She poured herself some wine and was examining the contents of the fridge when she heard a noise upstairs. It was only faint but she saw that Sophie had heard it too and her face was suddenly alert. ‘The wind,’ said Magali with emphasis. She saw the anxiety return to Sophie’s face and added with a laugh, ‘All the doors are locked.’
‘When we were in the studio? The back door was locked?’
Magali twisted her lips and shook her head. They’d been gone twenty minutes. Could someone have slipped in then? She gave another laugh, less assured. ‘Our nerves have been shot to pieces. He’s in the station. He’s under lock and key.’
‘Of course.’ Sophie realised she was being silly and relaxed. ‘I’m sorry. It was just, you know, those few minutes in the house after getting the book? It was like your worst nightmare coming true.’
‘Yes, I know.’ Magali held her hand. ‘But you’re safe now. It’s over.’ She turned to the fridge. ‘I haven’t got much. Will an omelette do?’
‘Fine.’
‘You make a start, then. I’m just going to put on some slippers.’
She wondered for a moment whether to take the knife. But hadn’t she just told Sophie they were safe? Shaking her head at her silliness, she hummed loudly as she went upstairs. She opened the doors and switched on the lights. There was no one.
She was in her bedroom, kicking off her shoes, when the house was plunged into darkness and Sophie yelled, ‘Magali?’
‘Here!’ she shouted back. ‘Don’t worry, it’s probably just a power cut.’ It sometimes happened. Usually at weekends, though, when she had the hotplates on. Feeling her way in the dark, she advanced to the top of the stairs.
Then she heard Sophie scream.
Part two
David
Chapter 32
‘Do you like it?’
‘Wow!’ David gave a whistle of admiration. ‘You made that?’
‘I found someone who sells this by the yard.’ Marion’s fingers fluttered beneath the cloth. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’
‘Beautiful.’ He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her forehead. ‘A beautiful top on a beautiful woman. I’m proud of you.’
She smiled at the compliment, gripping him round the waist. ‘I’ve got an appointment in Paris on Friday. Tanaga.’
‘Am I supposed to know them?’
‘A guy? I wouldn’t ask that much of you. Just think of them as the Porsche of the fashion world. Or whatever.’
‘Sleek, sexy, expensive. And worth every penny.’ He kissed her again, resisting the urge to lead her into the bedroom. It was time to fetch Elodie. ‘And you’re going to supply them?’
‘I’m going to show them. This and everything else. And see what they say.’
‘And if they say yes?’
Marion’s face was bright with anticipation but her hands made a gesture to keep the world sensible and steady. ‘Then we talk terms and conditions. And I’ll see. But we’re not there yet, by any means.’
Six years ago, when they met, Marion was a sales girl in the Grand Littoral shopping centre in Marseilles. David went in to buy a pair of jeans. It wasn’t just her beauty that astounded him but her manner. She made him feel he was doing something special, or that she was there to help him find an extra touch that went beyond his appearance, got to the heart of who he really was. He still had those jeans and he still had the figure to wear them. From time to time he put them on and reminded her of what they meant to him and she laughed. When he’d walked out of the shop, he’d thought at first the specialness was something to do with the jeans themselves, but then he realised it was her. He went back to the shop and watched her serve another customer in exactly the same way – an initiation ceremony, an invitation to step into the beauty of her world. When she saw him she came over and asked if there was anything wrong with the jeans. He asked her what she was doing for her lunch break.
And now she was a fashion designer and in a few moments he’d put on his coat and go and fetch their daughter from school.
‘Me too,’ said David. ‘I’ve got an appointment in Paris. Did I mention it?’
‘Mmm, vaguely. When is it?’
‘They’ve brought it forward to tomorrow. Some guy selling an art deco collection. But I should be back by Thursday.’
‘Could they postpone it a bit? We could go up together.’
‘That would be nice. But he said he’s going away after that. I don’t want to miss it.’
Marion shrugged. ‘Shame. Still, nicer for Elodie.’
‘Well, she gets on fine with your folks, but yeah, maybe.’
They lived in Orange, Marion’s home town. They rented a flat to the north of town and Marion had a short bus ride to the shop where she worked part-time. Her parents lived a couple of streets away, which made life convenient, but nothing could match the joy of picking up Elodie from school.
***
She ran towards him and he held out his arms and lifted her high in the air. He carried her for a little way and then put her down and held her hand till they got home. Then he gave her hot chocolate and biscuits and she told him what she’d done at school. They cut out shapes and they sang Au Clair de la Lune. He asked her to sing it for him and she sang it right in tune. He let her watch television for a bit, then he put her on his lap and read to her. He told her about his own day and she asked lots of questions. She was smart.
He explained that he was going away but he’d be back Thursday and she said, ‘That’s the day after tomorrow.’ She asked him where he was going and he said Paris and she asked him if he’d take her to Paris one day.
‘Oh, yes,’ said David. ‘Maybe quite soon. It’s not very far by train.’
‘What will you do in Paris?’
