The Paris Secret Read online

  For Aunty Flora

  The original and best Bad Influence

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Paris, July 2016

  Clouds bearded the moon and the horizon was still inky, with every one of the world-famous lights turned off, save for the beacon at the top of the distinctive tower that distinguished the famous city even in the dark. The two men moved unseen on the mansard roofs, keeping their heads below the ridge line, bodies curled inwards like autumn leaves, their stealthy footsteps no more than the mere padding of cats to the sleeping inhabitants of the apartments below.

  Catching sight of their mark on the other side of the street, they stopped and crouched between the dormers, their eyes counting down the number of windows echoed in the matching buildings across the street. In silence, they spooled out the rope, the carabiners clipped on their harnesses clattering together like chimes as they moved – sure-footed, pulses up – and anchored themselves to the chimney stack.

  The first man stepped over the edge, feeling that familiar rush as gravity exerted its might and the rope tightened; he paused for a second, checking that everything would hold, before dropping down below the roofline, pushing off from the wall with his feet every few metres.

  The other man followed and within a minute, they were there – the dust-screened windows which had first caught their attention, every bit as obscured, close up, as they had hoped. The Juliet balcony outside it was shallow, wide enough only for a potted rose, but it was sufficient for a foothold and they swung their legs over the intricate balustrade. Standing with their feet parallel to the wall, they could angle their body weight in to the building and each of them cupped his hands around his face, trying to peer past the obfuscated glass. But it was like trying to see through smoke.

  In the distance, a siren sounded and both men stiffened, their reflexes sharp as they tracked which direction it was coming from – and where it was heading to.

  Not here. That was all they needed to know.

  They resumed their efforts to get in, gloved hands on the doors. There was no handle on the outside and the inner, left-facing, door didn’t budge, but the outer one rattled lightly, showing it was loose. Loose enough, anyway. These doors were old – the wood rotting, the single-glazing so thin they could crack it with a sneeze. But even that wouldn’t be necessary. The first man had bent his knees and, his eye level with the latch, could clearly see the thin metal arm of an old-fashioned hook that was the only thing keeping the outside out. He grabbed his knife from his back pocket and jemmying it into the gap, quickly flicked it upwards. The hook swung up, round and back, knocking lightly against itself.

  They were in. It was that easy – a sharp eye, a rope and a knife.

  The doors were stiff with neglect, the hinges protesting with loud creaks as they were forced back, but open they did and both men stepped onto the parquet floor. They twisted their head-torches on and, unclipping themselves from the ropes, began to move silently through the empty rooms.

  The air was so stale it almost had a physical texture to it and they couldn’t help but cough, even though the need for silence was paramount. That wasn’t all they disturbed – their footsteps on the dusty floor recorded their path through the apartment like tracks in the snow, but who would ever see? It was obvious no one apart from them knew this place was still here. It was hidden in plain sight, the neighbours’ apathy no doubt perpetuating the secret, everyone working on the assumption that it belonged to someone else; that it was someone else’s problem. You couldn’t just lose an apartment, after all; couldn’t forget you owned it.

  But someone had.

  The first man stopped in the kitchen. A single chair lay on its side on the floor, a dresser stood bare, its hooks like curled, arthritic fingers with nothing to hold. There wasn’t a pot or a pan, a bucket or mop. The place had been stripped.

  Disappointed, they walked further down the hall, their twin beams of light crossing over each other like duelling swords in the blackness as they continued to search.

  Both men stopped at the threshold to the bedroom. An iron bedstead was pushed against the back wall but that wasn’t what quickened their pulses. A large wooden crate stood at the end, the lid splintered from where it had been levered off, a crowbar still on the bed slats.

  They hurried over, the first man squinting as he read a small sheet of paper stapled to the inside. The handwritten script had faded in the sun but there was a company name and oval logo on the top and it looked like some kind of pro-forma docket.

  Behind him, the second man tripped over something on the floor and lurched heavily into the end of the bed. He swore and looked back irritably, picking up the offending article. He had thought it just a rag, but on closer inspection saw it was a child’s toy – a cloth duck comforter, its stuffed head bald from overuse, the terry towelling fabric bleached with age and thick with dust. The man immediately sneezed, letting it drop to the floor again.

  So much for silence, his companion thought. They might as well just hold a party and invite the neighbours.

  ‘Holy shit,’ he whispered, shining a light into the crate as he stared in.

  The second man hurried over, his torch too flooding the dark cavity with light.

  Both men stared, open-mouthed, at what was inside. It was more than they could have dreamed of.

  ‘Quick. Let’s get her out.’

  Chapter One

  Wiltshire, England, August 2016

  Summertime had England in its grip. The heatwave baking the Continent had finally hit British shores and the nation was revelling in its signature jubilant mood that was always unzipped any time the mercury nudged the thirties – deckchairs dotted the parks, freckles multiplied, children played in fountains and residential streets reverberated to the slap of flip-flops on bare feet.

