RENÉ PICARDI WAS born in Normandy on Valentine's Day, 1985. His father was French, but his mother was Greek—the beauty and grace of God, with the face of an angel. Her name was Kassandra Selene. She had taken charge of his upbringing and education, meaning that he didn't speak a word of English, or know a single thing about the Western world. When he came back to France, and to Paris as an adult, the immigration authorities registered him as Israeli. His passport confirmed that he was a Greek citizen, and the photograph showed a strong, square jaw, pale green eyes, and chestnut-brown hair. He looked nothing at all like he had a drop of French blood.
But then, what did he look like? And the answer to that is: he looked nothing more than the very definition of a Parisian, wearing a long wool coat, a bonny blue scarf, and black Chelsea boots. He was a very talented actor who had begun his second career as an investigator at the DCPJ at the very beginning of the twenty-first century. Now, he had advanced to the head of the homicide department.
It didn't take a great deal to become fascinated with the murder business. It was like a game of war: identifying threats, developing counter-strategies, and all the time keeping one foot ahead of the other. It was like being a glorified spy, blackmailer, and thief. It had begun when he'd discovered how fraud and extortion could be accomplished through creative bookkeeping. He was able to discern and prove who, from a pool of twenty-five people, had done it, and for this, he had been promoted, and now played a key role in homicide investigations. Now, he was a commandant divisionnaire.
The DCPJ had several thousand full-time employees, but it was relatively small compared to the FBI, back in America. When René had first been brought on, it had been the DCRI, and he had been given a client list of desperate housewives whose husbands had disappeared under suspicious circumstances, and shopping centres that didn't know who else to ask for firepower. Now, they were the cutting-edge, internationally-recognised DCPJ: Direction Centrale de la Police Judiciaire. René only hired employees with professional-grade skill sets, and didn't bat an eye in the way of night watchmen and uniform fetishists. He hired experienced policemen, and soldiers, political scientists specialising in terrorism, and experts in personal protection.
By the end of the 2010s, the DCPJ had been equipped to offer a whole new level of security to exclusive clients—massive corporations and highflyers who were in danger of having a hit put out on their heads. But, more importantly, they solved the murders of those who were already gone, without which they would be out of work. In recent years, sales were sky-high. As it turned out, murder was a lucrative business.
Operations were divided into four main areas: SDAT, an elite counter-terrorist task-force, which identified and investigated conceivable or imagined threats; the SDLCODP, which was a directorate against organised crime and financial delinquency; the SDLC, which dealt with computer and internet crime; and, finally, René's department: the SDPTS, responsible for forensics and crime scence investigation, although the market for personal protection of private individuals had grown considerably in the last decade. Recently, a new group had arisen: difficult women seeking protection from stalkers and former lovers. In addition, the DCPJ had a cooperative arrangement with similar firms of good repute in Europe and the States. They handled security for many international visitors to France, including foreign actors and actresses who were shooting in Paris. Their agents had felt that their status warranted having bodyguards accompany them wherever they went.
And then there was the investigation department, and their private eyes. These people were so terribly troublesome that René absolutely despised them. It put a great deal of demand on the employee's judgement, knowledge, and experience. Investigations were acceptable when it was a matter of credit information, background checks, or investigating suspicions that someone had leaked corporate information or engaged in criminal activity. In such cases, the investigators and consultants were an integral part of the operation. But it wasn't infrequent that his clients would drag in their private problems, seeking to create unwelcome uproar. René so often gave them a straightforward refusal—grown women had every right to have dinner with whomever they pleased, and infidelity was a matter that couples ought to work out on their own. The state had no interest in personal opinions and private affairs. Hidden in all such inquiries were traps that led to scandal, creating legal problems for the DCPJ. This was why he kept a close watch on these projects, despite everything else.
He wasn't altogether enamoured with this facet of the business.
The first dot on the docket that morning was one such investigation. René straightened his tie and leaned back in his chair. He glanced suspiciously at his consultant, who was almost eleven years his younger. He recalled again that no one was more out of place at the prestigious DCPJ than William Pierre Malakoff. Will's mistrust was equally wise as it was rational. In René's eyes, he was beyond doubt the most able investigator he'd come across in all his years. Throughout the three years they had known one another—since Will was nineteen, and had just moved to Paris, in desperate need of a fix—he'd never once turned down a case.
On the contrary, Will's reports deserved a class of their own. René was convinced that he possessed some rare gift—that he was psychic, or had a sixth sense. Anyone could've found him background information or run a check with police records, but only Will saw beyond the ordinary; only he could always return with a definitive answer to the inexplicable, and see worlds where others saw nothing at all. How he did this, René would never understand. His life, his family, his career—they belonged to Will. He bartered on the daily with Death, and then it spun him gold. Yes, Will was brilliant, but he was also a psychopath with a long history of violence. He infected minds like a cancer, malignant until he could no longer be excised, unseen until he made himself known.
He was the Devil. He was smoke.
The influence of William Pierre Malakoff was apocalyptic in the best of times—a death omen; a siren's song. If there was anything to be found, Will would have his hands on it in seconds.
He would never forget the day he had assigned Will to help with a routine check on a maître d' at one of the best restaurants in Paris, mere days before a devastating Valentine's Day rush that would've pushed anyone to the brink. The project had been scheduled at seven days, and had already gone on far too long without professional assistance. Then a bulb had gone off in his head, and he'd had the sense to place the file into Will's trustworthy hands.
