The Secret (Dr Steven Dunbar 10) by Ken McClure Page A

towards a river. It made him reflect on how often he did this in London. There was something about flowing water that drew him, something about the continual motion that calmed his mind and helped him think clearly. What he had to decide was if there was anything he should do in Paris before he returned to London. He couldn’t think of anything offhand but this was more a reflection of what little he had to go on than a conviction that there was nothing more to be done here. He needed to think things through logically to be sure, but first he would call Macmillan and Tally.
    ‘So they let you go; must have been the impeccable reference I gave you,’ said Macmillan when told of his release.
    ‘Must have been,’ agreed Steven. ‘We have to talk when I get back. Things aren’t what they seem.’
    ‘I feared as much.’
    Tally didn’t answer her phone and Steven concluded she must still be on duty at the hospital. He left her a text message before returning to river watching.
    The spat between Simone and the rival aid organisation had to be his starting point. I t didn’t seem much but Aline had injected more into the mix by suggesting there might be more to it. If only she’d lived long enough to say what it was. It had been her intention to talk to her bosses at Médecins Sans Frontières about it but that was scheduled for the day after she’d been murdered . . . There was a chance, however, that she might have had some sort of conversation with someone at the aid organisation when she called to make the appointment. He needed an address for Med Sans. He used his BlackBerry to establish a web link and Googled it.
    Armed with an address in rue Saint -Sabin he flagged down a taxi and was there in under fifteen minutes, asking at the desk for Guy Monfils, the man who had spoken at Simone’s funeral. He was invited to wait and used the time to examine the posters on the office walls, something that left him surprised at how large the organisation was: he was quickly disabused of his previous belief that it was primarily French. Médecins Sans Frontières had offices in many countries including the UK where it had premises in Saffron Hill in London. He noted that in several countries it was known as Doctors Without Borders, much more prosaic than the French name which rolled so easily off the tongue.
    ‘Dr Dunbar, this is a s urprise,’ said Monfils, entering the room. ‘What brings you back to Paris?’
    ‘ Aline Lagarde’s murder,’ Steven replied briefly.
    ‘Why don’t we go through to my office?’
    Monfils settled into his chair and invited Steven to do likewise with an outstretched hand. ‘I just hope the police catch the swine,’ he said. 'We have lost two of our most dedicated workers in the space of two weeks. It’s beyond belief.’
    ‘Tragic,’ agreed Steven.
    ‘I’d like to think this a social visit, doctor, but I have a feeling it’s not. What can I do for you?’
    ‘I had a letter from Simone Ricard just before she died. In it she confided that she felt something was very wrong.’
    Monfils appeared to consider for a moment before asking, 'Did she say what?’
    ‘She didn’t , and now she’s dead . . . as is her colleague Aline Lagarde.’
    ‘But surely this is some awful coincidence? Simone’s death was an accident and Aline was murdered by some lunatic the police are currently hunting for.’
    ‘Maybe,’ said Steven , remaining expressionless.
    ‘You can’t be suggesting a link?’
    ‘Let’s say I’m not ruling it out.’
    ‘My God, what possible reason could there be?’
    ‘I was hoping you might help with that. The Pakistan/Afghanistan border is a wild, untamed place. Is it conceivable that the women might have upset some people there, some gang, some faction that weren’t too keen on having foreigners around?’
    Monfils spread his hands and pursed his lips as if doubting the suggestion but wanting to find some way of agreeing. ‘Aid organisations are always walking on