While the Music Lasts

by John Brooke

  Bénédicte’s moonish face reappeared — pale, empty. Lost. ‘She always wins, boss. You don’t know how it feels.’

  ‘And even more impossible to forgive yourself for killing Jérome Giffard by mistake. Your hurt feelings left us with a wonderful mess, didn’t they? Poor Magui — I’ve never seen her so frustrated.’ Now Aliette moved forward an inch. ‘But you’re a good girl, Bénédicte, and your guilt made you make more mistakes.

  ‘Poor Thierry Belanger,’ murmured Bénédicte Barnay, contrite.

  ‘And so transparent. Mon dieu! That day you did your face and went to get Luc’s final word on the fire… like commedia dell’arte.’ Aliette smiled, but not so kindly.‘Eh? Ma pauvre?’

  ‘He’s a cold prick.’

  ‘But yes, you’re smart. The way you moved Isabelle into the picture? — letting me know she was sleeping with Luc, setting her against Chloé Dafy. Between Luc and Chloé, both of you had motive, at least in theory…’ Aliette leaned fully into the moonlight. ‘I lost track of my girls there, Bénédicte. Not sure at all.’

  ‘We’re not girls, boss.’

  ‘No, you’re not.’ Aliette sat back in the soft chair. ‘And Isabelle does not really help herself when it comes to communicating. Maybe you even knew she would lie to me because she can’t stand sharing anything about herself beyond the job.’

  ‘You don’t have a clue about Isabelle, boss.’

  Aliette acknowledged with a weightless nod. ‘Isabelle is very difficult. But I do know one thing. She never misses. If she had wanted to shoot Luc, she’d have hit him. But Jérome? You and Isabelle both knew where Jérome Giffard would be most of Saturday — when this house would be empty. Simon Dafy’s house too. A gun. A bullet. You are smart and I was confused. I needed to see it more clearly. I convinced Martine that we needed to open the window a bit wider — wide enough for you to set Isabelle up where you missed with Jérome — and voilà.’

  The barrel of Jérome Giffard’s hunting rifle poked through the darkness. ‘You set me up.’

  The boss shrugged. ‘B’eh, both of you. A little three-cornered world there, quoi.’

  Bénédicte was computing it. ‘Who hates Jérome Giffard is really Who hates Chloé Dafy?’

  ‘I needed Chloé Dafy to know. I really wasn’t sure.’

  ‘But I don’t hate Chloé Dafy. Foolish woman, but I don’t hate her.’

  ‘But Chloé went back to Luc and he welcomed her and closed the windows. And Isabelle stopped smiling…Isabelle’s an even better frame than Jérome Giffard. Yes, Inspector?’

  Bénédicte was blinking away tears. ‘But Isabelle never misses, does she?’

  ‘How long have you been out there?’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘Since he rejected you?’

  ‘Since I missed.’

  ‘Watching him and Isabelle.’

  ‘And watching Isabelle watching him and Chloé Dafy.’

  ‘And she shot back at you tonight.’ Bénédicte did not need to know about Henri just now.

  ‘At Isabelle, boss. Chloé shot at Isabelle. Isabelle’s the one who hates her, not me. Mm?’ But Bénédicte’s sad irony got lost behind her tears.

  ‘Chloé’s tougher than she seems… Maybe no match for Isabelle, but —’

  ‘But who is?’

  ‘But for you, maybe?’ But Jérome Giffard’s rifle was moving again, levelling. ‘Don’t, Bénédicte… Just don’t.’

  ‘Why not, boss? My life’s over, why shouldn’t yours be too?’

  The shot from a silenced pistol was almost noiseless, like the thump of a small puncture, a soft hiss. But when the bullet struck Bénédicte Barnay’s hand and she cried out and dropped Jérome Giffard’s rifle, the rifle clattered on the tile floor and simultaneously discharged — loudly, in the silent room — and Aliette Nouvelle screamed reflexively as a bullet scraped her shoulder.

  Her first thought: So much for keeping it quiet.

  Sure enough, before Aliette fully registered the flow of blood from her shoulder, a light came on across the street. And Isabelle Escande stepped out of the darkness. Aliette croaked, ‘Isabelle! You really are a girl after my own heart.’ She had been wanting to say it. Now she could.

  Isabelle muttered, ‘Please, boss, I’m really not in the mood.’ She moved slowly. In fact she was limping, favouring her left leg. Her thigh was wrapped in a scarf. There was a creeping stain below and above the area.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘She shot at Luc’s bedroom.’ A glance at Bénédicte. ‘The banker shot back, she shot again, I shot at her, she shot at me, the banker shot at both of us, someone hit a rock, it bounced and caught my leg. She’s bad luck, that banker…’ Isabelle paused to sneeze loudly.

  Aliette was wondering in a fuzzy way how to tell Isabelle that tonight Chloé was Henri.

  Then Isabelle braced Bénédicte. ‘Do I need to cuff you?’

  Stunned, Bénédicte only shook her head. Cuffs would not be necessary.

  Pistol trained, Isabelle took Bénédicte’s hand and assessed the wound. She pulled a wad of tissues from her pocket and stuffed it into Bénédicte’s good hand. She went to Aliette, still rooted in her chair. Pressing a clump of tissue into Aliette’s still shaking hand, she guided it to the wound, tamping blood. ‘Try to hold your arm up, boss. Can you —’ She sneezed again.

