One Green Bottle

by Curtis Bausse

  ‘You’re not feeble and you know it.’

  ‘Or else,’ said Antoine, ‘it’s out of some misplaced idea you need protecting.’

  She knew when she asked that he wouldn’t refuse, despite her disregarding his advice. She just had to call and he came. Her personal genie, no less, and very handy with the DIY: her house had improved no end. Adventure wasn’t his cup of tea, though. He got enough thrills from his power tools.

  ‘I do. You’re my knight in shining armour.’

  ‘Indeed?’ He pressed his lips. ‘I fear you’ve probably come to the wrong place.’

  But she hadn’t been able to go on her own. Simply imagining opening the door to the house where Enzo Perle had been murdered made her realise she had to have a companion. ‘Only joking. You’re someone for me to chat to on the drive. Plus, your car is comfier.’

  ‘I prefer that. Chauffeur. Suits me down to the ground.’ He was silent for a few minutes, and then asked, ‘Do you think it’s exciting? A murder case?’

  ‘There’s something of that. If I’m honest. I know that sounds terrible, but there is.’

  ‘Like in the movies. Except we’re not.’

  ‘I know. It shouldn’t be exciting, I agree.’

  ‘But it is.’

  ‘Don’t you think?’

  He took a while before answering. ‘Whatever excitement it has is outweighed by the knowledge that it’s foolish.’

  Magali sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Antoine. I shouldn’t have asked you to come.’

  ‘No, don’t say that.’ He looked upset. ‘I’m perfectly happy to be here. Better than being stuck in Sentabour all day.’

  They drove along in silence for a while.

  ‘It’s not the main reason,’ she said. ‘It’s not like, “Oh, I need some spice in my life, let’s investigate a murder.” The main reason is, I feel for her so much.’ She gazed at the passing countryside, then shook her head. ‘I don’t know how she manages.’

  ‘Madame Perle?’ Antoine shrugged. ‘One does, that’s all.’

  ‘Forgive me, but…’ She stared at him. ‘Losing a child like that. It’s not the same.’

  ‘As what?’

  ‘Well… losing a spouse.’ Gaffe, big time. She saw him stiffen at the words. She reached out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean –’

  ‘No, you’re right. I’m not comparing. One has to move on eventually, though, however hard it is.’

  ‘And how can you tell? When you’ve moved on. To where? What does it mean to move on?’

  ‘To nowhere special. Just to less pain, I think.’

  ‘Or to someone else?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You move on to someone else. Another relationship.’

  ‘Or not, as the case may be. Obviously not, in Madame Perle’s.’

  Magali let a few seconds pass. ‘And in yours?’

  ‘Mine? I’ve moved. I don’t know if I’ve moved on.’

  ‘Very intriguing. What is one supposed to make of that?’

  He pointed to a road sign. ‘Padignac. Not much longer now.’

  Moved, but not on. Where, then? Away from the topic, that’s for sure, but apart from proceeding cautiously round another hairpin bend, climbing towards Padignac through countryside that glowed in the evening light of summer, Antoine Pessini kept his destination secret.

  The tourist season was at its peak and the Hôtel du Clocher, where they’d booked, was full of elderly couples and hikers. Or so it appeared – but how many of the couples weren’t couples at all but private detectives with their chauffeur? And amongst the hikers, how many murderers were there? Or else the other way round: the couples killed and the hikers tried to catch them. Magali didn’t mention either possibility to Antoine. He would scold her, not unreasonably, for being flippant.

  So they conversed sensibly and there was no candlelight and their fingers didn’t touch. And after taking a stroll round the town they said goodnight and went to their separate bedrooms.

  ***

  ‘Well, at least,’ he said as they set out next morning to Mannezon, ‘it’ll be your first and last.’

  ‘Last what?’

  ‘Case. Unless you’ve replaced the plaque with a full-page ad in the paper.’

  ‘Not yet, no. But I have been thinking there’s nothing to prevent me going legal.’

  ‘And how would you do that?’

  ‘Take a course. There’s one in Nîmes. Ten months.’

  ‘I see. So it’s back to school.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see how it goes. But if I want to continue, I’ll have to.’

  ‘Indeed.’ His frown was one of incomprehension. How on earth does she come up with these hare-brained ideas?

  ‘Can I read you my notes? Based on what Charlotte told me.’ He hadn’t shown any curiosity, but she felt a strong desire to share what little she knew. ‘Maybe you’ll spot some fiendish connection and solve the case in a jiffy.’

  He dipped his head. ‘I very much doubt it. But I’ve come this far. Might as well go the whole way.’

  She’d already studied her notes many times on her own – they didn’t offer the slightest clue. But then, how could they? She wasn’t a real detective. ‘Two suspects initially. Loïc Bussert and Gilles Mattell. Both brought in for interrogation, both released for lack of evidence. Bussert is Brigitte’s husband – she’s the woman Enzo was having an affair with.’