By supper that evening, Will had arrived at Le Meurice promptly at seven o'clock, as the booking ticket read, with a finished report and psychological profile stating that the subject was a paedophile. Twice, the man had bought the company of a sixteen-year-old boy in Versailles, and there was every reason to believe that he was forming a predatory interest in his daughter.
Will had several habits that drove René to the precipice of despair—he always had. In this particular case, it had been his refusal to neither answer his mobile, nor phone René of his own accord, nor pop in at least once a week to keep him informed of any progress in the investigation. Instead, without prior warning that the report had contained highly explosive material, Will had pressed down all the answers they'd spent months running after down on the table before him that night. He had even, in a moment of uncharacteristic generosity, offered to pay the bill for the wine.
René had read through the report after he blew in from the ice and snow that evening, reposing with a glass of Bâtard-Montrachet—a final parting gift from his father—with his feet propped up before the fire.
The report, as ever, had been scientifically precise, with a monolith of footnotes, quotations, and source references. The first three pages had outlined the subject's background, career, education, and state of finances. Not until the twenty-first had Will included the bombshell about the Versailles affair—of course, in the very same tone he'd used to report that the man lived alongside them in Paris and rode the tram to work in the morning. He had referred to his documentation in an exhaustive appendix, included in which had been a frankly astonishing number of photographs of the victim whilst in the subject's company. They had been taken in the foyer of a hotel in the 7th Arrondissement. In fact, throughout the course of his research, Will had discovered that it was only a few streets away from the very walls in which he had lived and breathed for the past three years, after he was released from the psychiatric ward of Broadmoor, just outside London. Will had managed to locate the victim, providing a first-hand account of the incident on tape.
The report had created precisely the kind of chaos that René had endeavoured to avoid. First, he had taken one of the anxiety tablets prescribed by Dr. Fraser, then rang in the client for a sombre emergency meeting. At last, over fierce objection from the client and his family, René had been forced to refer the case and all its materials to the DGSI. Of course, this meant that the DCPJ risked being drawn ever further into a devastating web of lies, treachery, and deceit. If Will's evidence could not be substantiated or the man was acquitted, they were risking it all. It was a nightmare.
However, it hadn't been Will's astonishing lack of emotional involvement that had upset him most—it was that the DCPJ's public image was one of conservative stability, and Will fit as well into that picture as he would at the Royal tea table, with his camp dresses and pale, delicate face; his luminous red hair, and the most striking sea-green eyes. It set tender hearts aflutter when Will traversed the streets of Paris with Wall Street bankers on his arm, egotistically blowing kisses and batting an eyelashes to no one in particular—which was, of course, to say: everyone.
Will was a natural redhead with an equally fiery disposition. He had track marks and horrific scarring laddering up his arms and thighs, and the word "MANEATER" tattooed on the small of his back, in the small indentation where the spine curves abruptly inward. René didn't know what that word meant—he understood very little English, and spoke none at all. He dared not imagine what he would think of it if he did. On the rare occasions he'd worn a vest, René had also seen that tattoos on his pectorals, moving up his shoulders and down the length of his abdomen.
Will had been in several treatment centres for some form of eating disorder—of this, René was certain. Though he wasn't a medical professional, he had made his own assumptions over the years: PICA, anorexia, bulimia, body dysmorphia, and an addiction to exercise. He had witnessed Will sucking on wet rocks after it rained, and eating rock salt off the pavement when it snowed, and when he thought no one was looking. Still, even then, most days it seemed as thought he'd simply been given the gift of natural slenderness, with thin, delicate bones that were hollow as a baby bird's. He had small hands and thin fingers, with the narrowest wrists, and perhaps the most pronounced cupid's bow he had ever seen on a man. Will had a small mouth with a plump lower lip, and above it a well-defined nose. His high cheekbones lent him the distinguished air he otherwise lacked, and he stood at five feet five. His movements were fluid and precise, each carefully considered before they were mad, and when he was writing, his hand flew across the page. He had always been told that a career in acting was a perfectly viable option, should the hospital ever decide that they were no longer in need of his services. With the right touch, his face could've put him on any billboard in the world.
But still, even stripped of all his extravagance—and he was, truly, obsessed with Paris Fashion Week and Lancôme perfume—Will was remarkably, inexplicably attractive.
The very fact that Will should be a consultant for the DCPJ was impossible—he simply wasn't the sort of person with whom René typically came into contact.
Will had first been hired as a psychiatric consultant by René's precursor, Pierre Point, having proved to have his own strange uses from time to time, but had recently been promoted to consulting detective—a position that Will had created all on his own. His adoptive brother and guardian, Alexander Hargreaves, had assured René that Will had the sensitivity of a stone and a mind like a steel trap. Alexander himself was swiftly climbing the ranks of MI6, and was the self-proclaimed British government when convenient. He spent his spare time tending to the vineyards of Maison d'Auberne and defending high-rollers in the French Riviera. Curiously, he had been absent throughout the whole of his brother's adoption trial, but certainly not during the libel suit of Noël Mikkelsen. Will had begged him to come to Paris and track down Noël's solicitor through the hearings and press releases, eluding the paparazzi right and left, until they had seen him settled in a private room at the Maison Blanche psychiatric hospital. He had appealed to René to give Will a chance, and so he had, against all his better judgement. Alexander was of the breed that acknowledge refusal only as encouragement to redouble their efforts, and so it was best to simply agree without further argument. Alexander devoted himself whole-heartedly to the restoration of broken things; he was a pillar of morality and a perfect judge of character, with a bulletproof understanding of the human condition.
