on him.
“That’s right. The publicity I get from solving these cases encourages sponsorship from both the state and the private sector.”
“And your wife… I take it you married her?”
“I did.”
“Is she also involved in forensics?”
“She was.”
“And now?”
Enzo hesitated for just a moment. “She’s dead.”
Dominique flushed. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be. She died a long time ago. Giving birth to my daughter, Sophie, who’s now twenty-four.”
“And you never re-married?”
“I never did.”
“And no one special in your life?”
Again he hesitated. “Well… yes, and no. Someone special, yes. But not in my life any more.”
“You’re a man of many sadnesses.”
Enzo thought about all the regrets of his life. “I suppose I am. But I’m trying to keep cheerful. And good food and wine helps. Especially in the company of a beautiful woman.”
Dominique blushed. “Are all Scots such flatterers?”
“Yes. It’s our genetic inheritance. The three Fs. Flattery, flirting, and flippancy.” He grinned. “What made you become a gendarme?”
She shrugged. “Unemployment. When there are no jobs around, military service seems like a good option, and I didn’t fancy the infantry. I certainly wasn’t cut out for academia, and at eighteen marriage seemed like a very distant prospect.” A reluctant smile turned up the corners of her mouth. “It wasn’t what you might describe as a calling. But I’ve enjoyed it well enough.”
“What age were you when you married?”
“Twenty-five. I should have waited, though. They say you know better at thirty. And I did. By that time I was older, wiser, and divorced.”
“And no one special on the horizon now?”
“Only my dog, Tasha. And Tasha’s a she. So, no men in my life at all.”
“And no children?”
“No, thank God! What a complication that would have been.”
“Yes. Children endlessly complicate your life.” Enzo’s heartfelt observation caused her to cast him a glance of curiosity.
“You have more than one?”
A little gasp, half laughter, half exasperation, burst from his lips. “I have too many and not enough.”
Her interest piqued, Dominique was about to ask him what he meant when she was interrupted by the arrival at their table again of Guy Fraysse. He tipped his head toward them, raising an enquiring eyebrow. “How was it?”
“Absolutely wonderful, Monsieur Fraysse,” Dominique said. “I have eaten cuisses de grenouille many times, but they never tasted like this.”
“Excellent.” He beamed his delight and placed a bottle of red wine on the table, which he began to open very carefully. “This is a Burgundy, as you can see. Domaine Michel Gros. Aux Brulees, 2005.” He turned toward Enzo. “Which, as you will know, is being hailed as the vintage of the century. And I still find it hard to see past the pinot noir. I’m just going to leave this to breathe for a while. It’s to have with your veal. But more of that later.” He checked how much of the Muscadet was left. “Good. I’m happy to leave you this to finish with your fish.” He raised a finger. “Although, you may wish to forego wine with this dish altogether. It is served in a sauce of red wine.”
Enzo couldn’t conceal his amazement. “Fish in a red wine sauce?”
“Another nod to the incomparable Monsieur Loiseau. He liked to serve sandre with his red wine reduction. Marc served it with filets de rouget lightly sauted with rondelles of steamed leak. The sauce itself is quite extraordinary. Seven litres of strong, raisiny, southern wine reduced to one, thickened to the consistency of blood, and finished off with a nob of butter.”
The tiny rouget fillets, three each, were served on white china, the skin side crisped to an almost caramel finish. The sauce was, indeed, the consistency of blood, startlingly dark red against the white, and delivered in a swirl with what seemed like an artistic flourish. Both fillets and sauce were sprinkled with the delicate rondelles of leek and half a dozen soft green peppercorns.
As recommended by Guy, they abandoned the wine to focus on the delicate flesh of the soft, moist fish, the burnt crunch of the skin, the mellow flavour of the sauce, all offset by the bite of the leek and the occasion burst of spicy pepper. Conversation, again, took second place to appreciation of the food, and it wasn’t until they had mopped their plates clean that Dominique returned to the subject that had so intrigued her before Guy’s interruption.
“So how many children do you actually have?”
Enzo dabbed his mouth with his napkin and wondered just how much of himself he should reveal. Finally he said, “I have three children. A daughter by my first marriage. My daughter by my French wife.” He hesitated. “And a son I have never seen.”
Dominique’s eyes opened wide. “How old is your son?”
“About six months.”
She sat back in her chair and looked at him in amazement. “And you’ve never seen him?”
“I don’t even know his name.”
“You’re kidding!”
“His mother didn’t want me to have anything to do with him. Doesn’t even want him to know who his father is.”
“That’s not fair. On him or you.”
Enzo gazed at his empty plate. “That was the deal.”
“What deal?”
He looked up. “When she found out she was pregnant she delivered an ultimatum. She would have the child aborted unless I would agree to stay out of their lives. What was I going to do? I couldn’t let her kill my son.”
Dominique shook her head, her eyes filled with the horror she felt. “Why on earth did she even tell you she was pregnant?”
“I guess, because she knew I would find out.”
“Who is she?”
“Her name’s Charlotte. She’s a forensic psychologist. Lives in Paris. I met her during my investigation into the first case in Roger Raffin’s book. She was Raffin’s ex-lover.”
“My God, what a complicated life you lead! Did you know Raffin?”
“Not before I started investigating his cold cases. And I only got involved in that because of a stupid bet with the police chief in Cahors and the Prefet of the Lot.” He turned his dessert spoon around in his fingers, watching its polished silver catching light reflections from around the dining room. “Now Raffin and my elder daughter are involved.”
Dominique frowned. “Involved? You mean they have a relationship?”
“They sleep together.” Just saying it was painful.
“You sound like you don’t approve.”
“I don’t. I don’t like Raffin. I never did. At first I felt sorry for him. He was only motivated to write his book of cold cases because of the unsolved murder of his own wife. But I found him cold, slightly reptilian, and never felt easy in his company.” He sighed and put his spoon firmly back in its place. “But Kirsty is her own master. She is over thirty now. She does what she wants.”
Dominique put her elbow on the table and leaned her chin in the upturned palm of her hand, gazing at him, awed by what she clearly saw as his complex and exotic existence. “Do you have any other family? Brothers, sisters?”
Again Enzo hesitated. But this time he lied. “No. My parents are both dead.” And he was anxious now to