  Not that Flora Sykes could see or hear any of this. Her parents’ back garden – eight acres in the Wiltshire countryside – was bordered by high beech hedges and carpeted in camomile lawns, and she had been blissfully face down and unconscious on the lounger by the pool since arriving, a cool three hours after she’d stepped off the plane. Her big brother Freddie was still nowhere to be seen, sleeping like a student; her father was on the golf course; and her mother, swatting away Flora’s half-hearted, exhausted offers to help, was efficiently plunging langoustines into boiling water, apparently unmoved by the creatures’ Nemo-like attempts to escape by wriggling the plastic bags they were held in across the worktops.

  Flora had intended to read. One of her New Year’s resolutions involving working less and playing more had been to read everything on last year’s Man Booker longlist, but by March that had been amended to reading the shortlist and now she would just be grateful to get through this first book that she’d bought in January a
nd was still only a third of the way through. The problem was adrenalin. Her life was ruled by it – long, intense, work-around-the-clock bursts, followed by crashes into oblivion – and it left precious little time or energy for pastimes like reading.

  This week had been a case in point. She had woken up in Palm Beach on Monday, Chicago on Wednesday, and had squeezed in a meeting and drinks party in Manhattan yesterday, before darting to JFK in her cocktail dress for the red-eye to Heathrow.

  ‘Cup of tea, darling?’ Her mother’s voice, distant, sounded in her ear. She heard the chink of china on limestone. ‘And you need to put some more lotion on. Your shoulders are beginning to go pink.’

  A warm hand touched her skin, testing across her shoulders for proof. Flora raised her head, a cloud of butter-blonde hair falling over her face. ‘Huh?’ she groaned.

  ‘Oh, darling, I worry about you. All this jet lag plays havoc with your system.’

  Flora flipped her hair back and tried to push up into a sitting position. Her mother was swinging her legs onto the lounger next to her, a copy of The Lady on her lap and a matching tea in her hands. Her straw hat threw shade over a face that was still beautiful, even in her late fifties.

  Flora fiddled with the straps of her Liberty-print cotton bikini – not great for swimming in but she had no intention of getting wet; well, assuming Freddie didn’t chuck her in – and reached for the tea. The steam pinked her already sleep-flushed face as she drowsily watched the electric-blue dragonflies skimming the water’s surface, swallows swooping in the clear skies above.

  ‘You work too hard. It’s not good for you.’

  ‘I know but I can’t step back at the moment. I need to keep bringing in new clients – it’s what Angus hired me for. I can relax a bit come Christmas.’

  ‘Christmas? Darling, you’ll be long dead by then. It’s only August. Frankly, I’m worried you won’t see out the day.’

  ‘Well, of course you are, you’re always worried. You’d worry about not having anything to worry about,’ Flora smiled. ‘When’s Daddy getting back?’

  Her mother glanced across, eyebrows hitched and a sceptical expression in her blue eyes. ‘I said lunch was twelve-thirty – so one.’

  ‘And when is lunch?’

  ‘Two.’

  Flora chuckled. Her father’s tardiness was legendary. He had been late to his own wedding (burst tyre on the Aston), the hospital when Freddie was born (traffic in Mayfair), the hospital when she was born (the dog got lost in Hyde Park and the ambulance couldn’t wait) and his brother’s funeral (the high street closed for the farmers’ market in Marlborough). The only things he had never, ever been late for – not once in forty years – were his auctions. He had been chief auctioneer at Christie’s throughout the late eighties until fairly recently when he’d retired; the auctions were known as lively, rambunctious affairs more akin to shooting parties and he had been feted for his witty commentaries which whipped up both mood and appetite and meant that, more often than not, he brought the hammer down on record prices.

  But lunch, they all knew, could wait. No doubt he would still be hacking divots into the sixteenth green at twelve-thirty, in spite of his very best intentions to obey his adored wife.

  ‘Freddie’s sleeping late,’ Flora observed, catching sight of the time as she sipped her tea. It was twelve-fifteen already, although her body was telling her it was dawn.

  ‘. . . Yes. He is.’

  Flora tipped her head back against the teak and looked across at her mother. ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Mummy, I know that tone. What is it?’

  Her mother glanced over but Flora could tell she didn’t really see her. ‘He’s very thin.’

  ‘He’s always thin.’

  ‘Well, he’s lost a lot of weight then. I don’t think he’s eating properly.’

  ‘I can almost guarantee it,’ Flora said with a groan, extending a leg to examine her pedicure. Three weeks in and it was holding up well. ‘This is the man who uses the possibility of scurvy as justification for buying multi-packs of Frazzles, remember.’

  But her mother didn’t laugh as she looked over the stretch of springy lawns. ‘I think something’s wrong.’

  Flora chortled. ‘You always think something’s wrong.’ If her father was perpetually late, her mother was perpetually worried. Then she caught sight of her mother’s expression. ‘Mummy, the only thing that’s wrong is he’s missing Aggie, I bet. He’s finally realized what a whopping great mistake he made finishing with her, that’s all.’ She dropped her foot back down and, closing her eyes, enjoyed the feeling of the sun beating down on her skin. ‘Aggie’s the best thing that ever happened to him.’

