‘But the thing is I don’t believe it. I mean I have to believe it but I don’t want to. I want to carry on looking.’
‘How can you? If there’s nothing to look for any more.’
‘Precisely,’ she said curtly.
They walked a short way in silence. Then she pointed to the hill in front of them. ‘Race you to the top!’
As she waited for him to arrive, she examined the trunk of an oak tree, wondering if it might provide a better source of inspiration than murder.
***
Twenty minutes into the session, Paul was talking about his mother’s hip, which ought to be operated on but she was afraid of the anaesthetic, sometimes they get it all wrong and you don’t wake up, when Magali said gently, ‘Paul?’
‘Yes?’
‘You were going to tell me about your father.’
There was a long silence. ‘I don’t have one.’
‘I know. He’s dead.’
‘I never did.’
She waited for more but nothing came. ‘What do you mean, Paul?’
‘I never knew him. I was three when he died.’
‘I thought he died six years ago. That’s what you told me.’
‘When I was little. His name was Patrick.’
Another silence.
‘Do you remember him, Paul?’
He clenched his jaws. He stared at the painting of the flower in front of him, saying nothing. For the next twenty minutes he played with his bits of string, discarding them one by one on the floor, till Magali finally said, ‘Right, that’s it for today, Paul. Twenty-five euros, please.’
It didn’t bother him at all. Perhaps he thought it a bargain, twenty-five euros for the right to sit in her armchair and litter her floor with string. Presumably it was his mother paying anyway. Magali wasn’t sure about the Freudian implications of that, but if it didn’t bother him, she wasn’t going to let it bother her either. All in all, therapy was a much easier job than detective work. It didn’t matter if they talked and it didn’t matter if they didn’t. And it wasn’t like the Job Centre, where you had to actually listen and provide an answer. Here you only had to pretend to listen, while your thoughts wandered off on therapeutic journeys of their own: taking stock of your life, confronting your obsessions, deciding it was time you returned to common sense.
***
‘Three days a week, 2 to 8 p.m.’ The manager of the Spar, an amiable, round-faced man called Simon Retsky, was a little surprised when she pointed to the sign by the till and asked if he still needed a cashier. She’d never really spoken with him apart from the usual small talk, but word got around in Sentabour, and he hadn’t expected Xavier Borelly’s wife to be asking him for a job. On the other hand, he also knew that even a surgeon’s wife can fall on hard times. ‘It’s paid the minimum wage,’ he said, a little embarrassed.
‘Fine,’ said Magali, who knew from the Job Centre what it was like to go hunting for work.
‘The hours might change a bit from week to week,’ he added. ‘There’ll be a bit of shelf-stacking with it.’
‘Fine,’ said Magali again. ‘Suits me down to the ground.’
‘Have you worked at a cash desk before?’ he asked.
‘No. I used to work at the Job Centre.’
‘Not quite the same thing. Still, you should do all right. The first couple of days you’ll have someone to help you. It’s hardly rocket science. As long as you keep your wits about you.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ She thought it was nice of him to assume she had wits to keep.
‘Good.’ Retsky stretched out a hand. ‘When can you start?’
Chapter 12
Common sense having prevailed, Magali brought her murder-related activities to a halt. She stuffed Albert Roncet’s writings into a drawer, stacked her Enzo paintings beneath a sheet and abandoned the notes she’d started about the Terrals. Her assignment would be as sensible as her life: an observation of shopping habits in the Spar. In fact, come to think of it, was there any point in doing an assignment at all? The whole idea of gaining a qualification for a job she shouldn’t have started in the first place lost its appeal. I’m sorry, Monsieur Verney, I said you could count on me but you can’t.
Every morning, instead of going for a run, she watched Les Z’amours with a glass of wine and a packet of bacon crisps. The first time she did it, she felt guilty. Who watches game shows at half eleven in the morning? But she quickly got used to peeping into other couples’ marriages. She imagined herself on the show with Xavier, guessing all his answers correctly while he guessed none of hers. Or perhaps – who knows? – the opposite.
The doldrums. Luc used to think it was a place. ‘Mummy’s in the doldrums,’ he’d say, as if she’d just popped out to get some food.
But at least, in the doldrums, you could indulge yourself. And working in the Spar, far away from doolally land, made her feel virtuous: this is what sensible people do. Luc and Sophie said she was brave, as if sitting behind a till was the modern equivalent of the trenches. He didn’t say it in so many words but Luc, she was sure, approved – it might well be in the mud of Verdun, but at last she had her feet on the ground. Sophie was less convinced, but then she hadn’t grown up watching a cuckoo flap about in the clouds.
As for Antoine, he thought she’d gone from one extreme to another. ‘A bit radical, isn’t it?’ he said, to which she replied it was a matter of necessity. This was no doubt true, though she’d never actually sat down and done the maths. She found it hard to get her mind around bank statements.
