Seen and Not Heard Read Free

years.
    Two hundred extra policemen had been assigned to areas frequented by the elderly. A small fortune had been budgeted in the quest for the killers. They had come close, so very close. And still the death toll rises, he thought wearily.
    There had to be more than one murderer. While he had no proof, he was certain that rotten little punk Rocco Guillère had been responsible for Marguerite Debenet and the nun in Notre Dame. Not to mention the ninety-year-old twins in La Défense.
    But he couldn’t have killed the Comtesse de Tourney—his alibi was airtight. And three more women were killed while Malgreave tried to keep him in custody. It was a lost cause. No sooner had Rocco’s defense lawyer gotten wind of the latest murders than Rocco was a free man. And Malgreave was faced with more questions than answers.
    The official theory, one that Malgreave grudgingly accepted, was that it was a copycat killer. The United States had dealt with the same sort of sickness. One person poisoned a box of medicine and suddenly dozens of people were poisoning medicine. One man with a hatred of old women started killing, and everyone who was ever spanked by a grandmother began to get murderous ideas.
    He stared out into the pouring rain, reaching for his cigarettes. He was trying to give them up, but so far he hadn’t had any luck. The city was gray and cold, and he shivered in his fourth-floor office. He hated the rain. It had been almost eighteen months, almost twenty victims before they noticed that the women always died on a rainy day. Malgreave found himself praying for a drought.
    He’d have to go and view the body, of course. He knew what he’d find. The crowded, pitiful apartment of an old woman trying to keep her dignity in a world changing beyond her recognition. The shrunken, withered body,stretched out like a penitent, the arthritic hands folded across a sunken chest. Sometimes there was blood, sometimes not. There had even been a fingerprint that had matched at two of the scenes. They hadn’t been Rocco’s.
    God, he hated this business. It was no wonder Marie was unhappy. He wouldn’t blame her if she started looking at other men. She was too young, too lively to be tied to a husband whose job was death.
    He stood up, reaching for his battered raincoat. It was already after six. He’d be late again, and Marie would have already eaten. She wouldn’t say a word, but he would read the hurt and anger and disappointment in her fine brown eyes, and his guilt would eat into his soul.
    But he had to stop by the rue Broca and Felice Champêtre’s apartment. Marie’s life didn’t depend on his getting home on time. Some other woman’s might.
    Claire put the mug back in the cupboard, in a straight line with the other ceramic mugs. Marc didn’t like them, preferring the paper-thin Limoges tea cups he’d inherited. But she’d broken one, and the look he’d given her had been chilling.
    Later she decided she’d imagined it. But she went out and bought herself a set of heavy, earthenware mugs, and never touched the Limoges again if she could help it.
    Her thick, red gold hair was still damp from the shower. She should have finished drying it, but she was too restless to spend the time. She tugged at the fine wool of her dress, wiggled her toes in the silk stockings, and fiddled with a pearl earring. She would have liked to have greeted Marc in an old pair of jeans and a thick sweater on a cold, miserable night like this. Or maybe wearing a soft flannel nightgown, and she could have made hot chocolate for the three of them in front of the fire, and they could have been a real family.
    But Marc had standards, and Claire had learned it was easier to conform to them. Particularly when he explained that he wanted her to dress well because she valued herself, not him. It made sense, and she did as he expected. Butright now she would have loved something more comfortable.
    The chicken was simmering, the air was redolent of