The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

by Timothy Williams

  “Unsuccessfully.”

  “The crowd is fickle, Monsieur Desterres.”

  “Mobile vulgus. Fickle and very stupid.”

  “Tell me about the unfortunate girl.”

  He picked up the leather case and unzipped it. “She came to my restaurant on Sunday morning. At Tarare.”

  “At what time?”

  “Mid-morning—about ten o’clock.”

  “You’re certain it was the nurse you saw? Evelyne Vaton?”

  “Tarare’s a nudist beach.” The sallow face was motionless. “She was very pale.”

  “Lot of pale women about.”

  “I can recognize a tourist.”

  “Not very brown myself.”

  “You are not getting the most out of your Caribbean posting.”

  “I never get time to get out of the office.” Anne Marie glanced through the window. “How d’you know it was Evelyne Vaton?”

  “We talked. She called herself Véli—but I know it was her.” He took a square photograph from his bag and slid it across the table. “And because of this.”

  12

  Mère Nature

  She had been to Tarare several times, accompanied by her husband. It was not far from the Jacuzzi Beach, but on the other side of the Pointe des Châteaux isthmus. Jean Michel enjoyed swimming naked in the blue, translucent water, yet he had never managed to persuade Anne Marie to remove all her clothes. “That’s what comes from growing up in a Muslim country,” he would say, laughing.

  “That’s what comes from being an investigative magistrate.”

  Despite the entreaties, her husband would have never accepted her skinny dipping in the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. Anne Marie picked up the photograph.

  She had not been back in years—Fabrice insisted on going to good windsurfing beaches; Tarare was too sheltered—but she recognized the shack-like lean- to that had been converted into a restaurant. It was made of half-timbers and was painted white. The roof of corrugated iron was in need of fresh paint. There were several wooden tables and plastic chairs on the open, concrete apron.

  The restaurant was called Mère Nature and specialized in fresh fish or seafood.

  No diners were visible in the photograph, and to judge from the harsh light and the short shadows, the photograph must have been taken toward the middle of the day.

  Anne Marie wondered whether Desterres was able to make a decent living from the restaurant. She knew that he came from a rich mulatto family that had made money by importing agricultural machinery from England at a time when English engineering had a reputation for reliability.

  As if reading her mind, Desterres said, “Low season at the moment. On weekends, customers turn up around midday. In a couple of months there’ll be all the Négropolitains …”

  “Négropolitains?”

  “Blacks living in the métropole, who come back from the mainland for their summer vacation.”

  She studied the three people in the photograph. “This is Evelyne Vaton?”

  Desterres stood staring at the camera, with his arm over the shoulders of the girl, a possessive smile on his narrow face. Evelyne Vaton wore a pair of plastic sandals and a pink bikini bottom. She was short but had a pleasant well-formed body, narrow hips and large breasts. She smiled cheerfully at the camera, her face partially concealed beneath a baseball cap. Because the photograph had been taken from at least four meters, it was difficult to make out the facial details.

  “Who’s the man?”

  “He was with her. Called himself Richard.”

  Richard was on the other side of Evelyne Vaton. He stood with his arms crossed against a dark, broad chest. He had fine features and a long, straight nose.

  “An Indian,” Desterres said.

  Richard was wearing bathing shorts. Tall but putting on weight at the waist. A reflex camera hung from his neck against the bare chest.

  “What does he do?”

  “Works in a bank. The girl was asking him questions about getting money wired from France.”

  “Who took the photo?”

  “The self-timer.”

  “You seem to have hit it off with them.”

  Desterres shrugged, indifferent to the implied flattery.

  “Was Evelyne with Richard?”

  “I got the impression they’d met fairly recently, perhaps even on a beach.”

  “What sort of person is this Richard?”

  Again a movement of the shoulders. “He was afraid I was moving in on his girl.”

  “Vaton was his girl?”

  “I didn’t ask.”

  “What were they doing at Tarare?” Anne Marie asked.

