Essence of Murder Read online

  At the desk, the formalities were almost completed. ‘Elie around?’

  ‘In her office, I believe.’

  ‘No, she isn’t. Hi, Tridi.’

  ‘Hey, babe,’ Astrid said, already smiling as she turned. ‘Oh, my Lord, yes! You did it!’

  ‘Rad enough, do you think?’ Striking poses, Elie modelled her haircut. ‘Suit me? No need to reply. I know it does! Had it done on my birthday. Show you photos later.’

  Astrid decided not to mention that, colour included, Elie’s new look was a virtual replica of a recent style of her own. ‘It’s fabulous!’

  Barbara busied herself as the two women exchanged kisses, upbeat comments and comic asides.

  ‘I’ll give you a hand,’ Elie said, picking up a couple of Astrid’s bags. ‘So, what’s new? Apart from my hair.’

  They headed towards the lift. ‘And the brochure, don’t forget.’

  ‘Ah, you’ve seen it. What do you think?’

  ‘I liked the bit about me.’

  Elie laughed.

  ‘And the new piece on the Villa.’

  ‘I wrote that.’

  Astrid drew down the corners of her mouth. ‘You missed your calling.’

  Out on the drive, the sound of grinding gravel and a low, throaty roar heralded an arrival of some style. Astrid glanced over her shoulder as a voluptuous carmine red shape skidded to a stop in a thin cloud of dust. ‘Now that’s what you call an entrance,’ she said, remembering the low comedy disaster that was her own. If Elie had an opinion, she was keeping it to herself. ‘Don’t you think?’

  The lift was on it way down and Elie pressed for the second floor. ‘Never been much into cars.’

  ‘But that’s not just a box on wheels, is it?’ Astrid said. ‘It’s like the ones in those vintage motor racing posters you see everywhere.’ The driver climbed out. He appeared to be only in his mid-forties but he too had a vintage look. The flat cap and cravat combo, probably. ‘Talk about form over function.’ Elie gave her a look. ‘The car, I mean, not Monsieur Jean Dujardin, there.’

  ‘Better still, you talk about it,’ Elie said, and then, recovering her smile added: ‘And if you do, you’ll have eight would-be Picassos hanging on your every word and brushstroke.’

  ‘Eight? Ideal. Any familiar faces?’

  ‘We’ve got a few repeat students but no artists among them.’ Elie opened her document wallet and handed over a list of names. ‘Three men, this time. A record.’

  ‘I’ve already met one of them.’ She ran an eye over the sheet. ‘Here he is. Bassette, Ralf Adolf. Adolf? Jesus.’

  The lift arrived. ‘Think he would’ve changed that, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ They clambered into the lift, pirouetting to stand shoulder to shoulder. ‘Ralf’s such a bad name.’

  ‘Tridi?’ Elie said, grinning. ‘It’s so good to see you again.’

  Framed through the aspect ratio of the open doors, the scene on the drive took on the quality of a movie. Cravat was unlocking the vehicle’s hamper-sized boot as a taxi pulled alongside. On the back seat, a woman who looked as if she was well used to being chauffeured around gave him a discreet smile. Just a few metres away, Cravat appeared not to have noticed. But he had, Astrid felt sure.

  ‘That’s a relief,’ Elie said, sounding as if she were thinking aloud.

  ‘Relief?’

  ‘Sorry, yes. The newer arrival wasn’t entirely sure she could make it, that’s all.’

  Astrid studied her as the cabbie, scurrying around to the tailgate, unceremoniously threw open her door en route. Clearly put out, the woman stayed put.

  ‘And you were hoping to avoid an argument with her over the Villa’s no-show, no-refund policy?’

  ‘Exactly. Thea, her name is. Thea Petrova. Russian. Well, half-Russian. She can be very sweet actually but she has quite a temper on her. As we may see in a second.’

  As the cabbie quickly set down a pair of matching suitcases, Thea appeared to decide that the affront to her dignity had been trumped by a greater need. Emerging from the taxi under her own steam, she called out to Cravat, halting him as he set off to reception. Giving the impression that he hadn’t been aware of her presence until that moment, he turned and walked back.

  ‘Why is he pretending not to know her, do you think?’

