by Michelle Wan
“Bravo,” cried Loulou, clapping Julian on the shoulder. “You, mon ami, will make a detective yet.” He tipped a handful of pistachios into the red hole of his mouth and scooted forward in his seat. “So,” he said, munching loudly, “this suggests an interesting scenario. Mademoiselle Beatrice meets someone. They get to talking. She tells this person she’s interested in orchids. He says, I know a place where the ground is covered with them. She goes with him. They drive to some isolated spot. Then—tac!”—both Julian and Mara jumped—“he does away with her.”
“But not right away,” objected Julian. “Don’t forget, she had the chance to take thirty more photographs. If this person intended to harm her, why wait?”
Loulou shoveled more nuts in his mouth and considered. “Maybe he didn’t mean to. Maybe something happened along the way. Our man makes a pass. Mademoiselle Beatrice resists. Or perhaps he simply needed to lure her to a sufficiently isolated spot …”
Mara shuddered. “All the same,” she persisted, “if this person knew where to find the orchids, then it means he must have been local, from the area. And if we can find where those orchids grew, it’s possible they could lead us to him.”
Loulou pulled a face. “What’s local? Do you remember the Dutch tourist we dug up in Quercy? Hanneke Tenhagen, student from Eindhoven, twenty-one years old.” He addressed himself to Julian. “Let me tell you something about Mademoiselle Tenhagen. Multiple fractures to the skull, as if the killer had been in a frenzy. Possibly raped. Her corpse was pretty badly decomposed when we got to it. A truffle hunter and his dog found her. Shallowly buried and then covered over with branches. Maybe the killer was disturbed in the middle of concealing the body. How did she get there? We interviewed an elderly couple who remembered picking up someone fitting Hanneke Tenhagen’s description at the beginning of August outside of Millau. Drove her as far as Rodez. Three months later, her body turns up in the woods near Carennac, one hundred and twenty kilometers away, mon dieu! And between Carennac and Beynac, it’s another eighty kilometers. So you see”—Loulou pivoted back to Mara—“your idea of local doesn’t work. If he had a car, our killer could have come from anywhere, gone anywhere.”
“He has a point,” Julian conceded. Mara glared at him.
Loulou continued: “Even if you find out where those photos were taken, where do you start? Do you question everyone in the vicinity? Do you dig up the forests? You must comprehend, Mara, your sister’s case was difficult because there was no evidence of a crime. I was working in Missing Persons at the time. We had very little to go on. I’m afraid she simply remained for us la canadienne disparue.”
Mara felt suddenly tired. The visit was taking a discouraging turn that she had not expected. Had Loulou invited them merely to justify the lack of interest on the part of the police? She glanced at Julian, who seemed disappointingly willing to capitulate. She was thinking of terminating their stay as politely as she could, when Loulou raised a hand.
“Of course, you haven’t yet asked me the most important question.”
Mara blinked. “What’s that?”
“So far we have Mademoiselle Beatrice and the Dutch woman. But were they the only ones?”
Mara and Julian stared at him.
Mara found her voice. “There were others?”
Loulou savored his moment, rising to pour another round of wine and taking care to give the bottle a half-turn each time, to avoid drips. “Have more nuts,” he said maddeningly.
“You see, my friends”—he addressed his guests but spoke as if a much bigger audience filled the room—“after I talked with you yesterday, Mara, I got to thinking. I used to keep a journal, rough case notes, to help me on the job, so to speak. I thought, who knows, maybe one day I’ll write my memoirs. Well, anyway, I looked through them last night, just to refresh my mind.” He paused, bottle in hand.
“And?” they asked in unison.
“Eh bien, there were subsequent events that might interest you.”
They both sat forward. “Subsequent events?”
He nodded, pleased with his effect. “Just that. At intervals, spaced out over the next fourteen years.”
“Bodies?” Julian asked.
“No,” Loulou admitted regretfully, “but vanished, like Mademoiselle Beatrice. One was a woman from Souillac, Julie Ménard, thirty-five, married. Summer of ‘89 it was. Another was a middle-aged spinster, Mariette Charlebois, from Le Buisson, July 1993. Then there was a teenager, Valérie Rules, from the hamlet of La Bique, set out after school one day, never arrived home. That was in June 1998.”
