‘Must be Dad’s special mixture.’ Thibault pointed to a tin on one of the shelves. ‘Homemade fertiliser.’
‘Madame Kiesser!’ They were standing by the door, Bondy impatient now, fingers tapping his thigh. ‘We’ve seen what we want. Or rather not seen. Either way, time to go.’ He stood aside for her to pass, and watched as Thibault locked the door. Then he held out his hand. ‘Do you mind if I take the key? Captain Praud said he might come and look himself.’
Thibault raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? We’ve just looked.’
‘Double-checking.’ Bondy put on a resigned expression. ‘Making sure I’ve done my work as I should.’
‘Huh!’ Cyril shook his head, equal measures of disbelief and contempt coming out in a hollow laugh. ‘That’s Praud all over.’
Chapter 20 Do It!
‘She disapproves.’
‘Of what?’
‘I don’t know. This little stand-off with Praud. The way I’m handling it, I think.’
It turns out that Valentin Bondy isn’t in such a hurry after all; at any rate, he has the time to sit with Cyril by the goldfish pond. Sophie, on the other hand, has gone back to the house – her daughter’s nature box, she said, whatever that is – and then she’s dying for a swim.
But Cyril is alert to Sophie’s moods; at times it’s almost as if he can read her mind. She thinks he’s not playing it right, that he ought to show Praud more respect. Maybe there’s something in that. The instructions came from General Pico, so ultimately he’s the one Cyril is disrespecting, and that’s not something he can afford to do. But what Sophie hasn’t grasped is that Cyril is in his rights: this isn’t disrespect or disobedience, it’s simply sticking up for what he deserves. This is a matter of principle.
He tries to shrug it off, be philosophical, but the humiliation hurts. It’s like an insect burrowing into his brain, eating him up inside. He thought he’d seen the back of Praud when he moved to Aix en Provence. But like the appearance of Sophie, this is no coincidence. It’s a test, a challenge, a hurdle he has to overcome to prove once and for all that he’s the man Pico needs. You’ll take your instructions from Captain Praud. He tells himself the reasons are neutral, objective, like Sophie said, just an administrative thing, and for a minute or two, this eliminates the pain. But then it comes back, gnawing into his self-belief, poisoning him with doubt. Because make no mistake: if Pico didn’t back him, it means he has doubts as well.
‘What’s your own view? Oh, don’t worry, I’m not asking you to take sides, but now that you’ve seen how he operates...’
‘I think...’ He takes a moment to choose his words. ‘He’s very thorough, but I think perhaps he could associate you more.’
Cyril smiles. A diplomatic answer if ever there was one, but the meaning is clear enough. He likes this young, fresh-faced gendarme, who reminds him a little of himself: eager to please, stepping up beyond the call of duty. It’s little things, like volunteering to search the cabin, that show you have the right attitude. Oh, he probably won’t go far, he lacks that spark, the quickness of mind – a bit like Praud in that respect, happy enough taking orders from others but without a lot of initiative, not driven in the way that Cyril is. A safe, comfortable career is all that Bondy wants. Fair enough. The world needs people like that as well. ‘Oh, yes, I dare say Praud is thorough. Dependable, that’s Praud. Oh, he’s competent enough, he’s a plodder. You can rely on him to get the job done – eventually. Why, he’s still a captain at his age! That says it all.’ Whereas he, Cyril, is galvanised, his energy lit by sparks of desire, fuelled by flames of passion. He believes, in all humility, that his energy is divine. All energy is, of course, he’s not claiming to be special, just that he has more of it than most. But Praud – what an earthbound clod! Praud deserves an occasional pat on the back, but greatness is beyond him. ‘He could do worse than associate Sophie too. Hmph! Gives her a bollocking instead.’
‘He tells me you’ve worked with her before?’
‘A couple of cases, yes. We have a...’ He wonders how to put it. ‘We complement each other, like different sides of the same coin, or yin and yang, you know? Oh, there’s nothing going on between us,’ he adds. ‘Not romantically. I’ve just got married, in fact.’ He can’t resist the temptation to take out his phone, show him the photos of Gabrielle. ‘I’m going to Cameroun in October. The big celebration.’
