Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  Herman Oudekerk’s territory.

  I noticed other things too. How the liquid morphine sac needed re-filling. A hi-fi system with speakers positioned on opposite sides of the room. The lack of colour, save for a stack of classical music tapes, a full fruit bowl, and finally, the mystery woman herself, dressed in a fashionable, navy-blue trouser suit, complete with shoulder pads. Red, peep-toe stilettos on her feet.

  Karen Fürst. D. Mus.turned our way.

  I couldn’t help but stare at her slim body occupying a red-handled wheelchair, then those deep blue eyes meeting mine before quickly glancing away. Better looking in real life than in that photo I’d seen, but a closer look at her clear, unblemished skin suggested anaemia. Other impressions were of a well-shaped mouth, made vivid by red lipstick, while a sliver clasp tamed that mane of auburn hair above the nape of her neck. However, it was her ringless hands gripping her wheelchair’s arms and the untouched meal, that screamed anxiety.

  “John Lyon.” I held out my right hand for her to ignore. “Former Detective

  Inspector with Nottinghamshire CID. I was on my way further south when...”

  “South where?” Her accent, either Dutch or German, was noticeable.

  She gestured to Martine to write down my response.

  “47, Rue des Templiers in Elne. My sister and her husband. Carol and George Atkins.” I immediately regretted my loose tongue.

  Get a grip…

  “Phone number?”

  I hoped Martine with her notepad, would get the numbers wrong.

  Anxiety was now anger.

  “Monsieur Lyon,” began Dr. Fürst, emphasisng my lower status. Those blue eyes hardening. “You arrived uninvited onto my property, and for someone with your background, that is inexcusable.”

  “I’m sorry, but I can explain...”

  She turned to her note taker. “You know the rules, Martine. You’ll be the death of me.”

  The young woman hung her head.

  “So, did you find Herman? Why isn’t he here with you?” Doctor Fürst leant forwards, wincing as if in pain. “I’m waiting.”

  *

  Once our grim account was told, and news of the broken front gates, the cook wheeled his shocked employer over to her bed-end where, under instruction, he inserted an oxygen tube into each of her nostrils while Martine wrapped a sphygnamonometer around her pale, upper arm and began pumping. Given my fear and loathing of hospitals, I’d have also added Brave and Stoical to Dr. Karen Fürst’s name.

  I recalled Martine’s comment that no local law enforcers be involved. So, what could I do except mentally organise a list of relevant questions about the butchered nurse, including his whereabouts if that concert he’d sneaked off to had been cancelled, or he’d changed his mind. His relationship to Les Pins’ other occupants was another issue, because a kitchen like that was sure to house a collection of sharp, heavy- duty knives.

  Chapter 6. Karen.

  10 p.m. already and I was past caring who saw my empty, night time catheter bag still lurking under the bed, and me with these nasty little nose tubes in place. I just wanted Herman back here as normal. To hear his soothing voice and listen to his funny jokes about Dutch peasants. It was too early to be immobilsed and as for the Chablis still in its ice bucket, I offered it to the English stranger whose presence seemed to lessen the enormity of Herman’s death, but not my guilt.

  However, he shook his head.

  “You’ve done the right thing.” I said for the second time to both him and Martine. “I apologise if collecting his head from the river and storing it here puts you both in a difficult position, but as you, Martine have already said, this is evidence. And until we get more, he’s safe with us.”

  The night wind flung something hard against the window. Martine flinched. A subdued version of her usual self ever since they’d both returned with my dear young man’s most distinctive asset. Subdued yes, but also a certain defiance.

  She wasn’t alone.

  “Dr. Fürst, any longer than tomorrow and we could be viewed as accessories to a barbaric crime.” Said the incomer.

  “He’s right,” murmured Martine. “And if I get a criminal record I’ll never work again.”

  How she can look me in the eye, I do not know. That mouth will be her undoing. Fact.

  “You work here. For me.” I reminded her.

  “I meant afterwards...”

