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  “How did Marc react?”

  “At first he was furious. And then hurt. And then depressed. It sent him into a black funk for nearly a month. Nothing that anyone could say could snap him out of it. But as luck would have it, the following month he had to go to Paris to kneel at the feet of the Michelin gods.”

  Enzo frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Guy sipped some more of his nectar. “Every year, a procession of three-star chefs present themselves before the headmaster for a kind of end-of-term report. All trooping one by one into the eight-story edifice at No. 46 avenue de Breteuil. No one is above making the pilgrimage. Not even the great Paul Bocuse himself.

  “It was the first time Marc had been asked to go and genuflect before the Director himself. But it wasn’t the same Director who had awarded him his third star. Naegellen had been replaced that year by one Derek Brown. An Englishman, for God’s sake! Can you imagine? Some damned rosbif telling us frogs what constitutes good French cuisine!” He laughed. “Actually, he was a good man, Brown. But don’t let on I told you that.”

  Enzo grinned.

  “Anyway, while in Paris, Marc met up with a few of his three-star compatriots. A couple in particular who had also been on the receiving end of Graulet’s vitriol. They let Marc into a little plot they were hatching, and he was only too happy to participate.

  “A young chef who had worked as a second to one of them had just opened a little bistro in Clichy, right on the outskirts of Paris. Graulet was being set up. A strategically placed tip-off had alerted him to the fact that this particular bistro might be an excellent ‘find’ for his blog. And so he had booked a table, and in one of his ridiculous disguises turned up incognito with a group of friends. What he didn’t know was that the food he had ordered was being prepared for him in the kitchen by the very three-star chefs whose talents he had so recently derided.” Guy topped up their glasses and laughed again at the memory.

  “Of course, his meal was ‘sublime’. And he wrote as much in his blog, praising this talented young chef that he had ‘discovered’ to the rafters. The following day, the three musketeers as they came to be known, announced to the media that they had in fact cooked Graulet’s meal that night.”

  Enzo laughed. “Which must have made Graulet feel like a bit of an idiot.”

  “Complete and utter humiliation.” Guy’s face positively glowed with delight at the recollection of the moment. “It took Graulet a long time to get over it. For some reason he got it into his head that Marc had been the ringleader. But he didn’t dare criticise him again. In fact, as far as I’m aware, he never ever mentioned Marc again in his columns or his blogs.” His face darkened. “Until, of course, he became the first to print the rumor that Marc Fraysse was on the verge of being downgraded to two stars.” He gazed thoughtfully into the dark red liquid in his glass. “Which I have no doubt gave him the greatest of pleasure.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Dominique’s apartment was on the third floor of a six-story block built into the hillside below the mediaeval center of Thiers. French windows opened on to small balconies with commanding views of the rest of the town spread out below, and the great curvature of the valley beyond.

  It had been dark when Enzo arrived, the twinkling lights of human habitation down in the valley creating an inverse firmament. Tasha had leapt on him on his arrival, excited and breathless, and desperate to make friends. She was a beautiful, sleek-coated, golden labrador retriever, and it hadn’t taken long for Enzo to wrestle her to the floor, engaging in mock battle, and trying to avoid the flapping pink tongue that Tasha seemed determined to lick all over his face.

  Dominique stood helpless with laughter. “I think she likes you.”

  “I think she does,” Enzo said, gasping to catch his breath. “I have this fatal attraction for women. They can’t resist me.” He managed to turn the dog over on to her back and rub her belly. Almost immediately, Tasha relaxed, paws in the air, folded over at the joints. “See what I mean?”

  “As long as you don’t try that with me!”

  Enzo grinned. “Spoilsport!” Tasha’s muzzle showed slight signs of greying around the whiskers. “She’s not young. You must have had her for a long time.”

  “She’s ten, but I’ve only had her for a year. She was a police sniffer dog for most of her life. They always try to find good homes for the dogs when they retire them. I was in the right place at the right time and needed a friend.”

  “She’s a beauty.” Enzo stretched himself out beside the dog, leaning on one elbow and gently stroking her chest and belly.”

  Dominique smiled at him fondly. “I wouldn’t have put you down for a pet lover.”

  “I’ve always loved dogs. But living in the town like I do, and being away a lot, I never felt it was right to have one.”

  Dominique recovered a disarranged bouquet of flowers from the floor where they had fallen at Tasha’s first assault. “I take it these were meant for me?”

  “No, they’re for Tasha. There’s a bottle of wine for you on the coat stand.”

  Dominique laughed unrestrainedly. “You’re a funny man, Monsieur Macleod.”

  “Enzo.” He got to his feet and Tasha immediately got to hers, ready to continue the game. But Dominique raised a finger and gave a sharp warning blast of air through her front teeth. A real pack leader. Tasha stopped and looked up at her with lugubrious eyes which grew wide and excited when her mistress held up a black rubber ball about the size of a tennis ball.

  “Bed!” Dominique said. And Tasha immediately trotted across the living room to where a large dog basket made soft with blankets was pushed against the wall. Dominique followed her and gave her the ball, which Tasha was delighted to grab between her front paws and chew at with an almost frenzied relish. “She loves her ball. I can get her to do almost anything by giving her the ball as a reward.”

