The Nighthawk

by Sally Spedding

  “Great. Thanks.” He was clearly exhausted, and something else I couldn’t quite fathom. Guilt, maybe? He set down his boots, found a chair and leaned forwards. “I shouldn’t have left you so long,” he said to me. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. You mentioned the Notaire might have been your ‘chauffeur.’ What’s happened?”

  He waited until Martine had left the room before relaying his ordeal, beginning with the bogus computer repairer, his visit to the strange Abbé Saint- Polycarpe and finding himself dumped inside his own car in Pamiers.

  “Why there of all places?”

  “You tell me. I’m not a betting man, but odds-on it was Michel Suzman. I’ve two possible items of proof.”

  My fears solidified like water to ice.

  “I found a Homburg hat he must have been wearing, and I’ve kept some of that parcel tape which may or may not carry his prints. But there’s something else,” he looked down at his hands. “Your Walther. Sorry, Karen. Again.”

  Jesus Christ...

  “That’s two expensive weapons gone. My cupboard’s bare.”

  “I’ll replace them. I promise. My bloody notebook’s also been nicked...”

  “Once is careless. Twice is...” I stopped myself.

  “This notebook - am I in it?

  “No,” came too quickly. “Just some scribbled memos.”

  “And this address?”

  He paused.

  “Course not.”

  But I wasn’t convinced. Now another new Walther and S&W were out there somewhere. Then it crossed my mind that I didn’t know this man at all. Had he really retired, or been sacked for incompetence? How could I find out? But the bit was already between his teeth, and me forced to listen.

  “According to Monsignor André Besson, the Abbey’s Pastoral Director,” he continued, “Joel’s surname was Hubert when he joined there as a novice. He had an article published stating that Jews never perished in gas chambers. Besson recalled some ‘academic’ – which could mean anything - contacting him last summer for a reference for Joel, which he sent off. Also, that the box number given was here in Saint-Antoine. 367 to be precise. It’s on his pc. If it’s yours, you must change it.”

  Merde…

  Panic trickled under my clothes. This was going way too fast off the beam.

  “OK, but I never received any reply. Why I had to rely on what Joel himself said. It’s easy for you, John. Being disabled, I’m at everyone’s mercy, and as for the article - that’s not him. Someone must have paid him to do their dirty work.”

  “Whatever. He and this Besson seem pretty close to the Suzmans. Michel in particular, and his late wife. I confess to phoning Besson from Pamiers pretending to be him. I had to find out if he’d been responsible for carting me off.”

  “And?”

  “Yes. The bastard.”

  Just then, Martine returned with a steaming, hot Lasagne, still in its plastic container, plus a pot of arnica balm and my well-stocked First Aid box. For a moment, she paused as if something was wrong, then, having placed John’s ready meal and cutlery next to him on a side table, set to with the cream and pieces of lint. He obviously didn’t like being fussed over and found gratitude embarrassing. As if this search was still part of his former job.

  “You’re a proper Florence Nightingale. Thanks,” he said, as if glad of the diversion.

  “It’s nothing,” she smiled, re-adjusting a piece of lint on his bottom lip. “So, more loose ends. Any tying up?”

  He glanced at me, then my desk, where the tapes and recorder were still set out ready for further use. “A few, but right now, Karen and I need some privacy. Personal things about me she should know.”

  Martine did disappointment like an Oscar-winning star. But could she tell

  he was lying again?

  “Just call if you need me,” she said finally.

  “We will.”

  *

  John got up and waited by the door until her footsteps had receded.

  “My guess is, Joel’s in some pretty deep water,” he began. “I sense the Suzmans have some kind of hold on him. Look.” He produced the two small, gloating notes. “Besson’s idea, and I now know Michel Suzman wrote it. Same paper, same print format used for the one found here.”

  I suddenly felt cold.

  “Why?”

  “Don’t know yet. Yes, Joel embarrassed the Abbey big time with that revisionist article, but that doesn’t explain the jollies with me, his severed finger, and that he’s disappeared.”