‘Not a lot. Buy a few things I can sell again.’ And he added, ‘Art deco things,’ because he knew she’d ask him what that was and he loved the way she listened when he explained things.
The next day, after saying goodbye to his wife and daughter, David put some clothes in a rucksack and walked four blocks to the rented garage in which he kept his stock.
***
The hardest part was the worrying. He couldn’t prevent that. All the way from Lyons, where he hired the car, he wasn’t able to think of anything else. He tried to listen to the radio, but his own thoughts were louder and more urgent, crowding out music, news reports, chat shows. He concentrated on the driving, careful to stay within the speed limits. By pretending to himself that he was taking his driving test, he managed to quell the apprehension somewhat. But although he took regular swigs of water, his mouth was always dry.
When he drew close to Wallenheim, just as the daylight was fading, he drove up a track and changed the number of the car. Not the entire plate, but he stuck on three different numbers, back and front, the black figures painted with a stencil on white tape. To anyone looking closely, it would be visible straightaway, but the average passer-by would never notice.
They looked, though. In villages like Wallenheim, a car no one had seen before was news.
It was already dark when David entered the village. The pavements were empty, though a solitary bar was still open, with half a dozen customers inside. Albert Roncet’s house was a mile and a half from the central crossroads, not entirely isolated, but secluded enough to be hidden from the neighbours’ view. It faced on to a little yard, and obligingly, Roncet had left the gate to the yard open. It meant that David could park his car out of sight to anyone passing along the road.
Once he stepped out of the car, David was surprised to notice how calm he was. And not just calm but stronger, more decisive, the way he imagined a successful businessman to be. Someone who knows what has to be done and does it.
He took his little black rucksack from the passenger seat. In the side pocket was the knife, which he tucked into the back of his jeans, the handle hidden by the flap of his jacket. Then he took out the parcel that would gain him entry. He placed the rucksack behind a shrub that
seemed to be there for that very purpose and rang the doorbell.
On his previous visit, in the summer, David had seen a car emerge from the yard and followed it to a quiet street in Mulhouse. Then he bought three bars of gourmet chocolate and in the market survey he conducted over the next half-hour, he learnt that Elsa Soulier had a very sweet tooth and a grumpy elder brother who lived on his own. From that moment on, David was in thrall to the warm, unbeatable joy of anticipation.
The old man took his time coming to the door. The lights were on but perhaps he was already in his pyjamas or too suspicious even to answer the doorbell. There were any number of reasons why David would have to turn away, disappointed and angry. He was just about to do so when a brusque voice said, ‘Who is it?’
David had rehearsed his speech so often that he could deliver it now not just without hesitation but with the perfect salesman’s pitch of warmth and sincerity. ‘I’m sorry to bother you but I was passing nearby and I wanted to bring you a book. Napoleon, Master of War, by Thomas Legros. I don’t know if you remember but you ordered it from me a while ago and I made a mistake and sent you the wrong copy, covered in coffee stains. Coussikou, remember? I’m very sorry, I should have got in touch but I was busy and then it slipped my mind. But I’ve brought you a replacement, a brand-new copy with me now.’
The make or break moment. David breathed very softly, his heart pounding in his chest. And then he was inside, and it was like being on a stage, with Roncet, his unwitting sidekick, responding exactly as planned.
In the first few moments after the knife went into the old man’s neck, David’s main concern was not to get covered in blood. He succeeded quite well in this, though some sprayed on to his trouser leg and his shoes. Compared to what he’d imagined, though, it could have been a lot worse. Often when he’d prepared himself, running through the scene in his mind on an endless spool, the blood was like a fountain, drenching him from head to foot, drowning him.
He didn’t like blood. Not his own nor other people’s. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs, can you?
He did all right, but a little or a lot, it came to the same thing. It didn’t even need to be visible. If they ever got hold of his clothes, a molecule was enough.
They wouldn’t, though. No one would know that David Sollen had ever set foot in Wallenheim. Because David Sollen was invisible.
When Roncet’s blood stopped gurgling from his neck, everything became quiet. Not just the quiet you’d expect at this time of night in a house on a narrow road on the outskirts of a tiny village in Alsace. A quiet much deeper than that. A quiet that was inside him, a feeling of peace that went to the heart of what it meant to be part of the immensity of the universe. He wasn’t religious in any conventional sense but for several seconds he closed his eyes and was borne aloft by a host of chanting angels.
Perhaps, he thought, they didn’t sing quite as loudly, nor carry him quite as far as they did the first time. Dorothy Fourlin, the Englishwoman he killed in Brittany. The angels then were resplendent. But the difference wasn’t massive. Probably due to the stress of driving all that way from Lyons.
It would have been nice to lie down. To stretch out on the carpet and let himself be kissed by the harmony of God.
But he had to go. Lingering here was unwise.
***
‘So. What have you got?’
‘Same as usual. Pretty much.’
‘Let’s see.’
