by P. R. Black
Anyone watching video footage of Galbraith as he paced up and down the garage – for there were three security cameras on him at that moment – would have spotted an agitated man, like a deranged animal stalking its cage. He tore at his hair and mumbled to himself, and the stark strip lighting lent an oily sheen to his sweaty forehead. Finally, he checked every corner of the garage, made sure the door was secure, and let himself into the house through the garage door.
It was a huge property, far into the flat countryside outside the capital. Private wealth had ensured a massive home, while his much-derided MEP’s salary had maintained it comfortably. If anyone was monitoring his phone usage, it would have showed Galbraith contacted his two children by text and then placed a phone call through to his wife at her work, while he stood in the hallway. Then he moved to an area which was not covered by security cameras, and emerged holding a faux-effect wooden trunk with a brass latch, the sort that a pirate might keep his booty in.
With more haste than ceremony, Galbraith burned its contents in a red brick barbecue built into a square courtyard in the centre of the property, a place of concrete and dry stone he called his garden. There was no greenery within that stolid arena bar the more stubborn weeds.
Galbraith sank into a garden chair, still in his work clothes, and watched the flames engulf everything in the trunk. As an afterthought, he added the trunk, dousing it with lighter fluid and watching until it splintered in a red torrent of ash and grew indistinct from the embers of the kindling.
The activity did not calm him, and he repeated many of the gestures he had displayed in the garage – pulling and tugging at his hair, gnashing his teeth, occasionally uttering portions of sentences only he understood. He continued to sweat. Several times, he scrolled through his phone, weighing it in his hands, but records would show that he did not text or call anyone else.
Galbraith considered a beer, then had one out of the fridge. It was a clean, but mean German Pilsner, and he became calmer after gulping half of it down. By the bottom of the bottle, he was almost confident. He went into the house for another one, and saw that despite the alarms, the cameras and the security lights, the sliding door separating the inner patio from the kitchen had been left ajar. Galbraith always, always closed this door.
Galbraith did not hesitate – he dropped the empty bottle and began to run for the door at the opposite side of the room.
A shadow detached itself from the corner and intercepted him, tripping him flat on his face.
Galbraith turned over and lay on his elbows, gasping, glasses knocked askew off one ear.
‘Come on, Edwin,’ said the newcomer.
‘No.’
‘Come on, now,’ the shadow said, grinning. Then he showed Galbraith the knife. ‘You knew I was coming. Let us be quick about it.’
17
The coffee was far too strong. It disagreed with Becky’s tummy and thickened, rather than quickened, her blood. But the café was a delight – stone floor, scrupulously clean surfaces, waiters immaculate in crisp black and white. The chat among the clientele had a wonderful fluidity to it, a pleasing rhythm which, in her mind, she tried to break down into digestible language, so as to be prepared for the conversation to come.
Flowers garlanded the windows, and the sunlight streaming through blessed them with the effect of stained glass. A stainless-steel coffee machine would not have looked out of place in a black and white movie set during the war; the old lady with the Pekinese who caused a fuss over her torte limon looked as if she might have had a bit part in it. Although the subsequent argument streaked far ahead of Becky’s comprehension, the cadences pleased her, too. She could not think of an English equivalent of this place, this scene.
She had lured him here on the promise of a date, somewhere very public, and very open.
Leif Fauré blew on the surface of a black coffee, his nostrils inflating to take in the scent. His eyes rarely left hers, deep, black and frank. The dog lay at his feet, beneath the table, unseen but present, like the shark in Jaws. Becky had heard sheepdogs were clever and obedient, if a little jealous.
‘Why are you here?’ Leif asked.
‘You know why.’
‘I know all about the date. It doesn’t explain why you’ve contacted me this way. Was it a joke?’
‘Sorry about that. I had to be cautious. Hey, for what it’s worth – your dating profile is a winner.’
