Milieu Dawn

by Malcolm Franks

The colours of the parched fields either side of the open road were more orange than sand, due to the intense baking sun dominating the landscape over the past weeks. While short periods of drought were not uncommon at this time of year the current hot and dry spell had lasted longer than usual. Summer it may have been, yet the electrical storms bringing sudden thrashes of urgent rain happened more frequently than the tourism industry would have you believe. For some reason there had been none for several weeks.

  Cogolin lay a few miles north of St Tropez, the heartbeat of the French Riviera. The town had been built at the bottom of a small mountain range. Some of the properties edged up into the steep hills but the majority of the town lay in the foothills.

  Matt could see his destination nearing with each complete cycle of the huge rubber tyres propping up the luxurious four by four. He would have preferred a nimble diesel saloon car rather than this fuel thirsty, top of the range, monster though he had to admit it was damn comfortable. If nothing else, Gratia understood luxury.

  The vehicle was so modern Matt had no idea what half the buttons and dials on the console were for. Unable to get the air conditioning operating to his satisfaction, he had eventually resorted to the basic tactic of leaving a window open.

  A ringing noise interrupted his train of thought. He glanced at the telephone shaped icon flashing intermittently green on the information screen. Obviously, he had to press a button or turn a dial somewhere. Easing his foot against the brake pedal brought the mammoth machine to a halt. He noticed another flashing button labelled ‘inc’ and pressed with his thumb. The information panel went temporarily blank and then Gratia’s face appeared.

  “Nothing came of Bussana Nuova?” the image asked.

  “Another dead end,” he replied. “According to neighbours, the tenant left in a hurry without giving a forwarding address.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “I’m about to enter Cogolin. If nothing comes of this then I’ll go on to Spain.”

  A half smile appeared on her face, as though something was bothering her.

  “What’s up?” he said.

  Gratia hesitated for a few moments.

  “Would you like some company in Spain?”

  He thought they’d agreed not to meet until he returned.

  “What’s on your mind, Gratia?”

  “I have made reservations in Pamplona. We can talk there when you arrive. I’ll send a text with the address.”

  “I’m off the road. We can talk now if you like.”

  “No, it can wait.”

  “I might get everything I need here at Cogolin.”

  She hesitated.

  “We can still use the time to talk.”

  Her reluctance to discuss the matter sounded ominous. Matt thought better of pressing the issue.

  “Okay, I’ll make my way to Pamplona next. When will you arrive?”

  “I’ll be there before you,” she said.

  “Touch wood I’ll see you in a day or so then.”

  Her head turned from the screen, as if troubled. Something or other was on her mind, was worrying her.

  “Try and get there as quick as you can.”

  “Okay,” he replied. “Are you sure there is nothing you want to say now?”

  “No. We will talk at Pamplona.”

  He didn’t get the chance to respond. The screen went blank. Gratia had ended the call. Matt wasn’t sure how to react to the odd conversation. Gratia was clearly disturbed by something. All sorts of thoughts started to run through his mind as to what the issue might be.

  Maybe his enemies had found out she was helping him and threatened her safety. Perhaps it was a work problem, though this was unlikely to have her wanting to meet up with Matt so urgently. No, her concern had to be connected to his research. He shook his mind back into focus and re-engaged the auto gearbox.

  The time approached noon when the vehicle entered the small town. A few more minutes spent negotiating his way around the parked cars at the sides of the narrow road and he had arrived in the town centre. The tourist information office sat on the edge of the pavement, at the point where all roads of the town seemed to come together. Matt turned into the first side opening that wasn’t blocked by local traffic and parked.

  The walk back was hot and sticky, complicated by the need to constantly evade huge numbers of tourists slowly ambling through the town. They were an irksome bunch. Often or not in large groups, they patrolled the streets two or three abreast and moved aside for no-one. At one stage Matt almost crashed into the heated rotisserie outside a butcher’s shop to avoid one such group.

  The relief on his face on entering the tourist office must have been evident, judging by the sympathetic grin offered up by the petite French woman at the counter. Light brown hair hung behind her head in a ponytail, effortlessly highlighting the delicate bone structure of her little face. Like so many young French women she exuded a natural feminine grace.

  “Parlez vous Anglais?” he asked.

  “Mais oui monsieur, how can I help you?”

  Matt asked where he might find a room for the night. Without a second thought she picked up the phone from the desk and dialled a number. He listened as she spoke in her native tongue, at a pace impossible to follow.

  “One night, monsieur,” she asked him, and he nodded.

  A further rapid exchange of words suggested she had found him a room for the night.

  “Your name, sir” she asked.

  “Durham, Matt Durham,” he replied.

  Her eyes seemed to glaze over, almost as if she recognised the name. This made him change his mind about allowing her make the reservation.

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Give me the details and I’ll go and see them.”

  Another exchange with the phone followed and then she advised Matt of the name and gave him directions.

  “It is a good hotel. You will be comfortable there.”

  “Thank you very much,” he said appreciatively.

