The Unknown Masterpiece

by John Brooke

  Aliette’s eyes drifted over the surface of lifeless flesh of what used to be a handsome man. A severe mish-mash of cuts and scratches on the legs and back and shoulders. ‘Most of that’s your rocks and thorns and the like,’ Raphaele said. Sustained in being run down, tripping, falling in the rocks? ‘Yes,’ gesturing across the hall. ‘IJ’s got corroborating blood and bits of skin. But this mess around his head…’ now demarcating the tighter, deeper cluster of wounds which had ruined the classic face, ‘this is something else. A chair? Or a board?… Wood, not metal.’

  ‘A picture frame?’

  Raphaele Petrucci considered the gashes. ‘Yes…Well, a hefty one. Could be. Why not?’

  ‘Ask Jean-Marc to check the frame of that painting they brought back for blood.’

  ‘I will.’ Making a note.

  After being whacked on the head he’d been shot by someone who’d missed twice. ‘Easy to miss if you’re running,’ Petrucci suggested. ‘Jean-Marc says the terrain going down from park level to shore is pretty rough. The cuts and scratches bear that out.’

  ‘Yes…’ Mulling it, the thought occurred: Or if you’re scared, running for your life, looking over your shoulder, panicked, shooting, missing, running further, turning and firing again. Missing…easy to miss. Running! Finally getting lucky as the pursuer drew near. Was their victim the pursuer? Chasing someone with a painting, and a gun, wanting the one, discounting the other. Someone who shot him and then beat him around the head with the painting? And then, by virtue of a half-assed throw into the shallows, makes them a virtual gift of the guilty gun. But it was the victim’s gun… She could not make sense of that scenario.

  But he kept his gun in his waistband and his pants were off. The gun would have been lying there beside them. Someone could have taken him unawares — especially if he was having sex — and grabbed the gun. The object of his affections? Or a third person? …Turn it around. Their victim was running with the painting. The killer was wanting it. That was the more logical scenario. When the killer finally runs the victim down and finishes him off, he also — before? after? — administers a beating around the head with an ornate hardwood frame, then throws the painting away like so much garbage after a picnic by the river. And the gun. The victim’s gun.

  ‘The cuts around his head — from the frame — ’

  ‘If they are,’ Petrucci cautioned. First let’s link painting to murder in no uncertain terms.

  ‘Yes, yes… But the cuts: are they before or after death?’

  Raphaele Petrucci took a moment. ‘I’ll say just after death. He bled, but the river cleaned him up. Then again, these here…’ indicating slightly ridged contused areas along the forehead, ‘these are from being hit with the same thing, I’m positive, but the skin is unbroken. You’d expect bruising, but the blood didn’t have time.’ A non-committal smile betrayed his pronouncement. ‘Yes: After. Kind of a fitful and completely unnecessary smack across the cranium after the coup de grâce, which was the bullet through his brain. Not that it matters.’

  ‘No.’ But with the painting? That mattered. Who would do that? Why?

  She couldn’t fathom it. The found gun and the execution style of the killing would not fit together in her mind. Nor the ruined painting. And the wallet? They keep the wallet. They wreck and toss the painting. They give us the gun. Or may as well have. At first glance, the thing was totally erratic. Garbage? The painting’s a fake! Why else destroy such a thing so brutally? she wondered, staring at the body the way one tends to, willing it to tell her more.

  Beside her, the pathologist kept rubbing his stomach as he perused his notes, a steady, circular massaging motion, as if he were pregnant. It disturbed her focus. ‘Do you have to do that?’

  ‘Oops!’ He stopped. Then started chewing on his thumb, rueful. ‘She’s turning me into a fat person. Eats like a bloody horse. I’m helpless.’ She was Nanette, a local woman given to cowboy boots and eating. They’d met at a crime scene. Raphaele boasted as to how he’d subsequently charmed Nanette with the culinary skills he claimed were ‘instinctual to my kind.’ Perhaps he had, but there was blowback: Dr. Petrucci’s formerly trim line had been expanding. His comely Italian movie-star face was getting heavier too. There was a time when Aliette Nouvelle had not been able to resist it. A few others too amongst the ranks at rue des Bon Enfants, if Monique had her information right. It appeared Raphaele had met his match in Nanette.

