While the Music Lasts

by John Brooke

  ‘And so,’ Aliette moved to keep things moving forward, ‘we’ve got to the point where we have to ask, Who hates Jérome Giffard?’

  Magui blinked.

  Bénédicte Barnay’s eyes sharpened.

  ‘Just so,’ Martine sat up, regaining her dominant posture. ‘Who hates Jérome Giffard?’

  Bénédicte asked, ‘Who would?’

  At that moment, Isabelle Escande, bless her weird, unknowable soul, smiled and quipped, ‘I know some seven-year-olds we should probably talk to.’

  No one laughed.

  Aliette was astounded by the young inspector’s insouciance. And at a loss to read it. Was it the arrogance of celebrity? Or something decidely more cold-blooded?

  Martine said, ‘You find this funny, Inspector?

  Isabelle bowed to the screen. ‘No, madame, not in the least. I apologize.’

  Bénédicte’s eyes rested momentarily on Isabelle. She said, guardedly, ‘He was a decent man. A normal man.’

  Aliette saw Martine contemplating les deux filles from the other side of the screen.

  The moment passed. They addressed the question: Who hates Jérome Giffard?

  Magui shrugged. The most immediate and obvious candidate was Luc Malarmé, and he had the money to arrange a kill. Aliette immediately said no, Luc did not know Jérome Giffard from Adam. To back her point, she played her interview with Luc conducted on the Night of Music.

  The disembodied voice of Luc Malarmé replied to her disembodied questions:

  ‘B’eh, we were singing. It’s the Night of Music and we were singing. A lot of people had come by, they were enjoying it. I had this hat on, pulled low, no sign of Luc Malarmé, just a guy playing music with Chloé Dafy. She was out front for most of it. Good voice. Then the girl, Francine’s kid, she starts screaming at me. I tried to ignore it and keep going. You learn to do that. But Chloé, it was her first time, it was too much. They ended up in a fight. It happened fast, just like that, they’re on the ground. I would have stepped in. I would have, but I couldn’t move. I…I was afraid to do anything the police might say was wrong.’ There was a pause — Aliette recalled a helpless shrug. He continued, ‘Before they let me go, they warned me. So I couldn’t move. I stood there. That guy was suddenly there, on the edge of it with the rest, screaming at Chloé, calling her awful stuff, telling her she deserved it and what did she expect. He had a glass in his hand and it was obvious he’d had a few… The vile things he was shouting at her, that made me move. I… I poked him in the back with my guitar — to distract him. He turned and came toward me. He looked crazy. A total lunatic, and I’ve met a few… I retreated, it scared me. I’ve no idea how to fight.’ Another pause. ‘And I really didn’t need to be arrested. Then he got a hole in his head and dropped his glass. No, I didn’t hear a shot… Well, he looked surprised. His head started pumping blood. He fell… No, Chloé never mentioned a Jérome. Or any other man, not that I recall. We usually talk about music… No, I will not stop. Music is what I do.’

  Aliette stopped the recording. ‘He never met Jérome. His father, yes. Never him. Tell me you can’t hear a man speaking the truth.’

  No one did.

  Bénédicte Barnay said, ‘Chloé Dafy hates Jérome Giffard.’

  Aliette begged to differ there as well. ‘I get the sense she felt sorry for him and just wished he’d go away.’

  Martine Rogge added, ‘She’s a banker, not a gangster.’

  Aliette asked, ‘Does this even have to do with Luc Malarmé?’ Disingenuous, even cynical, but that was how it sometimes had to work. She added, ‘Except as the perfect foil?’

  Magistrate Rogge was willing to consider it. For the sake of her reputation. ‘So who?

  Who hates Jérome Giffard? Other ex-girlfriends? Was Chloé Dafy the only one? Surely not. Colleagues? Former students? Where else and with whom had he worked? A rugby player… No, not Paul. But could there be some lethal psychosis undermining the bond in the Marteaux scrum? They kicked some notions around. The discussion was fragmentary, seeking a solidifying energy it could not seem to find. The chief inspector drifted from the disjointed mulling, contemplating each woman round the table in her turn…

  Magui Barthès was thin, and some days even skinny. Like Martine Rogge… But thin Martine projected an elegance Magui would never possess, a personal verve approaching the alluring thing in Isabelle Escande…who was very thin indeed. Bénédicte Barnay was definitely costaud.

