The Third Woman. Mark Burnell
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was sealed with police tape. There was no noise from the other apartments on the floor. She hadn’t seen light from any of them from rue Dénoyez. She slit the tape and let herself in with Claude Adler’s keys, quietly closing the door behind her.
Inside, she stood perfectly still, adjusting to the gloom. The dull wash of streetlamps provided the only light. She smelt stale cigarette smoke. The Fursts hadn’t been smokers; Miriam had been asthmatic.
The small living-room overlooked rue Dénoyez. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, Stephanie saw a delta of dark splatters over the oatmeal carpet at the centre of the room. The blood had dried to a black crust. There was broken glass in the cast-iron grate. On the mantelpiece above the fire there had once been a large collection of miniature figurines, she recalled; horses, the glass blown with curls of fiery orange and emerald green. Only two remained.
In the kitchen, she recognized the cheap watercolour of place des Vosges and the wooden mug rack. There were no mugs left. They were all broken. Cutlery and cracked china littered the linoleum floor.
She wondered what the official line was. A violent burglary perpetrated against an elderly, vulnerable couple, their murders little more than some kind of sporting bonus?
The bathroom was at the back of the apartment, overlooking waste ground. It didn’t look as though regeneration was imminent. She lowered the blind and switched on the light. The wallpaper might have been cream once. Now it was pale rust, except for black patches of damp in the corner over the bath. By the sink was a shaving kit, the badger-hair brush and cut-throat razor laid upon an old flannel.
Stephanie washed herself thoroughly, then dressed in the underwear and stockings she’d bought from a depressing discount store on boulevard de Belleville, followed by the clothes she’d bought at MaxMara. She put her belongings into the black leather bag and put her dirty clothes into the MaxMara bags, which she placed beneath the basin.
Using Miriam’s hairbrush made her faintly queasy. She tried to ignore the sensation and examined herself in the mirror. What she needed was twenty minutes in the shower with plenty of shampoo and soap. And then make-up to mask the fatigue. But she’d forgotten to buy make-up and was sure that Miriam had never worn any. Besides, that would certainly feel worse than using the hairbrush; who’d wear a dead woman’s lipstick?
The Lancaster was small and discreet, a townhouse hotel, the kind she liked. The bar was an open area leading through to the restaurant. A few sofas, some armchairs, a cluster of tables. It was busy at quarter to eight, the centre of the room taken by a loud group; four skeletal women, two of them in dark glasses, and three skeletal men with designer stubble, open-necked shirts, suits. One of them was fiddling with a miniature dachshund. They were all drinking champagne.
Stern had said that Medvedev would be waiting for her at the bar itself, which was at one end of the dining-room. He was easy to spot; alone, a chilled martini glass at his elbow, on the phone.
Medvedev was a Spetsnaz veteran – FSB Alpha – but there was no longer any hint of it. Golitsyn’s influence, she supposed. A life of luxury to smooth away the rough edges. As she approached the bar, he finished his call, folded his phone shut and raised his glass to drink.
‘Fyodor Medvedev?’
He set his glass down without taking the sip.
In Russian, she said, ‘Dobryy vecher. Minya zavut Claudia Calderon.’
He took his time replying. ‘Sorry. Please say again. My name is …?’
It wasn’t worth the wait; his accent was atrocious.
Now Stephanie was the one looking confused. ‘Fyodor Medvedev?’
He switched to English; American, east coast but tempered. ‘Is that who I am? Thanks. I was starting to wonder.’
‘You’re not Russian.’
He shook his head. ‘Just like you.’
‘And you don’t work for Leonid Golitsyn?’
‘Never heard of him.’
She looked around – where was Medvedev? – and shrugged. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were …’
‘Have we met before?’
‘That’s original.’
‘I know. But have we?’
It occurred to Stephanie that they’d both thought they’d recognized each other. She’d thought he was Medvedev. And he’d thought she was … who? The moment he first saw her, who had she been to him?
‘I don’t think so.’
He offered his hand. ‘Well, I’m Robert. Robert Newman.’
‘Hello, Robert. Claudia Calderon.’
‘Calderon – you’re from Spain?’
‘Argentina.’
‘Lucky you. One of my favourite countries.’
Stephanie swiftly changed direction. ‘So … what do you do, Robert?’
‘Depends who’s asking.’
‘That makes you sound like a gun for hire.’
‘But in a suit.’
Which he wore well, she noticed. He has them made. Grey, double-breasted, over a pale blue shirt with a deep red, hand-woven silk tie.
‘They’re the ones you have to watch,’ Stephanie said. ‘Like the vicar’s daughter.’
His laugh was soft and low. ‘Then I guess I’m in … finance.’
‘You don’t sound very sure.’
‘My background is oil.’
‘But no dirty hands?’
‘Not these days. When I was younger.’
She could believe it. He was perfectly at home in the Lancaster’s bar, in his expensive suit, with the heavy stainless-steel TAG-Heuer on his wrist. Yet she could see the oil-fields. In his eyes, in the lines around them, across hands made for manual labour.
He summoned the bartender and said to Stephanie, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’
A question she’d been asked too many times by too many men. But she didn’t mind it coming from him. He hadn’t made any assumptions about her. Not yet. Usually, the men who asked her that question were already deciding how much they were prepared to pay for her.
She had champagne because she felt that would be Claudia Calderon’s drink. That or Diet Coke. Newman ordered another vodka martini.
‘You live in Paris, Claudia?’
‘I’m visiting.’
‘Staying here, at the Lancaster?’
‘A man who gets right to the point.’
‘It’s an innocent question.’
The bartender slid a glass towards her.
‘No, I’m not staying here,’ Stephanie said. ‘What about you?’
‘I live here.’
‘In the hotel?’
‘In the city.’
‘How original. An American in Paris.’
‘If you consider a New Yorker an American …’
‘You don’t?’
‘Not really. I think of New York as a city-state. America’s another country.’
Which was something she’d felt herself. In New York, she’d always been at home. In the rest of America, she was constantly reminded of how European she was.
She tried to push past the remark. ‘How