by John Brooke
For Isabelle Escande, it had been a day in silence, a day like Luc’s days inside his music, which he said was like a kind of silence. ‘Steps through silence toward a shape,’ he’d said.
She had told him that, for her, silence was the place before and after a perfect shot.
They understood each other and Isabelle was not happy with the riddle of the closed shutters. Luc would not do that. His place on the ridge was like her cottage here in Berlou overlooking the valley — built for the unobstructed view, the soul’s counterpoint to silence.
He had never once closed the shutters. Nor had she.
The banker had seemed inconsequential. A sweet voice? The chief inspector had mentioned it in the aftermath of the shooting — as if she too needed something that made sense when putting Chloé Dafy in the picture with Luc Malarmé. Nice to be a sweet voice. Still… Perhaps it was the trauma of it all — the Night of Music, the spectacle of her ridiculous brothers, the fall down the stairs. Maybe an overload of pain, physical and spiritual, had unleashed something in the banker’s head and Luc was the object. Had the banker with the sweet voice transformed into some kind of unhinged bitch? Something was going on in that house. Luc might be in danger.
…Isabelle was trained for danger.
Or maybe Luc and his banker were reuniting in music, and a cop who couldn’t sing was well and truly out of the game.
Isabelle wasted the day brooding on her bed. And fighting a chill from her morning ride.
A glorious sunset where the mountains met the sea near Spain pulled her out of her torpor.
Isabelle sneezed, swallowed another pill, bundled up warmly, and went out.
Racing down the old farmer’s road through the vines to the bottom reaches of the Berlou territory, Isabelle stood solid, riding the shocks, feeling at one with her bike against the broken pavement. Guided by a muted light giving her the space of about two turns of her pedals to react, she pumped fresh energy into her heart as she battled the dark terrain of the unclaimed lands.
Then she glided through Le Mauraury. The old man was there. It didn’t matter.
The click of a door latch on the street side popped Inspector Magui Barthès out of a dreamless doze in the orchard. Merde!The Dafy house was dark. A car engine started. Panicky, Magui drew her gun and sprinted, heedless of neighbouring eyes, over the dividing wall and into the yard and up to Paul’s terrace door. She peered in…and through. She saw a car’s lights blink on, the car pulling away. The lights in the front courtyard blinked off as the gate banged shut… Merde!
Abandoning stealth, Magui tried the door. Locked. She smashed the glass with the butt of her gun grip, reached in and unlatched the door, then raced through the house and out to the front, vaulted the fence like a fleeing thief and ran to her car, parked thirty metres along the street.
She turned two corners and arrived at the centre of town, and finally realized that it was late but not that late. Lights still on in the bars and restos along the square, not too many people out walking on a chilly Saturday night, but still lots of vehicles passing up and down the high street.
Which made it impossible to pinpoint a single vehicle heading out of town.
But Magui knew where he must be headed and went that way. Merde, merde, merde!
She followed a line of cars into Prades…agonizingly slow going…and came upon two of Nic Legault’s guys running a Saturday night spot check at the rond-pointe at the village place. She could have slapped her blue light on her roof and screamed past them — but something made her resist. They would obviously react and feel obliged to help. Magui Barthès wanted to do this alone…The uniforms had three customers lined up. But not Paul Dafy. They waved her through with hardly a look, though one smiled as if he knew her. The line of vehicles in front of her continued up toward Berlou. Magui went right at the turn to Le Mauraury.
There were no lights on in that direction at all.
• 51 •
YOU ASKED FOR A MAN?
The shutters were closed before sunset. Inspector Henri Dardé and Luc Malarmé settled into their third night, still learning to live together. Luc was playing his guitars in the salon. Henri had politely listened for a while, not at all clear as to why Luc switched from one to the next. When he went to fetch himself a beer, he rerouted to Luc’s study on what was, unofficially, now his side of the house. Henri closed the door and phoned home. Armelle, the love of his life for about a year now, was resigned to the situation and trying to be pleasant.
Which was good. It hadn’t started well.
