by John Brooke
‘No…’ But to send the matter along to the court, she needed to assign proper guilt, to present the charges correctly, and for that she needed proof. Otherwise, Aliette could not close her case. ‘Merci, messieurs.’ She stared glumly at a table strewn with forensic items.
Christine Charigot had been there that night — she knew. But in what capacity?
A confession would help. But she needed proof.
Others tried — they tried their most devious interrogation tricks to at least raise contradictions. No luck. No one could induce Robert to admit to somehow getting control of Martin Bettelman’s sidearm and killing him, much less that his mother was a party to the act. He said all manner of nasty things about his mother, but nothing that might include her in the killing of Martin. Christine did not contradict or add to what Robert said. If she said anything, it was about her duty to defend her child, especially where it came to ‘those men’ who would hurt him. Some days the inspector came away suspecting, but not positive, that Christine Charigot was willfully acting like lump of grey mud. The doctors defended her. J.P. Blismes just smiled.
Though separated, mother and son had built a weirdly impenetrable wall.
46
The Shoemaker’s Stand-in
On Friday morning, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle was watching from her office window, equal parts bemused and cynical. A steady stream of taxis and official-looking vehicles came and went from the courtyard. Quite the crowd was showing up to see their unknown masterpiece. Chief Magistrate Richand and PJ Commissaire Néon took turns coming out to greet and usher in. She did not expect to see a FedPol contingent. Agent Rudi Bucholtz had seen the shoemaker, or a version. Agent Franck Woerli was dead — buried yesterday in Basel. For Franki she had made the effort; so sad to see his greying wife, three early-twenties daughters, a tight family Franki had never even mentioned… She hadn’t seen Gregory Huet arriving for the show and did not expect to. She wondered what she might have done had Gregory attended. She hoped he was at home in Kembs eating kugelhopf and shaking. Or had he run? Where would he run? She didn’t care.
Silence was her best position. Looking down, she felt badly for Claude, a dry scorn mixed with pity for Gérard. The judge’s vaunted love of beauty set his warts in high relief.
As she left for another go-round at Hôtel Dieu, the inspector saw VigiTec security agent Della Kypreosus hurrying up the front steps in rue des Bons Enfants. It was a jolt to suddenly behold the security guard in civvies. She had spent some of her wages on handsome boots and a chic December coat from the boutiques in Claraplatz. Good for Della. But Aliette Nouvelle did not call out — no, she kept moving, there was nothing she wanted to say. All meaningful movement was internal now, toward creating distance between herself and all of this.
In preparation for her leaving.
As expected, she returned in mid-afternoon to learn that while everyone enjoyed the fine baking and an excellent local wine, no one recognized the shoemaker. Some had looked very closely, but not knowing the work or its origins, they had no context, no point of reference, no means for comparison as to value, market-based or otherwise. Most educated guesses thought him likely Dutch — Monique whispered that Gérard Richand had engaged in some almost embarrassing debate on that. Historical aesthetic trends aside, no one from the art crime investigation community had the shoemaker on their missing list. No one amongst the contingent of curious dealers attending had any memos from clients seeking such an item. The shoemaker had his moment, then everyone went home.
Only one disheartened cop knew it was the shoemaker’s stand-in that had stymied all the experts. The actual was still in a totebag leaning against her desk.
Bernadette had probably twigged. Or maybe not.
And Aliette thought, Well, if no one knows him, then he’s worth nothing.
Yes, it seemed that the best revenge on Gregory Huet was to say nothing. He knew the fate of his real client. But he couldn’t know where the bona fide product was. Gregory Huet would worry for a long time about the next knock on his door. The idea of silence pleased her.
At least as much as she was capable of being pleased in those raw days of mid-December.
Drifting snowflakes Friday evening, a drifting Aliette.
Monday, down at the courthouse reporting her non-progress after another weekend of futile visits to Hôtel-Dieu, she smiled as Gérard Richand reprised his lame charade of surprise and dismay (while so tenderly cradling Gregory Huet’s immaculate fake). ‘What a shame…what a sham! All these so-called experts.’
Inspector Nouvelle totally agreed, just as capable of shameless acting.
Gérard sighed. Notices would be posted on boards across France and, as a courtesy, in parts of neighbouring nations. A file would be shared with InterPol. The shoemaker would be carefully stored in a bank vault just down the street — Gérard himself had opened the account. If unclaimed after a year, the lonely artisan would be offered for a nominal price.
Aliette sighed too. She wondered if Gérard Richand could wait that long. Regardless, she knew that in the gentle course of time the shoemaker would appear in Gérard’s home — a home just three blocks from the house in the north end where she had tried and failed to settle. Gérard would dream up some French provenance, turn him into a story that suited his study, if not his salon. We all have our little deceits, because life would be too flat without them, no? Deceits that become reality and turn into family history. So strange to think it, which is why we don’t.
In any event, a dream provenance would fit well with an expert fake.
And a respectful cop would never dream of mentioning it to her judge.
