Pierre Lambert, Détective.

Coming real soon, now.

The start of an early chapter:

The man and the woman stepped into luxury. They entered together but the language of their bodies suggested they were not a pair. The weariness of the pavement became a soft and supportive carpet, the warmth of the afternoon was tempered by a gentle climatesse and the French language became fully articulated, conjugated and in agreement.

There were few restaurants like this left in Paris. There were plenty that were expensive and would do all they could to take your money, but the ones with service, real service, were now exceedingly rare.

The man never made a reservation at this restaurant, Le Jardin Le Plus Secret, partly because there were no reservations to be had at short notice, but also because there was always a table held for him, just in case.

No, they were not a couple.

He – the bank manager – was severely overweight and had lived a life of rich food, infrequent and insufficient movement, and too little beneficial stress. One could be sure his doctor had told him many times that a stroke, heart disease and various cancers were his destiny, and no doubt he was already suffering from many early symptoms of his lifestyle. But being a man who was wealthy, he assumed he would – as he had always done – buy himself out of any problems he might meet.

She – his client – was a young woman, attractive – many might say ‘sexy’ – and acutely stressed. An astute observer would deduce she was not looking forward to this meal and that observer would, with continued observation, note that she detested this man.

The restaurant manager stepped forward to greet them. ‘Monsieur Moreau. How are we today?’

‘Managing thank you, Stefan. Managing. Trying times in the world of banking.’

‘Of course, sir!’

‘Never enough money to go round! That’s the problem. That’s the heart of the issue. Everybody wants more!’

‘Indeed, sir: a profound and wise observation. Let me take your coats.’ Stefan waited. ‘Monsieur Moreau, thank you.’ He turned to the unsmiling beautiful woman. He tried hard not to stare at those ice-blue eyes, which reminded him of those of the cat who joined him on his terrace on long summer evenings; deep cool wells sampling the universe.

‘Madame, thank you.’ He smiled and added, ‘The Indian summer continues.’

She handed him the coat, but her mind was clearly elsewhere. She mouthed merci but the effort was inaudible.

‘Let me take you to your usual table,’ said Stefan. He led the way and as he approached it, he noticed that one of the two napkins was out of line by six millimetres and certainly not at ninety degrees to the perimeter of the table. Despite that, he stayed composed, held chairs, smiled, and said, ‘Alice will join you to arrange an aperitif.’