But the truth was that René had regretted his decision to hire Will from the moment Alexander pushed a celebratory pint into his hand—from the moment he looked into Will's cold, dead eyes. Will wasn't simply difficult: he was the very definition of it; the father of all bloody-minded people.
The first several months, Will had been employed full-time. He was a malevolent presence in the precinct, and only for the sake of keeping up appearances. He solved ludicrous cases that contested the bounds of probability, sorted through the post in the evenings, and finished the monotonous psychological profiles that were foisted upon him, but conventional hours were anathema to him. Will had a rather remarkable talent for chafing all those who dared set foot into the cloud of animosity that bled into the air around him—an unearthly presence that rose like smoke from his skin. He wasn't particularly fond of any discussion that pertained to himself, and those that attempted to strike up friendly conversations seldom received a response. Will encouraged neither trust, nor cordiality, and he was clearly more than happy to play the part of the Outsider.
And so, after three months of nothing but trouble, René had sent for Will, with every intention of relieving his of the duties that had seemed so terribly inconvenient for him. Will had come at his beckoning call, and settled himself into one of the chairs before René's desk. He had listened to the catalogue of offences with neither objection, nor the slightest change of expression. René had, by then, reached a conclusion: Will simply wasn't suited for the field of criminal psychology, and it would be best if he found employment elsewhere, in a profession that could make better use to him. Only then did Will object:
"If it's a more stable consultant you're in need of, I can refer you to several of my colleagues from King's College. But I assure you: I'm far more forgiving of the unorthodox than they are. I'm a trained underworld operator. I know my worth, Commandant, just as I know that I could be put to so much better use than sorting through the post." René had been quite startled by his bluntness. He had attempted to interrupt, but Will had continued on unperturbed: "There's an officer here that spent the last three weeks writing a report I wouldn't use as tinder in a fire. I finished the profile for the suspect last night. You'll find it attached to a full, unredacted medical record on your desk."
René's eyes fell immediately upon the folder. His tone was severe as he reprimanded Will: "An inquiry of this kind by a consultant goes against the laws of doctor-patient confidentiality—and I don't recall giving you clearance to read medical records."
Will scoffed, folding his arms over his chest. He rolled his eyes. "I'm a licenced medical professional. As a GP, I can request access to the medical records of any patient registered with the national healthcare system. As it happens, though, the subject is a patient of mine. As for the screenshots of the record: online security has a number of shortcomings. The officer responsible for the report was meant to contact a psychiatric consultant or provide a psychological profile himself. Instead, he left a name and note on my desk before he left last night. I found his notes in his office, which I left in the folder, with the report."
René was appalled by Will's complete and utter lack of professional boundaries. "Did he give you access to the file?"
"Mm?" He cupped a hand to his ear, as if he'd suddenly gone deaf.
"William... Pierre Malakoff, if you don't tell me right now—"
"In a sense, he did." Will have him a mischievous smirk. "He wrote his database key on a slip of paper, which I found in the pocket of a coat in his office, along with a... frankly astonishing number of passwords, pincodes, and other information that really ought to've been kept private." He paused for a moment to draw a breath. "I digress. My point is that this was a useless investigation... and that if he asks where the contents of his safe-deposit box went, I know nothing." He dismissed this half-formed confession with a flick of the hand. "Anyway, he completely missed the fact that the subject has a mile-long docket of gambling debts and a worse drug habit than I do—which says a great deal more about him than me. His girlfriend fetched up at a crisis centre after he beat her senseless."
René was seething now, and half-blind with rage. "A habit? Is that what you call taking your pick between black tar heroin and Colombian cocaine from the evidence vault?"
"Well, that does make it sound a bit more palatable, yes. Though, I think that incident—"
"No, no," René corrected him. "It wasn't only once."
"Incidents," he amended, "were your fault. Not mine."
"And how is that?"
Will cocked his head and leaned back, smirking in disbelief. "Because you put a woman in charge of it, René. You know I can be quite charming when I want to be."
"Right." He sighed, throwing his hands up in the air. "Well, then I'll take the blame for it, as always." He sat in silence for several minutes, turning the pages of the report. It was written in clear, concise language, brimming with source references and statements from the victim's closest connections. His eyes flicked up to Will, still wearing a brash, cheeky, and slightly manic grin. "Alright then. Prove it."
"How much time are you giving me?"
"Three d—"
"Two. I won't be needing more than that."
"Three days," René said firmly. "And if you can't prove it by then, we'll still be mates, but you're no longer welcome here at the DCPJ."
And, of course, the report was hand-delivered to his desk that night. In less than five pages, Will had transformed an outwardly pleasant man into an irrefutable bastard.
René read through the report that weekend, then spent Monday running a triple check of Will's other accusations. Even before he began, he had full faith that Will would prove right—Will was always right. He was bewildered and angry with himself for having so blatantly misjudged this man. In fact, all this time, he had taken Will for a sham. He hadn't anticipated that a GP would be capable of drawing up a report without a single grammatical error, much less one containing such vivid, detailed descriptions and observations. He couldn't comprehend how or where this man might've acquired such knowledge. There was no one he could name that was immoral and consciousless enough to have lifted excerpts from the notes of a doctor at the afore-mentioned crisis centre. When asked how he had managed it, Will simply told him that he had no intention of casting matches at his sources just to see which ones caught fire. It had become only clearer from then on that he wouldn't be revealing his methods. This alone was alarming, but not enough to reconsider putting Will to the test.
