NICE – FRANCE
It occurred to Jack that Molly’s
murder expert might be able to see right through him. It almost made him get up
from his seat in front of the airport café in Nice and walk away.
He stared into the deep red at the
bottom of his glass. It became darker and darker the deeper it went. He lifted
the wine to his lips, winced a little and smiled; then he realised he wasn’t
alone.
There was a man sitting on the chair
next to his: an old man in his sixties, hair exactly the colour of wheat. He
was smiling, very quietly, sitting right back in his chair, looking into Jack’s
face.
“Bonjour,” he said, not making any
other move of greeting apart from the smile. “Jack. Am I correct?”
“Yeah. Gaston?” He felt caught out.
The old man nodded. “I spoke to Molly
on the telephone before I left; right after we talked. She described you quite
accurately.” He glanced down at Jack’s chest and shoulders then back up and
winked.
Jack burst out laughing. “She didn’t
tell me much about you.”
Gaston just smiled.
“Would you like a drink?” Jack raised
his hand to attract the waiter.
“Why not?”
They ordered; more wine for Jack and
a beer for Gaston. Jack watched him as he made the order. There was an
incredible buoyancy to his speech and movements, the flick of his grey eyes. He
was wearing slacks and a very old-fashioned looking pale shirt that looked new
nonetheless. He made rapid movements with his hands to accentuate his words. He
never seemed to stop smiling.
“So I’m very curious as to why you
wanted to meet me,” he said as they laid down the drinks. “Molly told me as
much about you as she knew and I could detect no motivation.”
Jack shrugged, thinking about Lucy
where she lay when she died, tucked in against the hearth of the grubby little
hotel room in Bristol. “I wanted a free holiday,” he said.
Gaston shook his head, still smiling.
“Molly told me about the money monsieur. I think that perhaps the last thing
you need from someone of my peculiar interests is a cheap place to stay.”
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