He studied her coolly, then took a sip. ‘I spoke to the police – maybe about ten days ago. They made me go through it all again. It wasn’t a nice experience. Are you helping them? By being here, I mean?’
She shook her head. ‘I’m here for myself, no one else.’
‘Perhaps you could speak to them, instead? They may have something for you.’
‘You’ll understand why I take an interest. I’m curious about some things. I have a few questions I need to ask.’
‘I have nothing to say to you. I hope you do not mind me being blunt. Seeing you… it’s not healthy.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way. I don’t mean to upset you.’
‘I know what you went through. I was there.’ He scratched his head, suddenly, much as a dog might score its own ears in brute irritation. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to revisit it.’
‘I don’t want to go through it all again, either. That’s not my intention.’
He sipped his coffee, saying nothing.
‘I just wonder… how long have you been doing online dating?’
‘What?’ He barked the word.
‘Were you always on websites? Maybe you tried other kinds of dating, when you were younger. Pen-pals, maybe?’
He shifted, uncomfortably. Underneath the table, the dog sighed, as if disturbed by something it dreamed. ‘I don’t see what it has to do with you.’
‘I found you, didn’t I? This is a date, isn’t it?’ She smiled.
He didn’t reciprocate. ‘Please be brief. What do you want?’
‘Like I said – just filling in some details. If I was to say the name Fabrice… would it mean anything to you?’
‘Well, in a manner of speaking. I know some Fabrices. It’s a very common name – like William or John in England.’
‘That’s not a name you’ve ever used on a dating profile?’
‘No.’
‘Intriguing that you use fake names, I have to say. Strange, as Leif is a lovely name. Kind of odd. Not recognisably French. Is it Scandinavian? Norwegian, maybe?’
‘Finnish. On my mother’s side. That was her grandfather’s name.’
‘Why not use your own name? I’m just wondering. Why do you need to…?’
‘Wear a mask?’
She flinched. ‘In a manner of speaking,’
He considered this a while. ‘For you, I guess this part of the world must seem like a nightmare. But for me, this place is my home. Always has been. I’ve never wanted to leave – even after what happened. Even knowing he could still be out here, somewhere.’
‘I doubt that he’s still here.’
‘You don’t know that for sure. Maybe that’s why you’ve come here? To try to find him?’
She nodded.
‘Okay. So you’ve come back. But I stayed. Now, I wouldn’t equate my experiences with what you went through. That was the worst of all things. It was hell. But it had an effect on me, too. It changed my life. It’d change anyone’s life, to see what I saw that day. To have to recount it, again and again. But then, things actually got worse. To be treated as a suspect…’ He shook his head. ‘I remember reading one line in a newspaper. “A 20-year-old man is being questioned by police.” Or, what is the term used in English? “A man is helping police…” What is it? You must know.’
‘Helping police with their inquiries.’
He clicked his fingers. ‘That’s it! I like that. Inquiries. It’s subtle. Yes. I helped police with their inquiries. And when they made sure that I had nothing to do with what happened… I had to go back
home. Return to my life. But that wasn’t the end of it. People who live here had questions to ask. They made inquiries. How would you feel if someone you knew was questioned over murder – the worst kind of murder, the worst thing in the world? You might accept they had nothing to do with it. But you would still wonder. And people here wondered. And so did their daughters.
‘That’s why I use the false names. Google can prove annoyingly persistent when it comes to this case. Particularly with the anniversary having passed. And now the new appeal. These new inquiries.’
She sipped her coffee. ‘It must have been terribly inconvenient for you.’
‘I know how that sounds. I know what you must think of that. It’s just how it was, for me. This is how I was treated. As a suspect. And that was after the police had come and gone, and retraced my every movement, and bagged up my clothes, and spoken to everyone I’d ever known, and taken swabs and hair and blood samples, and torn our home apart.’
‘Please don’t worry. I understand everything you’re saying.’
