‘Steady on,’ she said. ‘We’ve got all night.’
He could not but disagree. He had no sense of all. No sense of for ever. He’d known heaven like a tent … how did the line go? … ‘to wrap its shining yards and
disappear’.
In the morning when he awoke she was sleeping soundly, one leg across his. He moved it gently, and noticed for the first time the last irrefutable difference between Foxx and her sister—a
small tattoo on the inside of the left ankle. A bird of some sort, a bird ascending with something in its mouth. A dove? It had to be a dove. A dove holding an olive branch. He had sucked the
seashell from Madeleine’s left foot. He liked to think he would have noticed a tattoo. When she was dressed, the next time she was dressed as her sister, the fake Englishwoman, as she herself
had put it, he would think of the tattoo—so utterly un-English, un-middle-class—hidden beneath nylon stockings and good shoes.
The Banque du Commerce Coloniale was all but indistinguishable from a private house, tall and narrow as a London terrace. Indeed, it stood in a street of largely private
houses, into which the fashion houses were just beginning to intrude—the Avenue Montaigne, cleaving from the Champs Elysées at forty-five degrees, aiming straight for the river at the
Pont de l’Alma. Like Mullins Kelleher, only a small brass plaque told you it was a bank. And if you weren’t looking, you’d miss it.
From his seat on a bench, on the tiny triangle of muddied grass in the Place de l’Alma, Troy had a clear view to the bank, and an equally clear view of the Crazy Horse in the Avenue George
V. He wondered about the proximity of the two. Did this say something, anything, about Cockerell? Drawing out money from his bank, only to blow it at the conveniently close capital of tit and
titillation? He could not concentrate on pretending to read the newspaper that was meant to be his disguise. Paris was a city of mnemonics—the republican habit of remembering every odd and
sod in place names nudged the memory constantly. The English scarcely did this. Where in London was the Avenue Churchill or the Rue Ernie Bevin? Or, for that matter, George V Street? He was
captivated by a world of small symbols and fleeting coincidences. Place de l’Alma: the French equivalent of a street he had walked in his beat days in the East End, and the name of yet
another Crimean battle at which ancient Troys had perished; and Montaigne, Montaigne, what was it Montaigne had called lies? … the wretched vice? No … the accursed vice. Lying, Madeleine
Kerr’s accursed vice. He played pointlessly with the ‘kerr cur’ rhyme, and missed her exit. Before he knew it Foxx was at the bank door, shaking hands with someone and then
standing, blinking into the sun, while the man hailed a taxi for her.
Troy caught a taxi as it came down the Avenue George V, pointed at the back of Foxx’s cab as it crossed the bridge and said, ‘
Suivez.
’
The driver rolled his eyes upwards—boredom and exasperation as though all the English ever wanted was that you should waste time following another taxi. As they swung left on the opposite
bank, onto the Quai d’Orsay, Troy could see Foxx’s blonde head through the cab’s rear window. His own driver was muttering and cursing, but they had her clearly in sight, and he
turned his attention to what mattered. Was anyone else following? He looked behind him every few seconds, he peered into every car that drew level with them and watched the cab in front with one
hand on Madeleine Kerr’s little golden gun as they paused at traffic lights all the way along the Boulevard St Germain.
He was pretty sure they were not being followed. The cab turned off the Boulevard into the Rue de l’Odéon, with two cabs behind them, then off the Rue de l’Odéon and
into Rue Racine, and then there were none. His cab and hers were the only cabs in the street. Foxx turned right, and Troy knew she would stop outside the hotel. He stopped his cab at the corner and
walked the last fifty yards.
Five minutes hanging around in the lobby and no one else had entered. He went up to their room. It was empty. The smallest of the pink cases lay on the bed unopened. Her shoes lay on the carpet
where she had kicked them off. He pushed at the bathroom door, stepped inside. Only the rush of air told him the blow was coming. He ducked and a Perrier bottle wielded like an Indian club smashed
on the wall above his head.
‘I thought you’d be here,’ Foxx said, standing over him. ‘You said you’d be here. I didn’t know what had happened to you.’
Troy got to his feet. Knocked the shards of glass from his hair.
‘I was watching you,’ he said. ‘If I’d told you, you’d have been looking out for me, whether you resisted the impulse or not, you’d’ve had one eye
cocked for me.’
