Rennie Airth - The Dead of Winter

PENGUIN CANADA

THE DEAD OF WINTER

RENNIE AIRTH was born in South Africa and worked as a foreign correspondent for Reuters news service for many years. This is his fifth novel and the third in his John Madden mystery series. The first, River of Darkness, won the Grand Prix de Littrature Policire for best international crime novel of 2000 and was nominated for the Edgar, Anthony, and Macavity awards. He lives in Italy.

Also by Rennie Airth

RIVER OF DARKNESS

THE BLOOD-DIMMED TIDE

RENNIE AIRTH

THE DEAD OF

WINTER

PENGUIN CANADA

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Published in Canada by Penguin Group (Canada), a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2009. Simultaneously published in the United States by Viking Penguin, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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Copyright Rennie Airth, 2009

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publishers note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in Canada.

ISBN: 978-0-14-317104-1

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For Jonathan Randal

PROLOGUE

Paris, May 1940

DUSK WAS FALLING by the time Maurice Sobel reached Neuilly, and he walked the short distance from the Metro to his house in the cold, not quite earthly light of the blue-painted street lamps which were the citys sole concession to the war that was about to engulf it. His pace was brisk, and twice he glanced over his shoulder to assure himself that the street behind him was empty. The creak of the garden gate when he opened it was a welcome sound.

Only then did he relax his grip on the handle of the attach case he was carrying. Since leaving Eyskenss office hed been holding it tightly, and he felt the prickle of pins and needles in his fingers now as he shifted the case to his left hand and fumbled in his pocket for his house key.

Normally he would have been brought home by car, but that morning hed paid off the last of the household staff, including his chauffeur, a blunt Breton by the name of Dugarry. Maurice had found the farewells upsetting and the sight of the darkened house as he walked up the gravel path to the front door was a reminder of the loss suffered by all parties. Florence, their cook, and a family retainer for the better part of a quarter of a century, had clung to his hand when theyd said goodbye. Thered been tears in her eyes.

Tell Madame She had begun to speak three or four times, but been unable to continue. Ah, but youll be back It was all she could say.

Maurice had pressed her hand in return. Of course, of course Not knowing if it was true. Not knowing if they would ever meet again.

With a sigh he unlocked the door and switched on the lights in the hall. The emptiness around him seemed unnatural he was used to the house being filled with people, loud with the voices of family and friends and he regretted, not for the first time, his decision to postpone his departure, when he could have taken passage on the same ship that had carried his wife and their two sons across the Atlantic to New York a month earlier. Unwisely, deceived by the slow march of events in Europe following the occupation of Poland, hed chosen to remain in Paris for a little while longer, taking time to dispose of his business and to attend to the many other details, such as the leasing of his house, which had required his attention. The delay had proved costly. He had not yet wound up his affairs when the long-threatened German invasion had been launched a week earlier, and with their armoured units advancing now with giant strides across the Low Countries and according to as yet unconfirmed reports about to encircle the French army entrenched on the Somme, he had been forced to take emergency measures, selling off the last of his stock at rock-bottom prices and, even worse, engaging in the kind of transaction he would normally have shunned in an attempt to salvage at least a portion of these assets.

On that last day the last for him, at any rate the city had worn an air of exhaustion. The soft breeze with its promise of spring had expired, like the hopes of so many, and it was the stifling heat of summer that hung in the air now and seemed poised to descend on streets already starting to empty as cars made their slow exit bumper to bumper from the capital in anticipation of the threat that daily drew closer. Although government spokesmen had said that every inch of French soil would be defended, Maurice knew from other sources from the rumours that sped from mouth to mouth that the German panzers were already moving south from the coast. He had glimpsed military lorries drawn up in lines outside ministries, prepared to cart away files and other vital equipment. And although no refugees had yet appeared in Paris, travellers arriving from the north-east spoke of roads clogged by those trying to escape the fighting; of whole families on the move pushing handcarts loaded with their possessions. More ominously still, there were even reports that French soldiers without their arms had joined the fleeing columns.

Although his appointment with Eyskens was not until the afternoon, Maurice had gone into the city earlier and after calling at his bank had paid a final visit to what had been until recently the store that bore his familys name: Sobel Frres. Furriers of distinction, the shop was located off the rue St Honor, and although Maurice had relinquished the lease on the property he still had a key to the street door. Wandering about the deserted rooms, he had felt a deep sadness. It had taken his family years to build up the business the company had been founded by his grandfather and its loss felt like an amputation. He could think of no sight more desolate that day than the rows of empty hangers where only a few weeks before the finest furs had been on display, no sign more indicative of abandonment and flight than the thin patina of dust already starting to gather on the glass-topped counters.