by John Brooke
‘Right.’
Magui was tired of irrelevant theories. She interjected, ‘And then there’s our arsonist.’
‘It has to be one and the same,’ said Aliette. But this was more prayer than deduction. ‘Quel bordel!’ What a mess. She munched a biscuit, thought about the kids singing for Jérome Giffard.
…Jérome Giffard, who’d killed Luc Malarmé’s dog because Luc was singing for the kids.
Or because of Chloé Dafy? Or his mother. Or Miri Monette.
It didn’t matter, and she would not tell anyone about the dog. Not today.
What mattered was, Who hated Luc Malarmé that much and probably still did?
A huge mess. They listened to the bell for Jérome Giffard clanging mournfully on.
• 34 •
WHEN THE WORLD IS EXACTLY FINE
The transcripts were on the table but a live voice was always more revealing. The chief inspector replayed her interview with Chloé Dafy in the aftermath of the Night of Music for Magui Barthès and Bénédicte Barnay.
She was obviously shaken: ‘We came into town around nine. It was still light out. I thought it was a strange corner, really off the main walk, but Luc said it had good acoustics. By the time we got set up and started playing, it was dark. We wore white caps. Like tennis players wear? It helped us look like a duo. It made Luc anonymous. Me too, I suppose. We did not want trouble. We just wanted to sing.’
That night Aliette had been momentarily transfixed when Chloé suddenly began to sing:
The wind was my friend
The wind never ends
The wind left me standing here today.
One of Luc’s best-loved songs — about childhood, lost days of wandering free. The banker, battered and tearful, had seemed somewhere else entirely as she quietly sang the refrain. Three days later, it was eerie — and so sad — to hear the disembodied voice in the machine.
Chloé had continued: ‘Gradually, people came by and stopped to listen. They liked it, they stayed around for more. I was happy watching Luc. I love singing with him. It’s a special thing. It’s…it’s better than love. I mean making love.’ Aliette looked up from the voice on the tape. Magui Barthès and Bénédicte Barnay seemed to be holding their breath. Much like herself that night? Chloé Dafy had continued, grave, as if desperate to make a point. ‘With love you’re in the dark. You don’t really know where the person you’re holding onto is. You know?’ Aliette could not recall her initial response to that; whatever, it had been silent. Chloé had said, ‘Singing with Luc, I know exactly where I am. Even a sad song, an angry song — he has so many songs, some of them are even violent, but it’s like you’re inside there, safe with him. While the music lasts, it’s like…like the world is exactly fine?’ Quiet breathing on the tape while she’d wiped away more tears. ‘Anyway, eventually we had a small crowd. I worried we’d run out of songs.’
‘Anyone from your family come by?’
‘Are you kidding? My brothers detest Luc. My parents? I have no idea where they were. My mother and I have not been communicating much lately. It’s almost impossible that my mother would have been there. But there were lots of others. Kids. Luc’s good with the little ones. For them, it’s just magic. Some adolescents were a bit rowdy but even they shut up and listened. I have no idea who recognized Luc, but that awful girl screamed at him. Francine’s daughter. That was the start of it. She screamed, “You’re a fraud!” and threw a glass of wine at Luc. He ducked — it stained his cap. We played on… “Le grand Philippe et Petit Dan.”’ A dreamy, strangely happy ditty, the tale of two good friends, both hopeless addicts, dying together in the streets of Paris.
Again, Chloé had hummed a bar, not strong but perfect. It sent the chief inspector back in time. She could see a man she used to know, humming it as he dressed for work in the morning.
Listening to the tape now, three days later, she heard herself demand, ‘Say that again.’
‘I said she screamed, “I know who you are!” …Luc continued singing. He’s used to things like that. She was screaming, insisting, “Can you stop! Stop singing! You have no right! My mother is alone because of you. Miri’s dead because of you. I’ll never know my father. All because of you!” She was getting frantic. Her friends were trying to make her stop — they were trying to restrain her, but she kept at it, right in Luc’s face. I was trying to keep going, keep time with Luc.’ Chloé Dafy breathed, remembering. ‘But the song fell apart and I screamed back at her. She slapped me. So I slapped her.’ And they’d fought.
