by John Brooke
‘She thinks so too.’
‘Same distance.’
‘What am I supposed to do about it?’
‘Get past it?’
‘I’m working on it. And you? What will you do?’
‘I’m staying right here till my vines come back.’
‘Good.’
Isabelle communicated well with Luc. They’d both known it since that moment in the street at Easter.
Luc moved the toggle and the beat came back. He played with it, the repeating beat, the reverberation, and gradually he was talking again, rambling, a long song, nine years long, about the time inside…how time inside was monotonously analogue but time inside the song was the only shield against the killing lines of all the days scratched upon the wall. ‘I had my harmonica, I’d play all day, or sing and it drove them crazy and they took it away and hit me to make me stop doing the same thing with my mouth. But I wouldn’t and then they gave it back. The guards gave back my harmonica and got me a whistle. They understood we were all in the same boat. Some days there were sounds all over the building, surrounding the building like we were travelling through space… You don’t need to go to the middle of nowhere to find timeless tribal music. Just go inside a jail and get everyone to make a sound. All jails are the middle of nowhere. But I had no one to help me get that kind of project going. But it didn’t matter because it happened anyway because our song was about surviving our life, our life enclosed, we all of us inside a human message, guys doing amazing things somewhere in that place, guys I never met but I could hear them, and they heard me…’ Luc rambled on and eventually got to Miri. ‘Miri had no voice. What I mean, she couldn’t sing. She thought she could, but she couldn’t. We had her talking on a track on the last album. That worked fine. Great speaking voice. But no ear. Everyone knew it but her. She just couldn’t sing. Not everyone can. A musical ear is genetic luck, and I explained this in lots of different ways. But she wouldn’t accept it. Insisted on doing a track on the new record. If I was smarter, I’d have said, Fine, we could have done it, then buried it. But I wasn’t smart, or maybe I just wanted a fight. Reclaim my territory? She wanted a fight, that was sure. It went on all night. It got too insane. I hit her and walked out. She didn’t fall, watched me leave. I had no idea till I got back.’
Isabelle touched his shoulder. She would never ask to sing.
Luc sipped beer. ‘I never asked to be in one of her films.’
Isabelle wondered if Luc’s banker sang, but didn’t ask.
There was a lot of intuition involved in communicating with Luc.
• 25 •
FALLOUT
Magui and Bénédicte continued conducting interviews.
Aliette reviewed the transcripts and sent them on to Martine.
Wednesday, the week of the Night of Music, Aliette received a copy of a letter sent by Michel Velosa, mayor of Saint-Brin, to Procureur Serge Ferland, who’d passed it along to Sub-Proc Dilobello, who sent it down the hall to Magistrate Rogge. Primary school principal Jérome Giffard had written to the mayor on behalf of the Saint-Brin Marteaux Rugby Club accusing the judicial police of harassing team members regarding an ‘impossible!’ connection to the recent fire based on two seven-year-olds’ improbable description of a possible suspect in an unrelated incident, and stating this was ‘unacceptable!’ Danielle Dilobello had affixed a note to the letter asking, ‘Does this really need to be so difficult?’ Martine’s note only said, ‘Harrassing?’
Aliette expected a follow-up call and it came within the hour.
Mathilde buzzed. ‘Martine.’
‘Bonjour, madame.’
‘So who is this man with his list of parents and his letter?’ The judge was sounding anxious.
‘You have the basic information in Inspector Barnay’s transcript.’
‘I know. But what exactly does he mean by impossible connection?’
‘You have that too, Martine. It means everyone on the team was at a party the night of the fire, including himself. End-of-season fête. Jérome Giffard was their leading scorer again this year.’
Martine caught her breath. ‘But this list. One hundred and nine names? What’s his problem?’
‘That is a good question. Psychological issues left behind by an absent father?’
‘Who ran away with a donkey girl.’
‘You could recommend counselling.’
‘Monsieur Malarmé says he’s never met the man!’
‘Jérome told me he told him to clear off when he was singing at the schoolyard gate. Jérome sees himself as the children’s protector… I gather you’ve been in contact with our victim?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is he communicating?’
‘In his own way.’
‘My inspectors were both skeptical.’
‘Well, he was skeptical of them.’
‘They are both highly competent investigators, Martine.’
‘He relates on a different level, Inspector.’
Aliette let that one drift by. Asked, ‘But is he aware of the mess he’s created?’
And Martine paused. ‘Not really, I must say. Then again, he is the victim.’
‘And he can’t remember meeting Jérome Giffard?’
‘I will ask him again.’
‘And I apologize if Danielle is on your back.’
‘Oh,’ a big sigh, releasing stress…‘don’t worry. For them, it’s always politics.’
‘Yes, well, Luc Malarmé is political here. You’ve got your fallout, I’ve got mine.’
‘So I gather. But besides accidentally murdering a movie star, Monsieur Luc Malarmé has not done anything wrong. Not now. Not then, if I’m reading correctly. Tricky, low, perhaps immoral, that depends how you see him, but nothing against the law.’
