by John Brooke
Aliette pushed. ‘What’s he like?’ Too presumptuous, not to mention deceitful; but the police can get away with both. But Aliette was not being mean.
Chloé Dafy replied with her own vague nod, deciding to trust her client. ‘I always loved his music. Came of age with it in my head, really.’
Read: Came of age to the provocative tunes of the curly-haired darling of the intellectual Left.
Yet here was Chloé Dafy in a small-town branch of a national bank. It was hard to imagine the music of Luc Malarmé inspiring her in that direction. What could a cop say?
‘It seems he trusts you.’
‘It’s wrong,’ Chloé stated, as if reading a number. ‘Luc has paid for what he did.’
A banker would know about payment. The chief inspector leaned forward. ‘Right or wrong, these things are happening. Help me understand, madame. What is he trying to prove?’
‘Prove?’ The banker’s reply came floating back. ‘He only wants to sing.’
‘Is he so unaware of how people perceive his behaviour? After all he’s been through?’
‘It is not behaviour — it’s music. Musicians play music.’
‘He’s scaring people. He was playing in the streets. People worry for their children.’
Chloé Dafy appeared strained. ‘Would he be so insane? — after all he’s been through?’
‘I hope not.’
Chloé lowered her eyes. ‘The past is gone.’
Straight out of Luc’s songbook. ‘Even so…’
‘He’s harmless!’
‘Even if I might agree with you, someone’s bent on harming him.’ Aliette tapped the page that sat between them. ‘Please. You might be able to help us. If you don’t see a name there, what about a voice? An attitude… Try, madame.’
‘A voice?’ Bewildered, Chloé Dafy took up the page again and spent some minutes reading. At length she asked, ‘What is IssaE?’
‘Some kind of goddess, I believe.’
‘Well, they sound like children.’ She put the page aside. ‘Luc needs to validate himself. He is not breaking any law. He has the right and you are failing him. Badly.’
Me? It was a look, not a question.
Chloé clarified. ‘The police. The system.’
Luc Malarmé had songs about that. Dozens of them. Aliette directed her gaze to the rejected page. ‘You never look at it?’
‘No. I have no time for this sort of…’ Chloé needed a word. She couldn’t find it.
‘What about your mother?’
‘My mother?’
‘Is she there?’
‘I have no idea.’ But this prompted a blush. Guilt? ‘My life is not my mother’s business.’
‘No.’ It couldn’t be, and the more so here in this small town. Aliette admired Chloé for that.
But Luc Malarmé was a risky emotional investment. A banker would also know about risk.
‘They don’t know him,’ Chloé insisted, quietly frustrated.
Rather than go to another unpleasant confrontation with Christine Dafy at the library, the chief inspector went the other direction and crossed the place to the BatiMat outlet. Claude Dafy was one of the names offered up by Francine Tabler. The yard was arranged with stacks of lumber, bricks, terracotta roof tile, bags of sand and crushed stone. Inside, it was cavernous: rows of bins and racks with floor and wall tile, window casings, doors, sinks, toilets, shower stalls and bathtubs, a thousand different cans and tubes containing products for sealing, gluing, staining and painting, everything you might need to build and equip a house. Asked for a word with the boss, the girl at the cash pointed down a dimly lit aisle.
Aliette kept a safe distance as the man at the controls of a forklift smelling of propane finished manoeuvring a skid packed with something wrapped in heavy plastic onto a top rack.
Claude Dafy was a large man with a gut and a veiny nose, getting close to retirement age, not so well preserved or elegant as his librarian wife, but robust. Boss and sole proprietor though he may have been, befitting a forklift operator, he was clad in well-worn jeans and a Lacoste polo shirt. And a green cap with a BatiMat logo stitched onto it: a blue stylized hammer.
He shook her hand. ‘I’m guessing it’s not a bathroom this time.’
‘It’s about Monsieur Malarmé. I understand you know him?’
‘Used to, a bit… Horrible thing.’
‘You built his barn.’
‘Yes. Then his house… Good contracts. Helped me get this franchise.’