  “They’d been to the Pointe des Châteaux, but Evelyne was interested in swimming and the currents at the Pointe were too strong for her. Richard brought her to Tarare, hoping no doubt to get her undressed.” The immobile face broke into a wolfish smile that disappeared almost immediately.

  “You saw the girl’s car?”

  “She had a car?”

  “A hired Fiat Uno. You didn’t see it?”

  “The parking area’s at the top of the cliff. You can’t see anything from the beach.”

  “You didn’t accompany them to the car park?”

  “When they left?” Desterres shook his head. “I had to prepare lunch.”

  “When did they arrive at Tarare?”

  He glanced at Trousseau. “It must’ve been just before eleven that I saw them swimming and when they came out of the water, I explained it was a nudist beach.”

  “Richard didn’t know that?”

  “Both were wearing swimsuits.”

  “She was not wearing a bikini top.” Anne Marie tapped the photo.

  “Precisely.”

  “There was nobody else around?”

  Desterres hesitated for a moment. “A couple of men who normally come in midweek, but they were on the other side of the trees.” He added, “Two men who were more interested in each other than in a topless female. The people who come to Tarare are the sort of people who like to sleep in on the weekend. They don’t get down to the beach until after twelve.”

  Anne Marie nodded. “Richard’s a native of Guadeloupe?”

  “I think so.”

  “Whose idea was the photograph?”

  “It was me who suggested it—the girl had a camera.”

  “And the other photos?”

  “What photos?”

  “She took more than just this one photograph, Monsieur Desterres?”

  “The girl kept them.”

  Anne Marie pointed to the photograph. Desterres was wearing the same clothes that he now wore. To protect his face, he also had a peaked cap. “What’s that, leaning against the bar? Looks like a rifle.”

  “A gun for the rats and the mongooses.”

  “Having trouble with vermin?”

  “Human vermin.” Seeing Anne Marie’s surprise, Desterres remarked, “We live on an island of thieves. People can be very jealous of success in Guadeloupe, particularly if like me you’re light-skinned. I have a business to run. I know just how much I can count on the police. Sometimes I spend the night in the little back room, just to be sure that nothing gets stolen.”

  “What was the relationship between this Richard and the girl?” Anne Marie asked neutrally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She liked him?”

  “He was interested in her—but most men in Guadeloupe are interested in young girls. Particularly if they’re single and if they are from France.”

  “How old would you say he was?”

  “Richard? Thirty-eight, forty.” A pause. “Or perhaps a bit older.”

  “What did you talk to the girl about?”

  “I talked to the girl and I talked to the man.”

  “You’re not interested in young, single women?”

  “Not when they’re already accompanied.” The cold, deep-set eyes stared at her.

  “You’re married, Monsieur D
esterres?”

  “How does that concern you?”

  “Kindly answer my question. Are you married?”

  “I do not live alone.”

  “What did you talk to the girl and Richard about?”

  “They wanted something to drink, and I served them Coca-Cola. Later I sat down and we made small talk.”

  “Coca-Cola?”

  “I suggested a punch or a planter—but the girl was off alcohol and the man went along with her to be polite. We chatted about what to visit, what to see in Guadeloupe. The place used to be very beautiful but it’s been raped, pillaged, transformed into a concrete suburb.”

  “The girl was interested?”

  For the first time since entering her small office, Desterres smiled with genuine amusement. “I told her about the tropical rain forest, the coffee plantation, the mongooses and raccoons. About Marie-Galante and La Désirade. I gave her the addresses of a few good restaurants.”

  “Monsieur Desterres, did you get the impression Evelyne Vaton knew anybody here in Guadeloupe?”

  “Why d’you ask?”

  “Women are more often the victims of violence from people they know, close family and friends, than from strangers. Evelyne Vaton may’ve been murdered by somebody who knew her—somebody who was expecting her.”

  “She knew Richard.” Desterres added, “They left together.”

  “What was she carrying?”

  A moment’s pause. “A beach bag. And before leaving, she put shorts on. Shorts and a T-shirt.”

  “Did Evelyne say if she knew anyone else in the département?”