‘Just… it’s hard to meet a girl when you have a reputation. Whether you deserve it or not. Or even worse, if you do meet one, it’s the wrong kind of girl. The ones who are attracted to a known name. Whatever the reason.’
‘Pardon me for asking, but why didn’t you leave?’
He frowned. ‘Why should I? I come from old farming stock. We’ve been in this valley for centuries. My father built up the farm. When he sold some of the grounds and the stock, he was a rich man. The farming went bar the odd field to keep my father busy – it was never my thing – but the four walls stayed and were passed on to me. And I love those four walls. It’s my home. I’ve never lived anywhere else, and I’ve never wanted to, either. And I love the woods, too, and the valley. All except one part of it.’
‘I get what you’re saying. But you had a habit of hooking up with people in the past, didn’t you?’
‘I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Letters. To English girls.’
‘I don’t think I ever did that.’
‘No? You never went by the name of Fabrice?’
He scanned the far wall, over her shoulder. ‘As I say, no. I never did that.’
Becky slid some photocopies from her pocket. They were typewritten, double-spaced; the only thing scripted by hand was a signature at the end. ‘You don’t recognise these?’
Leif scanned the sheets, holding them close to his face. Perhaps he was vain, Becky thought. Too cool for glasses. The tragedy was, he might have suited them.
After reading a few lines, his face relaxed. ‘I have never seen these before in my life. That signature is not mine, and I’ve never posed as a “Fabrice” before in my life.’
‘You’re sure?’ She took the sheets from him.
‘Positive. It was a long time ago, I would guess, but I would have remembered something like that. What does it have to do with you?’
‘They were written to my sister. The person who wrote these letters was trying to arrange a rendezvous. He was her pen-pal. As you can see, he was a French boy called Fabrice.’
‘I was meant to meet someone that day. It was someone I wrote to, yes, and she wrote back to me. But she was American, not English. I was meant to meet her two days later, when her family was passing through the valley. Her name was Theresa. She wasn’t your sister, Becky. I know what you might be thinking, but it wasn’t her.’
‘And you told the police about this?’
‘Of course I did. They know all about it. They know everything about me from that time. They looked at the letters from Theresa. They know what clothes I was wearing on what days. They know it all. And I am telling you – I know nothing about Fabrice, and nothing about the letters.’
‘It seems like an amazing coincidence. Because they were mailed from your house.’
This gave him pause. ‘I can’t explain that. It must be a mistake. I did not write to any English girls.’
‘I find that difficult to believe.’
This statement caused no anger. Instead, weariness seemed to bear down on his shoulders. For a moment, he looked older than he was. ‘It’s a set-up, of some kind. That was the official line. They investigated it thoroughly. I had nothing to do with it. That isn’t my handwriting. They cleared me, can’t you get that into your head?’
‘Put yourself in my position, just for a moment. You must admit it’s too much of a coincidence.’
‘Not if the killer knew who lived in the area. And needed an excuse to draw the family in, in some way. And anyway, it seems no more a coincidence than your sister meeting a boy she had been writing to called Fabrice, where your family happened to be going on holiday.’
‘You’re right – it is a little chicken-and-egg. I did wonder how much influence Clara had on my mother and father, whether she pushed the idea to come here onto them. She could be persuasive in her own way. She was used to getting what she wanted.’
Leif finished his coffee and set it back down on the saucer. ‘That’s for you to figure out. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help. I have a number for the cold case police who I spoke to, the other day. I can pass it onto you, if you like. I discussed this and many other matters with them.’
‘I’d appreciate that. How about your number?’
‘What for?’
The question seemed absurd. ‘Well… in case I need to contact you.’
‘I’m sorry to say this… but I don’t want to give you my number. I’m not sure I want to speak with you again. Now, I’ve given you my time. I have some business to attend to this afternoon.’
