The Nighthawk

by Sally Spedding

  Just then a man’s voice yelled from above. “Mountain rescue! Just hold on there!”

  John?

  “Karen? Thank God. We’re coming down. Don’t move...”

  But the effort of holding on for him was one effort too many. My blood didn’t smell much like blood. It smelt alien. And all the while, Venus was fading, fading...

  Chapter 50. John.

  Sunday 20th April.

  Almost a week had passed since I’d stood outside Les Pins with Capitaine Serrado; the longest six days of my life during which three questions still haunted my brain. Which callous criminals had so nearly killed her? Why? What had they hoped to achieve?

  As for Karen herself, tracks of semi-destroyed winter tyre treads in the snow had led us from the last hamlet on the Canigou’s southern side to a treacherous sheep trail ending on the plateau where we’d found her lying on her side, unconscious beneath a fresh covering of snow. Both bare feet badly frostbitten. Her pulse barely noticeable. Desperate to revive her, I’d tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, but was pulled back by two paramedics with a stretcher, anxious to get her on board their chopper.

  Recent forensic reports had however, brought good news. One set of those winter tyre treads matched that of an 8cwt van, while the pearl stud earring found frozen to her ear lobe was identical to what I’d found at the Abbaye Saint-Polycarpe. Besson had disappeared, and his office cleared out. Everything was closed while the local gendarmerie’s investigation continued.

  A tearful yet relieved Mireille Petsha was returned home to Toulouse at the same time as Karen was airlifted to the Clinique Sablon in Perpignan’s Avenue des Jardins and placed under armed guard. Two ex-cops like me, stood outside her room in the Service de Soins Intensifs unit. Both former Lieutenant Louis Cordier and ex- Capitaine Jacques Anniot, who’d later work alternate shifts, seemed honest enough - but then so had Alize Saporo and Martine Mannion. I had to start believing in people again or else go nuts.

  *

  Karen had no medical records, which was more than odd, given her condition. Neither doctor in Saint-Antoine had heard of her, and as for the one she’d mentioned in Rotterdam, his name, beginning with a B had deserted me. To search via the Clinic would take precious time. As for Interpol, involving them would send out the wrong signal, but might be a next step.

  The present reality was, that half an hour after arriving, despite sustained efforts to bring her round, Karen had slipped into a coma.

  *

  I was only allowed access for a few seconds, but they were seconds I couldn’t forget. Such a profound sleep delivered an aura of inner strength and yes, beauty. Her skin even more flawless under the spotlights; her brushed-out hair as lustrous as those conkers I’d once polished to perfection before a playground fight.

  I’d known other comatose crime victims who’d sat up in bed after just two days. Others, not so lucky, were taken off their Life Support machines. However, lovely she appeared, her situation was precarious. Every hour adding to the risk of stroke or cardiac arrest. Before leaving, I stroked her hand, cool under my own, willing her to live and for those who’d put her there, to die.

  *

  I’d then driven fast and arrived at midnight in Elne’s silent Rue des Templiers where Carol and George had waited up with a welcome coffee and sandwich. Their pleasure was interrupted by a phone call from Karen’s neurological surgeon at the Clinic. He’d just recorded increased nerve activity in her lumbar vertebrae, and cautiously predicted reasonable upper and lower leg function should she recover.

  “That’s remarkable,” I’d said to him, aware of Carol’s disapproval.

  “Not totally, given the nature of her existing fracture.”

  “Fracture? Not a break, then?”

  A pause, during which he seemed to be conferring with someone.

  “Let’s just say we’re optimistic. You get some sleep, Monsieur Lyon, and in the meantime, we’ll keep you informed.”

  *

  Next morning, from the Atkins’ newly-fitted kitchen, I watched my sister pin my clean washing on to the line. In the full, almost indecent sun, Joel’s ski jacket would also soon be dry. At least her interrogation had ended, and tanned, active George resumed his golf and drinks routine. For her part, she’d accomplished her mission to get a change of clothes on my back. A grey suit and matching coat, too small for him and appropriate for various occasions including funerals.

