Chapters (96)
Twenty-two thousand euros remained in Madame Beauchamp’s fake account – money that had cost me six months’ planning, research, performance and honing of my new identity. No chance of retrieving it now; although it was unlikely that I would be recognized from the bank’s blurry camera footage, it was more than likely that the account had been frozen, pending police investigation. Face it, the money was lost for ever, leaving me with little more than an extra charm on my bracelet – a mouse, as it happens, quite appropriate for poor Françoise.
The sad truth is, I tell myself, there’s no future in craftsmanship any more. Six wasted months, and I’m back where I started. No money, no life.
Well, that can change. All I need is a little inspiration. We’ll start with the chocolate shop, shall we? With Vianne Rocher, from Lansquenet, who for reasons unknown has recast herself as Yanne Charbonneau, mother of two, respectable widow of the Butte.
Do I sense a kindred spirit? No. But I do recognize a challenge. Though there’s little enough to be had from the chocolaterie at present, Yanne’s life is not entirely without appeal. And, of course, she has that child. That very interesting child.
I’m staying in a place just off the Boulevard de Clichy, ten minutes’ walk from Place des Faux-Monnayeurs. Two rooms the size of a postage stamp at the top of four flights of narrow stairs, but cheap enough to suit my needs and discreet enough to preserve my anonymity. From there I can observe the streets; plot comings and goings; become a part of the scenery.
It’s not the Butte, which is out of my league. In fact, it’s rather a big step down from Françoise’s nice little place in the 11th. But Zozie de l’Alba doesn’t belong; and it suits her to live below the salt. All kinds of people live here: students, shopkeepers, immigrants, masseuses both registered and unregistered. There are half a dozen churches in this small area alone (debauch and religion, those Siamese twins); the street yields more litter than fallen leaves; there’s a perpetual smell of drains and dogshit. On this side of the Butte the pretty little cafés have given way to cheap takeaways and off-licences, around which the tramps congregate at night, drinking red wine from plastic-topped bottles before bedding down in the steel-shuttered doorways.
I’ll probably tire of it soon enough; but I do need a place to lie low for a while, until the heat on Madame Beauchamp – and Françoise Lavery – dies down. It never hurts to be cautious, I know – and besides, as my mother used to say, you should always take time to pick the cherries.
3
