‘The show was good,’ he said.
‘Thanks for coming,’ said Céline. She had a strangely inexpressive way of speaking, so that it was often difficult for Gorski to discern whether she was being sarcastic. He chose to take her words at face value.
‘I thought it was very good,’ he said.
Céline raised her eyebrows sceptically. Clearly he was still in the doghouse.
‘Did you sell much?’ he persisted.
‘It’s not all about selling,’ she said. ‘It’s about promoting the brand.’
Céline often talked about ‘promoting the brand’, but Gorski had little idea what she meant by it.
‘Of course,’ he said. He drank his coffee. Céline stood up.
‘I hope you’re not planning to wear that tie,’ she said.
Gorski resisted the temptation to respond antagonistically. ‘I was, yes,’ he said in an even tone.
Céline shook her head in exasperation and left the kitchen without another word. A few minutes later he heard the front door close and the sound of her car starting. Gorski topped up his coffee and lit a cigarette. As it was Saturday there was little chance of Clémence making an appearance before noon. He took a tube of antacids from the pocket of his jacket and dropped two into a glass of water. He watched them froth up then disperse in the glass. When he looked up, Clémence was standing in the doorway. She was wearing a pair of his old pyjamas, the sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Gorski could not hide his pleasure at seeing her. Clearly she had only come down when she had heard her mother leave.
‘Heartburn?’ she said.
‘Just a little,’ said Gorski.
‘You should eat better. You look terrible.’
‘Do I?’
Clémence sat down at the table. Gorski poured her some coffee. He did not know what to say to her. It was unusual for them to be alone together. Usually they bonded through childishly making fun of Céline behind her back. Perhaps she had come downstairs because there was something she wanted to talk to him about. She got up and found the remains of a baguette in the bread bin. She nibbled at the end of it, allowing crumbs to fall onto the floor.
‘What you up to today?’ Gorski asked. He tried to make it sound casual, as if he was not prying into her business.
Clémence looked at him. ‘I’m meeting some friends in Mulhouse.’
Gorski nodded, but he had no idea who her friends were or what they might do together. He thought of what Alex Ackermann had told him of his evenings with Adèle Bedeau. Of course, Adèle was older than Clémence, but at his daughter’s age he had already had his fumblings on the farm with Marthe. The thought of Clémence engaged in similar activities horrified him.
‘You need a lift?’ he asked.
Clémence smiled indulgently.
‘We’re getting the train. Thanks.’
Then she took a mouthful of coffee and went back upstairs.
At ten o’clock Gorski was back at the foot of the drive leading to the Paliard house. He had taken the precaution of phoning ahead, but still, without thinking, he had left his car on the road, rather than driving up to the house. The nurse came to the front door. She made no pretence of welcoming him.
‘You’ve got ten minutes,’ she said.
Paliard was waiting in the drawing room. His skin looked even greyer than it had the previous day. The nurse followed Gorski in and stood by the door.
‘Good to see you again, Inspector. You’ll excuse me if I don’t get up.’
‘Of course,’ said Gorski. He could not work out if Paliard’s breezy greeting was meant in jest. The old man motioned for him to take a seat. On the table a silver tray with a decanter of sherry and two glasses had been set out.
‘You’ll have a drink with me, Inspector?’ said Paliard.
Despite the early hour Gorski nodded his consent. He had no wish to do anything to dampen the old man’s good humour. Paliard struggled forward on the sofa and poured out two large measures. Gorski took his glass and toasted Paliard’s good health. He had made up his mind not to beat around the bush.
‘Thank you for seeing me again, M. Paliard,’ he began. ‘I only have one question for you.’
Paliard interrupted him. ‘Before you begin, Inspector, if you’ll indulge me, I have a question for you. The tramp, Malou – what happened to him?’
Gorski glanced towards the nurse. ‘I’m not sure we’ve got time for that.’
‘Don’t worry about her,’ said Paliard. ‘She’s my employee. She might not act like it, but she is. We were discussing our friend Malou.’
‘He died in prison,’ said Gorski.
Paliard nodded. ‘And you did nothing to clear his name?’
Gorski shrugged. ‘The case was closed. There was nothing to be gained from opening old wounds.’
‘No?’ said Paliard. ‘But you said yourself that if Malou was not the culprit then the real killer was still at large. Was it not the case that you just didn’t want to ruffle any feathers? Perhaps you didn’t want any black marks against your name that might hinder your speedy rise through the ranks?’
Gorski stared at him. Paliard raised his eyebrows. ‘Well?’ he said.
‘I did what I could. The fact is there were no other suspects. There were no more leads to follow.’
‘Nevertheless, you continued to return to the woods?’
‘Yes.’
‘But nothing came of that?’
‘No.’
‘So what are you doing here?’
Gorski took a sip of his sherry. It was horribly sweet. For a moment he had forgotten the purpose of his visit.
‘As I said, I have one question. After I left yesterday, I remembered that you had a son. When I came here before, I asked him a couple of questions.’
Paliard said nothing.
‘I was wondering where he is now.’
‘Why do you want to speak to him?’
Gorski did not have a ready answer to this question.