  ‘Apparently she’s already going out with someone new.’

  Flora opened one eye. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘I do have my own contacts you know, darling. Coffee mornings weren’t invented by your generation.’ A pained expression flitted over her mother’s face. ‘Silly boy.’

  Flora shifted position onto her side, tucking her knees in tight. ‘Listen, she might make him sit up and beg for a bit, but there’s no question she’ll take him back.’

  Her mother’s lips pressed together as they always did when she was concerned. Flora recognized it from the day of her Maths Common Entrance exam, the day her father took his helicopter-licence test, the day Freddie announced he was running the Marathon des Sables . . . ‘I hope you’re right.’

  They fell quiet, only the sound of pages being turned interrupting the symphony of bees working in the hydrangea bushes, blackbirds singing from the oak tree and Bolly, their labrador’s, tail thumping sporadically on the tiles whenever Flora dropped her hand down to stroke his coat as he lay in the shade beneath her lounger.

  Her mother closed the magazine and turned to face her, trying to seem brighter. ‘So, tell me your news – and I don’t mean work. Are you seeing anyone at the moment?’

  Flora cast a sideways glance at her mother without moving her head. She suppressed a sigh. ‘No. No time.’

  Her mother too suppressed a sigh. ‘Darling, you have to make time. How can you ever expect to meet someone if you spend your life in vaults and warehouses and galleries and on planes?’

  ‘I meet plenty of people, Mummy. Just none who are . . .’ She searched for the right word.

  ‘Special?’

  ‘I was going to say “different”, but yes, same thing I guess.’

  ‘Different from what?’

  Flora shrugged, even though she knew perfectly well. She met hundreds of men in her line of work – dealers, gallery owners, collectors, art historians, specialist repairers, not to mention clients though of course she’d never consider crossing the line and dating one of them – but they invariably boiled down to two types. Men like her boss, Angus: bespoke-suited, ex-public school educated, elitist and cliquey. Or her father: erudite, eccentric, larger than life but hopeless with anything practical, absent and vague on the mundanities of daily life. She wanted someone with a bit of ‘edge’.

  ‘It’s just you’re such a beautiful girl. I can’t understand why you haven’t been snapped up already.’

  ‘I’m not a pot of yoghurt!’ Flora laughed. ‘I don’t have a best-before date.’

  ‘Now that’s naive, darling. Of course you do. All women do.’

  Flora allowed the sigh to escape her this time. She wished her mother would let this subject drop. ‘Look, Mum – I’m perfectly happy with my life the way it is. It’ll happen when it happens. You can’t go looking for it.’

  They fell into a silent truce, both of them watching a couple of blackbirds hopping on the lawn and pecking for worms. Flora knew she didn’t need to hold Bolly back as she would once have done – he was too arthritic to care these days, preferring to snooze in the shade.

  ‘So is the slaughter in the kitchen concluded?’ Flora asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Perfectly boiled and pink and warm,’ her mother said with s
atisfaction. She was as elegant a cook as she was a dresser. ‘And I’ve done your brother’s favourite cheesecake for pudding.’

  ‘Oh good, that’ll get him out of bed then. I’m beginning to think we might have to plant a small explosive device outside his bedroom door.’

  Her mother chuckled even as she winced, just as a crunch of wheels on the gravel made them twist and turn to see Flora’s father flying up the drive, the cream top down on his XK8, his perfectly white hair cresting in the wind as the sound of Fleetwood Mac poured into the slipstream behind him.

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ Flora exclaimed in astonishment. ‘He’s actually on time.’

  ‘Yes, but still driving like he’s late.’ Her mother tutted as she swung her legs off the sunbed and slid her pedicured feet into her white leather slides. ‘Honestly, he’ll have the heads off my delphiniums! Who does he think he is? Stirling Moss?’ She sighed, taking Flora’s empty teacup from her hands and walking across the lawn to her husband, happy to have something else to worry about.

  Within the half-hour, the morning’s quiet slumber had been pulled from the house like a dust sheet off a chair and Radio 4 was blaring out as her father emerged ruddy-cheeked and ravenous from the shower, the floor still scattered with pinhole templates of mud from his golf shoes.

  ‘Hi, Daddy.’ Flora smiled as her father caught sight of her sitting sideways on the worktop, her feet in the sink – a favourite resting position when at home, ever since the time she’d fallen in nettles when she was eight and her mother had cooled her burning, itching feet in iced water. She braced herself for the exuberant kiss that he’d plant on the centre of her forehead, a hand clasped over each of her ears so that the world was temporarily muffled, as though underwater. ‘Good round?’

  Her words brought pain, it appeared, as his wide smile faded and he slapped a hand across his own forehead. ‘Terrible! Bloody awful!’ he moaned. ‘I’d have played better hitting the damn ball with a hoover! I don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong with you,’ her mother said, snipping a fresh sprig of rosemary from the window box, her eyes on a squirrel digging for acorns rather too close to the lobelias for her liking. She rapped on the window smartly, sending it skittering back up the nearest oak. ‘That extra glass of Maury last night, that’s what.’