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Date Posted: 19:45:25 09/21/02 Sat
“Martin, you’ve got a phone call.”
Graeme rubbed his forehead, trying to rid himself of an incipient headache. “Please tell me it isn’t Mrs. Sheffield again.”
Across the aisle, Sullivan chuckled. “Sorry, mate.”
“Shit.” Graeme took a brief second to control his irritation before picking up his desk phone. “Martin here.”
“Auberie Sheffield, Constable Martin. Have you heard anything?”
“No, Mrs. Sheffield, I’m terribly sorry. There’ve been no new developments.”
“It’s nearly Christmas, Constable. You must find Malcolm. We always spend it together as a family. Our daughter is coming home from London and our youngest boy down from Chester, with our grandch-“ Her voice broke on a sob. “You simply must find him for us.”
“Ma’am, we’re doing everything we possibly can. You know this. We’re looking for your car; we’re tracing his movements. I just don’t have anything new to tell you yet.”
“He wouldn’t have run away from us, Constable! You can’t think that, please, you must believe me. He loves his family, he has his job…” Martin let Auberie Sheffield ramble on, repeating all the information she had told him time and time before: good family man, employed as a low-level government accountant, wouldn’t ever do this to them…
Reprieve came in the form of the desk lieutenant, waving a hand at him from across the office. “Ma’am, I have to go now. Another case. Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to keep in touch with you, will call you as soon as I have anything to report.”
“Sorry to interrupt your phone conversation, Martin.” The lieutenant grinned at him when Graeme approached.
“God, thank you sir. Mrs. Sheffield again.”
“Those are the worst. She just doesn’t want to believe the evidence of her own eyes. The man’s found himself another birdie to nest with.”
“Maybe, sir, maybe. But he hasn’t touched the bank accounts.” Martin shook his head and put the disappearance of Malcolm Sheffield to the side. “You wanted me sir?”
“Got an interview for you, Martin. Odd duck. Homeless man, a Frenchy, breaks up a mugging and puts both assailants in hospital. Wanna take a crack at him?”
Graeme flipped through the meager file handed to him. “For getting me off the phone, sir, I’ll be happy to talk to the gentleman.”
Through the one-way mirror he could see the occupant in the interview room. The man didn’t seem very threatening sitting quietly with his hands folded in his lap. Fairly tall, but not overly so, trim with a lean implied strength rather than an overtly muscular build. Long hair hung limply around his face, past shoulder length and obviously in need of a good shampoo and cut.
He looked like what he was: a man down on his luck, one of the hundreds of anonymous transients that passed through Horley every year. Certainly not the type of man to do the amount damage itemized in the file in Graeme’s hand: a broken neck on one, crushed vertebrae on the other. Both men were in critical condition, neither with a good prognosis.
A skittering sensation ran down Graeme’s neck, a nagging sensation that something didn’t quite add up. Who are you, mate?
He was French he said, so that’s how Graeme would play it. He opened the interview room door, exuding his best British joviality.
“Bonjour, monsieur. Je m’appelle Police Constable Graeme Martin, Surrey Police. Comment vous appelez-vous?”
“Dian. René Dian.”
“Vous êtes Français?”
“Suisse et Français. Ma mere est Suisse, mon père est Français.”
“Eh bien.” Martin reached over, pulling the small tape recorder to the center of the table, between them. “En Anglais, maintenant, pour le magnétophone: your name please sir?”
“René Dian.”
“Monsieur Dian: please tell me what happened in the alleyway tonight.”
Dian stared at his interlaced fingers. “I was on my way to the shelter… I am homeless, yes? I see the poor woman being assaulted by two men. It…” he paused and shrugged, raising his gaze to Martin’s face. “She was one woman. They were two men. It seemed the right thing to do.”
Graeme eyed him sharply. Dian’s face was completely expressionless, his eyes steady on Martin’s own. No telltale flicker to indicate nervousness or dishonesty, and yet… something still tickled the back of Martin’s mind. That shrug, for example. Although it appeared to be the classic Gallic mannerism, there was the slightest hesitation; the minutest stiffness that indicated the movement wasn’t quite as habitual as it first appeared.
“Tell me about your background Monsieur Dian. You have put both men in hospital, in critical condition, and haven’t suffered so much as a scratch yourself.”
“There is not much to tell. I have the military experience, like all Swiss men. After the army, I worked a few jobs, got married, got divorced…” Another taut shrug, his gaze drifting over Martin’s shoulder. “Eh bien. Here I am.”
“What brought you here?”
Dian shrugged, turning his long-fingered hands palm-up and answered the question with a question. “How is the woman?”
Graeme glanced up quickly from his notes; no one’s fool, he was immediately aware that Dian had dodged the question. “She’s still comatose. Her prospects don’t look good though, the hospital has very little hope she’ll regain consciousness soon.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Yes, it is. Thank you for your time, Monsieur Dian,” Martin rose to his feet and extended a hand across the table. “I trust you will remain here in Horley for a few days? A week, perhaps? Just to give me time to sort through this mess.” A sweep of his hand encompassed the tape recorder and the stack of papers on the table.
“Certainly. I trust it will not take long.” Dian took the offered handshake.
“No, not long, I assure you.”
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