Dry Bones Read Free Page A

detailed examination of murder scenes. Oh, and did I mention? I am one of only four people in the UK to have trained as a Byford scientist—which also makes me an expert on serious serial crime analysis.’
    ‘
Made
you an expert, Monsieur Macleod. Things have changed.’
    ‘I’ve kept myself apprised of all the latest scientific developments in the field.’
    ‘So why aren’t you still doing it?’
    ‘Personal reasons.’
    Raffin looked at Enzo appraisingly, fixing him with startlingly pale green eyes. He looked no older than thirty-five or thirty-six. He had a creamy-smooth tanned complexion and pale lips. His nose was thin, and sharp, and a little too prominent, but he was a good-looking young man. He sighed as their drinks arrived and took a delicate sip from his misted glass. ‘Why should I co-operate with you on this?’
    Enzo tipped his brandy glass to his lips and the stuff burned all the way down. He felt reckless and brave and in need of something to fill a vacant place in his life. And it seemed like a good idea not to mention the wager at this point. ‘Because I’m going to find out what happened to Jacques Gaillard,’ he said. ‘With or without your help.’
    III.
    Raffin’s apartment was in the Rue du Tournon, on the first floor, above two art galleries. It was within a hundred meters of the floodlit splendour of the Senate building, the home of the French government’s Upper House, tiers of classical pillars supporting its crowning dome at the head of a long, narrow street running all the way down to the Boulevard St. Germain, and the Seine beyond that.
    Raffin tapped in his entry code, and pushed a huge, heavy green door into a cobbled corridor. At the far end, they emerged into an L-shaped courtyard dominated by a tall chestnut tree. Lights burned in windows which lay open, cooling apartments after the build-up of heat during a long, simmering day. They could hear people talking, laughing, still seated around dinner tables. Somewhere, someone was playing a piano, an uncertain rendition of Chopin.
    ‘I’ll want a guarantee of exclusivity,’ Raffin was saying. ‘No one else gets to publish the results of your investigations. I’ll have sole publication rights. Perhaps we should put that in writing.’
    ‘Whatever you like,’ Enzo said.
    Raffin pushed open a half-glazed door and they began up wooden stairs that circled a narrow elevator shaft. He had made up his mind in an instant, draining his glass of Pouilly Fumé at Le Bonaparte in a single draft and getting to his feet. ‘Okay, let’s do it. I have reams of notes made during my research. Only a fraction of the stuff ever made it into the book. Come back to my place and you can take them away to look at.’ He had already started across the street when he stopped, and almost as an afterthought turned back to Enzo. ‘And you can pay for the drinks.’
    On the first floor landing he fumbled in his pocket for his key and opened the main door into a square entrance hall. Pale light from streetlamps in the courtyard slanted through venetian blinds in long, narrow slats.
    Enzo immediately sensed the journalist’s tension. ‘What’s wrong?’ he said.
    Raffin raised a quick hand to silence him. Double doors from the hall lay open into the dark of the main salon. Beyond, bright yellow light fell across the floorboards, from an opening in mirror-glazed bedroom doors which stood ajar. They could hear someone moving around beyond them, and Raffin tensed as a shadow passed through the light.
    ‘
Cambrioleurs
,’ he whispered. Burglars. He placed his jacket carefully over the back of a chair and turned to a bookcase with shelves ranged up to the ceiling. He selected a large-format, heavily bound encyclopaedia from one of the lower shelves. Clutching it above his head in both hands, he advanced into the salon. Enzo followed, thinking that the journalist looked just a little ridiculous. The
History of the World
E to F
seemed an unlikely weapon.