Keith and Barbara gave their statements to the local police then were told to wait for an officer from Nice to interview them as well. An alert had been put out for a suspect matching their description, with the additional bus, train and plane watch.

"Do you think he killed him or did he find him that way?"

"I think he did, Barb, or if he didn't, he just missed the killer. Maurice's body was still warm and the blood was still pooling."

"That was horrible."

"Killing often is. You okay?"

"Yes . . ."

"Sorry you came now, I guess"

"Well it wasn't the sort of clue gathering I expected." She tried on a smile and it faded.

"We could be finished clue gathering after this, here comes the Nice cop."

Keith was surprised to greet his contact, expecting a detective to do the interviews. He introduced Barbara and they sat in the back of the police car to talk.

"Is this common practice, a constable doing special interviews?"

"Because I was your liaison originally. It simplifies things. Tell me everything." Certainly not an approach he would take, Keith thought.

He felt uneasy. Even the local police knew enough to separate them for a statement. There was something strange about all this. He did the talking and Barbara just said the odd yes or no, agreeing with Keith on everything. When they finished, the officer thanked them and they got out of the car. Keith put a hand on the door frame blocking entry to the driver's side.

"Something else, Detective Railton?"

"A couple of things. What happens now? Can I continue or are we formally excluded from any further action here?"

"You are most welcome to enjoy the benefits of our lovely country - as tourists only now, I'm afraid."

"I figured. One other thing, you never took notes or recorded our statement, so what was the purpose? What's going on?"

A shadow passed behind the constable's eyes and he wet his upper lip. Keith kept staring, his face moving a little closer – intimidating. Barbara stood by looking totally confused.

"There is nothing . . . I just confirmed what you told the local police . . . no need to record it twice."

"You never questioned Miss Spence at all. How do you confirm her statement? I think I'd better contact my superiors then your National Police. What do you think?"

"Non!" Perspiration collected on his hairline and Keith leaned even closer. "That would be very bad . . . for all of us." He moved Keith's arm and sat on the driver's seat, feet on the road. "There is a very powerful man here who - who has made certain things impossible to avoid or ignore . . ."

"You've been bought."

"It's not like you think-"

"It never is."

"No- truly. My family has become collateral for my obedience. I pass on information – only when asked. I volunteer nothing . . . but if I don't . . ." His voice trailed off and he wiped his face with his hands.

Keith gave Barbara an apprehensive look. "And you told this person about us and why we were here." The look was bleak and the nod a shameful acknowledgement. "So now what?"

"I don't know. I have no idea. He never said anything and please, trust me, I said you were only here to ask about the murdered courier. That in France you had no authority in the matter."

"Like he would care if he is what you say he is."

"I have to report to him. I will tell him you know nothing and now there is no reason to keep looking. You will be leaving when you can arrange a flight."

"You know I will be contacting my superiors to let them know what happened here – not you, but Frossard."

"Will you be reporting me here?"

Keith stepped away from the car and shoved his hands in his pockets. "What you do here in your job is on you. I have no wish to put your family in danger – if all that is true."

"It is! I swear!"

"Yeah . . . okay. I'll make my call home then we'll make flight arrangements." He leaned forward again. "If there is anything I need to know regarding our safety here, I expect to be warned – family or not. Got it?"

"You have my word."

"Right. Okay, that's it then. Let's hope our business is finished." He turned and took Barbara's arm and they left to pick up their car.

***

Jean Paul listened as his man informed him of what they found at the apartment, as well as what they didn't find. They had beaten the police to the scene and gained a description from the old lady concierge, of a young couple asking after her tenant. Puzzled, he told his men to track them down, hanging up with force when the questions started.

With a drink, and ensconced in his custom lounge chair on the terrace, Jean Paul placed a call to his contact in the Nice Municipal Police force for an update on any changes, visitors or other news of interest.

The news he learned was of great interest.

****

Keith insisted they change locations, his reasoning was based somewhat on paranoia and Barbara agreed without a fuss. They located another small bed and breakfast closer to Antibes and found a local restaurant for a decent meal that didn't break the bank.

The walk back from the restaurant had been in silence and Barbara couldn't stay quiet any longer. She slipped her shoes off and sat on the bed.

"Do you think we might be in danger?"

"Our police friend might have played down our part in this but that doesn't mean his crime boss friend accepted that." He poured them a glass of wine from the few they had brought in from the car. "The price of wine here is a joke compared to everything else - and the weird thing is, it's good."

"You're doing wine testimonials while we're being hunted by gangsters!"

"Calm down, it was just a precautionary thought. I've got a call into my boss so until I hear back maybe you could look into flights home?"

"What about your call?"

"It'll be hours yet. Time zones."

Keith sat stunned, listening to Barbara on the phone. He didn't need to know French to pick out the words, first class and his mind flew to his skimpy budget, which was already in question.

"You booked us first class!"

"I thought you didn't speak French."

"I'm not stupid, I know what premier means. I can't account for that to my boss."

"You won't have to. I put it on my expense account. I wasn't flying home with my knees in my chest."

"You can do that?"

"Arthur allows me an annual amount. How I spend-"

"I meant, you can get your knees in your chest?"

He held a straight face as long as possible; that and the fact she leapt up from the bed and landed full weight on his lap, forcing all his air out in a loud guffaw.

"I can get my knees on your chest, Detective Railton."

His wide eyes and grin sent the colour surging up her face and she stood, shoving him onto the floor.

"You perverted old man!"

"You said it," he laughed, getting up and watching her fuss with her hair and clothes.

"Anyway," she said defiantly, "we are leaving from Nice Wednesday morning at nine-twenty and flying to Frankfurt. From there we take KLM – first class – to home."

"That's two days from now."

"It was all they had. I guess we'll have to lie low 'til then."

"Lie low, eh? First class!" He twirled an imaginary moustache and gave a grinning leer."

***

The tenement Gregory was hiding in was chosen for its anonymity – he hoped – and was situated in the south part of Vieux Nice near the Promenade des Anglais. He had abandoned his rental car in a public square and travelled by bus afterwards.

He poured a stiff drink from the bottle he'd picked up after the business with Frossard; it was needed, he felt. His next problem was getting out of France. He knew everything would be watched and they would likely have descriptions through Frossard's connection to him.

He drank and stared at the envelope containing the scroll, on the table in the tiny kitchen of the tiny flat. Two killings now and all for that, he thought. The possibility of returning it now was gone; Jean Paul would grind him into a distant memory.

Taking it out of the bulky envelope, he discovered it was wrapped and he carefully removed the covering. The scroll was in script on a piece of old, brittle paper and Gregory swore as tiny bits crumbled from the edges.

He stared at the page, his mouth drying up, seeing the actual object of his quest. "It's true . . .!" His words slipped out in a soft whisper while his fingers ghosted over the page, reluctant to contact the paper already dangerously vulnerable.

He hunted around for something to act as a stiffener and came up with a cereal box. He removed the cereal in the liner and cut the box sides off to support the paper.

Before wrapping it again he tried to read the faint script.

The language had no meaning for him but something about the paper and the writing made him want to protect it. Maybe he could use it as leverage somehow. Excited and frightened at the same time, he gently and carefully re-wrapped the delicate scroll between the card stiffeners and placed it back in the protective envelope.