47

GUNNAR LARSSON WAS TALKING TO three guests in the hall of Le Mas Bleu when Jacquot and Brunet came up the hotel’s front steps and through the front door. When he spotted them, Larsson made his excuses and came over to greet them. He was as tall as Jacquot but half the size – cadaverous was the word that sprang to mind when Jacquot shook his hand. Just the merest flick and he could easily have swung the man over his shoulder, like a bag of brittle kindling. But for all his thinness, his skeletal frame and skull-like features, his voice was a deep unexpected growl that sounded like someone else was speaking.

With the pleasantries over, coffee offered and declined, Larsson showed them through to the salon, where Jacquot got down to business.

‘My assistant tells me you recognised the photos we sent you. The two women.’

‘Of course. From our opening party. The beginning of April. It was Clément who recognised them.’

‘They were invited?’ For a moment Jacquot imagined their names on a guest list beside a contact number. But he knew that was unlikely. He was right.

‘At the time we assumed so. But there were so many people here . . . it was mayhem.’

‘So you didn’t know them?’

‘We sent out three hundred invitations, Chief Inspector. Most of those went to friends, but others were sent to magazines, newspaper editors. So that we could pull in some publicity. You know the sort of thing . . . A number of journalists – whom we didn’t necessarily recognise – turned up and introduced themselves. These two women were with them. One had a notebook, the other had a camera. We just assumed . . .’

‘So you actually met them? Talked to them?’

Gunnar smiled uncertainly. ‘En effet, I showed them around the hotel. There was a group of them – wanting a quick peek at the rooms. So, of course, I laid on a little tour. We had no guests staying, it was easy.’

‘And who did they say they worked for? Did they have a business card?’

Gunnar looked uncomfortable, as though he had somehow contributed to the tragedy through his carelessness.

‘I really don’t remember. It was just, you know . . . the camera, the notebook; like any other journalists. Maybe they said the name of a magazine or newspaper, but I cannot recall. We were simply being good hosts. In our business, at an opening, you don’t want to appear unfriendly, especially to journalists.’

‘So how come you remember these two particularly? Was it something they said? Or did?’

Gunnar hesitated, gave a low chuckling little laugh, as though what he was about to say might sound rather silly.

‘I remember . . . I remember they had dirty fingernails. It was the first thing Clément said, the following day. “Did you see their fingernails?” And I told him I had. We couldn’t believe it. I mean, when you write for Sud, or Boutique, or Vogue, or Elle or the other big titles, you don’t have dirty fingernails. Not Lifestyle writers. It just doesn’t happen. And their hands. Big, strong hands . . . real workers’ hands, country hands . . .’ Gunnar started to shake his head. ‘There was just something about them. Not quite right. But you don’t think about it at the time. You have guests, it is a party. And there is also a job to do. Promoting the hotel . . . So many people to talk to, Clément and I. And the staff to keep on their toes . . . the food, the wine.’ He sighed.

‘On this tour of the hotel, did either of the women ask any questions? Take any notes?’

Gunnar shook his head.

‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. When we saw the photos last night, we recognised them immediately. And remembered the fingernails. But that is all.’

‘Please don’t worry, Monsieur. You have been very helpful.’ Jacquot got to his feet. ‘One last thing. Did the woman with the camera take a lot of pictures?’

Gunnar gave it some thought.

‘Yes, she did. Which, come to think of it, is also strange. She was just taking snaps – nothing you could really publish to accompany a magazine or newspaper story. Like the camera was a toy, something to play with. And not what you would call a professional’s camera.’

‘Did any of the other journalists have cameras?’

‘No, they didn’t. They’re the ones who write the story – a glass in one hand, a note-book or tape recorder in the other. The photographer usually comes later. Or they ask for a press pack which comes with a selection of transparencies.’

‘Do you remember if she photographed anything in particular?’

‘Poufff. Just strange things – doorhandles, windows, the floor. Sometimes it was like she was doing it for fun, to tease or annoy us. Her colleague wasn’t pleased either. Gave her a look, if I remember.’

On the way back to the office, Jacquot and Brunet played it between them.

‘So they find out where the Gilberts are spending their first night at least a month before the wedding. How do they do that?’ asked Brunet.

‘If they hung around Madame Tapis’ pharmacie in Coustellet they’d have found out soon enough,’ said Jacquot. ‘Local gossip, something overheard in a local bar or café while they’re checking Gilbert out – easily done.’

Up ahead the first of the town’s traffic lights swung into view across the road. It was red and Brunet started to slow, timing his approach so he wouldn’t have to stop.

‘So they start the stalk back in Marseilles, looking for options, and follow him up here,’ said Brunet. ‘Find out about Izzy Blanchard, the wedding, the reception . . .’

‘And decide this is as good a place as any. For what they have in mind. Remember, too, there are no parents, no one else close to him. Just Noël.’

The light turned green and Brunet increased his speed.

‘And now they’re back.’

And now they’re back, thought Jacquot.

Somewhere out there, among the shadows, biding their time.