Lethal Profit (4 page)

She started out at a slow pace, turning left at the end of the road and walking in the direction of a restaurant she knew was four streets away. She felt uncharacteristically nervous, but that was unsurprising after the events of the last 48 hours. Although she had dismissed March's attack on her as a random event by a sick individual, when stacked up with the mugging, finding Shaun earlier that day and two strange phone calls, it left her feeling pretty unsettled. To say the least.

Bad things always come in threes, I've had my quota, she told herself moving quickly along the quiet, wet streets, a lithe figure almost disappearing into the shadows between each pool of street lamp. As she walked she tried to talk herself back to her usual state of calm. March was unlikely to try the same thing twice, people like that were sick opportunists and he had too much to lose to track her down just for revenge. The mugging could simply be a case of the wrong place at the wrong time. The only event she really couldn't dismiss was finding Shaun's body and the police turning up whilst she was there – that was troubling. Either she was having the worst luck of her life and it really was another random event, or someone had set that up. Someone who had potentially sought him out for the same reason she had – because he had spent Jackson's last five minutes with him and could possibly offer some kind of insight into what had really happened next. If that was the case, presumably Shaun had known something that someone out there wanted to hide; something so serious that it justified permanently silencing him.

Eva was aware that she didn't really know what had happened to Shaun, or what kind of person he was. There was a chance that his death was completely unconnected to his contact with Jackson – maybe he'd got himself into trouble with a local gang, or been the victim of a random burglar…

Who took nothing and apparently killed Shaun with some kind of poison… It wasn't outside the realms of possibility for that to have happened, but it seemed unlikely. Eva had no idea where to look for answers next – Shaun had been her only lead.

As she reached the door of the restaurant, she snapped her umbrella shut and shook it before walking inside. There were a few customers enjoying a late night meal and no one really took any notice of her. Inside, the restaurant was dated, the waiters decked out like penguins and the tables covered with white tablecloths that had seen better days. Eva let the waiter guide her to a seat in the corner, dropped her umbrella on the floor and shrugged off her leather jacket. She looked down at the menu and decided to order a prix fixe meal of carrot salad and a tomato omelette. The waiter brought her a Diet Coke in a shapely bottle with a straw, which she finished in five minutes before ordering a large glass of thick, warming red wine. She looked across the room at the steamed-up restaurant window. Opposite her, an extra place setting and an empty chair stared back at her. She took a large gulp of the red wine and tasted the tartness on the roof of her mouth.

It struck her that perhaps she should feel sad about being in such a romantic city alone. Paris was well known as a destination for proposals and honeymoons and there were plenty of couples in the streets glued together at the palms of their hands. Why
didn't
she feel sad about that? Eva couldn't remember the last serious relationship she'd had. She tended to treat men as distractions, entertainment, or a release, but never anything more permanent. She rarely planned for the future but when she did it wasn't with a wedding in mind. Not that she was immune to the pressures of someone her age. For several years now friends had been pairing off and her summers had been filled with weddings. Some followed a familiar, stiff formula and others were spirited and fun, but to Eva it was always just a party. A shrink would pin this to her father's affair, maybe even Jackson's disappearance, she thought, consuming more of her wine. Presumably the theory would be that she was afraid to trust a man because all the men in her life let her down. Was it really that simple? Maybe she just wasn't the marrying kind.

Eva realised she had finished her wine and ordered another as the food arrived. She ate slowly, deliberately, chewing each mouthful, tasting the creaminess of the eggs in the omelette and the fragrant tomatoes. Her meal came with a basket of soft, white sliced baguette and a small salad with a vinaigrette dressing and by the time she had finished the whole plate, and her second glass of wine, she was feeling distinctly sleepy. She ordered a cognac and a
noisette
coffee and settled back in her seat. For a moment, the post-food heaviness made her feel calm and satisfied, almost content. But as the coffee kicked in, her current situation seemed to come back into focus.