Antoine had broached the topic once. She was lucky, he said, not to have to work, and with interest rates what they were, she either had a tidy pile or some investments tips he’d very much like to hear. He, obviously, had done the maths, as carefully, no doubt, as he did the accounts of the Hikers’ Association. And with a fair idea of what the house could have sold for, he wondered what she was living on. Magali remained evasive. The fact was that thanks to Xavier, she’d never had to be careful with money, and she’d got so used to this that she’d assumed it would never change.
For a man so busy keeping his customers satisfied, Simon Retsky (she was careful always to call him ‘Monsieur’) was talkative. In two weeks sitting at the till in the Spar, she learnt more about the inhabitants of Sentabour than in all the months she’d been living there. Happiness, it seemed, was not to be found in abundance – or else it was simply that Retsky preferred to focus on woes. Madame Perrault’s daughter had thrown herself off a cliff, Francis Talmy’s wife was cheating on him with a plumber, poor old Romain Chappe had been swindled out of everything he owned. Most of the time these snippets would be muttered in her ear as the person in question was in full view, pondering over the pasta or filling a bag with carrots. Magali made encouraging sounds of astonishment. The work, to be sure, was dull and poorly paid, but Retsky’s gossip was priceless.
She preferred, in fact, the days when she worked in the Spar because the rest of the time she was at a loose end. That was the major disadvantage of the doldrums: you flopped about aimlessly and couldn’t get excited about anything. Every so often she stood in front of her easel and stared at a blank canvas. A different source of inspiration from murder? What could that possibly be? Does having a painter’s block make you a painter?
She didn’t write to Nîmes to say she was stopping because she didn’t know if she was or not. This was a state she was also familiar with: dither. Funnily enough, Xavier had never latched on to that, but even as she was telling her Job Centre clients it was vital to be proactive, she herself would often be stuck in a swamp of indecision. She didn’t read Verney’s brochure or order the books on her list, she would let events decide for her – if she did no work, she’d be thrown off the course anyway. I’m afraid we’re expelling you, Madame Rousseau. For a mature student, you know, you’re remarkably immature.
Strangely, though, a book arrived anyway, with a card inside that read ‘Please find the enclosed as per your
order. Thanking you for your custom.’ It wasn’t posted in Nîmes but in Dijon and although it was a course book for law students, it wasn’t the one prescribed on the list. A mistake, she supposed, and would have returned it if there had been an address on the card. One day, perhaps, she’d read it, if ever she summoned the commitment, motivation and discipline that Verney had so rightly said were needed.
***
Thank you for your visit. I’m sorry if I wasn’t much help but I’m sure you understand I don’t want it all raked up again. About Albert’s book, I wasn’t thinking at the time but would you like me to send you the Word file? It would be easier for you to work on. Thank you for offering to help, Albert would have appreciated it. Best regards, Elsa Soulier.
Magali sighed. Either her lack of enthusiasm hadn’t been obvious enough or Elsa had chosen to ignore it. I’ll let you know, she wrote back. For the moment I’m still reading the notebooks.
Well, at least it’s something to do, she thought, as she stretched out on the settee and opened notebook number one.
Louis Ragolin was in a tight spot, about to be pierced by an Austrian bayonet, but he managed all the same to note the details of his assailant’s uniform, right down to the scalloped hat-lace and yellow buttons. He even had time to reflect upon the respective merits of Austrian and French bayonets. Then, just as his enemy thrust, he rolled out of the way. Phew, he thought. That was a narrow escape.
Find a publisher, Elsa said. Magali suspected that finding any murderer on earth would be easier. Yet the notes had a certain hypnotic quality. After a while you became fascinated by button engravings and musket flints. Then suddenly you were back with Ragolin rolling out of the way or diving to safety. It was curiously therapeutic. For herself, anyway; she doubted it would be of much use for Paul Daveney. And at least it was more interesting than company law.
Ragolin’s first observations were at the Battle of Montenotte in 1796, which was cleverly won by Napoleon despite inferior numbers. From there Roncet’s hero went on to every battle in Egypt, Austria and Prussia, noting in painstaking detail the movements of troops, dates, weather, distances covered, names of battalions and commanders, information sent back and forth between the Emperor and his generals.
Roncet, in his way, was as mad and obsessed as she was, avidly recreating past events, trying to recapture something for ever gone.
Occasionally, among the mass of facts and figures, there were jottings harder to decipher, reminders to himself, it seemed, written perhaps when he stopped for a break so that he would know how to continue. ‘Upset with friend.’ Was he talking there about himself or Ragolin? ‘Reckless.’ ‘Lost in woods.’ ‘Farmer’s wife.’ ‘Poultry.’ These no doubt referred to Ragolin rather than Roncet, but it wasn’t always clear. There was an episode in which Ragolin stole a chicken, but she found no mention of a farmer’s wife nor of being lost in the woods. ‘Good!’ figured frequently in the margin, presumably meaning Roncet was satisfied, though Magali found it hard to identify why. He was keen to make sure that what he wrote was accurate, often adding ‘Check’ or ‘Plausible?’, with references to what might be other works on the topic: ‘Vallet – Egypt’, ‘Mendeau, p. 86’, ‘Caille useful here.’ Some of the references had ‘done’ or ‘OK’ written next to them.
