I let his enquiring glance pass.
‘And I’m not exactly happy about Ruiz having his hair cut. You think the old lady will recognize him? Lisbon-Montreal is a long way to come for a non-identification.’
‘You brought him over?’
‘To be fair, he didn’t fuss.’ He gives me his slow assessing glance implying a comparison in which I show to no advantage. ‘He’d been away in some remote Atlantic pleasure spot and hadn’t heard of Madeleine’s death until the weekend. He was suitably distressed.’
‘You trust him?’
‘I don’t trust anybody. But his story holds together. More or less.’
The loudspeaker forestalls my next question. Monet and Ruiz, I notice, have gone outside for a smoke. They hover by the doors. Monet wears his inscrutable, wooden face. Ruiz looks preoccupied, abstracted, but when he catches my glance, his face settles into a bleak half-smile. He waves a pack of cigarettes in my direction. I shake my head.
‘What’s his story?’ I ask Contini.
‘Ruiz came over before Christmas to see Madeleine. They’ve had a possible movie cooking for some time. She wanted to show him the place she’d grown up in, so they drove down to Ste-Anne together on Christmas Eve. He went back up to town in her car and then left it for her at the airport, since he was flying back to Lisbon on Christmas Day. Via Paris. Some people have all the luck!’
‘But he had time to…’
‘To do the deed? Just about. He was back in his hotel soon after three a.m. We’ve checked. But where’s the motive? And why ring and leave a message for her if you know she’s dead?’
‘So you know the message came after her death?’
‘That’s what he says. He says he wanted Madeleine to do this film they were planning, but when he got back to Lisbon, his producer put his foot down. So he phoned to tell her. He also faxed the bad news to Mme Corot. When he read about Madeleine’s death - read about it as a suicide - he claims he was devastated.’
‘It could still all be a ruse.’
‘Don’t worry. We’re checking it out.’ Contini gives me a look of casual scrutiny. ‘You sound as if you’re retracting your confession.’
I scowl at him. ‘Why didn’t he stay the night with Madeleine, once he was here?’
‘Maybe you’d better ask him that.’ He takes off his hat and arranges the creases with artful precision. ‘After all, you both know the lady in question somewhat more intimately than I do. Maybe she sent him packing. Maybe she wanted to have Christmas morning alone with granny. Maybe he’d had enough of her. But as far as we know, he was the last person to see Madeleine. Apart from you, of course.’
I refuse the bait and stare at the arrival gates which are now releasing a fresh horde of passengers.
‘And how was Madeleine supposed to pick up her car?’
He shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Maybe you were supposed to give her a lift. So what were you ringing me about?’
‘My house was broken into. Brick through the window. And entered. While I was in Montréal. Out, in any case. It’s a mess.’
He darts me a quick look and repositions his hat at a rakish angle.
‘You sure you’re not just telling me this to blind me to your guilt. Make me feel sorry for you?’
‘Come and see for yourself.’
‘Was anything taken?’
I hesitate. ‘Whoever it was killed the cat.’
‘Damn!’
A child has started to howl. People brush past us, their voices raised in agitation. A capped driver flashes a name board in my face and slinks off as I shake my head.
‘Anything taken?’ Contini repeats.
I swallow. ‘My video recorder.’
‘From the Madeleine Blais museum?’
‘You… you went in?’ My throat creaks, a casket prized open to reveal worms.
Contini is avoiding my eyes. ‘Nice collection,’ he murmurs, searching the faces in the crowd.
‘Yes from there. And some tapes.’
‘Excuse me, Inspector…’ Fernando Ruiz is at our side.
‘Detective.’
‘Detective, yes. Mme Corot has come through. There, see. By the flower stand.’
Against the vibrant background, Marie-Ange Corot is a fashion designer’s vision of mourning. There is a heavy dark fur slung over a tailored suit of unrelieved black and a sleek dark helmet of a hat. She looks like some great glossy raven and as forbidding. She doesn’t smile at our approach, merely acknowledges us with a stiffening of her etched features.
‘Pierre.’ She shakes my hand and drops it quickly, as if I had some contagious and unacknowledgeable disease. I have the sudden sense that Contini has alerted her. The signs are all there in the suspicious glance she casts at me, the refusal to meet my eyes.