The inspector commiserated with the judge on a society that had become absurdly fragile.
They agreed the only way forward was to keep interviewing and try to narrow down.
Mathilde Lahi regularly ate lunch with Michel Velosa’s secretary Céleste. Later, sharing tea with the chief inspector, she reported that yes, citizens had been calling the Mayor’s office, less than happy with the way the police were going about the investigation. ‘Parents, mostly. But growers too, and…well, Céleste says pretty much anyone.’ Apprised of the situation, Mathilde revealed that she too had been fielding some irate calls. ‘From parents. It’s the parents.’
‘But you should tell me!’
Mathilde shook her head. She took pride in shielding her boss from ‘time wasters.’
The boss reassured Mathilde. Community fallout was inevitable.
That evening, Aliette was in the cereal aisle at the SuperU. Sergio Regarri loved the Special K with chocolate flakes. She liked it too, but Sergio had got a cholesteral warning and she was studying the ingredients when a voice beside her said, ‘Most of us were young, Inspector. We had never seen anything like him. We didn’t know any better.’
Aliette looked into a pair of righteous eyes. Those eyes bored into her.
The woman added, ‘But not everyone was young. Some of them were adults with families and positions of responsibility and not a shred of moral fibre.’
‘And you are?’
‘Laure Legault.’ She was lanky, like her man, looked a little like Miri, with the strong jaw and the prominent teeth, large round dark eyes, same fine dark hair, shoulder-length, tied back in a ponytail. Dressed like a thousand other mothers, in jeans and T-shirt. Her cart was almost full.
Aliette held out her hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. But who are you on the thread?’
‘That’s not your business.’ She declined to shake the chief inspector’s hand.
Aliette sighed, exasperated. ‘Well, anyway, madame, thank you for your cooperation.’
Laure Legault stood there, uncertai
n. She seemed caught between her right to privacy and a deep need to express. Aliette lobbed a question into the space between. ‘Is he really evil, Laure?’
She glared. ‘He killed her!’
‘Accidentally. And he sat in a cell for nine years paying for it. Can’t you forgive?’
Laure blurted, ‘If you knew how much I regret the way I carried on back then…hurt so many people. My mother. My boyfriend. They had no idea what we were doing. Neither did we! And with these supposed community leaders? It was ugly. And so sad…Jérome’s mother…’ Laure trailed off. Her eyes had gotten misty.
‘Was your boyfriend Nic?’
‘It’s not your business!’ She grabbed a box of Choco-something and threw it in her cart, then faced Aliette. ‘He doesn’t fit here. He’ll do it again. He already is!’
‘I can’t tell him to go away, Laure. The law doesn’t work that way… I suppose Nic’s already told you that.’
‘The law is useless.’ So saying, Laure Legault shoved off.
Waiting in the checkout line, Chief Inspector Aliette Nouvelle felt the eyes of shoppers in the adjacent rows glancing her way. She knew it wasn’t her Italian blouse. She longed to be back in a big dirty city, a place where she could do her work and go home.
9:55 pm
TruthTeller: I’m fed up. Our police are clueless.
Piaf: My husband missed an entire morning sitting there with their stupid questions.
Leina: But someone lit a fire. They have to try to find out. What do you expect?
Guerrière: Common sense? Is that too much to ask from our police?
MarieSoleil: A fire in the vines is against all of us, not just him.
SainteThérèse: None of the men would do this.
Leina: It’s not just wine people now.
ChèreAmante: Did they talk to your guy too?
Leina: The whole team.
TruthTeller: They’re calling anyone involved at school.
Guerrière: Fascists.
Leina: I still think we made someone too angry to stop himself.
Piaf: I really wish you’d stop with that.
Leina: I really wish I could.
MarieSoleil: I think he’s making us crazy.
IssaE: I think we should talk to them. We could go in there together. All of us.
There were no replies to that.
• 26 •
ACOUSTICS
Aliette Nouvelle missed walking to work in the morning. In the mid-sized city in Alsace where she’d served before coming to Saint-Brin, the journey from the edge of the park through the tight streets of the old city to the mouldy police building had been a daily ritual, healthy for the body, a primer for the soul. Same in reverse going home. She hadn’t even owned a car. Here, walking to work was just beyond the range of feasible. About seven kilometres. She should get a bike — Sergio kept urging. But once at work, she needed her car.
If the day was right, the inspector walked at noon.
She was aware of the sound of herself in the tight, quiet street as she strolled. Almost every window was shuttered against the midday heat. She imagined figures hunched at tables in rooms behind them, faces staring at the Miri thread, fingers poised. Turning into rue de la Digue, the houses ended, giving way to a high stone wall on one side, the communal gardens by the river on the other. The gardens on the riverbank were empty at noon. The wall ran to the corner. It was too high to see over, and after almost three years of walking she still had no idea what lay on the other side. As was her habit, she followed the wall to where de la Digue met des Jardins, then stopped for a moment on the bench under the plane tree and watched the river, before continuing her circle through the deserted streets.
