The Critic Read Free

behind his desk, hands on hips. ‘Best rock group in the world.’ He allowed time for Enzo to absorb this wisdom, then added, ‘You know, there are people out there campaigning to stop prisoners being kept three to a cell. Cells bigger than this.’ He waved a hand around his office. ‘There are three of us in here—and we’re
gendarmes!’
He barely allowed himself time to draw breath. ‘What do you want, Monsieur Macleod?’
    ‘You received a fax from Madame Taillard, the police chief in Cahors?’
    ‘I did.’
    ‘Then you’ll know I’m here about the murder of Gil Petty.’
    Roussel allowed himself to drop into his seat, and he folded his arms across his chest. Enzo noticed a foot-high plastic model of Lara Croft standing to one side of the computer, the cardboard box it had come in discarded amongst the detritus piled up on the floor behind the desk. ‘I don’t like the
Police Nationale
, monsieur. They’re civilians, we’re army. They get funded, we don’t.’ He picked a pen out of a jar of them standing on his desk and scribbled with it on his inkpad. It left nothing but an indentation in the paper. ‘
Gendarme
-issue. Doesn’t work.’ He picked up a file on his desk and pulled off the paper clip that bound it, holding it up for Enzo to see. ‘Paper clips? Got to buy them ourselves. You think the
Police Nationale
buy their own paper clips?’
    ‘I have no idea.’
    ‘No, of course you don’t. And I have no idea how I can help you.’
    ‘I’d like access to your files on the Petty case.’
    Roussel gazed at him very directly for a long time. Then his face broke into an unexpected smile of genuine amusement. ‘I like a man with a sense of humour, Monsieur Macleod. What makes you think I would give you access to the files?’ But before Enzo could reply, he lifted a hand to stop him. ‘No, tell me this first. Who are you?’
    Enzo was taken aback. ‘Well, you know who I am.’
    ‘Do I?’
    Enzo sighed. ‘My name’s Enzo—’
    Rousell cut him of. ‘No, I know who you are. Or, rather, I know who you tell me you are.’ He reached across the desk. ‘And what I read in a fax from someone purporting to be the chief of police in Cahors. You could be the killer for all I know. And you want me to hand over my files?’
    Enzo was at a loss.
    ‘And in any case, the Gendarmerie Nationale doesn’t give out information to private investigators.’
    ‘I’m not exactly a private investigator.’
    ‘No, you’re not.’ Roussel opened a slim file on his desk and lifted a sheet of paper to examine it. ‘You’re a former forensics officer from Scotland. You’ve lived in France for twenty years and you teach biology at Paul Sabatier University in Toulouse.’
    ‘I thought you didn’t know anything about me.’
    ‘I did some checking. In my business it pays.’
    Roussel had done his homework, but it was time, Enzo thought, to turn defence into attack. ‘It’s easy enough, monsieur, to find facts that are readily available on the internet. It’s quite another to solve a crime when none of the facts are apparent, and it requires some intelligence to unearth them.’
    Colour rose high on Roussel’s cheeks, marring a smooth, tanned complexion. ‘Your point being?’
    ‘Petty was missing for a year before his body turned up. Not only did you fail to find him, you didn’t even know he’d been murdered until his killer decided to put him on public display.’
    Roussel’s anger was apparent only in the almost imperceptible clenching and unclenching of his jaw. He gazed at Enzo with steady dark eyes. ‘People go missing all the time, Monsieur Macleod.’ He tapped another file on his desk. A fat one this time. ‘I have nearly half a dozen cases in my missing persons file. Very often people have their own reasons. Nothing sinister. A marital break-up, a secret affair, redundancy, mental illness. Sometimes they just want to disappear.’ He opened the file and lifted out a sheaf of papers held