  Enzo brushed himself down and straightened his ponytail. “That’s her training.”

  Dominique gave him a quizzical look. “How do you mean?”

  “It’s how they train sniffer dogs. On the principle of reward. And it’s very rarely food. Almost always a favourite toy.” He followed Dominique through to the kitchen where she filled a vase with water to set and arrange his flowers. “Dogs have no interest at all in finding drugs or guns or whatever it is they’re trained to sniff out. It’s the reward that motivates them. It’s the game they love, with the toy as the reward. Some of them get obsessed with it. And the more obsessed, the better the dog at doing its job.”

  Dominique turned from her flower arranging. “I didn’t know that. You’re a veritable font of information, aren’t you?”

  He laughed. “I did some work with dogs during my forensics training in London.” He sniffed the air. “Something smells good.”

  “It’ll be ready in a minute. Just lasagne, I’m afraid. Nothing fancy. We’re eating en famille tonight.”

  “Pasta’s perfect for a guy called Enzo.”

  She grinned. “You could open that bottle of wine you brought and pour us a couple of glasses. They’re on the dining table by the window through there.” And she nodded toward a tiny dining room off the kitchen where flickering candlelight sent shadows dancing around the walls.

  Enzo fetched the bottle and took it through to the dining room. The small round table was set in the window recess. He guessed that in summer you could dine almost al fresco with the French windows open, taking your coffee and digestifs on the tiny balcony afterwards. The town seemed to fall away sheer beneath it. The windows faced west, so the sunsets would be spectacular.

  He cast his eyes over the fresh, white linen tablecloth, the pink cloth napkins in onyx rings. Three candles burned in chunky onyx holders, throwing a pale orange glow across the table with its circular gold chargers. Polished Thiers cutlery was laid out with meticulous care at facing place settings. She had strewn a small handful of crisp, curling yellow and red leaves across the table, giving it an autumnal effec
t, and he was both touched and aroused by the care with which she had prepared it for him.

  And for just a moment he had the sense of a very lonely person, hungry for company, deprived of love and warmth and intimacy, and it filled him with tenderness.

  “Poured that wine yet?” Her voice startled him, and he turned with bottle in hand to find her standing in the doorway watching him.

  “Just about to.” He filled both their glasses. “Come and taste.”

  He handed her a glass and they sipped the soft fruity red of the Côtes de Rhone in silent appreciation.

  “It’s lovely,” she said.

  He put his glass down and took hers away from her, placing it on the table next to his. And he took both of her hands. He registered the surprise on her face. “I just wanted to say thank you.”

  She laughed. “What for?”

  He tipped his head toward the table. “This.”

  She smiled, and her hands felt very small in his. And almost before he knew what was happening, he had drawn her into his arms, holding her there, feeling how she slipped her arms around him, too, tightening their hold. He brushed her hair back from her forehead with the backs of his fingers, and she turned doe eyes up to meet his. Then suddenly she laughed again and said, “Better not speak too soon. You haven’t tasted my lasagne yet.” They stood for a moment, both self-conscious, till she sniffed the air and added, “I think I smell burning.”

  He released her to hurry off into the kitchen. Of course, he knew it wasn’t burning at all. It was just her way of extricating them both from the moment, but in a way he would have been happy for the moment never to end. Maybe he was as lonely as she was.

  They had a starter of foie-gras and toasts, and she had thought to sprinkle the plate with fleur de sel and garnish with tiny boules of confit de figues. She had also opened a bottle of sweet white Monbazillac which complimented the savoury, salty flavour of the liver perfectly. “That,” she said, “is as high as my haute cuisine goes. And I didn’t cook any of it. Oh, except for grilling the toasts. I went on an eight-week course to learn how to do that.”

  “Yes.” Enzo nodded solemnly. “It’s one of the most difficult skills to master. I frequently burn mine.” He enjoyed her laughter, which came easily. As he looked up, he trapped her in his gaze and held her there for a moment. “I’d love to cook for you sometime.”

  “Mmmmh,” she said. “Burnt toast. Definitely the way to a woman’s heart.”

  “Yes, I’ve always found that.”

  She took away their empty plates and retreated to the kitchen to remove their lasagne from the oven. He smelled the beef and the melted cheese, the tomatoes and herbs, and was for a moment transported back to his childhood, to the bolognese and lasagne dishes his mother would prepare And simple spaghetti, with her home-made tomato sauce. He had never tasted anything quite so good since. He wondered what recollections Jack had of those days, or if he even thought about them. Jack had disliked Enzo’s mother with a fervor that was almost racist.

  “Penny for them.”

  He looked up from his trance as Dominique brought through a piping hot casserole dish to place on a mat next to a couple of plates and a serving spoon. “Just thinking about the food my mother used to cook for us when we were kids.”

  “We? I thought you didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”

  His heart jumped. How easy it was to be caught in a lie. “Just the family, I meant.”

  She served them each large portions of steaming lasagne and brought a bowl of salad through from the kitchen. “Help yourself.” And she watched as Enzo spooned a couple of helpings of salad over his lasagne. “I’ve been thinking…”

  Enzo looked up, grinning. “That can be dangerous.”