  ‘So a crime of passion. Need we look any further?’

  ‘There’s nothing to prove that Loïc Bussert ever went into the house. No footprints, fingerprints, nothing. Plenty from his wife – prints on the taps, hairs on the pillow, you name it. Even her overcoat. At first, she denied they were having an affair, but that wasn’t really tenable. Bussert maintains it came as a total shock, but by the time of the murder it was getting to be common knowledge. Several people in the village have said it was pretty obvious. Whether Enzo suspected that Loïc knew is unsure, but they know from Enzo’s emails to Brigitte he was trying to break it off. The couple are divorcing now.’

  ‘And his alibi?’

  ‘At home, he claims. But the time of death isn’t entirely sure anyway. The autopsy put the death sometime on Thursday, March 10th, possibly Friday morning. Very likely the Thursday evening because Enzo had been making dinner. At least they assume so – there was a glass of wine and he never drank at lunchtime. The police found two glasses, in fact, a local white he was fond of, but one of them was untouched. He phoned his mother on Thursday afternoon, and also used his computer. There’s no trace of any activity on the Friday. He’d been making an omelette, again for two, but he hadn’t started cooking it so we’re looking most likely at Thursday evening, about half-seven or eight.’

  ‘When this Bussert fellow was at home. Can anyone back that up?’

  ‘No, he was on his own. He’d argued with Brigitte and she’d driven off to see a friend, Alice Perrin.’

  ‘So no alibi at all, in fact.’

  ‘He’s a shifty type, apparently. Got a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘He worked for the Forestry. He got sacked for stealing fuel.’

  ‘Well,’ said Antoine, ‘you’ve got your man, I should say.’

  She glanced across. His face was deadpan, but he had to be joking, surely?

  ‘It’s not enough, Antoine. He’d have been arrested if it was. Without any proof he was in the house, they’ve got nothing.’

  He smiled. ‘All right. What about the other?’

  ‘Gilles Mattell. A local builder who was helping Enzo on the house. His van was seen there at 6.45 on the Thursday evening. He said he’d dropped in on his way back from another site and stayed no more than fifteen minutes. Possibly the last person to see him alive – apart from the killer.’

  ‘They’re one and the same. Never trust a builder, I say.’

  ‘Antoine!’ But now she saw he was laughing, and she said crossly, ‘You’re not taking any of this seriously, are you?
’

  ‘A murder is always serious.’

  ‘So what is it? Me? You really don’t think I should be doing this, do you?’

  He didn’t deign to answer that. ‘So what’s the plan?’ he said. ‘You’re going to talk to them?’

  ‘The suspects? I don’t know. They’re not really suspects any more. The search has been widened to everyone Enzo knew before arriving, Facebook friends and so on. And I can’t… I’m just here to…’ She didn’t know how to finish.

  ‘I think if either of them had anything to confess, the police would have extracted it.’

  ‘Mmm. Me too.’

  ‘So if you’re ruling them out, we’re starting from scratch.’

  ‘I think that’s the best, don’t you? No preconceptions.’

  ‘And the police? Who’s in charge? We’re deep in gendarme territory here.’

  ‘The orders are given by the magistrate. The footwork’s done by a certain Vincent Darlier, a captain in the Padignac gendarmerie. Very thorough apparently, but not very focused. That’s what Charlotte felt.’

  ‘Well, focused or not, you’re best off starting with him. If he wants to cooperate, that is.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘An amateur detective stepping in to solve it all for him? He might think he’s equally justified in telling you to get lost.’

  Magali nodded slowly. ‘You know, that’s very encouraging, Antoine. Thank you.’

  ‘We’re in the movies, my dear. The chauffeur speaks unpalatable truths, and the heroine stubbornly ignores them.’

  ‘I’ve seen some of those. The best are where she shoves her fist in the chauffeur’s big fat gob.’

  ***

  Along with the four essential ingredients of a village – bakery, bar, war memorial, church – Mannezon boasted an art gallery, where Antoine gallantly declared her paintings to be far superior, and a general food store, where they stopped to buy some apricots. Enzo’s house was a further three miles, a hundred yards down a track off a narrow by-road.

  A small old stone building, it looked out over the valley towards a range of hills in the distance. As they stood admiring the view in the warmth of the limitless sunlight, Magali had to remind herself why they were there. In the beauty of such surroundings, the very notion of murder was out of place.

  But when they opened the door, the brightness of summer vanished. The house was no less pretty inside than out, but this was the very room where Charlotte’s son had been killed – an iciness lurked inside.

  She forced herself to concentrate. ‘A heavy blunt instrument.’ She didn’t need to look at her notes – she could still see Charlotte’s haunted features, her face drained of colour, as she told Magali the details. ‘An old pipe perhaps, or a piece of scaffolding, could have been picked up in a scrap yard. Or even just outside. It hasn’t been found. The killer must have taken it with him, no doubt tossed it away. It could be lying now at the bottom of a river.’