Halfway through the Battle of Marengo, she put the notebook down, yawning. Too early for a drink? Give it another few minutes – hold out till five o’ clock.
Twelve of the minutes had passed when she got a call from Vincent. Ten days now since he’d called her in Alsace and several times she’d reached for the phone, only to hold back. Dithering again: she knew he fancied her but she didn’t know if she fancied him, or at least she didn’t want him to think she did. There might be a logic in there somewhere but it wasn’t very obvious. On the other hand, she reasoned, there are better places to look for logic than matters relating to the heart.
‘I thought you’d like to know how we’re getting on,’ he said, using the ‘vous’ form again.
‘That’s very kind of you.’ It was true, she did want to know. She wasn’t a detective any more – had never been one in fact – but she’d thought so much about Enzo’s murder that forgetting it instantly was impossible.
‘Well, she’s a tough nut to crack,’ he said, referring to Brigitte Bussert. ‘But we’re closing in on her. Just a matter of time.’
‘I see.’ Magali left a pause. ‘Have you charged her?’
‘Working up to it. It would be nice to get a confession but even without one it all adds up.’
Despite herself, Magali felt her interest reawakening. ‘What’s her defence then? If she’s got no alibi any more.’
‘She hasn’t got one. She admits she was at the house for half an hour, she just denies she killed him. But if it wasn’t her, she wouldn’t have needed to lie in the first place, would she?’ His intonation was strange: sure of himself but at the same time asking her opinion.
‘What reason did she give for that?’ she asked.
‘Panic. The first time we questioned her was the day after the murder. Routine, that’s all, she wasn’t a suspect. But she thought we were going to pin it on her so she made up an alibi. By the time we got round to questioning Alice Perrin, Brigitte had fully briefed her.’
‘And Alice went along with that?’
‘They go back. Brigitte thought it could hold. And it did for a while, she bought herself some time.’
‘But she’s still not confessing.’
‘No,’ he conceded with a sigh of dissatisfaction. ‘But she thought she’d got away with it and now I imagine she’s finding it hard to cope with. She might take a while to come round.’
Magali had never met Brigitte Bussert. All she had was a photo and a collection of emails. From those, it was true, she had pictured a woman swept away by the force of her own emotions. ‘What if she tries to kill herself?’
‘I can’t see that.’ Vincent sounded surprised. ‘We had her in for twenty-four hours and she didn’t let up a minute.’ He lowered his voice. ‘All this is strictly confidential, by the way. I have to meet up with the judge to decide whether to go ahead and prosecute. I’m confident we can, but don’t mention any of this to Madame Perle, not yet.’
‘Of course.’ Magali managed to sound gracious as she added, ‘Congratulations, you must be relieved.’
‘I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.’
‘Why? I’ve done nothing.’
‘I was ready to let it drop till you appeared. Walk out on everything.’
‘Everything? You mean…’
‘Resign. I wasn’t getting any satisfaction from the job. Not just the Perle case but going further back. The posting to Padignac wasn’t what I wanted. I’d pretty much lost all motivation. But that day you appeared and you were so hesitant and yet you’d already figured out so much and you took such an interest… You got me back on track. I remember walking back to the station and I literally had a new spring in my step.’
She had to suppress a giggle, as an image formed of a uniformed gendarme skipping through the streets of Padignac. ‘Glad to be of help,’ she said jocularly. So that was where her talent lay: getting jaded gendarmes back on track.
‘We must get together some time. Celebrate.’
‘Yes.’ She was surprised to hear herself adding, ‘I’d like that.’
‘I have to go to Montpellier in a couple of weeks. We could meet up there on the Friday if you like. Stay the weekend.’
‘Um… well, why not?’
‘Good. I’ll make the arrangements. I’ll send you the details by email.’
What, she wondered, would the details include? Or more importantly, leave out?
‘I’ll look forward to that then,’ she said. And hurriedly rang off, alarmed by her own readiness.
A whole weekend? The one night would be plenty. Perhaps not at all, in fact. She’d see.
All the same, one immediate consequence of the call was that instead o
f reaching for the wine, she put on her tracksuit and running shoes.
On her return Magali took out the notebooks again, working backwards this time. In the last entry, the day Roncet died, Ragolin was resting on a farm, not yet aware that shortly he would be recording in intricate detail the Battle of Jena. Rather than read through the battle descriptions – hypnotised was fine, comatose less appealing – she concentrated only on the comments in the margin. Not because she expected to find anything significant but because she’d punished herself by running more laps than ever before and now she was feeling good.
He shouldn’t have called, she thought. If he hadn’t mentioned that spring in his step, she wouldn’t have gone out to put one in her own, wouldn’t have roused herself to emerge from the doldrums. Because having got rid of the toxins caused by alcohol, crisps and Les Z’Amours, she was, temporarily at least, back to her previous state of borderline bonkers trainee private detective.
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