Free The Red Notebook by Antoine Laurain Page A

days Laure’s seat in the workshop had been vacant. When she had not arrived on Thursday morning, he had known something was wrong. At eleven o’clock he left hera message. At midday he left another. At one o’clock he rang her landline. After lunch, during which Laure’s absence was the main subject of conversation with Agathe, Pierre, François, Jeanne and Amandine – the other gilders who had completed their apprenticeships – he agreed with Sébastien Gardhier (the fourth generation to run the family business) that it would be sensible if he went round to see her.
    ‘It’s William again. I’ve left work. I’ll just go home and pick up Belphégor’s keys and then I’m coming round’ was the last message he had left on Laure’s mobile. This was how they referred to the spare set of keys to her apartment; William only used them to go in and feed the cat when she was away.
    When he had rung the bell twice and no one had come to the door, he made up his mind to let himself in. As soon as the door opened, the cat slipped out onto the landing, as he had a habit of doing. He looked at William, arched his back and started moving crabwise, his ears pointing backwards. ‘He does that when he’s scared – it’s an attacking position.’ Laure’s words came into his head, and if the cat was scared it must mean something had happened.
    ‘Laure?’ he called out. ‘Are you home?’
    As soon as he stepped inside, he had a strong sense of déjà vu. The scene in front of him was merging with one he had seen before, as he suddenly remembered the afternoon he had let himself into his grandmother’s house when she had not come to the door. That afternoon, ten years ago, when she had not responded to him asking if she was there, as he was doing now. He had gone round opening doors and found every room empty until he reached the kitchen. She was lying on the tiled floor. Lifeless.
    ‘Laure?’ he shouted, opening the door to her bedroom andthen the study, the bathroom, the toilet and finally, at the end of the corridor, the kitchen. This time the apartment really was empty, and William sat himself down on the sofa in the sitting room. He concentrated on his breathing; his chest felt tight and wheezy and the telltale itch was creeping up his back. He took out his inhaler, held it to his mouth and pressed twice. Belphégor slid between William’s legs, brushing him with his tail.
    ‘Where is Laure? Do you know?’ asked William. But the animal remained silent.
    Having stroked the cat and established that nothing in the flat appeared untoward, William made one last call to Laure’s mobile and got her voicemail again. He left a brief message before closing the door behind him and heading back downstairs. On the face of it, no, nothing untoward, but something must have happened, something big, for her to have failed to turn up for work and not be answering her phone. If he hadn’t heard from her by the end of the day, he would call the police. When he reached the lobby, he saw that a white envelope had been pushed under the main door. He was sure it had not been there when he arrived. He leant down and read the delicate handwriting: Mademoiselle Laure Valadier and family.
     
    Hotel Paris Bellevue ***
    Madame, Monsieur,
    Should you require any information about Laure Valadier, who stayed with us on the night of 15 January and was taken ill, please contact reception.
    Kind regards,
     
    The management

     
     
    That evening, they had let him see her through a window. She was lying in a room shared with several others. The patient next to her was hooked up to a ventilator. Laure seemed just to be asleep with a drip in her arm. When he returned the next day he was allowed to sit at her bedside. Her face was relaxed, her eyelids closed. Her breathing was barely perceptible, in and out at regular intervals. The hushed room was bathed in weak artificial light. There were six beds he now counted, and the men and women lying in