‘When I walked here from the clearing yesterday, I arrived at the door in the wall at the back of your property. Would I be correct in saying that the door has not always been in the state of disrepair it is in now?’
Paliard nodded.
‘It struck me that gate afforded ready access to the woods.’ Gorski was aware that this did not constitute a great insight.
Paliard smiled thinly. ‘You’re right about one thing, Inspector, the boy was never out of those woods. Used to disappear in there all day, at least until the murder. But he wasn’t my son.’
Gorski waited for him to continue. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘He was my grandson.’
‘Your grandson?’
‘Manfred.’
‘Manfred?’ repeated Gorski. ‘Manfred Paliard?’
‘He’s not a Paliard. His name is Baumann, son of the Swiss good-for-nothing that ruined my daughter.’
Gorski ran the palm of his hand across his forehead and exhaled slowly.
‘He was a queer boy. Still is, if you want my opinion.’
Gorski nodded.
‘If you want to talk to him, my wife will give you his address.’
Gorski told him that wouldn’t be necessary. He finished his sherry and stood up.
‘Thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’
The old man appeared disappointed that Gorski was leaving. The nurse opened the drawing room door to usher him out. He could hear the old man struggling for breath as he closed the front door. He stood for a few moments on the step of the big house. A plump woodpigeon was pecking at the gravel of the drive. Gorski’s footsteps did not disturb it.
Twenty
MANFRED WAS WOKEN BY a loud knocking and a voice shouting something he was too drowsy to make sense of. He half opened his eyes. Sunlight filtered through dirty voile curtains. He was not at home. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. He closed his eyes. His trousers were loosened round the waist but he was still wearing his
shirt and shoes. He squinted through his eyelids. The light from the window hurt his eyes and he raised a hand from under the blanket to shield them. The knocking at the door came again, more insistently. It was followed by a male voice that made no concession to Manfred’s fragile condition.
‘Monsieur! Eleven o’clock, time to clear out.’
Manfred turned towards the source of the sound. The movement triggered a shooting pain at the back of his skull. He was in a hotel room. Next to the door was a chest of drawers. At the foot of the bed was a cracked wash hand basin. There was a small plastic bucket on the floor beneath it to catch drips from the supply pipe. Manfred’s jacket lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. The chipboard at the bottom of the door was broken where someone had put their foot through it. There was no bathroom. Manfred hauled himself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. He became aware of a keen pressure in his bladder. He got up and relieved himself in the basin. He ran some water and, with some difficulty keeping his balance, splashed cold water on his face. His left cheek stung. He looked around for a towel. He picked up his jacket and took his handkerchief from his pocket and patted his face dry. He looked in the mirror above the basin. His left cheekbone was bruised and the right-hand side of his face and temple was grazed. The scratches were superficial, but the skin around them was red. Dried blood was congealed around his nostrils.
The door opened and a cleaner came in. She did not appear surprised to see Manfred, and she withdrew in the same languid manner as she had entered, muttering a cursory apology. Manfred hurriedly washed the blood from his nose and wiped it with his handkerchief, which already had bloodstains on it. He glanced around the room to see if any of his possessions were there. His wallet was safe in the inside pocket of his jacket. He left the room and found himself in a passage that had the sickly smell of vomit. The cleaner gazed at him impassively. Manfred squeezed past her trolley. The smell made him retch. He found the stairs and half ran down four flights. He found himself in a dimly lit reception area. A middle-aged man in a cardigan with half-moon glasses looked up from a newspaper spread on the counter. He greeted Manfred cordially enough. Manfred wondered if he was the same man who had rousted him from his room a few minutes before.
Manfred said good morning and reached into his jacket for his wallet.
The man waved his hand and spoke as if he didn’t expect him to understand French. ‘You paid last night,’ he said.
‘Oh,’ said Manfred, ‘thank you.’
Outside, he found himself in a narrow lane. He was still in Strasbourg, somewhere in the vicinity of the station. He spotted a kiosk at the end of the lane and bought a bottle of water. He sipped a little and swilled it around his mouth before spitting into the gutter. Then he took a proper swallow. He was unaware of the people milling past him on the pavement. He felt dizzy and sticky with sweat. He went into a café and ordered a black coffee. The last thing he remembered was being in the bar, drinking whisky. He had no memory of leaving the bar or of going to the hotel. Nor could he remember how he got the scratches on his face. Probably he had fallen over. He was sure he had not been in a fight. He would remember such a thing. The unpleasant odour had followed him from the hotel. He realised that there was dried vomit on his shoes and the cuffs of his trousers. He downed his coffee, placed some coins on the table and left. The coffee oriented Manfred a little in the present. He remembered his arrangement with Alice for that afternoon and looked at his watch. It was twenty past eleven.
On the train back to Saint-Louis, the light began to flare, as if hot sunlight was being smeared on the inside of his eyelids. Manfred lodged the heels of his hands in his eye sockets. The familiar drilling sensation in his right temple commenced. Manfred was the only person in the carriage. He drew his knees up towards his chest and sat there, rigid, waiting for the journey to pass. The trick was to empty his mind, to ignore the coming onslaught. He tried to think gay thoughts and imagined himself walking hand in hand with Alice through a pleasant, verdant wood. Birds were singing. The sun was warm. Manfred’s jacket was slung casually over one shoulder. He made amusing small talk. But it was no good, the pain continued to mount.