  Les Pins, a taped-off crime scene, was attracting locals and tourists alike, despite the Préfet’s order that it be patrolled around the clock. As for me, three hours’ interrogation by Perpignan’s Examining Magistrate on the Wednesday afternoon following Karen’s rescue, proved the icing on the cake. The Hôtel de Ville’s lofty rooms had echoed my lies to such a degree, I’d had to ask permission to visit the Gents to be sick, while Capitaine Serrado who’d accompanied me there, waited outside.

  Handing over Karen’s tape recorder, tapes and microphone had done little to salve my conscience. Truth and lies mingling with alarming ease.

  No, I’d not the slightest idea where Martine Mannion might have gone with her employer’s old rifle. The same for Herman Oudekerk whom I’d only met briefly the day after my arrival. He, like me, had been busy. End of story. There’d been no discord or any other problems. However, my attempt to broaden the picture to include Joel and his allegedly previous suicide attempts before leaving the Abbey, met with little response.

  “Who’s your contact there?” The Judge enquired while jotting down something else.

  Mireille…

  “I’m sorry, I can’t say. But she is reliable.”

  “She?” Trimmed eyebrows raised. A look of disdain, and that was that. When I’d also dared mention those supposedly safe wartime ‘shelters’ for Roma, Jewish and rootless Spanish children within his very region, plus the role Ricard Suzman and his second wife - the ‘Black Bitch’ - had apparently played, I’d clearly rocked the boat too hard.

  Both men bluntly warned me off.

  Meanwhile, the Banyuls contingent and absent Father Diderot were still off the judicial radar. Why my two railway relics would stay hidden until the time was right, and why Girard Mannion was next on my list for covert investigation. The one small candle of hope was that my alibis for the time of Robert Taillot’s murder, were bombproof. Firstly, with Karen, when two local women collecting water from the nearby rock, had seen me drive in the direction of Saint-Antoine, and afterwards, at the Café Columbine, where Violette Arbrus’ stand-in remembered the exact time I’d spent there.

  Yet while walking away from my ordeal down the flight of marble steps and into the shopping crowds, I’d felt stung. How the law here had kept me at arm’s length. So far, Monsieur, and no further, yet by passing on what I’d learnt, and handing over the remainder of my collected items, I’d appeased a small part of my guilty soul. But nowhere near enough. Herman Oudekerk, absent from Les Pins during the police raid, had only now become an official Missing Person. Possibly one of his still-clothed legs harbouring a new, semi-automatic pistol.

  Meanwhile, Karen, top of everyone’s lists for interviewing, was my responsibility. I’d also begun to pray, whether with her at the clinic or alone in my car. All the while pushing aside a nagging question. Could the vertebral fracture her surgeon had mentioned, have led to such severe and prolonged disability?

  Another problem was that I’d over-indulged, courtesy of George’s mini-bar and extra bottles I’d brought in. Vertigo or no vertigo, the only falling I was doing, was into pretty, floral sheets, banning my wretched conscience to the deepest, farthest place it could go.

  *

  “Just off to make a call,” I told Carol. “Won’t be long.”

  “Use our phone, for goodness’ sake.”

  “Thanks, but...”

  “I know. Confidential.” She smiled. And why not? She was someone in the right place. Unlike me...

  With the fresh smell of her newly-washed clothes still in my nose, I took th
e steps down from the garden and reached a nearby car park and three public telephones. The earlier dread at Karen knowing of my conferring with the police, had lifted from my mind. She’d surely grasp that her recovery - and our futures - depended on my protecting her from Serrado, hovering like a hawk for her first sign of consciousness. But how, given my lowly status and his drive for recognition, could I dissuade him? Then, with fear stabbing at my chest, I realised that should she turn on me, or if my stolen notebook came to light, ‘tits-up’ would be an understatement.

  *

  Inside the first call box, I pushed a ten-franc coin into the slot and phoned the

  gendarmerie in Saint-Antoine to relay the latest report on Karen’s slowly-improving condition and in turn, get a news update. Lieutenant Vollard picked up. Their agenda to glean what they could from her so-far silent lips hadn’t changed, and rather than mention my flight from Serrado at Les Pins, I switched to Joel’s horrific death.

