Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  5. Elisabeth.

  Friday 11th March. 5.08 p.m.

  God knew I’d tried to be careful all my life. Thorough and organised. The kind of person you could depend upon, as indeed many have done over the years. But for some, that wasn’t enough.

  “You’re too careful,” Maman had often opined. “Why can’t you be more like your sister? More…”

  “What?” I’d challenged her on that long-ago Saturday morning in late August. “Careless?”

  I remember sunlight catching the flour dust as she’d kneaded the pigeon pie’s pastry. A treat for me about to leave the Les Tourels nest for university, or compensation for my recent birthday hysterectomy?

  “Non. That’s absolutely the wrong word. More spontaneous, comme ça…” She’d lifted her floury, freckled hands into the air and fluttered her fingers to free them of that white dust. “You’re off to Paris tomorrow. The chance of a lifetime. Think of it…”

  “I have.” Unlike my much younger sibling who’d always believed Fate would deliver her the goodies in life if she just sat around being pretty and plump for long enough. And to prove my carefulness, my lists and various possessions all lay in neat order in our shared bedroom under the eaves, where chaffinches and starlings would amuse me by tweaking the hiding spiders from their downy homes and gobbling them whole.

  And now, twenty years on, moi, Elisabeth Jourdain, former headmistress born in a large, renovated farmhouse some forty-five kilometres south of Poitiers, had another pressing priority. To remain anonymous among La Princesse Poole’s dreary muzak and its beige-clad, grey-haired Brits who’d bagged the best buttoned leather seats by the windows en route to their holiday homes in time for Easter.

  I’d have preferred less of them of course, and a pity more of their like hadn’t been on that cheap, doomed ferry, The Herald of Free Enterprise, but some things can’t be planned. I’d had to strike while the iron had been hot. Yes, I liked that expression. Very apt indeed.

  *

  5.40 p.m.

  Half an hour into its Channel crossing, the ferry faced an increasingly buffeting sea that sent thick, grey spray high enough to hit the lounge windows.

  Near the Bar des Palmes someone cried out in alarm as a dish of peanuts slid along its mahogany bar and fell to the floor. As for me, ensconced in a red, vinyl chair facing the elements, all I had to do was stay calm and as far as possible, invisible. Yes, I could have booked a cabin, but claustrophobia is rarely far awy.

  My nearest fellow-travellers, an elderly couple in identical green anoraks, were noisily completing a crossword puzzle that any eight-year-old would find easy. I should know, and so engrossed was I in my own thoughts and so loud were the pair’s exclamations, that I almost missed the bi-lingual message crackling forth from the ceiling’s speakers.

  “This is Captain Serge Serra speaking,” the voice of someone from the North-East of France. Slow, faintly gutteral. “Due to unforeseen weather conditions, we’re reducing speed to five knots per hour, and all doors to the outer decks are now closed. Passengers are advised to familiarise themselves with our safety procedures, especially where the Muster Stations are situated. May I also remind you that minors must not roam the boat unattended. Thank you.”

  Roam the boat?

  I liked that, but not what nature was throwing up beyond the splattered glass. Neither a pinprick of light nor a star to be seen. The almost empty, early morning outward crossing on Wednesday had been as calm as my carp lake when I’d left home. A pleasurable trip, giving me time to reflect and refine my plans.

  Refine being the key word.

  But now, with the latest dose of Tamzepan beginning to take effect, these pre-occupations folded in on themselves, leaving me drowsy, listing from side to side in my chair, in rhythm with the battling boat. A teenager once again, in one of those fairground teacups, shoved tight against Alain, my latest boyfriend, lurching past my sister waiting for the ride to stop so she too, could walk alongside him, listen in to our conversation.

  Fat Christine…

  Another big wave. A collective mumble of concern as without warning, my chair moved backwards until it bumped against Mr and Mrs Crossword’s padded bench.

  “Ouch!” Cried the woman, then complained about her left knee. A replacement, showing a hard, unnatural curve beneath her viscose slacks.

  “Pardon, Madame,” I said, avoiding eye contact before hastily pushing my chair back to its original position. “I hope we won’t be needing lifeboats.”

