‘Mark Lynch. He says the hotel room in Rome was numbered ninety-three, not a master number.’
‘Rome could be the anomaly. Although there was a fire, arguably similar to the Tower card from the Tarot, the victim shared the room with his wife. Unless he liked to bring his lovers and his wife to the same hotel room, chances are he chose the room without the influence of the killer. It has other differences too, apart from the lack of a master number.’
‘Maybe the differences exist, Kate, because the wife was present.’
‘The woman being pregnant could have influenced things too.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Whoever our killer is, it’s like she’s trying to escape her past. The opulence of the hotel rooms, her expensive tastes are most likely contradictory to what went before, and by before, I mean her early environment.’
‘So, Kate, we have a highly intelligent, mid-thirties female with an interest in framing her victims. Someone with a tragic beginning, seeking emotional investment, coming from a modest socio-economic background, and who also happens to have an overdose of built-up anger.’
‘She’s also ambitious. It’s unlikely she would remain stagnant. She will have progressed socially, even if that meant using manipulation.’
He checked his mobile phone. ‘It’s a quarter to two. We’d better get a move on if we’re to get our artistic education started.’
They both stood up. Stretching his arms above his head, looking across at the Louvre, he asked, ‘Have you ever been in there?’
‘Yes, but we won’t get to it today, if that’s what you’re considering. You’d need several days for a proper visit.’
‘I was only asking. You can tell me all about it over dinner tonight.’ Then he cupped her elbow in his hand and they mounted the stone steps together.
Amid the swell of city traffic, the stalls of paintings, souvenirs and Parisian memorabilia on the banks of the Seine, the voices of tourists and locals, another question needled her: was she the only one who saw this Paris visit as having the potential for more?
BEAUX-ARTS DE PARIS, RUE BONAPARTE
THE COLLEGE, SITUATED opposite the Louvre in the heart of Saint-Germain-des-Prés, between the dock and the Malaquais, was steeped in history, dating from the seventeenth century, with a campus spread over two hectares. As Kate and Adam approached the front entrance, they saw hundreds of student bicycles leaning again the street railings. It was a walled enclosure, with ornate black double gates and two large stone pillars on either side. Once through the gates, they walked across the enormous cobble-locked square, with multiple archways leading from one Gothic-designed building to another.
Inspector Girardot’s directions were meticulous, and they soon found themselves in a small courtyard with a stone fountain in front of a two-storey aged terracotta building.
Inside, Kate had expected a continuation of the exterior style, but it was modern. They passed a number of studios with open doors, glimpsing multiple canvases leaning against pure white walls. There was a studio with sculptures where some students sat cross-legged with sketch pads in hand. In the last room before the director’s office, there was an enormous abstract canvas, vibrant with colour, in which, Kate thought, the ultramarine dripped like tears.
Adam made a knuckled fist and knocked hard on the panelled door.
‘Bonjour. Entrez, s’il vous pla?t,’ called a male voice from inside.
‘After you,’ said Adam.
Kate turned the steel handle, pushing the large black ebony door open. ‘Bonjour, Professor Chéry. Do you speak English?’
‘Oui.’ He stood up to greet them, then gestured them both to chairs. ‘Monsieur O’Connor and Dr Pearson, I assume?’
‘That’s right, Professor,’ said Adam.
‘Julien, s’il vous pla?t.’ He pulled his swivel chair closer to his desk. Julien Chéry’s office was in stark contrast to the modern design outside. The furniture, Kate mused, wouldn’t have been out of place in the Napoleon rooms at the Louvre. The professor was tall, dressed in a brown cord suit, with a plain shirt and jumper. One side of his white shirt collar stuck out, the other was tucked neatly away. Although he sounded friendly, his face contorted slightly on greeting them with what seemed to Kate a false smile. He was handsome, she reflected, with good bones, deep-set eyes below his heavy but somewhat tossed eyebrows. He was alert, ready for anything they might ask him.
‘Julien, I understand Inspector Girardot has already briefed you on the reasons behind our visit.’ Adam waited for Kate to sit, before taking his seat on the identical upholstered chair beside her.
‘You are here in connection with the killing of Pierre Laurent.’ Julien placed his outstretched hands on the desk, wriggling his fingers as if he was limbering up to play a musical instrument. ‘You believe it may be linked to a recent murder in your country.’
‘We’re pretty sure it is.’ Adam sat upright in the chair.