“They’ve never been heard from since?”
“Missing to this day. Every one of them.” Loulou had the self-satisfied air of a magician making rabbits disappear. What he actually did, however, was to put the bottle down and go over to the piano bench. As he lifted the top, Julian and Mara could see that it was filled not with sheet music but with square copybooks with shiny red covers, such as schoolchildren used. “It’s all,” he said, proudly displaying his archive, “in here.” Despite the cheap melodrama of it, they were impressed.
“Naturally,” Loulou went on, “we did the usual routine questioning—family, friends, employers, teachers, parish priests. Even talked seriously with a couple of types.”
“Well?” Mara pressed.
“Phut!” He dropped the piano bench lid with a resounding thud.
“Wait a minute.” Mara turned suddenly to Julian. “La Bique. Isn’t that just down the road from you?”
Julian, about to help himself to pistachios, paused. “Well, yes. Yes, it is. Oh, I see. Valérie Rules. Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing about her. I believe she went to school in Grissac. Everyone said she ran away from home.”
“Who knows?” Their host pulled up a chair opposite them and sat down on it. “Let me tell you something. I’m speaking as a cop now, with many years’ experience. With missing persons, psychology is very important. Julie Ménard, the woman from Souillac, husband claimed she went off with another man. Personally, I always thought the husband did her in. But her clothes were gone, and she did have a certain reputation. Or la Charlebois. Nursed her invalid maman, vicious old trout, rich to the gills, but never let her daughter have a life of her own. So one day poor Mariette just walks out and doesn’t come back. Who can blame her? As for la petite Valérie, alcoholic father, neurotic mother, she could have run away. Kids do that. Is she dead? Or working the streets in Marseille?”
Loulou leaned forward. “Even Mademoiselle Beatrice. She and her boyfriend had a quarrel serious enough to cause Monsieur Scott to leave. Maybe your sister, out of spite or disgust, simply went off, too.”
“But we would have heard from her,” Mara cried out. “She would never have left us without word all these years—” She bit her lip, deeply troubled.
“But of course.” Loulou waved a hand. “Undoubtedly, something unpleasant occurred.” Mara found it a perverse kind of comfort. “The question is, what? You see, Hanneke Tenhagen aside, where the other women are concerned we have to consider the possibility that no crimes were committed at all. Valérie, Mariette, and Julie could have simply left for reasons of their own. Beatrice could have met with an accident—”
“No,” Mara objected. “The camera changes all that. Who-ever found the camera would have also found her body and reported it.”
“Not necessarily, if she dropped the camera first. Picture it. She slips, drops the camera, tumbles off a cliff into the river, her body is never recovered. My point is simply that some or all of these missing women may still be alive.”
“You don’t believe that!” Mara cried.
Loulou tugged meditatively at the fatty wattle beneath his chin. “No,” he said finally. “I don’t. And this leads me to the second possibility and my little theory. Because, you see, if we say that these women, including your sister, are all dead, then we must also consider the possibility that their deaths were not unrelated.”
Mara tensed.
“Are you saying that we’re dealing with a serial killer?”
Loulou cocked his head to one side. “It’s something to think about, n’est-ce pas? And it leads us to an interesting speculation. Taken all together, the disappearances tell us a little about the person, if it is one person, whom we seek. Primo,”—he stuck up a big, flat thumb—“it was certainly a man, and one who chose his victims at random. Why? Because only Beatrice and Hanneke Tenhagen had anything in common. Both were tourists, similar age and build, both hitchhiking. Little Valérie Rules, on the other hand, was a schoolkid, fifteen, no breasts, skinny like a stick. La Charlebois, forty-two, fat, face like a cow pat. Julie Ménard, thirty-five, glamorous in a cheap way, liked the bright lights. So he took them as he found them.