He pondered the matter for several days. He recalled Alexander telling him, when he had first made mention of Will: "Even the Devil deserves a chance." This redirected his thoughts of his own Catholic upbringing, which had instilled in him a moral righteousness and a civic duty to help the outcasts. Of course, he didn't subscribe to such frivolous things as religion, or to such illogical, ludicrous beliefs, and neither had he stepped foot in a cathedral since he was a boy. Even then, he had recognised that Will was a man in need of resolute support, and he had offered very little in the way of kindness in the past decade.
But, rather than giving Will the boot, as he should have, he had sent a summons to Will's office—one final attempt at understanding what horrific trauma had culminated in the Birth of Evil. His first impression had been correct: Will was a cocktail of personality disorders and neuroses, from his murderous humour to an infatuation with the darkest aspects of humanity.
But, beneath the façade, he had also discovered a remarkable person, brilliant in a way that concealed where he was damaged. However unfriendly, René found that he'd taken quite a shine to Will. Over the following months, he'd taken him under his wing, giving him small, straightforward research projects that were transparent to a mind like Will's, and tried as best he could to offer him guidelines on how to proceed. Of course, Will had listened patiently, then set off to carry out the assignments as he saw fit.
He had asked the technical director to give Will a basic course in forensic toxicology. It was reported back that Will appeared to have a far broader understanding of chemistry and poisons than the entire staff. But, despite all the enticement, it was evident that Will had no intention of adapting to standardised routines, putting René in quite a difficult position on how to proceed. He wouldn't have put up with anyone else coming and going at will, and, under normal circumstances, he would've demanded a change. However, he had the sinking suspicion that if he gave Will an ultimatum, he would simply take his coat from the back of the chair and disappear into the snow.
All things considered, a more pressing concern was his emotional state regarding the man. He was like a fever that never rescinded: repellent, revolting, and yet tempting all the same. It wasn't a sexual attraction anymore—the people René was attracted to were small and dark, with full lips and coal-black hair. He had been envious of Lukas Kohlhaas at his wedding, where he had taken the hand of the woman that would bear his child: Mette Mikkelsen. Lukas had never been unfaithful to her—apart from one minor mishap in the early months of their marriage, but she certainly wouldn't have understood if she had known.
In any case, René could not bring himself to be the caregiver of a self-harming, suicidal, anorexic addict that might be mistaken for a matchstick at a distance.
Even so, he had often caught himself having less than professional daydreams about the man, and had realised that he was no more immune to Will's charms than anyone else, nor completely unaffected by that bewitching smile. But he chose to believe that the attraction was simply a consequence of Will being a foreign creature to him, the very same as one might fall for a nymph in a painting or an amphora in Athens. Will represented all aspects of the world that had eluded him, and René was fascinated, for the fact that he was forbidden from sharing in that blood-lustful revelry.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
On one occasion, René had stumbled upon a café near the Eiffel Tower on a bright, blue-skyed day at the end of September. He had only just ordered a Guiness, intrigued by the diminishment in price compared to other, more elegant establishments, when Will had come sauntering up to the counter and thrown an arm round the bartender's shoulders. He laughed as he received a quick peck on the cheek, and then was shown to a table unnervingly close to René's own seat at the counter. He had been with three men, all dressed in sharp three-piece suits and designer leather shoes, and René had watched them with a mounting interest. Will had seemed far less reserved than he'd ever been at the precinct, beaming like the sun that dripped through the windowpanes, laughing at every word his companions said. His smile never once faltered. René had always wondered how Will would react if he came to work one day in a black Prada suit and Cesare Paciottis. But he only smiled, for he would never have an answer.
Will had been seated facing him, though not directly, and hadn't looked up once, completely unaware of his presence, however much René was quaking and nearly convulsing at the fact of his. When at last he attempted to slip away unnoticed, Will had suddenly sat bolt upright and fixed him with that cold, dead glare of his. He looked not through him anymore, but at him, as though he'd been aware of him all this time, and had kept a close eye on him; as if he'd been waiting for him to make even the slightest movement, to strike. It had come as a shock that it had felt like a personal attack. René had feigned ignorance, hurrying out onto the steps, directly into a trembling wall of white. A dome of fog had settled over the city since he'd first stepped over the threshold an hour before. Will hadn't offered a word in the way of greeting, but René had felt those glacial eyes follow his progress. It wasn't until he rounded the corner, hopping onto a transit bus, that the hellfire crossing his flesh had been quenched. It rose up in pluming columns of black smoke that disappeared into the air.
Will rarely ever smiled, or laughed, or showed any sort of non-volatile emotion at all but, in the last several months, ever since he had awoken from his coma, René thought he had noticed a certain diminishing of his attitude. In fact, René had been so provoked by his complete and utter lack of emotional response that he was possessed by a powerful urge to take Will by the shoulders and shake him until his head snapped back and forth; to force his way past that titanium blockade and win his friendship—or, at the very least, his respect.