  Matt quickly turned his mind to the reason for the visit and produced the diary from the inside pocket of his linen jacket. He pointed to the address he sought.

  “Could you also tell me where I can find this address?”

  He noticed the friendly smile temporarily disappear from her face, returning seconds later at full beam.

  “I know it. It is close to where I live,” she said. “We are due to close soon for the afternoon break. I could escort you there if you care to wait. Perhaps take a coffee for a short time?”

  “I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble. It is on my way.”

  Matt was sure her offer was over and above the call of duty. He wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

  “Okay, I accept. Thank you …”

  “Mathilde, my name is Mathilde.”

  “Thank you, Mathilde. What time do you break?”

  “In about ten minutes,” she said with a pleasant smile.

  Matt looked across to see Mathilde replace the phone. She beckoned him over from the pavement café and he hurried across the road, arriving as she turned the key in the lock.

  “Are you sure you don’t mind?” he asked.

  “Mais non,” she replied. “Pardon, of course not is what I meant to say.”

  He walked on the part of the path nearest to the road, the way he had been brought up to escort a woman on a busy street. Her stroll was gentle and serene, seemingly immune to the intense midday heat. The white blouse and blue skirt of her uniform barely rippled in the light breeze blowing straight into them.

  “Do you provide this level of service for every customer?”

  “No,” she laughed. “Only those with kind faces.”

  “You think this is a kind face?”

  She laughed again, glancing discreetly at him as she glided along the path, catching him gazing intently at her movement.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “I did not mean to stare. Fr
ench women carry themselves with such grace and elegance.”

  A bright smile lit up her face and she looked up into his eyes.

  “How many French women do you know?”

  “None really,” he admitted. “However they are enchanting creatures to observe from a pavement café.”

  “That is because you only look at the young women in France.”

  “Ouch! I guess I asked for that.”

  Her head dropped back as she laughed to the sky making him feel silly with his careless, foolish remark. Small talk was never much of a strong point with Matt.

  “Perhaps you’d allow me to start the conversation again,” he said sheepishly.

  “Your observation is mostly accurate.”

  She turned her head and offered a bright smile to reduce his discomfort. Despite her apparent friendliness, Matt thought he saw a degree of nervousness in her eyes and berated himself for his clumsy conversation.

  “Do you like your job?”

  “Yes, mostly,” she replied. “I meet many types of people from many different countries, so every day is different.”

  “And I suppose the English give you the hardest time.”

  She smiled.

  “Not always,” she replied, “but mostly.”

  “Makes it even more surprising you are helping me.”

  “I am forbidden to hold prejudice,” she responded with a mischievous grin.

  Matt wondered why a clever young girl, such as Mathilde, had not moved on to a bigger town or city more suited to her sharp intellect.

  “Have you always lived in Cogolin?”

  “No. I moved here from Paris a few months ago.”

  “Really?” he remarked.

  “This surprises you?”

  “A little bit. Cities like Paris would surely offer greater opportunities for a young woman than a small place like Cogolin.”

  She didn’t respond.

  “I’m not taking you very far out of your way am I?”

  “If it was a problem for me then I would not have offered.”

  “Perhaps you will allow me to buy you a drink or evening meal after you have finished work, to show my appreciation.”

  “There is no need.”

  He pulled up, causing her to halt also.

  “Mathilde, it is something I would like to do. St Tropez is only a few miles away or, if it is too far, we could eat at the harbour in Port Cogolin. Not quite Paris, but something you might enjoy.”

  “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “To thank you, for the help you have given me today. I could have spent hours trying to find this place. Who knows, it might even restore the English reputation in your eyes.”

  His attempt at humour fell on deaf ears. The young French woman studied his face, uncertain as to his intent. Matt had no idea why he made the offer, it just felt like the decent thing to do. On reflection, it might have been better to say nothing.

  “You don’t seem like a bad man,” she said.

  He was taken slightly aback.

  “Bad? I hope I’m not.”

  “Why do you search for this address?”

  “Information, I hope the people who live there can help me with something, or point me towards someone more suitable.”

  Her eyes examined his face, though he wasn’t sure what she expected to find. Before he could speak again Mathilde had resumed walking, quickly turning off the main road down a narrow side street. He quickened his pace to catch up with her.

  “There is the house you seek,” she said, pointing to a blue door.

  He stopped and inspected the metal latch which pinned it to the outside wall.

  “This looks like an entrance to some sort of alleyway.”

  “Yes. You must go through this gate. The main door is a few paces to the left.

  He turned to look at her and gave a broad smile.

  “Thanks once again, Mathilde. You have been extremely kind. Should you wish to join me later then contact the hotel reception desk and they’ll get a message to me. You know where I’ll be staying.”

  Her eyes looked uncertain, worried even, though she never responded. He wondered if he’d overstepped the mark. Matt turned the latch and pulled the blue door open.

  “No, wait,” said Mathilde. “I will go first and show you the way.”

