Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  “An inquiry.”

  “Without his chief suspect?” My laugh came out all wrong. “That’s crazy!”

  Through the room’s one window, I spotted Jean-Claude cycling by, then flinging his bike against the paddock fence. He retrieved his tool box from behind the saddle. His

  movements quick, nervous as if he knew something was up. Meanwhile, John Lyon’s voice softened.

  “Laure, the best thing you can do for yourself is to come along with me now. It’ll be just a few questions. A chance to put your side of the story and about your relationship with the rest of the family.” He looked at me intently. “And how you came to be driving that Welsh transporter.”

  I recalled how he’d backed my decision to take control of it. Rescue Vervain…

  Two-faced twat.

  “And get banged up for my trouble? Non, merci. Not while she’s out there. Free to come and kill me too.”

  He took my place at the window. His shoulders squared up to the whiteness beyond, and I thought, once a cop, always a cop…

  “I can assure you, your aunt won’t be out there for long,” he said. “Her hours of freedom are numbered.”

  “Where’s Mathieu? No-one’s mentioned him.”

  “He’s safe. All you need to know.”

  I felt that room contract around me, as if I was trapped in a poky little nesting box. The kind my dead Papie used to make during farming’s quieter months.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Then came a knock on the door, making me jump and John Lyon to turn around. A small, sharp-faced woman in her thirties, whom I guessed was Robert Kassel’s partner and who clearly wanted me out of her new home as soon as possible, moved towards the ex-cop to whisper in his ear. No make-up, but huge, hooped earrings tinkling as she did so.

  His face changed from serious to alarmed.

  “Shall I say you’ll be coming?” She said afterwards.

  Having glanced at me, he nodded. And I knew that the abyss I’d been trying to avoid for too many years, had opened at my feet.

  As she left the room, the woman turned to me, snarling. “As for you, Mademoiselle, if you had any kind of heart, you’d stop protecting your aunt and tell us the truth about Sophie…”

  “You just wait,” I said under my breath, because like a racehorse is trained to save its speed for the finish, I was saving my special knowledge about the girl who’d fallen - metal brace and all - under her Head teacher’s wicked spell.

  *

  Valérie Rouget and Robert Kassel had stood behind us, hand in hand in the half-timbered farmhouse’s doorway until their figures blurred with the tumbling snow. As John Lyon guided me towards what I now realised was a new, silver Nissan off-roader, I noticed Jean-Claude’s bike still propped against the paddock fence, its saddle heaped up with the white stuff, and I wondered if he’d been eavesdropping us from the kitchen. I also noticed a tall, grey-haired man with a large nose, sitting in the driver’s seat.

  Shit. Who was he?

  “You made out this was just between you and me,” I said to the ex-cop while still glancing back at the odd couple. “And where’s your hire car?”

  “Long story,” he said, opening the 4x4’s rear passenger door and slamming it shut behind me. Meanwhile, Kassel and his woman were walking away.

  “Face me, please, Laure,” said the Chef d’Escadron called Philippe Aubouchon, the almost-invisible driver in full military uniform who looked old enough to be my Papie. “And concentrate. You’ve given us the runaround for almost two days now.”

  “I’ve nothing to say, except why aren’t you focussed on finding my brother and the sick bitch who took him?”

  The way he stared at me through his rear-view mirror, was beyond weird.

  “We’re doing our best. France is a large country…”

  So was his station wagon - even bigger than Papa’s old Mitsubishi, and it smelt of cigarettes plus the kind of aftershave men get as gifts from their lovers or whatever and feel obliged to use. John Lyon sat next to me on the rear seat, with another cop whose name I’d already forgotten, perched between him and the window.

  “Why make for Les Saules Pleureurs with your horse, when your main aim was to save him from the Gallas’s abattoir?” Said the oldie whose hawk-like nose and crinkly hair shorn in a sharp line against his neck made me feel queasy.

  . “And why did…?”

  “Enough!” I shrieked. “I don’t bloody know!”

  Again, he eyed me through his rear-view mirror. The cop by the window gave a death stare too.

