The Paris Apartment(33)

On the first floor I hesitate outside the apartment. I knock on the door once, twice—three times. Listen for the sound of footsteps inside while I take in the scuffed doorframe, the stink of stale cigarette smoke. I linger perhaps a couple of minutes but there’s no answer. He’s probably passed out in there in a drunken stupor. Or maybe he’s avoiding me . . . I wouldn’t be surprised. I have something I want—need—to say to the guy. But I suppose it’ll have to wait.

Then I close the door, start climbing the stairs, my eyes stinging. I lift the hem of my sweat-soaked T-shirt to rub at them, then carry on up.

I’m just passing by the third-floor apartment when the door is flung open and there she stands: Jess.

“Er—hi,” I say, pushing a hand through my hair.

“Oh,” she says, looking confused. “It looked like you were going upstairs?”

“No,” I say, “No . . . actually, I was coming to see how you were. I meant to say—sorry for running off yesterday. When we were talking. Did you have any luck tracking Ben down?”

I look at her closely. Her face is pale. No longer the sly little fox she seemed yesterday, now she’s a rabbit in the headlamps.

“Jess,” I say. “Are you all right?”

She opens her mouth but for a moment no sound comes out. I get the impression she’s fighting some sort of internal battle. Finally she blurts, “Someone was in here, very early this morning. Someone else must have a key to this apartment.”

“A key?”

“Yeah. They came in and crept around.” Less rabbit-in-the-headlamps now. That tough veneer coming back up.

“What, into the apartment? Did they take anything?”

She shrugs, hesitates. “No.”

“Look, Jess,” I say. “It sounds to me like you should speak to the police.”

She screws up her face. “I called them yesterday. They weren’t any help.”

“What did they say?”

“That they’d make a record,” she says with an eyeroll. “But then, I don’t know why I even bothered. I’m the fucking idiot who comes to Paris alone, barely able to speak the language. Why I thought they’d take me seriously . . .”

“How much French can you speak?” I ask her.

She shrugs. “Hardly anything. I can just about order a beer, but that’s it. Pretty bloody useless, right?”

“Look, why don’t I come with you to the Commissariat? I’m sure they’d be more helpful if I spoke to them in French.”

She raises her eyebrows. “That would be—well, that would be amazing. Thank you. I’m . . . look, I’m really grateful.” A shrug. “I’m not good at asking for favors.”

“You didn’t ask—I offered. I told you yesterday I want to help. I mean it.”

“Well, thanks.” She tugs at the chain of her necklace. “Can we go soon? I need to get out of this place.”





Jess




We’re out on the street, walking along in silence. My thoughts are churning. That voicenote made me feel like I shouldn’t trust anyone in the building—including Ben’s old uni mate, friendly as he might be. But on the other hand, Nick’s the one who suggested going to the police. Surely he wouldn’t do that if he had something to do with Ben’s disappearance?

“This way,” Nick takes hold of my elbow—my arm tingles slightly at his touch—and steers me into an alleyway, no, more like a kind of stone tunnel between buildings. “A cut-through,” he says.

In contrast with the crowded street we left behind there’s suddenly no one else in sight and it’s much darker. Our footsteps echo. I don’t like that I can’t see the sky.

It’s a relief when we pop out at the other end. But as we turn onto the street I see it ends in a police barricade. There are several guys wearing helmets and stab vests, holding batons, radios crackling.

“Fuck,” I say, heart thudding.

“Merde,” says Nick, at the same time.

He goes over and speaks to them. I stay where I am. They don’t seem friendly. I can feel them looking us over.

“It’s the riots,” Nick says, striding back. “They’re expecting a bit of trouble.” He looks closely at me. “You OK?”

“Yeah, fine.” I remind myself that we’re literally on the way to talk to the police. They might be able to help. But it suddenly feels important to get something off my chest. “Hey—Nick?” I start, as we begin walking again.

“Yup?”

“Yesterday, when I spoke to the police, they said they wanted to take my name and address, for their records or whatever. I, er . . . I don’t want to give them that information.”

Nick frowns at me. “Why’s that?”

Because even though he had it coming, I think, what I did to that arsehole is technically still a crime.

“I—it’s not worth getting into.” But because he’s still looking at me oddly and I don’t want him to think I’m some sort of hardened criminal, I say: “I had a little trouble at work, just before I came here.”

More than a little trouble. Two days ago I walked into the Copacabana, smile on my face, as though my boss hadn’t flashed his dick at me the day before. Oh, I can play along when I need to. I needed that bloody job. And then at lunch before opening, while The Pervert was taking a crap (he went in there with a dirty magazine, I knew I had a while), I went and got the little key from his office and opened the till and took everything in it. It wasn’t loads; he was too wily for that, refilled it every day. But it was enough to get here, enough to escape on the first Eurostar I could book myself onto. Oh, and for good measure I heaved two kegs in front of the toilet door, one stacked on the other and the top one just under the door handle so he couldn’t turn it. Would have taken him a while to get out of that one.