by John Brooke
‘Sure.’ There was a guitar within reach and he picked it up.
As he played, Martine Rogge eased back into the musty leather cushions. It was a song about two friends out together on a summer morning under a huge sky bathed in a warm wind. It was a song she knew and loved. She hummed along. She had always sung along to the record.
We walked out under endless sky all in a summer’s day
And at the end of everything you would go away
You would walk away from me
You had to go away
But the wind was my friend
The wind never ends
The wind left me standing here today.
A simple tune about childhood. Martine had sung this song for her first child, who was now far away in Canada. While the music lasted, Martine felt she understood him perfectly.
More to the point, he understood her. And accommodated her as best he could…
By the time Magistrate Martine Rogge left the villa on the ridge, they had finished the bottle and it was no longer chilled. She departed reconfirmed in her love of Luc’s Malarmé’s music, but unsure what she thought of Luc. She realized she was wondering what he thought of her. It seemed he had liked her. She had liked his claws. And the way he looked at her. It had felt like something she had long been missing, and she had thanked him for his cooperation. But he stood there with barely a wave as she drove away. She should be shocked at herself. He was indeed an unrealistic man.
Forty-five minutes later, Martine pulled over before pushing the button that opened the gate at 34 rue Saint-Andiu, an elegant and peaceful street just off Route de Murviel. She checked her face, adjusted her hair, sipped some bottled water. Perhaps she ought to dab a touch of scent… Reaching into her bag, she realized she had completely forgotten the CD she’d brought for Luc to sign for her daughter.
Not her two adolescents. They hated him.
The one who’d gone to Canada. She was another fan.
• 23 •
SMACKED IN THE SOUL
Inspectors Barthès and Barnay pieced together the history of Luc Malarmé’s relationship with Saint-Brin. Magui took the lead:
Eighteen years prior to that summer, Luc Malarmé’s band Ma Malheureuse Pelouse is touring its breakthrough third album, becoming seriously famous. Big fun, but tiring. Following a string of sold-out shows along the Golfe du Lion, Luc needs a break. He leaves his band and entourage, rents a car and heads off alone, wandering, decompressing. Enjoying himself. A city boy by birth and temperament, Luc falls in love with the land, the way of life — strong, chewy wines, the mix of French and Spanish heritage, dry heat, clean air, empty space, peace and quiet. Charmed, Luc spends a week at a gîte in town, ‘anonymously, it seems,’ heading out each day to explore. One morning Luc notices a hillside lined with vines, a lone man standing on the ridge like a guardian god. A magic moment. Luc pulls over, walks up, approaches Francis Fernandez. ‘He told Francis he’d been smacked in the soul by the beauty of the valley.’
Francis doesn’t know Luc from a hole in the ground but he likes how he talks. He’s proud to tell a stranger about the life in this heavenly place. Francis is a third-generation Spanish émigré. His grandfather worked for plonk-producing locals, earning enough to gradually buy five parcels on this hillside. At the time, no one cared about southern wine. By the time Francis inherits from his father, southern wine is coming into its own and his vines are worth something. If Francis can sell for a decent price, it will keep him and his sister, both unmarried and childless, for la retraite.
Luc asks, Why don’t you live here? The rules, is the rote reply. The land is zoned. For wine.
Luc stops several times during his week in the valley and gets to know Francis. It takes him a couple of years and several more visits to make acquaintance with the right people and acquire a working knowledge of the rules. He brings his manager, who’s got a better head for these sorts of things. The right people are delighted to know him — by that point Luc has become one of the most famous people in France. They’re more than happy to explain the rules and, as drinks are shared and Luc opens small windows on his special life, they begin to share ideas as to how they might help him realize his dream of a donkey farm on the hillside overlooking the plain.
Bénédicte Barnay sighed. ‘I love donkeys.’
Magui Barthès shrugged. ‘Good saucisson. Dry.’
Aliette looked askance. She loved donkeys too.
Luc Malarmé is shrewd. A donkey farm falls within agricultural zoning strictures, but such a venture is almost certainly bound to fail. ‘Failure was part of the plan, if I’m hearing correctly,’ noted Magui.