  I eyed the damp Homburg. “What do you intend doing with that?”

  “Get it checked, of course.”

  “No. Please understand. If Suzman thinks you’ve found it, he could come sniffing round here with or without cops. Then…”

  “He won’t know. It was lying in the gutter.”

  “I don’t care. When the snow’s eased off, just take the bloody thing back to Pamiers. Dump it where you found it.”

  “Too late. Meanwhile, may I also suggest you let me keep those tapes secure. Your computer’s already tempted someone here to help themselves.”

  He then picked at his Lasagne, pre-occupied.

  “Whichever thugs punished me out there last night and most likely Michel Suzman this evening, seem to realise they have carte-blanche. No local gendarmerie involved, ergo no forensic examinations to follow. Get it? Now then,” he fixed on me even more intently. “Have you ever let on to the gendarmerie here that you’re in Les Pims to try and trace your missing family and you need total privacy?”

  “On my Moeder’s life, no.”

  “Your mother’s dead.”

  I know.

  “Anyone from there been in touch? Quizzing you? Think.”

  “Only Capitaine Serrado who phoned yesterday morning about coming over next Friday then monthly for general surveillance. I’d meant to tell you.”

  Silence.

  “It’s possible that someone - or more than one - may have leaked this search plan of yours. Why these creeps can act with impunity to put us all off our agendas. Why Herman’s head may never be found…”

  “Enough. Stop it!”

  “OK.”

  I then relayed Martine’s strange remark about the possibility of him colluding with former colleagues back in Nottingham. At this, his face turned an angry red to match his ears. A stained piece of lint fell into his lap.

  “She must be worried.”

  He got up again and, having opened my door a fraction, changed his mind.

  “I’d like to check her details once more. It’s important.”

  I indicated the drawer, but when the green file lay open in his hand, an

  icy tremor crept into my heart. Where on earth was the third file that should have been inside it?

  Hers.

  He checked again, frowning. His eyes meeting mine. “I don’t believe this...”

  But then I did.

  ***

  33. John.

  Karen had hit the top of the paranoia scale. Not only because of Martine’s missing file and that new, stolen Walther, but also because she was still convinced I’d included her real Dutch name and address inside my missing notebook.

  “I wouldn’t lie.”

  Neverthelass, she begged me to spare her being alone with that younger, stronger replacement nurse for one more minute in case she strapped her to the bed and OD’d her.

  “I’m here, Karen. All night. OK?”

  She looked up at me with a pleading look in those magnetic eyes.

  “But tomorrow, first thing, will you take me to have a look where Vader and my brothers might have gone? I worry that something bad’s going to happen to me before I get another chance…”

  I put my arm around her shoulders, trying to comfort her.

  “Nothing bad’s going to happen to you, Karen, but if it helps, yes, we’ll do that. You never know…”

  What I didn’t add was how busy the rest of tomorrow was going to be.
r />   *

  Sunday 13th April. 08:40 hours.

  Next morning, while dressing for a full day ahead, I agonised how to break the news to Karen of my proposed visit to Foix and, if there was time, possibly the Notaire then a trip to Banyuls and Ricard Suzman. I also had to warn her to watch her tongue from now on. Nothing of what I’d found or what she’d remembered, must be mentioned in front of any third party however reliable they might seem. And with yesterday’s thaw bearing rain, that ‘third party,’ making a real effort, was busy helping her out of bed and into her bathroom.

  We wew going out.

  Martine also kept up this effort by bringing Karen down in the lift and into my car. While her boss had adjusted her headscarf and a paisley-patterned rug over her legs, I’d slipped her helper twenty francs for being, as I’d put it, ‘such a reliable carer.’ Not altruism, instead I had to sweeten her up about her missing file.

  “Thanks, Monsieur Lyon, but I’m only doing my best,” she smiled, pocketing the note. “Anybody would.”

