Free Freeze Frame by Peter May Page A

with life and a feeling of self-pity.
    “Are you still in publishing?”
    “I work for a small house in the east end of London. One of the few independent publishers left. But I’m not sure how much longer we can survive. Most of the small houses have been gobbled up by the conglomerates. Sales and profit are the only criteria that apply these days. Quality and diversity are dirty words in publishing.”
    It was the same bitterness that had seeped out of her just moments earlier. This was a woman, Enzo realised, who had simply never been able to put her life back on the rails after the death of her husband and the telephone call that presaged the murder of his father. If fate had indeed brought her and her perfect partner together, then it had also torn her life asunder. And perhaps the only comfort she could take from the thought was that, after all, she really did mean something in the great scheme of things.
    Almost as if she sensed his perception of her, she smiled, a wry smile dissipating that bitterness and self-pity. “But I really do try not to think too much about such things, Enzo. I don’t want to end up a bitter and twisted old widow.” Almost as if she feared that’s exactly what she’d become.
    The shrimp arrived and for a few minutes became the focus of Enzo’s attention, soft flesh dissolving in a creamy garlic sauce to be washed over by more
M
é
moire
. When he looked up again, he found Jane watching him. “Interesting eyes. One brown, one blue.”
    “Waardenburg Syndrome. Which also gives me the silver stripe in my hair.”
    She nodded. “So what was it that brought you to France, Enzo?” But before he could answer she added, “Curious name for a Scotsman.”
    “Italian mother. It’s short for Lorenzo.”
    “Ah.”
    “The ferry.”
    She frowned her confusion. “What?”
    “You asked me what brought me to France. Sealink ferry from Dover to Calais, then a ten-hour drive down to Cahors.” He saw dimples materialise in her cheeks as she pursed her lips, and he grinned. “I’m sorry. It was a woman, of course. A French woman. That perfect partner that fate reserves for the lucky few, then takes away again—just so you don’t get the idea that you’re something special.”
    “Oh.” Her smile faded instantly. “What happened?”
    “She died in childbirth.”
    “How long ago was that?
    “My daughter has not long turned twenty-two.”
    “I’m so sorry.”
    He shrugged. “I was, too. But it’s a long time ago now. I always think I’ve put it behind me. But every time my daughter has a birthday, I’m reminded that it’s the anniversary of her mother’s death. I’d love to just let it pass, but you can hardly ignore your baby’s birthday, can you?”
    “You never remarried?”
    He sipped his wine and glanced at her over his glass. “No.” He was not unaware of the similarities between them.
    “Why not?”
    “Do I really need to answer that, Jane? You did it yourself.”
    She nodded, and he realised that perhaps the only reason he had divined the bitterness and self-pity in Jane was because they were things he recognised in himself. They shared a moment of silent empathy before she abruptly changed the subject.
    “How did you get involved in solving the cold cases in Raffin’s book?”
    He shook his head and grinned. “Because I was an idiot. I worked as a forensic scientist in Scotland, Jane, but had to give it up when I came to France. I ended up teaching. Solving Raffin’s cold cases started out as a bet. I’d kept myself up to date with the latest developments in forensics, and figured that new science applied to old cases could bring new results.”
    “With a hundred percent success rate to date, I’m told.”
    Enzo inclined his head. “It’s never quite that simple. And there are some cases in which science plays little or no part.” He hesitated for a moment. “Don’t raise your hopes too high. I’m not sure I can live up to them.”
    She nodded. “In a