‘Nice.’ Bondy nods approvingly, though there seemed to be – as there often is – a slight movement of surprise, an upward jerk of the eyebrows, on seeing that Cyril’s wife is black.
‘With Sophie it’s different. More...’ Again he hesitates, but the day’s events have troubled him, and he feels a need to confide. ‘Not intellectual, I’d say, but spiritual.’ On an impulse, he takes Tikar out of his pocket and passes him to Bondy. ‘A good luck charm from Cameroun. Madame Kiesser’s got one too. People over here think it’s all a lot of hogwash, but if ever you go there, you’ll see there’s something to it. A combination of forces. Pull together in the right direction and we get there. It seems so obvious, but so many people don’t. Their energy goes into scoring points instead.’ With a sorry sigh, he returns Tikar to his pocket. ‘But we haven’t had time to talk about Ferrucci. Tell me, how well does he know the Seibels?’
‘No idea. He and Maya would know them as customers, probably, the way people do round here. No more than that, I think. The Ferruccis haven’t been here that long. Three or four years maybe.’
‘How well do you know them yourself?’
‘The Seibels? Like I know everyone round here.’ Bondy takes out a cigarette. ‘I knew the old man’s wife better. Simone. She used to come into the shop.’
‘Shop?’
‘My father’s. He had a clothes shop in Moudiret. Simone came in from time to time.’
‘So you grew up here? And this is your first posting, Moudiret?’
‘Second. I didn’t think I’d get it.’ He lights the cigarette, blows out a stream of smoke, watches it waft away. ‘My father was on his own with cancer, my mum had run off with another man a few years before. I got it on compassionate grounds.’ And since they’re now on personal terms, he has a photo of his own to show. ‘Me and my wife Anne, and baby Mylène. And that’s Dad. He died earlier this year.’
Cyril says he’s sorry to hear that. He thinks about his own father, who for all he knows might be dying of cancer too, but won’t get any compassion from his son. But for all the growing bond between them, that’s not the sort of thing you can say to someone you’ve just met. ‘And according to Thibault, Seibel and Escarola were good friends.’
‘Oh, yes.’ It brings a smile to Bondy’s lips. ‘Real musketeers, back in the day.’
‘Musketeers?’
‘Oh...’ Bondy flicks a hand. ‘Just a nickname. A couple of tearaways in their youth. Just what I heard from Simone.’
‘And the third?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Musketeer. There wasn’t a third?’
‘Oh, right.’ He takes another drag. ‘I don’t know. Maybe. It was before I was born.’
‘And this arson affair with L’Ophrys. What’s the situation there?’
‘Nothing doing. Just the one spot where the fire started. The most obvious sign of arson is when there’s two or more. It didn’t start near the restaurant in any case. Quite a way off, in fact. Ferrucci was in Africa at the time, and Escarola in Toulon. Yes, the wind was in the right direction and they could have got someone to do it for them. That can’t be ruled out. But there’s no way of proving it either.’
‘OK. That’s not my concern in any case. I’ve asked Praud for the file on Escarola. We’ll see what that turns up.’
‘File?’ Bondy is taken aback. ‘What file? Is that something I should know about?’
‘I doubt it. Nothing to do with the fire at any rate. Older than that. Stuff that goes way back. Property deals, suspicions of bribery. Escarola’s always walked close to the edge but he’s got away e
very time. Huh! Political connections – same old. But apparently there was a colleague – died a year after retiring – who had him in his sights. So somewhere in Aix there’s a file on all his past misdeeds. I asked them for it but pretty much got stonewalled. “Lost, doesn’t exist” – well, bullshit to that. Anyway, I thought Praud might have better luck, since he’s been posted there. Probably nothing useful in it for me, but I’d like to see it. Maybe he’s known Ferrucci longer than you say. Or a link to Seibel, who knows? Tearaways, you said. My focus is Ferrucci’s dealings in Cameroun but I’m just trying to see if any of this fits together.’ He stands up. ‘Let’s go see Praud, shall we?’
Bondy takes a last drag and after stubbing it out carefully, flicks the butt into the bushes. ‘Isadora up next.’