A hand was placed on his shoulder. Manfred jumped.
‘Your ticket, monsieur.’
Manfred took his hands from his eyes and drew his knees down. The ticket inspector’s face was a pink blur. Behind his head, light flared like a halo. Manfred raised his hand to shield his eyes. The official repeated his request.
Manfred reached into the breast pocket of his jacket where he always kept his ticket. He handed it to the inspector who gave it a cursory glance. He asked Manfred if he was all right. He nodded that he was. The conductor did not move away. Manfred could not tell what expression he wore. It might have been concern or perhaps disgust.
‘I’m fine, thank you, I have a headache,’ he said. He was suddenly anxious that he had missed his stop, but the conductor, having looked at his ticket, would have informed him if this had been the case. The official made his way off along the aisle without another word. Manfred squinted out the window and saw that they had only just left Strasbourg. As the train picked up speed, the motion made Manfred want to vomit. He did not trust himself to make it to the WC at the end of the carriage. He threw up a little in his mouth and forced himself to swallow. He wiped his lips with his handkerchief. He longed to be at home in his darkened bedroom with the covers pulled over his face.
Later, Manfred did not remember getting off the train, walking the short distance to his apartment or getting undressed and into bed, but all these things must have occurred, because at a certain point, he was disturbed by a knocking on the door of his apartment. He had arranged to meet Alice in the foyer of the building. He looked at the alarm clock by his bed. It was ten past two. The knocking came again, a little louder, then Alice’s voice:
‘Baumann, are you in there?’
Manfred crawled out of bed. He was completely naked. He found his robe and padded along the passage to the door.
Alice looked taken aback.
‘What happened to you?’ she said.
Manfred focussed on her face. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail.
‘I’m sorry, I…’ He did not want to admit to feeling unwell. Migraines were not a manly complaint. ‘I must have slept in,’ he said.
Alice gripped his chin and jerked his head around, examining his injuries.
‘Fall out of bed, did you?’ she said. She pushed past him into the passage, wincing as she inhaled his breath. She was wearing a waterproof jacket and tight blue jeans tucked into thick socks. Manfred followed her into the kitchen. She suggested that he take a shower and get himself ready. It did not occur to Manfred to do anything other than comply. In the bathroom, he swallowed four painkillers and forced himself to drink three glasses of water. The shower helped. He brushed his teeth, but did not bother to shave. He dressed and returned to the kitchen. Alice had made coffee and was sitting at the kitchen table. She laughed when she saw Manfred in his suit.
‘I thought we might take a walk at the Camargue,’ she said. ‘Don’t you have anything more suitable to wear?’
Manfred shook his head. Alice poured him some coffee and he sat down and drank it. It was quite clear that he would do whatever Alice had decided. It was liberating. He was not required to make decisions or even venture an opinion. He need only submit to Alice’s will.
Although there was an autumnal chill in the air, Alice insisted on taking down the roof of the car. She did not speak for the duration of the journey, but concentrated on driving at alarming speed along the country lanes, which were barely wide enough for two cars to pass. The pain in Manfred’s head became a backcloth to the sensation of hurtling along through the hedgerows. At every bend, it seemed that the little car would career off the road. Manfred experienced a feeling of calm. Whether the car remained on the road was a matter of no consequence to him. He felt a kind of disappointment when Alice pulled safely into the pot-holed car pa
rk at the nature reserve.
They got out. Alice opened the rear of the car and retrieved a pair of muddy walking boots. She sat down on the bumper to change into them. Manfred watched her. Even in her manly outdoor clothes she was tremendously attractive. She was not at all like the other women he knew. Her thighs were taut and defined under the denim of her jeans and her skin had a pleasing elasticity. The women who worked at the bank were flabby and loose-skinned, their flesh barely contained by a scaffold of brassieres and corsets. When Manfred addressed them, it always appeared that they had been woken from a trance. Alice, by contrast, was alert to everything going on around her. There was a precision and purpose in her movements, even in the way she threaded the laces around the eyelets of her boots.
When she had finished, she looked up. Manfred was too groggy to disguise the fact that he had been staring at her.
‘Your feet are going to get wet,’ she said.
He exhaled wearily. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
Alice led the way out of the car park towards a narrow gravelly path. Manfred was surprised how many people were around. They were all dressed like Alice and most of them had small children or dogs straining on leads. Whenever they met another group of walkers they were obliged to fall into single file to let them pass. People generally uttered some kind of greeting or cheery comment about the weather as they passed. Manfred left it to Alice to return these greetings on his behalf. As he inevitably fell in behind Alice it would have seemed superfluous for him to contribute. Once or twice dogs pushed their noses forcefully towards Manfred’s crotch before their owners laughingly hauled them back. This seemed to be quite acceptable behaviour among the habitués of the path.
The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau Page 20