  The inspector focused. ‘What about sex?’

  ‘You know how it is — after a while, a good meal is just as enjoyable, often more so.’

  ‘Our victim, Raphaele. Please.’

  He sensed her pain. ‘Sorry…and sorry about your cat.’

  Merci, Monique. She accepted his condolences with an empty stare.

  He went back to his notes. ‘The time in the water cleaned off any outward signs. Peeing when he died would’ve washed out the urethra…’ Rolling the body slightly. ‘More scratching and abrasion on his buttocks. That may or may not be signs of some fun on the beach.’

  ‘It’s not a beach in any way, shape or form.’

  ‘Nevertheless, they found him without his pants on. But, no — I see no signs of sex.’

  ‘Bon…’ Once again, the river was a murderer’s best accomplice. ‘Drugs or alcohol?’

  ‘Nothing in his stomach. Have to wait for the blood work to come back.’

  ‘Fingers? Dental?’

  ‘All in the pipeline. Hopefully tomorrow.’ Raphaele was unconsciously rubbing his tummy again as he pulled the sheet back over the victim, a contented victim of love.

  She couldn’t hold it against him. ‘What’s for supper tonight?’

  ‘Tuesday? Pizza.’

  ‘Enjoy it. Thanks. Bonsoir.’

  ***

  She returned to her desk. On a humid evening at the far end of summer the skyline presented a washed-out skim-milk-bluish haze with traces of anaemic cloud, the weak pink sun floating low. She laid out all the paperwork from the day’s interviews and processes. Each item was entered with due consideration. Because each item mattered. Because she would rather spend time becoming absorbed in this than at home fighting her anger at choosing the wrong man.

  Shhh…Focus! Be a shoemaker. Fix a shoe.

  Parameters: No drifting. It seemed certain the man was killed close to where he was found along that stretch of shore. Fine. Another key would be the dynamics. The possibility that the victim was in pursuit of the perpetrator, and somehow the tables had been turned. The shooter had gained control of the victim’s gun. A shooter with an unsteady hand, an unsure shot, and a less-than-powerful throwing arm. And quite unaware of or blasé about forensic recovery techniques. An unsteady-handed shooter who panicked and threw the gun into the river. A pathetically short way. It pointed to a crime of passion of some kind.

  Gratuitously breaking a picture frame over the skull of a man already dead supported that. In the context of murder, passion was anger. Anger out of control.

  There were probably lots of delicate boys, objects of beauty who could not throw far. Or there were wives. Suspicious wives, and angry, tracking a philandering husband to a big surprise. Somehow the possibility of a woman as a central player in this dynamic made the notion of an unsteady-handed shooter more concrete. Inspector Nouvelle was always loath to stereotype, but it was an image she could see. A wife. A gay husband exposed. And killed. Heat of the moment, loss of reason, a furious heart. Or a terrified heart? Back to the beautiful boy: Wanted, not wanting, breaking away… and with a cherished object, desperately chased, all ending in a tragic struggle. Either way, a crime of passion.

  But…

  But who?

  No ID. The inspector’s eyes rested on the empty space on the required form, a space waiting for the victim’s name. The logic of the imagined dynamics of a crime of passion did not square with a wallet gone missing. Erratic. But a man could do that to you. A man could get your blood boiling so you couldn’t think straight. Too angry to make a c
lear assessment of the results of your actions. Aliette knew the feeling. Who didn’t? And no one angry enough to wreck that lovely old shoemaker would have the presence of mind to step into the water and find a wallet on the person of someone they had just killed. The painting was definitely before the wallet.

  Unless there was no passion. Just a business thing. Art theft? Art fraud?

  But why leave the shattered remnants of this obvious investigative direction?

  She sat and puzzled, finally had to decide that a crime for commercial gain was not feasible. A crime of passion was winning the battle for primacy waged by opposing sides of her deductive instincts. The wallet was coming to the fore. Set against the other chaotic elements — throwing the gun, smashing the painting — removing the wallet could only happen within the context of a careful moment. Afterward. Quite a while after. She was thinking, No, the wallet’s not part of the murder. She was asking herself, Was it two things then? A chaotic crime of passion and someone else’s really dumb mistake? Sitting back and muttering, ‘You deceitful little bastard.’

