hilippe Tremont stared at Jean-Louis in astonishment, wondering if his brother had taken leave of his senses. Clearing his throat, sitting up straighter in the chair, he now said, ‘But why in God’s name would you think Rafi is responsible for the sabotage? My God, that’s ridiculous, Jean-Louis! He wouldn’t even have the resources to do such a thing.’

‘Yes, he would. There is a lot you do not know about our cousin. What is that odd expression our mother used so frequently: “the water that is still and deep has the devil resting at the bottom.” Some such thing.’

‘All right, maybe he does have a bad streak running through him. But please explain two things to me. Why would he want to sabotage your charity fashion show? And how would he have managed to get into a secured room to dismantle the underpinning of the runway, and all by himself?’

‘Maybe he was not alone; maybe he is part of a group of terrorists, and—’

‘Now you are really stretching it!’ Philippe cried, his voice rising shrilly. Hearing a noise, he stood, crossed the room, opened the door and looked out into the secretary’s office. Louise’s chair was vacant, there was no one in sight. No one had been eavesdropping. Closing the door, returning to his chair, Philippe added, ‘Rafi is not a terrorist. You are exaggerating because of your constant anger with him.’

Jean-Louis settled back in the chair behind his desk, steepling his fingers, and looked over them at his younger brother. ‘Perhaps he is not a member of an organization specializing in terrorism, but he is a hothead. He always has been. And let us not forget that he may bear the name Tremont, because his father was our father’s brother, our uncle, but his mother is an Algerian.’ Jean-Louis grimaced, shook his head, ‘And a putain.’

Philippe sighed. ‘She’s not a prostitute. But I know you believe all this, Jean-Louis, and I’ve never been able to make you change your mind. Answer this, why would he want to strike at you?’

‘Because recently I have asked him to start paying back the money he owes us, and I do not think he is happy about that.’ Jean-Louis sighed. ‘Why did I bother to ask him? He has no money, he is a beggar.’

‘All right, maybe he has a vendetta against you. Tell me something, though. How did he get into a locked room? And how could he dismantle the underpinnings himself?’

‘I told you; he may not have been alone. I believe it is obvious he had help. And I cannot explain how he got into the grand salon to do his dirty work. Unless…he was part of the construction crew. Perhaps he somehow managed to hide in the room, and then let his cohorts in later.’

‘Anything is possible,’ Philippe conceded. ‘However, I think you are bestowing too much intelligence on our cousin. I have always thought him to be dimwitted myself.’

‘Not his wife. She is quite the operator,’ Jean-Louis remarked, giving Philippe a knowing look, wondering why his brother didn’t understand the setup.

‘So, what you are saying, in effect, is that you think the police are wrong and that yesterday’s disaster was not an act of terrorism,’ Philippe asserted, staring at his older sibling.

‘That is correct. Well, terrorism in one sense, by Rafi against me.’

‘I don’t think the French security services, the DST, would agree with you, mon frère.’ Philippe smiled. ‘Those guys who occupy Number One Rue Nélaton appear to have other ideas altogether, from what I read in the newspapers today.’

‘Perhaps. And I do believe that the intelligence agency has some brilliant operatives. But in this instance, well, I have come to my own conclusions, and with good cause.’

‘And yet there is nothing we can do…’

‘Oh, yes, I can do something. I am going to see Rafi—’

‘Oh, no, you’re not,’ Philippe interrupted forcefully. ‘I’m not having you wandering around Belleville: it’s not safe. If necessary I myself will go and talk to him.’

‘Perhaps that would be better, Philippe, merci beaucoup. I might lose my temper.’ Jean-Louis smiled ironically at the thought.

Philippe announced, ‘I will go. This afternoon. After our meeting with our lawyers and the director of the insurance company. Now, mon cher frère, let us go and have lunch.’

Belleville was on the opposite side of Paris, and Philippe knew that it would take him a good forty minutes to get there. Once he had finished the meeting with their lawyers and the insurance people, he hurried to his apartment on Avenue Montaigne, quickly changed into more casual clothes, and gave his driver the address of their destination.

The traffic was heavy at the end of the afternoon, and he cursed himself under his breath, realizing he should have gone out there later, in the early evening, when it was less congested.

But it was too late. He was now on his way, and he wanted to get the meeting over with. He had toyed with the idea of ringing his cousin Raphaël and discussing the matter on the phone; instantly he had changed his mind. Nor did he wish to call to announce that he was coming out to see him. Better to arrive when he was not expected.

Although he did not harbour the same troubling thoughts and grudges that his brother did, Philippe nonetheless knew that their cousin was disreputable, something of a crazy character who mingled with crooks and criminals; the lowest of the low seemed to be his preference. Raphaël Tremont had had many advantages in his youth, and yet he had thrown them all away, had gone from disaster to disaster all of his life. He has larceny in his heart, Philippe suddenly thought; my brother is right about that. And he is a loser.

