‘Oh, we’ll eat, all right. I’ve made a reservation for dinner this evening at a restaurant close to our hotel.’
‘For a man who hasn’t been here before, you’re certainly organised. Look,’ she said, ‘we’re getting closer to the centre.’ She pointed up a narrow street with a glimpse of the Seine at the top, and a florist on the corner.
‘It certainly looks good, I’ll give you that.’
‘It’s magical. There are plenty of reasons why Parisians are proud of their city.’ Once again she stared out of the window, taking in the sights as they flew past. ‘We’re in the centre of the Latin Quarter now.’ She sounded like an excited child. ‘It won’t be long until we can see Notre Dame.’ It was the first time he had seen or heard her so enthusiastic about her surroundings. He liked it. It reminded him of his younger self, the guy who hadn’t fucked things up. ‘There it is now,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it lovely? Wait until you go inside – the atmosphere is like nowhere else on earth.’
‘So, what’s it like?’ His curiosity was spiked.
‘It’s quite dark at first, but there is an amazing stillness despite the throngs of moving tourists. There’s a sense of peace, with hints of light everywhere. You can see thousands of small candles flickering, each one lit by someone saying a prayer. The stained-glass windows let in light too. They have the deepest shades of blues and reds you can imagine. Each one tells a different story.’ She turned to him. ‘I’m afraid I’m not doing a great job of explaining it.’
‘You’re doing okay.’
‘They still have mass there, you know. And there are glass confessionals too. I thought it was the strangest thing the first time I was here, being able to look inside a confessional and see the priest and the sinner talking to one another. Of course, you can’t hear what they’re saying, but it still felt odd compared to Ireland, where people sit in coffin-like boxes telling a barely visible priest their sins.’
‘The last time I was at confession, I was probably wearing knee-length trousers.’ He laughed.
The taxi turned away from the Seine and darted down some narrow streets that Kate didn’t recognise. It pulled up outside the H?tel Saint Christophe, and Kate got out. She waited on the footpath while Adam paid the driver. The air felt cooler and crisper than it did in Dublin. Under any other circumstances, she mused, the two of them could have a great time exploring the city, but there was little chance of that, with all the work ahead and the flight to Rome booked for the following day. Still, she couldn’t resist smiling when he carried both their bags up the steps and through the hotel’s double doors. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she was pretending they were simply two people on holiday in one of the most romantic cities in the world.
‘Once we sign in,’ he said, ‘I can book another taxi for us. How long do you need in your room?’
So much for the most romantic city in the world, she thought. ‘Give me ten minutes to freshen up, and I’ll meet you back here at Reception.’
‘Wrap up warm, Kate. There’s a chill in the air.’
In the hotel room, she took a quick shower and felt better for it. Her hair was still wet, so she tied it into a long side plait, then put on jeans, comfy Ugg boots and a warm top. She had a feeling that at some point they’d be walking around this city and it was best to be prepared.
When they disembarked from the next taxi, the H?tel du Maurier looked far grander than the modest, but convenient, H?tel Saint Christophe.
‘Another opulent affair,’ she said, as they went into the lobby for their first appointment. The interior was impressive too.
‘I like your hair that way,’ Adam remarked.
‘What?’
‘Put in a plait like that. It’s cute. It makes you look younger.’
She wasn’t sure if he was teasing or serious. ‘I told you,’ she said in jest, ‘older men prefer the younger model.’
‘Steady on there. I’m in my mid-thirties. As a man, my choices are still wide open. I can look one way, age wise, or the other.’ He grinned.
She liked his sense of humour, and that he could get away with saying things others couldn’t, but before she could answer him, she caught a glimpse of herself in one of the hotel mirrors. She looked about twelve.
‘This must be Inspector Girardot now.’ He pointed to a man coming through the front door.
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m a detective, aren’t I?’
‘Very funny.’
The tall, elegant, dark-haired man, dressed impeccably in a tailored suit and an open trench coat, made his way towards them. He looked older than Adam, and with a sophistication that an Irishman could never adopt.
‘Monsieur O’Connor, I’m very pleased to meet you.’
‘Likewise, Inspector Girardot. May I introduce you to Dr Kate Pearson?’
‘Docteur.’ He bowed his head briefly. ‘Shall we get on with it?’ His tone was friendly but efficient.