  “She was staying with the parents of a friend of hers.”

  Anne Marie nodded.

  “I invited them to stay for lunch. The French girl was pretty and Richard seemed good company, even if he was a bit too introverted for my taste. Evelyne Vaton chatted readily, so I invited them to taste some fresh conch, but the girl couldn’t stay.” He rubbed his chin. “She was meeting people for lunch.”

  “What people?”

  “No idea.” Desterres shrugged the epaulettes of his safari shirt. He sat forward in the chair and picked up the attaché case. He slowly opened it and, like a reluctant magician producing a rabbit from a top hat, Desterres withdrew a piece of pink material. “She left her bikini top on Tarare beach.”

  13

  Lafitte

  Lafitte’s smile was apologetic. “I’m sorry the gendarmerie wasn’t informed.”

  The gendarme standing at the window said, “We’re supposed to be collaborating.” He spoke without looking at Lafitte.

  “Precisely,” Anne Marie commented, turning from one man to the other. “Supposed to be collaborating and whether you like it or not, gentlemen, we shall be collaborating. Each of us works for a different ministry and we may not always have the same goals, but we all want the culprit brought to justice as soon as possible. There’s a lot of pressure on us.” She leaned forward in her chair. “An hour ago Desterres came here to see me of his own accord, Capitaine Parise.” Anne Marie put her hands on the table and speaking slowly, faced Lafitte. “This enquiry’s going to be done by the book. No arrests simply because that’s what the public wants. When we arrest the culprit, it’ll be because you and I have built up a watertight case.” She paused. “I hope that’s clear.”

  The yellow skin of Lafitte’s face seemed to tinge with a blush. He glanced at the gendarme before turning to Anne Marie. He coughed. “Madame le juge, Desterres has a record.”

  “What record?” Anne Marie asked sharply.

  “Attempted rape in 1983, madame le juge. Let off with a warning. Extenuating circumstances, no doubt.”

  “Attempted rape?”

  “Two years later he was accused of having sex with a girl under the age of consent.”

  The lace curtain danced with the wind; somewhere along the docks a car hooted angrily.

  “Again let off with a caution. Desterres has friends in the right places.”

  Lafitte set his arms on her desk, the open newspaper beneath his elbows. “Desterres’s father was a rich man. One of that mulatto class that’s done almost as well as the békés and the businessmen from Martinique. The father sold off the machinery business before dying last year and now Desterres’s going to have to fend for himself. The restaurant at Tarare doesn’t make money.”

  “You think Desterres’s coming to see me was preemptive, Monsieur Lafitte?”

  “No one is guilty until proved so.”

  Lafitte was a few years older than Anne Marie. His skin had taken a jaundiced tint, with the wrinkles of years spent in the tropics. The sandy hair was short and brushed back. He spoke with the hint of a northern accent. From Roubaix or Lille. He had entered the police after a brief career as a professional cyclist and later he had captained a veteran team. Until his promotion to the Service Régional de Police Judiciaire, he had appeared boyish, but since his return to the Caribbean after a couple of years in Limoges he had been putting on fat. No more cycling. There was a jowly look to the face and the dark chin was beginning to sag from too much rum.

  “You think it’s possible Desterres tried to rape the girl?” Parise asked, turning away from the window.

  “We have no proof of rape.” Lafitte threw a hurried glance at the gendarme. “For the moment, Desterres is the only lead we have. A restaurant little more than a kilometer from where the victim was found. And a record.” Lafitte added, “He’s the last person to have seen the girl alive.”

  “You don’t have yourself photographed by the woman you intend to rape,” Parise said.

  “You don’t always know yourself you’re going to rape somebody.”

  “Most sexual violence is carried out by somebody within the family,” Anne Marie said flatly.

  Parise turned toward her and grinned. “I’ll remember that when serving Sunday dinner.”

  Anne Marie looked at Parise. “In fact the last person to have seen Evelyne Vaton alive is this man Richard.”

  “Supposing Richard actually exists.”