Though he manages to plant airy kisses on her cheeks, her greeting of Fernando Ruiz is hardly warmer. She stands there rigid as a mannequin. Only when I introduce Contini and Monet, does the fluidity I remember return to her features.
‘Mme Corot will come with me,’ Contini announces to my surprise. ‘You take Ruiz and Monet, Rousseau. And by the way, we’re going to Mme Tremblay’s.’
‘What?’
‘You heard me.’
‘But Mme Corot…’
‘Just do as I say.’
Like a past master of chivalry, Contini picks up Marie-Ange’s case and ushers her towards the escalator.
Monet’s arm is on my shoulder, as if he thinks I might dart after them. ‘Where’s your car?’ he asks.
Fernando Ruiz sits beside me in the front. He doesn’t really sit. Like some caged wolf, he twists and turns and edges and looks longingly out the window. He crosses and uncrosses his legs and arms. He smokes continuously. He covers my silence with eruptions of words which grow in confidentiality with each passing kilometre. Maybe he has forgotten Monet in the back seat or maybe this is all a show for his benefit. In my mirror, I can gauge the intensity of Monet’s listening by the way he strokes his moustache. It comes to me that Contini has set us up with his usual canniness.
‘Marie-Ange thinks I am partly responsible for Madeleine’s death. I can feel it. She thinks I shouldn’t have left Madeleine.’
My voice isn’t working properly. It changes registers against my will. ‘What happened exactly on Christmas eve? Why did you leave Madeleine?
Ruiz closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose, as if he were in pain or didn’t want to remember.
I edge into the right hand lane and drive more slowly. I don’t want to miss any of his words.
‘We were good friends, you know, Madeleine and I. Close friends.’
I clutch the wheel, but he doesn’t say anything more for a moment. The contradictory thought that he is both savouring his memories and rehearsing his story takes hold of me.
‘Close friends?’ I urge him on.
‘Yes.’
He must sense my mistrust for his tone changes, becomes drier.
‘We drove down to the country after dinner. She was full of childhood stories. About her grandmother in particular. She wanted me to meet her, to show me the sights, but when we arrived, the poor woman was asleep. Then… well, after Madeleine had changed, we went to midnight mass. In the church in town. We were a bit early.’
‘Did you see her talking to a dark, rather beautiful young man?’ I interrupt.
He shakes his head. ‘Inspector Contini asked me about that. There were so many people around, wanting to talk to her, too. I stood aside. I noticed she went into the confessional. That surprised me.’
He pauses and I can feel the look of enquiry on his face, but all I can think of is Jerome and his warnings. My instincts, about that at least, were right. Madeleine may not have made her confession to Jerome directly, but he got wind of it.
‘How did Madeleine seem then?’
‘Happy. Excited even. But after we got back to the house, afterwards…’ Ruiz shakes his head, lights another cigarette. I know what he can’t
talk about. ‘Well, her mood shifted. She decided it would be better if I didn’t stay the night. Maybe because of her grandmother…I don’t really know.’
With too much vividness, I see the state of Madeleine’s room as Mme Tremblay and I found it on Christmas day. My foot presses down on the accelerator and I lurch out to pass. The car on my left honks.
‘Hey,’ Monet grunts from the back seat. ‘Watch it. What happened to your wing mirror?’
‘I’ll tell you later,’ I mutter and resume my more sober pace.
Ruiz is silent for a few minutes, then says, ‘In any case, Madeleine offered me her car to drive back to Montreal in. She said she could always get a lift to Mirabel. It was no distance at all from Ste-Anne.’
‘Was there anything in the car?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A large envelope.’
‘I didn’t notice anything. To tell you the truth, we had both had a fair amount to drink.’
‘And that was it? Nothing else. She didn’t say anything? You didn’t go for a walk?’
He gives me a peculiar look, then sits up straighter in his seat. ‘We did have a little walk. To… to clear my head. It’s just come back to me. There was a noise from somewhere. A crackle. Something. You know what the countryside’s like. Anyhow, I jumped. And Madeleine, well she called out, “Pierre!” and laughed. Then she whispered something to me about her grandmother’s neighbour being in love with her, liking to spy on her, and she gave me a very large kiss.’