According to Chloé: ‘Luc is passive. He has to be, after what happened — it’s like a message to the world.’ And to the police.
‘But Jérome Giffard? How does he come into this?’
‘I don’t know! I didn’t actually see till after he was…I…I’ve never done that in my life. I mean, fight. It was like what they call a blind fury — it consumed me, all my strength, everything. I was aware of people sceaming at us, but it was just noise. Yes, Jérome’s voice came through — but I couldn’t stop and find out what he was wanting to tell me, could I?’
No. And Aliette had seen no need to repeat some of the abusive words some of the bystanders mentioned he’d been hurling at Chloé Dafy. That she deserved this?
Chloé said, ‘We both sort of stopped fighting at the same moment — when we realized they were screaming. Not at us. I mean screaming because Jérome was dead.’ Chloé had wept again. Till she regained control. ‘God knows why he came. He lives quite close. Maybe someone told him Luc was singing. I didn’t see him. Not till after he was shot.’
‘Was he at your brother’s party?’
‘My brother had a party?’
‘Simon. The boar hunters’ association.’
‘Well, his place is even closer to where we were. Yes, he probably was. They’re all friends.’
‘But which friend would want to kill Jérome?’
Silence as the question was considered.
But Chloé Dafy agreed with everyone questioned that night: ‘Whoever shot Jérome had to be aiming for Luc. Probably the same one who beat him up. I mean, why would anyone kill Jérome? It’s Luc. They all hate him.’
‘Do your brothers hate him?’
‘They must. They all think the same.’ Then Chloé had murmured, ‘There’s been someone out there at night, early morning. Outside our bedroom. In the forest…sometimes closer.’
Aliette had asked, ‘You mean since the fire?’
‘No. Since spring.’
‘Why didn’t you tell me this when we first talked?’ Unofficially, in Chloé’s office.
‘Because I wasn’t sure…’ Aliette recalled Chloé Dafy growing flustered at this juncture. ‘Luc said it was nothing. I mean, nothing important. He’s used to people spying and lurking. I told the other woman…um, Martine? The day she came to see Luc.’
‘I see.’ But Martine hadn’t mentioned it either. She hadn’t noted the presence of Chloé Dafy at all. Which, in retrospect, was odd…
Sound of the office door. Henri and Magui were interviewing selected witnesses. Henri had appeared with a note. ‘Merci… And is this the first time you and Luc have been out together in public?’
Chloé admitted, ‘I suppose it is.’
‘Do you suppose it may be why Jérome showed up tonight?’
‘How could I know?’
‘How long were you with Jérome Giffard?’
‘Too long.’ Silence as Chloé considered it further. ‘I was giving up. He was insisting.’
‘Giving up?’
‘Nothing worked with men — always a gap, painful waste of time. I knew it was a gap in me. Jérome was just the next in a long line. My mother had kind of disowned me — no husband, no children. Big sin. She focuses on my brothers, their solid marriages, their children. When I saw Luc at the market in the winter, I felt
time spinning so fast I almost fainted. When he came into the bank to arrange some things, I understood he was alone. When I read those things they were saying about him, that travesty in Canada, the sin of wanting to sing again, I was angry. When I read the thread on the town blog, I was ashamed…’
Chloé Dafy had paused. You could hear her breath. This was a big thing in her life.
‘I went out to see him, to try to let him know not everyone in this little place thinks that way. And I wasn’t wrong — Luc was in need of a friend. You know?’
Silence on the part of a cop who could only nod. Yes, she knew.
‘I had to defend him,’ stated Chloé Dafy. And sleep with him.
More silence. Magui and Bénédicte could not see it, but Aliette remembered Chloé nodding through tears, confirming her own heart. ‘It’s the best thing that’s happened to me since…I can’t remember. The last few months, I’ve never been happier,’ she said. On tape. A sworn statement.
• 35 •
WHAT RACHELLE KNEW
Then they listened to Rachelle Tabler’s take on the tragic night.
They heard Bénédicte Barnay advise Rachelle, ‘No sulking. Just tell the truth and you can go home…’ then leave the room.