  “Look, Kenneth,” whined the woman. “She jarred it. It really hurts. I might need a doctor. Call a stewardess for goodness’ sake…”

  By now I was out of earshot, swaying my way past the surreally quiet bar, the kiosk and into the wc. for Femmes. Apart from someone vomiting in the furthest cubicle, the rest were vacant. I chose the middle one and sat on the lavatory’s none-too-clean lid, with my holdall on my lap. I’d owned it since university days and now as then, it contained my survival kit. I popped a squirt of air spray in the direction of that smelly end cubicle and extracted my self-published paperback. Heures de la Jeunesse. A study of teenage development in the Poitou-Charentes, from anorexia to incest and witchcraft, where I’d been careful to disguise the Kassel name.

  Here I planned to stay for as long as possible. Ideally until the call for motorists to return to their vehicles.

  *

  For the next quarter of an hour, the Channel’s undulations beneath me increased and several times I collided with the lavatory paper dispenser. Sharp and hard. The passenger announcements too, grew more frequent as did the scrape of moving furniture across the open deck overhead, until at one point, I felt moved to sneak down to Car Deck A and check out my car.

  Suddenly, the Toilettes outer door was pulled open and two, possibly three young women slammed themselves into the adjoining cubicles followed by urgent snatches at the lavatory paper. Then a voice. French. Parisian.

  “Did you hear that, girls? There’s a dead body on car Deck A. They want anyone with information to step forward.”

  “According to Sex-on-Legs in the bar, it’s a man,” said another female accompanied by what sounded like a waterfall of pee. “Perhaps he was taken ill and tried to reach his vehicle. Or even topped himself.”

  “Perhaps. But supposing it’s foul play?” Came a younger voice from the left, before her flush took over. “His killer could still be on board.”

  “If so, they’ll have to stop the boat. And what about our hotel booking in

  Falaise? Unless I phone, our beds could go to someone else.”

  “Merde!”

  I grabbed my holdall before it hit the floor. I’d given way to emotion.

  Black mark...

  I told myself to calm down. That I was no longer who I’d been before.

  Those days are past. Now is where you are, and you must survive.

  The rest of the trio’s half-baked chit-chat ended with the din of hand driers and doors slamming behind them, but not before one had said she hoped the dead man was her husband.

  With a sip from my small bottle of Evian to wash down another premature Tamazepan, I leaned back against the wc’s cistern, realising I was better equipped than those women to deal with the unexpected. I had orders to to wait in the convenient Aire des Arbriers just south of Poitiers. Thereafter, France was my oyster. Huître. A word I particularly liked.

  *

  Ten minutes later, came a shout and three knocks. Another woman’s voice. This time, English. Estuary.

  “Anyone in ‘ere?”

  Next, the tap-tap of her clicking heels. I could tell she was checking each door in turn “Captain Serra wants everyone on board to assemble on Deck D in the Conference Room. ‘E means everyone…”

  A pause. Obviously, the intruder had spotted the red ‘engaged’ sign on my cubicle door. “Madame, Mademoiselle? Can you ‘ear me in there? This is an emergency.”

  A cold sweat began to form under my beret and travel down behind my clo
thes. I shivered, and as La Princesse Poole gave another hefty lurch, the official now pushing her weight against my door, lost her balance.

  “Fuckshit!” She swore as she met the tiles. A snatch of a royal blue jacket cuff and matching nail varnish showed beneath my door. Within seconds, she was on her feet and stomping off, still cursing.

  Now…

  The meagre contents of my stomach had reached the back of my throat, but finally, with the holdall in my left hand, and ignoring my fleeting reflection in the long mirror over the washbasins, I slipped out into the anxious bustle of Deck E. Everyone here seemed too concerned with the latest news to notice me.

  Except Mrs. Crossword Puzzle.

  Her shrewish stare fixed my way for too long. I ducked down low and re-surfaced behind her to keep her in my sights.

