《I Am the Dawn》


 I - Every Day, A Little Death

    IT BEGINS, AS it will end, with a sudden stirring of the winter winds, and with two.


    The wind was of the restless kind that intersects perfectly with autumn''s end. The winter had seemed as though it would never end¡ªbut then, just when they had nearly forgotten it; when they had least expected it¡ªwarmth came, and a different light.


    It was a nice day, all things considered. All the days that month had been nice¡ªwhich is to say, of course: frigid, and swathed in a pearly pink light. No, to say that it was simply beautiful would be to blaspheme its creator.


    THE TRIAL WAS irretrievably over. Everything that could''ve been said had been, and No?l Mikkelsen had never once doubted that he would be the losing party.


    The verdict had come at nine o''clock, one bright, sunny morning in the final days of November, which are the prelude to the holiday season. Now, all that remained of the trial was a televised summary from the reporters that were waiting en masse outside the Supreme Justice Building.


    No?l followed the bailiff through the doors of the courtroom, rubbing the circulation back into his hands, for they had only just removed the cuffs. He paused at the threshold of the main entrance. He was in a foul, black mood, and had no intention of discussing the verdict any further, nor to reiterate his view on the matter. But the questions were unavoidable, and he of all people knew that they must be equally asked as answered.


    He had never anticipated that one day he would become a criminal¡ªa dandy, certainly; a fairy, a flamer, a bardash, and a poof most of all, but not the conversation-starter at the table on Christmas Eve, nor the picture that shy young things plastered to their bedroom walls.


    And so, he straightened up and gave the cameras a debonaire smile, as the rabble offered up their friendly, flustered greetings from behind the ropes.


    "Right. Shall we get on with it, then?" He showed them his straight white teeth, this being a more accurate description than to call it a smile. He pulled at the lapels of his suit, feeling quite pleased with himself, despite it all.


    "Where are you off to, Sherlock?" one of the reporters called.


    Noel, as ever, forced himself not to roll his eyes. When he was twenty-four, and had just begun publishing his work inJoie de Viemagazine, he had chanced upon a band of bank robbers that had pulled off nine successful heists in the past three years. There was no doubt that it had been the same men in every instance¡ªtheir trademark had been to hold up three banks at once, with military precision. They had worn horrific, blood-spattered masks, and had thus been deemed the "Nightmare of Copenhagen" by the televised press. Then the papers had redubbed them the "Nightmare Before Christmas," which sounded far more sinister¡ªappropriate, he thought, to the fact that they had recklessly fired warning shots into the masses of incredulous passerby twice.


    Their second outing had been at a bank in Copenhagen, just before the city would be settling down to their families and festivities until the New Year. No?l had been home for the holidays, boarding at his mother''s, and had been just up the street from the bank. He and his mates were loitering outside the H?tel d''Angleterre, laughing and chewing the fat, like they always did. His stepfather had made the booking at Marchal, and the others, less wealthy than he, had come running from all directions to gorge themselves on truffles, caviar, langoustines swimming in butter, pigeon royal, and panna cotta before the day was done, and their beloved No?l would be shipped off to Paris once more.


    And so, they had stood there in the doorway of the hotel, begging No?l to come with them to the Christmas markets on Kronprinsessegade, when gunshots had ricocheted off the walls, and screaming erupted from the crowd. They had watched idly as a reporter from the local radio station made all due haste for the nearest public telephone, then listened in the stuffy foyer as he dictated a first-hand account on live broadcast.


    That was the first Christmas. The second had also been in Copenhagen, and this time No?l had been at an "intimate party" of sorts, in an admirable effort to evade his grandfather''s dreadful insistence on No?l performing his "Herr Carlsberg" impression for every guest as they arrived. It was, in truth, a hideous excuse to tart him up in a suit and tie, and to make him part his hair like the man on the telly, so they could all have a laugh at his attempts to replicate the Danish accent. His own was far closer to a Scotsman''s, refined by a slight Parisian lilt.


    Why he had made the connection, he could never have explained¡ªnot to the officers at the Police Nationale; not to God himself¡ªbut as he had listened to the morning news, bent over a table, as another man took him roughly from behind, he had recalled the six men boarded in a flat nearby. He had seen them sipping tea on their gallery, across the street. They were the tall, well-built type, and had been bare-chested, even in the bitter cold. There had been something about them that had forced him back out onto the gallery that day, and not only their sinfully beautiful faces.


    There had been no reason to suspect them of anything at the time, but still, he had stumbled out onto the gallery after the man had pulled up his pants and helped him to his feet. He admired them from a distance, leaning fetchingly over the railing. That had been the morning of the seventh day, and he recalled being scarcely able to stand, much less walk.


    Their room had been on the uppermost floor, overlooking the gardens. No?l had lowered himself down, balancing on the balls of his feet, to peer through the bars of the railing, into the flat''s blacked-out windows. From what little he could see, it was empty.


    Then, fifteen minutes later, when his cigarette had burnt down to a stub between his fingers, and he was staring up at the blank white sky, a cab had skidded to a halt along the pavement, and the men had emerged, each carrying a black sports bag.


    Then, one of them rounded the car and took from the boot something that he quickly covered with the long drape of his coat. Even from a relatively distant vantage point, No?l had identified it as an assault rifle¡ªthe exact model that had accompanied him throughout the year of his military service. That was when he''d crept inside, slipping past the others, and rung the police from the telephone in the hallway, thereby eliciting a three-day siege on the hotel and blanket coverage by the media. He had been offered the most exclusive seat, all the while collecting an immensely gratifying fee from the magazines for his interviews. The police had set up their headquarters on the green, just below the room in which the party went on, undisturbed.


    The end of the Nightmare Before Christmas had given him the star-studded nickname that had launched him into the stratosphere as a young author. The media hadn''t been able to resist using the headline: "SHERLOCK CRACKS THE CASE." The tongue-in-cheek story had been written by a much younger columnist, and had contained several references to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle''s "Angel of Westminster." And, to make matters worse, they had also run the story with the full-colour photo that would later become the cover of his first novel: No?l, seated at the press conference table, holding his hand up to his face, blue eyes piercing in a bone-white face. His thick blond hair had been falling forward onto his forehead, and the sharp-cut roses on his shirt had been the very same red as the blood streaming from his nose.


    It made no difference that No?l had never in his life employed the name "Sherlock"¡ªfrom then on, he had been canonised the patron saint of the late nineteenth century by his peers. It was an epithet used as a means of provocation, neither hostile, nor exceedingly cordial. And, despite his deep-seated respect for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, whose grandiose adventures were among his fondest memories of childhood, still, he detested the comparison. It had taken him two years and several, far more significant professional successes to subdue it completely, but still he flinched whenever it was used in his hearing.


    Now, he achieved a well-meant grimace, and said to the reporter that had addressed him: "Come on, then. Think of something new. You always do."


    His tone was not at all unpleasant¡ªthey were all familiar with one another, and his most vicious critics hadn''t yet made an appearance that morning. One man in particular had been a close colleague of his, and at the New Year''s Eve party where he had belatedly celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday, he had almost succeeded in picking up the presenter of France 24: Nicholas Bergamot.


    "You took a fatal hit in there today," said someone from the crowd. "How does it feel to have made it out the other side unscathed?"


    Despite the seriousness of the inquiry, neither No?l, nor the elder journalists could help but smile. He exchanged glances with Nicholas mere moments before another half-wit nearly took his nose off his face with the hard end of a microphone.


    "I can only regret that the court did not come to another conclusion," he grumbled, pressing the cuff of his sleeve to his now pounding mouth.


    "Three months incarcerated and thirteen thousand in damages. Seems like the punishment outweighs the crime."


    "I''ve endured far worse, by people far less forgiving."


    "Are you going to apologise to Jean-Baptiste?"


    A close-lipped smile; a tilt of the head. "Perhaps another time. In fact, I heard the Alain Ducasse just received another star in the Michelin Guide this January. I''ve been meaning to place a booking to congratulate him." He pushed three fingers into the breast pocket of his suit, producing a sleek black business card with a flourish. "Do give this to him for me, will you?"


    Several hands reached forward from the crowd to accept the card, but Nicholas nicked it from between his fingers before they could take a single step toward him.


    "How has the trial changed your previous judgement of his character?"


    He was pale as a ghost. "I had every reason to publish what I did. However, the verdict has been decided, and I have no choice but to accept the consequences of my actions. I will be discussing the future of my employment with theJoie de Vieeditorial staff in the coming weeks. Thank you. Nothing further."


    "How could you have forgotten to provide evidence?" Nicholas. Though his expression was neutral, there was a faint glimmer of disappointment in his eyes.


    "I have nothing to add," he rephrased. "Perhaps we''ll call a press conference at a later date, but for now, nothing further."


    It was hardly the answer they had anticipated. Still, the others accepted this as an official declaration of surrender and parted like the Red Sea to allow him entry. But Nicholas took him by the collar and thrust him back against the doors of the courthouse.


    "Is it true?" he demanded.


    No?l''s hand flew to his face, eyes wide with wonder. "You''ve put yourself on quite a high horse, Monsieur Bergamot. Very ivory tower, very reductive, very far from thepoint¡ª"he emphasised this with a swift right hook to Nicholas'' nose, knocking him flat upon the pavement¡ª"which is that it doesn''t matter. The verdict is final."


    This was kinder than a man like Nicholas deserved. No?l stepped gingerly over his limp body, skirting round the blood pouring from his broken nose, and provided enough coherent answers to satisfy the crowd, sending them scattering in all directions back to their respective newsrooms. Of course, this incident would be in the headlines for the next week or so, but No?l reminded himself that it was hardly the turning point of the century.


    And so, the reporters lowered their microphones, and the cameramen their cameras, and this time, they all retreated without a word.


    Now alone, standing on the steps of the courthouse, No?l turned back to Nicholas, gently nudging him with the toe of his shoe. Out cold. He sighed, closing his eyes, and drew in a breath of frigid winter air. He considered walking, but this was the coldest, bleakest day he had seen as of yet, and he was frozen stiff after the interview. Watery white light spilled over the world that trailed in his wake.


    As he tripped down the steps of the justice building, cursing himself for choosing such an ungodly shade of blue to wear in court, he saw his stepsister, Lucille Grey, step out of a sleek black car parked along the edge of the pavement. He immediately recognised the number plate. It seemed as though Death in a white silk dress had been waiting to make her melodramatic entrance, as always.


    Their eyes met, and then Lucille smiled. "You know, it was worth coming all this way just to see you with that paper in your hand."


    No?l did not reply. They had known each other seven years, and had worked together as field nurse and second lieutenant in the British Royal Marine Corps. It had always been a question of chemistry and compatibility¡ªthe foundations for a lifetime of enmity had been laid between them long ago. In No?l''s eyes, Lucille was a third-rate nurse, and an irksome person at best. She had the remarkable ability to chafe all those in her company¡ªparticularly those who got too close. No?l would never forget each insufferably rude remark, all of which had too often been aimed at their superior officers. After their first argument, there had been another, and then the antagonism had turned personal. In the years since then, they had regularly run into each other between restaurants the world over, but it hadn''t been until two years before that they had truly become archenemies.


    Lights up; stage set. Christmas, 2018, the Savoy Hotel, London. Outside, it is negative ten, and snow has been falling steadily since nightfall, forming great blasted heaps that halted the flow of traffic on the M25. No?l Mikkelsen, twenty-four, has just published a double-page spread about his experiences in Afghanistan¡ªone he was commissioned to write by a close friend at the Guardian. He has taken into consideration a number of articles published by Lucille Grey. These involved a number of their superior officers, including a spectacular extravagance of lies pertaining to the untimely deaths of two newly-instated officers. Lucille had come across a pompous fool, turning reality on end, writing eulogies to the living by concealing them in fictional foils. Strangely enough, No?l had been the first to challenge the validity of his claims. He would even publish a reprint in novel form a week after, with his notes in the margins and Lucile''s deceptions highlighted word-for-word.


    Lucille, of course, had retaliated with a book of her own: a case study on sexuality and gender, with her stepbrother as her chief representative of the queer community. She had made bold accusations of No?l''s continued interest in her¡ªthis couldn''t have been further from the truth¡ªas well as long-winded narratives of each individual attempt to act upon these impulses. And then there were the betrayals of confidence: Lucille hadn''t created all those incidents in Copenhagen, which No?l had spent hours telling her about over the telephone, back when they had still been best mates.


    When they met on the public transport train in Oerlikon, the conflict that had been slowly brewing between them reached climax, and then it had come to fists. They had both been rushed to A&E after Lucy put a six-inch hunting knife through his right cheek. That was just before she''d been stunned by a police taser. It had taken thirty-six stitches to close the wound.


    Witnesses said that No?l had thrown the first blow, and that Lucille had then retaliated, pushing him down the steps to the lower level, where he could hear the air rushing past through the crack beneath the doors. Lucy had pinned him with one hand on his temple, the other clamped like a steel limpet round his shoulder. Then No?l had headbutted her, sending her sprawling to the ground. Then Lucille had come up with the knife, and suddenly the world had gone white.


    Lucille could just as easily have tripped him on the platform, sending him out before an incoming train. There was no doubt in No?l''s mind that he would''ve died that night, had it not been for police intervention. In the end, they were both charged with aggravated assault¡ªfor No?l, the first on his record, but for Lucy, only the most recent. Lucille Grey was an intelligent psychopath, and Scotland Yard had been searching for a reason to incarcerate her for seventeen years, and now they had it: battery, assault, and the attempted murder of a twenty-four-year-old man in a foreign country¡ªand in public, endangering passengers in sealed transportation, nonetheless. Lucille had been sentenced to serve seven years in Pentonville Prison, but had gotten off early on parole just last month. She had left the military to teach at the Royal Academy, and was granted a considerably higher salary that, much to No?l''s disdain, was withing Jean-Baptiste''s sphere of influence.


    And yet, despite it all, here she was, live and in the flesh.


    They looked not at, but through each other for a long moment. Then No?l pivoted on his heel and walked away.


    He started up the Boulevard de Palais and the Pont du Change, toward his flat on Champs-¨¦lys¨¦es. It came as no great shock that Lucille Grey had flown to Paris all the way from London, just to stand there and laugh at him. A public transport bus¡ªone of the red ones with two floors¡ªbraked in front of Lucy''s airport rental car, and No?l hopped on to make his escape.


    He got off at the Arc du Triomphe, still undecided what to do, with the judgement document still in hand. Stepping round the flocks of men, women, children, and otherwise, all wrapped up in heavy winter coats and leather gloves, he walked twelve minutes southeast to Caf¨¦ Citron, where he unknowingly stepped into view of another story¡ªone that will, one day, become his own, as fire and petrol are united in a singular death.


    Half a minute after he''d ordered a bottle of snaps and asked for a wineglass, the morning news came on the radio half an hour late, which was rather strange to begin with, and perhaps no great coincidence, all things considered. The story followed a series of suicide bombings in Syria and Jerusalem¡ªones that had levelled cities to heaps of ash and smoking stones¡ªand that a new commission had been assigned to investigate the alleged formation of a drug cartel within the New York branch of the Italian Mafia.


    How curious a world, in which forty-five people were so ensnared in their own personal endings, as not to notice the bridging of this world and the next¡ªthe segue of the Before and the After. The world had never been such a desirably escapable place.


    These bar patrons all shared a common problem: they were largely unhappy a vast majority of the time. Perhaps that was why they were seated on barstools and booths, quaffing ale, in the first place. We must all have our methods of blotting away the melancholy that bleeds through, but these were people still mostly concerned with how it could be possible for what they believed to be stainless steel to rust. Though, it was neither the pipes, nor the kitchen knives, nor the parcel blades that lamented for their deaths, but those that now had to replace them.


    And then, one Friday, several millennia after an innocent man had been crucified for attempting to heal a broken world, another man, seated alone in a round-the-clock caf¨¦ in Paris, realised what had gone wrong from then onward, and in this a purpose.


    But this isn''t his story¡ªnot now; not yet. Though, the very existence of our story from now on is a consequence of that epiphany, and of what that man did after he''d finished his pint and paid his tab; after he''d stepped out into the sombre light of autumn''s end, into his own beginning and the end of all others. But, before that man crossed the final threshold, he called No?l on the shoulder and pressed his lips to his cheek, then paid his tab with a twenty-pound note. However, he was far too enthralled by that peculiar white light to take any notice, gazing wistfully out the window and recounting to himself how autumn''s end had always broken his heart. The bartender pushed it into the pocket of her apron and turned away.


    He turned slowly back to the verdict, lifting his cup to find that it had left a ring stamped upon the paper. A dark heaviness settled like ballast in the pit of his stomach. It was twenty-five pages long, declaring him guilty of fifteen counts of aggravated libel against Jean-Baptiste Belmonte, meaning that each hand had cost him nine hundred and eighty euros and six days'' imprisonment. Then, of course, there were the court expenses and solicitor''s fee to take into consideration. He could not, in his drunken stupor, bring himself to begin sketching out the figures on the drawing board of his mind, but knew well enough, even then, that it could''ve been far worse: he had been acquitted on seven other counts.