At first Rachelle resisted, complaining resentfully. ‘Yes, I drank too much wine! It’s hard to have fun in a nowhere hole like Saint-Brin. When there’s no ride into the city, we drink. We like to have fun. That’s not a crime!’
Aliette had asked, ‘Were you drinking when you were tearing down the concert posters?’
‘No. I mean, no! I never touched his stupid posters! If you won’t believe me, I’m leaving.’
‘You won’t leave till I say. Rachelle, you started a brawl in the street. A man was murdered. You will answer all my questions.’ That had unleashed a torrent of wretched tears.
When they stopped, Rachelle attempted to explain: ‘I’ve never done that before. Never. You ask my friends. Fighting is for macho assholes and the stupid girls who like them. That’s not us. Did you ever see Miri down on the ground flailing and scratching? That’s not what she’s about… It’s like my wires got crossed. We were wandering around like everyone, up and down the streets, stopping and listening to the music, moving to the next corner. We got to them, we stopped and listened. He had this hat on, I was pretty drunk, wasn’t really paying attention, I didn’t realize it was him …Her? I’ve seen her but I don’t know who she is. So I was looking at them but it didn’t compute till one of my friends says, “that’s a Malheureuse Pelouse song! From the Beau Rêve album.” The one about Morocco? — obviously not like on the album, but that was when it clicked. It was him. It just broke my head completely that he would be singing his little love song, and I screamed at him. He ignored me. She didn’t. It went from there. It was strange to do that… I’ve never…’
Rachelle had begun repeating herself while Aliette considered the obvious question: Are you aware he could be your father? Treading warily, she asked, ‘Did you leave poison for his dog?’
‘No…of course not.’ A pleading tone. ‘What kind of person do you think I am?’
Aliette tightened the screw (gently). ‘But all this anger. Is it really because of Miri Monette?’
She remembered how the girl had caught her drift and bristled. Attempting to move past the thing sitting there like the proverbial elephant in the room, Rachelle had reverted to adolescent snark. ‘Don’t be stupid. Please.’
Aliette heard her own tone grow cool. ‘Rachelle, I’m not your mother. Please deal with the question.’
‘He’s a horrible person. He hurts people. And he doesn’t care.’
Again, Aliette moved in from an angle like a smiling bishop. ‘Do you mean Miri?’
But she was fended off. ‘I know who he is! All right?’
‘Does he know that you know?’
‘I don’t know what he knows. I hate him! — for what he does to people.’
‘Like your mother?’
Rachelle had nodded, weeping. Aliette had noted the tape counter and marked ‘Yes.’ She had asked, ‘Does your mother know that you know?’
Rachelle had shrugged, miserable. ‘Can I go? Or do I have to go to jail?’
‘Not this time.’ What a sad girl.
Francine Tabler had been notified, of course, and had come, frantic as any mother would be, with her boyfriend, Thierry Belanger, in tow. Bénédicte Barnay was minding them. Aliette had wanted a word with Francine before releasing Rachelle. Thierry wanted to be part of it but was refused. ‘No, monsieur, just her mum.’
The tape was still running; whether Francine was aware was moot. Aliette had summed up Rachelle’s story, several times having to shush her truculent guest. Then she made her point. ‘Francine, your daughter’s scratches are the least of it. The real pain’s in her anger. It should be dealt with, no? Openly, honestly, by everyone concerned — otherwise, though no psychologist me, I would venture to say her anger will only grow. It can’t lead to anything good, surely you can see that.’
Francine’s reply was evasive. ‘B’eh, without a DNA test we’ll never know.’
‘Between him and his brother.’
‘C’est ça. And even then… Your nice cadet asked me the same question, by the way. Who can I thank for that? Mathilde Lahi?’
‘A concerned citizen, Francine. And she’s no cadet.’
Francine Tabler had turned defiant. ‘I don’t want to know.’
‘Is it not your duty as a mother?’
‘My duty as a mother is not your business.’
‘Your daughter’s anger was perhaps the catalyst for the murder of an innocent man.’
Francine had little sympathy for the victim. ‘What a miserable man.’