She thought once again about Shaun, forcing herself to go back over every detail of his flat to try and recall any possible clues about who had been there and why. She already knew that he was simply a delivery courier and his ‘meeting' with Jackson had been accidental. They had shared a cigarette outside the front of her brother's office moments before he seemed to have disappeared, Jackson providing the nicotine in exchange for Shaun's lighter. A friendly gesture, an amicable moment between complete strangers. But then why was Shaun dead? Eva pulled his phone out of her bag and began scrolling through the records. On the missed calls screen she saw the name ‘Jackson' at the time that she had received the earlier call. Seeing his name made her heart start to beat faster. Who was making those calls? She looked further down the list but his name didn't appear again. It seemed that the first time ‘Jackson' had called Shaun was when she'd had the phone in her hands. The two men didn't know each other so how was Jackson's name in his phone and how had the phone call even come about? At the back of her mind, Eva acknowledged the possibility that ‘Jackson' was not in fact Jackson but someone else. Someone with motives she didn't even want to think about; and someone who through this phone and her own appeared to be trying to make contact with her. Perhaps the phone had even been left there for her to find. She had a sudden sense that she was outside of normal life, as if the moment she had stepped inside Shaun's flat today had changed everything. Unsettled, she looked up from the phone and glanced around. Her waiter was rearranging glasses on a shelf; on the other side of the room two pensioners sat in companionable silence looking through the condensation on the glass window. The room was warm, quiet and smelled of coffee and steak. Nothing out of the ordinary. Eva dropped her gaze back to the phone and navigated back through all Shaun's call records, his text messages, his internet history and even his apps. She didn't recognise any of the names and she found nothing to indicate that he had been anything more than a parcel courier in the wrong place at the wrong time. In fact, Shaun had virtually nothing on his phone at all.

The next morning, Eva was up and out of her hotel by 9. She had found a local café, steamy and rich with the smell of freshly ground coffee, and breakfasted on a buttery croissant and several
tartines
of light and fluffy French bread with butter and apricot jam. Buoyed up by a huge black coffee, she had then set out to find Jackson's old office. The long, leisurely walk allowed her the time and space to take in her surroundings and she found herself wandering along the streets, gazing at the ornate buildings, the wide, clean boulevards and the pretty Métro signs and street lamps. Paris really was incredibly beautiful, especially on a day like today when the sun was shining brightly and the air was crisp.

She walked to the huge interchange of Châtelet where she took a Ligne 1 train going west. She couldn't help noticing how the Métro train was clean and spacious without the crowds or the discomfort of the London Underground. At Concorde she left the train and climbed up the exit stairs to find herself in the huge, traffic-laden square of Place de la Concorde, the Eiffel Tower dominating the view to the left and ahead the Arc de Triomphe far away at the top of the Champs-Elysées. Following several hair-raising attempts at crossing the cobbled square, Eva finally reached the other side and, after consulting her map, headed west past cinemas and designer showrooms, luxury glass-fronted shops and restaurants that charged 15 Euros for a soft drink. Halfway up the Champs-Elysées she took a side road to escape the hordes of stampeding tourists and then suddenly she was standing opposite Jackson's old office, the exact spot where he had last been seen alive. The aid organisation where Jackson had worked was in a small, nondescript building nestled between residential flats and a small travel agency with dusty brown windows. Eva crossed a treacherously busy road and peered briefly through the window, before pushing open the glass door. Inside, it felt more like a dentist's waiting room, complete with dated, brown carpets, faux pine furniture and large, dusty, dark green Yucca plants in woven pots. Eva looked over to the receptionist's window but there was no one there. She frowned. She was sure she had seen a silhouette there when she had been crossing the road. She walked over and looked inside but the desk behind was empty except for a small, elegant leather bag with a red silk scarf draped carelessly over it. That's surely a robbery waiting to happen, thought Eva, looking at the silver mould of a purse clasp peeking through the top of the bag. Somewhere out at the back of the reception she heard a door slam.

‘Hello?'

