While the Music Lasts

by John Brooke

  ‘Fine.’ Bénédicte was pleased that the boss was pleased. But hesitant. ‘You sure it’s OK?’

  ‘If you can not mention Miri, that would be better. I will work it out with Martine Rogge.’

  ‘Oui?’ She was home with the kids, judging from the noise in the background.

  ‘Madame Dafy, it’s Inspector Barnay, Police Judiciaire…at the mairie?’

  She blurted, ‘Oh, God!’ She controlled it. ‘Yes?’

  ‘We need you come in and talk to us about a few things.’

  ‘Which things?’

  ‘As soon as possible, madame.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I really have to get my children organized and take them into the city to my mother for the weekend. We’re having a lot of people tomorrow night… Maybe Monday?’

  ‘Get your children organized. Stop in here on your way out. Twenty minutes, we’ll be good.’

  ‘What about my children?’

  ‘Bring them up. Second floor.’

  ‘It might not be till noon.’

  ‘We’re here all day, madame.’

  ‘My husband is not someone who goes around lighting fires!’

  ‘I look forward to meeting you, madame.’

  Bénédicte advised Mathilde Lahi that she might have to babysit during her lunch hour.

  Of course their visitor in no way resembled Leina Mindel or Leina Vance. Aline Dafy was well-tanned, tending to soft around her mouth and hips, hair generic straight black, cut short for summer. A trained cop could see that Aline’s summer coif was expensive and not done here in town. Bénédicte thanked her for coming in and said she liked her African-motif top — great blues and reds. A holiday in Senegal, muttered madame, uncertain whether she was supposed to accept compliments from police. The kids were three and four and not excited to meet Mathilde Lahi.

  That was Mathilde’s problem. Bénédicte had her own challenge: get to the heart of the matter without a word about Leina. Or IssaE. Or any of them. She shut the door, sat her client down and began: ‘Why do you insist your husband is not someone who goes around setting fires?’

  Aline Dafy flinched, ventured the basic reply. ‘Because I know him?’ Pushed, she elaborated along the now familiar line which centred on the fact that the vines that provided the grapes that gave the wine were bedrock essential to the community’s well-being. ‘That’s all of us.’ Aline looked righteous. ‘Including you, Inspector. Why would he strike a blow against himself? His family?’

  Or me? thought Bénédicte Barnay. It was pretty much what Simon Dafy had said when he’d sat in that same chair. She responded, ‘We’ve interviewed a lot of people, madame. It seems we have different groups who see it differently.’

  Aline Dafy blushed. ‘How differently?’

  ‘One group is the rugby club. Your husband is a member.’

  ‘He’s captain.’ Proud, somewhat defiant, she added, ‘Rugby has nothing to do with grapes.’

  ‘Exactly. Different groups. And to a man, we get this strong impression the members of the Saint-Brin Rugby Club are keeping something back. Which could be relevant.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘That’s what I want you to tell me.’

  ‘How would I know?’

  ‘Because you’re his wife and you know him and he’s their captain and he knows them.’

  Aline Dafy froze.

  ‘And the fire was set the night of the club party. At your home. Yes?’

  ‘No! I mean, yes it was, but…they were at the party. I talked to them. I…’

  ‘Thirty men, when you include the retired friends and coaches and whatnot, and their wives. Big crowd. I’m sure you spent the better part of the evening with the ladies?’

  Aline Dafy was shaking her head, tears brimming in her frightened eyes.

  ‘It might take all summer, madame — we really can’t just let it go by. Mm? It might even take all year. In and out, in and out, same stupid questions…though they do get slightly more intimate as a rule. A lot more, actually. Bottom line: we have to solve this. Please?’

  Aline Dafy folded her tanned hands with the nice rings on her belly and stared down at them. Breathing. Bénédicte bet she was in a group of some sort. Yoga?

  Stilled, and focused thus, Aline said, ‘They love Jérome…Giffard?’

  ‘Everyone seems to.’

  ‘Not like the parents. It’s just them. The club.’

  ‘The Hammers.’ Bénédicte waited.

  ‘They protect him. They want to do right by him. They are very solid in this. Like a sense of duty, it’s…’ She trailed off.