Aliette confirmed, ‘I heard that too.’
Two years bring Francis Fernandez close to retirement. He and his sister need the nest egg the sale of his land will bring, but none of the offers he’s been receiving include his services after the sale. Francis needs to work. He cannot abide the prospect of passing his days on a bench on the place, waiting for his supper. Normally a man of reticent peasant stock, Francis confesses this to Luc over a picnic hamper filled with wine, cheese, bread and chocolate, chicken legs and Bayonne ham. ‘He remembers perfectly.’
And that day Luc confessed his dream of a donkey farm to Francis.
‘I’m beginning to get the picture.’
Luc makes his proposal: Will Francis endorse the sacrifice of two parcels to be used for a barn and stable in exchange for permanent work and a fifty-fifty share from the rest of the vines?
Francis can get his retirement and an income from work that he loves till the day he dies.
Francis accepts. Magui turned a page. ‘Michel Velosa says Francis loved Luc like a son till he figured out he’d lost so many friends.’
Aliette mused, ‘He’d know how to set a fire. Poison a dog too.’
‘Two of the nurses and one woman who likes him say he was there all night.’
Luc buys the land. The requisite steps are followed, no one complains. Francis doesn’t talk about it. Magui lifted a document from the Deeds and Records dossier. ‘But there is not a word in here about the stable operation…’ Mayor René Clermont instructs Jérome Giffard, senior, to put the project in a regional business development package and he invites some top élus and bureaucrats from the prefecture to an evening of drinks with Luc. The local wine producers are not consulted and suspect nothing till two parcels are razed. A paddock appears, then a barn.
But it’s too late. René Clermont’s speeches on expanding business possibilities sound good to lots of local folks who don’t see why tourism and its ancilliaries can’t coexist with wine production. Luc Malarmé starts an asinerie officially listed under the Fédération Nationale Anes et Randonnée. (National Donkey and Hiking Federation; no sausages in this picture.) Luc hires three young local women to run things. Francine Tabler. Marie-Sophie Giguerre. Laure Rimbert. They produce donkey milk, make soap and cosmetics from that, rent out the donkeys and board other people’s, welcome tourists, birthday parties, all very pure and honest —
‘Granola girls,’ said Aliette.
‘Indeed. But the business is ahead of its time and doesn’t take.’ But Luc’s rock star pockets are deep enough to carry it, and during that period the loft in the barn becomes a famous party house.
‘Or notorious, depending on your point of view,’ noted Bénédicte Barnay.
Around two years later the last of the donkeys are shipped to Spain. Jérome Giffard runs off with Marie-Sophie Giguerre. Francine Tabler quietly leaves for Montpellier. Six months later, another parcel is cleared and construction on the house begins. Now there’s loud complaining and one family sues, but the barn is already there and is enough of a justification, at least for some people.
‘Which people?’
‘Philippe Galtier, Notary, for one. And René Clermont, who has friends at the prefecture. Deeds
and Records is in disarray after Jérome Giffard takes off, so it’s just a rubber stamp. Claude Dafy is only the first in a parade of builders to drive his trucks through a new hole in the system.’
‘Which family sues?’
‘Grasset.’
Aliette closed her eyes. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. The notary and the mayor write it up nice and tidy, get some heavy support from the prefecture, the court throws it out, Claude Dafy builds a beautiful house for Luc. The parties go on whenever Luc’s in residence, always lots of interesting Paris people around. Then Luc kills Miri and goes to jail. The place sits empty. Francis Fernandez had worked the vines according to the deal. He stays on for three seasons after the Miri incident, till he finally realizes he’s got no more friends, writes a letter to Luc and quits. Now poor Francis is preparing to die in shame. Luc Malarmé’s taxes were paid without issue by his legal representation till he was released and returned this past fall. He has normal home insurance but his policy against damage to the vines had lapsed.’ Magui closed her notes. ‘Voilà.’
Aliette turned to Bénédicte Barnay. ‘What have you got?’
Bénédicte passed her a list. ‘One hundred and nine names. Parents who do not like this man.’
