The Paris Librarian (29 page)

“We don't have enough to arrest her, not yet. I'm getting a warrant for her computer to see if she has anything on there, but the magistrate kicked it back first time, said she wanted more.”

“Well, you do your thing and I'll do mine, maybe we'll meet in the middle.”

When he hung up, Hugo logged in to the SNCF website to book two tickets, first-class, on an afternoon train out of the Saint-Lazare train station. He then sent a short text, hoping for a quick response. Tom wandered into the room just as Hugo was starting to pack.

“In the old days, you had a go bag ready in the closet. Where are we off to?”

“Don't you knock anymore?”

“I never did,” Tom said. “I asked where we're going.”

“That depends.” Hugo checked his phone and smiled. “You're going nowhere. I'm going up north with Claudia for a day or so.”

“Odd time to take a vacation.”

“You think so? Half of Paris is on vacation now.”

“Half of Paris isn't involved in a hunting a serial killer.”

“Neither am I.”

“Three bodies in a week, seems like it'd qualify. I mean, you're the expert but I've read enough fiction to get the gist.”

“Funny.”

“Where up north?”

“So you can tag along?”

“No, I wouldn't do that. I'm just curious.” Tom smiled broadly, his attempt at looking innocent.

“I thought some fresh sea air would be good. A quick trip to Dieppe.”

“Dieppe?” Tom's eyes narrowed. “Wait a minute. I told you that story, you should be taking me.”

“Love your company, Tom, but you still come in second for overnight trips.”

Tom grunted. “Guess I can't blame you there.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

The train left just before three that afternoon, giving Hugo and Claudia a chance to eat at the station's renowned
brasserie
, the aptly named Lazare. Hugo had expected to buy a sandwich for the train, but Claudia insisted they'd be able to get a table without a reservation. She had her hair in a ponytail and was wearing jeans and a loose, white shirt. Her skin seemed to glow, and every time he looked at her, she was smiling.

“It's a Tuesday, and it'll be later than most people eat.” She hadn't mentioned until they were seated that she knew the chef and his wife.

“Always full of surprises,” Hugo said. He felt good in her company, he always did. She was one of a handful of people he'd ever met who made him feel utterly comfortable and himself. His first wife, Ellie, had been like that. And with Claudia, too, he had no desire to guess what she was thinking, analyze and parse her words, second-guess her intentions. It was, he knew, because she and Ellie were without guile or artifice; they said what they were feeling and meant it. He may not always like or agree with what Claudia had to say, but she would always tell him the truth.

“Try the roast chicken,” she said.

“Is that an order?”

She winked. “If you want it to be.”

They ate slowly, Hugo checking his watch every now and again to make sure the train's departure time didn't sneak up on them. They both had the roast chicken and followed up with cappuccinos, resisting the dessert list and cheese cart. At the end of the meal, Hugo let Claudia pay when she insisted it was only fair, since he'd booked the train tickets and the hotel room.

“Thank you,” he said as they walked toward the train. “That chicken really was good.”

“So was the company.” She put an arm around his waist and he put his around her shoulder, a closeness that felt natural, almost inevitable.

As the train pulled out of the station, Hugo felt a surge of excitement. Traveling always made him feel this way, but this time he had Claudia with him, and he felt a growing certainty that the vague, almost spectral theory that was taking shape in his mind, might actually be real, even provable.

The train gathered speed and he watched the city slip away, the grubby industrial yards and gray factories that always seemed to sit alongside city rail lines replaced by ever-larger patches of green and gold, the pastures and fields of wheat and barley unfurling across the train's large windows. As they sped north, the land stayed flat and Hugo stared out at the stone villages that dotted the open farmland. Sometimes he and Claudia talked, but mostly they sat quietly next to each other, holding hands and looking at the world speeding by.

The sun was low in the sky when they got to Dieppe, bright and warm still, and the air smelled fresh and just a little salty. When they walked out of the front of the station, an unmarked police car was waiting.

“Camille really did pull out all the stops,” Claudia said. “Although an afternoon at the police station doesn't sound like a huge amount of fun. Mind if I head to the hotel?”

Hugo kissed her forehead. “Of course not. Maybe find somewhere for us to eat tonight, a restaurant with a view of the sea.”

“Consider it done.”

He waited as she climbed into a taxi, then walked over to the police car and shook hands with the uniformed driver, who introduced herself as Genevieve Hillier. She was pretty and probably in her early thirties, and, Hugo guessed, of Filipino descent.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Hugo said in French.

“It's not a problem,” she said. “But do you mind if I practice my English?”

“Not at all.”

She chattered on the way to the Dieppe police station, talking about the movies she watched and learned from, the books she was trying to read, and how she was determined her son would speak English like a native. Hugo appreciated her enthusiasm and her company; most police officers were more hesitant and taciturn when an investigation bled into their jurisdiction. But when they got to the station, he discovered that she was only his driver when she handed him over to an older detective. He was a burly man with a thick, silver mustache and curiosity in his eyes. His handshake was firm and his smile welcoming.

“Georges Bazin,” he said. “I'm two weeks away from retiring and am dying to know why you're interested in this old case.”

“Hugo Marston, pleased to meet you,” Hugo replied. “I just wanted to check on a few things I'd been told about it, see whether they were all true.”

“Of course. You know, it was my first month on the job and I was the first officer on scene, and this case always bugged me, something about it.” He led Hugo past the reception desk, down a long hallway to a small conference room. A small, round table dominated the windowless room, and four plastic chairs were tucked neatly under it. On the table was a cardboard box. “Everything related to the case is in there,” Bazin said.

“You said case, not accident.”