  Could that be why Bénédicte had come back scowling after she went to visit Luc?

  Aliette had broached the issue with Luc Malarmé during their revealing chat two days prior. Miriam Monette was never the most beautiful woman. Miri’s appeal was always in her ability to be Everywoman. Thin? Hadn’t Miri been ideal? He’d said, ‘Haven’t you heard the camera adds ten pounds, Inspector? You want people to believe you’re a perfectly svelte bourgeois wife in the throes of an existential crisis, you have to eat like a prisoner of war.’ But Miri couldn’t sing…

  But they were talking about Jérome Giffard, not Luc.

  When it petered out, Martine Rogge said, ‘Bon. Things to explore. I will leave you to it.’

  She smiled, a trifle sadly. And disappeared.

  Magui would research Jérome Giffard’s former loves and the men they had ultimately ended up with, and summon anyone who fit the desired profile. She would continue to watch Paul Dafy, if she felt she ought to. Isabelle would try her luck with the rugby club, including Paul Dafy, if she sensed a new possibility. Bénédicte would look into trajectories of Jérome’s professional life.

  The boss assigned herself a second look at Chloé Dafy, noting, ‘She’s coming home today.’

  Magui asked, ‘Where is Henri in this?’

  ‘Henri is starting on another thing with Nabi. He’ll be in the city for the next little while.’

  As they were filing out, Aliette requested a word with Isabelle Escande.

  She asked, ‘Isabelle, where were you when I called the Night of Music?’

  Isabelle blanched. She did not understand the question. She repeated it to herself. ‘Where was I the Night of Music?’

  ‘When I called you to come and help with the situation.’

  She shrugged. ‘I was around. I was on my bike. Listening to the music. Stopping, listening, then finding the next group. It was a nice night for a ride.’

  ‘So why did you lie to me?’

  ‘Boss?’

  ‘There was no music at Berlou the Night of Music.’

  ‘Maybe. When I got your call, I was on my bike… What exactly did I say?’

  ‘You said you were at home.’

  ‘Yes. Well… I started from there,’ she offered. Too blithely.

  Aliette breathed once. ‘Are you happy here with us, Isabelle?’

  ‘Happy? Well…’ Getting confused. ‘I don’t plan on dying here. But sure, I like it here. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I want to know why you lied to me.’

  Isabelle met the boss’s searching gaze. ‘With respect, it’s personal. I was off-duty when you called.’

  Aliette waited.

  Isabelle said, ‘Boss, you’re not my mother.’

  Aliette could not reply. Not reasonably. She said, ‘I’m ordering you to tell me.’

  ‘You have no right.’

  ‘I do and it’s serious.’ She waited.

  Another shrug, perplexed by this strange women. ‘I was with Bénédicte. She called me. She was crying. Bad scene with her guy… Um?’

  ‘Alex.’

  ‘Things weren’t good with Alex. I got her call. She needed to talk. We met at the school. The kids were singing.’

  ‘Are you friends? Do you talk about such things?’

  ‘This is not about work, boss. It’s not your business.’

  ‘Fine. But where wer
e you before that? Before you went to meet Bénédicte and talk about her love life.’

  ‘I told you. Around town. Listening to music.’

  ‘Did you stop to hear Luc Malarmé?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s personal, boss.’

  ‘I know all about it, Isabelle.’

  ‘It’s still personal.’ Pained. But she held her ground.

  ‘You took your time getting to the scene.’

  ‘I did.’ Nodding. ‘I went directly there, saw it…then I rode around a bit. I was trying to understand.’

  ‘Where did you go, Isabelle?’

  ‘I went up to Prades. To check some things at his place. See if anyone had been in there.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’m a cop.’ She closed her eyes. Sighed once. Opened them. ‘There’s a gun there.’

  ‘And was it still?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you understand?’

  ‘No. These kinds of people…’ She shrugged. ‘No.’