Aliette scanned it, bemused. ‘You talked to all these people?’
‘Just a few so far… It’s Jérome Giffard’s list.’
‘Ah.’ She was not surprised. ‘And how did that go?’
Bénédicte was rueful. ‘He wished I was Isabelle.’
‘I’m sure it’s not personal, Inspector… And so?’
School principal Jérome Giffard was between relationships. He had no children — ‘…says he has enough children to worry about at work. He claims he’s had no contact with his father for years and wants nothing to do with him…didn’t even know if Jérome père is still alive.’
Jérome fils held Luc Malarmé responsible for his mother’s tragedy, believed him a malign influence on innocent minds, and had built this list of names of parents who agreed.
‘But did he set fire to the vines?’
‘He was at a rugby club barbecue the night of the fire. End-of-season fête. They all vouch for him.’ Bénédicte went to her next page. The party had been at the home of Simon Dafy, brother of Chloé, twin to Paul. ‘Paul is Loosehead prop. Simon is Tighthead prop.’ They both had full beards ‘…they all do except Jérome Giffard.’ And they all vouched for each other concerning the Easter Sunday morning in April when Luc Malarmé was beaten. ‘Practice. Every Sunday, ten till noon. Everyone was there.’
Aliette made notes. Claude Dafy had not mentioned his sons. ‘Did the twins have an opinion on their sister’s new boyfriend?’
‘They said it’s her business.’
‘Good for them. Do we believe them?’
‘We believe they are totally loyal to each other and we need to find out more.’
Aliette perused her page. ‘What about Francine Tabler? She shed any more light?’
‘Basically a repeat of what she told you. Had a great time, but it’s long gone. Won’t say a word about the father of her child. Though she did point me to Laure Rimbert.’
‘Donkey girl number three. She still around?’
‘Very much so.’ Laure Rimbert was now Laure Legault, wife of Sergeant Nicolas Legault, mother of three, seriously involved in the parent-school association… ‘She works closely with Jérome Giffard.’
‘Nic was saying.’
After the donkeys, Laure had become a full-time babysitter for Jérome and caregiver to his poor mama. ‘Laure’s mother was a friend and arranged it. I got this sense it was sort of like a penance for Laure. It left a mark on her. She worries for Jérome the way Jérome worries for the kids. And yes, Luc Malarmé is evil.’
‘And she boils it all up with her friends on the thread.’
‘I pushed, but she insists that’s private and she knows the law. Refuses to discuss Miri. Says all the parents on Jérome’s list are totally agreed.’
‘Will she talk about that time?’
‘She regrets it. Says she wishes her mother had been more like she is with her kids now.’
Magui sniffed. ‘Neighbours are watching. If you’re not righteous, you’re wrong.’
Bénédicte ignored Magui’s cyncism. ‘Luc Malarmé’s a cretin, boss. Look at his mess. Totally low.’
Aliette ignored that. ‘But is Laure Legault righteous enough to torch his vines?’
‘Everyone I spoke to has an alibi for that night.’
‘Right.’ Aliette turned back to her first page — which was still almost empty. ‘And did you talk to him? Either of you?’ Their victim. The man who’d made the mess.
They both had. Magui took the lead. ‘Not much help. Says his managers and lawyers handled all the property and house business. He let Francis do the wine and the donkey girls the donkeys. He focused on music. Of course, after Miri all those people got as far away from Luc Malarmé as fast as they could,’ Magui noted. But when things were good they took care of Luc’s affairs and paid themselves handsomely for the service. ‘…It fits, really, once you’re sitting there in front of him. I mean he does seem a bit removed from the process.’
‘Which process?’
‘Life? I thought I’d talk to his girlfriend, the banker.’
‘We’ve decided we’re going to leave that till we know she has to talk to us.’
‘I was thinking more about whether she had plans to clean his house.’
Aliette knew that was as close as Magui would come to their victim’s character. Or lack of it.
Whereas Junior Inspector Bénédicte Barnay had quite categorically pronounced their victim a cretin. Possibly evil too. ‘What did you see him about?’