‘Bad politics, if I’m hearing correctly.’
‘Normal politics, Inspector. But that was never my problem. It was the vignernons. And the mairie. It always is…The rules changed, he wanted a barn, I went out, told him what I could do and gave him a price. Got the work. Voilà.’
‘But you used to know him?’
He grinned. ‘We had some fun times with Luc.’
‘Who did?’
‘Lots of us.’
She began asking questions. Claude Dafy answered because he had to, but his replies were to the point and sounded honest. A name jumped out at her. ‘Tell me about Jérome Giffard.’
‘Sad story. It’s been years since I saw him. I know his son, of course — a very good fly-half.’
‘Fly-half?’
‘Jérome, Jr. Excellent. Our top scorer last two seasons.’ Claude Dafy smiled proudly — but he immediately gleaned from the blank stare coming back that the chief inspector had no idea what he was talking about. ‘Town rugby club, Inspector. We sponsor them. Les Marteaux.’ He tipped his cap bearing the blue logo. She understood. He went on. ‘No, Jérome père was a bit older than me. Not really my crowd.’
‘But part of the party crowd.’
‘Luc invited everyone. Probably came with René. René Clermont. He was our mayor back then. Good talker — could make things happen. Probably would’ve won a third term if it weren’t for Luc. Jérome Giffard was in thick with René — did all the deeding and the numbers that went with that.’
Aliette noted that Chloé Dafy had got her impassive eyes from her papa. ‘Where can I find him? Monsieur Giffard.’
‘No idea. When the farm failed, Jérome ran off with a donkey girl and his wife died. Marie. It was a sad situation, big thing around here. They said she died because Jérome took off. Broken heart. Personally, I could never see it. But I suppose it happens.’
And maybe it explained the man’s sour son.
‘Donkey girl?’ She choked slightly as she said it.
Claude Dafy picked up on her revulsion and was quick to explain. ‘There was a crew of girls who looked after the donkeys. It’s what we called them. B’eh, it’s what they called themselves! But they did enjoy the parties. We all did. Those musicians. Music all over the place! While that music lasted…well, I don’t know,’ he was rueful; ‘it’s like we forgot who we were. The girls left when Luc closed down the donkey farm. Only Francis stayed on to do the vines. Jérome took off soon after that. With which one, I couldn’t say.’
‘Francine?’
‘Sorry, I honestly couldn’t tell you. Could’ve been Francine.’ A wistful smile creased his mouth. ‘Francine was so beautiful back then.’ He blushed reflexively as their eyes locked. He shrugged. ‘Ask Francine.’
‘She won’t talk about it. Loved the parties, won’t say a word about the father of her child.’
‘You think that has something to do with the fire?’
‘I think the fire has something to with the past.’
‘You could ask René Clermont,’ mused Claude Dafy.
‘Could I ask Chloé?’
‘Chloé was a child.’ But he got her drift and obviously knew where his child was sleeping.
‘Now she’s a donkey girl?’ A low blow. Something about his wistful smile displeased her.
; It was met with tight eyes, a man adept at staying patient. ‘Now she’s an adult.’ Followed by another rueful nod. ‘Ever had a daughter, Inspector? …I’m not allowed to say a word.’
Aliette believed that.
Claude Dafy was philosophical. ‘It’s a different time. Luc’s a different man now. Has to be.’
‘And you are too.’
‘You’d have to ask my wife.’ A self-deprecating joke. He did his best to look abashed.
As she was leaving, Claude Dafy said something to the girl at the cash. She produced a new BatiMat cap from under her counter and presented it with a smile. Aliette donned it graciously.
Aliette turned the corner at the top of the stairs and stopped at Mathilde’s reception station for a cup of tea, a biscuit, and information. ‘Tell me about Jérome Giffard. Père.’
‘Poor Marie…’ The tragedy of Marie Giffard brought spontaneous emotion. ‘He broke her heart. Horrible, heartless man!’
‘Suicide?’