    When the trial had first begun, it had been devastatingly clear that it would take a divine intervention to escape unscathed, and so, mercy he had received, though certainly not in the way he had expected. He had long ago made his reconciliations with every possible outcome. He had survived three days with an even temper, and then waited eleven more for the court to finish their deliberations and create the document he now folded his arms over, to rest his head upon. Only now, when it was far too late, did the despair wash over him. He took a bite of the Yorkshire pudding another patron had left uneaten on the table adjacent, and felt the bread swell in his mouth. He choked it down, resisting the urge to cough, and pushed the plate forward to be cleared away, suddenly immensely glad that he hadn''t paid for it.


    This wasn''t the first time he had faced charges. In fact, this particular case was a trifle, compared to the robbery, rape, and murder for which he had previously been accused. However, it was the first time that he had been declared guilty. From a financial standpoint, it was serious:Joie deVie did not have unlimited resources, and neither did he, scarcely breaking even from one issue to the next. But the verdict didn''t necessarily spell out Judgement Day just yet. The problem was that No?l had a share of the magazine; he was the shining star of their writers, and his family paid to publish his work each week. The damages he would pay for out of pocket, although this would more than wipe his own savings from the face of the earth.Joie de Viecould cover his court expenses. With a careful budgeting plan, it would all even out in the end¡ªand hopefully not in a flatline.


    The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.


    He pondered the potential of selling his flat. When he was seventeen, still living with his mother in Copenhagen, he''d had a steady job and a fine salary as a drug runner, and had been searching for a more permanent place to settle down. He''d run on foot from one flat showing to the next, before he took the Eurostar to Paris, and stumbled upon a small studio on Champs-¨¦lys¨¦es. The previous owner had been in the midst of making it inhabitable, when suddenly they had been offered a well-paying position oversea, and No?l had taken it for next to nothing.


    He had rejected the interior designer''s plans and sketches, and had finished the project himself, as he saw fit. He''d put a bit of money into fixing up the amenities¡ªbut, rather than putting in a parquet floor and rewiring the electricity, he had smoothed and refinished the floorboards, white-washed the walls, and concealed the worst of the damage behind cheap reprints of famous watercolour collections. The result had been a kitchen akin to standing naked on the edge of the Arctic Sea, a small bedroom that scarcely fit a standard double bed, and a pitch-black washroom without the luxuries of hot and running water, leaving him washing and shaving out of a basin with a flannel, seated on the side of the bathtub. The porcelain was scratched to show the silver beneath¡ªa surface with something to hide. There were three dormer windows, each with a view of the rooftops on Avenue Montaigne and the rolling grey waters of the Seine. Above it, the sky was a still, blank white, and in his mind''s eye, there he stood, staring at that tumbling quicksilver and the wheeling flocks of shearwaters.


    Still, the fact that he would be losing the flat was nothing compared to the knowledge that he had, professionally, received a broken nose. It would be years before the damage was fully repaired, if indeed that was even a possibility. It was a matter of trust in the eyes of the nation. For the foreseeable future, editors would hesitate over whether to publish articles under his by-line. He had plenty of acquaintances in the business that would realise he''d fallen victim to remarkably terrible luck under the most unusual circumstances, but he would never again be able to make even the slightest mistake. But, worst of all, was the humiliation. He''d held all the aces, and yet had lost a deadly game to a despicable spectator of evil, lifting neither a finger, nor a beneficiary note to end the wars that had cost No?l the full use of his right arm for months, and who had sneered at him over the rims of his reading glasses throughout the entirety of the trial. The affair had begun with such promise, in the cockpit of a bright yellow sailboat, just off the coast of Italy five months before.


    It had all been by chance, simply because Lucille had wanted to impress her new warden. She had rashly rented a boat for a week of romantic sailing off the coast. Jean-Baptiste had only just arrived on the world stage, to start up a mortuary franchise for London''s grateful dead, and had agreed to a brief holiday in the interim. That was, after putting up the token resistance: he would only be coming if his business partners did, as well.


    As it happened, they didn''t have a half-hour of sailing experience between them, and unfortunately Lucy had more enthusiasm than understanding. Three days before they were scheduled to make sail, she had rung No?l in desperation and persuaded him to come along as the fifth crew member¡ªone that could safely navigate them away from the sheer-falling cliffs as well as any fleet commander. No?l hadn''t thought a great deal of the proposal, but had conceded at the promise of a few days'' respite, with fine wine and no shortage of entertainment.


    As ever, all these promises had come to naught, and the expeditions had become a far more disastrous narrative than he could ever have imagined. They had sailed a scenic, yet terribly undramatic route from Roquefort to Bilbao. At scarcely ten knots, one of Jean-Baptiste''s partners had gone quite white in the face, heaving over the railing when a sudden gust of wind hit the sail. Then Jean-Baptiste and Lucille had begun to argue heatedly over whether they ought to dock in Bayonne for the night or venture onward to Spain. All the while, none of them had shown even the slightest interest in learning to sail. It had become only more apparent that No?l was expected to take charge of the vessel, while the others gave him well-meant advice on how to do so.


    Needless to say, after the first night of sleeping soaked through on the sands of Soulac-sur-Mer, he was more than prepared to cut the line anchoring them to the dock and ride the rails for the next five hours back to Paris. Only their desperate appeal had persuaded him to stay.


    The next morning, early enough that the bay was still mostly empty, he had tied them off at the visitors'' wharf in Donostia-San Sebastian. While the others went off in their wellies and very little else, in search of oysters to dig out of the shore with sticks, No?l threw something together over a fire in the sand. He had only just finished washing his plate in the waves, when he had noticed another sailboat gliding into the bay using only its mainsail. The gap between their boat and another on the starboard side was the only slot remaining. The narrow M-30 would just fit. He stood up in the water and waded to the pier, pointing as he clambered hurriedly up onto it. The sailboat captain raised his hand in cheers and began steering toward the wharf¡ªa lone sailor, with no apparent interest in starting up the engine. No?l heard the rattling of the anchor chain in the distance, and then the mainsail had come down, as the skipper moved like a scalded cat, guiding the rudder straight for the opening and readying the line from the bow.


    No?l dipped over the edge and held out a hand for the painter, damp blond hair falling forward over his forehead. The new arrival made one last course correction, then glided perfectly up to the stern of their sailboat. It was only as the man in the straw boater had tossed the painter up to him that they recognised one another, and grinned in delight.


    "Hello," No?l said, pulling at the collar of his linen shirt, the undone sides of which were flapping excitedly in the salty breeze. "Why not use your engine, so you don''t scrape the paint off all the boats in the harbour?"


    "Hiya, Carlsberg. Thought there was something familiar about you." He glanced back with disdain at the engine. "I''d be happy to, if it hadn''t popped off two days ago, out by Arcachon."


    "So, all it takes to get you out of Drammen is an oyster festival?"


    "Ah, you know me: always dragged off on a whim."


    He smiled. "Indeed, I do."


    They shook hands over the pier. Then, when the man had stepped up onto the platform, No?l enveloped him in a tight embrace, pressing a kiss to both his cheeks¡ªthen, on second thought, a far more tender one to his lips.


    It seemed only yesterday that he and Tero H?m?l?inen had been inseparable. As is so often the case, their relationship had faded somewhat after they had parted ways, No?l to Denmark, to be with his mother, and Tero out the door of their boarding school in Oslo, and on to university in London. They had met nearly every month since then for the last twelve years, the last one having been at La Pyramide in Vienne, where No?l had taken him to an extravagant supper at the hotel''s restaurant, and then had shown him what it was to be worshipped like a young god.


    Now, though, Tero slowly pulled away, and they studied each other with a profound interest. He had fiery red hair and a week''s worth of stubble. Even in the pearly pink light of dawn, his face was white as snow.


    No?l was immediately in much better spirits. When Jean-Baptiste and his consulting knobheads went off to watch the Nordic women dance round the Maypole, he stayed behind on the shore, nursing a bottle ofcr¨¨me de menthehe had brought in preparation for a toast, and admiring the face of his beautiful boy through the dancing shadows of the fire.


    For the first time in what had seemed years, things were quite peaceful. They sat amicably on opposite sides of the fire, No?l sipping from the bottle, as the edges of the world blunted and blurred, and Tero painting the waves that danced along the sand. He had always kept a box of watercolours with him on his travels, in the event that there was something so beautiful he simply couldn''t bear for its beauty to remain uncaptured.


    It is the general consensus that, in our final moments, as our life''s thread unravels before our eyes, that it all returns to us then: every, every minute, like the frames of a film reel, moving silently in the still, cold darkness of a cinema.


    But that wasn''t how it happened for No?l. He had always dreaded that final moment, and the resurgence of the world best left forgotten. He would''ve been more than delighted to leave behind all those kindergarten choir performances on Christmas Eve, dressed by the teachers in coats and hats trimmed with white wool, and the flickering of the flames in the candles on the pews, behind their glass cages; all the infernal Masses, and the insufferable parent-teacher conferences that he had scarcely survived the first time around.


    The truth was, though, that there were also the blazing glories to remember: the birth of his first child, and his wedding day, gazing down into the sparkling blue eyes of the man he loved, and dancing drunkenly on the beaches of Sardinia with the family he''d chosen for himself, stripped to their skins and pissed as newts, and roasting a suckling pig over a spit at an estranged cousin''s wedding. And then there were all the New Year''s parties, when gold confetti had rained down upon his head as he laughed¡ªa bright, clear sound, like the ringing of a bell¡ªuntil his face had gone black and piping hot, and his thirtieth birthday, on the edge of a rooftop in Firenze, surrounded by thousands of flickering tea lights, clambering up on the table to raise a shot of snaps to God himself, and the dark, heavy scent of espresso and a sprig of mistletoe overhead¡ªall the moments he could never forget, and those he wished to be remembered for.


    But, before he died, he didn''t remember any of it. All the hell he had razed, and the mayhem that had ensued in the aftermath was a distant, dreary echo of the past. He couldn''t quite make out the face of his family in the pews, from when he himself had stood among the ranks of the choir, or recall the first light of morning, and how it had glazed the walls of his bedroom, or the way it had shone through the fragile petals of snowdrops in the bleak midwinter.


    Instead, he thought of Tero, and that night in the hold of his sailboat. Coincidentally, they had discussed the matter of death whilst basking in the heat of the fire. He could never recall how the conversation had begun¡ªonly that he was swillingcr¨¨me de mentheand insisting that he was far too drunk to be swimming. Tero was pulling his hands, and he was smiling like a fool. He lapsed to the side to fiddle with the dials on the portable radio they had half-buried in the sand, and Tero swatted his hand away like a bothersome fly. No?l was desperately trying to explain his theory of death in broken, slurring English, and they were regaling each other with tales of their finer moments.


    No?l chose to tell the story of Jean-Baptiste and the New Year''s Eve party, of course, and Tero, who was complaining about the cold and threatening to drop dead from pneumonia, participated only long enough to say that he would be perfectly happy to drink wine and make love in Paris for the rest of eternity if No?l would just put down the bottle and get in the fucking water. They were both smoking, and the wind that ghosted over the sand fire blew upward through their hair in a searing white draft.


    And then Tero switched off the radio, seeking to provoke him¡ªperhaps because he was sick of his whining. And so, the drunken No?l had stumbled forward and set it blaring again. He shouted as Tero''s elbow sank into his neck. Then the cigarette fell from between his lips, landing with its glowing red end down on the exposed flesh of his thigh. He released a flamboyant collective of expletives, wincing as he brushed the still-smoking embers from the hole they had burned into his skin. The crashing of the sea echoed in his ears, and the air was thick with thin white wisps of smoke that rose into the darkness like the breaths of phantoms. And then there was a rending screech as his chair collapsed, and he was deposited heavily into the sand. He smelled fire.


    And then it was quiet.


    Of course, the worst bit of death is that one never knows when it''ll come knocking. He hadn''t risen that last morning feeling ill¡ªhadn''t even taken into consideration that only a few short hours after it would be bursting with spoiled milk. There hadn''t been shadows cast upon blank white walls, or time to remind anyone how much he loved them, or for farewells at all.


    No, the first death had been when a cold hand, small as it was certain, slid over the flat plane of his stomach. The story of an hour so quickly became that of a lifetime¡ªif only he had woken when the alarm went off that morning, and not twelve seconds before; if he hadn''t been so preoccupied with the prices of produce at the market; hadn''t spent hours arguing with the vendors; if only he''d listened to his head and gone with the others to take part in the festivities.


    But he hadn''t.


    And so, as the sun spilled its watery amber light across the horizon, they cast the broken chair upon the still-burning fire and surrendered the ongoing battle with Spain''s notorious mosquitoes. They tripped hand-in-hand down into the hold of the M-30, laughing helplessly, hindering more than helping, jostling and caroming off each other, drunk as much with lust as alcohol and stifling heat. No?l had stumbled over his own feet at the bedside, and Tero, trying to help, had fallen atop him in a dizzy heap of red hair and slender legs. He appeared terribly flushed, dishevelled, and wide-eyed, his shoulder-length hair tousled from where No?l was running his fingers through it. Beneath him, No?l''s pale countenance was level and serene as a glass plane, or the still surface of a lake iced over in the winter. There had always been a part of him that was afraid of No?l¡ªhis hideous beauty, evident in the perfect angles of his face; the light that snapped and crackled just below the fragile surface of his skin; the very element of him, that seemed to bleed into the air around them. There simply was no one quite like No?l Mikkelsen.


    He drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. All this time, No?l had been staring up at him with the same blank expression, measured and controlled. There was nothing in his face that extended an invitation into the hot darkness of his mind.


    He shifted his head, in an attempt to loosen No?l''s grip on his hair, and tilted his own, to maintain unbroken eye contact. The slight movement brought the red-gold sunlight to one half of his face, shadowing all the sharpest angles, and silhouetting it from behind, like a halo. He rather seemed as though he was luminous. Tero leaned his head forward, pressing his cheek to No?l''s glistening chest. His eyes fluttered closed, though he would not recall them doing so.


    "You scripted this out beforehand, didn''t you?" he heard himself murmur. "You knew this would happen¡ªyou wanted it to. You manipulated me this way and that, and spoon-fed me my lines as you saw fit."


    No?l pressed his lips together in a hard, flat line, but did not respond. His eyes flickered over Tero''s innocent face in a way that was both sensual and unnerving, as though peeling back his skin to reveal what festered and rotted away beneath. "I do... have an inkling as to how I might remould your perspective, but I couldn''tbeginto predict the outcome,mon ch¨¦ri."


    Tero spent the next several hours circling warily around him, flinching and breaking whenever they touched. Of course, No?l didn''t try to touch him¡ªhe didn''t need to, because he knew that Tero would come to him if he waited long enough. Things should''ve been ill at ease between them, but they weren''t. Whatwasprofoundly ill was Tero, whose heart was the slamming in his chest. He supposed these strange waters that had opened between them were the emanation for not acknowledging to himself that nothing could ever be forthright or candid with No?l Mikkelsen. He only gave himself away when Tero caught him glancing at him out of the corner of his eye with a faint smile on his face¡ªthe interpretation of which altered depending on his mood; sometimes it was vaguely affectionate, other times sinister as the black mouth of death opening before him.


    And so, when the moment came, it was completely and utterly unexpected.


    It was late at night, and No?l was reading on the sofa, while Tero laid his head in his lap. He wasn''t sure how they had ended up in such a compromising position¡ªone minute, he was sat with his knees drawn up to his chest, chin resting upon them, and then he slowly began to slide down the sofa, toward No?l, as if he were a magnet, until finally he was laying atop him. It should''ve been strange, but it wasn''t¡ªthey fit together perfectly, and the realisation of this made him calmer and more content than he had been in a very long time. The night was unusually quiet, and there was little to hear apart from the crashing of the waves and the turning of pages. One of No?l''s hands was absentmindedly stroking Tero''s hair.


    And then, after a while, he put the book down and tipped his head back against the rear of the sofa. His hand began to move again, sliding rhythmically through Tero''s fiery red hair, and down his neck, then down his shoulder, and, finally, gliding down his arm. Tero made a small, rumbling noise like a purr, and No?l''s hand traced his waist, ribs, hands, and wrists, briefly allowing their fingers to entwine before moving back to his shoulder again. And then No?l made a soft, pleased sound and pushed the heel of his hand against the throbbing hardness between Tero''s legs, and Tero made a long, low moaning noise. His head tipped back upon No?l''s knee, and his hand found Tero''s forehead, lightly brushing the top of his cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.


    No?l let this go on for another minute, until Tero was gasping, deep and desperate, before stopping suddenly and leaning forward to place a light kiss to Tero''s lips. He instinctively opened his mouth to deepen the kiss, but No?l pulled back and said:


    "Shall I take you to bed?"


    His eyes snapped open. No?l was looking down at him, smiling quite tenderly. In all the years they''d known each other, Tero had never seen No?l smile as much as he had that day.


    Naturally enough, Tero found that he couldn''t fully commit to an answer. He appreciated that No?l wasn''t assuming, but, to be perfectly honest, he actually wished that he hadn''t asked¡ªthat he had just let things take their natural course, with momentum for him to hide behind. The request to commit himself wholeheartedly to a decision had ripped him away from his oblivious state of being, and tossed him headfirst into the cold, cognitive world of rationality and consequence. No?l pressed his palm between Tero''s shoulders to help him forward, as he looked up at him with innocent blue eyes. He was carefully observing Tero''s face, and he appeared to be fascinated.


    "Have you done this before?"