Becky nodded, and rested her elbows on the table. ‘I understand all that. I know this is uncomfortable. If it wasn’t important, then I wouldn’t bother you. But the truth is, we’re connected. It’s not a nice connection. I’d rather it didn’t exist. I wish our lives had never intertwined. But it’s a fact. There is a line drawn between you, me, and the devil. I can’t ignore that. Not until they find him. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, but…’
‘Just one more question I want to ask you – about the carvings.’
‘Carvings?’ He frowned.
‘Yes. There was a sign, left on a tree. Fabrice had carved something in a tree for Clara. Like a patrin. A traveller sign. Gypsy stuff. I think she’d read about it in the Famous Five. It was cut into the bark.’
‘You mean like the faces?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘The faces. There were faces, cut into the tree. I found them in the woods, right before I saw you.’
‘No… these signs were stars. Pentagrams. Like devil worshippers have. Or pretend devil worshippers. Like you see in Hammer horror movies. Sorry, faces, did you say? Someone cut faces into the trees?’
‘Yes. Like a mask. Like the one… you know the one I mean.’
Becky’s nerves snapped taut. She sat bolt upright. ‘I’ve never heard about these faces. Where was this, exactly?’
A tremor passed across his brow; his flesh crept. He stammered, ‘Near the clearing. The path to my house. Listen… I have no more to say. I don’t think I should say anything else. I really must be going.’ He slid a banknote underneath the saucer and nodded to a waiter. ‘I can give you the number for the cold case team if you’d like to feed it in your phone.’
She did so, typing in a number he read from his own handset, all the while thinking of the faces on the trees. ‘Are you sure I can’t have your number?’
Leif shook his head. Becky reached out and placed her hand on top of his. ‘Please. It would be a help.’
His eyes locked on hers for a moment. At his feet, the dog whimpered and grew restless.
‘At least let me give you mine. Here’s my card – it’s within your power, then. I want to talk about that day, Leif. I need to talk about your house, the woods, the path, about the American girl… Theresa? Everything. If you owe me anything…’
He tucked her business card into his top pocket. ‘I owe you noth
ing, Becky. I wish you well in your life.’
‘If you think of anything, please call.’
Leif paused a moment, then withdrew a pen. He scribbled a number down on part of Becky’s card, then tore it off and threw it at her. He got up to leave, throwing on a light jacket. ‘You know, my life was ruined that day, as surely as yours was. Nightmares. Social phobia. Pills, doctors. I was a sensitive boy. It ruined me. I don’t expect you to feel sorry for me. I know how laughable it must seem, compared to what happened to you and your family. But it’s true. So if we’re connected, then that’s the connection. That’s our link. A lifetime of horror. I am so sorry for what happened. I am sorry about your life. But I don’t think we should speak again. Goodbye, Becky.’
Before the door to the café had closed behind Leif and the dog, Becky was scribbling shorthand notes into a pocket journal. Faces in trees? The woods? Local police?
She switched her phone back on. The ‘answerphone’ symbol throbbed in the top corner, with a number 4 attached to it. There were also several missed calls. When she saw the same caller ID was attached to each one, she frowned, and hit ‘call return’. A woman answered in heavily accented English – French, she thought. ‘Hello? Becky?’
‘Who’s this?’
‘Detective Inspector Labelle… I’m with the French Police Nationale. We have a number of things to speak to you about.’
‘Like what?’
‘First of all, we want to update you on your case. And we want to talk to you about Edwin Galbraith.’
Her pulse twitched at her throat and temples. The words tumbled out in an embarrassing rush. ‘I’m sorry, I’m afraid I’m on holiday.’
‘Yes, we know. You’re on holiday not far from us, and we’re coming to speak to you.’
‘Why do you want to speak to me about Edwin Galbraith?’
‘He’s dead, Becky.’
18
The interview room was bare except for a table and chairs and the recording device. Although it had been shirt-sleeves weather when she arrived at the gendarmerie, she felt like she should have had a musty blanket draped over her head.