Henri was not on a new investigation with Nabi Zidane. He was watching over Luc Malarmé and Armelle did not like it one bit. She knew all about him. ‘He sleeps with anyone.’
‘Not me,’ Henri had promised.
‘And he’s been in jail for ten years. That warps them completely.’
‘Nine,’ corrected Henri. He had told her, right at the beginning, that if it was going to work between them, she would have to learn to live with some difficult situations. And besides, it did not make sense. ‘I spend three months in a car alone with this blonde from Paris, it doesn’t bother you a bit. I get assigned to three nights at this guy’s house, you get yourself in a lather.’
She’d said, ‘That Paris girl is skin and bones. What’s to worry about?’
It had sparked a fight. The fun of zooming along in the banker’s sporty Polo notwithstanding, Henri Dardé had not been liking the situation either when he’d knocked on Luc’s door Thursday evening and flashed his warrant card.
Nor had Luc. ‘What the hell is it now?’ Out of sorts, redolent of beer and hash.
‘B’eh, you asked for a man?’
A large man. Luc took note and changed stride. ‘It was a suggestion… It might be simpler.’
‘Maybe for you.’ Armelle was still very much on Henri’s mind.
The two men had stared at each other till Luc said, ‘Want a beer?’
After that, it wasn’t so bad. They had beers, they talked. This famous Luc did not need to talk about himself. Or about much of anything. So Henri talked. About his work, his passion for vélo, and eventually Armelle. Man to man… beer to beer, Henri confided how Armelle washed their bedsheets Saturday mornings before they went on their weekly ride. ‘Usually a couple of hundred klicks. She’s strong.’ Oh yes, and how she sprinkled drops of lavender essence on the pillow. ‘Makes ’em fresh and special for Sunday, know what I mean?’
Luc said, ‘Cool. But can she sing?’
‘B’eh, all women can sing.’
‘That’s not true, not true at all.’ For a moment, the man looked dark, deeply haunted.
Till Henri said, ‘Yeah, well, not every woman can ride.’
Somehow that made Luc Malarmé rear up and laugh.
Friday, after exchanging vehicles, Henri had disappeared home with the day to himself while Chloé Dafy went to her work. Armelle took a day off from selling houses. Henri and Armelle had made up and done their ride, then made up again in bed. ‘Life is about making adjustments,’ Henri advised his belle Bretonne before driving to the rendezvous point, changing cars with the banker again, and heading back to the house on the ridge at Prades.
But since Friday night the assignment had been a slog. Advised not to go across to his studio in the barn, Luc soon grew peevish, restless. He’d started smoking hashish. Hashish was not part of Henri’s brief; he had repaired to the study at the far end of the house, turned on the télé and watched his usual shows.
All day today Luc had pleaded to go to his studio. ‘You have a gun. You can cover my back.’
All day he was denied. ‘Sorry, that’s from television, but it’s not how it works. Orders are orders, mon ami. Try to be patient. It won’t last forever. It’s just as bad for me.’
The day had left them in two separate worlds. It continued into Saturday night.
Henri to
ld Armelle, ‘He’s smoking again.’
‘I read how it kills the sex drive.’
‘I never read that.’
‘It’s lucky we went yesterday.’
‘Very lucky.’ A Friday ride turned out to be a double blessing, what with Saturday’s strong, cold tramontane. ‘Freezing out there…Doesn’t mean I won’t miss you tomorrow morning.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you. Call you tomorrow.’ Henri rang off and zapped through to Le Grand Cabaret.
Later, Luc looked in, wasted, carrying wine and a banana, and watched dully for a moment. ‘That was Saturday night when I was inside. One guy almost killed another guy for changing the channel.’
‘Armelle and me, we never miss it.’
‘No.’ Luc was rueful. It wasn’t his favourite show. He went back to his guitars.
