Perfect Kill by Helen Fields

Author:Helen Fields [Fields, Helen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2019-10-24T17:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-Four

Alex the security guard greeted Callanach warmly at the door, and immediately offered to get him a coffee. Callanach accepted, wandering over to the machine with him and making small talk.

Alex Quint, twenty-six years of age, had a clean driving licence and no criminal convictions. His parents came from Marseille, and he’d moved to Paris two years earlier, registering his address for voting purposes at that time. His mother was a chef and his father, now retired, had worked for a wine wholesaler. His only sibling, a sister, was studying modern languages. The classic French family. It had taken all of thirty minutes for Interpol to turn up the information from a combination of official records and social media. Alex Quint had worked other security jobs before this one, always for decent amounts of time, for some well-respected companies. He was never going to be a CEO or set the world on fire, but he did seem to be that rare millennial – someone who had no selfies whatsoever on their online profile. Callanach liked him all the more for it.

‘So who’s your appointment with today?’ Alex asked.

‘Bruno Plouffe,’ Callanach said. ‘I met him yesterday. He seemed nice.’

‘We have to call him Dr Bruno, as if he was a TV doctor, you know? The patients seem to like him though.’

‘No complaints?’ Callanach grinned. ‘Only I’d rather have a heads-up.’

‘Depends what you’re in for. I’m guessing the hypnotherapy patients can’t remember if it was actually helpful or not,’ he laughed. An administrator appeared from a doorway and called Callanach’s name. ‘Hey, take it easy. See you afterwards.’

‘Sure, and thanks for the coffee.’ Callanach gave him a wave and followed as directed into a corridor, then into another room. There was no sign of Bruno Plouffe so Callanach made himself comfortable in a huge chair that made him feel as if he was drowning in cushion. The room was being scented from a lit bowl that was changing colour and releasing a soft mist into the air. Dimmed lights made the room homely rather than clinical, and there was a soundtrack playing so low he had to actively listen to hear it properly. Waves crashed on some imaginary beach, and birds cried out to their mates. Every now and then a gust of wind sailed across the room, and branches rustled in a forest that was presumably carpeted with expanses of bluebells. Callanach reminded himself of just how ill he was supposed to be.

Bruno Plouffe appeared five minutes later just as Callanach was beginning to feel sleepy.

‘Welcome,’ Bruno said. ‘I’m so glad you decided to give this a try. I think we can offer you some real emotional respite.’ He took an armchair at Callanach’s side, making himself comfortable. ‘We don’t record conversations or make notes. My focus will be on you the whole time. This is a confidential environment, so you can say or ask anything you like. Our only request is that you’re honest with us. It’s difficult to help when our clients try to put on a front, or to keep us at arm’s length.

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