Franck Courdais transferred the pictures, getting on for three hundred, from camera to computer, and the two of them spent the next hour scrutinising them. At first they didn’t speak, as David simply sorted them into folders, saying, ‘OK,’ or ‘Nice,’ or ‘He must be fucking crazy!’ while Franck sat next to him, fiddling with an unlit cigarette, admiring his partner’s speed and the firmness of his judgement.
When the pictures were all arranged in six separate folders, named according to where they’d been taken, David moved the cursor back to the first folder and said, ‘OK, let’s start with this guy. The new one. Got the list?’
Franck handed over a scruffy sheet of paper. ‘Here.’
‘What’s this?’ David gave a puff of irritation. ‘Hey, I bought you a laptop, remember? And a flash drive. I showed you how to use a fucking spreadsheet.’
‘I forgot the cable. The battery ran out.’
‘Jesus!’ David slapped the paper with the back of his hand. ‘You expect me to type all this stuff myself? I can’t even read your fucking writing.’
‘This guy was just, like, reeling off the descriptions like it was a horse race or something. I wouldn’t have been able to use the laptop in any case. No one can type that fast.’
‘So you tell him to slow down, right? We’re doing these people a favour. It’s in their interest to work with us.’ He opened the first picture again. ‘OK, you read out, I type. Number one.’
‘Inkstand,’ said Franck. ‘Early twentieth, inlaid mahogany and lacquer. 420 grams. Twenty-five euros.’
‘Yeah, should be all right. Next?’
‘Soap dish. Limoges. Late nineteenth. 120 grams. Forty euros.’
‘Could fetch more than that. Sixty. Next.’
David Sollen and Franck Courdais. Friends? It was hard to say. They went back a way, for sure. Ten years now since David had arrived in Marseilles, knowing no one, eager to start a new life. He’d made the acquaintance of Franck in a bar, bought dope from him, became his accomplice. At first it was Franck who called the shots. David was two years younger and he came from Beauvais. Nothing ever happened in Beauvais. You couldn’t get streetwise in a place like Beauvais – there simply weren’t enough streets.
But Franck knew the streets of Marseilles. He didn’t just know his way around them, he knew how to read them. He knew what was possible and what wasn’t. He knew when to keep his mouth shut. And he knew his limits. Dope-dealer, shoplifter, pickpocket – those were his trades. Anything bigger than that, he wouldn’t touch.
So it was David who, a couple of years later, was in command. David who planned the trips to remote villages where they’d hold up a bakery or a restaurant and get away in a stolen car. Was it worth the risk? No. Sometimes they’d come away with less than a hundred euros. But what they liked even more than the reward was the thrill.
It was David, also, who saw the way things were in Marseilles and decided they weren’t for him. Franck, he knew, continued dealing, even after the police got on to him, but David preferred credit cards. People are told to be careful entering their PIN, but many of them aren’t. Stand a little to the side and the number’s yours. Then someone comes up and trips over their shoelace just as the transaction ends, and in the confusion a hand reaches out and the person, who happens to be Franck, grabs the card. Of course, you offer to help and you go in pursuit. But you’d have to be quick to catch Franck. Better to meet up later at a bus stop. Then off to the shops, where the card could still be used for a couple of hours. Weekends were spent on the edge of the Arnavaux flea market, flogging laptops and watches. An alternative outlet, if you wanted to be less visible, was eBay.
He never pushed his luck, though. You had to vary the scams, alternate periods of activity with periods of lying low, beware of CCTV. And eventually, unless you moved up a level, used real guns instead of toys and went for banks, not bakeries, you had to give up altogether.
There was a time when he did indeed wonder about moving up. In the early days, the pair of them visited a dealer and there in full view on a table in the hall, asking to be slipped into David’s pocket, was a gun. A collector’s piece, a Colt 45 automatic, back from before the days when kids barely out of their teens went spraying each other with Kalachnikovs. As far as he knew, the dealer never even missed it.
But although the gun was fully loaded, he never used it. Living on the edge was one thing, putting a bullet into someone quite another, and already he was thinking that he really ought to move on to something else. There were two events that led him
finally to stop. The first was a visit to an antique dealer in Arles. He went there to steal. Antique shops, he’d noticed, were pretty relaxed on security. You couldn’t get away with much – basically whatever might fit in your pocket – but when it comes to antiques, size isn’t that big a deal. In Arles, though, he came away with nothing, because the dealer seemed suspicious, moving around a few feet behind him, keeping him always in sight. So David ended up asking questions and the dealer was happy to answer. He spoke about the origin of things, what made them rare or valuable. David listened carefully. Then he said, ‘Do you sell any stuff on eBay?’ And when the dealer said no, he said, ‘I’ll do it for you.’
The other event was buying that pair of jeans. Marion. She took his breath away.
David now had eighteen antique dealers within a radius of 100 kilometres, with whom he had built a relation of mutual trust. His job was easy enough: take the pictures and post the items on eBay. Alert the dealers whenever an item was sold, and make sure they sent it off as quickly as possible. He took a seven per cent commission.
One Green Bottle Page 25