  Now the bobbing throng of mostly grey heads filled the curving stairwell, gripping its bannisters as the swell pummelled the boat, while the tannoy’s orders to muster grew louder. Something in my ancestral memory recalled the round-up of local women who’d slept with the occupying Germans. I’d heard Maman speak of betrayals and blackmail. Of being in the wrong place, wrong time.

  Comme moi?

  *

  On the lower deck, the assembled crowd moaned as the parquet floor tilted one way and the other and spumy water like my first boyfriend’s spunk blasted the windows. I found a gap between the Bureau de Change and a room of so-called ’Amusements’ where intermittent lights and Crazy Taxi’s repetitive cackle added a disrespectful touch. Like those adolescent hordes who desecrate the solemnitude of Oradour-sur Glȃne during school and college trips. It was then I realised the vessel had stopped. And the fucking muzak. Suddenly, the crucifix around my neck seemed too hot, too tight. My holdall, even without the Smith&Wesson I’d hidden at the bottom of that toilet’s cistern, too heavy. I mustn’t lose control. Not now. Then, in the brief lull between waves and the thunderous roar of sea water on glass, I picked out the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter, not passing overhead, but hovering like some malevolent bird of prey, until dropping out of sight on the uppermost deck.

  6. John.

  Friday 11th March 5 p.m.

  Beyond Glan y Mor in ever-ending rain with daylight giving up the ghost, I slowed down past several roofless dwellings, whose stones and broken window frames lay in sorry heaps on the surrounding grass. Could young Mathieu Deschamps possibly be holed up here?

  With my passenger window partially open, I yelled out his name. And again. A watery blast was the reply. Then, all at once, I noticed a steamed-up red phone box just yards away.

  Hang on…

  Inside it, a tall, shadowy shape moved behind the glass. No sign of another vehicle parked nearby, or anyone else. Odd, I thought, stopping the car but keeping the engine running. Was the booth’s occupant phoning or waiting for a call? Impossible to tell, except I was sure it was a woman. Seconds later, this mystery figure sneaked out through the door which banged shut behind her. Yes, definitely female. With her back towards me, and the tail of her fringed headscarf zig-zagging in the wind, she headed off into the wild, gloomy afternoon.

  *

  She’d left nothing behind except wet boot prints and the faintest smell of mothballs. But because she’d worn gloves, I couldn’t find any obvious prints particularly on the black vinyl receiver.

  Back on my Nottingham patch, I’d have organised an immediate trace on any suspicious incoming or outgoing call. But who the Hell was I now? A back number with no established contacts in this neck of the woods. However, there’d surely be a record of that Cardigan call on either DC Evans’ Motorola or at HQ itself? But would he or they be willing to help? I had to try.

  Him first.

  The damp, torn telephone directory on the metal shelf next to the phone, listed every bloody Evans in west Wales except the one I wanted. What else did I expect? No way could I drive all the way back to Glan y Mor and call at his house on the off-chance he’d be home, so I then pushed two fifty pence pieces into the slot and dialled Cardigan’s Police HQ.

  *

  I was 5.7 miles from the school. A long slog even for a fit, eight-year-old, and as my VW turned in through Ty Capel’s stone-pillared gates that reminded me too much of similar ones in France, I felt at least I’d made a small start.

  I glanced around at the impressive surroundings where once wild grass had been tamed into a manicured expanse of lawn. No dung nor even a single hoof print to suggest that here was a busy, top-class racing stables, except that as I drove further up the drive of loose, grey aggregate lined by flattened daffodils, I spotted a length of white post and rail fencing behind which stood a line of solid, dark steeplechase fences.

  Then the house itself. I should have realised it might at some time have been a chapel, and here it was, cleverly converted yet still with a tall, re-pointed chimney releasing a plume of wood-smoke and the original name and date of construction - CAPEL HOREB 1843 engraved on a stone plaque inlaid over black double doors. Perfect for welcoming the faithful for their dose of fire and brimstone, or the next funeral. I also noticed a burglar alarm box next to an upper window and a discreet intercom set halfway down the door frame, but wondered why, in such a remote situation, the Frenchman, unlike Karen Fürst, wasn’t even more into security.

  Where were the remote-controlled gates? The CCTV? Beware the Dog signs and threats of prosecution for trespass?