Philippe glanced out of the window as the car finally arrived in Belleville. It was an area of Paris that was ugly, and therefore hardly lived up to its name; always a shabby place, it now looked worse than ever tonight. Even though it was growing dark, he could see that the streets were scruffier-looking than ever, and depressing. He had always thought of it as an odd part of Paris, somewhat off the beaten track, a disreputable district in certain ways. It was the Arab quarter of Paris, where most of the North African and African immigrants lived. He was well aware that there were many decent, hardworking people amongst them, and yet somehow the place had managed to get a peculiar reputation in the last few years.

The car turned off the Boulevard de Belleville, and Philippe directed his driver to the small street that opened off the boulevard, where his cousin lived with his wife and son.

When the car arrived at the front door of the small apartment building, Philippe told the driver to wait if that was possible, adding, ‘If you have to move on, do so, Marcel. If you’re not here when I leave, I will call you on your cell.’

‘Oui, monsieur,’ the driver said, jumping out to open the door for him.

Philippe rang the bell marked TREMONT. There was no reply. But after a moment a youth came out; Philippe nodded to him, held the door open and slipped into the building.

He took the stairs two at a time until he reached the third floor where his cousin lived. He rang the bell, and when no one answered, he finally banged on the door. Finally a gruff voice demanded, ‘Who is it? Who’s there?’

‘Rafi, open the door! It’s Philippe. Your cousin Philippe.’

‘Get lost! I don’t want to see you!’

‘I have something for you,’ Philippe said. ‘Money. I know you need it.’

‘Just shove it under the door.’

‘No, no. That is not possible. I must see you, speak to you.’

Much to Philippe’s amazement, the door opened at once. He stared at Raphaël, barely recognizing him. ‘In God’s name, what has happened to your face? You look as if you’ve been hit head-on by a lorry going at top speed.’

‘Two bastards going at top speed,’ Rafi answered, and stepped back, opened the door, beckoned for Philippe to come inside.

‘You’ve been beaten up, is that it?’

‘Several times, by several shitheads.’

‘When did this happen? It looks as if the wounds are fresh.’

‘A few days ago. I got in a brawl. Over money.’ He tried to grin but it obviously hurt his face too much, and he mumbled, ‘Okay, Philippe, where’s the cash?’

‘I need a bit of information first, Rafi.’

His cousin looked at him suspiciously. ‘Information about who? Or what?’

‘First tell me this…where were you two nights ago? The twenty-first of March, to be precise.’

‘Today’s Friday, so we’re going back to Wednesday, right?’

Philippe nodded.

‘That was the night I got the shit kicked out of me. I was in the bar. Down the street. Why?’

‘The following afternoon, which was yesterday, there was a horrific incident at the Hôtel Cygne Noir. The runway collapsed at a fashion show and many people were hurt.’

‘I saw it on the news. Your fashion show. Jean-Louis Tremont’s fashion show.’ He threw Philippe a sullen look, added, ‘Tell your brother “sorry” from me.’

‘It wasn’t an accident, Rafi. It was a deliberate act of sabotage. Did you have anything to do with it?’

‘Me? Why me? Hey! Come on! What’s all this about? I told you what was happening to me. Trying to get me into trouble, are you?’ He stepped back. ‘Go on, get out. I don’t want the flics coming around here.’

‘You know, there is a suggestion this sabotage was the act of terrorists. You’re not a member of any extreme political or radical religious group, are you?’

‘You’re insane to think that!’

‘But you used to be very militant, and fanatical…about Algerian politics.’

‘When I was a kid—days long ago, long gone. No time for that shit now. Got to earn a living.’

‘Are you working, Rafi?’

‘No. Not this week. I can’t go to work with this face.’

Philippe was absolutely certain that Rafi had as much to do with the sabotage of the runway as he did. His brother was all wrong about their cousin, at least in this instance. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a wad of Euros and handed them to Rafi. ‘I hope this helps,’ he said. ‘And how’s Chantelle?’

‘Same as always. Working hard, running her film-production company. The catering company she started. Little good it does me, I don’t see a sou.’

‘Take care of yourself, Rafi,’ Philippe murmured, and let himself out.

As he went down the stairs, he felt the same wave of sadness and depression flow over him. He always experienced this feeling when he had been here to see their cousin. It was unbearable for him to think of the terrible waste. That their cousin Raphaël Tremont, once so good looking and a brilliant and talented musician, had become this…derelict…beaten to a pulp, wearing ragged old clothes…dependent on hand-outs…a lost soul.

Rafi sat staring at the door, an expression of bitterness settling on his face. Hand-outs. That’s all his cousin ever gave him. But Philippe was a decent man; whereas Jean-Louis, filled with his own importance, was a bastard. Rafi sighed under his breath, put the money in his pocket. Later, he would go out to the bar and drown his sorrows in red wine. Cheap Beaujolais was his solace these days. Certainly, he found none with his wife. When he had married Chantelle Valbonne, some years ago now, his expectations had been high: a life of married bliss. Well, that had never happened. And these days she was too busy running her catering company, mixing with movie stars, and doing the bidding of that weird character whose parties she catered. He was loaded and paid her well, but Rafi often wondered what exactly she did for the guy with the exaggerated English accent. He would never know that; she rarely confided in him. But she was still a beautiful woman, if older, and she kept a roof over their heads, such as it was. Who was he to complain?