Only once, after Will had been working for him for three years, had he attempted to discuss these feelings with him. It had been at the Christmas party that year. Of course, Will hadn't been invited—he was never asked to anything, because of his barbed speech and glacial personality—and neither of them had been sober. Nothing untoward had happened: he had simply tried to tell Will how fond of him he was. Most of all, he had sought to explain his protectiveness over him, and to offer that if he ever needed help, René would be there, from carrying his bookbag as he struggled past with a broken leg to an Ensure when he couldn't tolerate solid food. He had even offered a friendly embrace and a small gift.
But, heartbroken and still stinging from recent loss, Will had pushed him off and thrown the gift into the roaring fireplace, then left the party. René had watched as he disappeared up the street, into the icy flurries.
After that, he had fallen off the face of the earth for a week or so, making an appearance neither at the precinct, nor any of his bolt-holes, and he hadn't answered his mobile. His absence had been an exquisite form of torture bordering on self-punishment, for this was completely his fault. It was always his fault. There was no one he could further profess his feelings to, and for the first time, he had realised with appalling clarity the destructive hold that William Pierre Malakoff held over him.
But, that Wednesday, as he'd been working overtime to avoid his cousins and mother over the New Year's bookkeeping, Will had suddenly reappeared in the doorway. He had slipped into the office, silent as a spectre, and René was suddenly aware of him standing in the shadows, watching him over his shoulder out the corner of his eye. He had no idea how long he'd been there.
Then Will handed him a cold, watery espresso from the machine in the foyer. So terrified was Will of gaining weight that he would drink and eat only plain black coffee. Mutely, René accepted it, feeling both relief and terror intermingle as the door fell shut behind him. Then, Will sat down opposite him and looked him in the eyes. He posed the question in such a way that it could never be laughed at, nor avoided: "René, are you in love with me?"
René sat as if paralysed, bathing in a cold sweat, desperately searching for an answer. His first impulse had been to feign insult—but then he saw the look on Will's face, and realised that this was the first time he'd ever posed such a personal question. He wondered how long—or, rather, how much cocaine—it had taken him to step foot out of his flat. It was a serious question, and if he laughed now, it would be taken as an insult. He slowly placed down his pen and leaned back in his chair.
"What makes you think that?"
"The way you look at me... and how you don't. If I was to unbutton my shirt a bit more, so to say..." There was an odd note in his voice—one which ripped René's gaze from his chest, for now he was slowly edging the halves of his shirt apart, in hopes of provoking a response. But Will met his eyes with a drunken smile, betraying at once that he was three sheets to the wind. "It wouldn't go unnoticed, would it?"
He grinned. "Oh, don't be cheeky. You'd bite my hand off if I laid a finger on you." Will didn't smile. He was waiting. René swallowed thickly. "Could you... cover yourself, please?"
The grin never fell, but something in his eyes certainly did. "Why? Are you feeling exposed?"
"Will, even if I was attracted to you—and I'm not—I would never act on it. Between us, there have been times that I was attracted to you, and I can't explain that. You're my life, Will, and I love you, but I'm not in love with you."
"Good, because it isn't going to happen." René laughed. This wasn't the first time he'd made a personal confession to Will, but it was the single most disheartening outcome he could've imagined. He struggled to find the proper response, but Will interrupted, holding up a hand: "René, it isn't that I'm not interested in you as a person—you're a right gobshite at times, but you're still an attractive man. But... you're also a commandant, and I'd like to keep my job here. By getting involved with you, I lose every chance I ever had of staying. I'm already an unpopular choice among consultants as it is." René said nothing, scarcely daring to breathe. "I'm well aware of all you do for me, and how you always take my side, and for that I will always be grateful. I appreciate that you're above your prejudices enough to give me a chance—but you aren't my boyfriend, and three brothers are more than enough."
René drew in a sharp breath. "What do you want from me, Will? All I've ever tried to do is give you a place where you're always welcome. I have done everything in my power to make you happy, and now you come waltzing in, telling me that's not enough for you anymore. What more do you want from me, Will?"
"I want to be instated as an officer—a private investigator, rather."
"Believe me, Will, there's nothing I'd like more than to not have my badge nicked every time I push you over the edge, but you will pass the police academy before you get anywhere near a firearm licence and a set of cuffs. You have to start trusting that sometimes I might know better than you do." Will seemed to withdraw at this, but went on, holding up his hands in a sign of good will: "Look, I understand not wanting people barging in on your life—and I won't," he said, seeing a sudden flare of hostility, "but it's not such an absurd request for you to let me in once in a while." He looked up at him, helpless and pleading. "You don't have friends, Will—just one, really."
Will mulled over this for a long time. And then he rose to his feet, circumvented the desk, and threw his arms round René's neck. Only when he was released did René take his hand.
"You really mean it this time? We can be friends?"
He nodded, smiling to himself.
This was the only occasion that Will had ever showed him any small measure of kindness, and the only time he would ever volunteer to touch him. It was a moment he wished he'd had a photograph of, if only to remember it in perfect detail, for it was surreal.
René had had a long conversation with Alexander, who hadn't been the slightest bit surprised at his inquiry, and what he'd found had obliterated any trust he'd ever had in Will. He had never mentioned a word of this to Will, of course; never let him know that he'd been looking into his life.
But, before that strange evening was over, he and Will had reached a compromise: from then on, Will would do research projects for him on a freelance basis and receive a small gift each month out of René's own pocket, whether he finished his assignments or not. Will was by no means idle, and he always made at least some measure of progress. His true income would be made when he was paid upon delivery, and he could work as he pleased, with whatever methods he saw fit. In return, he had pledged never to risk subjecting the DCPJ to debilitating scandals.