‘No. She just died. As if she went on strike against life, wasted away and died. Her poor boy had a difficult time of it.’
Her boy the righteous school principal?
‘A thing like that? A place like this? An awful time, Inspector.’
‘Was Francine the one he ran away with?’
‘It was Marie-Sophie Giguerre.’
‘You sure?’
‘One of my daughters was in school with her. Before, I mean. But they all still knew each other. They knew. It was Marie-Sophie.’
‘And did they know the father of Francine’s child?’
‘No. But they speculated.’
‘Yes?’
‘Him or his brother. Drummer on the first few albums? Had a bad habit. Died…’ Mathilde shrugged. ‘Look at the girl.’
‘Rachelle?’ Aliette had looked. She had failed to see it.
But malicious gossip is a sin and Mathilde, who was a regular at mass, quietly qualified, ‘Though we don’t know for sure if Francine was pregnant when she left for Montpellier.’
‘No.’ But it was something to ask Francine, if it came to it. Aliette took her new cap from her case, put it on the desk. ‘Who has one like this?’
‘Almost everyone.’ Mathilde raised a fist. ‘Al-lez! Les Marteaux! Al-lez! Les Marteaux!’
‘Anyone with a beard?’
‘A beard?’ She thought about it. ‘B’eh, the rugby team. It’s a cultural thing. Footballers get Brazilian haircuts, rugbymen grow beards. Claude sponsors them, they wear his colours.’
‘And Jérome Giffard the son is fly-half.’
‘He’s got those long legs.’
‘But he doesn’t have a beard.’
‘When school’s over, he will… Here’s this.’ Mathilde Lahi presented a hard copy of Aliette’s report to be signed, ‘and this:’ an old, stained folder containing Deeds and Records information on a land deal registered some sixteen years before.
‘Good work.’ She would take it home and study it. Handing it back, ‘And a copy for Magui.’
Mathilde nodded, dubious but loyal.
‘One more thing.’
‘Oui?’
‘Did any of your daughters ever happen to — ?’
‘No!’ Very definite on that, Mathilde went to print a copy of the Deeds and Records file.
• 17 •
INSTRUCTIVE FINGER
The inspector packed up early. Before spending a quiet evening with a fat Deeds and Records file, it might be useful to visit René Clermont. Jérome Giffard, senior, was a malignant ghost in the memory of Saint-Brin, but the former mayor was still around. He’d won two six-year terms before being turfed out by Michel Velosa. Clermont and Giffard had worked closely together on town business. Partied together too. Nothing like hearing all about it from the horse’s mouth.
Or in this instance, the donkey’s? She called to let him know she was coming.
‘Delighted, Chief Inspector! Come up to the house for a drink.’
Which was nice. Too nice? Something not quite right there…
Seeing the door to the suite at the landing of the main stairs was open, on a whim, Aliette changed course and stepped into Michel Velosa’s reception area. The current mayor’s thoughts on his predecessor’s part in the life and times of Luc Malarmé could only add to her deepening picture.
She found Monsieur Mayor ushering two men out of his private office, beaming, shaking hands and patting backs. The two visitors were clearly happy with whatever it was he’d been able to do for them.
‘Well done, Michel. Merci!’
‘We’ll bring you a liver.’
One was her neighbour, Alain Grasset, one the community’s leading wine producers.
‘Always at your service, gentlemen.’ The mayor waved au revoir. Grasset nodded a cursory greeting as he walked past Aliette. Michel Velosa’s eyes shifted automatically, not completely delighted to see the chief inspector. A different sort of petitioner. But she had caught him and his role obliged. He shook her hand. ‘Alors, la police. And what can we do for you?’