    The unexpected change in tone¡ªthe very fact that No?l, a god on earth, was asking him something any normal human being would¡ªsuggested to him that he was deliberately shifting the focus for a moment to give Tero a moment to regain his composure. He slowly shook his head, and No?l nodded, as if this was exactly the answer he was expecting.


    "Have you?" he asked, already knowing the answer, even as he said the words.


    No?l shrugged. "Of course."


    They fell quiet for a moment, as they studied each other from beneath their eyelashes. Tero had the sudden mad urge to hide his face in the front of No?l''s shirt. This wasn''t at all how he had expected this to go. In all of his wildest fantasies, No?l was aggressive and dominating, and Tero himself was self-possessed and acquiescing. He couldn''t even hide behind a latent sexuality crisis: it had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that No?l was a man¡ªit was the fact that he was No?l Mikkelsen.


    And then, suddenly, Tero remembered something terribly inconvenient, and a high flush coloured his cheeks. "I don''t have...anything."


    He must have seemed a bit panicked, because No?l gave him a long, thoughtful stare. "On second thought, Tero, I don''t think this would be a good idea. We''re mates. I don''t want that to change." The inward destruction¡ªthe complete and utter crashing-down of all his hope and confidence¡ªmust have shown upon his face, for No?l leaned in and kissed his forehead. "Forget about the past, Tero," he murmured, softly. "The past is a foreign country. People do things differently there. I''m not going to touch you..." Tero sighed, and nodded, sliding off of him, and falling back upon the armrest on the opposite side of the sofa. He looked at No?l with an expression that conveyed absolutely nothing. "Yet. But you can touch yourself, can''t you? Would you do that for me, Tero?"


    "Of course," he murmured, beginning to feel slightly unhinged. What was he saying? When had he become so utterly shameless?


    But No?l just kept smiling up at him with a vaguely hypnotic gaze, from which it was impossible to look away. Without a trace of self-consciousness, No?l unbuttoned his shirt and cast it onto the floor, keeping his eyes locked with Tero''s as he did so. His muscles were incredibly well-defined, and his skin whiter than white. He nudged Tero closer and pulled his shirt over his head, lightly running his fingertips up and down his ribs. When his hands rested upon Tero''s waistband, he paused, looking up at him for confirmation.


    Tero was quite at a loss for words, and so he nodded, instead. This moment was surreal, and he couldn''t fully believe he wasn''t dreaming¡ªthat he wouldn''t wake any moment in the darkness and cold. He was literally and metaphorically beside himself. It was incredibly vulnerable of him to be naked in front of No?l, but it also served to highlight how profoundly defenceless he felt at all times. Exposing his body was nothing at all to the exposure of his mind¡ªthe careful, methodical stripping-back of every barrier and layer since the day they met.


    No?l must have been aware of at least some measure of this, for he cupped Tero''s face in his large, warm hand and gave him a searching look.


    "Don''t look so anxious, Tero. It''s only me. Nothing to be afraid of. I would never lay a hand on you in anger, or hatred, or spite. Nothing will happen to you of which you are not in complete control."


    He smiled slightly, then slowly and deliberately ran his palm down the centre of Tero''s chest. Tero stared pleadingly down at him, and No?l stared right back. And then, with a tormenting slowness, he pulled Tero''s face down, to kiss him.


    It started off gentle, almost chaste, with Tero unresponsive as a statue, his mouth slightly open, and No?l stroking his slightly-bearded jaw, and softly brushing their lips together, occasionally caressing them with the tip of his tongue. For a moment, everything went completely still¡ªno movement, or noise, as if the entire world was holding its breath. No one had ever looked at him that way in his entire life. It was longing, and passion, and hunger, glimmering with something infinitely bright and angelic, and at that moment, something inside of Tero snapped, and he lunged toward No?l in the precise second No?l did the same. They met in a clash of teeth and tongues, gasping into each other''s mouths, ravaging, as though they were attempting to devour each other. The electricity coursing through their veins was like raw voltage, or lightning cracking across the sky: intense, and brilliant, and fierce. And, at that moment, any last doubts he had of backing out were extinguished in an instant, because he simplycouldn''t get enough.They were parched for and drowning in each other; the wild, fiery, hellish heat that enveloped them melting and remoulding them into something new.


    Without releasing him, No?l leaned back against the sofa, roughly pulling Tero down on top of him, and Tero let him, pliant and submissive as a marionette. He was so deliciously overwhelmed that it was impossible to construct a single thought. No?l had hardly touched him, and yet he was already more passionately, desperately overwhelmed than he had ever been in his entire life. No?l slid a palm lasciviously across the smooth, flat plane of his stomach. His skin was glistening with sweat, in small beads, sparkling like a scattering of stars, and No?l glided his hands over every inch of him, touching him everywhere but where he truly wanted him to. By then, he had gone completely mad, and was arching upward, pulled taut as a bowstring. He let his head fall back upon No?l''s shoulder, as the man''s teeth closed upon his earlobe. He cried out, then bit down on the side of his hand in an attempt to subdue the frantic noises he couldn''t help but make. No?l pulled it firmly away and kept his hand gripped in his.


    "No. Don''t hold back. I want to hear you."


    And, over the pounding of his heart in his ears, and the long, sobbing groans he was releasing, Tero could hear his own voice, fierce and desperate, gasping out something which he didn''t want to admit, but which he knew was hopelessly, helplessly true: "I want this, No?l. I wantyou."


    And, when he said this, No?l make a dark, possessive sound deep in his throat, then wrapped his arms round Tero''s chest and pulled him up, so that his mouth was resting against the curve of neck and shoulder. And then he bit down, and, suddenly, it was over. Tero slumped back against him, no longer making sense of No?l''s words, shaking uncontrollably, as the world spun and twisted around him. For a while, there was complete silence, broken only by the sound of Tero''s deep, panting breaths. He must be in shock. He must be. He couldn''t believe what he had done.


    No?l sighed deeply, and held him tighter. He kept his arms wrapped round him until he was no longer shaking, and his breathing had slowed to something less reminiscent of cardiac arrest, kissing the top of his head and murmuring in French. Tero raised his hand to touch No?l''s face, and the man grabbed it suddenly, pressing his stone-cold lips to the back of it, as Tero blushed, feeling the sharp, sculpted line of his cheekbone. It was then that he realised he''d never touched No?l''s hair before. Somehow, it was softer than he had expected it to be.


    He knew that someone was going to have to speak eventually, but he wanted to delay it for as long as possible, because it felt as though the moment the silence was broken, the real world would come creaking back to life, and all the lovesick madness would begin again. Tero felt strangely protective of the silence, wanting to preserve it, as something rare and precious, because for the few remaining seconds it lasted, he could pretend that they were only people, holding on to each other to keep themselves from falling apart.


    And then No?l sat up, bringing Tero with him, as though he weighed nothing at all. He vanished into the washroom, reappearing with an alcohol pad, which he used to clean the bloody imprints of his teeth. He had also brought a glass of water, which he held up to Tero''s mouth, cupping his face with the opposite hand to keep it steady.


    "Pauvre, douce chose,"he murmured. "You look exhausted."


    No?l reached down to the opposite side of the sofa and fetched a red woollen blanket, which he draped round Tero''s shivering shoulders. He knelt down before him, as Tero fumbled for words, until, at the end of it all, he fell forward, so that their foreheads were pressed together, and reached blindly for his hands. Their fingers were so tightly entangled that it was difficult to tell whose were whose just by looking¡ªhard to tell where he ended, and No?l began.


    "Thank you, Tero."


    There was a smile in his voice, though an enormous line had been crossed this night¡ªthis was only the beginning, and after tonight, nothing would ever be the same again. And yet, at the moment, he couldn''t bring himself to care. For now, he only sat there, with No?l''s breath on his face, No?l''s lovely blue eyes staring into his, and No?l''s skin burning against his. He stared down at their hands, entwined and interlocked. And then, in that moment, it was just the two of them.


    Just them.

 II - The Outsider

    REN¨¦ PICARDI WAS born in Normandy on Valentine''s Day, 1985. His father was French, but his mother was Greek¡ªthe beauty and grace of God, with the face of an angel. Her name was Kassandra Selene. She had taken charge of his upbringing and education, meaning that he didn''t speak a word of English, or know a single thing about the Western world. When he came back to France, and to Paris as an adult, the immigration authorities registered him as Israeli. His passport confirmed that he was a Greek citizen, and the photograph showed a strong, square jaw, pale green eyes, and chestnut-brown hair. He looked nothing at all like he had a drop of French blood.


    But then, what did he look like? And the answer to that is: he looked nothing more than the very definition of a Parisian, wearing a long wool coat, a bonny blue scarf, and black Chelsea boots. He was a very talented actor who had begun his second career as an investigator at the DCPJ at the very beginning of the twenty-first century. Now, he had advanced to the head of the homicide department.


    It didn''t take a great deal to become fascinated with the murder business. It was like a game of war: identifying threats, developing counter-strategies, and all the time keeping one foot ahead of the other. It was like being a glorified spy, blackmailer, and thief. It had begun when he''d discovered how fraud and extortion could be accomplished through creative bookkeeping. He was able to discern and prove who, from a pool of twenty-five people, had done it, and for this, he had been promoted, and now played a key role in homicide investigations. Now, he was a commandant divisionnaire.


    The DCPJ had several thousand full-time employees, but it was relatively small compared to the FBI, back in America. When Ren¨¦ had first been brought on, it had been the DCRI, and he had been given a client list of desperate housewives whose husbands had disappeared under suspicious circumstances, and shopping centres that didn''t know who else to ask for firepower. Now, they were the cutting-edge, internationally-recognised DCPJ: Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire. Ren¨¦ only hired employees with professional-grade skill sets, and didn''t bat an eye in the way of night watchmen and uniform fetishists. He hired experienced policemen, and soldiers, political scientists specialising in terrorism, and experts in personal protection.


    By the end of the 2010s, the DCPJ had been equipped to offer a whole new level of security to exclusive clients¡ªmassive corporations and highflyers who were in danger of having a hit put out on their heads. But, more importantly, they solved the murders of those who were already gone, without which they would be out of work. In recent years, sales were sky-high. As it turned out, murder was a lucrative business.


    Operations were divided into four main areas: SDAT, an elite counter-terrorist task-force, which identified and investigated conceivable or imagined threats; the SDLCODP, which was a directorate against organised crime and financial delinquency; the SDLC, which dealt with computer and internet crime; and, finally, Ren¨¦''s department: the SDPTS, responsible for forensics and crime scence investigation, although the market for personal protection of private individuals had grown considerably in the last decade. Recently, a new group had arisen: difficult women seeking protection from stalkers and former lovers. In addition, the DCPJ had a cooperative arrangement with similar firms of good repute in Europe and the States. They handled security for many international visitors to France, including foreign actors and actresses who were shooting in Paris. Their agents had felt that their status warranted having bodyguards accompany them wherever they went.


    And then there was the investigation department, and their private eyes. These people were so terribly troublesome that Ren¨¦ absolutely despised them. It put a great deal of demand on the employee''s judgement, knowledge, and experience. Investigations were acceptable when it was a matter of credit information, background checks, or investigating suspicions that someone had leaked corporate information or engaged in criminal activity. In such cases, the investigators and consultants were an integral part of the operation. But it wasn''t infrequent that his clients would drag in their private problems, seeking to create unwelcome uproar. Ren¨¦ so often gave them a straightforward refusal¡ªgrown women had every right to have dinner with whomever they pleased, and infidelity was a matter that couples ought to work out on their own. The state had no interest in personal opinions and private affairs. Hidden in all such inquiries were traps that led to scandal, creating legal problems for the DCPJ. This was why he kept a close watch on these projects, despite everything else.


    He wasn''t altogether enamoured with this facet of the business.


    The first dot on the docket that morning was one such investigation. Ren¨¦ straightened his tie and leaned back in his chair. He glanced suspiciously at his consultant, who was almost eleven years his younger. He recalled again that no one was more out of place at the prestigious DCPJ than William Pierre Malakoff. Will''s mistrust was equally wise as it was rational. In Ren¨¦''s eyes, he was beyond doubt the most able investigator he''d come across in all his years. Throughout the three years they had known one another¡ªsince Will was nineteen, and had just moved to Paris, in desperate need of a fix¡ªhe''d never once turned down a case.


    On the contrary, Will''s reports deserved a class of their own. Ren¨¦ was convinced that he possessed some rare gift¡ªthat he was psychic, or had a sixth sense. Anyone could''ve found him background information or run a check with police records, but only Will saw beyond the ordinary; only he could always return with a definitive answer to the inexplicable, and see worlds where others saw nothing at all. How he did this, Ren¨¦ would never understand. His life, his family, his career¡ªthey belonged to Will. He bartered on the daily with Death, and then it spun him gold. Yes, Will was brilliant, but he was also a psychopath with a long history of violence. He infected minds like a cancer, malignant until he could no longer be excised, unseen until he made himself known.


    He was the Devil. He was smoke.


    The influence of William Pierre Malakoff was apocalyptic in the best of times¡ªa death omen; a siren''s song. If there was anything to be found, Will would have his hands on it in seconds.


    He would never forget the day he had assigned Will to help with a routine check on a ma?tre d'' at one of the best restaurants in Paris, mere days before a devastating Valentine''s Day rush that would''ve pushed anyone to the brink. The project had been scheduled at seven days, and had already gone on far too long without professional assistance. Then a bulb had gone off in his head, and he''d had the sense to place the file into Will''s trustworthy hands.


    By supper that evening, Will had arrived at Le Meurice promptly at seven o''clock, as the booking ticket read, with a finished report and psychological profile stating that the subject was a paedophile. Twice, the man had bought the company of a sixteen-year-old boy in Versailles, and there was every reason to believe that he was forming a predatory interest in his daughter.


    Will had several habits that drove Ren¨¦ to the precipice of despair¡ªhe always had. In this particular case, it had been his refusal to neither answer his mobile, nor phone Ren¨¦ of his own accord, nor pop in at least once a week to keep him informed of any progress in the investigation. Instead, without prior warning that the report had contained highly explosive material, Will had pressed down all the answers they''d spent months running after down on the table before him that night. He had even, in a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, offered to pay the bill for the wine.


    Ren¨¦ had read through the report after he blew in from the ice and snow that evening, reposing with a glass of Batard-Montrachet¡ªa final parting gift from his father¡ªwith his feet propped up before the fire.


    The report, as ever, had been scientifically precise, with a monolith of footnotes, quotations, and source references. The first three pages had outlined the subject''s background, career, education, and state of finances. Not until the twenty-first had Will included the bombshell about the Versailles affair¡ªof course, in the very same tone he''d used to report that the man lived alongside them in Paris and rode the tram to work in the morning. He had referred to his documentation in an exhaustive appendix, included in which had been a frankly astonishing number of photographs of the victim whilst in the subject''s company. They had been taken in the foyer of a hotel in the 7th Arrondissement. In fact, throughout the course of his research, Will had discovered that it was only a few streets away from the very walls in which he had lived and breathed for the past three years, after he was released from the psychiatric ward of Broadmoor, just outside London. Will had managed to locate the victim, providing a first-hand account of the incident on tape.


    The report had created precisely the kind of chaos that Ren¨¦ had endeavoured to avoid. First, he had taken one of the anxiety tablets prescribed by Dr. Fraser, then rang in the client for a sombre emergency meeting. At last, over fierce objection from the client and his family, Ren¨¦ had been forced to refer the case and all its materials to the DGSI. Of course, this meant that the DCPJ risked being drawn ever further into a devastating web of lies, treachery, and deceit. If Will''s evidence could not be substantiated or the man was acquitted, they were risking it all. It was a nightmare.


    However, it hadn''t been Will''s astonishing lack of emotional involvement that had upset him most¡ªit was that the DCPJ''s public image was one of conservative stability, and Will fit as well into that picture as he would at the Royal tea table, with his camp dresses and pale, delicate face; his luminous red hair, and the most striking sea-green eyes. It set tender hearts aflutter when Will traversed the streets of Paris with Wall Street bankers on his arm, egotistically blowing kisses and batting an eyelashes to no one in particular¡ªwhich was, of course, to say: everyone.


    Will was a natural redhead with an equally fiery disposition. He had track marks and horrific scarring laddering up his arms and thighs, and the word "MANEATER" tattooed on the small of his back, in the small indentation where the spine curves abruptly inward. Ren¨¦ didn''t know what that word meant¡ªhe understood very little English, and spoke none at all. He dared not imagine what he would think of it if he did. On the rare occasions he''d worn a vest, Ren¨¦ had also seen that tattoos on his pectorals, moving up his shoulders and down the length of his abdomen.


    Will had been in several treatment centres for some form of eating disorder¡ªof this, Ren¨¦ was certain. Though he wasn''t a medical professional, he had made his own assumptions over the years: PICA, anorexia, bulimia, body dysmorphia, and an addiction to exercise. He had witnessed Will sucking on wet rocks after it rained, and eating rock salt off the pavement when it snowed, and when he thought no one was looking. Still, even then, most days it seemed as thought he''d simply been given the gift of natural slenderness, with thin, delicate bones that were hollow as a baby bird''s. He had small hands and thin fingers, with the narrowest wrists, and perhaps the most pronounced cupid''s bow he had ever seen on a man. Will had a small mouth with a plump lower lip, and above it a well-defined nose. His high cheekbones lent him the distinguished air he otherwise lacked, and he stood at five feet five. His movements were fluid and precise, each carefully considered before they were mad, and when he was writing, his hand flew across the page. He had always been told that a career in acting was a perfectly viable option, should the hospital ever decide that they were no longer in need of his services. With the right touch, his face could''ve put him on any billboard in the world.