Both men’s eyes are on me.
‘In case you’ve forgotten, Rousseau, it’s the next exit.’ Monet says from behind me.
Monique opens the door to us when we arrive at Mme Tremblay’s. She is visibly cool to me, but rustles up a smile for Monet and Ruiz and manages an artful tear when the Portuguese realises who she is and offers condolences.
‘It is a great loss to us all,’ she breathes, not without dignity. Mrs. Tremblay’s tone I suddenly realise is creeping into her.
The fire is lit in the living room. Contini and Marie-Ange are already installed on the sofa opposite Mme Tremblay, all of them balancing tea cups.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Contini booms, but his eyes are on Mme Tremblay.
Her cup has set up a rattle in its saucer. She is staring at Ruiz, her neck craned, her mouth poised in an inaudible gasp.
‘So you’ve met Fernando Ruiz before, Mme Tremblay?’ Contini says with a gleam of self-satisfaction.
‘I… Yes.’ She turns her face away.
I rush to her side and put my arm round her shoulder.
‘I’m afraid it wasn’t an auspicious occasion,’ Ruiz mumbles.
Her eyes dart back to his face as if she would claw it. She takes a deep breath.
‘You knew Madeleine before…?’ she pauses and Ruiz finishes for her.
‘For some time. We had hoped to work together.’
Contini has evidently sprung this meeting on Mme Tremblay with no preparation.
‘Yes,’ Marie-Ange breathes. She is playing with the silver broche at her neck and the face she turns on Ruiz is all recrimination. But what she says to Mme Tremblay has a neutral ring. ‘Fernando is in the process of casting a new film and …’
‘I know.’ Mme Tremblay cuts her off. ‘And Madeleine wasn’t good enough for him. That’s what you told her, wasn’t it. I heard the message.’
‘More than good enough,’ Ruiz shifts from foot to foot, but somehow stands up to her venom. ‘It was my producer who wasn’t certain…about the suitability of the part.’
‘A little tea?’ Monique flutters towards him with a cup.
‘Not for you, Rousseau,’ Contini mutters. ‘We need to go back to your place for a little while.’ He gestures Monet aside and they carry on a whispered conversation. Monique’s sudden burst of babble makes it impossible for me to hear and then Contini is at my side. ‘You’ll excuse us, ladies, gentlemen.’
He puts his arm through mine and before I can say anything, he has propelled me through the door.
‘What are you doing, Contini?’
‘My job. Your place has been broken into, right?’
‘Yes, but Gagnon’s already been. There’s no need for you…’
‘There’s every need,’ he mutters.
A local police car is parked in my drive. The lights are on in my bedroom and throughout the ground floor. Contini looks so alert, his nose seems to twitch as we walk round to the front door.
‘Tell me again, from the top. What time did you get home? What did you notice? I didn’t get it straight at the airport.’
As I speak, he looks from the garden to the porch to the boarded window and back again. ‘You sure took your time over calling the police, Rousseau! Any reason?’
I shrug, but my trembling hands give away my agitation as I ring the bell and then unlock the door.
Plump, pink-cheeked Miron comes bounding down the stairs.
‘Oh, it’s you M. Rousseau. Whoever it was sure made a mess of your bedroom. We’re just finishing dusting for prints up there.’
Contini gives him a surly greeting. ‘You know what you’re doing?’
Miron blushes and nods.
‘Well, get back to it then. And don’t let me hear any gun shots.’ He prods me towards the living room. ‘Where did you find the cat?’
‘On my bed.’
‘Bed?’
‘Head on the pillow, to be exact.’
‘Ouch. Someone sure has it in for you.’ He paces the room slowly, scrutinizes the boarded window, the floor and all the neighbouring surfaces, then suddenly whispers, ‘Did you tell Gagnon about the Madeleine room?’
I feel I am flushing as brightly as Miron as I shake my head.
‘Right, let’s have a look at the cat first of all.’ He precedes me towards the stairs and I stop him.