For René, this was an advantageous solution. Any and all complicated assignments were turned over to Will, who, as a final resort, was an individual which the DCPJ had no responsibility for. And, since he regularly engaged Will's services, he earned a fine bit of silver to line his pockets with. But Will only worked when the case piqued his interest, between shifts on his sofa and the snowy linens of his bed, wrapped up in a white sheet, perfectly naked beneath and pleased to be so. René had accepted Will as he was, but he did have one rule: he wasn't allowed to meet clients, especially if he refused to put trousers on.
But today was different.
He had forced Will into a black T-shirt with the word "BUFTIE" printed in white across his chest, and a rather suggestive logo beneath: two Scotsmen in full regalia, pressed up against a rowan tree in amorous embrace. This was a favourite shirt of Will's, and not only for the fact that this had been Alexander's Christmas present to him. It was rather comedic, in that Will was the stereotypical Scotsman, with a shock of fiery red hair, a passion for tartan scarves and heavy woollen Mackintosh coats, and the rare talent for drinking even full-blood Russian patriarchs under the table.
He had on a pair of dark trousers, which were frayed at the cuffs, and a worn-out beanie pushed back from his forehead, though he had refused the proffered boots. Will vastly preferred to be barefoot in his flat, and not to wrap up the mess that was his arms, leaving it on full, bloody display. It was his flat, and he would do as he pleased. He was exceptionally, unnecessarily flamboyant for August's sensitive tastes.
August had insisted on meeting and being given clearance to interrogate those who so much as touched the report. René had done all he could, in the name of civility, to keep this confrontation from taking place. He had insisted that Will had been hospitalised for his eating disorders again, that he had been shipped off to a rehabilitation centre in the French Riviera for his drug habit, and that he was a dangerous sociopath that took no great liking to men of August's calibre—all of which was true, to some extent. August had replied that it made no difference to him: the matter wasn't particularly urgent, and he had all the time in the world. Now, after twelve weeks of stalling, Will was back in Paris, and there was no further hope of keeping them apart.
August, who was in his early thirties, was eyeing Will with evident fascination. Will glowered back with an expression that conveyed no uncertain degree of hostility.
René sighed, and glanced down at the cardboard box that Will had placed down on the table, upon which feet were propped, labelled: NOËL MIKKELSEN. The name was followed by a social security number neatly printed across the cover. He whispered the name beneath his breath.
This seemed to snap August out of his bewitched state. "Right. Er, what can you tell me about our twenty-first century Sherlock, then?"
"This is Dr. Malakoff. He wrote the report," he said, gesturing to Will, who was blatantly amused, and smirking from ear to ear. He hesitated for a moment, biting back a laugh at the perfect fall of the malignant, acrimonious, and altogether combative cold front he always put up in the face of an unexpected guest. Then he went on with a grin intended to instil confidence, ever helplessly apologetic: "Don't be fooled by his looks: he is the PI department, and no mistake."
"Oh, I believe you," August breathed, though the dryness of his tone hinted otherwise. "Go on, tell me."
For a moment, Will's expression was so terribly hostile that a breath of ice trickled down August's spine, despite the flames roaring in the fireplace at his back. Snow fell in flurries outside the frosted-over windows. Then, just as quickly, his expression fell flat, and August was left in a state of shock, wondering whether he had simply imagined the look.
When he began to speak, he sounded rather like a civil servant: "This wasn't a terribly complicated project, apart from the fact that the description I provided was somewhat... vague. You wanted a perfect portrait of him, but I wasn't told what you're specifically hoping to find." He paused to light a cigarette from the pack abandoned beside a cold cup of coffee on the table before him. "The report is two hundred pages long, more than half of which is press clippings and articles he's written. No great shock that Public Enemy Number One has nothing to hide."
"Nothing at all? Surely he has something better left unmentioned."
"Yes," he replied, tone neutral. "Everyone does."
"Right. Well, let's hear it, then."
"Everyone... but Njål Mikkelsen," Will finished, frowning. "I can tell you what I did find, though: Njål was born as 'Mette Mikkelsen' on the twenty-fifth of December 1989, making him—" He glanced down at the printed report—"twenty-nine. He was born in Moscow, but raised in Stavanger, Norway. He served with the Royal British Army for a year before he was honourably discharged with a debilitating shoulder injury. He has a stepbrother—certainly you've heard of Thomas Grey, haven't you?—that is amongst Paris' most sought-after solicitors. Now, are you going to pour me a fresh cup or not? This one is from two weeks ago." These last remarks were directed at René, who hastily poured him a cup from the kettle he'd made before the meeting. He motioned for Will to go on, as he stirred in the sugar. "He went to England when he was twenty years old, there attending Oxford University. He received passing marks, the copies of which are in this box here," he said, tapping his bare foot, extended en pointe, on the cardboard. "Mikkelsen appears to have an interest in music and was a tenor in the church choir as a boy. He went abroad as an army doctor when he was eighteen, and was shipped off to Afghanistan in 2008. He was sent back to Portsmouth after an airstrike in Kandahar, to the hospital he deployed from, in hopes that perhaps he might continue his medical training once he regained control of his right arm. Instead, he spent a year travelling to the great music halls of the world and attending the performances of the orchestras he chased after all his life. Eventually, he went to London and auditioned for the symphony as a violinist. When that fell through, he finally trudged back to Stavanger, empty-handed and broken-hearted. He disappeared through the smokescreen of crowded restaurants and bars. He sat in the corner booth for three years, until at last he decided to break his drunken stupor and come to Paris. That was his real breakthrough."