    But still, even stripped of all his extravagance¡ªand he was, truly, obsessed with Paris Fashion Week and Lanc?me perfume¡ªWill was remarkably, inexplicably attractive.


    The very fact that Will should be a consultant for the DCPJ was impossible¡ªhe simply wasn''t the sort of person with whom Ren¨¦ typically came into contact.


    Will had first been hired as a psychiatric consultant by Ren¨¦''s precursor, Pierre Point, having proved to have his own strange uses from time to time, but had recently been promoted to consulting detective¡ªa position that Will had created all on his own. His adoptive brother and guardian, Alexander Hargreaves, had assured Ren¨¦ that Will had the sensitivity of a stone and a mind like a steel trap. Alexander himself was swiftly climbing the ranks of MI6, and was the self-proclaimed British government when convenient. He spent his spare time tending to the vineyards of Maison d''Auberne and defending high-rollers in the French Riviera. Curiously, he had been absent throughout the whole of his brother''s adoption trial, but certainly not during the libel suit of No?l Mikkelsen. Will had begged him to come to Paris and track down No?l''s solicitor through the hearings and press releases, eluding the paparazzi right and left, until they had seen him settled in a private room at the Maison Blanche psychiatric hospital. He had appealed to Ren¨¦ to give Will a chance, and so he had, against all his better judgement. Alexander was of the breed that acknowledge refusal only as encouragement to redouble their efforts, and so it was best to simply agree without further argument. Alexander devoted himself whole-heartedly to the restoration of broken things; he was a pillar of morality and a perfect judge of character, with a bulletproof understanding of the human condition.


    But the truth was that Ren¨¦ had regretted his decision to hire Will from the moment Alexander pushed a celebratory pint into his hand¡ªfrom the moment he looked into Will''s cold, dead eyes. Will wasn''t simply difficult: he was the very definition of it; the father of all bloody-minded people.


    The first several months, Will had been employed full-time. He was a malevolent presence in the precinct, and only for the sake of keeping up appearances. He solved ludicrous cases that contested the bounds of probability, sorted through the post in the evenings, and finished the monotonous psychological profiles that were foisted upon him, but conventional hours were anathema to him. Will had a rather remarkable talent for chafing all those who dared set foot into the cloud of animosity that bled into the air around him¡ªan unearthly presence that rose like smoke from his skin. He wasn''t particularly fond of any discussion that pertained to himself, and those that attempted to strike up friendly conversations seldom received a response. Will encouraged neither trust, nor cordiality, and he was clearly more than happy to play the part of the Outsider.


    And so, after three months of nothing but trouble, Ren¨¦ had sent for Will, with every intention of relieving his of the duties that had seemed so terribly inconvenient for him. Will had come at his beckoning call, and settled himself into one of the chairs before Ren¨¦''s desk. He had listened to the catalogue of offences with neither objection, nor the slightest change of expression. Ren¨¦ had, by then, reached a conclusion: Will simply wasn''t suited for the field of criminal psychology, and it would be best if he found employment elsewhere, in a profession that could make better use to him. Only then did Will object:


    "If it''s a more stable consultant you''re in need of, I can refer you to several of my colleagues from King''s College. But I assure you: I''m far more forgiving of the unorthodox than they are. I''m a trained underworld operator. I know my worth, Commandant, just as I know that I could be put to so much better use than sorting through the post." Ren¨¦ had been quite startled by his bluntness. He had attempted to interrupt, but Will had continued on unperturbed: "There''s an officer here that spent the last three weeks writing a report I wouldn''t use as tinder in a fire. I finished the profile for the suspect last night. You''ll find it attached to a full, unredacted medical record on your desk."


    Ren¨¦''s eyes fell immediately upon the folder. His tone was severe as he reprimanded Will: "An inquiry of this kind by a consultant goes against the laws of doctor-patient confidentiality¡ªand I don''t recall giving you clearance to read medical records."


    Will scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. He rolled his eyes. "I''m a licenced medical professional. As a GP, I can request access to the medical records of any patient registered with the national healthcare system. As it happens, though, the subject is a patient of mine. As for the screenshots of the record: online security has a number of shortcomings. The officer responsible for the report was meant to contact a psychiatric consultant or provide a psychological profile himself. Instead, he left a name and note on my desk before he left last night. I found his notes in his office, which I left in the folder, with the report."


    Ren¨¦ was appalled by Will''s complete and utter lack of professional boundaries. "Did he give you access to the file?"


    "Mm?" He cupped a hand to his ear, as if he''d suddenly gone deaf.


    "William... Pierre Malakoff, if you don''t tell me right now¡ª"


    "In a sense, he did." Will have him a mischievous smirk. "He wrote his database key on a slip of paper, which I found in the pocket of a coat in his office, along with a... frankly astonishing number of passwords, pincodes, and other information that really ought to''ve been kept private." He paused for a moment to draw a breath. "I digress. My point is that this was a useless investigation... and that if he asks where the contents of his safe-deposit box went, I know nothing." He dismissed this half-formed confession with a flick of the hand. "Anyway, he completely missed the fact that the subject has a mile-long docket of gambling debts and a worse drug habit than I do¡ªwhich says a great deal more about him than me. His girlfriend fetched up at a crisis centre after he beat her senseless."


    Ren¨¦ was seething now, and half-blind with rage. "A habit? Is that what you call taking your pick between black tar heroin and Colombian cocaine from the evidence vault?"


    "Well, that does make it sound a bit more palatable, yes. Though, I think that incident¡ª"


    "No, no," Ren¨¦ corrected him. "It wasn''t only once."


    "Incidents," he amended, "were your fault. Not mine."


    "And how is that?"


    Will cocked his head and leaned back, smirking in disbelief. "Because you put a woman in charge of it, Ren¨¦. You know I can be quite charming when I want to be."


    "Right." He sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. "Well, then I''ll take the blame for it, as always." He sat in silence for several minutes, turning the pages of the report. It was written in clear, concise language, brimming with source references and statements from the victim''s closest connections. His eyes flicked up to Will, still wearing a brash, cheeky, and slightly manic grin. "Alright then. Prove it."


    "How much time are you giving me?"


    "Three d¡ª"


    "Two. I won''t be needing more than that."


    "Three days," Ren¨¦ said firmly. "And if you can''t prove it by then, we''ll still be mates, but you''re no longer welcome here at the DCPJ."


    And, of course, the report was hand-delivered to his desk that night. In less than five pages, Will had transformed an outwardly pleasant man into an irrefutable bastard.


    Ren¨¦ read through the report that weekend, then spent Monday running a triple check of Will''s other accusations. Even before he began, he had full faith that Will would prove right¡ªWill was always right. He was bewildered and angry with himself for having so blatantly misjudged this man. In fact, all this time, he had taken Will for a sham. He hadn''t anticipated that a GP would be capable of drawing up a report without a single grammatical error, much less one containing such vivid, detailed descriptions and observations. He couldn''t comprehend how or where this man might''ve acquired such knowledge. There was no one he could name that was immoral and consciousless enough to have lifted excerpts from the notes of a doctor at the afore-mentioned crisis centre. When asked how he had managed it, Will simply told him that he had no intention of casting matches at his sources just to see which ones caught fire. It had become only clearer from then on that he wouldn''t be revealing his methods. This alone was alarming, but not enough to reconsider putting Will to the test.


    He pondered the matter for several days. He recalled Alexander telling him, when he had first made mention of Will: "Even the Devil deserves a chance." This redirected his thoughts of his own Catholic upbringing, which had instilled in him a moral righteousness and a civic duty to help the outcasts. Of course, he didn''t subscribe to such frivolous things as religion, or to such illogical, ludicrous beliefs, and neither had he stepped foot in a cathedral since he was a boy. Even then, he had recognised that Will was a man in need of resolute support, and he had offered very little in the way of kindness in the past decade.


    But, rather than giving Will the boot, as he should have, he had sent a summons to Will''s office¡ªone final attempt at understanding what horrific trauma had culminated in the Birth of Evil. His first impression had been correct: Will was a cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses, from his murderous humour to an infatuation with the darkest aspects of humanity.


    But, beneath the fa?ade, he had also discovered a remarkable person, brilliant in a way that concealed where he was damaged. However unfriendly, Ren¨¦ found that he''d taken quite a shine to Will. Over the following months, he''d taken him under his wing, giving him small, straightforward research projects that were transparent to a mind like Will''s, and tried as best he could to offer him guidelines on how to proceed. Of course, Will had listened patiently, then set off to carry out the assignments as he saw fit.


    He had asked the technical director to give Will a basic course in forensic toxicology. It was reported back that Will appeared to have a far broader understanding of chemistry and poisons than the entire staff. But, despite all the enticement, it was evident that Will had no intention of adapting to standardised routines, putting Ren¨¦ in quite a difficult position on how to proceed. He wouldn''t have put up with anyone else coming and going at will, and, under normal circumstances, he would''ve demanded a change. However, he had the sinking suspicion that if he gave Will an ultimatum, he would simply take his coat from the back of the chair and disappear into the snow.


    All things considered, a more pressing concern was his emotional state regarding the man. He was like a fever that never rescinded: repellent, revolting, and yet tempting all the same. It wasn''t a sexual attraction anymore¡ªthe people Ren¨¦ was attracted to were small and dark, with full lips and coal-black hair. He had been envious of Lukas Kohlhaas at his wedding, where he had taken the hand of the woman that would bear his child: Mette Mikkelsen. Lukas had never been unfaithful to her¡ªapart from one minor mishap in the early months of their marriage, but she certainly wouldn''t have understood if she had known.


    In any case, Ren¨¦ could not bring himself to be the caregiver of a self-harming, suicidal, anorexic addict that might be mistaken for a matchstick at a distance.


    Even so, he had often caught himself having less than professional daydreams about the man, and had realised that he was no more immune to Will''s charms than anyone else, nor completely unaffected by that bewitching smile. But he chose to believe that the attraction was simply a consequence of Will being a foreign creature to him, the very same as one might fall for a nymph in a painting or an amphora in Athens. Will represented all aspects of the world that had eluded him, and Ren¨¦ was fascinated, for the fact that he was forbidden from sharing in that blood-lustful revelry.


    The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.


    On one occasion, Ren¨¦ had stumbled upon a caf¨¦ near the Eiffel Tower on a bright, blue-skyed day at the end of September. He had only just ordered a Guiness, intrigued by the diminishment in price compared to other, more elegant establishments, when Will had come sauntering up to the counter and thrown an arm round the bartender''s shoulders. He laughed as he received a quick peck on the cheek, and then was shown to a table unnervingly close to Ren¨¦''s own seat at the counter. He had been with three men, all dressed in sharp three-piece suits and designer leather shoes, and Ren¨¦ had watched them with a mounting interest. Will had seemed far less reserved than he''d ever been at the precinct, beaming like the sun that dripped through the windowpanes, laughing at every word his companions said. His smile never once faltered. Ren¨¦ had always wondered how Will would react if he came to work one day in a black Prada suit and Cesare Paciottis. But he only smiled, for he would never have an answer.


    Will had been seated facing him, though not directly, and hadn''t looked up once, completely unaware of his presence, however much Ren¨¦ was quaking and nearly convulsing at the fact of his. When at last he attempted to slip away unnoticed, Will had suddenly sat bolt upright and fixed him with that cold, dead glare of his. He looked not through him anymore, but at him, as though he''d been aware of him all this time, and had kept a close eye on him; as if he''d been waiting for him to make even the slightest movement, to strike. It had come as a shock that it had felt like a personal attack. Ren¨¦ had feigned ignorance, hurrying out onto the steps, directly into a trembling wall of white. A dome of fog had settled over the city since he''d first stepped over the threshold an hour before. Will hadn''t offered a word in the way of greeting, but Ren¨¦ had felt those glacial eyes follow his progress. It wasn''t until he rounded the corner, hopping onto a transit bus, that the hellfire crossing his flesh had been quenched. It rose up in pluming columns of black smoke that disappeared into the air.


    Will rarely ever smiled, or laughed, or showed any sort of non-volatile emotion at all but, in the last several months, ever since he had awoken from his coma, Ren¨¦ thought he had noticed a certain diminishing of his attitude. In fact, Ren¨¦ had been so provoked by his complete and utter lack of emotional response that he was possessed by a powerful urge to take Will by the shoulders and shake him until his head snapped back and forth; to force his way past that titanium blockade and win his friendship¡ªor, at the very least, his respect.


    Only once, after Will had been working for him for three years, had he attempted to discuss these feelings with him. It had been at the Christmas party that year. Of course, Will hadn''t been invited¡ªhe was never asked to anything, because of his barbed speech and glacial personality¡ªand neither of them had been sober. Nothing untoward had happened: he had simply tried to tell Will how fond of him he was. Most of all, he had sought to explain his protectiveness over him, and to offer that if he ever needed help, Ren¨¦ would be there, from carrying his bookbag as he struggled past with a broken leg to an Ensure when he couldn''t tolerate solid food. He had even offered a friendly embrace and a small gift.


    But, heartbroken and still stinging from recent loss, Will had pushed him off and thrown the gift into the roaring fireplace, then left the party. Ren¨¦ had watched as he disappeared up the street, into the icy flurries.


    After that, he had fallen off the face of the earth for a week or so, making an appearance neither at the precinct, nor any of his bolt-holes, and he hadn''t answered his mobile. His absence had been an exquisite form of torture bordering on self-punishment, for this was completely his fault. It was always his fault. There was no one he could further profess his feelings to, and for the first time, he had realised with appalling clarity the destructive hold that William Pierre Malakoff held over him.


    But, that Wednesday, as he''d been working overtime to avoid his cousins and mother over the New Year''s bookkeeping, Will had suddenly reappeared in the doorway. He had slipped into the office, silent as a spectre, and Ren¨¦ was suddenly aware of him standing in the shadows, watching him over his shoulder out the corner of his eye. He had no idea how long he''d been there.


    Then Will handed him a cold, watery espresso from the machine in the foyer. So terrified was Will of gaining weight that he would drink and eat only plain black coffee. Mutely, Ren¨¦ accepted it, feeling both relief and terror intermingle as the door fell shut behind him. Then, Will sat down opposite him and looked him in the eyes. He posed the question in such a way that it could never be laughed at, nor avoided: "Ren¨¦, are you in love with me?"


    Ren¨¦ sat as if paralysed, bathing in a cold sweat, desperately searching for an answer. His first impulse had been to feign insult¡ªbut then he saw the look on Will''s face, and realised that this was the first time he''d ever posed such a personal question. He wondered how long¡ªor, rather, how much cocaine¡ªit had taken him to step foot out of his flat. It was a serious question, and if he laughed now, it would be taken as an insult. He slowly placed down his pen and leaned back in his chair.


    "What makes you think that?"


    "The way you look at me... and how you don''t. If I was to unbutton my shirt a bit more, so to say..." There was an odd note in his voice¡ªone which ripped Ren¨¦''s gaze from his chest, for now he was slowly edging the halves of his shirt apart, in hopes of provoking a response. But Will met his eyes with a drunken smile, betraying at once that he was three sheets to the wind. "It wouldn''t go unnoticed, would it?"


    He grinned. "Oh, don''t be cheeky. You''d bite my hand off if I laid a finger on you." Will didn''t smile. He was waiting. Ren¨¦ swallowed thickly. "Could you... cover yourself, please?"


    The grin never fell, but something in his eyes certainly did. "Why? Are you feeling exposed?"


    "Will, even if I was attracted to you¡ªand I''m not¡ªI would never act on it. Between us, there have been times that I was attracted to you, and I can''t explain that. You''re my life, Will, and I love you, but I''m not in love with you."


    "Good, because it isn''t going to happen." Ren¨¦ laughed. This wasn''t the first time he''d made a personal confession to Will, but it was the single most disheartening outcome he could''ve imagined. He struggled to find the proper response, but Will interrupted, holding up a hand: "Ren¨¦, it isn''t that I''m not interested in you as a person¡ªyou''re a right gobshite at times, but you''re still an attractive man. But... you''re also a commandant, and I''d like to keep my job here. By getting involved with you, I lose every chance I ever had of staying. I''m already an unpopular choice among consultants as it is." Ren¨¦ said nothing, scarcely daring to breathe. "I''m well aware of all you do for me, and how you always take my side, and for that I will always be grateful. I appreciate that you''re above your prejudices enough to give me a chance¡ªbut you aren''t my boyfriend, and three brothers are more than enough."


    Ren¨¦ drew in a sharp breath. "What do you want from me, Will? All I''ve ever tried to do is give you a place where you''re always welcome. I have done everything in my power to make you happy, and now you come waltzing in, telling me that''s not enough for you anymore. What more do you want from me, Will?"


    "I want to be instated as an officer¡ªa private investigator, rather."