‘Someone’s following us?’
‘No. I don’t think anyone is. But this was the only way to be sure.’
‘Who’d be following us?’
He took a towel, mopped the mineral water from his head and face as they moved back to the bedroom. It was not a subject he wanted to pursue.
‘How did it go?’
He sat on the bed next to the pink case, shrugged off his jacket and rubbed at his hair with the towel.
‘Fine. Just the one awkward moment. I addressed the manager in French; he replied, and told me my accent had improved, then he switched to English, and we stayed in English till we got out
to the street. Me with “how now brown cow” running through my mind and trying to sound home counties. I think he and Stella had a routine—a bit flirty I should think—but I
couldn’t work it out, I could only fit in with what he did. But I don’t think he suspected a thing.’
‘And the box?’ said Troy.
Foxx flipped the catches on the case. Huge bundles of white five pound notes, a brown envelope and several strips of gold coins in plastic covers.
‘I took everything. I don’t know how much there is in paper money, but each of those strips holds fifty sovereigns and there’s six of them.’
Troy tore open the envelope. Five sheets of paper. Five double-spaced typed sheets of the five-block numerical code he had found in the London bank. He was not good with numbers. Hated numbers. It would take him all day to
decode this using the instructions Clark had given him.
He looked at Foxx. Standing, arms folded, in her stockinged feet, the tight, red burgundy skirt, the crisp cotton blouse and the token string
of pearls. She shook her newfound fringe from her eyes. Pale, green, looking back at him, trusting him and waiting on him. He had a day’s work cut out for him, and all he wanted to do was
fuck her. He held the heart of the mystery in his hands, gold and revelation, locked away in cellophane and cypher, and all he could think of was her on her back with her legs locked around his
waist.
‘You’re soaked,’ she said, in a matter of fact tone of voice. ‘Your shirt’s wet through. Here, let me.’
She pulled at the knot in his tie and began to pop the buttons on his shirt—a maternal, sexless gesture he could not take as maternal or sexless —and he knew he was lost.
She
was the heart of the mystery, locked away in cotton and nylon. Down there was the dove. All he had to do was strip off the wrapper.
It was past noon before they surfaced. While Foxx bathed he set out the five sheets of foolscap on the small table in the window. By the time she emerged from the bathroom he
had decoded the first sentence and ground to a halt on the second. It was going to take a lot longer than he had thought.
‘What can I do?’
‘Nothing. Why don’t you see the sights? I’ll meet you for dinner.’
‘Where should I go?’
‘There are plenty of places within walking distance. The Jardin du Luxembourg is only a quarter of a mile or so from here, and the river’s even less the other way. Why don’t
you see the jardin, walk over to the Île de la Cité, do Notre Dame, and then if the sun’s still out, sit in the little park at the opposite end of the island. It’s a
beautiful spot. Read a newspaper and watch the Seine barges go by. I’ll meet you at Lapérouse about eight o’clock.’
“Where’s that?’
Troy sketched the flattened U of the Seine on the back of the room service menu, drew in the elongated blobs for the two islands and marked the Quai des Grands Augustins with an X.
‘There,’ he said. ‘See you at eight.’
But by eight he was no wiser. He had tried every variation on the crib Clark gave him, all twenty-six possible starting points. To no avail.
He found her in a dark corner of Lapérouse, buried in its deep black and gold, her burgundy suit blending into the near-subterranean setting like natural camouflage. A corner table, lit
by a single sputtering candle. She held a half-empty glass of champagne in her hands, and was leaning back against the panelled wall with her eyes closed. They flickered open momentarily as he sat
down.
‘I’m dreaming,’ she said. ‘I’ve died and gone to heaven. I went up the Eiffel Tower. It was magical. You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had.’
He would and he did. He’d known Paris magic. His mother had taken him to Paris half a dozen times in the 1920s. They had heard recitals by Ravel and Stravinsky. They had eaten in this very
restaurant. She had reminisced about her own Paris magic, her first visit when she was seventeen, when she had been introduced to Maupassant and Zola, and seen the Eiffel Tower half-built, and had
considered it ‘vulgar’.
‘It seems a shame to go back so soon.’
Foxx opened her eyes fully, smiled at him.
‘You’re not,’ said Troy.
‘I’m not?’
