“Was there any contact of any sort between you after he retired and before you found him the next morning?” she queried.
“I didn’t find him the next morning. The night manager, or whatever his title is, found him after using his master key to open the door.” Walter sounded almost aggressive.
“Was there any contact?” she asked very calmly and patiently.
“No. None. I went out to …” He reached into his wallet and took out his receipt. “Here.” He handed across his restaurant receipt, which she examined.
“Did you enjoy the raclette?” Her pale lips looked almost provocative.
“Yes, thank you.”
She turned over a page in her beige file. “Let’s move on to yesterday morning. What happened then?”
“I became nervous. I am quite junior,” he said, looking at Stewart, who was encouraging Walter with a gentle smile. “As it got closer to 9.00am, I went and tapped on his door, but with no response, so I left. Eventually, I returned and knocked very loudly. There was no sound from inside. I came down here and asked the night manager to use his master key or card – I can’t remember what he used – to get into the room.”
“What happened when he opened the door?”
“Mr Musselwhite was flat out on the bed, dressed and staring up at the ceiling. He was a strange colour. There was white powder on the surface of his glass-topped bedside cabinet. We opened the curtains, and the manager checked for … signs of life …” Walter hesitated.
“And then?”
“He told me he would go downstairs and telephone for a doctor and the police.”
“What did you do next?”
Walter began to think that he needed to be careful. He knew he had done nothing wrong, but these were uncharted waters. “I didn’t do anything. I left his door ajar and went back to my room next door.”
The prosecutor unbuttoned her jacket and leant forwards. “Did you take his laptop? His mobile? His passport?”
“No. I didn’t see them.”
“Do you know where they are?”
“No. Why would I?”
“They are not in his room or car.”
Walter just stared at her blankly.
“Mr Flushing, do you mind if my colleague searches your room? We need to find Mr Musselwhite’s laptop and mobile phone … and his passport.”
“What?” He turned to Stewart who just shrugged in a vague way. “Why?” Walter asked.
“Because this is now a murder investigation, and you were the last person to see the victim alive.”
“Yes, if you want. I don’t have any of those things … I have nothing to hide.”
The plastic business card that had been next to Johnny’s bed was still in Walter’s pocket. Bugger! he thought to himself.
“May I ask you again about the cocaine? Were you actually sharing it with Mr Musselwhite that night? Did you supply it, perhaps?”
“No. No. I’ve never—”
“Mr Flushing, we are not accusing you of anything, but this is a murder investigation.”
“Madame.” Stewart spoke for the first time. “You understand the sensitivity of all this and that Mr Flushing has diplomatic immunity. He will, of course, help you with your enquiries and stay in Colmar as long as you require.”
“Mr Flushing does not have diplomatic immunity according to our records. He is service; that is to say, support staff at your embassy. He is not listed under diplomatic or consular – unlike you, Mr McBride.” She glanced at the chief of the brigade criminelle and continued, “You do not have a diplomatic passport, do you Mr Flushing?”
What? Walter thought, How could this have happened?
“Murdered?” The PM put down his cup of tea and brushed his white hair back with his hand. He had just been told of certain events in France while beginning a meeting to prepare for a telephone call with Conrad, the US President. The British ambassador in Washington, DC, was part of the meeting via a video link and was quietly worried about exactly who had been murdered.
“The French police are saying that Johnny was murdered,” a man in a dark-blue suit updated everyone.
“With cocaine? I thought he had overdosed?” The PM couldn’t believe his ears.
“In addition, they have discovered poison … in the autopsy,” the man in dark blue added rather superfluously.
“Get Peter in here. We need to think how to handle the PR.”
An aide went out to summon Peter.
“They did the autopsy quickly, didn’t they?”
No one answered the PM.