“Secundo,”—a forefinger shot out to join the thumb—“he probably was, how should we say, comme il faut, presentable. Maybe even”—he grinned at Julian—“an orchid amateur like yourself. Oho! You are discomfited. But it’s logical. Who better to attract someone like Mademoiselle Beatrice, who loved orchids and who would be easily approachable by anyone who shared her interest? Tell me, were you in the Dordogne nineteen years ago, monsieur?”
Julian looked aghast. “Was I—? Well, yes, I was.”
“And you undoubtedly heard about la canadienne disparue?”
“Of course I did,” cried Julian irritably. “It was everywhere on the news. But there was absolutely no mention of orchids at the time.”
“True,” admitted Loulou. “That’s something that has only come to light just now. Always assuming, of course, that the photographs were taken by Mara’s sister.”
“They were,” said Mara doggedly.
“Regardless,” Julian persisted, “you can’t honestly believe—”
“Assez. Enough,” Loulou chuckled. “Just my little joke. All I say is, whoever it was, his victims must have trusted him. Hanneke Tenhagen was hitching rides, very possibly Mademoiselle Beatrice and Valérie Rules as well. Would any of them have gone willingly with Quasimodo?”
Julian parried, “He could have forced them or taken them by surprise.”
“You mean followed them to a lonely spot and then—couic!” Loulou drew his forefinger sharply across his throat.
Mara winced.
The ex-cop shook his head. “It doesn’t fit. Take Mariette Charlebois, fat, asthmatic. Or the Ménard woman. Unlikely that either of them would have been wandering alone in the forest. More probably our predator met them in a more conventional way. Say la Charlebois is sitting disconsolately in a salon de thé, dipping a macaroon and thinking about her horrible mama. A stranger befriends her. He is sympathique, offers her a ride somewhere. Or Julie Ménard. Picks her up in a bar.
“Tertio, it’s probable that our man lived or worked somewhere in the region, or traveled, for whatever reason, within Périgord-Quercy. And, finally, he must have had some form of transportation because the disappearances were widely distributed.”
Julian developed this train of thought. “So you have a body in Carennac and four others missing, last seen in Souillac, La Bique, Le Buisson—and Beynac, if we accept that Bedie was there. All of these places lie in an east-west line exactly following the Dordogne. Have you considered that the person you’re looking for might work on the river? A barge hand, for example. Or someone who works on those tourist gabarres.”
“Hmm,” said Loulou. “Yes, we thought of that. Except my theory is, it’s not the river but the road. Every one of those places is also on the D703, the major east-west artery, or the D25 where it joins the D703. Who knows, maybe he was a trucker with a delivery route along that stretch.”
Mara came in. “The dates of these incidents. Except for Bedie and the Dutch woman, which occurred in the same year, the others were—what?—roughly four or five years apart? You said the last one was Valérie Rules, in 1998. So nothing’s happened since then?”
“Not within the region. Not so far.” A hard glint came into Loulou’s eyes. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“But surely women have gone missing in other places,” Julian objected.
“Certainement. Over the years there have been disappearances elsewhere—Limoges, Bordeaux, Biarritz.”
“Then maybe your man’s not from around here after all. And maybe the four-to-five-year gap doesn’t hold, either. In fact, as you pointed out, every one of these women could have gone off for their own reasons. You could be looking for a killer and a pattern that don’t exist.”
“Hanneke Tenhagen was most definitely and brutally murdered,” Loulou reminded him sharply.
“Of course,” Julian conceded, looking vaguely troubled. “I wasn’t referring to her.”
“And my sister,” said Mara. “She didn’t disappear of her own volition. I’m sure of that. I think Loulou’s right. I don’t know about the women in other places, but for my money, Bedie, Hanneke Tenhagen, Julie Ménard, Mariette Charlebois, and Valérie Rules are connected somehow. I think there’s a killer loose in the Dordogne, Julian, and he’s probably looking for his next victim right now.”
They were all silent for a long moment.
Julian was the first to speak. “All of this is very interesting. But what are we supposed to do with it?”
“Do?” Loulou looked startled. “In my opinion, nothing. But of course, that’s up to you.” He peered closely at Mara and shook his head. “I fear, however, that Madame is very much the one for action.”