  Aliette ventured, ‘You did such a good job with the Miri thread.’

  ‘You told me that. Honestly, boss, you have to stop with this icky need to know. Please.’

  Icky? Aliette was stymied. What to say? But Isabelle, you’re a girl after my own heart?

  Junior Inspector Escande faced the chief inspector. ‘I’m sorry I lied. Please forgive me.’

  Before the chief inspector could reply, Isabelle rephrased it. ‘You forgive me and I’ll forgive you. But please. Don’t come into my personal space? World’s too small around here as it is.’

  It was. Stung, the boss waved Junior Inspector Escande out of the room.

  • 48 •

  PERSONAL REASONS

  Aliette Nouvelle sat for many minutes kneading her lower lip, then got up and marched down the hall. ‘I’ll go, Mathilde.’

  ‘I already went.’

  She heard but didn’t stop. She went down the stately mairie stairs and out into the unkind morning, a thoroughly defeated mother hen. But she walked past the post office and all the way to the corner, and into the Maison des Vins. The young man known only as Alexandre was stocking shelves. She stood behind him till he gave up ignoring her. ‘Bonjour.’ A solid local boy, still prone to skin problems. Pleasant dark eyes — like Sergio’s. But worried. He did not want to talk to the police. For personal reasons, she assumed.

  ‘I was wondering… Which is the wine from Le Mauraury?’

  Obedient, Alex left his task and showed her. There were three reds and a rosé. She had seen the label a hundred times: an impressionistic pastiche of a still life: the domain name, a hunting rifle, a passel of felled birds lying tied and clumped by the rifle stock. But she had never been moved to try it. ‘May I taste?’

  Alex gestured across the floor. ‘Anne-Cécile will help you out…’ withdrawing, busy.

  Aliette recognized the woman behind the counter presiding over several opened bottles and partially filled glasses, guiding a customer through a tasting. Anne-Cécile had been part of the weepy Miri delegation led by Laure Legault. ChèreAmante, if she remembered correctly.

  Wrong direction… She smiled at Alex. ‘What’s the story with Bénédicte?’

  He hardened. ‘There is no story. Not any more.’ Alex backed away.

  ‘Wait. Please… Alex?’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry to hear it.’

  ‘She won’t talk about it.’ He offered a gloomy shake of his head. ‘I tried, but I gave up.’

  ‘But what happened?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Voice dropping to a whisper as his consternation rose, wary of his boss. But Alex wanted to talk about it. ‘It’s all this trouble with that singer, Malarmé. Since the fire. She said she was working on that.’ With a nod, Aliette conceded that Bénédicte was. ‘Had to go out at all hours. She’d suddenly get out of bed in the middle of the night. Sorry, the investigation.’ Alex sniffed and shrugged — what did he know about police work? ‘It was making her bitchy. Angry. Crying even. Not to me. Just…by herself. It’s scary. I wanted to help, but she wouldn’t let me. She got even more bitchy. Then, the Night of Music — that was it.’

  He moved back to his unfinished job.

  Aliette followed him. ‘It?’

  ‘She was at my place, we had drinks, I was out back doing the meat on the grill, I looked and saw her riding away on her bike. Haven’t really seen her since. I mean, I tried, but —’ No go. Sad Alex.

  ‘Did she go to see Isabelle?’

  ‘I don’t know. She just left.’

  ‘Did she talk about Isabelle?… Inspector Escande?’

  ‘You mean the skinny blonde one? The Parisienne? The snob?’

  Aliette could only nod. That was her.

  ‘Not to me.’ Alex recommenced removing bottles from cases and aligning them on the shelf. ‘I met her once. She was on the bench with Bénédicte on their break. Total snob. Not friendly at all… I tried to tell Bénédicte she was wasting her time with that one…’ rolling his eyes, ‘but God knows with women and their supposed friends.’

  ‘They’re colleagues. It’s different.’

  ‘Yeah, sure, but I was right. When I passed her on my bike, she didn’t wave, didn’t even look at me. At any of us. That’s like…not polite.’

  ‘She has things on her mind, Alex. Like Bénédicte.’

