making no attempt to go further.
Mr Clarke sounded impatient. ‘What about our apartment?’
‘The police.’
This hook was enough to make Paul and Rosie walk back to the reception desk.
‘What would the police want with us?’ Rosie asked.
Mujard shrugged and Mr Clarke slammed his palm on the countertop, making her jump. Paul and Rosie were startled. Their father was a mild man, but he definitely wasn’t himself today.
‘I have two children,’ Mr Clarke said, almost begging. ‘I need to get them out of the city. Now if you have information, please tell me quickly.’
Mujard looked offended. ‘There’s no need to shout,’ she said, but she was secretly delighted by the outburst. ‘Three detectives, plain clothes. They asked where you were and came with a warrant to search your apartment.’
Mr Clarke glanced at his watch. ‘How long ago?’
‘Two or three hours. They asked where you might be. I explained that you were a salesman and said you’d either be at your office, or on the road.’
Mr Clarke glanced anxiously at his car outside, then at the children. ‘We need to leave Paris now.’
He grabbed Paul’s arm and dragged him towards the street. ‘What’s going on?’ the boy asked anxiously. ‘Why are the police looking for you?’
‘I don’t think they are,’ Mr Clarke said cryptically. ‘I’ll explain everything in the car.’
Rosie protested. ‘But we’re here now. I don’t have a change of clothes, or a toothbrush or …’
Clarke thought for a second. It was a long journey and comforts such as a change of clothes and a few personal items would make it far more tolerable.
‘I suppose,’ he said, looking at Rosie. Then he thanked Mujard for the information and began bounding up the narrow staircase to the fourth floor, taking the steps two at a time. ‘We’ve got to be out of here in five minutes,’ he continued. ‘Grab some essentials: clothes, toiletries, small personal items. I don’t want the car stuffed with toys and junk.’
The trio were breathless by the time they reached the door of apartment sixteen. Mujard had unlocked for the police officers, so the door was intact, but the apartment had been ransacked. Drawers were emptied over the floor, a tall lamp had been knocked down and one of the sofas had been tipped on its back with its bottom sliced open to see if anything was hidden inside.
Paul looked shaken as Rosie bent down and began gathering pieces of a broken Wedgwood plate that had belonged to her great-grandmother.
‘Forget that,’ Mr Clarke barked, grabbing his daughter’s arm and hoisting her up. ‘They’re not police … I’ve told you I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve got to pack up and leave.’
Mr Clarke gave Rosie a nudge towards her bedroom, then he walked into the kitchen and began opening cupboards, searching for food to take on the journey. Paul started towards his room, but he knew he’d need to pee before setting off so he cut into the bathroom and bolted the door.
Paul still missed his mother and the bathroom evoked her memory. He could remember splashing around in the bath with Rosie when they were little and his fascination with his mother’s paraphernalia of perfumes, make-up and a giant glass jar stuffed with balls of cotton wool. Her half of the bathroom shelf was now clinically empty and he tried putting this out of mind as he unbuttoned his grey shorts and tried to pee.
‘Thinking about it, you’d both better change clothes,’ Mr Clarke shouted, from the living room. ‘Your uniforms are very English. It’s best if you blend in.’
Paul hurriedly washed his hands and was pulling his shirt over his head as he stepped out of the bathroom and clattered into Rosie. She was carrying a suitcase of clothes towards the front door.
‘Watch it, bone head,’ she yelled, shoving Paul against the wall.
Stupidly, Paul hadn’t bothered undoing any of his shirt buttons and one of them popped off as he staggered blindly into his bedroom. He threw the shirt and the vest inside it on the bed and glanced around quickly, wondering which of his things he wanted to take. He decided on the alarm clock he’d had for Christmas, all of his clothes – he only had two pairs of long trousers and three shirts anyway – and as much of his painting and drawing equipment as he thought he’d be able to get away with without making his dad mad.
But before he could pack anything, Paul realised he’d need one of the cases stashed under the