  Without make-up, Karen’s face seemed to have aged. Still alluring, however, and the most intriguing woman I’d come across for years, but to help me progress, she’d have to deliver more than she’d done so far. Maybe this next little sortie of ours might help.

  *

  It didn’t, and we returned to Les Pins after almost an hour of fruitless searching for any signs of a deviation the horse-drawn trap might have made that fateful October evening in 1942. We’d been stared at by too many passing cyclists and motorists while I’d pushed Karen along that wet road, scouring both its overgrown verges. But neither the rocks on our right nor abandoned vineyards to our left revealed anything.

  She’d wept as I’d helped her back into the Volvo, but nearly forty-four years had come between now and then, during which, nature had thrived. Perhaps, I told myself, once my other errands were done, I’d return and take a closer, more adventurous look. After all, to have left her vulnerable in that wheelchair by the roadside, or even in the car, while I’d poked around a bit more, would have been foolhardy.

  *

  At 09:50 hours, back in my room, having dried and combed my hair, I picked up the phone, hid the number, and dialled another already given by the operator. I was soon transferred to The Bibliothèque National’s archivist in Religious Works.

  “Sanctum, June 1985,” I repeated to the bored-sounding guy in Paris, as my coffee grow cold. “And the author of the article I’ve just mentioned was a Joel Dutroux.”

  The Jack-of-all-trades, who, despite Karen’s inquiries, seemed to have been the result of an immaculate conception and born under a gooseberry bush.

  A pause during which I heard the rustle of paper four hundred miles away. Clicks on a computer’s keypad followed by a sigh.

  “It’s for our records only, Monsieur,” The archivist’s English was perfect.

  “Not even academic research? Where’s freedom of information here? And democracy?”

  “I’m sorry. That issue is on a growing list of material the Government wants kept from the public domain. Should it reach the wrong hands, then who knows?”

  Too late…

  “Strong stuff?”

  “Yes.”

  “But the publishers went ahead, nevertheless?”

  “Peridot have always championed the sensational, the contentious. They’ve been fined enough times, but still no shortage of readers. They’re big in Vienna and Holland too, I believe.”

  “Very much alive?”

  “Indeed.”

  So, what had Besson been on about a defunct publication? A dead editor? Christ, he’d been so insulting.

  While rain slapped against my window and the pines shed the last of their wet burdens, I soon located the contact details of this risk-happy publisher, established in 1963 and based in Caen. Within two minutes, I’d ordered and paid for that same back number. It would take at least four days to arrive.

  *

  Next, London, and the Bond Street phone was immediately picked up. Perhaps Fentimans were short of business. Or simply extra-attentive. The Homburg I described to the guy who answered, had been a popular item for many years, especially amongst politicians and lawyers.

  “What shape is the label inside the rim?” He asked.

  “Oblong. Say, six by two centimetres. Red stitching on a black ground...”

  “We changed to that in 1984.”

  “When exactly?”

  “August 31st.”

  “Were there any French clients after this date?”

  “Let me see...”

  “I’m a serving police officer,” I lied to end the pause. “This is vital to our

  investigation.”

  “A woman. According to our records here, she spent five hundred pounds stirling on men’s clothes.”

  “Her name, if you have it?”

  “A Madame Yvette Suzman.”

  Jesus…

  The Notaire’s wife, who’d taken a bath at the family home that very Christmas, and not survived.

  *

  10:00 hours, and time to brief Karen and collate information so far. Should I ditch my vow of privacy, because to exclude Martine again might make her suspicious? Yes. Best keep her on board for the time being. However, I still had to search not only her room for her missing file, but Joel’s.

  “Useful trip out there?” she handed me a mug of fresh coffee from her trolley then lowered her voice. “Dr. Fürst hasn’t said much.”

  “Yes, but I need to look again,” I replied, joining Karen at her desk and slotting another bank note under her bag to pay for my calls.

  “If Dr. Fürst doesn’t mind, we could listen to her tapes.”