47
Blue Pantoufles
Suddenly it was two weeks till Christmas. She hadn’t given a single thought to shopping, for anyone else, much less herself. After another useless walk through the spiritless rooms in the house in circle Rene-Descartes… looking for what?… she went to the mall at the Carrefour Store in Village-Neuf, thinking of a new blouse for the annual brigade party (her last!) and a pair of slippers. Living in a house in the north end, one could easily forget how Madame Camus kept the heat to the legal minimum, and there was no more Piaf at the end of the bed to warm her feet of a winter’s night. Nor a man for the rest of her. There were so many things still in her cupboard at Claude’s and she hadn’t the heart to retrieve them. He was afraid to say a word.
Claude’s fear, those averted eyes — it made her wonder how she looked.
…Not looked. How he saw her.
How they saw her. Monique, Bernadette, Raphaele, everyone. J-P Blismes was right: She was the centre of the universe. And right now she hated it — she only wanted out.
Depressed, uninspired, there was no blouse that caught her eye. She wandered into Footwear. A helpful shelf stocker turned a confused and distracted shopper a hundred and eighty degrees. Slippers were with the socks, not the shoes. Fifteen minutes later she was racing back to the city, pushing the crappy requisitioned car to its exhausted limit, sure she’d found the key.
‘These!’ Plunking a pair of chintzy blue pantoufles down on the desk of a startled Charles Léger. ‘Please tell me these come from the same batch as that —’ stepping to his workbench and pointing with newly hopeful determination at a plastic evidence bag waiting in box B.
Her plea was redundant. He saw it immediately. He plucked a tweezer’s worth of synthetic fur from one of the presented items, then, in his methodical manner, carefully opened the bag in question and removed the strand of blue thread that had been harvested at the ‘beach.’
‘Polypropylene,’ he noted. ‘Horrid things.’
Half an hour later Charles Léger gave her an unequivocal ‘Yes.’
‘Bon.’ Muttered low-key and workaday, masking another rush of hopeful energy. ‘I’ll have a sample of Christine Charigot’s DNA here wihin the hour. Please see if that,’ the found blue strand, ‘contains some.’
This plea left him skeptical. He scanned his notes. �
��There was no tissue apparent on this. No blood…’
‘But sweat! These things don’t breathe… it was a hot night. Her feet would have been soaking. Please.’ She pressed. She knew his findings came from a first general pass. There had been no pressing reason to explore further with this one particular item. Now there was.
Of course he would try. But, warned Charles, ‘sweat is not the best medium for DNA. Just salt and water. We need cells.’
‘But all that movement — it comes from her!’
‘We might get lucky. Perhaps some cells were shed and mixed with her sweat.’
‘Thank you.’
Feeling better about (almost) everything, she ordered the sample sent from the hospital then took herself out, heading across town to the boutiques to make another search for a Christmas top. She would make this project last the remainder of the day. Charles said he would need some time and she did not want to be breathing down his neck. She browsed slowly, investigating every possibility. These shops offered nowhere near the variety and calibre of merchandise for sale in Basel, but if you looked, you could find good things. And she finally did.
Not especially Christmassy, forest green against beige, no red — but new, chic, fresh. She found it in the same place she’d found a wonderful dress worn the first time she’d gone out dancing with Claude. They had been working a case. Heading slowly back through the streets, vaguely considering gifts for her parents, her sister, the inspector reprised the memory again and again, focusing on the pleasing surprise that had been Claude Néon in motion. Because it had been a difficult case, that one, where she had given him the benefit of a very large doubt and eventually saved his career and what she believed might be their love. And look where it had got her… Falling victim to memory, she saw nothing that struck a chord by way of a suitable gift.
She would get it done when she landed in Nantes next weekend.
She went through the Commissariat door and directly to the basement.
Charles Léger was an honest and transparent man. He could never have been a cop in the streets. And she knew it was a No before he spoke. ‘Sorry, Inspector, it’s just not there.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Yes, there’s some. If it has touched a human body there is always some. But in this case not enough to make a credible match… Mainly salt and water. Perhaps a trace of soap?’
He handed her the Carrefour bag containing the blue pantoufles. She murmured another thank you, thank you for trying, we have to try — at love and work and dreaming, what else is there but trying. Then climbed slowly back up the stairs. Brooding. Only wanting out.
48
How to Kill with Kindness
It did not really matter who killed Martin Bettelman. It was about closing the book and moving on. Despite the several clearly unprofessional mistakes deduced at the scene, a frustrated inspector was ready to let an anonymous professional carry the killing at the ‘beach’ and send the beautiful Robert back to the Swiss to face the music there. He would be punished for stealing art. She would be long retired before there was even the smallest chance of seeing his face again in the street. An old angel out on probation. It would depend upon where he served the last of several probable terms. Italy. Germany. France… Robert’s suffering maman would likely still be suffering, might even be dead on account of it, but how much did an inspector who’d smashed her usually sympathetic head against the Charigot wall really care? Aliette wasted two days writing a report and recommended charges that fudged and in some instances revised or omitted facts she knew to be true, and accompanying circumstantials that framed the truth with utter clarity.
Then she pressed Delete and put on her coat.
