‘Come in,’ she said, overjoyed to be able to spend time with him, good or bad. It had come full circle from the child to the father and back to the child. For her, regardless of what others may say, Ralph was her son, and she was proud of him. ‘I’ll make up the spare room for you.’ Molly knew that she was happy.
Michael meanwhile languished in his bed, his woman by his side. On one of the bedside tables, a syringe. He was back in heaven or purgatory, he did not care which. His girlfriend, a woman whom he loved when he was drugged, unsure about when he wasn’t, was in euphoria.
A knock on the door. Michael stirred from the bed and opened it. ‘What have you done to yourself?’ Helmsley said. Dressed in a checked jacket, a pair of blue jeans, a large scarf around his neck, he looked every part the eccentric professor that he was, not that the young Lawrence could see him, his eyes blurred. He only wanted to go back to his bed and make love to his girlfriend, knowing she would not refuse him. After all, hadn’t it been him who had used the money from Jill Dundas to feed her habit, and if she refused, then there were others. He was flush with money, sufficient for his life. A flat belonging to another, a woman, a drug dealer who sold only the best and at a reasonable price. The only blight on his life was the man standing at the door, disapproving, the same as his mother. He had spent a lifetime on his own, neglected by his parents, and he did not care for either or where they were.
‘The cause needs you clean,’ Helmsley said as he pushed through the door and into the flat. The girlfriend came out of the bedroom, took one look around. ‘Who’s he?’ she said. She was stark naked, as was Michael. Helmsley looked at them both: the seductive young woman with the tattoos and the needle marks and Michael, young, masculine, with bulging muscles. He knew which he preferred, but now was not the time to put the young woman back in her room and to attempt the seduction of a young man who probably would not resist, probably would not remember. Instead, Helmsley put on the kettle. ‘Strong coffee and plenty of it,’ he said. ‘And get rid of that woman.’
Chapter 26
At St Pancras Station, Larry carried a small bag, Emily Matson arrived pulling a suitcase.
‘It’s only overnight,’ he said.
‘Better to be prepared, just in case,’ Emily said. It was seven thirty in the morning, the Eurostar direct to Brussels was due out in one hour, and then a trip of just under two hours. Larry reflected that he had got up, showered, driven to the airport, parked his car, and waited for the train, in total nearly three hours, almost long enough to travel under the channel and to return to London. And if he and Emily had travelled out to the airport, it would have taken even longer.
‘A coffee?’ Emily said. Larry could see that she had purchased new clothes for the occasion, crisp and still showing the mark on the blouse where it had hung on a hanger. She wore a red skirt, high boots, and around her shoulders was draped a shawl. ‘I’ve got a coat in the case if the weather turns.’
‘Not snowshoes, I hope,’ Larry joked. He had to admit she was agreeable, competent, and most of all, enthusiastic.
‘Married?’ Larry asked as the two sat down at a table in the coffee shop, keeping their eyes peeled for an update on their train. It was Larry’s first time on Eurostar, Emily’s second.
‘Not yet. I’ve got a live-in boyfriend. We’ve been together for a few years, but he’s a bit slow on the uptake. I’ve given him enough hints to get down on his knee.’
‘Necessary these days?’
‘The wedding ring, down on the knee? Not really, but it’s romantic. I’d like him to do it, just the once.’
‘And then marriage?’
‘If he’s for me, we’ll stick together. No need for a piece of paper.’
At 8.31 a.m. the train pulled out of the station; two hours later it pulled in to Brussels Midi Station. Inspecteur Jules Hougardy, a distinguished looking man in his fifties, met Larry and Emily as they left the station.
‘Pleased to meet you,’ he said. ‘I was involved with the original investigation.’ His English was excellent, which was as well as Larry’s French was rudimentary, and Emily’s good enough to order a meal, find a hotel, ask for directions, but certainly not up to the standard required for a murder investigation.
‘I’ve prepared a full day,’ Hougardy said, ‘but first, lunch. It’ll give you both a chance to update me, me to update you. We’ve been working on the case ever since you contacted us.’
Emily hoped for something traditional for lunch, not the fish and chips that the Inspecteur chose.
‘We’ll drive out to the murder scene. We’ve been around the local village with the photos you sent over, with some success.’
‘The Peugeot?’
‘It’s an old case. We can have a look at it, but you’ll not gain much from it. You’re both booked into a hotel in the centre of town, adjoining rooms.’ Emily didn’t like the look in the Belgian’s eyes. She had heard that the French were incurable romantics, always looking for a dalliance. She didn’t know that it applied to the Belgians as well. And besides, the man may dream, but the reality was a solid day of policing and an early night, alone and without interruption.
The trip out to the murder
