Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [32]
‘They might use Throat-slashing at the Folies . . .’ Fourier went on with ready invention and it occurred to Joe that his mind had already been running in just such a direction. He wondered if George, his mentor, had seen it? Joe had rightly guessed the Chief Inspector’s imperative, his motivation. He’d judged Fourier’s craving for advancement to be at the same time his strength and his weakness and, by ascribing the same ruthless ambition to himself, Joe had made it appear acceptable in his eyes. More than acceptable – commendable. He had bracketed them together, two like-minded cynics ready to exploit a situation for their mutual benefit. Somerton, Sir George, even Bonnefoye were marionettes, their strings in the hands of two hard-eyed professionals.
Joe wasn’t quite there yet but he was on his way to using the power of Fourier’s forward rush to kick him into space.
‘Two Englishmen fight to the death for the favours of a mysterious fille de joie. Plea for the blonde beauty to come forward.’ The Chief Inspector was enjoying himself. He shrugged. ‘Well, these news editors – they’ll say whatever they like. Of course, sometimes they respond to a confidential suggestion in their ear.’
He looked at the clock and glared at Sir George. The obstacle between him and his story. ‘Pour the man another glass of water, Bonnefoye,’ he said. ‘It seems to loosen his tongue.’
‘Fourier, may I have a word in private?’ Joe asked.
He left the room with the Chief Inspector, a companionable hand on his shoulder. They returned a minute or two later and Joe went to stand almost to attention by Fourier’s desk, alongside him and facing the other two men.
Fourier cleared his throat and gathered up his documents. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said, ‘the Commander and I have come to a decision. In order to pursue the case further, I will be releasing the prisoner from police custody into police custody. Jardine is to be handed over to Sandilands with the assurance that he will not attempt to leave the city. I retain his passport and his documents. I require him to attend for a further interview as and when I deem it necessary.’
He rang the bell. ‘Sergeant – the prisoner’s clothes are to be kept as evidence. Can you find an old mackintosh or something to cover the mess? And you may bring his shoelaces and braces back. Gentlemen – go with the sergeant. He will walk you through the process of signing out the prisoner. Oh, and Commander – your request to examine the corpse – I grant this and will leave instructions at the morgue accordingly. Now – Bonnefoye! I’m not au fait with your schedule . . . Remind me, will you?’
‘Mixed bag, sir. The suspected poisoning in Neuilly – toxicology report still awaited. The body under the Métro train – no ID as yet. And there’s last night’s floating bonne bouche dragged from the St Martin . . . And the conference, of course.’ He smiled blandly back at the Chief Inspector.
‘Then I recommend that you get yourself back on track at once.’ Fourier added with menacing politeness: ‘Your contribution to the proceedings has been noted.’
Joe thanked him and, taking advantage of the spirit of burgeoning co-operation, asked if he might fix a time to escort Lady Somerton to the morgue for purposes of identification. Fourier was beginning to see the advantages of having an Englishman on hand, Joe thought, as his response was quick and positive. His own response would have been the same. The dreadful scene of the widow wailing over the remains was always the one to be avoided, particularly when the grieving was being done in a foreign language. It added an element of awkwardness to a situation requiring sympathy and explanation. Fourier seemed to have no objection to passing on this delicate duty. They eyed each other with a gathering understanding and a mutual satisfaction.
The unanimous verdict burst from the three men as they reached the safety of the courtyard below:
‘Arsehole!’
‘Qu’il est con!’
‘Fuckpot!’
Without further exchange or consultation, they quickly made their way