  Requisitioning the same drab Opal from Georges the night mechanic, Inspector Nouvelle headed south again — to 34 circle Georges-Simenon in Village-Neuf, the recorded address of Hubert Hunspach, leader of an illicit expedition down to the river to get high.

  4

  Heading for the Border

  French side

  Village-Neuf was a typical mix of charming old core streets surrounded by developments displaying varying success at fitting with the original idea. She found her way to one such development in a cul-de-sac on a rise off the River Road. The unofficial park area along the channel where she had spent the afternoon was five minutes away by car — the hulking pump parts factory, thrumming through its evening shift, marked the place in no uncertain terms. And likely kept house prices within a certain range. The Hunspach residence was designed in the traditional chalet style, exposed upper beams, base covered by light grey stucco, a balcony on the master bedroom above the front door, a terra cotta tiled roof. And clean: lawn in perfect trim, not a dead petal in the earth beneath the clumps of dying primary-coloured annuals. How would you ever guess an ugly boy like Hubert lived here? It was Papa who answered her touch on the ding-dong bell. A trim man with an austere regard. She’d bet a mid-level bean counter, at the pump manufacturer here in town, or over at the vast Peugeot factory, or possibly at one of the big pharmo plants that employed thousands in the area. She flashed her warrant card. ‘I don’t mean to disturb your supper, monsieur. I just need a quick word with young Hubert.’

  ‘We eat early,’ he said, his tone as unassuming as his front yard.

  She supposed he’d heard several versions of his son’s arrest.

  Inside was equally neutral: pristine nordic wood, perfectly white materials covering divan and matching fauteuil, no carpet on the white tile floor, no photos or knick-knacks, nothing to read, just the requisite television and stereo system. Like an IKEA model, everything lighter than air. The inspector nodded bonsoir to Maman, Hubert and Sister, gathered in front of the regional news, about to enjoy their moment of fame.

  It was just past seven-thirty. The regional report was already on. The job-killing realignment taking place at Peugeot was bigger news than a body in the river. But the body would certainly come next. Maman was pained when the cop demanded to speak to her son. ‘Now?’ she whined, displaying the same automatic wariness Aliette had observed during the interview in the park.

  ‘Désolé, madame…’ Sorry. Suggesting, ‘Surely you were on the local edition.’

  ‘But we eat during the local edition.’

  ‘I want to see how I did,’ Hubert complained. To Papa, not the cop.

  But Papa pointed to the kitchen, and held the door for the inspector.

  Sister, young but clever, quipped, ‘Have to catch it rerun.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ Hubert said, heading for the kitchen.

  ‘Ça suffit,’ Papa warned as he pulled the door shut.

  Alone with Hubert Hunspach in the spotless eau-de-javel-scented kitchen, the inspector did not mince words. ‘Where’s the wallet?’

  Pissed at having to miss himself on the news, he avoided her eyes, sullen. ‘What wallet?’

  She flashed her warrant card again, to remind Hubert that this was no longer about being on TV. The gesture shook something loose. The boy grinned a dreamy grin, a quintessential adolescent move, the child taking over from the hulking almost-man, presuming the benefit of the doubt as to an innocence left over from childhood and the forgiveness that always came with that. Unspoken message: All kind of a joke — reporters, cops, dead people…

  ‘Don’t be too much of a twerpy brat, Hubert. It’s really not becoming on a big boy like you.’

  Which merely replaced the grin with a shrug: I have no idea what you’re talking about.

  Ordering him to sit, she laid out it. ‘A man was murdered in cold blood. From the way it looks he’d have been in considerable pain, and a lot of fear. Then dead. Can you wrap your mind around that, Hubert? Dead. A fellow human being. It’s the worst crime, murder — not fun at all, I don’t care how much pot you smoked or how many shows you’ve seen, this is not a laughing matter. And more to the point, monsieur — ’

  ‘I’m still a juvenile.’

  ‘Juvenile? Really? So far, all you are is a very dumb child. But if you have any knowledge of the circumstances connected to this crime, then you are a witness and you will be dealt with accordingly. And a wallet containing a murdered person’s papers and other personal information is knowledge of the utmost essential kind, and if you are found to be withholding that knowledge you’ll be charged and your life will change forever. Are you getting the picture here, Hubert?’

