The Forgotten Dead: A dark, twisted, unputdownable thriller. Tove Alsterdal

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СКАЧАТЬ whether it was fear that cast me back to the person I used to be, or whether it was a rational decision not to tell them who I was. A lie, and yet not a lie. As close to the truth as possible.

      ‘My name is Alena Sarkanova,’ I said, forcing a smile. ‘What’s your name?’

      But the woman didn’t return the courtesy. She lit a cigarette. The smell of cheap tobacco stirred up hazy memories from my childhood. At that instant my cell rang, chirruping merrily in my bag, like an old acquaintance. I leaned down and fished it out.

      ‘Don’t answer,’ said the woman. The man grabbed my wrist. I managed to see Benji’s name on the display before I switched it off. It hurt to cut him off like that. Sweet little Benji, who right now was the only link to my normal life.

      ‘You need to stop poking around,’ said the woman. ‘Do you hear me? You need to go back home to New York.’ She met my eye in the rear-view mirror again. I swallowed hard. I hadn’t said anything about coming from New York. So she must know where Patrick lived and worked.

      ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

      ‘Go home,’ said the woman, and then she motioned to the man. He leaned across me to open the car door on my side, signalling that the conversation was over.

      ‘And don’t tell a fucking soul about any of this.’

      The man gave me a shove and I climbed out. I drew the evening air deep into my lungs, feeling vaguely euphoric at being outside again. The car door slammed shut, and with a lurch they were gone.

      I walked quickly away, heading in the direction where the city lights were brightest.

      ‘Good evening,’ said the desk clerk as I entered the hotel. He gave me a welcoming look through his rectangular designer glasses. There had been a shift change since I had left around lunchtime, an eternity ago.

      ‘Is it possible to get something to drink at this time of the evening?’ I said, running my hand through my hair. I had a feeling that I looked awful. ‘Nothing alcoholic, but anything else. Water.’

      ‘Of course,’ said the clerk, quickly getting to his feet. He came around the counter and disappeared up a small staircase to the dining room.

      ‘I’d be grateful for something to eat too,’ I called after him, and then sank down onto a sagging armchair. I’d walked at least three miles before I found a taxi. I hadn’t eaten a thing since lunch at Starbucks, and my stomach was churning with hunger. Or maybe it was the baby. My legs still felt shaky after the episode inside the car.

      Facts, I told myself. That’s all that matters. The essentials.

      The people in the car: a woman and a man. Age: somewhere between thirty and fifty. Definitely French.

      The woman was the one in charge. Her English was grammatically correct. Well-educated. Her phone number was the last thing in Patrick’s notebook. She’d had a dual agenda: to find out who I was and what I knew, plus make sure that I left Paris.

      I rubbed my forehead. Jetlag was still clamped like a helmet around my head. No matter how many times I replayed the conversation in my mind, I didn’t feel any wiser.

      ‘Pardon me for asking, but aren’t you Patrick Cornwall’s wife?’

      The desk clerk placed a small tray in front of me. Salami and cheese. Water, and a glass of juice. It looked heavenly.

      ‘You don’t happen to have another one of these, do you?’ I said, my mouth full of bread roll.

      I quickly drank all the juice. Then leaned my head back against the soft upholstery of the armchair.

      Going home was not an option. I could always contact the police and the American embassy, get them to look for Patrick. Wait for him to get in touch.

      I have a bigger responsibility now, I thought, placing my hand on my stomach. A real mother would go home. Not take any more risks. Eat regular meals and go jogging at a sensible pace, start crocheting. Put together the baby’s wardrobe. Buy a crib and buggy.

      But my next thought was: the child will grow up, and one day ask about his father. And I’ll have to say: ‘He disappeared. I don’t know where. I don’t know why. I was too cowardly to stay and find out.’

      ‘Patrick Cornwall was a much appreciated guest when he stayed here with us,’ said the desk clerk, setting another roll on the tray. ‘He’s the first American in the last decade who didn’t think the Louvre was a murder scene.’

      The clerk laughed a bit at his own joke. He spoke excellent English. According to the name badge he wore on his breast pocket, his name was Olivier.

      ‘Do you know the Taillevent restaurant?’ I asked between bites.

      ‘Absolutely,’ he said, perching on the arm of the sofa across from me. ‘It’s one of the finest. Not as well known as La Tour d’Argent, but undoubtedly better. They lost their third star in the Guide Michelin this year, but their loyal customers continue to dine there. I think the restaurant opened just after the war.’

      ‘Who are their customers? Who goes there?’

      ‘Politicians, businessmen. People who attended the right schools. The elite. It’s not a trendy place. If you’re interested in places that are hot at the moment, I would recommend Spoon. Alain Ducasse’s place.’

      ‘Did Patrick ever mention that he’d been to Taillevent?’

      ‘He asked where it was located. I remember because I had to look up the address. I’ve never been there personally. But I don’t know if he actually went there.’

      Olivier straightened his glasses. He was stylishly dressed. Grey jeans, and a shirt in a darker colour. Reminiscent of Patrick’s clothing choices.

      ‘Did you talk much with him?’ I leaned back in the chair, trying to pretend this was an ordinary conversation about casual topics. My husband’s completely normal visit to Paris. I didn’t dare tell the clerk the truth — that Patrick had disappeared.

      ‘We argued a lot, mostly about the poet Rimbaud,’ said Olivier with a smile. ‘Patrick thought we should take down the plaque out there.’ He motioned towards the street.

      I knew what he was talking about. I’d read on the hotel’s web page that Arthur Rimbaud had lived here during the wild year of 1872. Olivier leaned down and picked up a big book bound in red leather from a side table. Out tumbled a postcard with a greeting from Melbourne.

      ‘Never trust a poet,’ he read from the guestbook, which he then handed to me. My heart turned a somersault when I recognized Patrick’s handwriting. Never trust a poet. He’d added a thank-you for a marvellous stay. Dated 16 September, the day he left the hotel.

      ‘Were you working that day?’ I asked. ‘When he checked out?’

      ‘No, unfortunately I wasn’t.’ He stood up. Two women about my age came down the stairs and placed their room key on the counter. Olivier wished them a pleasant evening, and they tottered out into the night on their high heels.

      ‘Patrick had bought a biography of Rimbaud at one of the antiquarian bookshops down by the river,’ he went on. СКАЧАТЬ