    "Believe me, Will, there''s nothing I''d like more than to not have my badge nicked every time I push you over the edge, but you will pass the police academy before you get anywhere near a firearm licence and a set of cuffs. You have to start trusting that sometimes I might know better than you do." Will seemed to withdraw at this, but went on, holding up his hands in a sign of good will: "Look, I understand not wanting people barging in on your life¡ªand I won''t," he said, seeing a sudden flare of hostility, "but it''s not such an absurd request for you to let me in once in a while." He looked up at him, helpless and pleading. "You don''t have friends, Will¡ªjust one, really."


    Will mulled over this for a long time. And then he rose to his feet, circumvented the desk, and threw his arms round Ren¨¦''s neck. Only when he was released did Ren¨¦ take his hand.


    "You really mean it this time? We can be friends?"


    He nodded, smiling to himself.


    This was the only occasion that Will had ever showed him any small measure of kindness, and the only time he would ever volunteer to touch him. It was a moment he wished he''d had a photograph of, if only to remember it in perfect detail, for it was surreal.


    Ren¨¦ had had a long conversation with Alexander, who hadn''t been the slightest bit surprised at his inquiry, and what he''d found had obliterated any trust he''d ever had in Will. He had never mentioned a word of this to Will, of course; never let him know that he''d been looking into his life.


    But, before that strange evening was over, he and Will had reached a compromise: from then on, Will would do research projects for him on a freelance basis and receive a small gift each month out of Ren¨¦''s own pocket, whether he finished his assignments or not. Will was by no means idle, and he always made at least some measure of progress. His true income would be made when he was paid upon delivery, and he could work as he pleased, with whatever methods he saw fit. In return, he had pledged never to risk subjecting the DCPJ to debilitating scandals.


    For Ren¨¦, this was an advantageous solution. Any and all complicated assignments were turned over to Will, who, as a final resort, was an individual which the DCPJ had no responsibility for. And, since he regularly engaged Will''s services, he earned a fine bit of silver to line his pockets with. But Will only worked when the case piqued his interest, between shifts on his sofa and the snowy linens of his bed, wrapped up in a white sheet, perfectly naked beneath and pleased to be so. Ren¨¦ had accepted Will as he was, but he did have one rule: he wasn''t allowed to meet clients, especially if he refused to put trousers on.


    But today was different.


    He had forced Will into a black T-shirt with the word "BUFTIE" printed in white across his chest, and a rather suggestive logo beneath: two Scotsmen in full regalia, pressed up against a rowan tree in amorous embrace. This was a favourite shirt of Will''s, and not only for the fact that this had been Alexander''s Christmas present to him. It was rather comedic, in that Will was the stereotypical Scotsman, with a shock of fiery red hair, a passion for tartan scarves and heavy woollen Mackintosh coats, and the rare talent for drinking even full-blood Russian patriarchs under the table.


    He had on a pair of dark trousers, which were frayed at the cuffs, and a worn-out beanie pushed back from his forehead, though he had refused the proffered boots. Will vastly preferred to be barefoot in his flat, and not to wrap up the mess that was his arms, leaving it on full, bloody display. It was his flat, and he would do as he pleased. He was exceptionally, unnecessarily flamboyant for August''s sensitive tastes.


    August had insisted on meeting and being given clearance to interrogate those who so much as touched the report. Ren¨¦ had done all he could, in the name of civility, to keep this confrontation from taking place. He had insisted that Will had been hospitalised for his eating disorders again, that he had been shipped off to a rehabilitation centre in the French Riviera for his drug habit, and that he was a dangerous sociopath that took no great liking to men of August''s calibre¡ªall of which was true, to some extent. August had replied that it made no difference to him: the matter wasn''t particularly urgent, and he had all the time in the world. Now, after twelve weeks of stalling, Will was back in Paris, and there was no further hope of keeping them apart.


    August, who was in his early thirties, was eyeing Will with evident fascination. Will glowered back with an expression that conveyed no uncertain degree of hostility.


    Ren¨¦ sighed, and glanced down at the cardboard box that Will had placed down on the table, upon which feet were propped, labelled: NO?L MIKKELSEN. The name was followed by a social security number neatly printed across the cover. He whispered the name beneath his breath.


    This seemed to snap August out of his bewitched state. "Right. Er, what can you tell me about our twenty-first century Sherlock, then?"


    "This is Dr. Malakoff. He wrote the report," he said, gesturing to Will, who was blatantly amused, and smirking from ear to ear. He hesitated for a moment, biting back a laugh at the perfect fall of the malignant, acrimonious, and altogether combative cold front he always put up in the face of an unexpected guest. Then he went on with a grin intended to instil confidence, ever helplessly apologetic: "Don''t be fooled by his looks: he is the PI department, and no mistake."


    "Oh, I believe you," August breathed, though the dryness of his tone hinted otherwise. "Go on, tell me."


    For a moment, Will''s expression was so terribly hostile that a breath of ice trickled down August''s spine, despite the flames roaring in the fireplace at his back. Snow fell in flurries outside the frosted-over windows. Then, just as quickly, his expression fell flat, and August was left in a state of shock, wondering whether he had simply imagined the look.


    When he began to speak, he sounded rather like a civil servant: "This wasn''t a terribly complicated project, apart from the fact that the description I provided was somewhat... vague. You wanted a perfect portrait of him, but I wasn''t told what you''re specifically hoping to find." He paused to light a cigarette from the pack abandoned beside a cold cup of coffee on the table before him. "The report is two hundred pages long, more than half of which is press clippings and articles he''s written. No great shock that Public Enemy Number One has nothing to hide."


    "Nothing at all? Surely he has something better left unmentioned."


    "Yes," he replied, tone neutral. "Everyone does."


    "Right. Well, let''s hear it, then."


    "Everyone... but Nj?l Mikkelsen," Will finished, frowning. "I can tell you what I did find, though: Nj?l was born as ''Mette Mikkelsen'' on the twenty-fifth of December 1989, making him¡ª" He glanced down at the printed report¡ª"twenty-nine. He was born in Moscow, but raised in Stavanger, Norway. He served with the Royal British Army for a year before he was honourably discharged with a debilitating shoulder injury. He has a stepbrother¡ªcertainly you''ve heard of Thomas Grey, haven''t you?¡ªthat is amongst Paris'' most sought-after solicitors. Now, are you going to pour me a fresh cup or not? This one is from two weeks ago." These last remarks were directed at Ren¨¦, who hastily poured him a cup from the kettle he''d made before the meeting. He motioned for Will to go on, as he stirred in the sugar. "He went to England when he was twenty years old, there attending Oxford University. He received passing marks, the copies of which are in this box here," he said, tapping his bare foot, extended en pointe, on the cardboard. "Mikkelsen appears to have an interest in music and was a tenor in the church choir as a boy. He went abroad as an army doctor when he was eighteen, and was shipped off to Afghanistan in 2008. He was sent back to Portsmouth after an airstrike in Kandahar, to the hospital he deployed from, in hopes that perhaps he might continue his medical training once he regained control of his right arm. Instead, he spent a year travelling to the great music halls of the world and attending the performances of the orchestras he chased after all his life. Eventually, he went to London and auditioned for the symphony as a violinist. When that fell through, he finally trudged back to Stavanger, empty-handed and broken-hearted. He disappeared through the smokescreen of crowded restaurants and bars. He sat in the corner booth for three years, until at last he decided to break his drunken stupor and come to Paris. That was his real breakthrough."


    "Sherlock."


    "Right. He hates the name, and no great shock, that¡ªI put a bullet in the first person who called me a faggot to my face." He tapped his chest, gesturing to the nickname which crossed it, to which he took no great offence. He had always loved feigning insult for the sick satisfaction of seeing fear flare up in Ren¨¦''s eyes. Will cast a dark look at him. He swallowed hard and waved for Will to get on with it, and quickly. "One of my sources stated that he even volunteered as a writer, publishing kiss and tells for the St. Petersburg Star. But I would argue he''s best known today for his work as a defendant of sub-aristocratic society. He''s been a freelancer before, but left that behind when he graduated from Oxford¡ªabout the same time Joie de Vie magazine was founded as a start-up. They began as an outlier, with no publishing corporation to hold their hand through the dark. Today, they sell about thirty thousand copies each week. The office is on Rue du Louvre, about forty-five minutes from here, and half an hour from the DCPJ. He''s written two books in the past seven years¡ªa memoir of his time in St. Petersburg, entitled ''Through the Looking Glass,'' and one about his experiences at Moulin Rouge, running back and forth between stage and city, called ''And Out the Other Side,'' which came out two years ago. I haven''t had the time to read that one, but reviews said that it was highly controversial. It even incited a few fiery debates on social media¡ªhe was never involved with those, if it makes any difference."


    "And his financials?"


    "He comes from the wealthiest family in all of Scandinavia¡ªin all of Europe, maybe. Now that his parents live separate lives, that wealth has doubled, and he receives monthly gifts from both sides. He''s never wanted for anything in his life, and never will. He has about twenty thousand scattered amongst several accounts, and another eighty-five hundred for working expenses and travel. He owns a flat on Champs-¨¦lys¨¦es, on the other side of Avenue Montaigne. Apart from that, his only other assets are a bit or property in Copenhagen and ?le-de-France¡ªflats with semi-permanent leases, along the water. The one here in France is at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. It was previously owned by his grandfather. After he popped off, all his wealth and assets were signed over to his military hero grandson, who had just returned from war with nothing but the clothes on his back. When they were divorced, the Mikkelsens divided the possessions of their immediate family. Upon the occasion of his mother''s death, Thomas Grey will receive the townhouse in Copenhagen, and Nj?l already has control over the flat in Paris. I don''t have a precise estimate on what they''re worth, but he uses it as a holiday rental, and is there quite often nowadays. He and his father each receive half the profit."


    "Income?"


    "He has shares in Joie de Vie, but only receives around eighty-four hundred on his pay stub each month. The rest he rakes in from freelancing and writing short stories for the magazines. The total varies on those. There was a dip in his income recently, for a full calendar year. Five thousand is scarcely enough to pay rent on Champs-¨¦lys¨¦es."


    "And now he has fifteen thousand in court expenses and solicitor''s fees," August said. "The total will be devastating. And consider all the time he''ll be losing, rotting away in a hospital room."


    "He''ll be back in Copenhagen to see the tulips in the spring," Will finished for him.


    "Yes, I suppose he will." He held up a euphoric finger at the realisation. "Is he honest?"


    "Trust is capital, in his case. He''s constructed an image as an unshakeable pillar of morality and protector of the innocent. He''s invited regularly to advertise his name on the telly."


    "I reckon he isn''t much of a saviour after today."


    "I can''t say as I know what the demands are for a journalist, but I think it''ll be another century before they start giving away Pulitzer Prizes to people with their heads pumped full of dreams. Mikkelsen''s really made a fool of himself this time. In my opinion¡ª" Ren¨¦''s eyes went wide. In all the time he''d known Will, not once had he offered any sort of personal comment on an investigation. Bone-dry facts were all that mattered to him. "And I wasn''t asked to look into the Belmonte case, but I did follow the trial. I wish I could be content with the final verdict, but I wasn''t. It was completely out of character for Mikkelsen to publish something of that nature." Will slicked a hand through his now dripping hair, as a strange, cold fear settled in the pit of his stomach. Ren¨¦ was just beginning to wonder whether perhaps his eyes were deceiving him, or whether Will truly had no idea how to continue. Will was never uncertain, never hesitant, and never at a loss for words. At last, he seemed to make up his mind: "Off the record, my personal view is that he was set up. Somewhere, there''s another facet to the story that we simply aren''t seeing¡ªone that influenced the verdict, and that couldn''t be found in a singular testimony, but in them all." He paused, staring blankly into the gaping chasm that had opened between them. "One... that I regret to admit has passed beyond our view."


    August scrutinised him with searching eyes, and Ren¨¦ noticed that, for the first time since Will''s long-winded speech had begun, he was showing more than only a polite interest. He made a mental note that the case held a certain significance for him¡ªor perhaps not the case itself, for it was only when Will had voiced his speculations about a possible framing that there had been any untoward reaction.


    "And how the Devil did you deduce that?"


    "Everything about Nj?l Mikkelsen is careful and deliberate. Every controversial revelation he publishes is well-documented, with clear, convicting evidence and proof beyond all reasonable doubt. I listened to the hearing, and he seemed to have surrendered without a fight¡ªnot one witness, not a shred of evidence to prove his innocence. The way he saw it, the defence rests. But, if we choose to believe the word of the court, that also means that Mikkelsen created a fictional article about Jean-Baptiste Belmonte with no evidence, and only himself as a witness, then published it like a suicide bomber."


    "I suppose I must ask for your version of events, then."


    Will cocked his head like an incredulous dog. "Mikkelsen believed every word of what he wrote. I have no doubt about that. Something must''ve happened along the way, and then the world was suddenly the reverse of the one he knew: false beyond false; the mother of all lies. That suggests that the original source was someone he trusted¡ªsomeone that deliberately fed him false information, which is... incredibly unlikely, but it''s also the only conceivable alternative I can see. Perhaps he was subjected to a threat so serious that he had no other choice. Better to be an incompetent than another dead hero."


    He attempted to continue, but August only raised his hand. He sat in a perishing silence for a moment, drumming his fingers on the armrest, then hesitantly turned his gaze up to Will. "If I was to assign you to this case, what are the chances that you might discover something worthwhile? As of now, this is just a shot in the dark."


    "I couldn''t say."


    "But you would be willing to try?"


    The cloud veil that had come into Will''s eyes snapped away, suddenly, with such force that his spine went straight as a ramrod. "With all due respect, sir, it isn''t my place. Ren¨¦ decides what cases I''m assigned. And regardless, it depends entirely on what you expect to find."


    "Let me put it this easy, as I trust we''re speaking in confidence: I know nothing whatsoever about this case, but I do know that Jean-Baptiste Belmonte has a great deal to answer for, both in this world and the next. Mikkelsen may have lain waste to his own life by seeing what others cannot, but there''s also the possibility that you may be right, Dr. Malakoff."


    The conversation had taken an incredibly unexpected turn. What August had requested was for the DCPJ''s best and brightest to insert himself into a case that had already been concluded¡ªone that now posed a threat to human lives. If they were to take it on, they risked colliding spectacularly with Belmonte''s legion of solicitors. He wasn''t the least bit at ease with the thought of releasing Will into such a situation like a missile out of control.


    It was no longer merely a matter of concern for the DCPJ: Will had made it clear that he didn''t want Ren¨¦ acting out the convoluted charade of a worried lover, and since their agreement, he had been careful never to behave in the manner of one, but the harsh reality was that he would never stop worrying about him. He had never shed the conviction that William Pierre Malakoff was set on a course headed straight for the eye of the storm¡ªfor the perfect disaster. Will was the ideal victim for those that wished him ill, even if he bit back. He dreaded the morning that he would wake to the news that Will had been murdered; that he''d been found hanging in his flat, just above where they now sat; that he would return from another party that Ren¨¦ had forced him to attend with no deterrent to another attempt.


    He shuddered, and the vision dissipated in a breath of wintry air.


    "This sort of investigation¡ª" he cleared his throat¡ª"could potentially be expensive," he warned, meaning to gauge the seriousness of August''s inquiry.


    "I''m not demanding the impossible," August replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. It was unlike him to be particularly eager about anything. "Really, it''s obvious, as you assured me, that Dr. Malakoff can do as I ask."


    "Will?" he said, turning to him with a raised brow.


    He sighed, peering down at his red-varnished fingernails. "Suppose I could. I''ve got nothing else on at the moment."


    "Right," August said. "Was there anything else?"


    "There isn''t much more to anyone than what I''ve already told you, is there? Nothing of interest, anyway. He did marry a man by the name of Lukas Kohlhaas when he was seventeen, and they had a daughter together: Sanne. The marriage has been surprisingly stable, for the fact that they''re both in it for the press. As I understand it, they''ve both been accused of having affairs with the same sex. Lukas recently remarried, and he and Mikkelsen are currently in the process of finalising their divorce¡ªbut they seem rather close. One might even mistake them for still being married, if they hadn''t done away with the rings. Their daughter lives with Lukas, as seems to be the arrangement they''ve agreed on. Mikkelsen has settled into his own flat here in Paris, and the Kohlhaases are in Copenhagen."


    August poured himself another cup of coffee. "What about the kiss and tells from St. Petersburg? You did mention those. Was there any particular reason?"


    Will glanced up from his perfectly-manicured hands, brows raised in an unnameable expression. "I only meant that we all have things we consider private. I also mentioned several outside affairs between Mr. Mikkelsen and his husband. There was one person that kept cropping up in his life year after year. That was one of the more unusual ones."


    "In what way?"


    "His name is Lucien Charbonneau." He shook his head, as if to dispel a particularly unpleasant thought. "Posh thing. Easy on the eyes. They met in his brother¡ªHugo''s¡ªbar in Saint-Tropez. Hugo was murdered by a group of vigilantes seeking justice, though for what, we don''t know. All the officers found of him when they arrived was a red mist."


    "Cold-blooded killers aren''t so unusual for that part of France, and neither are vigilantes¡ªor so I''ve been told," August said, balancing the cup on the knee of his cream-coloured suit. "What was it: got into a smidge of trouble with a cartel?"


    "The way I see it, nothing is ever unusual until someone makes it so. But... they''re engaged¡ªillegally, might I add. Lucien is married to a minor celebrity known for displays of extraordinarily crude behaviour in public venues.


    "So, Charbonneau is an adulterer, then?"