Henri went up at eleven. He was sleeping in Luc’s bed, while Luc was down in one of the guest rooms. Or maybe he was passed out on the divan. Whatever. That was the plan. He had brought his own linen, of course — Armelle had insisted. Aside from the threat, it was a nice place to sleep. So airy, and quiet; though that had changed with the rising of the wind — which made the threat that much more problematic. No way to hear footsteps out there now.
But despite the wind, according to the plan, before turning in, Inspector Henri Dardé turned off the lights, opened the shutters on the front window, the ornate doors to the balcony overlooking the back. He added a second blanket, then lay there listening to the wind whistling through the pine trees thirty paces beyond the pool. He was working. But he managed to fall asleep.
It was sometime in the middle of the night, in the middle of an uneasy dream that somehow had Armelle and him on a stage singing songs, that the crack of a drumbeat touched his cop instinct and Henri awoke instantly and rolled to the floor on the safe side of the bed.
The shot was from the forest.
Aliette woke immediately and grabbed her phone. ‘Yes.’
‘There you go, boss. One shot.’
‘From?’
‘From the trees.’
‘Can we get the round?’
‘B’eh.. I don’t think it hit anything.’ She heard Henri sniffing… ‘I don’t smell any plaster dust. I’m thinking it went right through the room, in the gallery door and out the front window.’
‘That’s a good shot.’ Aliette experienced another moment of dreadful doubt.
Henri was not so impressed. ‘Big door, big window, boss. Square line from the rise, no big deal. You want me to return fire?’
Aliette gazed out her own window, considering it. Sergio was now fully awake beside her. ‘Yes. Once. Carefully?’
‘Fine.’ Aliette heard the sound of a shot. Henri came back on the line. ‘Alors?’
‘Any movement?’
‘Hard to hear, boss. Too much wind.’
‘Give it a minute… How’s our guy?’
‘Not a peep. Out cold, I’d imagine.’
‘Just as well. Stay —’
‘— God!’ Suddenly there was another shot. Then another… And one more. And a reply.
‘Are those coming at you?’
‘First one. Off the ceiling. The rest…’
There was another exchange of gunshots. Several… Aliette counted a dozen, at least.
Henri muttered, ‘Sounds like we’ve got a firefight out there, boss.’
‘Try to see.’
‘Hold on…’
She heard another exchange of fire. She heard Henri fire again, and again.
— and a muffled cry in the background.
‘What happened?
‘Someone got hit. Sounds like it’s a woman.’
‘By you?’ Aliette was shaking with the implications.
‘No idea.’
There was silence — save for the wind, transformed to a steady, high-pitched whoosh through Henri’s phone. Henri finally ventured, ‘I think they’ve cleared out. What should —’
A voice — definitely female — called, ‘Stop right there, you psycho bastard! I have you, make no mistake… Drop your gun and get down on the… I said, you will drop your… Stop!’
And there were more shots. Many more. And more cursing. Then silence. Just wind…
Aliette had heard it all too clearly. It was stupifyingly redundant when Henri murmured, ‘That’s Magui, boss, I’m sure.’
The boss sat frozen.
Henri asked, ‘Should I go out?’
Her heart was sinking fast. But the only way to a resolution was to stay calm and stick to the plan. ‘No. Stay in your position. Safely. That’s your job. I’m on my way to mine.’
Aliette rang off, got out of bed, jumped into a pair of jeans and grabbed a sweater. Told Sergio, ‘If this works, I likely won’t see you till tomorrow.’
‘Will you be back sooner if it doesn’t?’
She kissed his head and left.
• 52 •
THE MOON IN HER FACE
Chief Inspector Aliette Nouvelle was sitting in the old leather armchair in the darkest corner of Jérome Giffard’s salon, thinking it would be an excellent reading chair and wondering if the notary had everything accounted for or if there was going to be some sort of auction, when she heard movement in the kitchen. She waited as the steps drew near and a figure appeared at the door. She watched the figure cross the room, the serious face illuminated briefly in the moonlight through the window, then obscured again as Jérome Giffard’s boar hunting rifle was returned to its place on its stand. Needing the upper hand, she offered a gentle greeting. ‘Hello, Bénédicte.’