It doesn’t go well. Did he think it would? Did he think Praud would welcome him with open arms, even let him conduct the interview himself? There was always that hope, but of course it’s naive to expect anything like cooperation from Praud. ‘Unnecessary. Everything’s under control. Besides, didn’t you say you were going to see Gino Escarola? I think that’s a better way to pass the time.’ And before he has time to reply, the door to the interview room is closed in Cyril’s face.
‘That key you got from Thibault Seibel.’ Before Bondy goes into the room himself, Cyril draws him aside. ‘You can give it to me.’
‘What? But Captain Praud said –’
‘He wants to see the cabin, I know. Just tell him that if he needs the key, he can come and ask me.’ And without giving Bondy time to reply, Cyril takes the key and strides away.
It’s petty of course, he’s well aware of that, but when he thinks of how he set out this morning, so confident and bright, the way the day has turned out fills him with despair. And it’s all Praud’s fault.
What did he see that day in Cyril’s office? What did he tell Pico? That Cyril Eveno was mad? What worries Cyril is that he himself doesn’t know what he looks like when he talks to Auguste. Do his lips move? Are his eyes closed or open? How long was Praud standing there, staring open-mouthed, calling Cyril’s name and getting no response? The incident was never mentioned, and if Pico knows, he’s tactful enough not to say so. But Cyril is sure that the reason behind this morning’s rebuff is more than purely administrative.
He returns to the goldfish pond, sits on the bench staring into the water, a dark pool in which he drowns in helplessness and rage. He feels useless, scorned, unable to understand what’s happening. What is Auguste trying to tell him? He makes himself receptive, urges Auguste to appear but nothing happens. Surely his guiding spirit can’t have abandoned him?
Cyril remembers each detail – how could he not? – as if he’s seeing it for the very first time. The beam, a dark, lustreless brown streaked with black, covered with dusty cobwebs trembling like ghostly tinsel; the rickety straw chair, worm-ridden and wobbly, tossed into the barn to be chopped up for firewood, but still solid enough to bear his weight; the hook, thick and sturdy, the sort you might suspend a carcass on; the rope, also strong, cut from the same length as the washing line in the garden, barely frayed after all these years; the bulging lump of the knot, announcing its finality like a tumour. When the memory springs unbidden, like a tremor caused by a piece of shrapnel shifting deep inside, it brings with it a copy of the physical sensation, faded certainly, and softened, but still sharp enough to stab his guts, trigger a queasiness that momentarily blocks out everything around him. That curious blend of terror and excitement, the thrill of knowing that at last this was it, he’d done it, and a few seconds from now it would all be over.
But it wasn’t. Sprawled on the floor, the chair crushed beneath him, it took him a moment to understand: it wasn’t the rope that had broken, nor the knot that had failed, but the hook had come out of the beam. And that was when the spirit of his great-grandfather Auguste Eveno, hero of Verdun, embodiment of valour, incarnation of grit, told him he had to survive. It was his duty to survive. And Auguste would help him not just survive but flourish, find fulfilment as a gendarme, in a brilliant, honourable career.
He feels strange. In the middle of this heat, an iciness! Close to him, a physical presence, breathing. He looks at Tyson the goldfish, its mouth a gaping circle close to the surface. As he stares, transfixed, a bubble emerges, twists in the air beside him, forms itself into the face of Auguste. And a fierce whisper comes to him: ‘You know what you have to do. Do it!’
Chapter 21 Coming Clean
Back at the house, all was satisfactory: Dorian asleep, Luc reading, Chloé playing Snakes and Ladders with Magali, who said that Tatty had disappeared into the Zenhouse with Isadora. Sophie put her ear to the door: no sound other than the whoosh of waves from a relaxation CD. Tiptoeing into the bedroom, where Dorian’s gentle breaths followed the same rhythm as the waves, Sophie put on her swimsuit, softly shut the door, and strolled up to the pool.
Here she found Lyle reading as he dried off on a recliner. For a moment, she hesitated – could she handle another of his monologues? Too late now, though: he saw her and put down his book. ‘Best place to be. Though I fear the mosquitoes are out.’ He adjusted the recliner to a sitting position. ‘So have you solved it yet?’
‘Me?’ She drew back her head. ‘Solved what?’
‘I spotted you earlier with the other gendarme – not Praud, the younger one.’
‘Captain Eveno. Yes, we... I happen to know him a little.’
