Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [25]
‘Wait here, I’ll go and tap on the Chief Inspector’s door and let him know we’ve arrived.’ He headed off down the corridor towards the inspectors’ offices.
Bonnefoye returned a minute later. Not at ease. ‘Fourier’s got your friend in there. As I thought, they’re working on his statement. And not pleased to be interrupted, I’m afraid.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Told me to go away and not to bring you back before ten o’clock. He’ll see you then.’
Joe could not keep the annoyance out of his voice. ‘Spreading his tail feathers! Showing who’s boss! He doesn’t endear himself!’
‘Tell you what . . . pointless kicking our heels here . . . why don’t we nip out and get some breakfast? The Halles are a short walk away. The blokes normally go there at the end of a night shift. There’s a good little café where you can get onion soup, wonderful strong coffee, croissants, fresh bread . . .’
Joe was already heading for the door.
He reckoned it was not so much the onion soup that fortified him as the dash of brandy that the waiter stirred into it. But whatever it was, he returned with Bonnefoye, fully awake and having got his second wind. They repeated their ascent to the waiting room and stood by the open door. Distantly the bell of Notre Dame sounded ten and, taking a deep breath, Bonnefoye invited him with a gesture to accompany him to the Chief Inspector’s room.
The Frenchman tapped on the door and listened. A peremptory bark was interpreted as a signal to enter. As the door swung open, Joe was taken aback by a wave of used air, over-warm and sooty, thick with rough tobacco and rancid with perspiration. At a desk too large for the room lounged the Chief Inspector in his shirtsleeves, tie pulled loosely aside. His stare was narrow and truculent, dark eyes hooded in a sallow face. Joe was gratified to note the dark stubble on the broad jaw. Fourier looked rather less appetizing than himself or Bonnefoye and was clearly still finishing off his night’s work. Not yet into the new day. He made no effort to greet them, merely watching as they came in to stand in front of him, raising his eyebrows as though to enquire what could possibly be the reason for this interruption to his day.
‘A moment, please,’ he said before they could speak and rang a bell.
A young sergeant entered from the room next door and looked at him enquiringly. ‘Do you want me to take over, sir?’
‘Not just yet. I’m still going strong. Good for a few more hours yet,’ Fourier said, ignoring his guests. ‘Just check the stove, would you? Oh, and get me another cup of coffee.’
The sergeant went smoothly about his duties, pouring out a cup of badly stewed coffee from an enamel pot simmering on the stove and finding a space for it on a tray alongside a green bottle of Perrier water and an empty glass by the Chief Inspector’s hand. No offer of refreshment was made to the men standing in front of him. And as there was no chair in the room but the one on which Fourier sat, stand was all they could do.
All Joe’s attention had been for the silent prisoner in the middle of the room but he forced himself not to react to what he saw and turned back to the Chief Inspector as Bonnefoye performed the introductions. He handed over his warrant card and waited patiently while Fourier read it with exaggerated care, turning it this way and that. ‘If he holds it up to the light, I shall certainly smack him one,’ Joe thought, relieving his tensions with a pleasing fantasy.
‘I see. And you claim to be . . . what am I supposed to assume? . . . a Commander of Scotland Yard?’ The voice was dry and roughened by years of cigarette smoke. Joe glanced at the ashtray stuffed full of yellow butts and wondered if he should advise the use of Craven A. Kind to the throat, apparently.
‘Your deduction is