Beyond the Grave

by R. W. Wallace

  Doubira acts as guide as Evian drives us back to the police station. I stare out the window but make no effort to take note of the scenery like I did on the way over.

  After five minutes, Clothilde whispers, so as not to be overheard by Evian’s subconscious: “Hey, Robert? Do you think there was a link between you and de Villenouvelle?”

  I turn to study her. Clothilde’s most common expression is that of a bored teenager, a look I’m so used to, I consider it her norm. Right now there’s no teenager in sight. What I see is a worried and serious young woman who’s wondering if her friend of thirty years had anything to do with the night she died. I’m guessing she’d forgive me if I was guilty but I hope we’ll never come to that.

  And that’s a big part of my problem. “I don’t really remember the last days I was alive,” I whisper back. “I don’t remember taking that bullet and I don’t remember anyone who might have wanted to pull the trigger on me.”

  I put my ghostly hand on hers on the seat between us. “What I can tell you is that the name Gérard de Villenouvelle doesn’t ring any bells at all. So if I heard it while I lived, it was during those last days that I’ve lost. I certainly never heard it before going to that hotel room and declaring your death a suicide.”

  “Why did you do that?” We never did get around to discussing my motivations, partly because she probably assumed I was as upstanding alive as I was dead.

  Dying and becoming a ghost really can change a man.

  “I was as spineless as my mother described,” I say, vaguely noting we’re getting closer to the police station but that the traffic is very slow. “I was always following someone’s orders, preferably someone who promised me easy advancement as long as I followed their instructions.

  “The guy who told me to go to that hotel room hadn’t been around for long but he’d already hooked his claws in me. If I did what he said, I’d make captain in no time. It wasn’t even a threat or promise, he just presented it as fact. He was the ideal captain and if he put in a good word with the bosses, I was sure to follow in his footsteps. So I took his words for gospel. I think I closed three other cases without really looking at the evidence before getting to that hotel room.”

  I run a hand down my face as the memories flood back. I see the gaudy hotel room, the girl spreadeagled on the bed with both her wrists slit, and the blood soaking into the carpet, making it difficult to get close to the scene without stepping on evidence.

  “I didn’t even really look at your face when I was there,” I whisper, unable to meet my friend’s gaze. “I was told it was a suicide, so I saw only the elements that pointed in that direction, and put my signature on the report by the end of the day. I never even learned your name.”

  “Well, you know it now.” Clothilde’s voice is gentle and I can’t believe how lucky I am to have her for a friend. “What was the name of this guy who was giving you orders?”

  “Montbleu,” I say. I allow my voice to carry a little now. If the name somehow makes its way into Evian’s subconscious so she’ll react the next time she hears it, all the better. “Pierre Montbleu.”

  “Okay. Good.” Clothilde taps out a short rhythm on her thighs. “We’ll keep our eyes and ears open for the name and make sure to scream our heads off when we see it.”

  I can’t help but laugh at the idea—but it’s also true. Evian is so sensitive that I think if we both start to panic around her, she’ll feel it.

  The question is, will she be able to act on the feeling?

  Twenty-Three

  When we arrive at the police station, it’s time for lunch. I expect Evian to declare they’ll be eating a sandwich at their desks, but she surprises me—and apparently Doubira if his expression is anything to go by—and tells Doubira to invite Tulle and find the three of them a nice restaurant not too far away. She doesn’t want to get back in traffic and I silently thank her for it. This is something that has definitely gotten worse in the last thirty years.

  Doubira chooses a classic brasserie less than two hundred meters from the station and all five of us take off on foot, Doubira and Tulle up front reminiscing about their not so distant days in training, and Evian behind, unknowingly flanked by two ghosts.

  Evian seems to be listening in on the conversation between Doubira and Tulle but I don’t think she’s interested in the specifics of any of the anecdotes the two mention. She’s trying to get to know them, to understand their characters, to make sure she can trust them.

  The brasserie is in a small whitish house from the fifties with red tiles and blue shutters, squeezed in between two modern four-floor apartment buildings. Several tables are crowded into a covered patio up front, squeezed in between the house and the busy street, but most of the seating is upstairs. The police officers are allowed to choose their table, and they go with the one closest to the restrooms—because a cupboard separates it somewhat from the other tables.

  Tulle seems to have understood this is a working lunch because the minute everybody has ordered, she pulls a tablet out of her purse and opens up a document loaded with information.

  “I’ve only had a few hours so far,” she says, “so the information I’m giving you now is the stuff that anyone could have found for you. It’s just a question of typing in the right questions in the police search engine.” Her long blond braid hangs across her right breast and as she finishes her statement, she grabs it and throws it over her shoulder to get it out of the way. I think she doesn’t like making a report so soon and wants to make it clear to Evian that she’s capable of more than what she can show right now.

  “I wasn’t expecting you to have solved our dozens of cold murder cases in one morning,” Evian reassures her with a smile. “That would mean everyone else, Doubira here and myself included, is absolute shit at their jobs, after all.”