No, it did not matter who killed Martin Bettelman. The cheap blue slippers were still in the shopping bag — taking them home and wearing them would have added to her sense of failure. She’d left them on the floor beside the shoemaker, still in his bag. Two items waiting in limbo.
She had only the vaguest vision for the one. Now she had a definite use for the other.
She did not need clarity, just movement, like a traveller on an all-night train.
She walked. She stopped at a favourite patisserie where she paid top price for their justly famous cake. Whatever else, it was Christmas. It might warm a heart to receive some cheer.
It might warm hers to offer it. She proceeded to Hôtel Dieu.
Christine Charigot looked every inch a wretched creature who could not even expect a Christmas kiss from the son she had protected and adored. But her empty eyes reacted when the visitor unwrapped a seasonally decorated kugelhopf. It may have been the sharpening effect of suspicion. Or the sudden sight of something deliciously wonderful. Christine’s true position was still a mystery. At Aliette’s suggestion, Christine’s nurse brought a pot of tea.
Nibbling cake, the inspector went slowly, gently, a style and voice she was good at. Alone with Christine Charigot, in woman-to-woman mode, Aliette told her about the changes coming to her life, how it was painful but she was looking forward to moving on. Everyone had to move forward. Christine could too if she approached it with a hopeful heart and mind. A confiding cop even said some nice things about Robert she did not really believe.
Christine Charigot could not resist the offered treat — several pieces, refills of tea with milk, though she remained on edge, as if waiting for the police officer to emerge and attack.
Aliette talked on, confiding about the difficulty in going home for Christmas with the parents and her sister. ‘My mother especially. She doesn’t really agree with my life, you know?’
Some of it seemed to be getting through. She knew Christine also had a sister and a mother.
The kugelhopf was half gone, the teapot almost empty when Christine Charigot pushed back the covers, indicating it was time to pee. Since no males were present, she was quite casual as she eased herself off the bed. Her nightgown rode up to the top her thigh. Her thigh was white, muscled — she had spent a career on her feet. An inspector’s eyes processed all these bits of personal information in a micro-second, even as she extended a hand to help the unsteady woman negotiate the space from bed to floor. It was impossible not to notice a scar about four inches above the knee on Christine Charigot’s left thigh. About four inches long. It had healed but was plainly recent — Aliette had a recent wound of her own to compare. But where hers was a bullet wound, professionally mended, Christine’s looked more the result of a fall against something hard and sharp, leaving a serious gash requiring extensive stitching. At a glance, about twenty. But an uneven line. Messy work. Homemade?
A veteran triage nurse would know how.
More clarity. Still no proof.
When Christine returned from the toilet and got herself back inside her bed, Aliette reached for the other bag. ‘And I brought you these…’ smiling flatly, presenting the blue slippers.
Lulled, bewildered, the woman took them in her veiny hands.
Aliette said, ‘I know you were there. I know it was probably you… You came home from your shift and Robert was gone, and you knew where and you went straight to the beach in your slippers. And you found them, Christine, and you hated that, and you killed Martin Bettelman.’
No… Christine Charigot was blinking, fighting tears, clutching her blue slippers.
‘Yes. I think so. But if you won’t talk, I can’t prove it.’
The tears started. The silence held.
‘But it seems unfair, it really does. I mean, you were only trying to protect your child. That’s worth something…to me, at any rate.’ She reached for a last morsel of cake, put it between her lips and savoured it. Then washed it down with the last of her tea. ‘So what I’m going to do is tell them Robert did it. Robert killed Martin. He’s going away for a long, long time, in any event. Adding in a murder charge won’t matter much at all. Mm? More to the point, you are a caring mother. He seems much more like a murderer than you. By which I mean to say, it fits.’ She got up to leave.
‘So that’s what will happen. It’s Robert who’s the killer… Sorry, it’s not the best, Christine, but it’s the best I can do.’ And she bowed, withdrawing.
‘No.’ Christine Charigot had closed her eyes. She seemed to be reciting when she stated, ‘I killed him. I killed that gross man… Martin Bettelman.’ And she added, ‘It was me.’
Then the heart-rending noise began, piercing, inarticulate, but filled with truth.
It brought the nurses running. It gave Aliette, weepy herself now, a chance to slip away.
It was not sympathy for poor Christine. It was the release of pressure on herself.
***
It was given to J-P Blismes to present the picture, build a frame for Christine Charigot, and help her talk her way to a confession: How she had come upon Robert and a man, naked and doing things she did not want to remember — but she did, and how she took the man’s gun and chased him, both of them falling and stumbling along the rocky bank, and killed him — finally; what did she know about shooting guns? — then broken the godforsaken painting over her knee, and yes, over his horrible head. And how she had dragged her Robert home.
Several nurses on the ward reported patients becoming dangerously agitated by the shrieking Christine Charigot unleashed in the process of unburdening herself. The head nurse called security. When they arrived, J-P held them off. He was used to anger. It was normal. Christine had to let it out. He advised that she should be tried as not criminally responsible for what she’d done. A half-dozen psychiatrists eventually agreed.
But all that was not till after Aliette Nouvelle was long gone. Direction: south.
Epilogue
