him in custody. It was a lost cause. No sooner had Rocco’s defense lawyer gotten wind of the latest murders than Rocco was a free man. And Malgreave was faced with more questions than answers.

The official theory, one that Malgreave grudgingly accepted, was that it was a copycat killer. The United States had dealt with the same sort of sickness. One person poisoned a box of medicine and suddenly dozens of people were poisoning medicine. One man with a hatred of old women started killing, and everyone who was ever spanked by a grandmother began to get murderous ideas.

He stared out into the pouring rain, reaching for his cigarettes. He was trying to give them up, but so far he hadn’t had any luck. The city was gray and cold, and he shivered in his fourth-floor office. He hated the rain. It had been almost eighteen months, almost twenty victims before they noticed that the women always died on a rainy day. Malgreave found himself praying for a drought.

He’d have to go and view the body, of course. He knew what he’d find. The crowded, pitiful apartment of an old woman trying to keep her dignity in a world changing beyond her recognition. The shrunken, withered body,
stretched out like a penitent, the arthritic hands folded across a sunken chest. Sometimes there was blood, sometimes not. There had even been a fingerprint that had matched at two of the scenes. They hadn’t been Rocco’s.

God, he hated this business. It was no wonder Marie was unhappy. He wouldn’t blame her if she started looking at other men. She was too young, too lively to be tied to a husband whose job was death.

He stood up, reaching for his battered raincoat. It was already after six. He’d be late again, and Marie would have already eaten. She wouldn’t say a word, but he would read the hurt and anger and disappointment in her fine brown eyes, and his guilt would eat into his soul.

But he had to stop by the rue Broca and Felice Champêtre’s apartment. Marie’s life didn’t depend on his getting home on time. Some other woman’s might.

Claire put the mug back in the cupboard, in a straight line with the other ceramic mugs. Marc didn’t like them, preferring the paper-thin Limoges tea cups he’d inherited. But she’d broken one, and the look he’d given her had been chilling.

Later she decided she’d imagined it. But she went out and bought herself a set of heavy, earthenware mugs, and never touched the Limoges again if she could help it.

Her thick, red gold hair was still damp from the shower. She should have finished drying it, but she was too restless to spend the time. She tugged at the fine wool of her dress, wiggled her toes in the silk stockings, and fiddled with a pearl earring. She would have liked to have greeted Marc in an old pair of jeans and a thick sweater on a cold, miserable night like this. Or maybe wearing a soft flannel nightgown, and she could have made hot chocolate for the three of them in front of the fire, and they could have been a real family.

But Marc had standards, and Claire had learned it was easier to conform to them. Particularly when he explained that he wanted her to dress well because she valued herself, not him. It made sense, and she did as he expected. But
right now she would have loved something more comfortable.

The chicken was simmering, the air was redolent of tarragon and wine. At least she could cook. She hadn’t had to change that part of her nature, she thought with that uncomfortable trace of defiance. Indeed, she’d had so little to do during the last few months that she’d developed her modest talent into something approaching art. She would have liked to study further. Paris was the perfect place for learning haute cuisine. But the cooking schools weren’t bilingual, and French was the language, not only of love and ballet, but the language of food.

Through the endless corridors and rooms of the old apartment she heard the soft closing of the front door. Her ears had become very finely tuned. Living with a mime did wonders for your senses, she thought with a trace of humor. Marc used to be able to sneak up on her when she was completely unaware. She hadn’t liked it, hadn’t wanted to say anything and hurt his feelings. So she’d worked on listening. Marc hadn’t surprised her in months. No, that wasn’t true. He was always surprising her. But he hadn’t managed to sneak up on her in a long, long time.

She took off her apron, folded it neatly, and set it on the spotless kitchen table. Her narrow, delicate hands were trembling slightly, and she frowned at them. It must be the excitement. She’d been left alone for two nights, and ever since the accident she hadn’t liked to be alone. Now that Marc was back, and Nicole, things would be better. Things would be as they should be.

Smoothing her challis dress, she headed for the living room, setting a welcoming smile on her face. Only for a brief moment did she consider that she shouldn’t have to call forth a smile to greet her returning lover. It should have come on its own.

Once more she cursed her depression, her indecisiveness. She was going to throw away the best thing that ever happened to her if she didn’t shake herself out of it. Marc was home, and she loved him. Maybe it was time she made
it clear just how much she did love him. Maybe it was time to get married. And maybe it was time for her to tell him so.

But then, she didn’t want to spoil Nicole’s homecoming, did she? It could wait. Wait until Marc asked her again. This time, she would say yes. And to hell with second thoughts.