"Sherlock."
"Right. He hates the name, and no great shock, that—I put a bullet in the first person who called me a faggot to my face." He tapped his chest, gesturing to the nickname which crossed it, to which he took no great offence. He had always loved feigning insult for the sick satisfaction of seeing fear flare up in René's eyes. Will cast a dark look at him. He swallowed hard and waved for Will to get on with it, and quickly. "One of my sources stated that he even volunteered as a writer, publishing kiss and tells for the St. Petersburg Star. But I would argue he's best known today for his work as a defendant of sub-aristocratic society. He's been a freelancer before, but left that behind when he graduated from Oxford—about the same time Joie de Vie magazine was founded as a start-up. They began as an outlier, with no publishing corporation to hold their hand through the dark. Today, they sell about thirty thousand copies each week. The office is on Rue du Louvre, about forty-five minutes from here, and half an hour from the DCPJ. He's written two books in the past seven years—a memoir of his time in St. Petersburg, entitled 'Through the Looking Glass,' and one about his experiences at Moulin Rouge, running back and forth between stage and city, called 'And Out the Other Side,' which came out two years ago. I haven't had the time to read that one, but reviews said that it was highly controversial. It even incited a few fiery debates on social media—he was never involved with those, if it makes any difference."
"And his financials?"
"He comes from the wealthiest family in all of Scandinavia—in all of Europe, maybe. Now that his parents live separate lives, that wealth has doubled, and he receives monthly gifts from both sides. He's never wanted for anything in his life, and never will. He has about twenty thousand scattered amongst several accounts, and another eighty-five hundred for working expenses and travel. He owns a flat on Champs-Élysées, on the other side of Avenue Montaigne. Apart from that, his only other assets are a bit or property in Copenhagen and Île-de-France—flats with semi-permanent leases, along the water. The one here in France is at the foot of the Eiffel Tower. It was previously owned by his grandfather. After he popped off, all his wealth and assets were signed over to his military hero grandson, who had just returned from war with nothing but the clothes on his back. When they were divorced, the Mikkelsens divided the possessions of their immediate family. Upon the occasion of his mother's death, Thomas Grey will receive the townhouse in Copenhagen, and Njål already has control over the flat in Paris. I don't have a precise estimate on what they're worth, but he uses it as a holiday rental, and is there quite often nowadays. He and his father each receive half the profit."
"Income?"
"He has shares in Joie de Vie, but only receives around eighty-four hundred on his pay stub each month. The rest he rakes in from freelancing and writing short stories for the magazines. The total varies on those. There was a dip in his income recently, for a full calendar year. Five thousand is scarcely enough to pay rent on Champs-Élysées."
"And now he has fifteen thousand in court expenses and solicitor's fees," August said. "The total will be devastating. And consider all the time he'll be losing, rotting away in a hospital room."
"He'll be back in Copenhagen to see the tulips in the spring," Will finished for him.
"Yes, I suppose he will." He held up a euphoric finger at the realisation. "Is he honest?"
"Trust is capital, in his case. He's constructed an image as an unshakeable pillar of morality and protector of the innocent. He's invited regularly to advertise his name on the telly."
"I reckon he isn't much of a saviour after today."
"I can't say as I know what the demands are for a journalist, but I think it'll be another century before they start giving away Pulitzer Prizes to people with their heads pumped full of dreams. Mikkelsen's really made a fool of himself this time. In my opinion—" René's eyes went wide. In all the time he'd known Will, not once had he offered any sort of personal comment on an investigation. Bone-dry facts were all that mattered to him. "And I wasn't asked to look into the Belmonte case, but I did follow the trial. I wish I could be content with the final verdict, but I wasn't. It was completely out of character for Mikkelsen to publish something of that nature." Will slicked a hand through his now dripping hair, as a strange, cold fear settled in the pit of his stomach. René was just beginning to wonder whether perhaps his eyes were deceiving him, or whether Will truly had no idea how to continue. Will was never uncertain, never hesitant, and never at a loss for words. At last, he seemed to make up his mind: "Off the record, my personal view is that he was set up. Somewhere, there's another facet to the story that we simply aren't seeing—one that influenced the verdict, and that couldn't be found in a singular testimony, but in them all." He paused, staring blankly into the gaping chasm that had opened between them. "One... that I regret to admit has passed beyond our view."
August scrutinised him with searching eyes, and René noticed that, for the first time since Will's long-winded speech had begun, he was showing more than only a polite interest. He made a mental note that the case held a certain significance for him—or perhaps not the case itself, for it was only when Will had voiced his speculations about a possible framing that there had been any untoward reaction.
"And how the Devil did you deduce that?"
"Everything about Njål Mikkelsen is careful and deliberate. Every controversial revelation he publishes is well-documented, with clear, convicting evidence and proof beyond all reasonable doubt. I listened to the hearing, and he seemed to have surrendered without a fight—not one witness, not a shred of evidence to prove his innocence. The way he saw it, the defence rests. But, if we choose to believe the word of the court, that also means that Mikkelsen created a fictional article about Jean-Baptiste Belmonte with no evidence, and only himself as a witness, then published it like a suicide bomber."