  As she stood in the kitchen where Enzo had been cooking, she couldn’t prevent herself from shivering. Mushroom omelette, Charlotte had said, a detail that caused her to sob with grief in front of Magali, who hadn’t known what to do and started crying too.

  ‘It feels spooky,’ she whispered. Getting no reply, she turned round. A wave of panic swept through her when she saw Antoine wasn’t there. She ran to the door: he was outside, hands in pockets, head bent.

  He looked up at her. ‘I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right.’ He flashed a pinched smile in her direction. ‘Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.’

  He didn’t want to know. Why should he? She had no right to drag him here and feed him gory titbits as if they were somehow instructive. Oh, and did I tell you, a single blow to the head was all it took? Just above the right ear. The second one crushing his face was just to make sure. Fascinating, don’t you think?

  She went back inside. A feeling of helplessness swamped her. She cast her eyes round the kitchen. She didn’t know where to begin. In the beginning was the blow, and it felled him, and life was no longer in him. But what came before the blow? Who did he argue with? Or not argue with – there was no sign of a struggle. The blow came from behind, sudden and unexpected. He didn’t even have time to be surprised.

  Therefore, the killer was known to Enzo, who had let them in without suspecting anything. But Captain Darlier knew that already, as did Charlotte. What could Magali possibly find that was new?

  She went upstairs. Two bedrooms and a bathroom. The larger room, where just a few months ago Enzo would have been making love with Loïc Bussert’s wife, was cluttered with books and clothes. Magali stood in the doorway and didn’t dare to enter. The untidiness reminded her of Luc. Artistic types. They’d have got on well. She put a hand to the doorframe to steady herself.

  She went back down and stepped out into the sunlight. Antoine was waiting patiently on a low wall overlooking the valley. He didn’t see her straightaway, and for a moment, she stood looking at him. Slim, well dressed, silver-haired. And this is my partner outside the holiday home we’re doing up. Lovely view, isn’t it?

  He was right. It wasn’t a game of Cleudo. They shouldn’t be here at all, neither of them. He turned and Magali moved towards him, smiling uncertainly.

  ‘That was quick,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  She raised her arms helplessly. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘It was never a good idea. You’re not much of a Sherlock and I’m a terrible Watson.’

  She attempted a smile. ‘I didn’t even bring a magnifying glass.’

  Antoine moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders. It was all she needed. She burst into tears and fell into his embrace. Then with a startling suddenness, his lips came down on hers – but the kiss barely had time to get passionate before he broke off abruptly, and with a brief, tormented look, muttered an apology and strode to the car.

  Chapter 5

  Two weeks after driving home, ashamed and empty-handed, Magali went back to Mannezon on her own. Several times she had picked up the phone to call Charlotte, but she didn’t have the heart or the courage to tell her she was quitting. At first she thought it didn’t matter – she was quitting anyway but not saying so. After a while Charlotte would realise – that Rousseau woman’s doing nothing – but that would be fine because by that time, time would have done whatever it does and Charlotte would have started to ‘move on’.

  Then she realised she wasn’t quitting. She couldn’t. It wasn’t just that she had to get over the abject failure of the first visit, but something had happened in that house that she had to exorcise. To stand where Enzo had stood, to be so close to the killer, had brought her within touching distance of a murder. She kept imagining the bar coming down on Enzo’s head, so vivid, she felt, that if only she strained a bit further, she would surely see who was holding it.

  She didn’t ask Antoine to come and thankfully he didn’t offer. They’d gone for a walk up the Mataroc, a dried-up stream which took them to the top of the hill overlooking Sentabour. She told him she was going back and he nodded. There was no resentment between them. It was thanks to him that she’d gone there in the first place, and now that she knew what to expect, the second visit would be easier. For his part, he neither reprimanded nor ridiculed – if such was her decision, so be it. He asked how long she’d be away and she said a few days. She asked him to feed Toupie. ‘Happy to, my dear,’ he said.

  No mention was made of the kiss. On the way back from Mannezon, he’d apologised again and said, ‘Of course one can’t undo what’s done, but let’s just say it never happened.’

  The kiss that never was. A slip of the tongue, perhaps? She bit her own tongue and said nothing.

  Before she went into Enzo’s house, she spent a whole two days driving around the vicinity, her ancient Clio a pitiful substitute for Antoine’s Passat, covering all the roads within a twenty-mile radius. She marked her
itinerary on a map, took innumerable photographs and recorded her impressions on her phone. This was methodical if nothing else. What she got out of it was a mental map of the area and a physical sensation each time she turned towards Enzo’s house, coiled in the pit of her stomach: this could be the road the killer took. She also got the impression that she was finally doing her job.

  On the third day she walked all round the outside of the house, taking more pictures, before letting herself in. She stood without moving, listening intently, as if she’d eventually hear some clue in the silence. As if the sounds of that evening back in March would travel to her from the past. But the house was resolutely mute.