  “Best if you answer,” said John Lyon, “We’re only trying to unravel what lies behind the terrible events that have happened so far…”

  “Speak to my father, Alain Deschamps.”

  “He’s now in a coma. It’s serious.”

  “Good.”

  Merde…

  Three heads turned to stare at me. John Lyon the quickest of all as we sped towards Boisvilliers near where I used to go to school. Tante Elisabeth’s little kingdom where you wore your crucifix and made sure you stroked your rosary beads at the correct time of day. Where Jean-Claude used to wait for me outside the gate. Where Sophie Kassel hadn’t returned to school for afternoon registration.

  “Elisabeth Jourdain escaped from her holding cell last night,” said our driver. “Perhaps you can help us with that too.”

  Dark water immediately sneaked into my mind. Was I hearing things?

  “You mean she’d got banged up?” I turned to John Lyon. “Where? You never said,”

  “Poitiers, and it wasn’t for long, that’s why. But maybe you’d been in touch with her again, like at Les Saules Pleureurs.”

  That same dark water began to churn, to rise and swell, to attack what little gristle remained keeping me together. We were threading our way between the morning’s rush hour traffic with various depots and car dealerships on either side. The sky stayed black. Everything below it, ghost-white.

  “And talking of your former home,” persisted John Lyon. “You still haven’t answered why you showed up there with Vervain. Was it because you guessed she too might be present? That you had to confront her? Or your father to…?”

  Arrêtez…

  “I’m staying silent. I want a lawyer.” I looked to the ex-cop for support. Again, it was lacking, so it was just me against the world. A big, bad, heartless world. We

  negotiated yet another crowded roundabout taking us further into the city. Travelling too fast to where I didn’t want to go. Rather, I preferred to cut myself into one hundred little pieces, and if I’d had a knife instead of my rubbish coat hanger hook, the first cut would have been the deepest…

  *

  Poitiers was heaving with its morning rush hour hampered by the latest snow and an overturned Giraud truck on the Rue Maréchal Leclerc in the city centre. Every judder, every nudge forwards of the over-heated car made me want to escape, but a surreptitious feel of my door handle told me I was locked in.

  Fuck them…

  As for the inevitable questions, my answers were ready. But what was the point? After Maman died, who’d taken any notice of me? I’d been considered a nuisance just like Mathieu. Kids with too much imagination. The coroner’s exact words at the time. So, nothing to lose…

  *

  The Hôtel de Ville loomed up in front of us. A building surely designed to make its city’s subjects feel sinful and insignificant. But I was neither, until now. I had evidence that could remove my aunt from circulation for the rest of her sordid life. I’d nothing to hide. I was the victim. Vervain and Danny too. I’d speak out for them both, especially while that Dante-loving mad woman was on the loose.

  I glanced down at my filthy jeans, my scuffed-up boots and the traces of dried puke still stuck to my coat. On that Sunday morning, I’d asked Robert Kassel if I could borrow some of Sophie’s clothes - all kept in her locked bedroom shrine. But what did I get? A death stare, of course. Little did he and his new woman know what I could
say if pushed…

  *

  “Follow me,” John Lyon said, letting the older, more senior flic lead the way. The other one who’d sat by the window, had already gone back to HQ. “You’ll only be asked for some background, so don’t go making accusations and pointing fingers, unless you have reliable witnesses who can be contacted.”

  “You saw her shoot Vervain?”

  “And I’ve already said so.”

  We were processing up a curved, marble staircase to the next floor, when I noticed my left hand on the banister was still showing the neat cut I’d made with a nail scissors in the cleft between its thumb and forefinger, while holed up in that freezing shack at Trois Ruisseaux. It had begun to bleed again. Unlike my periods. Every month a fucking worry…

  I tried licking the blood away, but that didn’t work. OK, I thought. Let them see the state I was in. How losing Vervain, Danny, and possibly my little brother, was affecting me so badly. And then, because I was behind him, noticed Philippe Aubouchon’s impressive, custom-made, black boots.

