AS SHE SAT ON THE TRAIN TO GATWICK AIRPORT, Rachel tried to formulate a plan. Surely when the police saw that the platinum heart was so tiny – not even a complete piece of jewellery but a bit ripped off Diana’s bracelet in the collision – they would not press charges? It was insig nificant. They must see that. She wondered if they might at last find out who had given Diana the bracelet and what the engravings signified. Life had been so busy that it had not been at the forefront of her mind, but now her curiosity returned.
Poor Alex must regret that he had ever picked it up. What must he be thinking, stuck in a cell and not even able to make phone calls? A criminal record would affect his entire life, all for a spur-of-the-moment decision. Her heart ached for him.
At the airport, she went first to the British Airways desk, where they told her that all their Paris flights for the day were booked up. She tried Air France next, and they didn’t have a seat till evening. Fog earlier in the day had meant some flights being rerouted, so they were all in the wrong places now. The counter assistant gave her the telephone number of Eurostar and she managed to secure a seat on their 12.20 service that reached Gare du Nord around four in the afternoon.
She caught an express train to Victoria station only to find the District and Circle underground lines were not running so she had to zigzag between Tube stations, out of breath and panting. It was as if the world was conspiring against her. At Waterloo, she caught the Paris train with minutes to spare and slumped in the seat, heart thumping.
For the first part of the journey she watched the countryside flit past, trying to calm down and think logically about what she should do next. She was dressed smartly, in a belted slate-grey wool dress under her green Jacquard coat, and she’d brought her black Chanel bag; appearances were important when dealing with police. She planned the words in her head, rehearsing them in schoolgirl French in case there were no English translators available.
Once the train emerged at Calais, into weather that was much sunnier than it had been in Brighton, she took out her make-up bag and began to apply her make-up carefully, to the fascination of a little girl sitting across the aisle. Highlighter, concealer, blusher and eyeliner, all painted on with fine-bristled brushes, followed by mascara and lipstick. She smiled and the girl hid behind her mother’s shoulder.
At Gare du Nord she changed some English money into francs and caught a taxi to the Criminal Brigade headquarters on quai des Orfèvres. So much depended on what she said next: Alex’s future, their wedding, the children they might one day have . . . She felt tight with nerves but at the same time utterly determined.
‘Mon fiancé est ici,’ she told the policeman at the front desk. ‘Alex Greene. S’il vous plaît, pourrais-je parler à quelqu’un? C’est très important.’
She was asked to sit down, and she waited twenty-three interminable minutes, measured by the ticking of a large clock on the wall, before a short bespectacled man emerged through some glass doors and headed towards her.
‘Mademoiselle Wainwright? Can I help you?’
Fortunately he spoke English. Rachel explained that her fiancé was being held there, that she had information relating to the case, and that she needed to talk to someone urgently.
‘Come back tomorrow morning,’ he said, glancing at the clock. ‘No one can see you today.’
‘Could I talk to Alex?’ she asked, but was told that was not possible.
‘How about his lawyer?’ she persisted. ‘Could you tell me who is representing him?’
He sighed, implying in a brief gesture that this was a huge waste of his time, but got up and disappeared through the glass doors. When he came back a few minutes later, he handed her a card with a name and a telephone number: M. Belmont.
On the pavement outside, Rachel took out her mobile phone. It was five thirty and she could see office workers piling onto the pavements, heading for home or for their evening assignations, while Alex sat in his tiny cell, unaware that she knew his whereabouts and was trying to help. She wasn’t sure what code to dial when using a mobile in France and had to try a couple of times before she heard the phone ring and a woman’s voice answer.
‘Puis-je parler à M. Belmont?’ Rachel asked. ‘Je suis la fiancée de Alex Greene, un de ses clients.’
She knew her spoken French was terrible. The receptionist had to ask her to repeat herself twice before she understood, then she said, ‘Un moment.’
‘Miss Wainwright?’ A man’s voice came on the line. His English had only a trace of an accent. ‘Belmont speaking.’
She explained that she had come to Paris to help Alex, that she had brought with her the item he was accused of stealing.
‘You had better come to my office,’ he said, and gave her the address.
‘I understand you and Alex were planning to get married on Thursday,’ Monsieur Belmont said as he invited her to sit. Rachel’s heart sank at his choice of tense. ‘I’m afraid we won’t know until tomorrow afternoon whether they plan to release him and, if so, whether he will be allowed to leave the country.’
Rachel took the platinum heart from her purse and put it on the desk. ‘Look! This is all about a tiny piece of metal that fell off a bracelet. It’s nothing!’
Monsieur Belmont picked it up and turned it over, reading the inscription. ‘Not quite nothing. To the police, it is theft, and interfering with a crime scene.’
‘How did they even find out?’ Rachel asked. ‘I thought there was no CCTV in the tunnel?’
‘Yes, but eleven photographers each took dozens of pictures of the scene. The police confiscated their film, processed it and pieced together what everyone in that tunnel was doing during the critical period. Several pictures show Alex picking up the heart. He was arrested at passport control at Charles de Gaulle yesterday morning.’
Poor Alex. He must have got a terrible shock. That explained why he hadn’t been able to phone and warn her.
‘He’s not a souvenir hunter,’ she insisted. ‘He wasn’t going to try and sell it or anything. It’s just a mistake.’
‘A very unfortunate mistake. If he had handed it to the Criminal Brigade the next day, he would no doubt have been in the clear.’
Rachel made a decision. She had to get Alex out of jail. ‘It wasn’t his fault,’ she said. ‘He gave the heart to me for safe keeping. I was supposed to return it, but I wasn’t sure who to give it to and then I forgot all about it. I’m sure Alex thought I returned it ages ago.’
Monsieur Belmont frowned, tapped his pen on the desk. ‘That is not the story he told me.’
‘Of course not. He wouldn’t want to implicate me, but I’m telling you the truth.’ She met his eyes, trying not to blink.
The lawyer thought for a moment, watching her. ‘If we tell this version of events to the police, you might be charged with receiving stolen goods and I’m not sure it would help Alex much. Let me think about it.’
‘What sort of sentence could he face if he’s found guilty?’ Rachel’s stomach gurgled loudly and she folded her arms across her waist.
‘Nine months to a year perhaps. But I’m hoping it won’t come to that.’
A year! She felt close to tears. ‘Can I come to the station with you tomorrow to see him?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. However, I will take this object, and I’ll point out to the police investigators that neither of you had any interest in making money from it. The fact that it was not handed in was an oversight. If you give me your telephone number, I’ll call you as soon as I know the conclusion.’
Rachel gave her mobile number, then asked, ‘What are his chances?’
The lawyer tapped his pen again. ‘I am not a gambling man, Miss Wainwright. There are politics involved. A British royal died on French soil and the eyes of the world are watching our investigation, so it must be seen to be thorough, with every detail accounted for. And here . . .’ He dangled the heart between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Here we have a detail.’