  Tulle cracks a smile at this and twists her head in a way that brings the braid back to the front. Doubira follows the movement with his eyes—I do believe he likes the braid.

  The waiter arrives with a bottle of water and he walks right through Clothilde as he places it on the table. She looks up at him in annoyance but doesn’t bother to move. The police officers are at a table for four so there was one unoccupied chair. I tried to offer it to Clothilde when we first arrived but she preferred to sit on a pretend chair at the end of the table. I appreciate the gesture, as she’s much more at ease than me at sitting on things that aren’t there in the real world.

  The waiter must have felt her annoyance, because he scurries off a lot faster than he should have.

  While Evian pours water for everyone, Tulle taps on her screen. “Well, here’s what I got so far. I have the list of all women between the ages of sixteen and twenty-five who died in this entire region during the period you asked for. Then I have marked the ones who were ruled as suicide. I’ve flagged the ones that seem to be legit because there was precedence of depression or other attempts and/or suicide notes. I have the names of the officers who signed the reports for all the cases where the police was involved. There’s a different flag when the family made enough fuss about their kids not being prone to suicide to make it into the official reports.”

  Tulle looks up to meet Evian’s eyes. “Gérard de Villenouvelle does not appear in any of the reports. If he was involved, he managed to stay in the shadows.”

  Evian nods. “He was involved but clearly not that stupid.”

  “Do any names appear several times?” Doubira asks. He’s sitting sideways in his chair so he can stretch his legs out next to the table. The man is tall and wiry and looks like he should be playing basketball, or maybe soccer.

  Tulle runs a hand down her braid as she answers. “Yes, several pairs of partners were responsible for declaring some of the suicides. Never more than two or three, though, and usually over a period of several years. I’ve extracted the information for you—I’ll send you the file as soon
as I get back to the office.”

  “What about a Robert Villemur?” Evian says and I jump a little in my seat at hearing my own name—not that it should be a surprise at this point. “Is that a name that came up anywhere?”

  “Well, we know he was the one to declare Clothilde’s death a suicide.” Tulle bends over her tablet and taps furiously. Her eyebrows shoot up. “He signed off on two suicides in the late eighties. One of them was Clothilde Humbert, the other Gisèle Grand.”

  This information makes my non-beating heart speed up. I have no memory of a Gisèle Grand. In fact, I have no memory of investigating any suicides other than Clothilde’s. Is it really possible that I forgot about working on the case?

  “When did Mademoiselle Grand die?” Doubira asks.

  “Two weeks after Mademoiselle Humbert,” Tulle replies immediately. She taps some more on her tablet. Raises her eyes to stare first at Doubira, then at Evian. “Two days before he was reported missing, never to be seen again.”

  Oh. I meet Clothilde’s surprised look across the table. I had worked on a case similar to hers just before I died? During the period that I have no memory of?

  It makes the guilt rise in my chest to know that I’ve probably deprived yet another family of the closure they needed after the death of their loved one. That because of me, a killer is walking free. But I manage to push the feelings aside. I need to focus on the positive in this situation—the fact that it’s a very good clue and something that needs to be looked into.

  “Guess I know where we’re going next,” Evian says lightly. She leans back as the waiter arrives with the starters—a goat cheese feuilleté that makes me regret not having taste buds—and they all stop talking shop until the man has left.

  “Could you scare up an address for Mademoiselle Grand’s next of kin?” Evian asks Tulle as she pushes the first forkful of feuilleté into her mouth.

  “Of course,” Tulle replies briskly, apparently offended that someone would think it possible that she couldn’t find such information. “You’ll have it in your inbox as soon as we’re back at the station.”

  She leans over her plate and therefore misses the look that Evian shares with Doubira. Evian is happy with Tulle’s expertise and competence. This isn’t the last time they’ll ask her for assistance.

  I turn to tell Clothilde I share the sentiment but I’m stopped short by the expression on her face. She’s centimeters from Doubira’s plate and the envy and want she’s emanating is downright painful to watch.

  “I miss food,” she whispers.

  “Me too,” I tell her.

  “I miss goat cheese.”

  I sigh. This isn’t an issue I had at all anticipated when we escaped the cemetery. Nobody ever eats when they visit graves in a cemetery. So we were never exposed to this kind of temptation.

  Now I suspect we’ll just have to get used to it.

  Clothilde tries to steal the food from Doubira’s fork before he puts in it his mouth but the whole thing simply goes straight through her ghostly form.

  She sniffs and juts her lower lip out in a pout. “Goat cheese!”

  Twenty-Four

  Mademoiselle Grand’s sister lives on the other side of the city center from the police station. Emeline has absolutely no wish to get back into the car and suffer the traffic but she’s equally loathe to use public transportation. She’s tempted to ask Doubira if the police around here often use the sirens when they don’t strictly need it but shoves the thought away. There isn’t much she finds more annoying than abusing one’s power.

  They’re visiting the sister because the parents are long dead. The mother passed away mere years after her daughter and the father suffered a heart attack about ten years ago. Mademoiselle Grand leaves one divorced sister and three nephews and nieces that she never got the chance to meet.

