Read Into The Fire for Free Online

transcript Patrice sent her after it was over. ‘“
Ici L’armée du Prophète, Jaish al Islam
. This fire, too, is ours. The occupant, Madame Rivette, trades in sex. This is not allowed under the laws of Islam. She will do so no longer.”’
    ‘And Madame Rivette; she is mourning the loss of her brothel?’
    ‘She doesn’t exist.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Exactly. This is the other major change in the pattern: we not only have a body in a bigger fire, we have less than perfect intelligence on the part of our arsonists. The Hôtel Carcassonne is owned by a Madame Foy and has been since the unfortunate death of her father-in-law last August. It is to be regretted that the hotel website has not been updated, but there is no doubt that she has been the owner for over half a year.’
    ‘Was it ever a brothel?’
    ‘If it was, it specialized in middle-aged, overweight foreigners who had sex only with each other and heard of it by word of mouth. If you suggest this in any way, Madame Foy will require that you do so in the presence of her brother who is also her lawyer and will take appropriate action in defence of his client’s reputation. Madame Foy is already aggrieved that she wasn’t mentioned by name in the Jaish al Islam phone call. She would sue them for that if she knew who they were.’
    ‘
Merde.
’ Ducat pinches his upper lip between thumb and forefinger. ‘They haven’t made mistakes before. Tell me it’s not a copycat.’
    ‘It’s not. Patrice checked the voice print: it’s identical. They may have their intelligence wrong, or they may be covering up a murder with a fire, but it’s the same group.’
    ‘We shall be grateful for small mercies. So who’s dead? A fat German?’
    ‘All we have so far is a white male in his forties, possibly American. We’ll know more when the duty pathologist has examined—’ And here he is: Éric Masson, the pathologist, with his customarily impeccable timing. He waves at Picaut then sees who she’s with and drops his smile and, after it, his hand.
    Masson is one of the few people who don’t have to be nice to Ducat. He uses his privilege with a diffidence that does him credit. Walking over, he gives a small bow to Picaut, nods to the Prosecutor. ‘Maître, it seems my services may be required.’
    This is a politeness. He has already been inside; the smell of smoke on his clothes is a dead giveaway.
    Ducat grunts by way of greeting. ‘Only one body?’
    ‘Only one that has been found so far.’
    Ducat gives his peg-broad smile. ‘Collateral damage or deliberate target, either way he’s dead on our precinct. In view of which, this is now a murder inquiry under the investigation of Capitaine Picaut. I shall require the results of a full autopsy at your earliest convenience. You don’t have to be here, you know …’
    They dance this duet at every single crime scene for which Masson is on call. Since 2010, no forensic pathologist in France has been required to visit the scene of the crime; the investigating officer should, in theory, be able to provide all the necessary detail.
    Not being required to attend, of course, is different from not being permitted to do so and Éric Masson, who thinks the new legislation is bullshit – pardon the captain’s presence and no reflection on her competence, of course – wants to see the body in situ for himself. Picaut considers this wise and, this once, Ducat is in full agreement.
    Still, it is their custom that the prosecutor points out the law and the pathologist acknowledges it. Masson repeats his bow. ‘With your permission, maître?’ And then to Picaut, ‘Shall we go?’
    ‘Lead on.’
    Éric Masson, twice divorced by the age of thirty-five, is tall and thin and acidly crabby and Picaut likes him a lot. His marital catastrophes have etched fault-lines across his brow, but not yet stripped him of his humanity, his humour or, indeed, his hair, which grows thickly dark with a widow’s peak that flops over his