  But she didn’t return his smile. “About you and Charlotte.” And his smile faded, too. “It’s not fair Enzo. She has no right to deny you access to your son.”

  He shrugged, not at all certain that he wanted to get into a discussion about this. “That was the deal.”

  “To hell with the deal!” He was startled by her passion. “She threatened to take the life of your unborn child if you didn’t agree to stay away. That was cruel and unfair, and you had no choice. But she can’t threaten you with the life of the child now. And that changes everything. You have every justification for claiming your rights as a father. You have to go to her, Enzo, and demand that she let you see your son.”

  Her outburst left him momentarily speechless.

  But she wasn’t finished. “It’s been on my mind ever since you told me about it. I’ve hardly been able to sleep for thinking about it. It’s just not right!”

  Her obvious outrage and concern on his behalf touched him deeply. He reached across the table to take her hand and squeeze it gently. “You sound like my daughter.”

  “Which one?”

  “Well, both of them, actually. They never let me hear the end of it.”

  “And neither they should. He’s not just your son, he’s their brother. They have a stake in it, too.”

  Enzo nodded slowly. It was the first time he had looked at it that way. The girls had never expressed the thought, just their outrage on his behalf. He managed a smile. “We’ll see.” He dug his fork into his lasagne, and its seductive aromas rose from his plate with the steam. They ate in silence for some minutes, then.

  “I’m sorry,” she said at length. “I just had to get it off my chest.”

  “Don’t be. I appreciate your concern. I really do.”

  “I didn’t mean to spoil the evening.”

  “You haven’t.” He took another forkful from his plate. “The lasagne’s great.”

  She forced a laugh. “As good as your mother’s?”

  Enzo waggled a finger at her. “You can’t ask a man a question like that, Dominique. It’s not fair to make him choose between his mother and another woman.”

  This time her laugh came more freely. “I guess not.”

  “Suffice to say that my father would probably have fallen for you in a heartbeat.”

  “And his son?” Her face colored immediately. She had surprised herself, perhaps, by her own directness.

  He smiled. “His son is far too old for you.” And he remembered with a tiny stab, how Charlotte had used the age argument on behalf of her unborn son. Enzo, she had said, was old enough to be the boy’s grandfather, and that was not what she wanted for him.

  “We’ve had this conversation before.”

  He found himself locked in the gaze of dark eyes shining in candlelight. “We have.” He lifted his wine to wash over a mouthful of lasagne. “I’ve been thinking, Dominique, about the pouch that Marc Fraysse carried on the belt around his waist.”

  “Ah.” Dominique sat back with a slightly sad smile and lifted her glass to her lips. “Subtle, or not so subtle, change of subject.”

  “No.” He returned her smile. “Just something that’s been on my mind since I got here.”

  “Oh? Why?”

  “Tasha.”

  Dominique frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your superiors used the missing pouch to posit the idea that the motive for Fraysse’s murder could have been robbery, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “But someone out running is hardly likely to be carrying valuables. Even if his killer had been trying to rob Marc, one look in the pouch would have told him there was nothing of value in it. I mean, if he’d wanted the phone he would just have taken it.”

  “I suppose he would.”

  “So why did he take the pouch?”

  Dominique turned it over in her mind for a moment. “To make it look like a robbery?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Maybe the killer just took the bag and didn’t look in it till he got clear of the crime scene.”

  “In which case he would probably just take the phone and throw the bag away. He certainly wouldn’t want to be caught with it.”

  “So where’s this leading?”


  “You told me you searched the area.”

  “Yes. Officers from the police scientifique. They didn’t find anything.”

  “What was Tasha trained to sniff for?”

  Dominique shrugged. “I don’t know. Anything they gave her the scent of, I guess.”

  “So if we gave her something of Marc Fraysse’s to smell and let her loose up by the buron, the chances are she would pick up anything around there that still carried his scent?”

  “After seven years? That’s pretty unlikely, isn’t it?”

  “Any tracks, of course, would have been washed away at the time. But scent can cling to objects for years. Anything up there belonging to Fraysse might still carry his smell on it.”

  Dominique nodded in doubtful agreement. “Might be worth a try, I suppose.” She finished her wine and he refilled her glass. “I remember inheriting an aunt’s scarf when I was a child, and it had the scent of her on it for years afterwards. No matter how often I wore it.”

  “So we’ll take Tasha up first thing tomorrow?”

  “Sure.”

  “And don’t forget to take her ball. That’s the game, remember?” He finished his lasagne and mopped the plate clean with some moist, yeasty bread. “That was delicious. My mother would have hated you.”

  ***

  Dessert was fresh mango slices and vanilla ice-cream. Afterwards, they adjourned to the sitting room, sitting together on the settee by the light of dying embers in an open hearth. There, under the watchful gaze of Tasha, they drank coffee and Armagnac. Dominique sat side on, one leg tucked in beneath her, the other folded up under her chin, arms wrapped around her shin, and she watched him as he talked about the training which had led him to become an expert on serious serial crime analysis, specialising in blood pattern interpretation at major crime scenes.