Dry Bones Read Free

unless you’ve got your head pretty well screwed on.’
    ‘Well, nothing’s changed. Not for Kirsty, anyway.’
    ‘What did she say?’
    ‘She told me to fuck off.’
    Simon’s brandy arrived and he sipped on it contemplatively. ‘So what now?’
    ‘I might as well just go home.’
    ‘I thought you had an appointment with Raffin?’
    ‘I’m not sure I’ll bother.’
    Simon cocked an eyebrow. ‘Two thousand euros, Enzo. You can hardly afford that on your salary.’
    Enzo glared at him. Simon had been instrumental in forcing the issue to a bet in the first place. And as the only lawyer present had promised to bear witness to the parties involved and keep the cash in escrow until an outcome was agreed.
    ***
    The tables beneath the candy-striped awning of Le Bonaparte were nearly all full when Enzo arrived, Parisians and tourists alike indulging in the café culture that so characterised the city, sitting in serried rows sipping drinks, watching the endless ebb and flow of humanity in the Place St. Germain des Prés. It was nearly dark now, the biscuit-coloured stone of the ancient church of St. Germain floodlit starkly against a deep blue sky. Enzo took a table on the corner, beneath a No Entry sign, and ordered a brandy. He checked the time. It was after ten, and he was late. He wondered if, perhaps, Raffin might have come and gone already. He had told the journalist that he would recognise him by his hair, tied in a ponytail, a silver stripe running back from his left temple. He never thought about how other people might view him, with his baggy cargo trousers and white running shoes, and his large selection of voluminous, collarless shirts, which he rarely tucked in. And, of course, the ubiquitous canvas satchel that he slung across his shoulder. Sophie’s favourite fond insult was to call him an old hippie. Which was probably how most people saw him. But he was also a big man, and kept himself fit by cycling, so he tended to stand out in a crowd. He was aware that women found him attractive, but he had always shied away from committing to another relationship after Pascale.
    By twenty past he had finished his brandy and was contemplating leaving. As he searched for coins in his pocket, he became aware of a figure standing over him. He looked up to see a tall, thin man with longish brown hair swept back to the upturned collar of his white shirt. He carried a light summer jacket carelessly across his shoulder, and his trousers, belted at a slim waist, were immaculately creased, gathering in fashionable folds around neat, black-leather Italian shoes. He had a cigarette carefully held at the end of long fingers, and took a final draw before flicking it away across the cobbled street. He held out his smoking hand. ‘Roger Raffin,’ he said. ‘Sorry I’m late.’
    ‘That’s okay,’ Enzo said, shaking his hand. He was surprised at how cool it was.
    Raffin sat down in the vacant seat, and with the practised ease of a
vrai Parisien
, signalled a waiter with a black apron and white shirt who materialised almost immediately at their table. ‘A glass of Pouilly Fumé.’ He nodded towards Enzo’s glass. ‘Brandy, is it?’
    While they waited for their drinks, Raffin lit another cigarette and said, ‘I checked you out on the internet, Monsieur. It says you are a professor of biology at Paul Sabatier University in Toulouse. Why am I even talking to you?’
    ‘I was with the
police scientifique
in Scotland. But it’s a long time since I practised. The internet didn’t even exist then.’
    ‘So what makes you think you are qualified to pass an opinion on anything today?’
    ‘I was trained as a forensic biologist, Monsieur Raffin. Seven years with Strathclyde police in Glasgow, the last two as head of biology, covering everything from blood pattern interpretation at major crime scenes, to analysis of hairs and fibres. I was involved in early DNA databasing, interpretation of damage to clothing, as well as