‘Privileged access. Handy. So who are they going to arrest?’
‘Not that privileged. Praud’s the one in charge.’ Sooner or later it was bound to come out that she was a PI, but the longer she could keep it hidden, the better. ‘How did your interview go? He was really pompous with me.’ Her over-the-top sneer and half-closed eyelid made him laugh. ‘Wasn’t he like that with you? Captain Snooty?’
‘Not really. I found him quite courteous.’
‘Oh. Must be just me. I guess they’re not as bad as in the States. Over there they’d have shot you.’
‘Because I’m black?’ A brief register of shock – head drawn back, eyes wide – then a smile of resignation. ‘Ah, yes. The odd one out.’
‘I’m sorry.’ Nincompoop. ‘That was insensitive.’
‘No. The stats bear you out on that.’ He paused. ‘I’m going back in a week.’
‘To the States?’
‘My sister’s getting married.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Maybe it’s time, I don’t know. Six years in France... I didn’t expect it to end like this.’
‘No. Quite a shock. What I find weird is this atmosphere of... well, it’s almost normal, you know, everyone doing their own thing yet knowing all the while there’s a killer among us.’
‘Ambiguity.’
‘Ah. Your PhD?’
‘Could be a whole chapter there. Killers are always ambiguous. Condemned to lie, hide who they really are. And a lie is ambiguous until exposed, because it could be the truth. Even Agatha Christie. Martin’s formula may be nonsense but he got me thinking about it. Deceit, lies, red herrings. Nothing but ambiguity till it’s all cleared up at the end.’
‘So now you’ll have to read everything she wrote. Unless you already have. I mean, you were the only one to know who Inglethorp was.’
‘Not all, but most of them, I guess. I went through a Christie phase before getting onto the heavier stuff.’
‘Is there anything you haven’t read? Davina Crest, maybe?’
He laughed, shaking his head. ‘That’s the trap – thinking you have to. It’s why the PhD got out of hand.’ He indicated his book. ‘Do you know him?’
She looked at the cover. ‘Karl Ove Knausgård. Heard of him. Norwegian, right? Sold millions of books about his own life, described in excruciating detail.’
‘Yeah, that’s him. The complete opposite of Christie. Not just her, the whole of fiction. With him, no lies, no ambiguity, just the truth, however painful. It’s strangely gripping.’
‘Maybe I’ll give it a
go. If ever I get a chance to read a book again. Babies and novels – not a good match.’ But motherhood had no resonance for him, and she quickly returned to the topic. ‘Surely sometimes fiction can get to the truth better than fact. Think of, I don’t know, Crime and Punishment, for example. Doesn’t it take us into his mind better than any factual account?’
He cast her an admiring glance. ‘Sure. “Fiction is about producing beautiful lies that tell more truth than facts.” Julian Barnes. Maybe so, but no one can ever really get into a different person’s mind. How can I know what it feels like to be a politician or a pilot? The only way to get into the mind of a pilot is to be one.’
‘Or of a killer for that matter. And you’re saying Dostoevsky didn’t?’
‘Well, better than most, I guess. But hey, maybe Eddy will do even better. Once he’s got the formula sorted.’ He chuckled. ‘He wanted me to help with the plot. I respectfully declined.’
‘Well, at least he appears to be giving it some serious thought. Maya should be pleased. She won’t have signed him up for nothing.’
‘Yeah. I mean, Claire’s right in a way. It’s gross. But writers have never stopped at that – everything’s fair game for them. The mess is there – why not use it?’
‘Mess?’
‘Isn’t that what Martin said? We’re all a mess. But that’s what the genre’s about – turning the mess into neatness. Clues are followed, evidence is gathered, the crime is solved.’ He opened his hands, his tone sarcastic as he added, ‘Order and justice prevail.’
‘So we hope. But we live in a world far messier than that. Murderers get away with it all the time.’
He raised his eyebrows. ‘In this case too? They seemed to think it’ll be wrapped up quickly.’
‘Maybe it will. They don’t need to get into the killer’s mind. Just some clear DNA from the fork. Other than Henri Seibel’s, that is. A matter of days, Eveno said. They took a swab of your saliva too? It made me feel like a criminal. I thought they were going to line me up for a mugshot.’
Painter Palaver Page 13