  *

  “Would you like a bandage for that?” asked the Judge’s secretary in perfect, Parisian French, pointing at my cut hand. A petite creature in a black suit and white, lacy blouse whose high collar dug into the flesh below her chin. Miss Prim in public but how about in private? I thought, ungratefully. “It doesn’t look very good,” she added.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “It reminds me of Christ suffering on the cross.”

  She had no answer for that.

  John Lyon threw me a glance as if to say ‘be careful’ before the woman showed us into a palatial, high-ceilinged room that only needed a load of linen-covered tables, cutlery and glassware to become an up-market banqueting hall. The kind Papa - but rarely Maman - would dine in as the guest of some rich owner or racing organisation or other.

  ‘Et moi aussi?’

  A question never far from my mind. And where were all these important people now? I wondered, also realising I’d hardly eaten anything substantial since last Thursday evening.

  Papa…

  I hadn’t meant what I’d said to news of him being in a coma. Not really. Alison would have understood. But where was she? Far away, and what use was that? John Lyon had probably driven her to it. He didn’t seem to have a bone of loyalty in his less-than-perfect body.

  “Please sit down,” said the Judge, once we’d been introduced and removed our outer clothes. He positioned himself behind a vast, almost empty desk whose name card read EUGÈNE SALIBRIS. Short and squat, with over-shaved cheeks, his suit jacket strained over his paunch. Next to him sat that same secretary, not a strand of hair out of place.

  From the way she looked at me, I clearly resembled a ‘marginale’- someone off the streets. Even though I was a famous racehorse trainer’s only daughter.

  “I won’t keep you long,” added the Judge, pulling out several white sheets of good quality paper from a black box file and passing them to his secretary.

  From where I sat, I could still smell the printing ink. Hot off the press it would seem, and obviously important. But what about? I wished to God I had Xray eyes, to get advance warning. He glanced my way over the top of his rimless glasses. Pale eyes giving nothing away, like the view through the arched window behind them both. A city where smoke from some nearby porcelain factory rose like a malevolent genie among the thickening fall of snow.

  *

  While his stuck-up side-kick passed two sheets to both men but not me, the Judge made an announcement.

  “These have arrived just in time in the wake of too much criminal activity with no apparent motive.” His gaze then fell on John Lyon. “Do you understand my French, Monsieur? Or is a translator necessary?”

  The ex-cop shook his head. He’d already skimmed the papers, frowning.

  “Oui, et non, merci, your Honour.”

  “Of course, you spent some time near Perpignan last summer. I recall that long enquiry into the Liesbet Ryjkel affair. My colleague - now retired as Examining Magistrate - said he’d never come across anything quite so bizarre.”

  “Indeed. And it’s happening all over again.”

  The secretary returned to her place and her pen without once having caught my eye. Once more, Salibris was speaking. “Please look carfefully at these two documents. They do at least provide some background. We’ve had several random acts of violence including two deaths. One of a British national within British territorial waters, the other, another British national, on one of our safest main routes south…”

  Philippe Aubouchon shook his head, looking pissed off. Obviously proud of his region’s roads.

  “Also, a valuable racehorse shot dead,” the Judge continued. “In the right eye and the heart. A similar shocking attack made on…”

  “You mean Vervain,” I interrupted. “He does have a name, you know. In fact, to me he was like my own flesh and blood. That may sound crazy, but it’s true.”

  The secretary stopped writing. Frowned displeasure as her boss took a pop at me.

  “Mademoiselle Deschamps, please let me continue.”

  John Lyon tried to pat my arm, but I pushed him away. He’d had his chance. He was a loser. A waste of space. No wonder Alison had jumped ship.

  Salibris then continued. “To get to the root of these disturbing events, Laure, I must ask you some searching questions. Of course, as soon as your aunt is apprehended, she will not only face sterner questioning, but be punished for escaping custody.”

  “She’s been seen near Les Tourels,” said Hawk-Nose. “My men have been alerted.”

  Jésus…

  “Good. And Odette Jourdain, her mother?”

  “I’m arranging a safe house for the duration.”