  ‘I’m not aware he does know her.’ Elie gave the control panel a nod. ‘Give the button another press, will you? Needs a reminder, sometimes.’

  Astrid gave it two for luck. Cravat was walking with a slight limp, she noticed. ‘Is he one of my other men, do you know?’

  ‘I do and he isn’t.’ If Astrid had been sketching Elie at that moment, she would have made sure she caught just the tiniest glint of steel in her gaze. ‘I took the booking myself. He’s wine tasting with Mathieu. As is Thea.’

  The lift doors closed out the scene like an old-fashioned wipe cut and the friends found themselves in that moment of sanctuary which encouraged silence or the sharing of secrets.

  ‘So who is this guy?’ Astrid said, threading her arm through Elie’s as the ascent began. ‘And what’s your problem with him?’

  ‘Either I’m a poor actor or you’re just too observant.’

  ‘Could be both, of course.’

  Elie pursed her lips while she thought about it. ‘Alright, his name is Gérard Urquelle. That mean anything to you?’

  Astrid’s blonde brows lowered. ‘The surname’s familiar. But... it was a woman’s, I think.’ As always, she saw the image first. ‘A brunette. Strong jaw. Sad eyes.’ And then the context came to her. ‘Yes, of course. I taught her. Here.’

  ‘Vivienne, his wife. The April before last, it was.’

  ‘Vivienne, that’s it. Very determined student. Quite hard on herself as I remember. I could never get her to relax and just enjoy the thing. And as invariably happens, it showed in the finished work. But anyway – the husband. Tell me.’

  ‘The wine-tasting course is a birthday present to him from Vivienne.’ Elie’s mouth managed a smile; her eyes failed the audition. ‘A present for being such a good husband. Unquote.’

  The irony was easy to catch. ‘I see.’

  ‘Actually, I have no real problem with him. That ended...’ Her forehead creased as she made the calculation. ‘Four and a half years ago. Practically to the day.’

  Elie’s happy marriage to social worker Adam Tiron, Astrid knew, was no more than a couple of years old. ‘An old affair? Is that it?’

  ‘With Urquelle? Hardly.’

  Accompanied by an incongruously cheerful ping, the doors opened on to the top-floor landing. The pair decamped with Astrid’s luggage but car sounds and voices drifting in through the windows encouraged Elie back into the lift.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Seems everyone’s arriving at once. I don’t get Clarice back until Monday so I’d better go and help Barbara.’

  Astrid reached for the call button. ‘Not so fast, Madame Tiron.’ Her tone was playful but she wasn’t about to let Elie go, nevertheless. ‘What happened four and a half years ago?’

  ‘I discovered,’ Elie said, taking a breath as if to steady herself, ‘I wouldn’t have to kill Urquelle, after all.’

  Astrid abstractedly released the button.

  ‘See you later, Tridi.’

  The doors closed with a thunk, leaving Astrid rooted to the spot, A light, girlish voice called to her and broke the spell.

  ‘Coucou!’

  The speaker was a delicately featured woman with jet-black shoulder-length hair and a beaming smile. ‘I thought you’d given up your living statue act.’

  Astrid gave a little bow. ‘Come here, you ravishing creature.’

  As exuberant as she was, Zoë Hamada was not one of the world’s natural huggers and when the two women exchanged kisses, Astrid made a point not to hol
d on too long.

  ‘So you’re going for Sunshine, now. Good choice.’

  Just as Zoë couldn’t resist naming any scent she encountered, Astrid couldn’t resist a play fight. ‘Hopelessly out. It’s Chanel No 5,’ she said, eliciting an emphatic rebuttal before the penny dropped and Zoë admonished herself for not catching on immediately.

  ‘Sunshine works for you.’ She nodded, professorially. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘I do.’

  They picked up Astrid’s stuff and headed off to her room.

  ‘Something on your mind, Tridi?’

  ‘Oh – just then, you mean? No, not really. But there is one thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have a message for you from your old boss.’

  ‘Martin? Great.’ Zoë grinned, naughtily. ‘But if it’s a job offer, I’m too expensive for the House of Darac these days.’