The rifle was instantly grabbed up. Junior Inspector Bénédicte Barnay stood in the shaft of light with the rifle trained, confounded. ‘What are you doing here, boss?’
‘Waiting for someone. Looks like it’s you.’
Bénédicte motioned with the rifle. ‘Turn the light on. I can’t see you.’
‘Do we really need to get the neighbours involved here? It’s between us, Bénédicte. Please. Surrender the gun, and we’ll leave quietly. That would be the better way.’
‘I can kill you with my bare hands.’
‘True. But you’re just an average shot, and lousy when you’re drunk and angry, and that’s why we’re here. Isn’t it, Bénédicte?’
Before Aliette could react, Bénédicte sprang forward and slashed with a lightning hand — a blow across her throat, lightly, not much touch. But for a terrifying moment, Aliette could not breathe. Bénédicte stood back, into the shadow. ‘Quick and quiet, boss. No neighbours at all.’
Aliette nodded, shaken — she got the message. She swallowed several times and longed for water. In a voice reduced to a whisper, she asked, ‘Who hates Jérome Giffard, Bénédicte?’
It took a moment. Bénédicte mumbled, ‘Isabelle. She told me so herself.’
‘She told me too. Isabelle hates Jérome Giffard like she hates bad clothes. She makes jokes about him. But enough to kill him? I’m sure she’d find it beneath her.’
‘You’re always so sure, boss.’
‘Sure?’ With another painful swallow, Aliette leaned forward, into the edges of moonlight. ‘Bénédicte, if you knew how you two girls keep my heart running in all sorts of wrong directions.’ Searching for Bénédicte’s eyes but not finding them, she could only contemplate the shadowy form in front of her. ‘I listen to your every word. It’s my job to assess how you perform.’
‘I’m smarter than you think, boss.’
‘I don’t think you’re not smart, Bénédicte. But I know you’re desperately jealous of Isabelle.’
‘But you don’t appreciate me. You only appreciate her.’
Aliette could not reply to that. She asked, ‘But who hates Luc Malarmé?’
Bénédicte could not reply to that.
From the darkness Bénédicte hissed, ‘And I still do!’
‘And you tried to kill him. But you missed and killed Jérome Giffard instead. Bad decision, obviously awful implementation… I’d be crying too. I keep asking myself, How could she?’
A hard question for Bénédicte Barnay as well. The only sound was the quiet creaking of her leather jacket as she shifted in the shadows. She finally muttered, ‘Too far into it, too many risks already, probably too much wine and fighting with Alex… I had everything in place, I watched him, watched the party for hours. He stepped out of the party into the yard, peed, then just stood there looking up at the stars… I took off. That was my moment. I knew it would work.’
‘Leave poor Jérome in the frame?’
‘Logical choice. Who hates Luc Malarmé? I’d already been here and got this,’ Giffard’s rifle nodded through the shadow, ‘I ran to my position, got set — the stupid man steps into my sights as I’m squeezing the trigger. It jerked me. Like a kick. Like karma, boss.’
Karma? Poor deluded Bénédicte. Aliette heard Bénédicte heave a large sigh, saw her dark form ease into a slouch against the wall. ‘You didn’t hear him standing there screaming at Chloé?’
‘I heard lots of noise but didn’t care who was making it. The only thing in my mind was getting a good bead on that shitty Luc.’
‘Because he rejected you and wanted Isabelle.’
‘He sleeps with her, why not me? He sleeps with anyone!’
‘He didn’t sleep with me,’ Aliette corrected. Gently. ‘But you called her. You needed her, and she came.’
‘I needed to cover my tracks… I knew she wouldn’t be there watching them sing.’
‘No.’
‘Isabelle’s not into self-torture, boss. That’s me. Mm?’
‘Poor you.’ Aliette needed to stay gentle, but in fending off Bénédicte’s self-pitying sarcasm, she was growing instinctively hard. ‘Impossible to forgive Luc Malarmé for liking Isabelle and not you. Impossible to forgive her for being who she is, and —’