Rocco Guillère propped his feet on the battered table and eyed his pointy-toed black leather boots blearily. He would need a shine tomorrow. He liked having classy boots, with a real shine, not that plastic coating they had nowadays, and he spent a lot of money on them. He knew the places where you could still get a decent shine, and he tipped well.

He liked people’s reactions. He’d stride up to the stand in the lobby of the best hotels, all black leather and menace, and take his place with the gray-suited businessmen, propping his huge black boots beside their hand-sewn Italian leathers. The others would pull away, as if he gave off a bad smell.

Rocco grinned, lighting a stubby Gitane and drawing the acrid smoke into his lungs. Maybe he did give off a bad smell. He wasn’t one of the bourgeoisie, into hot baths and clean clothes. He lived in the roughest, nastiest part of Paris, and his life was rough and nasty. He had no time, no patience for the finer things in life.

It was just after midnight, the heart of the evening, and his work hadn’t even begun. He had to waste another hour until he was needed.

It was a simple job tonight, if he chose to make it so. He’d been hired as protection during a drug deal. He would simply stand in the background, glowering, his huge American
Magnum prominently displayed, while Achilles and the little Spaniard traded lots of money for a decent amount of cocaine. He’d been told to stand guard while the Spaniard counted his money and left, and Achilles would pay him with part of the drugs.

It would be good pay for an easy night’s work. And if he could keep the stuff away from that greedy little tramp Giselle he could make a nice profit.

But there was another alternative, one he’d used occasionally. He could waste both Achilles and the Spaniard, take all the drugs and the money, and no one would be the wiser.

He didn’t do that sort of thing very often. Word would get around, and his reputation would suffer. He’d had to be very careful since that fool Malgreave had arrested him. It had been a close call. Two months in that stinking prison, two months while Malgreave went his slow, deliberate way, trying to pin those murders on him.

In the end he’d failed, of course. Thirty-five old women had died at that point. And Rocco had only killed seventeen of them.

He stubbed the cigarette out, shifting in the chair and tilting it back further. It was a good thing he’d been so far ahead of the others. They’d had time to catch up during his enforced retirement. Four more women had died since he’d been arrested, and he hadn’t touched one of them. By now Malgreave had to have given up on him.

He scratched his groin absently. It should be safe by now. Or safe enough. And he was badly short of cash. He’d take care of Achilles and the Spaniard, and then, when a little time had passed, he’d find an old lady. A sweet old grandmother, living alone. And the very next rainstorm he’d start taking care of his quota. After all, he couldn’t let a bunch of amateurs get ahead of him.

He smiled, his shark’s smile. It would be a pleasure to set Malgreave to wondering.

It was happening again. The cold, black, rain-slick night. Brian driving his BMW far too fast, his handsome mouth
set, his beautiful hands clenching the leather-covered steering wheel as if he wished it were her neck. He wasn’t yelling, he was saying quiet, bitter, cruel things. She was the one who was yelling.

He’d promised, how many times had he promised? He would talk to his wife, the separation and divorce would be amicable, and they could finally get married. It had been eighteen months of promises, and Claire had had enough. So, apparently, had Brian.

There would be no separation, he had finally admitted. Not right now. His wife was pregnant again, and it probably was his.

That was when she’d starting yelling. And that was when he’d taken his eyes off the road, his hand off the wheel and lashed out at her, his formidable temper breaking its tenuous control.

She could still hear the sickening thump of a body smacking against the car. She could still see the child’s limp, rain-soaked form lying beside the road. She could still see Brian’s panic as he drove away, ignoring her screams, ignoring her futile attempts to grab the wheel. He’d finally hit her, hard enough to stun her, so that she sank back, huddled in a corner of the leather seat, watching with numb, disbelieving eyes as he sped through the night, away from the child.

Claire lay in the wide bed, covered in a cold, clammy sweat. She hated waking up in the middle of the night, hated lying there, remembering, with Marc asleep beside her, his sensual face childlike in repose. She reached out to wake him up, to touch his firm, muscled shoulder, then drew her hand back. Marc would have one response to her wakefulness, to her fears. And for once in her life Claire didn’t feel like being made love to.

An odd way to put it, she thought to herself, inching her body over a bit, away from Marc. He was always so warm, his firm, lithe body radiating heat like a furnace. Even in the coldest weather they didn’t need more than a thin blanket, and in the heat of the summer it would be almost unbearable. Right now Claire would have given anything for a
cooling breeze. The rain had stopped, but the sounds of Paris at night reached the second-floor windows, muffled noises, reminding her that people had lives beyond the walls of this apartment that were rapidly resembling a prison.