Free Dry Bones by Peter May Page A

approximation, front, side and back, and digitise the images into the computer. And with the help of an interesting piece of software called Face, as well as Adobe Photoshop, I can recreate Monsieur Gaillard’s unusual whiskers and coiffure and superimpose them on to a 3D image of the head.’ He removed his jacket, draping it over the back of a tall stool at the table, and lifted a white overall from the back of the door. His earlier impatience to leave for the day was quite forgotten.
    ‘How long will it take?’ Enzo asked.
    ‘Hmmm?’ Bellin seemed almost unaware that Enzo was still there. He had already begun setting up his camera.
    ‘How long?’
    ‘Come back tomorrow morning, Monsieur.’

Chapter Five
    I.
    Enzo sat in the window of Le Balto, below his studio, dipping his croissant in a large, milky coffee, and absently watching the regulars lining up along the bar drinking small, black coffees which they washed down with cold water. The morning was sticky and overcast. Across the street, people were breakfasting under the green awnings of the Bistro Mazarin, and the street cleaners had opened sluice gates to let water wash down the gutters of the Rue Jacques Callot before draining back into the sewers below.
    ‘
Salut
.’ Her voice startled him out of his reverie, and he turned to find Charlotte standing by his table. She wore jeans, and a knee-length, black cotton waistcoat open over a white tee-shirt. ‘May I join you?’
    He stood up. ‘Of course.’ They shook hands formally.
    She turned towards the small, ginger-haired woman behind the bar. ‘
Un petit café
.’ They sat facing each other. ‘Do you want another?’ she asked as an afterthought.
    He shook his head. ‘What are you doing here?’ And, then, before she had time to answer, ‘Looking for me, I hope.’
    A smile split her face and crinkled around her eyes. ‘Naturally.’ When her coffee arrived Enzo waited while she stirred in the sugar. She took a sip and looked up. ‘Roger tells me you have come up with a theory about what might have happened to Jacques Gaillard.’
    Enzo shrugged. ‘It’s just a theory.’ He tipped his head quizzically. ‘Why would that interest you?’
    She shrugged. ‘I’m always interested in the psychology of murder.’ Then paused. ‘And, as you know, I was around when Roger was doing his research.’ She took another sip of her coffee. ‘And… maybe it seemed like a good excuse for seeing you.’ She examined the table for a moment, as if reluctant to meet his eye. Then she looked up boldly. ‘So?’
    ‘So what?’ It made him feel good that he might have been the real reason she was here.
    ‘So what’s your theory?’
    ‘Didn’t Roger tell you?’
    ‘No, he didn’t, actually.’
    Enzo regarded her thoughtfully. ‘Tell you what. I’ve had analysis done on some hard evidence I collected. The lab should have the results for me in…’ He looked at his watch. ‘…about half-an-hour. Why don’t you come with me? And then we’ll know whether or not it’s more than just a theory.’
    She held him in the gaze of her dark eyes for several moments, and he felt his stomach flip over. She was having a disproportionately disconcerting effect on him. ‘Okay.’
    ***
    As he made his way down towards the Seine from the Rue de l’Université Enzo saw her rise in expectation from the bench where she had waited for him. Barges ploughed their way up river. A private motor boat passed in the other direction. The long, glass-topped boats of the bateaux mouches below the Pont de l’Alma opposite rose and fell gently on the wash. A little further east, along the left bank, tourists queued for tickets for a tour of
les
égouts
—the Paris sewers. They were not yet open. Enzo was holding the large manilla envelope they had given him at the lab, and seemed a million miles away.
    ‘What happened?’ Charlotte asked.
    Enzo forced himself to focus on her. ‘The night Gaillard disappeared, a person or persons