    "No. Quite the opposite, in fact." Will pressed the rim of his cup against his lower lip, and the strange, frosted-over look came back into his eyes. "He knew everything there was to know about what went on between them. Apparently, the situation was accepted by all parties concerned. Lucien and No?l lived together in a penthouse suite above the bar, and shared a bed. There isn''t a great deal of information pertaining to the arrangement, but from the way it was described... I reckon it had everything to do with Hugo''s terribly convenient demise."

 III - The Eastern Wind

    LUCIEN CHARBONNEAU LOOKED up as a blatantly frigid No?l blew like the Eastern wind into the editorial office. Joie de Vie''s offices were nestled in the heart of Rue du Louvre, and the rent was exorbitant, but they had all agreed it would be best to keep it. He glanced at the clock above No?l''s snow-blond head. It was half past five, and a cloud cover had descended over the city, a thin now drifting slowly down to gather on the pavement below. It had been an unusually cold winter that year. It was strange, but not at all unpleasant, in his opinion.


    That said, he''d been expecting No?l at three o''clock.


    "I''m sorry," he said, before Lucien''s lips could part. "I was upset. I didn''t feel much like talking, so I went for a pint. It gave me time to think."


    "You don''t drink beer, but¡ª" He shook his head. "Right. Well, I heard what happened. France 24 phoned. They invited you to an interview next Friday."


    "And what did you tell them?"


    "That you''ll need time to read through the judgement and dissect it before making any statements¡ªmeaning eight o''clock, Friday morning. Besides, I think it''s the wrong strategy: it makes us look weak where the media is concerned, even if they''re running the trial on the telly tonight." He pressed the tip of his pen to his lips, then set it down abruptly. "How are you doing, then?"


    No?l ignored this question, settling into the white leather armchair beside the open oriel window. The office itself was fully decorated in the spirit of the holiday season, with a strand of silver tinsel tacked to the desk, Hallmark Christmas cards pulled out of drawers and lined up in rows on the bookcases, and a hand-painted Nativity scene on the windowsill beside No?l''s hand. All of it was from his mother''s parlour, including the three extravagant armchairs and a small coffee table. He was rather fond of sleeping in the armchairs, stockinged feet tucked up beneath him, wrapped up in Lucien''s heated blanket, when he was in a hurry to be away from his desk. He looked down now at the bustling city street, where people in scarves were hurrying past in the dark, backlit by the golden glow of the streetlamps. It was rather early still for Christmas shopping, he thought.


    "It''ll pass," he choked. "I still can''t believe the verdict."


    "Neither can I." He paused a moment, considering. "Jean-Pierre left early today."


    "I reckon he wasn''t terribly pleased with the verdict."


    "When have you ever known him to be terribly pleased with anything?"


    No?l shook his head. For the past nine months, Jean-Pierre had been the copy editor of Joie de Vie. He''d first begun his internment there when the Belmonte case had broken out in the tabloids, and their editorial staff had been in crisis. He strained to recall why they had ever hired him in the first place. He was competent, of course, as he''d previously been employed by Le Parisien, France 24, and a host on the local radio, but he wasn''t one for sailing against the wind. Throughout the past year, No?l had often regretted this particular decision¡ªhiring Jean-Pierre, that was, who had a habit of looking at the world in as dark a light as humanly possible, rather like a photo negative of reality, light overlaying a black void.


    "Have you heard from Sco?" he asked, without tearing his bleary red gaze from the street corner. His eyes were beginning to water, for how they were flaming.


    Will Scofield was the field photographer for Joie de Vie. He too had a share of ownership in the magazine, but was currently on holiday abroad.


    "He phoned this morning."


    "He''ll have to take over as publisher."


    "Oh, lay off, will you? If you want to publish this magazine, you''ll have to get used to being batted around a bit. Conflict is in the job description."


    "But I''m the one that wrote that article and published it. That makes me look different all of a sudden. It was my fault¡ªmy own poor judgement."


    Lucien felt the disquiet he''d been carrying with him all through the day reach boiling point. In the weeks before the trial, No?l had trudged through the snowy streets of Paris with a black cloud hanging over his head. Never before had he been so beautifully dejected, never half as consumed by the hopelessness that obscured the very world itself in a heavy grey shroud as he was now, in the hour of defeat. He walked round the desk and lowered himself down upon his lap, putting his arms round his neck and smothering him in the cheery warmth of his embrace.


    "No?l, listen to me: we both know how this happened. It''s as much my fault as yours. It''s not alright¡ªit''s not okay¡ªbut we''ll survive this, somehow."


    He shook his head, blond hair switching over his forehead, painted now with the pallor of death. "As far as the media is concerned, I''ve been shot in the back of the head. I can''t keep publishing Joie de Vie. You have to keep your credibility to stop the bleeding."


    "If you really think I''d let you take the beating for us all, then you don''t know a thing about me, Nj?l Mikkelsen."


    "I know what makes you tick, Lucien, and how you operate: you''re loyal to the end. If you had to choose between my life and yours, you''d go on fighting Belmonte''s solicitors until you stood in the same place as me. You''re a good bit brighter than that."


    "So, your plan is to jump ship and make it look like I gave you the boot?"


    "If Joie de Vie is going to survive, it''s depending on you now. Sco''s always been my favourite, but all he knows is pictures and layouts and what the difference is between sauvignon blanc and chardonnay. If he ever came face-to-face with Jean-Baptiste on the street, we''d find him in a hospital somewhere with a tube down his throat. I''m going to have to disappear for a while. Jean-Baptiste knows I have all the information on what he did, and as long as it''s in my possession, he''ll be on a war path headed straight for our door."


    "So, why not publish it all?"


    "Because I can''t prove any of it, and I have no credibility. He won, and that''s that."


    "What will you do if I fire you?"


    "Lucien, in all honesty, I''ve reached the end of my fuse. I need time alone to work through this, even if it''s in a court-ordered psychiatric hospital. After that... well, there must be happy endings in this world, mustn''t there?"


    Lucien edged closer, pressing No?l''s head to his shoulder and gently threading his fingers through his hair. He had a fever. "You''re still coming with me for dinner tonight, though, aren''t you?"


    He nodded, chuckling lowly. "Well, I can''t let you go out in the cold all alone, now can I? It would be ungentlemanly of me."


    Lucien pressed a kiss to his forehead. "That''s the spirit."


    THE STREETLIGHTS REFLECTING off the windowpanes were all that lit the room. When Lucien fell asleep, and No?l lay awake, looking at his face, backlit by the light streaming in through the windows. The blanket was hitched up round his waist, and his hard white chest, glimmering with perspiration, slowly rose and fell.


    It had been seven long, arduous years, and he supposed they would go on sleeping together for another seventy, if they were able. They had never once concealed their relationship.


    Lucien and No?l met at a Christmas cocktail party where they were both celebrating their twentieth birthdays with their mates. They had drunkenly snogged on the sofa, and then Lucien had taken him to bed, and had even given him his number. They both knew they would end up together eventually, but the trouble was that No?l was openly gay, and Lucien was not. Neither of them told their partners, but it was only a week before they were streaking down the motorway like Bonnie and Clyde.


    At the end of it all, their love hadn''t and wouldn''t lead to a house, or a car, or children, but it was steadfast and strong. In the beginning, they had eloped into the sunset, and lived a very happy life in Paris. No?l had proposed, and Lucien had refused. They were like vodka and chaser, but they were risking it all if they fell irrevocably in love, denying their fathers and refusing their names. No?l could not imagine ever feeling this way for another person. They fit together like two halves of a heart, and their connection was unbreakable, always running back to each other from opposite sides of the earth.


    Recently, they had been together so often that it seemed as though they had been married all those years ago, and were simply living their lives as they always had, beautifully imperfect and wonderfully old-fashioned, just the way it was meant to be. After No?l met William Pierre Malakoff, the weeks became months, and the months became years, until, at long last, they returned to each other. Inevitably, it didn''t work in the long run. The boundless love that No?l and Will shared was almost certainly bound to cause unimaginable pain. They both left broken hearts and promises in their wake¡ªNo?l''s second marriage had collapsed not because of his transition, as had the first, but because Will gave him a Glasgow smile.


    No?l had never lied about his feelings for Lucien to his husband, but Lukas had thought something would change when their daughter was born. And then Lucien married ¨¦tienne. No?l had thought it would end, and for the first years of his marriage, he and Lucien had only seen each other in a professional atmosphere. Then the long journey of Joie de Vie began, and all their good intentions dissolved into darkness. This led to a long period where No?l wanted to be a good father and a good husband, living with his family in Copenhagen and raising his child. But, all the while, he was helplessly, hopelessly drawn to Lucien, and so Lukas left him behind.


    And, all this time, ¨¦tienne did not care one bit about their continued relationship. There was nothing he could do. Lucien had always been completely honest about his feelings for ¨¦tienne, and had told No?l when they began to see each other. It took the time-hardened soul of a writer and a journalist to survive such a situation¡ªsomeone so positively engulfed in themselves that they didn''t rebel when their boyfriend slept with another man. No?l didn''t think highly of ¨¦tienne, and had never understood why Lucien loved him, but he was grateful that he had accepted Lucien loving them both.


    There was no sleeping on a night like this, and so No?l crept out of bed, and down to the kitchen, where he put on a pot of coffee and read through the verdict one more time. There had been something fateful and strange about seeing Antero H?m?l?inen in Donostia-San Sebastian. He still did not know why Tero had slept with him, or why, after that, he''d told him all the details about the crime of the century. Maybe it was simply for the sake of their drunkenness, or perhaps he had wanted the story to be divulged. No?l hoped and prayed that it was the first. He wanted to trust Tero with his life. He wanted to believe that Tero had wanted to shoot Jean-Baptiste out of the sky for his own personal reasons, and had seized the opportunity of having a captive journalist. If, in the end, it had all been a set-up, then Tero couldn''t have been any better of an actor. But it had to''ve been a coincidence. It had to be.


    On the morning of 16 November 2019, No?l had never heard of William Pierre Malakoff, and was blissfully unaware of the report that had been delivered the day before. No?l''s recalcitrant views had brought him time and time again into conflict with his peers. Lucille was his archenemy¡ªbut real people didn''t have archenemies, did they? Still, No?l had no trouble imagining that several thousand bottles of champagne had been uncorked in his name that evening.


    Lucien was the very best man and leader. He handled his employees with an uncommon warmth and trust, but he also wasn''t terrified by confrontation, and had exacted vengeance upon the world many times before. Above all, he had an icy feeling in his stomach when it came to making decisions about the content of the upcoming issue. He and No?l had differing views and arguments when it came to the magazine, but they also had incredible confidence in each other, and together they were invincible. No?l did the field work of tracking down the story, while Lucien edited and sold it.


    Joie de Vie was their mutual creation, but it would never have become a reality without Lucien''s talent for pushing his fingers into foreign bank accounts. Lucien came from ancient riches, and had put up the initial money, then talked his father into investing a considerable amount in their dreams.


    Lucien had often wondered why he ever devoted his life to Joie de Vie. Of course, he was the owner and chief editor of the magazine, which gave him prestige and control unlike any other. Unlike No?l, he had meant to work for and design television programmes. He was sculpted from ice and stone, looked smashing on camera, and could hold his own with legions of competition. If he had stayed with it, he undoubtedly would''ve obtained a managerial position at one of the national channels, with a much higher salary than he paid himself now.


    Lucien had also convinced Will Scofield to buy into Joie de Vie. The interest in him had begun when he moved in with Elizabeth Sinnett¡ªan actor who made a serious breakthrough playing herself in a short docuseries. At twenty-five, Sco was already a highly sought-after professional photographer that gave Joie de Vie a certain measure of post-modern charm. He ran his business from a study on the same floor as the others, and he photographed for them two weeks of every month.


    Joie de Vie was an incredibly lucrative affair, and they broke even every month. Now, the situation was floating on the winds of chance. Noel had read through the press release that he and Lucien had drafted earlier that morning, which had been quickly converted and posted on the Joie de Vie website:


    Paris journalist Nj?l "No?l" Mikkelsen is leaving his post as publisher of Joie de Vie magazine, as reported by owner and editor-in-chief Lucien Charbonneau. Mikkelsen is leaving of his own accord. "He''s exhausted after the trial and needs a bit of time to recover," says Charbonneau, who will take his place as publisher. Mikkelsen was one of the founders of Joie de Vie, first published in 2015. Charbonneau does not believe the magazine will suffer a great deal in the wake of the Belmonte-Mikkelsen verdict, and will be printing its next issue on Monday.


    Mikkelsen could not be reached for comment.


    "It''s terrible!" he had exclaimed when the press release was sent out. "People will talk, and you''ll be a pillock in the eyes of the public."


    "And you?" Lucien retorted. "What will you be?"


    No?l sighed, and put his head in his hands. "I''ll be the b?sjdytter who''s leeching at your family''s money."


    "At least our friends will have something to laugh about." But, much as he had tried to make light of the situation, No?l hadn''t been in the least bit amused.


    "We''re making a mistake. Why don''t we have another plan?"


    "Because this is the only way out. If Joie de Vie collapses, all that time we put into it was wasted. Speaking of which, how did it to with that newspaper?"


    He sighed, and ran his hands through his hair. "They''re out, and that''s final."


    " ''Course they are," he grumbled. "Jean-Baptiste has stocks in that company."


    "We''ll find new clients. Jean-Baptiste doesn''t own France. We have our own connections."


    Lucien had put an arm round him and pulled him close. "Someday, we''ll nail him, but for now, Joie de Vie has to step out of the spotlight."


    "I know, but I''m not fond of coming across as a slut, and you''re being forced into a worse situation if we pretend there''s something between us."


    "Lucien, as long as you and I trust each other, we''ll be alright. We have to play this by ear, and for now, I think it''s time we retreat."


    LUCIEN ENDED UP staying over. They rose only to use the toilet or have something to eat, but they hadn''t only rewatched old black-and-white films: they had lain head-to-foot for hours, speaking about the futures, weighing the possibilities and the odds. And when dawn came, and it was the day before New Year''s Eve, Lucien kissed his cheek and left without another word.


    No?l spent the day finishing the washing up and tidying his flat, then taking the bus down to the office and clearing out his desk. He had no intention of breaking ties with the magazine, but he had convinced Lucien that he had to be separated from it for six months or so. He would work from here, barefoot in his flat, drinking coffee out of the pot if he pleased. Besides, the office was closed for the holidays, and everyone was gone. No?l was sorting through sheafs of paper and packing tattered books into boxes beside empty milk cartons when the telephone rang, startling him back to reality.


    "Is this No?l Mikkelsen?" asked a hopeful, yet unfamiliar voice.


    "It is."


    "Right. I apologise for bothering you by phoning unannounced. My name is August Fell." No?l pushed aside an empty container to write down the name on a paper napkin. "I''m a solicitor, and I represent a client who has taken quite an interest in you."


    "Right. Well, give them this number and have them phone me whenever it''s convenient."


    "Actually, he''d prefer to meet you in person."


    "Well, make an appointment and send him in. You''d best hurry, though. I''m clearing out my office at the moment."


    "He rather insisted that you visit him in Z¨¹rich. He''ll pay your fare, whatever method of transportation you choose."


    No?l kicked closed a drawer. The media always attracted the most insane people. He was certain in his theory that every newspaper and television programme in the world received bi-weekly from astrophysicists, scientologists, paranoiacs, and just about every sort of conspiracy theorist. He had attended one of his mother''s cocktail parties once, at the grand hall of Buckingham Palace on the anniversary of the Diana Spencer tragedy. While it was a sombre day, No?l had been tittering over the wine and champagne with dukes and duchesses, laughing over how he and Diana bore a striking resemblance to each other. However, a shocking number of investigators had shown their faces for the occasion, one of which had been a woman that had taken the microphone and lowered his voice to a scarcely audible whisper. This alone heralded a rather interesting development in the party, and no one had been surprised when the woman had claimed that she knew who murdered the beloved Diana. From the stage, it was suggested rather ironically that if the woman was in possession of this information, then it would''ve been helpful if she had shared it with the investigators at Scotland Yard twenty years before. She had hurried to reply, scarcely audible over the resultant uproar: "I couldn''t. I simply couldn''t."


    No?l wondered now whether this August Fell was yet another soothsayer that could reveal in twelve words the high-security prison where MI6 ran experiments of human mind control.


    "Make an appointment," he repeated.


    "I was hoping that I could convince you to make an exception just this once. My client is a very busy man, and it would be best if he didn''t travel to Paris at this time. If you insist otherwise, I''m sure we can arrange something, but if you would be so kind as to¡ª"


    "Who is this client?"


    "Marco Malakoff. I rather expect you''ve heard of him in your line of work."


    No?l leaned back in surprise. Of course he''d heard of him. "What interest does Marco Malakoff have in something like me?"


    "I''ve had dealings with M. Malakoff for several years, and he trusts me with his life¡ªbut, given the graphic nature of this case, it''s best he tells you himself. On the other hand, I can say that he''d like to offer you a job¡ªa well-paying one."


    "I have no intention of working for the Malakoffs. Is it a journalist you''re in need of? I could give you a list of several rather remarkable ones to consider."


    "Well... yes, but he''s not in the market for just any journalist. I can only say that M. Malakoff is anxious to meet you, and that he wishes to consult you on a private matter. Is there no possibility of convincing you to make a holiday out of this? We''ll pay all your expenses and a reasonable fee for your services. We can discuss it more when you arrive."