‘Minou’s outside. I… I put her in a box.’
‘What the…! Don’t you know yet not to touch anything, Rousseau?’ He cracks his knuckles with slow deliberation. ‘My patience is wearing as thin as a strip of puff pastry. Alright. Forget the cat for now. Let’s go up to the attic.’
I unlock the door. Half way up the stairs, I hesitate. ‘You look round on your own, Contini.’
‘What’s the matter? All getting too much for you?’
‘Maybe it is.’ I hear myself say.
He flashes me the look of a disappointed parent. ‘Alright. Wait for me downstairs. Don’t relax too much though. We’ve still got a lot to do today.’
With a glance at his watch he hurries up the remaining stairs. I stand there for a moment, trapped between spaces I don’t want to be in, an alien in the only home I know. I hear him emit a low whistle, an ejaculation of ‘Putana!’ and despite the barrier of a thick wall, I can see in acute detail what confronts him. I hasten down the stairs and stand like a lost child in the cold formality of the dining room. I gaze out the window.
The sun is setting. Rosy fingers fondle the darkening blue of the sky and tinge the glistening snow a pale pink.
Madeleine was right. Nature doesn’t care. It is too big for us.
I will away the cosy blanket of self-pity which beckons with such seductive warmth. I pour myself a stiff whisky, pretend to dilute it with a sprinkling of water and try to focus my recalcitrant mind on the night of Madeleine’s death.
The phone rings and for a moment I have the uncanny feeling that I will hear that silence again, the silence I recognize as Madeleine. I take a hefty sip of whisky and force myself to lift the receiver.
‘Pierre, it’s Elise.’
‘Elise!’ My voice registers my surprise.
‘Look, Oscar’s out and … well can you come round? I need to talk to you. Alone.’ Her voice is low as if she didn’t want anyone to overhear.
‘Alone?’ My skin prickles uncomfortably.
‘Yes. It’s important.’
There is an odd beating in my heart. I have a sinking sense that I know what she is going to tell me. Oscar a
nd Madeleine…
‘I can’t get away right now,’ I murmur. ‘But a little later. I’ll try and make it a little later.’
‘Okay.’ She pauses. ‘If Oscar’s back, don’t say I phoned you.’
She hangs up before I can question her.
I am so immersed in what Elise will tell me that when Contini appears, I jump.
A smug little smile plays over his lips. He looks as if he has just secretly swallowed a prize delicacy.
‘Okay, Rousseau. I’m done.’ He pats his pocket. ‘It’s back to Mme Tremblay’s for the two of us. ‘I’ve had a word with the boys upstairs.’
‘You told them…?’
He toys with me as if I were a hamster in a cage. ‘No need to be indiscreet. Not just yet. I heard the phone, by the way. Anything interesting?’
‘Just a friend.’
‘Which friend?’ His tone makes me realise that my freedom is utterly in his gift.
‘Elise Boileau.’
‘Oscar Boileau’s wife.’ He considers for a moment. ‘So why are you looking as if the sky had just fallen in?’
‘Am I?’
He grunts. ‘What did she want?’
‘To see me. I thought I’d pop over there now. When you’re all through in here.’
‘Oh no, Rousseau. You’re mine tonight, as the crooners’ say.’ His laugh has an edge of malice. ‘Come on. Get your coat. We’re off.’
Outside It has grown dark and the wind has come up, the chill wind that brings with it an arctic blast of bad weather. I pull my coat more tightly round me and wish I had a toque on my head, rather than this useless brimmed felt, donned for Marie-Ange’s benefit and an expedition to the Ritz.
‘Hope you’re ready for the excitements of the evening?’ Contini says as he slips something into the glove compartment.
‘To tell you the truth, I’ve had about all the excitement I can handle. What have you got in mind?’
‘You’ll see,’ he chuckles mysteriously.
I don’t like the sound of that chuckle.
18
___________
The traffic on the twisting hill road that leads between my house and Mme Tremblay’s is unusually dense. Tail-lights gleam red ahead of us, appear between trees like furtive animal eyes. Behind, headlights dazzle, ricochet searching beams through the pines.
The Dead of Winter Page 35