  “I’d not seen any other vehicle while I called into Accents du Vent after the crash, and considering all the rain, he wasn’t that wet when arriving at Reception. So who’d driven him there?”

  “No car was found parked nearby. In fact, the Accents du Vent owner saw him walk in from the road. He’d probably sheltered somewhere beforehand. Plenty of cabanes in those vineyards,”so he’d said.”

  “There’s nowhere to shelter, Lieutenant. “I saw the place.”

  “OK. But apparently, he didn’t seem his usual self at all. Withdrawn. Pre-occupied.”

  At last.

  “He could have shot himself just before crashing? Or someone else could have done.”

  “Anything’s possible, out of sight.”

  “I told Capitaine Serrado he’d most likely got a loaded Glock. Not new.”

  “Where from?”

  Too late...

  “Dr. Fürst liked her staff to be armed. It made her feel safe. Herman Oudekerk had a brand-new version of Joel’s Glock, while Martine Mannion had her employer’s veteran rifle. All registered in their employer’s name,” I added, picking up on the Lieutenant’s sudden concern.

  “You never mentioned this during your interrogation.”

  “What also worries me,” I continued, regardless, “is how was Joel allowed to fly, given he’d just lost his finger. Did he somehow steal a microlight?”

  “No. The owner had actually tried to dissuade him from flying but his regular client was determined. Offering to pay double, apparently. Claimed his dog had given him a nasty bite when the guy noticed something odd about his left-hand glove. How its index finger seemed empty.”

  “Must have needed the fee.”

  “He’d hardly admit that, would he? Anyway, once his client was safely airborne, he apparently drove to Perpignan to buy urgent spares for his three machines. He surely can’t be held responsible. Joel Dutroux was one of his most competent pilots. The man’s distraught.”

  “I can imagine. So, has cause of death been established?”

  Another hesitation. Vollard had some feelings.

  “Just an hour ago. Suicide.”

  I felt queasy all over again. That fitted in, but only so far. Until hard evidence was found to prove otherwise, the real truth might never be known.

  “He’d been left that weird note, remember?” I reminded him.

  “Still to be expected,” Vollard went on. “Given the head-on impact against that rock in good visibility; the obvious lack of last-minute manoeuvring which you’d described. It’ll be in tomorrow’s papers, plus an appeal for help in finding Herman Oudekerk and Martine Mannion.”

  Hearing that first name almost made the receiver slip from my hand. I tried not to think of his face as I’d imagined it in life, staring out at me. Would I be buying a copy? I wasn’t sure.

  “Did Joel himself or a third party sever his finger?” I pressed on. “Was it even his?”

  Pause.

  “This line may be insecure. I can’t say. Which reminds me, Taillot’s phone records show he gave you news of Joel’s so-called ‘barbie,’yet neither he nor you told us.”

  Great.

  Carol was ginng me a wave. Little did she know.

  “Has any funeral been planned yet?” I asked, feeling suddenly imprisoned in that warm, glass box.

  “Not yet. Most of his remains are still missing.”

  “No Glock?”

  “Rien.”

  “And Robert Taillot?”

  “So far, no living relatives.”

  “Be interesting to see who shows up.”

  “Indeed,”

  Vollard then added that the church of Saint-Jean le Martyr together with the Notaire’s office had been sealed off while the hunt was on not only for Monsignor André Besson but also Michel Suzman and his three equally elusive offspring. Questions for them to answer, making a list as long as my arm.

  At last.

  But a pity that motives still defied any such list. Meanwhile, the Suzman properties in Saint-Antoine had been searched for any material from Karen’s hard drive, and the possible murder weapon used on the reckless, ex-lieutenant from Puylaurens. Neither had so far come to light, nor anyone who’d met Herman on his secret travels, had stepped forward.

  “Everything, including the smallest kitchen knives at Les Pins, had been scrupulously cleaned,” added Vollard, interrupting my fears “As for vehicles, we’re

  hoping to match those winter tyre tracks found near where Dr. Fürst had been left on the Canigou, with Jules Suzman’s 8 cwt. Peugeot van. I mean of course, Pére Jérôme...”

  Thank you, Mireille...

  “There’s no evidence yet as to who his companion might have been.”

  I’d a few ideas, all too premature.

