“What are you saying, Hugo?”
“That someone else killed him. Someone else followed him and shot him here.”
“Someone he knew?”
“Probably. I’m not sure Pendrith would have let a stranger into his apartment, given what’s been going on. He told me he was planning to disappear, so I doubt he’d even answer the door.”
“Wait, when did he tell you that?”
“I saw him. Today, barely an hour ago.”
“Oh my God, Hugo, that’s insane.” She was quiet for a minute. “Wait, so that means either he knew the person or someone put a gun to the back of his head at the doorway.”
“The former. I think he knew whoever it was.” Walton. “Remember the phone?”
“What about it?” Merlyn asked.
“If someone had surprised him at his door, someone he didn’t know, I don’t see him pulling out his phone to stuff it down the side of the chair.”
“But who even knew he was in Paris?” she asked. “Who the hell would want to hurt him?”
There was only one person, the only domino in this game that hadn’t fallen or been knocked over. “I’m not sure yet,” he told Merlyn, not having enough of an explanation to warrant giving her Walton’s name. To be certain, he’d need to find out who died in the red Mini.
“This is all insane,” she said. Hugo heard a faint beep, then Merlyn’s voice again. “Someone’s calling through, can I put you on hold?”
“No need, just call me back when you’re done. I need to do a little more poking around here and I can’t do that while I’m holding a phone.” A sudden thought. “Who’s calling?”
“I’ll look.” Her voice went quieter as she checked her caller ID and spoke. “Holy shit, it’s that reporter, Harry Walton. What the hell does he want?”
“Merlyn, wait—”
“I know, I know. Tell you what he says. I will, don’t worry — I’ll call right back. Bye, Hugo.”
“Merlyn, wait!” Hugo heard the desperation in his own voice, felt the fear clutching at his throat, and he fought the panic that surged in his chest as he saw that the connection with Merlyn was lost.
She was gone.
He tried calling her but was sent straight to voicemail. He tried two minutes later, then two minutes after that. He left three messages telling her to call him back, telling her to stay where she was, telling her not to go anywhere with anyone, no matter what. He didn’t tell her that Walton was the killer, he wasn’t even sure that he was right.
But nothing else made any sense.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DCI Upton sounded both relieved and irritated to hear from Hugo. But his professionalism kicked in when Hugo asked him, almost ordered him, to send officers to Merlyn’s apartment.
“I’ll do it, Hugo, but I want an explanation.”
“Fine. Do that first, then call me back.”
It took a minute, then Hugo’s phone rang. “I’ve got uniforms on the way, lights and sirens, the works.”
“Thanks. Let me know when she’s safe.”
“Will do. Look, the chief constable is looking to nail my hide to the wall. What’s going on?”
“I wish I knew. I’m working on it, and when I find out, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”
“Somehow that’s not very reassuring. Where are you now?”
“I’m in Paris. At Pendrith’s apartment.”
“He’s with you?”
“Kind of. He’s dead.”
“Jesus, Hugo, what are you into? Have you called the locals?”
“Not yet, I don’t fancy being caught up in a Parisian murder investigation right now.”
“Murder? What the hell happened?”
“I think Walton is our man. I think there was more to his relationship with Pendrith than we knew. I think there was more to Pendrith than we knew.”
“Walton’s dead, Hugo. We found his body in his car, burned to a crisp. I told one of your guys about that, he didn’t tell you?”
“He told me you found a charred body in Walton’s car, one that matched Walton’s height and frame. Did you confirm an ID yet?”
“No, but who else would it be?”
“No idea,” said Hugo. “But I don’t think it’s him. And if I’m right, we’re going to want to know more about his association with Pendrith.”
“OK, until we get the body identified I can have some people look into that, but what are you thinking? What’s your theory?”
“Pendrith had a bunch of papers on his desk, all to do with recidivism.”
“So?”
“At the pub he told me about a bill he was trying to push through, to get more inmates released, older ones, even people who’d been convicted of murder.” Hugo wandered over to Pendrith’s desk. What did any of this have to do with Walton? “Can you get someone to pull all of Walton’s articles for the last few years? Anything to do with prisons, criminal justice, stuff like that.”
“Sure, what are we looking for?”
“I’m not sure yet. But look into his background a little more. I’m wondering what he did in his year off, where he was. We’ve missed something important about him. I’ll have my people look, too, but you’ll have more resources than I do.”
“You really think Walton killed all those people? Harper, Ginny Ferro, Brian Drinker? And now Pendrith?”
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“I’m wondering what the hell’s the connection, the motive.”
“Me too. But I think if we look hard enough at Walton, we’ll find it. Or find something that will lead us to it. Speaking of which, can you send some people to his house, or apartment, or wherever he lives?”
“You think we’ll find something?”
“I do, but make sure you have enough for a proper warrant. I’d hate to find evidence and have it thrown out because we didn’t paper the trail properly.”
“I’ll see if we can find a friendly magistrate. Are you coming straight back?”
“Yes. But I need to try Merlyn again, and I’ll keep calling all the way to the Channel Tunnel.”
“Our men should be at her place in about ten minutes. I’ll ring and let you know when they have her, but you should call the locals in Paris, let them come take care of Pendrith. And don’t touch anything, for crying out loud.”
“I won’t,” said Hugo, slipping Pendrith’s phone into his pocket. “And I’ll call the police just as soon as I find a pay phone.”
He strode to the Maubert-Mutualité metro station, his head down and his hands deep in his pockets, immune to the swell of the evening traffic starting to choke the Paris streets. Occasional spits of rain made him blink, but the warm glow of the sidewalk cafés went unnoticed as Hugo’s mind worked against the tide of sleep that fogged his brain and drained him of the ability to find any pleasure in his favorite city.
It took less than ten minutes to reach the metro station, and he immediately looked for a phone, knowing that a public one would allow the cops to record the call but not trace it to him. He took a deep breath and dialed the police, grateful for the shuffle and scrape of busy feet around him that provided the mask of anonymity he needed.
The call made, he waited for his southbound train, sitting in one of the odd orange seats unique to the station, a whole row of them that looked more like discs than chairs. The train would take him south to Austerlitz station, where he’d change lines and head north to the Gard du Nord and get back on a train to London.