While the Music Lasts

by John Brooke

  It appeared the Miri thread had been dormant since that awful Monday. Indeed, a message posted by Leina around mid-morning of that day was the last communication. She’d been calling for help as the police invaded her home: IssaE, IssaE! Where are you? I thought you were my ally here. You put me up to this and I don’t even know your name. Please, they are ripping our life apart, all because of this stupid man.

  IssaE had not replied. She had, as Isabelle had dryly put it, ‘done her bit,’ and disappeared.

  Guerrière, aka Laure Legault, had apparently used other channels in organizing their bizarre group confession that afternoon. But Laure had a direct line to the police, not to mention the school parents’ association. She’d have heard lots when Nic came home for his lunch and taken steps to mitigate the damage beyond Aline.

  Aliette had been apprehensive in her initial talks with Magistrate Martine Rogge, who had been so intrigued by the Miri ladies. But Miri had not been part of the investigation. It was one small blessing. Now, dismayed and disturbed by Bénédicte’s miserable revelation, IssaE’s non-response to Leina’s cry seemed cold. And worse? What kind of person was she?

  As more than one Miri acolyte had noted, You’re not really one of us. No.

  But is she really one of mine? Aliette was reading IssaE’s contribution to the Miri thread with second eyes as she scrolled down, looking to find a clue to the real Isabelle Escande.

  She called Martine Rogge. ‘Luc Malarmé wrote Chloé a letter?’

  ‘Yes, we talked about it. I mean in passing. A way to get her talking.’

  ‘But a rather brutal letter, according to her mother.’

  ‘Any letter of that sort is brutal,’ averred Martine. ‘That Christine is difficult.’

  Aliette did not disagree with either notion. ‘Did Chloé say anything useful?’

  ‘About him, yes. About the case, not really.’

  ‘Forgive me, but how are they separate?’

  Martine explained that the psychologist at the clinic where Chloé Dafy was convalescing said the disconnect between Chloé and Luc and Chloé and her brother’s alleged act was the thing that sent Chloé into a state of high distraction which, after screaming at her brothers and her mother, had left her with a shattered arm at the foot of the mairie stairs. The psychologist said it was not a question of guilt for the patient’s sexual preference for Luc Malarmé over Jérome Giffard; she had listened to Chloé describe the elemental differences between the two men and could only agree with her choice. Any healthy woman would. ‘Chloé Dafy is angry with her family, pure and simple. Or as least as simple as that can ever be,’ advised Martine. She had visited Chloé three times. Her arm was healing at a normal rate. She was making progress in rebuilding the necessary walls separating kinship from her parents’ history and her brothers’ animosity relating to Luc. ‘She mostly talks about his music. I am a fan and I was intrigued. As for the case, she told me she had heard sounds outside in the night. Several times. She assumes it was her brother. It fits with everything else, but not enough to break the wall I’m still facing here.’

  Loaded emphasis on still. Martine was sounding like Magui looked.

  Aliette had her notes in front of her. She quietly challenged Martine. ‘But she told you this before the incident. When you went to see Luc about the fire.’

  There was a pause. Martine finally said, ‘Her own explantion sounded feasible. An overly curious fan. I accepted that at the time.’

  Aliette heard Martine Rogge fudging. On something. Something beyond the Paul Dafy line of inquiry. Because, as the inspector well knew, Martine was not a sloppy investigator. But this was not the time to push it further. She asked, ‘Does she still have the letter?’

  ‘No idea. I hope not. Not healthy to dwell on that sort of thing.’

  ‘I’m thinking I’d like to talk to Chloé again.’

  ‘Be my guest, Inspector.’

  Aliette found Chloé in a sunny private room, dressed and groomed, her arm in a wrist-to-elbow cast. Looking tired, but otherwise calm. Reading a book on investing by an American barber?

  ‘He’s Canadian,’ Chloé corrected. ‘But same difference.’ Eyes shifting to a flat, circumspect gaze, she gestured towards the visitor’s chair, exactly as she did when receiving clients at the bank.