“I’m convinced the orchids are trying to tell us something, at least where my sister is concerned,” she said.
“Eh bien, what about you, Monsieur the Orchid Expert? Do these flowers also speak to you?”
Julian blinked. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it so happens the section of the Dordogne Valley between Souillac and Le Buisson is a part of the region I know well because of the mapping and field research I did for my book.” Not in his wildest dreams had he ever expected Wildflowers of the Dordogne/Fleurs sauvages de la Dordogne to be put to such a bizarre application. “Offhand, I’d say that most of the orchids in the photographs could be found there. Trouble is, they can also be found in other places, scattered pretty much throughout the region.” He shook his head. “When all’s said and done, it’s precious little to go on.”
By the time Loulou saw them out, the day was coming to a spectacular end. A fierce sunset bathed the western face of the town, lingered redly in the windows of the houses. The vineyards in the valley below stood in shadow.
“Bonne chance!” Loulou shook hands energetically with them. “I think you have much work ahead of you. Keep me informed. I’ll be very interested to know how you progress.” He added gravely, “But be careful. You realize, do you not, Mara, that you place yourself in great jeopardy?”
“Me?” Mara was startled.
“But of course. If our killer is still operating in the area, you could come as a nasty shock.” And since she still looked puzzled, he explained: “Your face, Mara. Your face. You will remind him unpleasantly of a woman he murdered nineteen years ago. Our man will not be happy finding you on his trail. Having killed before, how easy it will be for him to kill again.” Loulou regarded her searchingly. In a moment of genuine solicitousness, he took her hand once more.
“If you really want my advice, I say give it up. Take it from me. Some things are better left alone.”
•
“I’m not sure how useful that was,” Julian grumbled as they left Loulou’s house. “All we know now is that four other women, apart from Bedie, have gone missing, and the police haven’t been able to find them. And I’m not including Hanneke Tenhagen.”
“But there’s the possibility that one person might be behind the disappearances,” said Mara. “It puts everything in a different light.”
“Humph,” said Julian.
As Mara drove out of the town, she reflected that Julian had played it rather cagey about Bedie and Valérie Rules. He clearly remembered the cases well
enough but for some reason had been reluctant to admit his knowledge. Was he just one of those people who didn’t like talking about unpleasant things? Or was there something more behind his reticence?
“Are you going to take his advice about giving it up?” Julian asked, noting that she had gone quiet.
“Of course not,” said Mara, downshifting into a turn.
Far away, against a fiery sky, a buzzard circled lazily, on the hunt.
SEVEN
Mara e-mailed Patsy:
> Look, Patsy, I know you don’t do criminal psychiatry, but do you have any thoughts on what the profile of a serial killer might look like? <
In her Manhattan office, housed on the third floor of a dignified if dingy brownstone, Patsy frowned as she read Mara’s message. She rubbed her nose, made a noise that sounded like “Sheew!,” and tapped out a response.
> Not until you tell me what’s behind this, kiddo. <
> Loulou La Pouge, the ex-flic I told you about, thinks we may be dealing with a serial killer. He’s collected information on other women who have gone missing from the area. Bedie and Hanneke Tenhagen, whom you know about, both date from 1984, but after that there was someone named Julie Ménard from Souillac who disappeared in 1989, then a Mariette Charlebois from Le Buisson in 1993, and a schoolgirl from La Bique in 1998. The problem is, except for Hanneke Tenhagen, there was no evidence of a crime in any of the cases, they’re all simply missing persons. Nevertheless, Loulou thinks they were all the victims of foul play by a single perpetrator. <
> Okay, I get you. Look, like you said, I’m no forensic shrink. There’s a range of psychiatric disorders that can turn nasty, given the right push. But what you’re talking about is a whole different twist. However, at a guess, I’d say your subject would probably present as someone with a lot of unresolved anger, obsessive, a loner, socially inept. Although not necessarily a geek. In fact, this person might have to be capable of projecting a lot of charm in order to get near his victims. Don’t forget, some of the most horrific mass murderers have behaved like thoroughly nice people. At least at first. <