  She brushed past him and pushed through the opening to get ahead.

  “Papa, c’est Mathilde,” she called down the alleyway. “Ne sont pas tirez, ne sont pas tirez,” she shouted, or something like it.

  Suddenly the young woman’s body was catapulted back against Matt, followed by a loud cracking sound. He caught her as she fell and eased her slowly to the cool stone ground.

  “Mathilde,” he called.

  He urgently searched the petite frame for an explanation. The eyes of her agonised face were half closed. A small red blob appeared in the middle of her blouse, the thin material acting like a sponge soaking up a spilt glass of red wine. The blob multiplied rapidly in size and he realised the liquid was blood.

  “Mathilde,” he called again, trying to find the source of the wound.

  She coughed weakly and gazed up into his face.

  “They told my father you were coming for him.”

  “I haven’t come for anyone,” he insisted.

  She coughed weakly again.

  “Help, help me somebody,” he yelled.

  Matt ripped the sleeve from his linen jacket and pressed it against the open wound with one hand while he fumbled for his mobile.

  “A meal at the harbour sounded nice,” she whispered.

  “Hold on, Mathilde. I’ll get help. Just hold on.”

  Matt shifted his worried expression back from the wound to her face, to encourage her not to surrender to the pain. She groaned. Her head fell to the side. And she was silent.

  He slumped back against the wall, legs bent so he could rest his bloodied arms over his knees, unable to believe what had happened. A part of his mind urged him to run, a feeling rapidly overtaken by a desire to wreak vicious revenge on whoever had committed this atrocity. That’s when he felt the presence of a man’s figure standing close by. He looked up into the two barrels of the shotgun pointing to his head.

  “What have you done!” he shouted at the standing figure. “What the hell have you bloody well done?”

  “Mathilde, Mathilde,” was the most the pathetic figure could utter.

  The old man’s horrified expression seemed to reach in and tear at his soul. Tears rolled down the grief stricken cheeks of the large round unshaven face, filling the craggy lines worn into his facial muscles by the hard passage of time. He took a few backward steps, shaking his head to deny the result of his own actions.

  Matt could see devastation in the man’s eyes and realised he wasn’t a threat. The guy’s life source was busted and spent, his spirit broken. Taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts, Matt lifted the mobile to his ear as he waited for a response from the emergency services. He glanced up at the pathetic, emotional wreck of what must once have been a proud and vibrant man. Matt felt no sympathy for the broken figure, only pity. The barrel of the shotgun moved away. Matt reacted to the slow motion movement with little interest at first. It was only when the two metal tubes found their way underneath the old man’s jaw he recognised the purpose.

  “No,” he called, trying to scamper across.

  This time the sound complemented the timing of his eyes. Flesh battered against the alley wall as the now shattered mess collapsed to the ground. He was too late. The limbs of the man shivered briefly, and then stilled to a halt.

  For what seemed like minutes on end Matt sat and looked on blankly, his mind unable to properly absorb and process the sequence of events. It seemed to take an age to recover his mental balance, prompted into action by the sound emanating from the mobile.

  “Hello, hello,” it kept saying.

  A voice inside his head told him he had to move, and move quickly. Matt ended t
he call and searched around the narrow alley. He noticed a metal tap fixed to the side of the wall some feet away. Picking a way round the bloodied mess he opened the valve and vigorously rubbed the blood from his hands, using the remains of the jacket. He plucked the black plastic bag littering the ground and stuffed the soiled clothing inside before carefully adding the sleeve from the dead woman’s chest.

  He looked at Mathilde’s face and saw her eyes were still open. If he didn’t know better he would have believed they had been watching him clear up the evidence of his presence here. Matt crouched and eased her eyelids shut, saddened by her unnecessary end. She didn’t deserve to die. As he stood back up his leg brushed the side of a metal dustbin he hadn’t noticed before. He lifted the lid and placed the black bag and its contents inside. Retreating into the house he discovered the bottle of cooking oil and emptied it inside the dustbin. Within seconds, the soiled jacket was aflame.

  Matt made one more foray into the house, searching for any documents naming the residency’s occupants. He found one personal letter to Mathilde, maybe from a friend judging by the Parisian postmark, and an energy bill. The name listed was Armande, which was vaguely familiar. He pressed the paper into his trouser pocket and headed for the exit, checking the fire had done its job properly.

  “Goodbye, Mathilde,” he said as he opened the door.

  Seeing the street outside was clear, he headed back into town and located a public telephone to call the emergency services. Matt made the decision not to stay in town. Police would soon cordon off the area and start questioning people. The diesel engine stirred into life and he eased the vehicle onto the main road.

  He felt curiously sad. One way or another he was ultimately responsible for Mathilde’s premature end. Had he never come to Cogolin she would still be alive, and so would the old man, which he now realised to be her father.

  Three addresses had produced one missing resident and three dead bodies. The name Armande played on his mind, though he didn’t know why.

  What is this all about?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Pamplona (Pam)