  ‘He says, “We’ll always have Paris.” ’

  Zoë looked blank, then threw back her head and laughed. As in-jokes went, it seemed a belter, one to which Astrid had intended to pass on an explanation to son, Paul. But as she unlocked her room door, she was already thinking back to Elie and Gérard Urquelle. The expression ‘wanting to kill someone’ was in common usage, wasn’t it? Not meant to be taken literally. Usually. But there had been nothing usual in the way Elie had said it. Elie, Astrid sensed, had meant just that.

  * * *

  To avoid a crowd in Reception, Barbara had asked some of the arrivals, Urquelle and Thea Petrova among them, to wait in the lounge.

  ‘Good call, Barbara,’ Elie said, joining her at the desk. Making eye contact with the second person in line, she gestured him forward with a raised brow and a smile. A heavily set individual in his mid-fifties, the man had a ruddy gravel-bucket of a face, a blue-ish nose and the whites of his eyes scarcely merited the term. ‘Welcome to the Villa des Pinales. Your first time with us, I think, Monsieur..?’

  ‘Salins. Laurent Salins. Yes, first time. I signed up for the wine-tasting.’

  Of course you did, Elie thought to herself. ‘Just a moment, I have your reservation here. May I ask how you heard about us?’

  ‘I’m a great fan of Marcel Croix’s column in Nice-Matin.’

  So much of a fan, you can’t remember his name. ‘Tasting Notes.’

  ‘I expect there will be, yes.’

  Nor the name of his column. ‘O-K... You’re in room 7, first floor north-facing. If you would just sign this card for me? And here’s a print-out giving instructions and guidance to help you get the most out of both your stay and your course. I’ll just go over the main points.’

  The man managed to sign his name without mishap but then seemed to listen only intermittently to Elie’s spiel. If four years in the job had taught her anything, it was that Monsieur Laurent Salins would lose his print-out immediately and then spend the rest of his stay pestering her or, if she hadn’t been on holiday, her assistant Clarice, or receptionist Barbara, gardener Barthélémy, head chef Jean-Claude or any of his kitchen and serving staff, night man Bruno, the tutors and anyone else who happened to be around, for answers on precisely the questions she had just taken the trouble to provide.

  ‘Just to underline that final point, monsieur, check-out is by 9.30 on Saturday morning but that provides ample time for breakfast.’

  But Salins and staff management issues, Elie knew, would be the least of her worries for the next few days. If Urquelle had taken the time to look through the brochure, it was probable that her name would have meant nothing to him. At the time of the case, she was known to all as Céline, not its diminutive, Elie, which she had come to prefer latterly. And she had been single back then, bearing her maiden name of Roux.

  But might Urquelle recognise her? As far as Elie knew, he had never seen her in the flesh and no clear photograph had ever appeared in the media. He could well have seen a personal snap but until a few months ago, Elie’s hairstyle had been the mop of chestnut-brown curls she had sported all her adult life. And there was another difference. Back then, she favoured contact lenses, not the designer glasses she had been wearing for the past couple of years.

  ‘Next, please?’

  * * *

  In the lounge, Urquelle seemed grateful to have lost Thea Petrova to Jérôme and Marcia Calon, serial learners who he’d overheard “so enjoyed teaming up” with Thea the year before. Released, Urquelle went across to a picture window at which a pretty, slightly nervous-looking woman in her early forties was sitting with just a pull-case for company. He stood for a moment before turning to her. ‘Beautiful,’ he said, underscoring the depth of the reaction with his most sincere smile.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘The garden.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She smiled, prettily. ‘Although, I prefer the terraces at the rear. The view over the city and the bay is wonderful.’

  ‘Indeed. You are from the area?’

  She nodded. ‘Yes, more or less. Roquebrune.’

  ‘No, really? I worked in Monaco for many years. Gérard.’ He indicated the chair opposite. ‘May I?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘And might I ask..?’

  ‘Oh, of course.’ She coloured, slightly. ‘Lydia. Lydia Félix.’

  ‘Gérard Urquelle.’ He offered his hand, glancing at her ring finger in the process. It was unadorned but then so was his own. As he sat down, Lydia was frowning slightly.

  ‘Is something..?’