  Bénédicte questioned the notion. ‘The younger players were hardly born when the thing with his mother happened. It seems a bit —’

  Aline surged forward. ‘But he’s doing it again! I mean he did it again. That awful man.’

  ‘Did what again?’ Bénédicte had to assume the awful man was Luc Malarmé.

  ‘Broke Jérome’s heart! Wrecked his life.’

  Leaning forward, tone dropping, Bénédicte queried, ‘Are you saying this is a gay thing?’

  ‘No!’ Aline Dafy rolled her eyes at the ceiling, gained control and spilled it out. ‘Jérome was with Chloé…Simon’s sister? For almost a year. Which was apparently quite a long time for him. Then that bastard shows up last autumn, walks into the bank to get his affairs back in gear, and she walks away with him. Just like that.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Well, you probably don’t. I don’t. I’m not from here. But it’s a huge thing and…’ Aline Dafy shrank again, murmuring, muddled, teary eyes dropping back to her hands in her lap.

  ‘And?’

  ‘My husband will never forgive me. Or my friends… It’s supposed to be private. It’s not just his heart. Jérome is humiliated.’

  Bénédicte Barnay recalled the haunted look as the gangly school principal sat fuming while she probed for information about his friends on the rugby club — specifically friends with beards.

  Aline Dafy wiped tears. ‘The Hammers hate Luc Malarmé.’

  Like Aline’s Miri friends hated him? That was now extraneous.

  Nodding back at her weepy guest, Junior Inspector Barnay quietly expressed an empathy she genuinely felt. ‘They say he’s slept with a thousand women…scoops them up at will.’

  Positioning Aline’s sister-in-law Chloé Dafy as a victim, not quite complicit.

  Which served to ease her anguish slightly. Aline nodded grimly. ‘Horrible man.’

  The next logical question: Did the Hammers kill his dog and beat him up? Bénédicte did not ask it. It would compromise the interrogation. Their mandate was the fire. The rest of it could be added later, if it was made clear, if it was needed. She asked, ‘Who in the club would set a fire?’

  Anguish flooded back and almost choked Aline Dafy. People feel loyalty to their friends and family. And to the law they’d been taught to respect. It’s never easy to choose the one over the other, and worse in a tight-knit town. She breathed hard as she took on the guilt of betrayal. But being close to such a sin weighed more. ‘A horrible man, but it’s still not right.’

  ‘No, it’s not,’ Junior Inspector Barnay agreed. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘B’eh, Jérome.’ Who else, in her mind, could have done it?

  Standing, Bénédicte offered her hand. ‘Thank you for doing what’s right. We appreciate it.’

  Aline Dafy was miserable as she collected her things. Which was normal. Bénédicte defused the moment, ‘So, another rugby party for the Night of Music?’

  ‘Boar hunters,’ she muttered. ‘Opening day.’

  ‘Busy, you.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Captain of rugby, president of the boar hunters’ association, plus church and business stuff… Never ends. They’ll start partying tonight as they oil their guns.’


  ‘Will Jérome be there?’

  ‘Of course he’ll be there. First to arrive. Always. Jérome’s got nothing else.’

  Bénédicte escorted Aline to reception. Mathilde had managed to bribe the two kids into being quiet with milky tea and a plate of Choco BN biscuits. They were hard at it, leaving Mathilde and Isabelle Escande free to confer on some secretarial matter.

  Aline Dafy grabbed a child in each hand. It sounded like she might not be pleased with the idea of chauffeuring two sugar-pumped full-bladdered devils to Narbonne.

  Bénédicte offered the bathroom. It was refused.

  ‘Merci, madame. Bon courage.’

  Jérome Giffard’s broken heart and the link to the Dafys filled a gap in the bigger picture. It was worrisome. Aliette called Martine Rogge.

  Who mused, ‘Interesting. And the letter and the list and his complaining. But do we think Jérome Giffard would light a fire?’

  ‘No, we don’t. We don’t think he would know how. But one of his teammates might.’

  ‘But they were all at a team party that night.’

  ‘Too much of an easy alibi,’ replied Aliette, noting that tomorrow night was the Night of Music and the bane of Jérome Giffard’s life would be standing on a corner singing songs with Chloé Dafy. ‘Might be an explosive mix.’