  “He’s in the photograph,” Anne Marie remarked as she tapped the Polaroid.

  “That doesn’t mean Richard was with the girl and it certainly doesn’t mean Desterres’s telling the truth.”

  “We’ll know that as soon as we’ve located Richard.” Again Anne Marie tapped the picture with her pen. “No proof of rape, Lafitte?”

  “The autopsy’s this afternoon.”

  “You’d better take this bikini top to the Institut Pasteur. Desterres left it.” She held up a plastic envelope. Anne Marie shook her head unhappily. “A woman with no belongings? Whatever happened to the other Polaroids and the rest of her swimming stuff? Didn’t she have a tote bag, suntan oil, towels? I’m told women carry a lot of clutter. Did she really leave nothing in the hired car?”

  “Nothing was left in the car.” Lafitte shook his head. “I’ve sent a couple of men to take prints but the Hertz people hired the car out yesterday afternoon.”

  Parise sat down at her desk beside Lafitte. He coughed. “Madame le juge, we’ve had a few phone calls to the incident room in Saint-François. People saying they saw the white girl.”

  “And?”

  “She’s not the only young female tourist in the Saint-François area. Several callers saw a Fiat Uno. Every call’s recorded, but at the moment, we don’t have any leads, beyond a couple of people who say they saw a topless white girl at the Pointe des Châteaux before ten o’clock on Sunday morning. A woman who was by herself, sitting on the beach.” Parise’s intelligent eyes looked at Anne Marie. “In Saint-François, the hotels and the restaurants don’t want anything happening to the flow of satisfied tourists.”

  “Anything happening to the flow of cash,” Lafitte remarked.

  Anne Marie tapped the desk like an irritable teacher calling for order. “The préfet told the procureur yesterday in no uncertain terms that he wants results. Which can only mean one thing.”

  “Political interferenc
e.”

  “Precisely, Monsieur Lafitte.” Anne Marie nodded grimly. “And when you get politicians interfering into an enquiry, nobody’s backside is safe.”

  Lafitte grinned sideways at the gendarme. “How do you fancy Wallis and Futuna?”

  “No South Pacific, Monsieur Lafitte,” Anne Marie said. “Don’t count on retiring to some tropical paradise.”

  “Guadeloupe’s a tropical paradise.”

  “Not for the Vaton girl. And not for us.”

  “Gwada—pa ni pwoblèm.”

  “No.” Anne Marie shook her head vehemently. “There are a lot of problems in Guadeloupe.”

  Again Parise coughed and lowered his hands onto the creased trousers of his uniform.

  “Until we have the murderer behind bars, the three of us’ll be seeing a lot of one another.” She gave a taut smile. “I know the gendarmerie in Saint-François is taking this seriously.” She looked at Parise before turning her glance to include Lafitte. “You know the snares of the press, and so both police forces will observe complete silence when in contact with the outside world. By the outside world, I mean the written and spoken press. In particular RFO.”

  Parise nodded.

  “Let the gendarmerie get on with their enquiry—Saint-François’s their territory, but I’ll also need all the expertise of the SRPJ.” This time a brief nod toward Lafitte. “Collaboration’s the keyword, messieurs. However”—she held up her hand and tapped her chest—“it’s me who’s in charge of this enquiry.”

  They looked at her in silence.

  “Our respective standpoints don’t always coincide and it’s only normal we shouldn’t always see eye to eye. But our ultimate goal—yours, gentlemen, and mine—is a common goal. Therefore we collaborate.” She paused. “Do I make myself clear? For now, all other enquiries go onto the back burner.”

  “Including the Dugain dossier, madame le juge?” Lafitte grinned.

  She said, “The procureur’s under pressure from the local assemblies. And the local assemblies are under pressure from the préfet.”

  “And the préfet no doubt is under pressure from Paris.”

  “Nobody wants embarrassing questions in the United Nations about French colonialism. Even if things’ve changed these last ten years and with decentralization, France prefers to let the two local assemblies get on with their business.” She paused. “Whoever calls the tune, it’s us who must dance.”