  Aliette sat, apologized for the police tendency to review ad infinitum, then gently forced Chloé Dafy to walk her through the arc of her romance with Luc Malarmé. When Chloé ended the arc at the Night of Music, Aliette asked, ‘And no one knew.’

  ‘We kept it very quiet.’

  ‘Your parents knew.’

  ‘From my brothers, probably.’

  ‘And how did they know?’

  ‘B’eh, Jérome. Rugby.’

  ‘And what about Jérome’s parents’ association? Do you think one or two of them might have been apprised?’ Chloé rolled her eyes. Aliette offered a wry smile. ‘You kept it quiet, but I’m thinking we should assume almost everyone in town knew.’ She looked at her notes. ‘And you heard someone lurking in the forest at night. Since spring.’

  ‘Not every night.’

  ‘But you didn’t report it.’

  A resigned sigh, quietly exasperated. ‘I told you. Luc wasn’t worried, so I tried not to be.’

  ‘But it surely meant that someone knew about you and Luc — and was very interested.’

  Chloé nodded like a chastened schoolgirl. Then, releasing an even deeper sigh, in a rueful whisper, she confessed, ‘One night I shot at them.’

  ‘You shot at them?’

  ‘From the window… I can shoot. Not well, but I know how. I was getting sick of it.’

  ‘You brought your gun to deal with this problem.’

  ‘No. I used Luc’s. It was in the laundry room…when I washed his sheets.’

  ‘Luc’s gun. A rifle?’ Aliette started scribbling notes. This was a serious revelation.

  ‘He said someone gave it to him. Before. So he could go hunting with them?’ She made a twisted face. ‘Maybe my father. He was a hunter then.’

  ‘And you thought it was your brothers out there. Or one of them.’ Martine Rogge’s notes assumed her brother Paul.

  ‘No, I thought it must be Jérome, but —’ Chloé gazed dolefully out the window, into a well-kept garden designed to calm. The scallop-shaped dome on the new Béziers rugby stadium rose in the near distance. ‘But there was someone out there again early Sunday morning, so it could not have been Jérome.’

  ‘Sunday morning?’

  ‘After it happened.’ And Jérome Giffard was dead. ‘The next night too. It was horrible. I was already terrified. Luc was on some sleeping pill.’ Chloé’s eyes were pained.

  Then the insanity of Monday. Then here.

  ‘You told the Magistrate about this?’

  ‘Yes. The day she visited Luc. And she’s come to see me here and we’ve talked some more, and the other inspector came once, but…well, no — not about taking a shot at them. I…Luc was afraid. He said he could go back to prison for having a gun. The rest of it, yes. She and the other inspector made me realize it was my brother. Paul. It had to be. Paul’s got this thing about the rugby team, like it’s some spiritual brotherhood, and Jérome was —’ Chloé deflated, she stared at her knees. ‘Jérome was one of them.’ A cop recognized shame mixed with helplessness. ‘He knows the ground out there. They hunt there all the time. I saw them pass that morning.’

  ‘Who did you see?’

  ‘All of them. Simon’s hunting party.’ Including Jérome. ‘Paul kept turning, staring at Luc’s window.’ The tears started as Chloé looked away.

  Aliette thought the logic wasn’t right. She couldn’t blame Chloé — she’d had Paul drummed into her head by Martine and Magui. But Paul ‘out there’ in the wee hours directly following the incident was inconsistent with information they
had gathered.

  If Paul were innocent — if he had spent the Night of Music partying, drinking…and then dealing with the awful news, he’d have remained in Simon’s kitchen where they commiserated, raged and mourned with his friends till they’d all finally left and gone to their homes. Which is what Paul claimed and others confirmed. They all agreed it was almost dawn.

  If, as accused, Paul had been partying and slipping out to take a shot at Luc Malarmé — which missed — was it likely he’d put himself in plain sight of his intended victim later on? Obsessed. Looking for a second try? Possible. Paul Dafy was not taken into custody till Monday afternoon. He had an obsessive streak. And ‘almost dawn’ is still mostly night.

  Perhaps, had it been a rugby party, one could entertain the notion of a team conspiracy.