“I did. Help yourself and take as long as you like. If you need to make copies of anything, just let me know.” He pointed down the hallway. “That's my office at the end.”

“Thanks, I may take some pictures with my phone if that's OK,” Hugo said.

“Whatever you want, that's fine. This case has been closed for decades, so you can't do any harm.” He hesitated. “If you find anything odd, let me know. Like I said, I never quite swallowed the official story, never quite believed it happened the way the final report concludes, but,” he shrugged, “I was a young officer and didn't have the guts or the rank to do anything about it. Nor any evidence, I suppose. Just one of those things, you know?”

Left alone, Hugo sat at the table and took the lid off the box. Inside, half a dozen bulging folders had been stacked on top of each other. He piled them on the table and sorted through them. The top one contained the initial report filed by young Officer Bazin, and some subsequent crime-scene reports from other officers. The next had photos of the accident site, and Hugo was eager to see the precise location for himself. The third folder had been labeled “Witness Statements,” but it contained only one, and Hugo read it carefully, then read it again. He took out his camera and photographed the single page, and then a few of the pictures from the scene.

For the next hour, Hugo sifted through the reports one by one. As the pages passed under his fingertips, his conviction grew that the Severin collection was little more than a blinding flare, a clever distraction being exploited by a cunning and imaginative killer so that the Paris police would keep chasing their tails, and maybe run right into a brick wall. Not that people weren't trying to uncover the true story behind Isabelle Severin's role in the war, they were. But they weren't the ones who'd committed murder.

As he closed the last file, a deep sadness fell over him, a sorrow not just for the people who'd lost their lives, but for the person he had to unmask. He knew that people killed for many reasons, and very rarely for pleasure. Paul Rogers, Sarah Gregory, and Alain Benoît had all died not to amuse their murderer, not to assuage some sick fantasy that couldn't be controlled. No, this was about survival, and about keeping a secret buried that if quite literally unearthed, would mean the end of the road for a person who'd spent far too long looking over both shoulders and living as a fraud.

Hugo called Claudia. “Did you find us a place to eat?”

“I did. Table for two at eight.”

“Would you hate me if we canceled?”

“Hugo, what's wrong? You sound . . . depressed or something. What did you find out?”

“Honestly, I thought this would be a wild goose chase, that my theory couldn't possibly be right. Or maybe I just hoped that.”

“You wouldn't tell me what it was,” she said, “so I couldn't really say one way or the other.”

“Let's just say we should head back to Paris. I need to tell Camille what I found, show her some of this stuff.”

“So they were murdered, all three of them?”

“Yes, they were,” Hugo said.

“Who? Who did it?”

“Can you get us a rental car? I'll explain on the drive down.” He thought for a moment. “But there's someone here who needs to know the truth about a case he worked on. Text me the address and I'll meet you at the restaurant, we'll get something from there and eat on the road.”

Hugo knocked on Georges Bazin's door.

“
Entrez
,” Bazin called.

Hugo went in and sat across from the French policeman. “Well, it looks like you were right.” He'd brought a few of the crucial documents, photographs mostly, and placed them on the desk. “Look at these and I'll explain.”

Georges Bazin sat quietly and listened, and when Hugo was done, his eyes locked on a photo of a stretch of coastal road, a broken barrier, and a steep but not precipitous drop to the sea. After a moment, Bazin looked up.

“Makes more sense now.” A wry smile played on his lips. “I feel like I should've seen this before. I mean, really seen it.”

“Hindsight,” Hugo said. “Makes fools of us all.”

“But three more people died because I didn't.”

“You weren't the only one. You weren't even the one responsible for figuring this out.”

“No,” Bazin sighed, “I suppose not. You'll be needing to get back, be there for the arrest.”

“I'll drive down this evening.”

“You need a ride anywhere?”

“Just to a restaurant, thank you.”

Bazin picked up his desk phone and called Officer Hillier, who appeared in the doorway two minutes later. Hugo stood and shook hands with Bazin.

“Thanks again for your cooperation,” Hugo said.

“Of course. You know, I feel like I should be happier you solved this. Instead, I just feel . . .” The policeman shook his head sadly.

“I know what you mean,” Hugo said. “Anytime an accident turns out to be murder, well, you wonder if you've discovered a moment of evil. An accident causes enough grief and sorrow, but to use a tragedy to disguise something like this, when you figure it out there's not much to celebrate.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Officer Hillier knew the restaurant, Chez Nous, and dropped him at the entrance to the busy parking lot, away from the line for the valet parking. Cars nudged forward and young men and women dressed in black zipped back and forth, swapping keys for tickets, trying to keep their hungry customers moving into the restaurant. Those unwilling to pay the extra five euros crawled through the parking lot proper, looking for empty spaces, stalking those leaving, and in some cases forcing their vehicles into manufactured spaces that meant an exit through the sunroof.

“Summer up here still,” Hillier explained. “Most Parisians have gone home, but this week people come from everywhere else before school starts. Hope you booked a table.”

Hugo said nothing. He was impatient to get on the road. It was already eight o'clock and the light was beginning to weaken. Clouds had started to fill a sky that had been blue all day, threatening to bring rain or, at the very least, an early sunset.

On the drive over he'd exchanged texts with Lerens, convincing her to keep a team on the only person Hugo suspected, despite the fact that she was still inclined to hold Miki Harrison accountable. He'd detected a note of uncertainty in Lerens's tone when she was talking about Harrison as a suspect, which Hugo appreciated. Neither of them could dispute which way the evidence pointed, but in Hugo's experience a good cop had good instincts, and learned to trust them. That didn't mean ignoring the facts, it just meant keeping an open mind and making sure your eyes were open to other possibilities.