Turning the corner at des Jardins and Canal de l’Abbé, Aliette came face to face with Luc Malarmé, sitting on the curb, cradling his guitar. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Getting a feel for the acoustics.’
‘Planning another concert?’
‘The Night of Music is Saturday.’
‘It is indeed.’ And she had forgotten… But he looked so lost. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Sure.’ He strummed twice, seemed to watch the sound of it in front of him.
‘Did you know back then that your house was so problematic?’
He strummed again, considering it. Allowed, ‘The donkeys were a good idea. We tried.’
‘I’m hearing failure was part of the plan.’
‘I can’t remember ever thinking that…’ Strumming a few more bars, Luc Malarmé declared, ‘I love donkeys. They’re honest. So many people aren’t. You know?’
Aliette could only nod yes to that. ‘What am I going to do with this mess you’ve made?’
His eyes clouded. His fingers barely moved on the strings. But they were moving and small notes like sprites danced close to their master, sharp, fast, clear and ecstatic…till he looked up from his guitar and shrugged. Luc had no idea what she should do and did not appear to care.
‘So are you going to play here?’
He strummed once. And listened. It carried. Then he strummed a pattern, listened briefly, repeated it, adding his voice — no words, just a sort of ‘la la la…’ basso, rich, carrying on top of the perfect sound of his guitar. Aliette thought she recognized a song she knew.
He stopped. ‘Maybe.’
‘With Chloé?’
Luc smiled as he hauled himself to his feet. ‘I think she’s ready.’
Guitar over his shoulder, he headed down rue des Jardins.
12:39 am
Leina: Issa?IssaE?
…Twenty minutes later:
IssaE: I’m here.
Leina: I want to do it.
IssaE: So do I.
Leina: We have to.
IssaE: We will. But we need the others.
Leina: Where are they?
IssaE: Tomorrow.
9:01 am
IssaE: Bonjour.
IssaE: Bonjour?
IssaE: Why am I all alone here?
The log-in showed that it took twenty-two minutes for one voice to rise…
Leina: You’re not alone.
IssaE: Finally! Good. I can’t do this by myself.
Leina: Nor can I.
IssaE: Where are our friends?
Leina: I was wondering the same thing.
IssaE: We really should make a clean breast of this.
Leina: But how? Bring him cookies?
IssaE: Go the police. Tell them.
Leina: But we didn’t do anything.
IssaE: But we sound like we did. This is the problem. You see?
Leina: Yes, of course I see. But it’s not us. It’s the men.
IssaE: Not my man.
Five minutes passed…
Leina: They grew up with this. They’re all friends. Poor Jérome.
Five more minutes floating in virtual space.
Leina: No. I can’t do this.
IssaE: Do it with me. Us. Together.
TruthTeller: She doesn’t know you. And you obviously do not know us.
IssaE: But I want to. I really do.
• 27 •
INTERROGATING LEINA
Friday morning Aliette summoned Junior Inspector Bénédicte Barnay.
‘Have you looked at this?’ Aliette’s screen was open at the Miri thread.
‘I have. But you said we weren’t to go there.’
‘I did. But we might have to. As much as I hate to ask, I’m thinking you should go back to Laure Legault and see if she might help us get in touch with this Leina.’
Dutiful Bénédicte studied the thread. ‘What is IssaE?’
‘Some goddess?’Aliette shrugged. ‘We’re not getting anywhere. I get the feeling this Leina woman knows something we should
know about Jérome Giffard. Or her husband does. Martine Rogge won’t like it, but I’m willing to take a chance.’
Bénédicte asked, ‘But why would I go to Laure Legault? I mean, her husband’s Nic.’
‘I bet it’s her — Leina.’
Bénédicte indicated negative. ‘Wrong bet, boss.’ She put LEINA on the screen… then she rearranged it to ALINE. ‘I’ll bet Aline Dafy, wife of Simon.’ Chloé’s brother.
‘La vache!’ The boss was impressed. ‘Did you talk to her?’
‘No…her kids aren’t in school yet. I talked to him. Captain of the rugby team.’
‘Right.’ And the mayor had got a letter from Jérome. ‘But who is Leina? Another goddess?’
‘Manga character. You know, Japanese bande-dessinée. Girl superheroes. Large eyes, large boobs? It’s all over the place.’ Aliette had no idea what she was talking about. Bénédicte entered the name and in two seconds had opened a bottomless bank of manga characters, each with perfectly round doll eyes and fantasy-sized breasts. ‘We’ve got Leina Mindel, a keen-minded witch…’ Aliette beheld a buxom cartoon vamp in flowing royal blue medieval aprons… Another click ‘Or Leina Vance…’ an almost naked girlish warrior, equally buxom, identical eyes, ‘her breastplate carries magical defensive properties.’
‘Do they mean anything?’
‘They’re avatars. For games. And it’s like a cult. They have huge events, everyone gets all dressed up… Lots of porn there too. Maybe something our Leina and her guy are into?’
‘All we want to know is who burned down Monsieur Malarmé’s vines. Could you ask Leina to come in? Maybe she’ll add to what her husband and his brother have said.’