  ‘He’s dead.’ This was so boring. ‘He doesn’t need his wallet. He doesn’t need —’

  ‘I need his wallet!’ Standing, directing him to do likewise. ‘Get your toothbrush, Hubert, we’re going downtown where we can do this in a more businesslike manner.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’

  Papa looked in. ‘Do I need to call a lawyer?’

  ‘You need to tell your son to grow up.’

  Hubert Hunspach stomped out of the kitchen. His large feet in his thick boots made a lot of noise. Aliette followed. The father trailed the two of them up the stairs and into a poster-plastered bedroom in desperate need of fresh air. The boy yanked open a drawer and pulled out a wallet and threw it on the floor. ‘Putain de flic…’ Whore cop.

  Before an inspector could stoop to retrieve it, an embarrassed father had stepped past her and smacked the boy — a good hard one he might actually remember for a day or so. Then Papa gestured at the wallet. Pick it up or you’ll get another. Resentful, so typically an oversized child in his outraged sense of having been wronged, Hubert picked it up and placed it in her hand.

  ‘Merci.’ A quick look inside. Then a flat smile for Hubert. ‘The money too.’

  The boy looked about to do a reprise of his kitchen act, but his father did a reprise of his look. Message received; staring straight ahead at nothing, sighing deeply — some days life is just so wrong — Hubert Hunspach pulled his own wallet from his droopy pants and handed over 300 euros and 75 Swiss francs.

  ‘Bon.’ The inspector bowed in receipt of it. ‘Consider the fine paid and the matter closed. You’re an extremely lucky boy.’

  Hubert shrugged. Papa followed her down the stairs and showed her out.

  She offered her hand, ‘Sorry if that was a little rough.’

  ‘I could file a complaint. You’ve no mandate. This is a private dwelling.’ And, his eyes added, not everyone around here’s a fucking plouc. Which translates to rube.

  She nodded, all true. Countered, ‘The quicker we can amass the proper information attached to these things, the better chance we have to solve it — I’m sure you’ve heard them say that?’ Cooperative citizens were society’s only hope. Aliette’s hand remained extended. Reluctantly he shook it. S
he reckoned he knew his son deserved it. ‘Bonsoir.’ She returned to the car.

  The recovered wallet gave her Martin Bettelman, French citizen, address just across the way in Saint-Louis, employed in Basel — the ‘quick-through’ pass card for the Swiss border people indicated a security firm called VigiTec. So, not a gangster. But suspiciously nice clothes for a security guard. In management? In any event, she could now assume a very probable relation between Monsieur Bettelman’s employment in the Basel security industry and the painted shoemaker’s uncalled-for wounds. This case would certainly have to go to Switzerland.

  Inspector Aliette Nouvelle rolled her neck, rotated her shoulders, visualized a glass of beer. It had been a long and vexing day, a day now reduced to a humid blue line wavering between indigo and black, but she had no wish to go home. Not yet. She called the night desk from the car and requested a double-check on the identity card. It was confirmed. She headed for the border.

  ***

  Saint-Louis, last stop this side, is the site of the shared international airport. Thanks to the airport, thanks to industry, it’s one big city from Saint-Louis on in to the middle of Basel. But the five-kilometre ‘closed’ road from the Swiss side into the Basel-designated side of the terminal is Swiss territory. You have to pass through a customs checkpoint in the middle of the terminal hall if you wish to cross to the French-side terminal. It’s an efficient business arrangement, but the effects of this unnatural marriage spill over: The run-down street Martin Bettelman had called home seemed locked in permanent twilight thanks to the 24/7 glow of buildings and runways two kilometres away. It was past nine, too late for unwelcome police to come knocking when Aliette stopped in front of the dreary place on the wrong side of the ugly town.

  Bettelman. Ground floor. Far end. Over-wrought odours and television sounds all along the hall. She knocked. ‘What!’ The door was yanked open to reveal a haggard face that fit perfectly with the frustrated voice, unwashed hair, noisy television, kid-evident mess, unattractive air.