  “Excellent. A fine woman, worth preserving. So perhaps now, Mademoiselle, we can focus on finding your brother. Also, the motive for his disappearance and the other crimes which no civilised society can tolerate.” He stared at me again in that weird way, and even though that huge room was comfortably warm, I felt cold all over. However, unlike the Anglais, I wasn’t there to massage his ego by calling him ‘Your Honour.’

  “Am I allowed a lawyer?” I said.

  A small, damning shake of the head.

  “Not necessary at this stage,” said John Lyon. My betrayer, who’d obviously done his homework. “Just reply to any questions as truthfully as you can.”

  *

  “You’re trying to get into university? Maybe another job somewhere?” said Aubouchon with false concern in his voice. “Because if so, your answers could play an important part in helping us.”

  Blackmail. I could smell it…

  “May we consider the sheet marked one?” said an impatient Salibris, who then addressed me. “When were you last in hospital?” Came too quickly out of the blue.

  I looked from one cop to the other. Nothing doing, yet the secretary’s pen was flying across her notepad’s pages.

  Lagarderie?

  I felt hollow. Weightless. The chamber’s double doors too far away…

  “What kind of hospital do you mean?” I asked, playing for time.

  “I think you know.”

  I shrugged. Me and hospitals were pretty much strangers. So why this dumb question?

  “Think back to when…?”

  “Where I was born?” I butted in. “Of course. The Hôpital Louis Pasteur…”

  “No, Mademoiselle. I’m talking about April 1978 in Lagarderie.”

  That bloody ‘L’ word. Everyone stared at me.

  “You’d harmed yourself after a temination,” the Judge said.” You had severe depression It could have been serious.”

  “I got over it,” as Cerys would say. “So, what’s the problem?”

  From somewhere, a radiator gurgled. In any other situation, I’d have found the noise embarrassing.

  “Your date of birth?”

  “14th January. 1970.”

  John Lyon looked at me.

  “Think again,” u
rged my Inquisitor.

  “Why?”

  He held up the second sheet of paper. “Look at the year here. It’s 1966”

  How could I miss that ex-cop’s not-so private nod? He’d known. He glanced at Hawk-Nose, then the Judge. “I’m assuming this birth certificate for Laure is genuine?”

  Salibris seemed to take offence.

  “I can assure you, it is.”

  My guts shivered.

  “So?” I snarled in defence. “Film stars lie about their ages all the time. And ordinary women.”

  “You’re neither a flim star,” announced Aubouchon enjying himself. “Nor an ordi…”

  “That’s quite enough!” snapped the Judge, whereupon that vast space fell silent.

  *

  Snow was still brushing against the window glass like a strangely animated net curtain.

  The secretary got up and allowed the Venetian blinds to drop, completely blocking out the scene beyond, hiding ordinary lives. Unlike mine.

  I didn’t hear the rest, except that John Lyon was busy extracting something from his shirt pocket beneath his black cagoule. “I also found this at Ty Capel, in Wales.”

  A tiny plastic, wrist band of the palest blue, like a mini handcuff. Avoiding my eyes, he passed it to the Judge.

  Non…

  The older man began reading the words I knew off by heart. “Mathieu Alain Deschamps. 10th September 1978. Hôpital Saint-Hippolyte, Poitiers.”

  His wrinkly eyes fixed on mine. “This matches his birth certificate which I was shown earlier. Why look as if you’re about to faint?”

  “I’m not.”

  “We need all the information we can get about your still-missing brother. Surely you can understand that?”

  “And this?” He’d picked up a lock of blonde hair that just then, seemed so foreign, so belonging to long-ago. I gripped my chair’s mean arms. Closed my eyes and saw my home-made doll again. The one I knew Mathieu had stolen and hidden from me after that terrible Christmas Eve.

  “Where’s the rest of it?” I demanded.

  “All there was,” said the ex-cop, avoiding my eyes. “I’d had a good look.”

  “That’s mine!” I cried out. “Part of a doll I made using a piece of Maman’s hair. It should have been buried with her.”