Aliette Nouvelle had been introduced to Michel Velosa on her very first day in town, three raw Januarys ago. Their relationship was neighbourly. They exchanged cordial greetings almost every day, but that had been the extent of it. Never a lunch. Never even coffee. In three years, she had never required the mayor’s intervention in a matter, nor, indeed, his advice. Or vice versa. All she really knew about Michel, courtesy Mathilde, was that he was a town pharmacist who had spun his central business role into a successful political career. It was probably more interesting than filling scrips. She gathered Mayor Velosa was well-liked. Since defeating and taking over from René Clermont, he’d been returned to office twice. As chief executive of the county seat, Velosa wielded actual power, as opposed to Francine Tabler’s role in Prades as a village organizer and spokesperson. ‘It’s about a land deal,’ she ventured.
Velosa smiled blithely, a paunchy middle-aged man who had exchanged his white smock for the tri-colour sash and gained a reputation as a shrewd man at the heart of the local machine. He knew exactly which land deal. ‘Before my time, Inspector.’
She smiled in turn, just as blithe, acknowledging this, but: ‘I need to understand and I was hoping maybe you could fill me in. What can you tell me?’
‘Bits and pieces,’ he allowed, gesturing her into his office and toward the visitor’s chair. As shrewd as he may have been, like most citizens, Michel Velosa was unaware that he was under no obligation to speak to her. Yet. ‘My predecessor could give you a much more complete view of it. Have you met René Clermont?’
Indicating no, she sat.
‘René sat here for twelve years.’ Velosa relaxed into his plushly cushioned throne.
‘And you’ve beat that.’
The mayor nodded confirmation, a successful, confident politician riding high. He prefaced his information with a worldly shrug: he was not saying anything everyone did not already know. ‘It was about the rules — and perhaps a bit of special treatment. You couldn’t really blame René. It was an exciting thing to have such a famous person so interested in our lives… Coffee?’ She declined. And Velosa sighed in the way a man does when explaining a colleague’s mistake. ‘On the other hand, people hate special treatment, and well they should.’ Aliette signalled agreement. He raised an instructive finger to make his point. ‘On the other other hand, René Clermont was not totally off course with Luc Malarmé and his plans. Sometimes we have to adjust, Inspector. No?’ Michel Velosa was sympathetic to his predecessor. He trusted she would be too.
To Aliette, it sounded like another pol’s equivocal excuse for corruption. ‘And so?’
The mayor smiled. ‘For example: Those two good men who were here before you —’
‘Alain is my neighbour.’
‘Just so.’
Could her neighbour ever be a bad man?
She flashed another blithe smile. ‘And whose liver is Alain going to bring you?’
‘A boar’s liver. We’ve succeeded in having the opening of the hunt moved forward to June.’
‘And you worked hard on that for Alain?’ she enquired pleasantly, keeping special treatment front and centre. Aliette knew nothing about boar hunting. But she knew there were rules. And she knew the labels on the best of Alain Grasset’s wine, three bottles of which reposed in a gift box open on the corner of the Michel Velosa’s expansive desk.
The mayor caught her drift. ‘Boars eat the grapes, trample the vines and they are multiplying. An early start will help slow the damage when the grapes are ripening.’ The instructive finger went back up. ‘To my point, Inspector. We’ll open the hunt early because it will do some good. And the notion of a donkey farm was not wrong.’
Aliette acknowledged this. What Francine Tabler had said, more or less.
‘We needed new ways to grow the economy. The world was beginning to notice us here, and if we could offer more to see and do — and invest in, more people would come and spend some money. A donkey farm fit that need. You see?’ Michel Velosa was pleased to give a police officer some insight into how things really worked.
She may as well say the word. ‘But was it corrupt?’
Velosa made a gesture to signal the act of balancing — a little this, a little that — and reprised his main point. ‘It was a move that could have been for the greater good. There is an art to this job, believe it or not, Inspector. In many ways René Clermont was ahead of his time. If he were thirty years younger, I might be talking to you from my dispensary across the street.’
Aliette demurred, wondering, Which one? There were two and he owned both. His wife and son ran the family business while he ran the county seat.
Now Michel Velosa nodded sideways. ‘It was the way René went about it. Messy is perhaps the best word. People got fed up with René and Monsieur Malarmé.’ Offering a professional sort of shrug, the mayor sat back in his large chair. ‘I came along at the right time.’