‘I can’t crack the code. There’s something wrong somewhere. I have to go back and set my sergeant to work on it. I’m due back at the Yard anyway, and I doubt I can stall
them a day longer. You have to go on. I need to know what’s in the next box. It might be different. It might be easier.’
‘Go on where?’
‘Another city. Monte Carlo, Zurich, Amsterdam. Take your pick.’
She held out her hand.
‘Pencil,’ she said simply, and Troy took one from his inside pocket.
She tore thin strips off the wine list, scribbled down the three cities, and arranged them like a game of three
card monte. A quick shuffle and she asked him to ‘pick a card’.
He had difficulty in believing her lack of volition, but picked.
‘Zurich,’ he said. ‘It’s Zurich.’
Onions had a civilian secretary he referred to behind her back as ‘the gorgon’. Her real name was Madge.
‘You’re late,’ said Madge, standing in front of his desk, a huge sheaf of papers pressed to her bosom. ‘I was told to expect you this morning. I called you four
times.’
‘Doctor,’ Troy lied. ‘Had to see my doctor.’
He had stayed with Foxx, wrapped up in Foxx till dawn, and travelled back in the wan light of early morning. He felt dreadful.
‘But you’re fine now?’ Madge said without concern.
‘Yes,’ he said.
The sheaf of papers hit his desk with a thud.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Mr Wildeve’s in Hammersmith. Mr Clark’s trailing along behind him. The boss is in Manchester and Mr Henrey’s dead. So somebody round here
had better do a bit of work. Read and initial, except where it says sign, and you sign pp. Mr Onions.’
She strode to the open door. Troy stopped her with a hand on her arm.
‘When?’ he said.
‘When what?’
The woman had the sensitivity of a reptile.
‘When did Tom die?’
‘Last night. I wasn’t ringing you to check on your health.’
It was not that Madge had no regard for Tom. She had no regard for anyone but Onions.
‘What word from Manchester?’
‘The boss’ll be there till Thursday he reckons.’
‘I have to talk to him.’
‘He says not to call. I don’t know what you’ve done, Troy. But you seem to be a major bone of contention with “our Val”. If I were you, I’d do as he says and
let sleeping dogs lie for a while.’
He let her go. He felt a moment’s pointless guilt. The fleeting surrender of intelligence to coincidence. An old colleague had breathed his last while he was in the arms, between the
thighs, of a woman half his age. And then it passed. He and Tom had not been the best of friends, and he was a lousy copper.
Troy wondered if he could get through the next three days without a major case he could not delegate dropping onto his desk. His share of Onions’ work was routine; he found himself
initialling orders for paper clips and truncheons. He found his mind wandering. Could he work Clark’s coffee machine? Could he conjure a cup from this Heath Robinson affair? And as he stared
at the Thames, cup in hand, he found he could conjure the image of Foxx like a genie from a lamp.
In the morning Clark returned from a house-to-house search. Troy gave him the new papers. He looked at them like a master plumber confronted with a blocked lavatory and sucked air through his
teeth.
‘I’ll need time,’ he said.
In the afternoon Jack returned from Hammersmith. Troy sat while he brought him up to date on bodies rotting under floorboards in the terraces of Bedford Park, a case that at any other time would
have had him gripped. And at the end of it, he could see guilt in Jack’s eyes, much as it was so often writ in Rod’s.
‘You’re fine now, aren’t you, Freddie?’ Jack said. ‘I mean, that was a narrow scrape.’
Jack had had him suspended, shoved him into hole and corner.
‘Yes,’ said Troy. ‘I’m fine.’
On Thursday morning Madge graced his office with her steely presence to tell him Onions would be a day late.
On the Friday there was no sign of Stan. And no sign of Clark either.
‘I have to phone him,’ Troy told Madge.
‘Tough tittie,’ she said. ‘Val’s had one of her fits with the poker. Smashed the china, smashed the mirrors, smashed the phone too. Boss calls me from a box now.
You’ll just have to wait.’
But he could not wait. He was out of his depth and he knew it. He had to tell someone. Stan was the best person. Stan was the logical, the legal conduit between the Yard and the intelligence
services. He had unearthed a crime beyond the scope of his powers. Worse, he had no idea who the criminal was. He had worked out, and he was pretty certain Clark had too, that either side could
have killed Cockerell, Jessel and Kerr.