  When Doubira had the woman on the phone earlier, he didn’t give much information but had to admit it was about her sister before the woman would agree to see them. Her distrust of the police could be due to general distrust of all strangers, or because of a specific incident—like the mismanagement of her sister’s death.

  Emeline won’t be able to confirm to the woman that her sister was murdered until they exhume the body but, a quick check of Tulle’s file showed a red tag next to Gisèle Grand. The family had put up a fuss and strongly disagreed with the possibility that their girl had decided to take her own life.

  Mademoiselle Grand succumbed to the same murderer as Clothilde, Manon, Lise, and at least four other girls, Emeline is certain of it.

  The traffic is as bad as expected but they keep themselves occupied. Doubira reads the main results of Tulle’s preliminary report out loud. None of the names, belonging to victims or lackluster police officers, ring any bells—except for Robert Villemur, of course.

  Emeline also finds herself marveling at the city around her, which is rather odd. She has never been in this part of the city before, so why is she so surprised to find a large mall in an area that Doubira informs her used to be a textile factory?

  At a little past four, they stand on the third floor landing of a newish apartment building, knocking at a door indicating that one Grand and three Guillaume-Grands live there, complete with drawings that Emeline hopes were made by someone below the age of three.

  A dark-skinned boy, who looks to be about five, opens the door and without saying a word he peers up at them with large, brown eyes.

  “Hello, young man,” Doubira says, squatting down to be on the boy’s level. “Is your mom at home? I think she’s expecting us.”

  Emeline breathes out a relieved sigh. Doubira seems to be good with children. She’ll make sure to put him on the front line whenever they have to interact with the little monsters.

  A second head pops out behind the door. This time a girl, probably eight or nine. Basically a taller and more female version of the first kid. “What do you want?” she asks with a frown.

  Doubira straightens from his squat, making him loom over the girl, but he pastes on a large smile. It makes him look so much younger. “We’re here to talk to your mother. Is she home?”

  The girl studies Doubira from head to toe, taking in his clothes, but if Emeline isn’t mistaken, also his skin color, so similar to her own. “She didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “I know she didn’t,” Doubira says calmly. “We have some questions for her, but nothing that can get her into any kind of trouble, promise. I think she’ll want to hear what we have to say.”

  “Why?”

  “Just go get your mom,” Emeline cuts in. It’s a bit curt, but she doesn’t have time to stand around here in the hallway all day, waiting for a kid to give her permission to talk to her mom.

  In the end, nobody needs to get the mom—she shows up on her own. She’s about Emeline’s height, has shoulder-length blond hair and blue eyes and wears a pair of worn jeans and a billowing white shirt. “Evian and Doubira?” she asks as she studies us. “Can I see some ID, please?”

  They both show their IDs. Emeline isn’t certain if the woman would have recognized a fake one if she saw it but she’s happy the woman doesn’t let any random stranger into her home.

  “Why don’t you guys go into the kitchen and have your goûter?” Madame Grand says to her two children, pushing their heads gently in the direction she wants them to go. Whenever someone brings up the similarities between having pets and raising kids, the parents always get insulted. But that is definitely herding.

  “But I can’t reach the glasses!” the small boy complains.

  “Go get your sister from her room—she can help you. Now zou.” Again, she gives them a push and this time they follow directions. Madame Grand follows a few steps behind and closes the kitchen door with a soft click.

  She gestures to our left. “Why don’t you come into the living room. This is about Gisèle?”


  We enter the small living room. At first Emeline can’t figure out where to sit because of all the toys—they’re in the bookcase, on the table, on the couch, on the floor, behind the curtain—but Madame Grand makes quick work of the mess on the couch and gestures for Emeline and Malik to sit.

  “I realize our showing up here might be a little bit of a surprise,” Emeline says. She sits straight on the couch, her elbows on her knees and her hands folded.

  “We saw our fair share of police officers in the day,” Madame Grand says, her voice so calm Emeline is sure she’s holding back her anger. “But once they’d said their piece and closed down every effort on our part to get justice for Gisèle, they disappeared and never came back.” She raises one elegant eyebrow. “One could say you’re thirty years late.”

  Emeline doesn’t show her annoyance at having been interrupted. In a way she can understand why the woman wants to lash out at them—except it quite clearly wasn’t Emeline or Malik’s fault that Gisèle didn’t get justice. Emeline was barely seven at the time and Malik wasn’t even born.

  “We are thirty years late,” Emeline agrees with a tight smile. “I’m looking into a case that has a very wide reach, and your sister’s death was mentioned in one of the reports.”

  “What is this case of yours about? What’s the link with Gisèle?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you the details of the ongoing case.”

  Madame Grand snorts and takes a breath to say something undoubtedly scathing but Emeline doesn’t let her.

  “I cannot tell you about the other case unless it’s proven that it’s in direct relation to your sister’s death. And even then I might have to keep certain facts back. I don’t particularly like lying so I try to avoid it. This is me being honest about the fact that I’ll be keeping things from you. If you want us to look into Gisèle’s death, this is the deal. Take it or leave it.”