  ‘Do police ever stop having things on their mind?’ He frowned, began stacking bottles one over one in a slot.

  ‘When was that? Do you remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember. It was that day. The day of the Night of Music. Early. Some pals and me, we all have to work Saturdays, so we do an early ride. Crack of dawn. We’re heading out of town, we pass her coming in. We all waved. It’s what you do, especially at a time of day when it’s like you’re the only ones in the world. You know?’

  Aliette nodded.

  ‘Went right by like we weren’t even there. Not cool. Not nice… I don’t like her.’

  She stood in front of him, mulling it. Mused aloud, ‘But it makes sense.’

  ‘I’m glad, madame. But I have to do this.’ Quietly sarcastic, not mollified at all. ‘Me, I think maybe I won’t be trying the police again,’ muttered Alexandre, withdrawing into his work.

  ‘I don’t blame you, monsieur. Merci.’

  She chose two wines from Le Mauraury and wandered back.

  The problem was it made sense twice, at both ends of the equation.

  • 49 •

  MOVING THE PAWN

  The chief inspector arranged to collect Chloé Dafy and take her home. A gesture of good faith. An opportunity to explain some things. Aliette begged her cooperation. ‘It won’t take long. I can’t promise, I just know. From now through the weekend to start… Please.’ And she urged her to leave the door to her heart open just a little. ‘Music lasts, Chloé. It’s a special bond you share with this man, you told me so yourself. We talked for a good while and I sensed he feels the same. It will be up to you, of course — at the end of the day, he’s a man, and not exactly a proactive one. But I’d advise you to give it another chance. If you’re interested.’

  She left Chloé Dafy at her small bungalow in rue des Muriers. It was early Thursday evening.

  An hour later a few neighbours saw Chloé drive away in her white VW Polo. Arm still in a cast, she guided the car with a finger, and waved with her good hand.

  …They waved back, happy to see her back home, sure. But wondering.

  Not long after that, Junior Inspector Isabelle Escande saw the white VW parked at Luc’s front door. She kept driving…home, ate alone and went out on her bike when it was dark. But the banker had closed the shutters and pulled the vertical blinds and Isabelle could only continue riding.

  As could Junior Inspector Bénédicte Barn
ay, at a safe distance but not that far behind.

  Friday morning, Aliette watched Chloé Dafy pass through the public garden en route to the post office on her first day back at work. And then return. Lots of people would be aware of Chloé’s return, including Junior Inspector Escande, who was taking her break on the bench. From that distance, it was impossible to read Isabelle’s grey-blue eyes as the banker passed by. (Just as it was impossible when she was standing right in front of her.)

  In marked contrast, when the boss peeked in to find Junior Inspector Barnay with the phone at her ear, briskly snapping off questions and scribbling notes, it was immediately apparent an expanded investigative window had given Bénédicte renewed purpose.

  Well, good. Some method to our madness here…

  Bénédicte finished her call. Aliette asked, ‘How’s it going?’

  She reported that schoolteachers were hard to track down during summer. But between the staff at the Saint-Brin primary school and the Educational Sciences faculty in Montpellier, she had made some interesting contacts. She was creating a list that could fit the profile — ‘of course we’ll have to invite them in’ — and hoped to host several interviews next week. She was on duty tomorrow and would keep working on it. ‘No one expects the police to call on Saturday, eh, boss?’

  ‘Good strategy. Keep me informed.’ Bénédicte’s new high note was a bit too shrill. The boss worried she was playing a dangerous game with herself. The girl needed help.

  Inspector Barthès remained dubious of the new direction — Aliette knew Magui well now, and could see at a glance. But Magui was dutiful. Her search into Jérome Giffard’s romantic history dovetailed with Bénédicte’s. ‘Five so far. All maternelles.’ Kindergarten teachers. But having failed to find a compatible heart among his professional colleagues, Jérome had turned to his financial advisor. Chloé Dafy.

  ‘They coming in?’

  ‘They don’t see why they should,’ said Magui, coolly implying that neither did she.

  ‘And how is Paul adjusting to freedom?’ Aliette assumed Magui would be keeping tabs, betting the twin was going to lose it and do something that would prove her right all along.