But the miserable man was dead. Aliette had persisted, ‘Tell me about Luc, Francine.’
‘I could kill him,’ Francine stated. But she would never petition to see his DNA.
A part of Aliette Nouvelle respected Francine for that. She knew in her gut that for Francine Tabler it was a point of pride to resist confirming a biological link to a man she did not want or need in her life, financially or otherwise. Francine preferred to supplement her income by cleaning house for people like Aline Dafy. Her angry child would learn to live with anger’s pain.
That sad night, as she’d sent them on their way, Aliette only wished they’d talk about it.
Now Bénédicte’s information about Francine cleaning Simon and Aline Dafy’s house rendered Aliette’s gut feeling problematic.
Junior Inspector Barnay wasn’t smiling, but she seemed to have regained her composure. The tragedy had clearly affected her — the young cop’s mood remained darkly flat. The boss assigned her the visit to Francine Tabler, thinking a wrangle with Francine might be exactly what was required to reboot Bénédicte’s morale. ‘Unannounced, and with a search warrant. Find out about her Friday afternoon at the Dafy residence. Do a gun search — though I sincerely doubt Francine would go to that extreme to keep her daughter away from Luc. But don’t tell her that. She was in Simon Dafy’s home, alone for several hours. Make her understand we have to deal with the fact. Yes?’
Bénédicte nodded, turned to a fresh page in her book, dutiful, dour, worryingly mute.
‘It won’t be fun. She’ll resist, immediately hate us for even thinking such a thought. Tell her she can help us and we’re counting on her cooperation. Point it past her: Did anyone stop by? Maybe one of the boar hunters, good friend of the family, longtime member of the association, needs to stock up, isn’t going to be with Simon’s group the next morning, knows where it’s kept, walks right in, at home, Francine minds her own business, goes back to doing the kitchen floor. Or her boyfriend, Thierry? Or Rachelle? She wouldn’t watch them if they’d stopped by and gone snooping. Obviously tread lightly there — she’ll bite your head off. Or a neighbour, one of
Aline’s friends, one of those Miri thread pals, maybe —’
‘No girls in the boar hunters’association,’ Magui interrupted, referring to their list.
‘But this friend loves Miri and she knows how to shoot.’
Magui responded with a doubtful moue.
Aliette ignored it. ‘What’s her routine? Does she open the place while she’s working? Could someone walk in the patio door while she’s doing the upstairs? Be nice. You know how she is. We just need to know and we hope she gets that. And the gun check: totally routine, no one’s accusing anyone. OK?’
Bénédicte seemed to bend lower and lower to her notes as Aliette heaped on the advice.
‘She starts making a fuss, or that Thierry, bang! No more nice. Straight to garde-à-vue.’
‘Got it, boss.’
‘Are you up for this, Inspector?’
‘Yes, of course.’
• 36 •
FAMILY DYNAMICS
Junior Inspector Bénédicte Barnay headed out to Prades, too aware how easily her feelings could be read by a motherly boss — which doubled the pressure she was experiencing. If it were a man running things here, the situation would surely be different. Luc Malarmé would have fled the scene months ago. Or he’d be dead. But he remained. And Bénédicte had to gain control of her emotions or it would all fall apart. She wondered how Isabelle would handle it. If Bénédicte could do it like Isabelle Escande, she would be doing it right. At least in some people’s eyes.
But Francine Tabler was not in her mairie office that morning, nor in the apartment above it. Neither was Rachelle. This was a normal hazard when one conducted unannounced visits. Met with a Judicial Police warrant card, the woman in the office identifying herself as Liliane, secretary to the mayor, said, ‘Gone to the city, both of them. Graduation dress for the princess.’
Rather than return straightaway to the office, Junior Inspector Barnay continued up the road. It was not part of her assignment, but Bénédicte had a deep feeling that if there was anything to find along the Tabler trajectory of this sad affair, it would involve Thierry Belanger. She made a right turn, glanced in passing at the smoke-stained villa, the ruined vines, but she was not a Luc fan and didn’t care what he might be doing on a Tuesday morning after coming within eighteen inches of being blown away. Two klicks on, she stopped in the hamlet called Le Mauraury.