  But as far as Aliette could ascertain, the boar hunters were not in the grip of a mystical bond.

  Aliette did not challenge Chloé’s certainty. She moved the conversation back to the crux. ‘Your mother tells me Luc wrote you a letter.’

  ‘I’m sure she’s told everyone.’ Chloé was bitter.

  But that was an issue for the psychologist. ‘When did it come?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Tuesday or Wednesday… I was pretty out of it for the first day or so. It was on the table when I started to come round.’

  Luc Malarmé hadn’t wasted any time in sending her the goodbye note. ‘He didn’t visit?’

  ‘And face my mother?’ A bleak shake of her head. ‘I don’t blame him, not in the least.’

  ‘Do you still have it?’

  She gestured tossing it away. ‘Poubelle.’ Into the garbage. ‘I’m not totally stupid. I don’t obsess like Paul. It was something special, but I have no illusions.’ Chloé flashed a sour smile; for an instant she looked too much like her mother. ‘I’m trained to steer clients away from their illusions, mm? Yes, well, Mademoiselle Dafy has been steering her own little course away from illusions these past two weeks…’ a rueful moment nodding to herself. Then a question. ‘Why does this matter?’

  ‘I’m not sure, but I think it may. Were you aware of other people around him at any point during…during your time together?’

  ‘Around him? They all took off when he was sent away. Everyone around Saint-Brin is afraid of him. They hate him.’ But Chloé gave it some thought. ‘There were some people working on the pool in April, May. Always people delivering things. Then the fire. Some people fixing the mess. There are no friends I ever heard about…’ She shrugged. ‘You people, mainly.’

  Aliette pretended to make a note. Us people. Yes. We’re not afraid of Luc Malarmé.

  She stood, gathering her things. ‘When are they letting you out of here?’

  ‘Soon. It’s mostly up to me. I’ll try for this weekend.’

  She shook Chloé’s other hand. ‘I’m sorry this had to happen.’

  ‘It’s not your fault.’

  It might be, thought Aliette.

  • 45 •

  TWO JOLIE COPS ON BIKES

  Luc Malarmé had no friends. But everyone kept track of everyone.

  Not that they wanted to talk about it with the police. Aliette stopped along the road to Luc’s place and walked into the vines. Alain Grasset turned his back and walked away. It was a gesture of pure disdain. She could have answered back in kind, drawn the service arm she wore every day now, and ordered him to halt. She resisted the urge to enforce respect. The man’s cherished hunting rifle was still in Paris, where nothing happened fast. Why add to the bad faith?

  Alain Grasset was not the only vigneron too busy and too fed up to waste more time on the police. On the cusp of August the leaves were lush, the grapes heavy, in rich full colour. It was now a matter of keeping them watered, monitoring sugar levels approaching the intended target date, hoping the hot dry days continued till the vendanges. It was looking to be a good year. The red clods of clayish earth were soft underfoot, precarious to manoeuvre in sandals. A careful tour up and down the precisely ordered lines turned up six more pairs of eyes. They were tired of the Luc Malarmé drama. They shook their heads, echoing Chloé Dafy: there was always someone coming and going from the house, service trucks of one sort or another, and cars — white, grey, the usual; what was France but millions of little white-grey cars? They remembered the silver one, beetling up to his front door, beetling away. When? Every day. Some days. They shrugged, their days were long, they were focused on their work. Evenings mainly. But mornings too.

  Yes? Yes… edging away from her. Lunch time.

  Then siesta. No one worked in the afternoon sun.

  The chief inspector returned to her own unremarkable little car. (She’d had a sparkling silver-blue ragtop once, same colour as her eyes, but a man stole it and she’d said never again.) Before getting in behind the wheel, she removed her sandals, stood barefoot on the rough road banging the soles together. The clapping sound brought a scrawny liver-coloured dog out of the vines, loping toward her, tongue hanging, hopeful.

  Sorry, she had nothing for it. It watched her drive away.