  Martine then handed me a plate of sliced, buttered baguette and a blob of cherry jam whose colour and texture reminded me too much of newly-congealed blood. Mine. “We added to them last night.”

  “Fine by me,” Karen sighed as if the wind had gone out of her sails. “But it’ll be like watching someone else’s boring holiday snaps.”

  *

  Far from it. In fact, afterwards, I’d a much clearer picture of her father and his sons’ relationship. But it was little Liesbet Ryjkel who’d interested me the most. The spectator. The all-seeing candid camera. A knowing, eight-year-old with blonde pigtails.

  “This Suzman Notaire,” I began, having stacked up both tapes, microphone and recorder together for me to take away later. “Can either of you describe him?”

  Karen was ready.

  “Michel? Yes. Over-fed. Probably high cholesterol levels and, judging by his facial capillaries, a definite DVT risk.”

  “Colouring?”

  She shrugged.

  “Nothing remarkable. Might have been a looker years ago.”

  “Light brown hair, what’s left of it,” Martine stepped in.

  “So, you do know him?” I said to Karen.

  “Hardly. Only met him twice. For the sale here, in my new name, and to sort out a boundary issue last August. He also tried to make me stump up for a Will, but I said no.”

  Martine stared at her. Hoping for more information, perhaps?

  “And his wife, Yvette?” I asked.

  “A wisp, so I’ve heard,” the gardener volunteered. “But a chic wisp none the less. Always in the Boutique des Vagues spending, spending. I reckon he held her down under the bath water to save money.”

  I wondered then if André Besson’s brief but sickly eulogy for her, had been another pretence?

  “Was she local?”

  “I’m not sure. But she looked very Spanish.”

  “If she had been those three kids’ mother, it might explain their appearance,” I said, also thinking of Joel. “Did you hear anything about a funeral?”

  “Don’t ask me,” Karen kept her eye on Martine who’d begun to clear away the mugs and other breakfast paraphernalia. “Odd, really, given his position. My gazoil delivery man said there’d been nothing about it on the Mairie’s public notice board, nor
the newspapers.”

  “Monsignor Besson said Joel was heartbroken.”

  “I’m sure he was. But he never mentioned her to me. This has all come out of the blue. It’s so hard to believe.”

  Silence followed, save for wet snow dripping past the window. A dank, unpleasant day. Karen rubbed her still unmade-up eyes.

  My watch showed 10. 15 hours. Time to change tack; to play Devil’s advocate with the Ryjkel story.

  “Would you say Mas Camps had run at a profit when you were there? I mean, a good profit?” I quizzed her. “Enough to buy that brand new car?”

  “Must have done, although I never heard money discussed. Moeder was

  thrifty to the point of meanness. I was jealous when Vader and my brothers all had new overcoats and trilby hats while I wore her efforts with the old sewing machine.”

  “So, who was jealous of you?”

  “Monsieur!” Martine snapped, affronted.

  “It’s OK. He’s right to dig.” Karen closed her eyes as if back again in that household of four. Foreigners in a foreign land during the worst period of its history.

  Probably too successful. Too clever. I saw no good reason for Martine to stay, but how to ask her to leave?

  “You’ve touched upon other jealousies.” I reminded Karen. “Can you elaborate?”

  She was clearly gathering more of her thoughts, then shot Martine an unwelcome glance before continuing. “Joop gave me a really hard time. Hid my few toys, even broke them, like my rocking horse he rode so hard till its stirrups snapped.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Christian held a flame for some girl at the Café des Étoiles, but I think Joop really loved her. Look,” she fixed her smudged eyes on mine. “I was just an eight-year-old. To me, Christian had all the breaks, all the favours. If I’d had kids, I’d have given them equal of everything.”

  She lowered her head. A gesture of defeat, perhaps?

  “You’d have made a brilliant Maman.” Martine reached over to lay a chafed hand on her shoulder, but it was shrugged away. “Oh God, what have I said now?”

  “Nothing.” Karen looked across at me. This wasn’t going to get any better. But one question needed an answer.