  “Afterwards? I’m fifty-one. In my prime, as Miss Brodie said in one of my favourite novels. And I intend to get well again. Oh yes. Enough to find out who made Herman suffer so, and what really did happen to my missing family all those years ago.”

  John Lyon having rejected the two more comfortable armchairs, removed his black cagoule before appropriating my desk chair. His boots had been wiped clean, but dubious smears still marked their black leather. The knees of his jeans still filthy.

  “Brave words, Dr. Fürst,” he said, “but we can’t take our actions out of context. The law, which is the same here as in the UK. And now, before we do anything else, we need to know more about your nurse. How you found him in the first place. How he fitted in here...”

  I’d been glancing at my shelves full of cassette tapes. One in particular caught my eye. Just to see the title made tears sting again.

  “Fauré’s Requiem. That would be an appropriate start.”

  *

  11 p.m. And with the mournful In Paradisum ended, it was Mr. Lyon’s turn to snare my attention. Something about him reminded me of my father. A handsome, straight-backed man with a frank gaze, but nevertheless a man I could still say I never really knew. And here he was, this Englishman - probably near my age - his cagoule spread across his lap - who’d given up drink to cure his vertigo, telling me about his life in pursuit of justice in an unjust world. As a surprise afterthought, he’d added how the right woman to share it with, still hadn’t come along.

  I let him talk, because by listening and observing his body language, I could decide if he’d soon be gone or have use of one of my spare bedrooms. Martine wasn’t missing much either. She’d already made up my bed, but no-one possessed Herman’s attention to detail. His gentle humanity. As if reading my thoughts, Mr. Lyon turned to her.

  “This silver Merc you claimed was following you earlier today, when did you first notice it? Did you recognise it from anywhere before?”

  “No. At 16.40 I’d gone to the Post Office on the Avenue Maréchal Joffre, because Dr. Fürst only has heating oil and medical equipment delivered here.”

  “You mean, no mail?” He interrupted, catching me by surprise. Martine too.

  “Safer that way, Monsieur, I’m sure you’d agree.”

  “As I was saying, Herman usually went, but we couldn’t wait all day for him to show up. I’d just left my parking slot in the main street, and there it was. A silver Merc, C class. Up close and gaining on me. As far as I could tell there were two guys inside. The driver wore Raybans, his passenger’s visor was down. Both in white shirts and dark ties. I thought ‘businessmen,’ but why the interest in me? Besides, there’s not much business in Saint-Antoine...”

  “I’d caught a glimpse of it too.” Said the stranger. “While walking down towards the first bridge out there. Damned loud music too.”

  I should have commented on his swearing but didn’t. “They must have been young,” I said instead.

  “Where did this car go?” He persisted.

  “No idea.” Replied Martine. “I was too bothered about getting back here.”

  “So how come your Saab’s boot was left open once you’d driven through the gates?”

  My pulse was too strong again. I took several deep, deep breaths like Herman always advised. Martine eyed me anxiously. Her cheeks the colour of my red lipstick.

  “Maybe the catch on it bust when I buried the car in the bushes. There’s no central locking, so I often leave it unlocked.”

  “Nothing wrong with the mechanism when I took a look.” He too glanced at me as if t
o check I was OK. “That boot will need a detailed examination asap, so please don’t touch it till then and keep it secure.”

  Martine sighed, but I had to butt in. I didn’t like where this was going. “Hasn’t she told you, Monsieur, we can’t involve the authorities.”

  “We both could be named as accessories.”

  “Worth the risk, Monsieur, believe me.”

  He rolled his nice eyes. Why my relationships with men have never worked out, Once my mind’s made up, that’s it.

  He turned to Martine.

  “It’s a long shot, but these creeps may have had a problem with Herman for some reason and transferred him alive or dead to your Saab while you were out of the vehicle. Maybe to implicate you. Divert attention...”

  “Alive? How truly shocking.” I could barely swallow.

  “He could have been drugged.” The ex-flic addressed Martine again. “Had you stopped anywhere else where this might have happened?”