‘Nothing specific,’ Bénédicte shrugged. ‘That’s the thing, boss. There is nothing specific…’ A look to Magui for support. ‘Like the smell in his house? The whole thing is like one big cloud of…’ Bénédicte blushed. ‘It’s not like I was going to ask, Did you fuck so-and-so and what was the fallout there? I wanted to see if he gave a damn. It’s too strange to think he could not feel the people reacting to all this. I mean back then.’ She stared at her notes. ‘Now too, obviously.’
‘Obviously. And so?’
‘He told me what he told Magui. He doesn’t care about money. His life is only about music. When friends came, it was a good time. For him the only negative was his brother. He overdosed and died.’ Bénédicte crinkled her nose. ‘To be fair, I suppose he was only there occasionally, never for long. Big rock star life and all that. Still… I say he’s a selfish cretin. I don’t like him.’
‘We’re not in the business of liking people, Inspector. Did you tell him you had 109 names?’
‘No. A man like that, what’s the point?’
‘He’s just a musician.’
‘Do you like him, boss?’
‘Honestly? I don’t know. But it’s neither here nor there, Inspector.’
Bénédicte held her tongue. So did Magui.
The meeting was done. ‘Bon. Good work. Keep going, we obviously need to go deeper.’
They left. Chief Inspector Nouvelle sat mulling how to package it for their judge.
Bénédicte Barnay wasn’t wrong. It was a mess. Luc Malarmé left messes in all directions.
Selfish?…more like self-centred. Surely the nature of the beast. But he was not evil.
A cretin? Aliette tried to picture Bénédicte alone with Luc. She didn’t seem his type.
• 24 •
COMMUNICATING
Junior Inspector Isabelle Escande was on her 30-gear mountain bike, pushing hard, dripping sweat. She had spent the afternoon playing another role, gathering information with Henri. That day’s target was a bistro at Maraussan. Isabelle had been a Parisian wife whose engineer husband had
been transferred in to realign a glass factory at Narbonne. She was bored but she had money to spend to fend it off and she’d heard the two ladies who ran the bistro might have what she needed and maybe more — adding a certain look to ‘more’. The ladies said they might. They were a tough couple, lots of leather and chains. Stringing them along till they felt secure enough to offer Isabelle some fine cocaine was stressful. Sweating it out felt good. Her usual circle took her down the farmer’s road through the vines below Berlou, then — what her bike was made for — ten gruelling klicks off-road to the hamlet called Le Mauraury, where she crossed the bridge by the water tank and turned onto another pebbly work road which would take her over to the D114 and the climb back up the hill to Berlou. A good workout. That evening Isabelle stopped halfway.
The white car was not parked in Luc’s drive. Luc’s banker had gone back to her desk.
She found him snoozing on the divan. Touched his head. One eye opened like a cat’s, then closed. She let him sleep. She was needing a swim. The evening sun was still beautifully warm when Luc emerged an hour later, naked as she, a placid smile, carrying two beers. ‘Busy day?’
‘Always busy.’ But Isabelle never told Luc the details of her work. He was overloaded with police coming at him from all directions. Isabelle rolled in the sun, like another cat…
And it was not why she was here.
Later, Luc said, ‘It’s like it’s motherly, the song is, any song, if a person likes it. If a person likes a song it gets inside them and surrounds them and…well, it keeps them safe. They don’t think, they just want what the song has and the song gives it. Completely. Like a mother? …I feel this when I play, when I sing. I know that I don’t really matter. Me, I’m there to give these songs. My life is extra. I always knew it, since I started playing. When I was inside, I learned it for sure. I saved myself. You know?’ Isabelle nodded, shrugged, smiled and let him talk. He needed to.
They were in his studio. He was at the mixing board, drinking, playing with a drum loop, over and over, a little bit slower, then a bit quicker, morose, far inside himself…but talking. The air outside was still rank with charring. Isabelle stood on the periphery of his space till he pulled the toggle down to zero and emerged from the electronically induced pattern, the monologue it powered. ‘You’re a little like your boss,’ said Luc.