    "I would be glad to help, but unfortunately you''ve contacted me at an inconvenient time. I have quite a bit on my plate. Have the headlines about the verdict come out in Z¨¹rich yet?"


    "The Belmonte-Mikkelsen case?" August chuckled¡ªa low, dark sound, infectious in every sense of the word. "Yes, of course. To tell you the truth, it was the televised bits of the trial that caused M. Malakoff to take notice of you. I am only a messenger, and only he can explain further."


    "Give me a day to consider it?"


    "Yes, of course."


    WILL SPENT CHRISTMAS with his mother in Aix-en-Provence. He had brought along several gifts with him: a scent from a perfumer in Paris, and a traditional Christmas pudding from a bakery on Rue Albert Petit. He sipped at a small cup of espresso as he watched the prematurely-grey woman with pale blue eyes and trembling fingers as she untied the knot of the ribbon on her present. Will''s eyes were melting into limpid pools, but that this strange, uncommonly beautiful woman could possibly be his adoptive mother never ceased to amaze him. There wasn''t the slightest resemblance in their nature.


    His mother surrendered the struggle and looked helplessly up at Will. It was indeed a dark day. Will pushed a pair of scissors across the glass tabletop, and she seemed suddenly to wake from her somnambulance.


    "Have you seen your brothers? Did they send you a Christmas card?"


    "No one''s seen John in ages," he said, settling back into his chair. "But Alexander did."


    "He never comes to see me. Why doesn''t he come to see me, John?"


    "I don''t know, Mum."


    "Where do you live now? Have you found a flat?"


    "I just recently moved into a flat on Rue Albert Petit. The landlady is a friend of mine. I got her husband off a murder charge, you know."


    "Maybe next Christmas we can all have dinner in your new flat.:


    "Of course. Next Christmas."


    NO?L SPENT CHRISTMAS with his daughter, Sanne, at the house of his ex-husband and his wife in Lyon. Father and daughter spent the time together in the parlour, seated before the television, swaddled in a white fleece blanket. Her parents had begun the process of divorce shortly after her birth, when No?l was seventeen. They had been married at sixteen. She''d had a new mother ever since. Sanne came to see him every week, and went on long holidays with him in Copenhagen and Paris. When they spent time together, they got on well, and No?l had allowed Jensine¡ªLukas'' wife¡ªto decide how often she wanted Sanne to see him, particularly after their marriage. There had been a period of three months in her early days when contract had been nearly cut off completely, and it was only in the past five that the pair had become inseparable, playing together with her toys, and falling asleep in his armchair with her rosy cheek pressed to his chest, as they snored together in peaceful companionship. He knew that, when she was older, she would follow the trial in the firm belief that things were as her father said: that he was innocent, but couldn''t prove it. He dreaded the day she would tell him about a boyfriend, and surprise him by saying that she had joined a church with Jensine. He lived in fear of all the moments in which he would be forced to refrain from comment.


    He was invited to stay for dinner, but was expected by his stepbrother and his family. That morning, he''d also received an invitation to celebrate Christmas Eve with the Charbonneaus in Saint-Tropez. He had graciously refused.


    Instead, he found himself knocking on the door of the house in London, where his stepbrother, Thomas Grey, lived with his wife and child. With a roving platoon of his wife''s relatives, they were carving up the panettone, for he had missed the entirety of Cenone, and thus was left to pick over the scraps of chiacchiere, dolci di noci, and spaghetti con vongole left to lie upon the countertops. Throughout the remainder of the night, over fine wine and limoncello swills, he answered questions regarding the trial, receiving a great deal of well-meant, yet utterly useless advice in return.


    The only one who had nothing to say about the verdict was Tom, although he was the only solicitor in the room. He owned his own law firm in London. He specialised in the defence of sexual abuse victims, and, without No?l even noticing, his stepbrother had begun to appear in newspapers as a representative of threatened spouses and children, and on televised discussions as an advocate for men and boys'' rights.


    As he was helping Tom prepare the after-dinner and dessert coffee and biscuits, his stepbrother put a gentle hand on his shoulder and asked him how he was doing. He told him he''d never felt worse.


    "I''m sorry I wasn''t there for you, No?l," he said. He threw his arms round No?l''s neck and kissed his cheek, before they carried out the Christmas treaties. No?l ate a piece of cake and had a cup of espresso, and then excused himself to use the telephone. He phoned the solicitor in Z¨¹rich, and for a moment, he only heard the mumbling of voices in the background, and then:


    "Merry Christmas, No?l," August said. "So, what shall I say to M. Malakoff?"


    "I don''t have any immediate plans¡ªnone that I couldn''t thoughtlessly abandon, anyway. Perhaps I could pop in... tomorrow?"


    "Oh, er... jolly good, yes."


    If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.


    He leaned his forehead against the wall, frowning. "Are you alright?"


    "Perfectly, yes." He heard August smile against the receiver. "You''ll have to forgive me: my husband''s abominable family has come to visit. I can hardly hear myself think. Shall I ring you tomorrow, then, to agree on a time? Where shall I wait for you?"


    NO?L REGRETTED THE decision even before he left for Z¨¹rich, but by then it was already too late to cancel. And so, on the night of Christmas, he was seated on a train bound for the inner city, having scarcely caught it in his hurry from the airport. He had a driver''s licence, but he wasn''t quite certain if it was valid outside of France, and didn''t have the immediate need for a car living in Paris, regardless.


    August was right: it wasn''t a terribly long journey, compared to others he''d embarked upon in the past. The flight itself, from Paris to Z¨¹rich, had been on-time and without delay. From there, he had taken the train to the designated meet-up location: fifteen minutes. There had been a heavy snowstorm overnight, and the skies had remained overcast, the very atmosphere itself forming a permafrost. He drew in a breath as he lighted upon the platform at the station. He realised at once that he wasn''t wearing even half enough clothes to survive the Swiss winter.


    August had kindly come to collect him, laughter rising in frigid tendrils of white as he watched No?l''s shivering, and led him to the warmth of his car. The snow was being cleared, and August wove his way carefully through the narrow streets. High banks of white presented a magnificent contrast to Paris. It seemed rather like another world entirely. He stole a glance at August, noting his soft, sweet features, rounded out by a charming plumpness, his white-blond hair standing nearly on end, for how it had been teased, and his thin pink lips ever-raised in an angelic grin.


    "Is this your first time here in Z¨¹rich?" August asked. No?l nodded, slowly, neck still a bit stiff from the cold. "It''s quite nice, I think¡ªquite small, compared to London and Paris, but still rather well-off. Splendid place to be: quite like stepping into a storybook. M. Malakoff lives just across the bridge, on R?mistrasse."


    "Do you live here as well?"


    "Well, that wasn''t always the case. I lived in London''s Soho, but I married a man here when I was twenty-five. Over the years, M. Malakoff and I became incredibly close. He is my only client, and I am, for all intents and purposes, his live-in problem-solver. Though, he doesn''t require my services often nowadays. Shame, that. I quite enjoy his company."


    "Right. Only to scrape up imminently bankrupt journalists."


    "Oh, do have a bit more pride in yourself, dear boy. You aren''t the first, and will hardly be the last to lose to Jean-Baptiste Belmonte."


    No?l pressed his lips together, unsure of how to reply. "Does this... invitation have something to do with the trial?"


    "Not that I''m aware of. M. Malakoff is amongst Belmonte''s legions of enemies, and he followed your case with a great deal of interest. Though, I was told he wanted to begin with a different matter."


    "Which you aren''t allowed to tell me about, I presume?"


    "It isn''t my place." He turned the wheel, blue eyes popping wide as they slid round the corner on a plane of ice. "I''ve arranged for you to spend the night at the Malakoff house, but if you''d prefer, we can also book you a private room at Baur au Lac."


    "Actually, I''ll be flying back to Paris this evening."


    R?mistrasse was still unploughed, and August manoeuvred his car carefully through the tracks cut into the snow by previous travellers. The Malakoff house was too small to be called a manor, but it was considerably larger than the remainder of the houses on the street. This was the dragon''s keep.


    "Wilkommen im Malakoff-Haus," August said, in perfect German. And then, as No?l stared blankly at him: "Welcome to the Malakoff house. It was a lively place in the good old days, but today only M. Malakoff and his caretaker live here."


    They stepped out of the car. No?l looked up the long, narrow street, wondering again to himself what mad impulse he had satisfied by accepting August''s invitation. It was then that he decided he would return to Paris that evening. A long flight of stone steps led to the entryway, but the door opened before they could reach it. He immediately recognised Marco Malakoff. In pictures, he was younger, but he looked oddly vigorous and lively for a man of thirty, with his tall, lanky form, chiselled features, and thick chocolate curls parted neatly to the right. He wore a long black coat, a blue woollen scarf, a white button-down, and a pair of real Italian leather shoes. His smile was luminous, even in the dim light.


    "Marco Malakoff," he introduced himself in English, with a heavy British accent, extending a hand to No?l. "A pleasure to meet you, of course."


    "Nj?l Mikkelsen. But we are friends¡ªplease, call me No?l."


    "Lovely to meet you, No?l. August and I have been looking forward to this for a long time. I''ve arranged a guest room for you to stay in¡ªhere, I mean¡ªif you''d like to freshen up before dinner. And this is Cillian O''Donoghue. He''s my... live-in." He pressed his lips together.


    No?l shook hands with an even taller man, who had soft, grey-blond hair and the bluest eyes he''d ever seen. He imagined that Cillian must also be in his early thirties. Cillian took his coat and hung it in the hallway cupboard, on their way to the study. No?l thanked him, and then turned to Marco: "Shall I stay for dinner? I wasn''t anticipating an overnight stay."


    Marco exchanged a venomous glance with August. There was clearly some exchange that had passed between them without No?l''s knowing.


    "Actually, I think I''ll take my leave," August said, quite suddenly. He turned to No?l. "It''s been a long day, and I''d quite like to see my husband. We live in Lindenhof, across the water, in a flat above a bakery. It''s a ten minute walk from here, but just give me a ring, and I''ll come running. Cillian will fetch my number for you."


    No?l reached into the pocket of his trousers, gently flicking on the tape recorder with the slightest movement, so as not to arouse suspicion. At the same time, his fingers closed round a white linen handkerchief, which he deftly pulled out of his pocket instead, and dabbed at his nose. He had no idea what Marco wanted, but after twelve long months up against the impenetrable Jean-Baptiste Belmonte, he was in desperate need of a precise record, listing all the strange occurrences with which he had been involved, and a sudden invitation to Switzerland fell into that category.


    Marco patted August''s shoulder in farewell, then closed the door behind him, before turning all his attention to No?l. "I''ll be direct and to the point: this is no game. I ask only that you listen to what I say before you make up your mind. You''re a journalist, as I understand, and I want to give you a freelance assignment. Cillian will bring us tea and biscuits upstairs, in my study."


    The study itself was a long rectangle of wood-panelled walls and wainscots. One was dominated by a floor-to-ceiling tapestry, and the others with bookshelves crammed to bursting. The books were all hardcover, and arranged by colour and shape. The bookshelves seemed as though they had never been touched. Against the farthest wall was a behemoth of a desk, with letters in every pigeonhole and a great black ink stain on the writing bit. Above it was a large collection of pinned-up butterflies in meticulously-organised rows.


    Through the casement window, No?l could see the bustling street below, and the people in hats and scarves, all scurrying about. There was also a sofa and a coffee table, on which was a silver pewter tray, where Cillian had left them the aforementioned tea and biscuits.


    Marco made a beeline for the tray, turning back to him with a biscuit hanging out his mouth, but No?l affected not to notice. He had no appetite for the dainty pastries that Cillian had brought them for their breakfast, but crumbled under the weight of Marco''s steady gaze, and so pretended to sip at his tea, as he paced round the room, studying first the bookshelves, then the wall of framed butterflies. If the remainder of the house was somewhat bare, then this room was luxuriously crowded, bristling with bits and bobs in every direction, and lit by the soft glow of candlelight. The desk was neat and orderly, with only a sheaf of papers in one great heap. At the back, nearly hidden behind a vase of fresh flowers, was a framed photograph of a little boy with bright red hair and freckles, handsome even then, but with a mischievous smile and a devilish look in his eyes. If only his family had seen that same even festering within him, and if only then they had known that William was a young man on his way to becoming dangerous.


    "Do you remember him?" a voice asked, from behind.


    "Pardon?" He turned back, abruptly.


    "I said: do you remember him? You met him a long time ago, before he disappeared. Actually, you''ve been in this room before." No?l shook his head in disbelief. "Your father was a friend of mine. He was a great man, and a better father." He pushed a biscuit into his mouth, and finished his entire cup of tea in one swallow. "You''re a lot like him, I think. He was a great man. We all thought one day he might even be a good one. Was I right?"


    "Er... I¡ª"


    "You stayed here, in this very house, in 2001, when you were ten and William was four. It was difficult to find housing in Z¨¹rich then, so we let out our spare rooms to your family for the three months that you were here." Marco took up the photograph, staring longingly down at the small face imprisoned forever in its frame. "This is William Henry Claridge. He was my cousin. You watched over him like the brother he never had."


    "I apologise, but I do not have the slightest recollection of what you are telling me." No?l couldn''t fathom whether Marco was telling the truth¡ªhe spoke very little English.


    "Yes, I thought not¡ªbut I remember you. You used to run up and down these halls, with William nipping at your heels and tripping up the stairs. I can still hear you shrieking when he fell off the banister, sliding down it."


    No?l shivered, as if a cold hand had settled heavy upon the nape of his neck. He did remember the boy sliding down the banister: the white jumper; the deathly smile.


    "I..." He drew in a breath, and paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "I remember."


    "Great!" Marco chuckled with delight. "Come here, then. I have something to show you." He went to the bookshelf and pulled a photograph album from the lowest shelf. It didn''t escape No?l''s notice that he had some difficulty stooping down, and had to brace himself with one hand on the shelf as he straightened up. The moment Marco set the album down on the coffee table, No?l knew what he was looking for: the Polaroid photograph, in which the cameraman''s shadow showed in the bottom right corner. Streaking through it were three boys of vastly different heights and striking colouring. No?l looked with horror and amazement at the pictures, as Marco poured him a cup of tea. "This is the three of us, and your parents, who are sitting under the tree in the background. Your mother has remarried since. What about your father?"


    "No, never," No?l choked.


    "He was a very nice man¡ªone of the best."


    "But that isn''t why you brought me here."


    Marco sighed. "No, I suppose not. I''ve been... scripting out this moment for the past several weeks, and all the ways this conversation could end. But now you''re here... and I haven''t the faintest idea where to begin. I suppose you did a bit of research on my family and I before you came, so you must know that we wield a great deal of influence in the wine-making industry, and therefore all of Europe. Nowadays, the Malakoff have dwindled down to a handful of blokes with white beards, just waiting to die. Now that I think of it, maybe death is the perfect place to start." No?l took a sip of tea, wondering where this was bound to lead. "I have a bum leg, so long walks are a thing of the past. One day, much to your chagrin, you''ll find that your strength has gone, but I''m not morbid or senile. I''m not obsessed with death, but I''ve accepted that my time soon be done. I''ll close my accounts and care for my unfinished business when my Reichenbach Fall comes."


    No?l nodded. Marco spoke in a steady voice, and No?l had already decided that Marco was neither senile, nor irrational. "I am... mostly curious about why I''m here."


    "Because I need your help."


    "And what makes you think I would be able to help you?"


    "I was thinking of hiring someone, and then your name cropped up in the news. I knew who you were¡ªmaybe because I carried you around this very house when we were younger." He waved the thought away. "I didn''t come to you out of sentimentality; it was only that I... had the impulse to contact you specifically."


    "But... how did you make the connection?"


    "Your family came to Paris for a week, when your mother became the chief winemaker for Maison d''Auberne. I was the one who got him the job. I was fifteen, and had just taken over the business. I knew already that he was a dedicated worker. I saw him over the years, when I had business in Paris. We weren''t mates, but we talked every once in a while. The last time I saw him was the year before he moved to Switzerland. He told me that you had gotten into Oxford. He was proud of you, No?l. Then you became famous because of the Copenhagen articles, and he lost the plot. I''ve followed your career and read many of your works over the years. I read Joie de Vie quite often."


    "Right. But what is it that you want me to do?"


    Marco glanced down at his hands, then sipped his tea, as if he needed a moment''s pause before he could. "Before I begin, I''d like to make an agreement with you. I want you to do two things for me, one being a pretext, and the other my true objective."


    "What sort of agreement?"


    "I''m going to tell you a story¡ªbut not the truth. One that contains the truth safely, in a cage of words, and not the pure, unvarnished truth that burns over any distance; that brings fire raining down upon the earth. I''ll tell you this story in two parts, beginning with the Malakoff family. That''s the pretext. It''s a long, dark story, and I''ll try my best to stick to the truth. The second bit deals with my actual objective. You''ll probably think some of the story is absolutely mad. What I want is for you to hear me out before you make up your mind on whether to take the job or not."


    No?l sighed. Obviously, Marco wasn''t going to let him go in time to catch the evening train. He was certain that if he called August to ask for a lift to the station, the car would somehow refuse to start in the blistering cold.