  Vollard ended with news that the dead nurse’s tenacious mother would be arriving by air from Antwerp tomorrow afternoon, wanting answers no-one could yet give. Through my phone booth’s glass, I again spotted Carol waving again, but was too busy imagining what I’d say to this bereaved Belgian woman, should we meet.

  “Ricard Suzman’s house in Banyuls should also be searched,” I added, in another effort to appease my conscience. “Not least for him and his wife, but those children’s clothes and toys taken from a trunk in the Abbaye Saint- Polycarpe. Originally at Les Pins…”

  “One step at a time, Monsieur,” Vollard said. His voice edged with impatience. “We don’t scare them off.”

  “His son Michel’s Olivetti typewriter may throw up a match with that cryptic, note left with Joel’s finger and the one on my car in Pamiers. It’s tucked out of the way in his office.”

  “I doubt anything now will affect Joel’s suicide verdict. Poor, young man.”

  *

  Carol had disappeared behind her hedge, leaving me with a growing sense of isolation. However, the elderly Banyuls contingent hadn’t entirely escaped notice. Violette Arbrus at the Café Columbine had bravely volunteered that the couple were long-standing members of the neo-fascist White Light organization whose influence had reached across Europe for half a century. Its main recruiting cell in south-west France, continued to function in clever secrecy within the Abbey.

  Meanwhile, Mireille Petsha, the young escapee who’d innocently believed White Light to be what it said on the tin, would be keeping in touch with me. Just in case.

  Just then, the line seemed to go dead.

  “Capitaine Vollard?” I almost shouted. “You still there?”

  “Yes. We’ve just taken a call from Perpignan. Eye witnesses have seen André Besson driving like a maniac near Barcarès. He seemed to have a passenger. With no family and no other known residence, have you any idea who might have been with him and where he’d been heading?”

  “None.” That was the truth. “Perhaps he had enemies too.”

  Metaphorical shutters again came down hard and fast. So much for ends tying up and Karen’s planned month to find closure, shortening by the hour.

  *

  “Pork cutlets for lunch,” ann
ounced Carol when I rejoined her outside in the

  warm sunshine. “Lean ones, not like Grandma’s. Remember their thick, fatty rinds?”

  I did, and was still grateful. She’d been the difference between a bed in a room and a box on the street. Carol was on yet another diet which encouraged meat and more meat. I gave her a squeeze - part thanks, part regret I’d seen so little of her since she and George had moved there. But how could I blame them both for not rushing over to my crowded corner of the Midlands?

  “Sorry, sis,” I said, fighting a surge of guilt. “Got too much on. And please don’t either of you wait up for me.”

  “You’re seeing that German woman? Again?”

  “She’s Dutch.”

  Carol sighed. “I really can’t keep up with all this.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “You’ve fallen for her, haven’t you? I could tell when her consultant phoned.” Always the direct question and the next one I’d been spared so far. “Have you a photo?”

  “She wouldn’t let me take any. At least, not until she’s out of the wheelchair.

  My sister’s eyes narrowed.

  “I thought you liked that blonde one back in Nottinghaam?”

  So had young, dead Ben Rogers.

  “What was her name again?”

  “Alison McConnell.”

  “Look, John, I’m not happy about any of this. And to be frank,” she then squinted at me in a way unchanged for forty-plus years, “there’s something you’re not telling me.”

  A yacht moved across the blue Mediterranean leaving a thin, white trail in its wake, before vanishing, just like everything else.

  “I want justice,” was all I said, pulling out my car keys; feeling my eyes begin to sting.

  “This Dutch woman’s almost cost you your life, don’t forget.” Carol reached up to touch the graze on my cheek that hadn’t yet healed. The dark marks on my lips. “You didn’t leave the Force to get embroiled in someone’s past to this extent. I mean, you hardly know her.”

  “It’s nothing to what she and other innocent people have endured. Besides,” I looked out to sea again, “it’s weird. I feel as if I have known her for ever. She’s brave and proud.” But as I spoke, I was again thinking God help us both should Martine Mannion squealed about Herman, or if Michel Suzman were to wave my notebook around to deflect from his problems. For a start, he could afford a better libel lawyer than me.