glanced at her slacks and self-consciously tugged at her sleeves. “Er, no—not exactly. I’m working with DGSI, though.”
The old woman frowned, clicking her tongue quietly in disapproval.
Adele decided that mentioning the FBI would only have made things worse. The DGSI had only become an autonomous office a couple of years before she’d joined, and there were some in the public who didn’t approve of the agency’s reputation.
The old woman began tugging at her husband’s arm as if to lead him back up the few steps. “Sorry,” the woman said, still peering disapprovingly at Adele. “We made a mistake.”
“I don’t work with DGSI anymore,” said Adele, thinking quickly in an effort to save the situation. “I’m consulting. Because of Marion—the girl who died.” She made a face like sucking lemons. “Oh, apologies, I-I don’t think I was supposed to mention her name.” She stepped back, peering down the stairs, but also positioning her body in just such a way so that the bloodstains beneath the bridge were visible over the barricade.
She waited an appropriate number of seconds, then turned back, shielding the crime scene again with her body. “A nasty business,” Adele said. “The girl’s mother is inconsolable, as I’m sure you can imagine. She’s from Paris, too. Living all alone now in her apartment. Such a pity—one should never be cursed to see their child leave the world first.”
The old man was peering past Adele, his face turning pale as he surveyed the underpass beyond. The woman had stopped tugging at his arm and her expression softened as she mulled over Adele’s words. The woman made the same clicking sound with her tongue, but then sighed. She shook her husband’s arm in a permissive sort of way.
“Go on,” said the old woman. “Tell the lady.”
The man continued to stare past Adele, over the barricade, his eyes fixated like he’d seen a ghost. After another tug on his arm, though, he cleared his throat and his dark eyes leveled on Adele.
“The girl—Marion—we saw on the news. Recognized her from the apartment. She lives on Rue Villehardouin as well.”
Adele nodded carefully, her eyes flitting back down the stairs in John’s direction, but he was out of sight beneath the underpass. “You knew Marion?”
The old man was staring off again and his wife tugged sharply at his arm once more. “Ahem, yes,” said the man. “We would cross paths occasionally on our nighttime walks. A friendly, nice, pretty—er, nice young girl.” He cleared his throat and retrieved his arm before his wife could pull it off. He leaned over the sawhorse, white knuckles straining where they gripped the barricade.
The gendarmerie reached out to push him back, but Adele gave the quickest shake of her head and leaned in, staring intently into the old man’s dark eyes set in his wrinkled face.
“She walked alone,” said the old man. “Said she was going to visit friends—she should not have been alone. Paris is not what it once was.”
“No. Most places aren’t,” said Adele. “You saw her leaving her apartment then. What time?”
“Eight? Nine?”
“Half past seven,” the woman chimed in from behind her husband.
Adele nodded. “Did she say anything? Besides that she was off to see friends?”
“No,” said the old man. “She said goodnight is all. But…” Here, his fingers gripped the sawhorse even tighter. “Perhaps it isn’t my place to say… But—but—”
“—just tell her, Bernard,” the woman snapped.
“I do not mean to cause anyone trouble,” the old man said.
Adele prompted him with a tilt of her eyebrows. “But…”
“But I saw someone following her. Maybe he was just going the same way… I do not know. But—like I said—I do not wish to cause anyone trouble. However, after hearing what happened to her… I mean, at the time I didn’t think anything of it. But now, maybe if I had said something.” The old man trailed off and leaned back from the sawhorse, pressing up against his wife in a protective sort of posture.
The wizened woman looped her hand back through his arm and rubbed affectionately at his wrist in a calming gesture.
Adele, though, for her part, felt anything but calm. She tried to keep her tone in check, but found it difficult with her pulse pounding in her ears. “You saw someone following her? You’re sure?”
“Yes,” said the woman at once.
“Well,” said the man, “he may have simply been going the same direction. Like I said, I don’t wish to cause any—”
“Sir, if I may, you’re not causing any trouble,” said Adele, quickly. She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to steady herself. She could hear the accent in her words the more excited she got. Now wasn’t the time to announce to these two citizens that she hailed from beyond Paris. With folk like these it would only complicate the situation. So she inhaled again, and then, her words pressing on the silence between them, she said, “Tell me exactly what you saw.”
For a moment, she thought of reaching for her phone to record the reply, but then decided it might only spook the couple.
The old man shrugged. “Someone following her. Like I said.”
“He carried a bundle,” the woman said. “And—yes.” She snapped her fingers. “He wore a blue shirt.”
The old man frowned, though, his brow crinkling. “No,” he said. “The shirt was green. His shoes were blue.”
“Was he wearing shoes?” said the woman in doubt.
Adele felt her heart sink. She licked at her lips, finding them suddenly dry, and began to step back down the stairs, if only to gain some space to breathe.
“Is there anything else?” she said from a step further down.
The old couple glanced at each other, then, nearly at once, they both replied, “He had red hair.”
Adele had been half-glancing back toward where John awaited, but at this, her gaze flew back to the old couple. She stared at them, searching their expressions for certainty. “Red hair?” she said. “You’re sure?”
They both shared a look, then nodded adamantly.
Adele felt her pulse racing once more. She’d once had a smartwatch when she’d trained for a marathon. Her resting heart rate had always been far too high for how in shape she was—another side effect of the job. And now, she could practically hear her heartbeat in her ears.
“Would you be willing to give an official statement down at the station?” Adele said. “What are your names? Bernard, you said? Last name?”
The old man began to reply, but the old woman tugged sharply on his arm. “You’ve heard our statement,” she said, frowning. “There is nothing more to say.”
“I understand,” Adele began, “but if—”
“Nothing more!” The woman had already half-dragged her husband up the steps, leading him quickly away from the underpass.