    Marco must''ve thought long and hard about how he was going to hook him. No?l had the feeling that everything since his arrival was staged; from the introductory surprise that, as a child, he had met his host, the picture of the three of them in the album, and the emphasis on the fact that his father and Marco had been mates, along with the flattery that Marco knew who No?l Mikkelsen was and had been following his career for years, from a distance. No doubt there was truth at his core, but it was elementary psychology. Marco was a well-seasoned manipulator¡ªhow else could he have become one of France''s leading industrialists?


    No?l decided then that Marco wanted him to do something he wasn''t going to have the slightest desire to do. He had only to wrest from him what this was, and then refuse in time to catch the evening train.


    "Forgive me, Marco," he interrupted, "but I''ve been here for twenty minutes, already. I''ll give you thirty minutes to tell me what you must, then I''m phoning a taxi."


    For a moment, the mask of the good-natured patriarch slipped, and No?l could detect the truthless captain of industry from his days of power confronted by a setback. The corners of his mouth raised in a well-meant grimace. "I understand."


    "You don''t have to beat around the bush with me. Tell me what you want me to do, so that I can make my decision."


    "So, if I can''t manage to convince you in half an hour, I wouldn''t be able to do it in a month, either."


    "Something along that line. Shorten and simplify it. Twenty-nine minutes."


    Marco held up his hand. "Enough. I understand what you mean, but it''s never polite to exaggerate. I need someone who can research and think critically, but also has integrity. I think you have it, and that''s not flattery. Any journalist worth his salt ought to possess these qualities. The truth is, I chose you because I knew your father, and because I know who you are. If I understand correctly, you left your magazine as a result of the Belmonte affair, which means you have no job at the moment, and that you''re in a tight financial spot."


    "So, you might be able to exploit my predicament. Is that it?"


    "Yes, perhaps. But I won''t lie to you. If you don''t like what I have to say, you can tell me to jump in Lake Z¨¹rich. Then I''ll have to find someone else to work with me."


    "Okay. So, tell me what this job involves."


    "How much do you know about the Malakoff family?"


    "Only what I managed to read since August phoned me on Monday. In our day, Maison d''Auberne was one of the most important businesses in France¡ªnowadays, we control the wine world. Or, rather, Cillian does. I know much more, but what are you getting at?"


    "Cillian''s a good man, but he''s a fair-weather sailor. He hasn''t the faintest about how to run the company when it''s in crisis. He wants to modernise and specialise, but he can''t follow through on his ideas, and his financial management leaves much to be desired. Twenty-five years ago, our main concern was a serious competitor to all of Europe. We''re down to about ten thousand employees, and in a year or two, if Cillian doesn''t get some wind in his sails, we''ll have five thousand, and Maison d''Auberne will be consigned to oblivion." He paused to catch his breath. "Maison d''Auberne is still among the few family-held firms in Switzerland. Thirty of our family members are minority shareholders. This has always been the strength of our company, but also our greatest weakness." Marco paused, then said, in a tone of mounting urgency: "No?l, you can ask questions later, but for now, I want you to take me at face value when I say that I detest most members of my family. I ran this company for twelve years, usually in the midst of relentless bickering. They''ve always been my worst enemies. I want to commission you to do two things: first, to write a historical narrative of the Malakoff family. You''ll have my journals and archives at your disposal. You''ll have access to my innermost thoughts, and you can publish all the filth that fetches up. It''ll make Shakespearean tragedies and the Canzoniere read like children''s books."


    "Why?"


    "Why should you publish our history, or why have I asked you to do so?"


    "Both, I suppose."


    "To tell the truth, I don''t care a great deal whether the book is ever published, but I do think it should be written, if only one copy is delivered directly to the Royal Library. I want this story to be there for posterity when I die. My motive is revenge."


    "And who do you mean to exact revenge against?"


    "It''s because of me that the Malakoff name is a byword for keeping promises. I''ve never had any problem negotiating with trade unions. I''m responsible for thousands of people, No?l, and I care about my workers. I always tried to do the right thing, but I''m a rare exception. There are so many reasons why we are where we are, but the one that''s bringing us down is the greed of my relatives."


    "Right. Well, then I won''t lie to you, either," No?l said. "Writing this book will take months¡ªyears, even."


    "I can talk you into it."


    "I doubt it. What''s the real objective here?"


    Marco slowly rose, and took the photograph of Will from the desk, setting it down before No?l. "While you write the book, I want you to dissect this family, this city, this... world that we live in. It''ll give you a reason to be poking about in our history, when someone asks. For now, you solve the mystery."


    "What mystery?"


    "Will was my cousin. I''m the oldest of five children. I don''t understand how God could create such horrible..." For several minutes, Marco lost his thread of consciousness, completely immersed in his thoughts. And then he went on with a new motivation. "Let me tell you about Harrison Hargreaves. His father was brutal. He beat his wife and son, and then, when he became a man, Harrison did the same. He was brought up cowed and bullied. And then they split up. It was the happiest day of Harrison''s life. My father took pity on them and brought them here to Z¨¹rich. He saw to it that they had a decent life. But if Harrison''s father was the dark side of the family, then Harrison was the indolent one. I took him under my wing, even if I was younger than him, because I was more successful. I was already on the board of Maison d''Auberne, and it was obvious that I was going to be taking it over." He crossed his legs at the knee. "My father didn''t know what to do with Harrison, so I gave him a job, and I sent him off to the vineyard in Aix-en-Provence. He did a reasonable enough job, but he gave it up to his wife. He was a doctor... and then he gave up his practice. He had a way with women, and was a drunk. He wasn''t a good-for-nothing, and he was reliable, but he disappointed me every day. And then Harrison disappeared with his youngest son, who I never met, and then he died. He hanged himself."


    "How many children did he have?" No?l asked, pointing to the portrait on the coffee table. Reluctantly, he had to admit that Marco''s story was rather intriguing.


    "Four, including the adopted one. They wanted nothing to do with us, and we never met them. But I did meet their mother. Harrison met a woman by the name of Charlotte, who he met in England, but who came to France to be with him. She was beautiful, and kind, and radiant... Christ, I loved that woman. She''s still alive, you know."


    "Is she, then?" No?l rolled his pretty blue eyes at him.


    "But she was an alcoholic, too, and she took too many pills. She travelled all over France and abroad, and had absolutely no sense of responsibility when it came to her children. Then I''d had enough of it, and just when I decided to break the cycle, Harrison died, and Charlotte became the mother I always hoped she would be. She had already lost three children, and her oldest was nearly a man. I suggested that they move here to be with us, and they did. Alexander was... well, there was a time when I was afraid he''d follow in his father''s footsteps. He was weak and introverted, but he could also be delightful and enthusiastic. He was better than his brothers, because he was sent off to boarding school when he was seven. He owns the vineyard in Aix-en-Provence, and he works for MI6. He lives in London."


    "And what about Will?"


    "Oh, Will... he was the apple of my eye. I loved that boy like nothing in this world. I did my best to give him a sense of security, and he took quite a shine to me. I carried him here and there, and he clung to me like the moon to the Earth. He ended up being closer to me than he was his own family. Will was a very special little boy. He was introverted, but in the most beautiful way. He was talented, and intelligent. I was convinced that he was the one who would take over the business one day."


    "So... what happened to him?"


    "Well, that''s the reason I asked you here today. You have to help me find who murdered Will, and who''s spent the last nineteen years driving me to the brink." For the first time since he had begun, Marco had taken No?l by surprise. Nothing at all had given even the slightest inclination of a murder. "It was Christmas, 2002. Will was almost seven, and was on break for the holidays. He had just finished his first term at school, in London. It was the worst day of my life. I''ve memorised the events of that day, and could account for every minute¡ªthat is, excluding the most important." He made a grand sweeping gesture. "Here in this house, the family had gathered from all corners of the world for dinner. It was a tradition my great-grandfather implemented, which tended to take a turn for the worst. The tradition came to an end after Will disappeared, when I decided it was time to stop playing this miserable charade. I''ll always be grateful that I made that decision."


    "You said that Will was mur¡ª"


    "Yes, I''m getting to that. It was the day of the Christmas cocktail party. Will had gone to the market with his cousins, and with the older children who were coming round door-to-door, rounding up the younger ones to take them along. He came back at just after five. Dinner was at seven, and he was expected to take part, along with the rest of us." Marco rose from his seat to stand before the window. He motioned to No?l to follow him, and pointed. "At five thirty, an accident occurred here on R?mistrasse. A man turned the corner and slid on black ice, and was hit head-on by a petrol tanker. If it hadn''t been for the ice, what should''ve been a minor collision became a nuclear fallout. The driver of the tanker turned his wheel away from the car and hit the West Wing, turning over in the sitting room. The tanker ended on its side, with one of the structural support beams puncturing its tank. Tidal waves of petrol erupted across the floor, and out into the hallways. All that time, the driver of the car was trapped inside, screaming. The lorry driver was also injured, but not as badly, and managed to escape the cabin before the spark fell." Marco returned to his armchair. "The accident itself had nothing to do with Will, but it''s significant because of what happened in the aftermath. People from all sides heard the explosion, and saw great billowing plumes of black smoke rising in the distance, and were hurrying to help. But the engine was still running, and a spark met the spill, and suddenly eleven thousand metres of petrol became eleven thousand metres of fire. The street burned from end to end, and the flames rose high into the night. There was a blinding, incandescent light against the black of the sky. Ashes drifted down from the ceiling, and were swept out onto the wind, burning our faces. Police officers, ambulances, emergency rescue, the fire brigade, reporters, and onlookers all arrived all at once, and gathered outside the police lines. On our side, we did what we could to pull the driver from the wreck. We tried our bare hands first, then quickly realised that he''d have to be cut out. We could do nothing that risked striking another spark: we were already wading in a sea of oil, standing in the shadow of a tanker on its side. If it had exploded any later, we''d all have been killed that day. It was a long time before we could get help inside the house, because the lorry was imbedded in the walls, and climbing over it would''ve been the same as clambering over a ticking bomb burning at two hundred and fifty seven degrees."


    No?l couldn''t resist the feeling that Marco was telling a meticulously-rehearsed tale, written deliberately to capture his interest. He was an excellent storyteller, and no mistake.


    "The streets surrounding were blocked off for twenty-four hours. Not until Friday evening was the last of the oil cleaned up, and then the tanker was lifted by crane, and the streets opened for traffic. During those hours, a vital sector of the city was, for all intents and purposes, sealed off from the rest of the world. The only way to cross those lines was with the emergency response teams that were brought to clear the wreckage and transport victims, dead or alive, to hospital. For the first twelve hours, only the dead and injured were removed¡ªit wasn''t until early the next morning that the living were brought to safety."


    "I assume that something happened to Will inside of¡ªor outside of those lines," No?l said, "and that the list of suspects includes only the finite number of people trapped inside."


    Marco smiled in admiration. "Exactly right. These are the definite facts: Will returned from the Christmas market at about five-fifteen. If we also include children and unmarried guests, about fifty family members arrived throughout the course of the day, and all were present for dinner. Along with household staff, there were sixty-four people in the immediate vicinity, including the neighbours on both sides. Those who meant to stay the night were settling into their guest rooms. The Claridge family lived in Knightsbridge, but they had come to Z¨¹rich for Christmas. They were all staying in this house, so this is where he came that day. We know he met and exchanged words with one of my siblings in the gardens, and then he came inside and ran upstairs to show me what he''d gotten at the market. He asked to speak to me, but my family was hosting the party, and I was preoccupied with the early guests. I couldn''t spare the time. He seemed terribly anxious about it, though, and I promised him that I would bring him to the sitting room, while the others were mingling in my father''s study, over coffee and dessert. He nodded his head and left. I never saw him again. We were seated at the table, and my father was carving up the ham when the crash happened, upsetting all our plans for that evening."


    "How did he die?"


    "It''s a bit more complicated than that." He sighed, and settled back in his chair. "When the tanker exploded, the walls came down around it, shaking the foundation of the house as they hit the floors. Plates, flatware, and wineglasses went flying, shattering against the walls in a spray of white wine and shards of glass. The guests all dropped what they were doing and scattered in every direction. My father and I took charge of the screaming rabble, and so were occupied for the next several hours. Will was last seen by several standing amongst the ranks that formed on the pavement outside, holding a cloth napkin to his face to shield it from the ashes, but the danger of another impending explosion made me instruct anyone who wasn''t involved in rescuing the trapped driver to keep their distance. At about eight fifteen, when the emergency response team and ambulances arrived, Will broke away from the crowd. He asked one of the responders for water, with which to wash the debris from his eyes and face, and to wet his parched throat. They said that he looked more dead than alive, skin seared by the falling embers and doused in ash, bleary red eyes burning in a dead-white face. He drank his fill, and then the responder wet a cloth and helped wash his face. They sat for a moment watching the fires burn, and then she wrapped him in a shock blanket and sat him on the edge of the ambulance''s cabin, saying that she''d be back in just a moment to tend to the wounds on his face. When she returned, he was gone. That was at eight twenty-five. His mother saw him walking back toward the house. Not long after, he crossed paths with the pastor. At the time, he lived on Schanzengasse. He''d been in bed, after a round of chemotherapy, when the accident took place; he had missed the explosion, but someone had telephoned, and he was on his way to the scene. He nabbed Will out of the way of an oncoming tram on Theaterstrasse, and apparently wanted to say something to him, but he waved him off and hurried on. He was the last one to see him alive."


    "How did he die?" No?l repeated.


    "I don''t know," Marco said, with a troubled expression. "We weren''t able to get the driver out of his car until ten, and sometime around midnight, the threat of another explosion was considered past. Things quieted down after that. It wasn''t until we sat down to breakfast at Babu''s on L?wenstrasse the next morning that we discovered Will was missing. My father sent me back to the house to see if he was still asleep, but I came back to say that I couldn''t find him. He didn''t think a great deal of it. He assumed Will had gone for a walk in the garden, or had taken his Christmas money to spend on the lovely chocolates at the market. During the evening, Father and I were breaking up arguments between family members, and it wasn''t until that night, when Annalise¡ªhis mother¡ªwent to find him, that we realised no one knew where Will was, and that no one had seen him since the night before."


    "And you never found him?"


    "Not a trace."


    "But if he vanished, as you say, then you can''t be certain he''s dead."


    "I understand the objection¡ªI''ve considered many thoughts along the same lines. There are only four possibilities to consider when a person vanishes: they go off of their own will and hide in plain sight, they die in an accident, they commit suicide, or they become the victim of a crime. I''ve carefully weighed all the possibilities."


    "And yet you choose to believe that someone took his life. Why?"


    "Because it''s the only reasonable conclusion," Marco replied, pressing his lips together. "At the beginning, I''d hoped he ran away, but as the days passed, I realised this wasn''t the case. How could a six-year-old boy from a protected world, even a very able one, manage alone? How could he stay hidden without someone finding it strange that a little boy was wandering round without an adult following behind? Where would he find more money when what he had ran out? No one hires children of that age, and even when he became older and was of age, he''d need a social security card and address." He held up two fingers. "My next thought was that he had some sort of accident. Now, open the top drawer of the desk. Bring me the map inside." No?l did as he was asked, and unfolded the map on the coffee table between them. Z¨¹rich was a leucocyte-shaped mass about eighty-eight kilometres in area. "Remember: he couldn''t have crossed police lines without clearance. One could die in an accident just as easily as anywhere else here in Z¨¹rich, in several hundreds of ways. I believe I''ve considered them all." He held up three fingers. "There''s only one catch: that Will took his life. His body would''ve been somewhere in this limited area." He traced a fingertip round the line of the city border. "In the days that followed, we searched every conceivable location." Marco tore his eyes from No?l and stared blindly into the darkness falling outside the frost-lined window. His voice became lower and more intimate. "I looked high and low for him, even after his family returned to England, another child short, until at last I looked up to find that it was autumn again, and would soon be winter. When I wasn''t tending to my work, I began to walk from one side of the city to the other. Christmas came again, and still we hadn''t found him. In the spring, I continued my search, until I realised just how preposterous it was. That summer, I hired three experienced investigators to continue the search. They combed every square foot of this city, and those surrounding. But by that time, I''d begun to consider the possibility of murder, and so they searched for unmarked graves. This went on for three months, and still nothing. It was as though he dissolved into thin air."


    "I can think of a number of possibilities," No?l ventured.


    "I''d be happy to hear them."


    No?l nodded. "He could''ve drowned in Lake Z¨¹rich. The southern part of the city''s on the water, which conceals most things."


    "Consider this: if he had drowned, logically, it had to''ve occurred somewhere along the bay, within the immediate vicinity of the house. The smoke and flames and flashing lights were visible from the opposite shore. It wasn''t a time when a six-year-old boy with a stroke of curiosity would decide to travel to the opposite side of the water. But, more importantly, there isn''t an outstanding current here, and the winds that time of year came from the north. Whatever falls into the water appears again along the shore, and over there it''s built up almost everywhere. We dredged the entire lake. He wasn''t in the water."


    "But couldn''t he have swum... to Kilchberg or Zollikon?"


    "No?l, it was Christmas. The water would''ve been freezing. He would''ve died before he made it anywhere near the other side of the lake."


    "What about in a boat?"


    "No?l, he was six! No one would''ve taken him across." Marco held up four fingers. "So, there''s only one possibility: that Will was taken against his will. Someone murdered him and disposed of the body."