  ‘No, it’s just the name. It’s familiar somehow but I...’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled, a creation of such archness, it was akin to parody. ‘Before we go any further, Lydia, I must warn you that you’re in conversation with a hardened criminal.’

  ‘Oh?’ Mollified by his manner, Lydia was already on his side. ‘You don’t look like any sort of criminal.’

  ‘That’s not what my next-door neighbour concluded back in June. Happily, the poor Police Municipale officer who was obliged to talk to me about her complaint was rather more of your opinion.’

  ‘What was she complaining about?’

  ‘Oh, the sort of thing dotty old hysterics the world over complain about. Nice-Matin enjoyed the story, anyway. If you can call it that. I’m not surprised you’d forgotten it.’

  She chuckled but the frown returned. ‘You know, I don’t think it was this June I came across your name. It feels like much longer ago.’

  Urquelle sat back, essaying a look that combined modesty and world-weary charm. It was a winning look and if he knew it, it didn’t show. ‘Sorry for the misunderstanding, but this half-remembering my name moment hasn’t happened in a couple of years now.’

  ‘I still can’t place it.’

  ‘Let me help you. I mentioned I used to work just along the corniches from you in Monaco. Do you know Bertrand et Fils, the jewellers?’

  ‘Bertrand..?’ It took a moment but then it came back to her. ‘Are you the one who foiled the robbery?’ She examined him more closely. ‘Yes, you are. I can see it now. Gérard Urquelle, the – what did the Press call you? – The “have-a-go hero.” ’

  ‘Guilty. But I must say I’ve always hated that term. It’s ridiculous. And not least because no one, quite frankly, could be less heroic than me.’

  Lydia clearly had other thoughts on the matter and with Thea Petrova looking on intermittently from her imprisonment with the Calons, the two of them fell to discussing the incident which five years before had fed the local newshounds for a good few weeks. Chatting about a notorious case with its star performer acted like a heat pad to Lydia’s stiffness and by the end of it she was asking questions with the freedom of a seasoned reporter. Finally, wine-tasting student-to-be Urquelle had a question of his own.

  ‘Which course are you signed-up for, Lydia?’

  ‘The Magic of Scent. With Zoë Hamada.’

  ‘Excellent,’
Urquelle said. ‘So am I.’

  ‘Yes? It’s silly but I’ve always wanted to make my own signature perfume. Used to do it as a child.’ She gave a shy little laugh. ‘You know, collecting up rose petals and putting them with great ceremony into a jar. Then wondering why they smelled so horrible a week or two later.’

  ‘That’s charming.’

  ‘Well, I think I’ll do very much better this time.’ She glanced away. ‘Oh, look - the queue in reception has died down.’ She pulled up the handle of her case. ‘Shall we?’

  A group to their left appeared to have made the same call. Thea, caught in a pincer movement by her jailers, was among them.

  ‘Could we wait just a moment?’ Urquelle leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Don’t make it obvious but you see the woman leading the charge? The one with the lank, light-brown hair?’

  ‘The striking-looking woman wearing the suit?’

  ‘And the put-out expression.’

  Seemingly swallowing every morsel of bait being offered her, Lydia smiled. ‘I see her.’

  ‘Her name is Thea Petrova. Very Russian, if you know what I mean. Anyway, for reasons I won’t go into, I’m trying to avoid her.’

  ‘Oh?’ Lydia’s brow furrowed in concern. ‘But will that be possible here? She may be on our course. And even if...’

  ‘She isn’t,’ he said, definitively. ‘You’re quite right, of course, although it’s not as if I’ll be dodging out of her way the entire time or anything. I just won’t be encouraging...’ He looked into Lydia’s eyes. ‘Intimacy. Are you with me?’

  She considered the question. ‘I’m with you.’

  Urquelle’s mobile buzzed in his blazer pocket. ‘Do excuse me. It may be business.’ The business proved to be a text from Urquelle’s wife, Vivienne. As if she might be watching, he glanced around before informing Lydia that, as suspected, he needed to call head office and it may take some time.

  ‘Of course. Listen...’ Like a blind person embarking on an untested route, Lydia hesitated before venturing further. ‘Why don’t I go and check in and perhaps we could meet for drinks later or at dinner?’