The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau by Graeme Macrae Burnet Page A

Jura could barely have revealed less. She paid her rent on time and her neighbours had little to say about her.
    Gorski had gone through her rooms feeling, as he always did on such occasions, like an intruder. The apartment consisted of a single bed-sitting room with an adjoining kitchenette and a tiny shower room. It was early on Saturday afternoon when Gorski had gained access. There was no concierge in the building and the landlady, whose name he had forgotten, leaned on the door jamb, her arms folded under her large bosom, a bored expression on her face. She was a squat woman with dyed hair and thick plastic-framed glasses. The venetian blind was lowered and Gorski had the impression that it was seldom raised. The air was stale. Gorski felt uncomfortable under the landlady’s gaze. He disliked being scrutinised going about his work, especially so when it involved going through the personal effects of a young female.
    He went into the kitchen and opened the doors of the cabinets. There were a few mismatched items of crockery, glasses, some tinned food. The fridge was empty, save for some fruit yoghurts in plastic containers, a pat of butter and a jar of strawberry preserve. On the worktop there was a packet of loose tea and a wooden board with a half-eaten loaf in brown paper bag from a nearby bakery. Gorski picked up the bag of tea and smelt it. There was a single cup and a side plate with a few crumbs, unwashed in the sink. Gorski did not read much into the lack of comestibles. Most likely Adèle took most of her meals at the Restaurant de la Cloche. He flicked open his notebook and found the name of the landlady, before stepping back into the sitting room.
    The room was furnished with a sofa-bed that had been neatly stored away, an ugly glass-topped coffee table, a small chest of drawers and an old-fashioned wardrobe, too large for the room, which Gorski imagined was a hand-me-down from the landlady’s house.
    â€˜There’s no need for you to stay, Mme Huber,’ he said.
    The landlady did not appear to understand that he wished her to leave.
    â€˜When will I be able to move her things out?’ she said. ‘I can’t afford to let the place go unlet.’
    The girl had been gone for a matter of thirty-six hours. Gorski stared at her.
    â€˜There’s no reason to believe that your tenant will not return,’ he said. ‘However, for the time being, the apartment is under police jurisdiction.’
    He deliberately avoided using the term ‘crime scene’. People tended to get over-excited when they heard this phrase. And in any case, the apartment was not technically the scene of any crime.
    Mme Huber looked at him sceptically. ‘What about the rent?’
    â€˜I assume you’ve have been paid till the end of the month.’
    She nodded grudgingly.
    â€˜That’s three weeks away,’ said Gorski. ‘Let’s assume for the time being that the matter will be sorted out by then.’
    The woman shrugged. Gorski asked her for the key and she handed it over without a word, before allowing him to usher her out of the apartment. When she was gone, he sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. He looked around the room for some sign of Adèle Bedeau. There were no pictures on the wall, no photographs on the bedside table, no books or magazines. Adèle had lived there for almost a year and seemingly done nothing to make the space more homely. Aside from the mismatched furniture, he might have been in a hotel room. Gorski got up and went to the window. He raised the blind to reveal an aspect of wasteland and the back of the breaker’s yard on Rue de la Paix.
    Gorski made a cursory examination of the wardrobe and chest of drawers. He had no wish to fumble through the girl’s underwear or other garments and, even alone, he felt embarrassed doing so. There was nothing to suggest a hasty departure, nothing that suggested the
absence
of things. It was