  ‘Issue a warning to Giffard,’ advised Martine after mulling it. ‘I don’t have enough to put him in garde à- vue.’

  ‘No? Too bad. OK. Merci. Have a nice weekend.’ Aliette put down the phone.

  Inspectors Barthès and Barnay and Escande were gathered at Mathilde Lahi’s station, waiting for their tea. Magui was laughing, amused by Aline Dafy’s Leina persona and giving Mathilde a hard time for concealing vital information concerning Jérome Giffard and Chloé Dafy. Mathilde was less amused, insisting she did not know everything that went on in Saint-Brin and there was also the issue of privacy. Bénédicte was moving through a karate pattern in studied slow-motion.

  Isabelle, aka IssaE, stood by, po-faced.

  ‘Isabelle, I need you to go to the school and fetch Jérome Giffard.’

  ‘Boss?’ She was surprised by the order. ‘Henri and I were just going onto a conference call with Chief Inspector Zidane.’

  ‘Henri will give you his notes.’

  Bénédicte did a spin and a kick and volunteered. ‘I can do it, boss.’

  ‘So can I, Inspector. But Monsieur Giffard prefers doing business with Inspector Escande.’

  Bénédicte Barnay’s eyes tightened on a reflex she could not control. ‘Fine.’ She did another kick, but harder.

  Irritated, the boss reminded Bénédicte, ‘It’s not personal, Inspector.’

  Bénédicte blushed, abashed.

  ‘You will go to the bank and talk to Chloé Dafy. We need to know if she feels any sense of risk on the part of Jérome Giffard. Make her understand she needs to be more forthcoming. I mean, if she cares about Monsieur Malarmé’s well-being. And her own.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘Make her understand I’m disappointed.’ To Isabelle: ‘Now. Please? Smooth and nice.’

  Isabelle seemed to pop out of some sort of trance. She bowed curtly and left.

  Similarly silent, Bénédicte went to get her coat and case.

  Jérome Giffard was smiling when Inspector Escande showed him in with the politest decorum twenty minutes later. Then he watched, dumbly jolted, as she turned on her heel and left the room without a word, much less a smile. Jérome was looking sorely deceived as he faced the chief inspector. ‘Bonjour, monsieur. Thank you for coming so promptly. It is important.’

  Knowing Jérome Giffard’s tragic life, the chief inspector saw his face differently now. The boy glimpsed fleetingly the first time he’d stood there was now fully apparent. A frightened boy.

  Bon. The chief inspector sat him down and warned him.

  • 28 •

  TWO VIEWS OF THE HUNTING PARTY

  Friday evening Chloé Dafy and Luc Malarmé practised late. Luc pushed her hard, correcting her misakes, every note, having her do it over and over again. The man’s house was a sty but his music had to be perfect. And just so: the Night of Music would be more than a performance — Saint-Brin would see Chloé with Luc. The police officer with the flat round face like a soup spoon had scared her with the implications, made it much too personal. When they finally quit rehearsing for the night, Chloé was exhausted. She had fallen asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

  She awoke instantly to the sound of a gunshot outside.

  With an instinctual panicked heave, she shoved Luc off the bed onto the floor and flung herself down beside him. His whiny complaint was cut short by another metallic crack. Then several. They cowered there, immobile in each other’s arms till Chloé heard the yapping.

  She crawled to the wide open balcony doors and peered toward the pine forest. It was not yet dawn, the sun still twenty or so minutes from breaking the horizon. A creeping half-light was illuminating the pines a vivid silvery black. The forest appeared magically empty below the spreading bows, the sandy earth like a film of rust. Chloé saw the boar rush silently through the space, heading for the ridge and deeper cover in the shrubby woods on the far side. After a five count, a noisy posse of tiny Jack Daniels came scampering in pursuit. Then the men in a loose flank, advancing. In camouflage they were one and the same, yet Chloé Dafy could immediately pick out her brother Simon, first amongst the line of stalking figures. He was large but fit from rugby, always in the lead. She marked Alain Grasset, his brother Robert, Claude Petit, Richard Bray, Mayor Michel Velosa, following his belly. Chloé recognized each of them from the shape of their bodies, how each separate body moved, shapes and movements she had known her entire life. Chloé finally breathed, contemplating the long, weirdly mechanical stride of Jérome Giffard.