  She frowned. Missed my sudden spasm.

  “Think,” he encouraged.

  She caught my eye. A small rebellion.

  “I am.”

  “Where did you go after the Post Office?”

  “The Gorges de Salerne. Where I buy honey.”

  “Was your car unattended?”

  A nod. Too quick, I thought, and put it down to nerves.

  “For how long?”

  “Ten minutes max. I didn’t want to hang about. Not with Dr. Fürst’s medicines in the glove box.” She eyed me, and I nodded. “But for some reason, the kiosk was closed. I checked around to see if Monique Lazarus had left any kind of notice for customers, but no.”

  “Was your car out of sight? This is vital, Martine.” John Lyon gowing more animated. I understood why.

  “Yes. Her kiosk’s up a short track away from the car park. But I can’t be sure no-one had tailed me there.”

  “Did you hear anything?” I butted in, but Martine was by then, standing up, strong and stockier than ever in her green tracksuit.

  “Holy shit!”

  She’d obviously forgotten my rule on swearing and blasphemy, but any ticking off would have to wait. Her flushed cheeks had deepened. My oxygen suddenly too thin.

  “Whoever left my boot like that, must have been... may still be here.”

  Her words hung in the air like so many black Tarantulas whose venom can kill smaller prey.

  “Unlikely.” Added the visitor. “Whoever’s responsible, would have escaped with Herman down into the Bayrou, or moved away into the forest and over the departmental boundary. Either way, they weren’t going to hang about. Especially as I was around soon after you arrived back.”

  “There’s no built boundary.” I added, trying to block out my imagination. “Only the plantation. Next on my list for repair after the gates and the clapped-out CCTV.”

  A taut silence followed.

  “Porous borders, then,” he said to himself. “And it’s also possible that once the callous bastards got him down there from your car, gagged, blindfolded, out of sight, that’s when...” He stopped. Some things didn’t need elaboration. “The river’s sure to have washed away most of his blood...”

  “You’re implying there was more than one killer?” My mouth seemed dry as dust. Mea culpa for putting Herman at risk with my errands. So many bad things in my life have been my fault. “But who could have been so evil? And why?”

  “Perhaps tomorrow, Dr. Fürst, we’ll find out.” John Lyon went over to my CCTV screen, fiddled with the various buttons, to no avail. The image of the driveway still little more than a blizzard. “And who’s been interfering with your security?”

  A frightened silence followed.

  “I’m off.” Martine suddenly picked up her rifle. “Are you coming?” She asked John Lyon, but he was already out of my chair.

  Panic.

  “Outside is verbieden now that it’s dark,” I said. “We’ve had enough tragedy for one day.”

  He obviously didn’t like being ordered about. Well, tough. I decided who did what at Les Pins, not him. Nor Martine.

  Having checked he wasn’t hungry, I phoned Joel to take my meal away. Its smell had made me nauseous. He arrived almost too swiftly, or was I going mad? As he pushed the full, gold trolley towards the door, the wind outside pummelled my tower and a squall of rain hit the window. He stopped, eyed the others, then me. “Dr. Fürst, we have Herman’s head in freezer number 2. Just so you know. It is your domain, after all.”

  What?

  *

  I could only stare from one to the other. Martine and John Lyon avoided my eyes.

  “Thanks, you.” Martine set down her rifle to pass me a re-cycled paper sick bowl. Lunch rose up inside me like a tsunami. The ex-detective rested a hand on my shoulder as I heaved. But was this hand the hand of a friend or foe in this goddam place?

  “Did Herman have any family?” He quizzed. “Won’t they be asking questions?”

  Another awkward pause. Martine and I exchanged a glance. She knew how secretive I must be for my mission here to succeed. He was clearly embarrassed.

  “The Saab’s rear seat is spotless, but tomorrow I’ll check its boot for any traces. Also, the river bank, his Seat and the Salle de Concert.” He added as if to fill the awkward gap. “See if anyone spotted him hanging around there. Next, I’ll go to the Gorges de Salerne itself.”