The place seemed deserted. Behind the receptionist's desk there were four doors and a fire escape, separated by a staff sitting area with two old, brown sofas and a kitchenette. There was a shiny metal bell on the reception window and Eva rang it. When no one had appeared she rang it again until a small man, wearing glasses so huge he looked like an inquisitive owl, stuck his head out of one of the nearest doors. He looked around the reception area as if expecting to see someone, gave a short sigh and then walked towards Eva smiling.

‘Oui?'

Eva tried to form the correct French words in her head and then decided that he must surely speak English. This was an international organisation after all. ‘Hello. I'm Eva Scott, Jackson's sister.'

The man stopped as he reached the reception window and immediately his smile changed to an expression of sorrow.

‘Hello, Eva.' He reached for her hand. ‘I am so sorry for what happened to your brother.'

The genuine emotion on the man's face almost brought tears to her eyes. She fought them back.

‘Thank you. Monsieur…?'

‘Huillet. Michel Huillet.'

Jackson's boss.

They shook hands awkwardly through the window.

‘Come in, come through to my office.' M. Huillet indicated a door to the left of the reception window. ‘You have come for Jackson's bag?'

Eva hesitated and then nodded, slightly nonplussed. She hadn't been aware that there was any bag. Nevertheless… ‘Yes, I have.'

M. Huillet nodded and hustled her into the reception area. He led her back through the first door to a small, sunlit space with a large, wooden desk, two ancient-looking grey metal chairs and several enormous bookshelves that made the room feel much more cramped than it actually was. Eva noted the copious number of green plants and the distinct lack of a computer. M. Huillet indicated a seat and she sat down. There was an uncomfortable silence.

‘Are you here for long?'

‘No. I've just come to tie up a few of the loose ends Jackson left behind,' she lied.

M. Huillet nodded. ‘Of course. Of course.'

He leaned behind his desk and hauled a large kit bag over his right shoulder, dropping it with a loud thud onto the leather-covered desktop. ‘These are the belongings that he kept at the office. We have not opened it.'

The bag was enormous. No wonder they had kept it rather than pay the postage that would presumably have been involved in sending it back to England.

‘I do apologise for not being able to afford to post this,' said M. Huillet, as if reading her mind. ‘We had thought Valerie would be able to liaise with your family to arrange sending it but she… well…' M. Huillet faltered as if considering his words carefully. ‘She decided she did not want to deal with it. Perhaps it was the grief.'

Eva felt a little pang of resentment. Valerie had been Jackson's girlfriend of eighteen months when he died and receptionist at the agency, where they had met. Eva had not met her but had been surprised at her complete refusal to interact with the Scotts, or to help out in any way, after Jackson's death. M. Huillet shifted uncomfortably in his seat and Eva sensed he did not care much for Valerie.

‘Is she here?'

‘Valerie?'

‘Yes. I was hoping I might be able to speak with her.'

M. Huillet looked puzzled. ‘She should be here, she was here this morning. Perhaps she has taken an early lunch.'

Without her belongings, thought Eva, suddenly remembering the bag on the reception desk.

‘Monsieur Huillet, could you tell me a bit about what Jackson was doing before he died? He never really spoke much about it.'

The Director looked mildly surprised.

‘Of course. One of the things we do here is to monitor the countries that receive our aid. Jackson was allocated to the Sudan. By the time he died… well… he was promoted and promoted and in the end he was Head of his monitoring group.'

Eva nodded. ‘So what did that involve?'

‘Well, unfortunately we are, and always have been, quite underfunded and understaffed here so Jackson was juggling on his own the schedule of communication with the recipients of our aid, keeping in touch with our contacts in the country, monitoring, fund-raising, meeting with Sudanese living in Paris and collecting all our correspondence.'

‘And did that include trips to the Sudan?'

‘When the funds allowed – I think the last one he went on was over a year ago. We had a terrible row because he refused the injections he was supposed to have – a fear of needles? He had an enormously stubborn streak – I expect you knew that.' He smiled at her, sharing the memory. ‘Jackson was very good at extracting money from sponsors though, he certainly managed to get out to that part of the world more than anyone else.'