  Aliette slowed, gazed at the soot-charred house — but drove past, not ready, feeling she needed more. But what? An unclear minute later, she pulled into Le Mauraury. Half a dozen original houses clumped together, a cave and sundry machines behind one. Laundry on lines. A child’s inflatable splash pool. Four British sports cars were still lined up in front of Thierry Belanger’s garage, waiting for the notary to do his paperwork. The windows shuttered in the noon hour, the hamlet was silent under the faintest breeze. Two more dogs came out of the tall grass, crossed the road, disappeared. An old man sat in the shade of the coop with a pail of feed, scattering handfuls through the wiring. The chickens pecked and moved around.

  ‘Bonjour, Monsieur Bidène.’

  ‘Madame.’ Taciturn, but pleased to be recognized.

  She produced her warrant card. ‘A bit of follow-up.’

  Germain Bidène squinted at it. ‘Not much more to say. As I told that young inspector, I put the rifle in with Ernest Belanger myself, laid it in the crook of his arm. Not my idea, waste of a perfectly good gun, but majority wins, yes? But it looked good on him. Our friend. Priest didn’t care. Suicide, quoi? I watched them nail the lid. Long time ago, now. Who would be so mean to take it back? I’ve heard of people wanting rings and such, making a fuss…’ He tossed more feed through the mesh. ‘Not Thierry. Always troubled. Sad. Like Ernest. But no.’

  ‘It’s a complicated thing, monsieur. Ever meet your famous neighbour?’

  ‘Me, no. Man like that? The way he lives? What would you say? Ernest’s tales were enough. Too much. My wife was very church, she got exercised. Me, I never judged. But…’ But he had. ‘Trouble seems to follow him.’ Germain Bidène slowly massaged chicken feed into the palm of one hand with a thick thumb, remembering.

  The chief inspector assured him, ‘We’re going to sort it out.’ She proffered her notebook. ‘But there’s a gap in my information. Did the young inspector ask if you’ve heard or noticed anything unusual in the forest? You share that with Monsieur Malarmé.’ She pointed.

  Bidène acknowledged some common ground. ‘What do you mean, unusual? You hear the boars some nights. Always things going on out there.’ A shrug: normal. ‘It’s the forest.’

  ‘People? Nothing near the house?’

  ‘B’eh, the hunters, they cross through the vines and go into the trees. That’s sometimes close to the house — but that’s the mornings. Big racket a few weeks ago. They started early this year.’

  ‘Earlier. Middle of the night. And earlier in the season. Even before the fire?’

  He looked into space with rheumy eyes. ‘Years ago you could hear the music, the parties got loud, when Ernest used to have to go over… No, not lately.’

  ‘Not Thierry? Out walking. I mean, we hear he was…’

  ‘No.
He spent most nights over at the mairie.’

  Aliette nodded. Of course everyone knew about Thierry and Francine.

  Bidène mulled it, nodding at a waiting hen. He finally offered, ‘I heard one shot, one night. No, two. I’m sure it was shots.’ A shrug. ‘But it was just two. Not hunters.’

  ‘Night? Morning?’

  ‘Night, I believe. Maybe my neighbour was chasing off a boar. They get bold.’

  ‘But his vines were fallow. Then they were burned.’ No grapes for a boar to steal.

  ‘Maybe my neighbour’s neighbour’s patch? I just remember two shots one night.’

  ‘Merci.’ She made a show of jotting a note. ‘You’ve been very helpful. We appreciate it.’

  ‘B’eh…the police, madame.’ Of course one helped. If asked.

  ‘And the young inspector — Inspector Barnay: no problem? The way she handled things?’

  ‘No. Polite enough. Just business.’ Germain Bidène smiled into his pail, wistful. ‘Though I much prefer to see her on her bike. Good for my soul, that.’ Indeed, a sly old twinkle.

  Aliette smiled back. ‘She loves her bike. She rides by here?’

  ‘All the time. They both do.’

  ‘Both?’

  ‘B’eh, the brune, the one who was here for Thierry, the road bike. And the petite blonde on her mountain rig. Good shape, both of them. Strong… The blonde could use a little meat on her bones.’

  Aliette let an old man’s not-so-appropriate comment go by. Pointless to correct him. Germain Bidène looked to be about a hundred.