  “Why not me?” Martine pouted. “I am Dr. Fürst’s driver, after all, and...”

  “I’m not sure.” I interrupted. My mouth tasting foul. I stuffed the used wipes into the bowl and handed the lot to Martine. “I’m trying to keep a low profile.

  It’s the only way to find where my father and brothers got to all those years ago. But I’m up against it, and not just with this...”

  My fists connected with the wheelchair’s padded arm rests. “There are some big players out there wanting to stop me. Fact. And what have I got to show for my nine months of enquiries? Nothing. Just bills and taxes eating into all the compensation I’d saved.”

  “Compensation?” He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

  “You will, Mr. Lyon. You will.”

  “I’d like to know now, if that’s alright with you.”

  “After breaking my back in a fall at a three-day event in Lincolnshire.”

  “Good Lord. When?”

  His gaze seemed to register genuine concern.

  “I was a young woman with a good career just begun. ‘The Jungle’ fence was well over the legal height limit. Never mind its spread...”

  Those same few memory fragments that I’d stored, recurred in a different order each time. I should have kept the subsequent medical reports, the Court hearing’s transcript, but why? I had to move on with what life I had left.

  “Maja, my thoroughbred, fared worse than me. She was shot where she fell. Sometimes I wish...”

  “No, don’t say it.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s still too painful for me to dwell on…”

  “I can imagine.”

  Those nice eyes looked me up and down. If he was a man who liked to see a woman cry, he was about to be disappointed. My tears were always private, especially when thinking of my missing family and our loyal mare, Edwige. Like that first time I was shown around this place and found a little girl’s old-fashioned dress and a battered wooden top lying up in the other tower’s attic…

  “You’ve a few photos someone in the crowd sent you.” Martine reminded me, trying to be helpful, but right then, sleep was pulling my eyelids down. My body had been too long in the sitting position. And then, with death on my lips, poor Herman came to mind again.

  “Where’s the rest of him? Herman, I mean.”

  John Lyon still quick to make himself useful, was ready.

  “I’d seen his arms and an empty pair of blue trousers being carried along by the river at this end, but we weren’t close enough to intercept them. They must have evaded the makeshift dam we found near Dansac, so the problem is, Doctor F
ürst,” he fixed on me again. “Someone else may have better luck.”

  “No way.” Martine frowned.” The Bayrou’s remote and deep after that hamlet. Goes straight out to sea.”

  “They could get washed up where it widens.”

  “So? There are too many rats and sea birds for a start. The last place families choose for picnics...” She passed me a new sick bowl, then weariness suddenly defeated me.

  “Would you like to stay the night?” I asked him.

  “Thank you.”

  I turned to Martine, who seemed surprised.

  “Show Monsieur Lyon his room, then. There should be a dressing gown for him behind the door unless your Chantelle lifted it.”

  She was about to protest when John Lyon spoke again. Clearly still full of energy. “Who’s Chantelle?”

  “Over to you.” I eyed a blushing Martine.

  “My girlfriend. OK? She stayed here once, last February.”

  “You sneaked her in, hoping I wouldn’t notice.”

  “Is she local?” This ex-flic was too easily diverted. Martine shook her dark, cropped head.

  “Narbonne. She’s kosher.Would I risk anything? Would I?”

  “I certainly hope not. People don’t just live in glass bubbles. They talk, mutter in their sleep...”

  “Dr. Fürst, I’ve surely worked here long enough for you to realise that because of your mission, I’ve put your life before mine. But I’m not some nun like Joel was, up in that monastery. And I can’t help being gay. You know my story. You know why that is.”

  Her stare was too much. Time to step back and let her help me to bed with an extra morphine shot to make the coming hours pass more quickly. To keep nightmares at bay.

  “By the way, shall I sleep in Herman’s room tonight?” she asked. “It’s closer to you than mine.”

  “No. We keep it intact. You never know, he might suddenly show up.”