"I suppose I must ask for your version of events, then."
Will cocked his head like an incredulous dog. "Mikkelsen believed every word of what he wrote. I have no doubt about that. Something must've happened along the way, and then the world was suddenly the reverse of the one he knew: false beyond false; the mother of all lies. That suggests that the original source was someone he trusted—someone that deliberately fed him false information, which is... incredibly unlikely, but it's also the only conceivable alternative I can see. Perhaps he was subjected to a threat so serious that he had no other choice. Better to be an incompetent than another dead hero."
He attempted to continue, but August only raised his hand. He sat in a perishing silence for a moment, drumming his fingers on the armrest, then hesitantly turned his gaze up to Will. "If I was to assign you to this case, what are the chances that you might discover something worthwhile? As of now, this is just a shot in the dark."
"I couldn't say."
"But you would be willing to try?"
The cloud veil that had come into Will's eyes snapped away, suddenly, with such force that his spine went straight as a ramrod. "With all due respect, sir, it isn't my place. René decides what cases I'm assigned. And regardless, it depends entirely on what you expect to find."
"Let me put it this easy, as I trust we're speaking in confidence: I know nothing whatsoever about this case, but I do know that Jean-Baptiste Belmonte has a great deal to answer for, both in this world and the next. Mikkelsen may have lain waste to his own life by seeing what others cannot, but there's also the possibility that you may be right, Dr. Malakoff."
The conversation had taken an incredibly unexpected turn. What August had requested was for the DCPJ's best and brightest to insert himself into a case that had already been concluded—one that now posed a threat to human lives. If they were to take it on, they risked colliding spectacularly with Belmonte's legion of solicitors. He wasn't the least bit at ease with the thought of releasing Will into such a situation like a missile out of control.
It was no longer merely a matter of concern for the DCPJ: Will had made it clear that he didn't want René acting out the convoluted charade of a worried lover, and since their agreement, he had been careful never to behave in the manner of one, but the harsh reality was that he would never stop worrying about him. He had never shed the conviction that William Pierre Malakoff was set on a course headed straight for the eye of the storm—for the perfect disaster. Will was the ideal victim for those that wished him ill, even if he bit back. He dreaded the morning that he would wake to the news that Will had been murdered; that he'd been found hanging in his flat, just above where they now sat; that he would return from another party that René had forced him to attend with no deterrent to another attempt.
He shuddered, and the vision dissipated in a breath of wintry air.
"This sort of investigation—" he cleared his throat—"could potentially be expensive," he warned, meaning to gauge the seriousness of August's inquiry.
"I'm not demanding the impossible," August replied, perhaps a bit too quickly. It was unlike him to be particularly eager about anything. "Really, it's obvious, as you assured me, that Dr. Malakoff can do as I ask."
"Will?" he said, turning to him with a raised brow.
He sighed, peering down at his red-varnished fingernails. "Suppose I could. I've got nothing else on at the moment."
"Right," August said. "Was there anything else?"
"There isn't much more to anyone than what I've already told you, is there? Nothing of interest, anyway. He did marry a man by the name of Lukas Kohlhaas when he was seventeen, and they had a daughter together: Sanne. The marriage has been surprisingly stable, for the fact that they're both in it for the press. As I understand it, they've both been accused of having affairs with the same sex. Lukas recently remarried, and he and Mikkelsen are currently in the process of finalising their divorce—but they seem rather close. One might even mistake them for still being married, if they hadn't done away with the rings. Their daughter lives with Lukas, as seems to be the arrangement they've agreed on. Mikkelsen has settled into his own flat here in Paris, and the Kohlhaases are in Copenhagen."
August poured himself another cup of coffee. "What about the kiss and tells from St. Petersburg? You did mention those. Was there any particular reason?"
Will glanced up from his perfectly-manicured hands, brows raised in an unnameable expression. "I only meant that we all have things we consider private. I also mentioned several outside affairs between Mr. Mikkelsen and his husband. There was one person that kept cropping up in his life year after year. That was one of the more unusual ones."
"In what way?"
"His name is Lucien Charbonneau." He shook his head, as if to dispel a particularly unpleasant thought. "Posh thing. Easy on the eyes. They met in his brother—Hugo's—bar in Saint-Tropez. Hugo was murdered by a group of vigilantes seeking justice, though for what, we don't know. All the officers found of him when they arrived was a red mist."
"Cold-blooded killers aren't so unusual for that part of France, and neither are vigilantes—or so I've been told," August said, balancing the cup on the knee of his cream-coloured suit. "What was it: got into a smidge of trouble with a cartel?"
"The way I see it, nothing is ever unusual until someone makes it so. But... they're engaged—illegally, might I add. Lucien is married to a minor celebrity known for displays of extraordinarily crude behaviour in public venues.
"So, Charbonneau is an adulterer, then?"
"No. Quite the opposite, in fact." Will pressed the rim of his cup against his lower lip, and the strange, frosted-over look came back into his eyes. "He knew everything there was to know about what went on between them. Apparently, the situation was accepted by all parties concerned. Lucien and Noël lived together in a penthouse suite above the bar, and shared a bed. There isn't a great deal of information pertaining to the arrangement, but from the way it was described... I reckon it had everything to do with Hugo's terribly convenient demise."