  Her brother Paul was the straggler, built to move like Simon but directed by a different mind. Paul seemed distracted, looking over his shoulder with every step, scanning the dim pre-dawn space as if the wily boar might be circling around behind the group for a counter-attack. Chloé started, realizing her brother was wearing a black balaclava against the whip of branches in the deeper bush — she had seen his face plainly without noticing the thing covering it. As he turned, it seemed Paul looked straight at Chloé. She checked an impulse to wave. She knew, because her mother had made it plain, that Paul and Simon knew she was here with Luc and didn’t like it.

  Jérome was their friend, Luc was not.

  Paul was suddenly disembodied, sinister behind his mask. Chloé’s heart went cold as his faceless presence coalesced with her memory of the sounds in the night that had provoked her to grab Luc’s rifle and shoot. A fox. A boar. Or a townsman…my brother?

  Chloé collapsed back onto the bed. Luc crawled cautiously in beside her.

  The yapping of the dogs grew distant, the muted rattling of the men’s gear faded.

  Isabelle Escande was on her bike, bouncing, sliding, grinding, working her way down through the unclaimed land between Berlou and Le Mauraury. She’d got up before dawn and headed out. She loved the silence of the morning and there was no reason to stay in bed. Mounting the ridge dividing the hills from the wide no-man’s-land of the plateau, the crack of a gunshot broke the spell of total concentration. Dismounting, she faced an approching cacophony of yapping dogs. There were two more shots, then a sustained volley. Isabelle rolled her bike under the cover of a low-slung rowan, crouched and waited, obscured, sipping juice from a bottle.

  Being a police officer and a marksman of some accomplishment, Isabelle Escande was more than familiar with gunfire. Her acute ear and eye were such that the trajectory of the shots felt visible. Being from Paris, she knew nothing about wild pigs, much less the tendencies of a wild pig running for its life. It was not the guns per se, but the possibility the boar might run straight for her, grotesque te
eth in the lead, hunters’ bullets following directly behind that scared her.

  Isabelle lay prone on the cool ground, rowan berries squashing underneath her…

  But the sporadic barrage of bullets was passing safely west of her position.

  Rising cautiously, she caught a glimpse of a large shape fifty metres away, racing for the next clump of woods. The dogs followed, small and barely seen but loudly there. The hunters came jogging and stumbling through the scant light, rifles at their shoulders, an ungainly platoon in camouflage, as if that could fool the boar. Isabelle thought she recognized the townsmen in the hunting party, but men looked different dressed in their fantasy clothes. She thought, one wrong step and someone could be shot in the back of the head.

  She recapped her juice, secured it to her bike, brushed leaves from her tumbling hair and tied it back up, wiped berry pulp from her elbows. More shots echoed from the woods as she resumed her ride. Isabelle was hoping for the boar.

  Ten minutes later the land flattened out, and the rising sun was suddenly in front of her. She met the paved road and passed through Le Mauraury. No one about at this hour, save an old man scattering feed to his chickens. He was always there, always nodded a bonjour as she glided past, and Isabelle never responded. The relationship seemed fine with him… Isabelle left the hamlet, crossed the bridge over the creek, turned left at the water tank onto the unpaved surface. A cock screamed. She shifted up and started pushing hard. Quickly bringing the bike to speed, she raced across the flats, muscles burning, spirit leading body, three klicks with eyes fixed on the road in front of her, aware of every crack and stone.

  Isabelle wouldn’t look because it was not her business.

  But of course she did.

  The white car was parked at Luc’s front door.

  The thought of a banker in bed with Luc made Isabelle Escande push harder, straining to break past her personal best… And that morning she did, edging the needle over nineteen kph before letting go and gliding to the corner, body and soul momentarily depleted, eyes pricked by salty sweat, mind imbued with an exhilarating clarity, an absolute sense that all would soon be right and well. Isabelle glided, hands on her head, gulping the morning air.