  To the left, beyond a low stone wall, lay a small graveyard where every ancient, mossy memorial had succumbed to years of the pounding wind. To the right, an immaculate cobbled yard of loose-boxes - most occupied - a Dutch barn full of hay and feed bags, a smaller, open-fronted building with a wide chimney, and further on, a partially-hidden mobile home.

  And then I saw her.

  A slip of a girl - or rather, young woman - standing by one of the boxes, stroking a grey horse’s handsome head then nuzzling its ear. Although her Barbour’s hood was pulled up, I noticed her stare, hard as a hawk’s while I parked alongside two saloon cars of similar size to mine - one of which - a white Renault 307 - bore a mud-spattered French plate. Département number 86. Vienne. There was also a blue metallic Mitsubishi Montero off-roader complete with the personalised number plate, AD1for all to see. Plus large, thick wheels that unlike mine, were immaculate.

  No police car. Odd, that.

  The girl was coming towards me. Thin legs, I noticed, but full of strength and energy. Beneath her hood, her light brown hair had been cut short in an uneven bob. No makeup. No welcoming smile either.

  “And who are you?” she quizzed once I’d extricated myself from my seat and shoved my stick out of sight. “Is it about my brother Mathieu or Danny? Or both?”

  Danny?

  She waited while I dug out my old ID

  “John Lyon,” I said. “Retired Detective Inspector from Nottingham. And yes, I’ve come to see Alain Deschamps. I phoned him earlier.”

  She handed back my card.

  “He’s my Papa and he does need help,” she added in a French accent with a Welsh rhythm. “But not the way you might think. I mean, he’s actually going off his head.”

  She was probably not much more than eighteen, but with youthful corners long knocked off.

  “And you are?”

  “Laure Deschamps. OK? His only daughter. I’m seventeen and my Maman’s been dead for three and a half years. Just so you know.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I can tell you are.”

  “Who’s Danny?”

  “Later.”

  She led me away from the yard where neighing and the impatient knocking of hooves against wood at started up at the sound of our voices. “Did you see me with the grey horse over there?”

  “I did. Nice colour, not that I’m a horse person.”

  “Vervain’s mine.” She glanced in his direction. Her hard gaze softening. “I hand-reared him from birth. He’s hot favourite for an important chase at Chepstow tomorrow, but with Mathieu and Danny gone
God knows where, that won’t be happening. Anyway, he’s had enough shite for one day.”

  “And Danny is?” I reminded her, wondering what she’d meant by ‘shite.’

  “Our Head Lad. Came over with us from Poitiers. He’s worked for Papa since 1975. There’s loyalty...”

  Her bitter tone caught me by surprise.

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Around two o’clock today. Once he’d scraped me off the grass out there.” She pointed in the direction of the sea, screwing her eyes shut against the wind. “You see, Vervain bolted off-piste with me on board during a last-minute workout. Stupid moi for taking him out in this blast. Thing is about Danny Lennox is he never goes anywhere without telling someone. Me, if Papa’s busy. So I am useful, aren’t I?” She turned her unusually flecked eyes on me.

  “I should say so.”

  It seemed that too much of life’s troubles were bottled up in her head and perhaps in this under-populated place, there weren’t enough people to tell. Before we reached Ty Capel’s closed front door, I hesitated.

  “Are you and Mathieu close?” I asked.

  A shrug.

  “I try. He and Danny found Maman dead, hanging in our barn on Christmas Eve, 1984, and you know what? It should have been me.”

  *

  With that disturbing statement still in mind, I followed her into a wide hallway where she

  shook off her wet Barbour and added it to the row of other horsey, outdoor gear hanging from old iron pegs that must have belonged to the original chapel. Likewise, the black and white diamond-patterned tiles beneath our feet and a pew to the left housing a phone, a neat stack of telephone directories and back copies of the Racing Post.

  Everything in its place, except…

  I heard men’s voices rising and falling. If I closed my eyes, could imagine a prayer meeting in progress from years gone by. But this was now, and Laure Deschamps with strangely hacked-about hair and skin-tight, grass-stained jodhpurs was on the case.