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gave me to check... the call you received in the taxi last night... it was a payphone in the lobby of the Hilton, Park Lane.”
    Anna leaned back in her chair. It must have been Freddie, checking out her number to see if she had been straight with him. He was no fool. He was patient and calculating. Would he expect her to lie? The question evoked her big lie that sat like a stone in her heart. When she saw him again she would tell him. She dialed the Interpol number and waited.
    “Inspecteur Du Maurier - bonjour.”
    “Raymond - bonjour,” she began, speaking automatically in flawless French, “un petit service s'il vous plaît. Can you run a check on a French National called Freddie La Salle born 23rd May... he’s about 34.” The line went silent.
    “Raymond...?
    “You are serious? You do not need me Anna. Try Google or the Newspapers,” chuckled Du Maurier, “I guess you are too busy to read the sports pages?”
    “Raymond. Tell me! Who is he?”
    “Freddie La Salle, World Cruiserweight Champion - signed yesterday for the final defense of his title.”
    “A boxer!”
    “And some... de plus! Un legend. He’s still a pretty boy - but he was badly cut by a head butt in his last fight. I’m guessing you don’t follow the fight game Anna?”
    “No - never, it’s not too kosher - I have to think of my personality profile with the human resources department. I could be denounced.” She half joked, knowing that an interest in boxing could mark her as politically incorrect.
    “Freddie would tell you it’s an art form. He’s a bit of a puzzle. He reads philosophy and has written a book about the artist Gustave Courbet. He’s a noted art collector. His mother is a Yank and doubles as his manager. His father is the French poet Mathieu La Salle. Freddie has business interests all over the world.”
    “He doesn’t look beaten up... but you’re right, there is a mean scar over his right brow.” She answered numbly, trying to take in all the information.
    “The champion is the guy who hurts the other guy. That cut was his only injury in the ring. A lot of questions were asked.”
    “Questions?” Anna echoed.
    “Certainement... questions of murder and money. I’ll e mail you the whole file and note your interest. That way any input or news will get flashed straight to you.”
    She thanked her colleague and rang off, immediately typing La Salle into the Google window. Dozens of files popped up. She clicked on a fan site. There he was, gloved with hands raised looking out from the ring, blood pouring from a terrible gash over his eye. A headline ran “Le French Professor gets a lesson in pain”. Anna winced at the corny pun. She flicked through other web sites, making notes. Freddie La Salle - known as “le Professeur” on account of his careful boxing technique and intellectual tastes. His trip to London was widely examined under the title “A Fight Too Far”. He had signed to fight Billy “The Boulder” Brennan, an up and coming hard man out of New York City. She read on in horror that Freddie was rumored not to have trained for the fight and just wanted a final pay day. The article described Brennan as “the most dangerous street fighting brawler that he would ever face.”
    She hated the thought of him cut and even maimed in a terrible contest. Beneath his humorous and thoughtful manner there must be a brute. She flicked on through pages of him in his champion’s belts, flexing his biceps, triceps, quadriceps and pecs. Sure it was tacky, but God! He was gorgeous. There was Freddie with blondes in bikinis, Freddie with babes in grass skirts, Freddie with French film stars - none of whom she knew. How could she never have heard of him? She hadn’t seen a movie for years, never read the sports pages and always put her work in front of everything else in her life. Whatever happened - she had to get out more!
    The office door opened and she pulled her eyes away from the screen.
    “The Commander wants