  Suddenly Bénédicte whispered, ‘It’s just not fair!’ A whispered howl of deep, distorted pain.

  Isabelle was not distracted from her first aid ministrations. ‘Can you stand?’

  ‘In a minute.’ Pressing tissue, Aliette tentatively raised her arm.

  Outside, the sound of a siren signalled the arrival of the gendarmes.

  Isabelle turned to Bénédicte. ‘Fair? What’s fair got to do with it? He likes thin women. Even has a song about it…’ Isabelle motioned Bénédicte to move. ‘Do you really think I was going to say no to Luc Malarmé?’

  ‘I hate you.’ It was barely audible. It came across more like a helpless creature’s plea.

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for that.’ Isabelle nudged her along. ‘Allez, ma belle.’ Let’s go… ‘You should probably call Nic Legault, boss. Magui is out there in the woods and it sounds like her head’s going to explode.’

  ‘Merci, Inspector.’ Aliette’s throat remained constricted. She whispered, ‘Will you forgive me, Bénédicte? I forgive you.’ Junior Inspector Bénédicte Barnay wouldn’t meet her eyes. Tears trickling, moon face fading, Bénédicte allowed herself to be led away. The chief inspector lingered, in no small amount of pain and not wanting to face the crowd gathering outside.

  Alone in that last moment, Aliette Nouvelle asked herself if she could have said the same to Junior Inspector Isabelle Escande. I forgive you? …She honestly didn’t know.

  EPILOGUE

  It’s early October, still wonderfully warm and summery in the heart of the Midi.

  Using angles, it was easily determined that it was not a shot from Luc Malarmé’s bedroom, but one from Bénédicte Barnay’s position that hit a rock and ricocheted and cut a furrow along the thigh of Isabelle Escande. Which made the tricky truth somewhat easier to tell, to Isabelle, if not Magui. So Isabelle is probably still limping, and feeling it each time she shifts gears. But Aliette can’t know for sure because Isabelle has been transferred out — to Nantes, of all places, Aliette’s hometown. Maybe Isabelle will encounter a ghost. Though not likely, not Isabelle. Still, it is better that she has left Saint-Brin. The chief inspector has admitted (to herself) that Junior Inspector Escande is not really a girl after her own heart. Before driving away in her silver SmartCar, Isabelle had confided, ‘He’s too old for me. And I can’t sing.’

  Magui Barthès has gone on vacation, just she and Jacques. The boys are at Jacques’s mother’s for the first weeks of school. Citing a lack of trust and professional communicat
ion, Magui asked for a transfer, but was refused. Because Aliette knew in her heart that Inspector Barthès was only feeling a bit stupid and therefore justifiably embarrassed vis-à-vis her operation in the forest that night. Because so had Paul Dafy been feeling stupid (‘incredibly stupid, me!’) and he’d left his house at midnight and driven to Narbonne to admit as much and reconcile with his wife and kids. Aliette believes that a bit of beach time will help Magui to put it all in perspective. Yes, even the difficult fact that Paul Dafy will serve a mere two years on a probationary sentence for beating Luc Malarmé last Easter. No operation is ever perfect. After all, Magui did wilfully trespass and break into Dafy’s domicile in the middle of the night. Of course, Aliette will have to wait and see how it goes when Magui gets back. But the boss believes she will suck it up and they’ll get back to normal.

  Bénédicte Barnay has gone to le Centre pénitentiaire de Rennes, also in Brittany, the largest women’s prison in France, where she’s awaiting her trial. There’s a team of psychologists there — but really, what can you do with pathological jealousy? Aliette dreads the day of her testimony. With luck, it will not be the same day as Isabelle’s. On the other hand, Rennes is not that far from Nantes and she could rent a car. She is still very unsure where it comes to her two girls…

  Henri Dardé has gone across the high street to Hugo’s for lunch. He has advised Aliette to keep Bénédicte’s bike. ‘Italian. Very good.’ If Aliette is not interested, Armelle would be.

  Sergio agrees with Henri. ‘She won’t be needing it for at least fifteen years. And you keep saying you’re going to go for a run but you never do. Biking keeps you thin, believe me,’ patting his trim tummy. Aliette believes him, always — but she is not as worried as she used to be about being thin, and is already feeling guilt for keeping Jérome Giffard’s great reading chair.

  If the notary noticed, he has kept his peace.

  Mathilde is eating at her station today, reading a book. A library book. She says Christine Dafy is ‘pretty much the same as always.’ Aliette has not been across the passerelle for a while.

  Aliette is eating her sandwich in her office, at her window again — she just can’t help herself — observing Junior Inspectors Giselle Hardy, who answers to Gigi, and Olivier Santini, who are eating together on the bench in the garden. Gigi is from Calais, Olivier’s from Corsica via Marseille. They are both attractive young cops and amazingly bright. Maybe they will fall in love with each other; but that must and will remain between them. Aliette is only pleased they seem to be fitting in, happy to be part of the team, hoping they are liking the life in Saint-Brin.

  At the moment, Inspectors Hardy and Santini are enjoying the music. It’s a good crowd on a beautiful day — older locals, the last of the vacationing northerners and some obvious foreigners, but also, encouragingly, a growing cadre of younger citizens. Aliette even recognizes a few faces from the Miri thread. Laure Legault has stopped to listen and she’s tapping her toe. She’s toting an old briefcase, but wearing the same cut-off jeans and sandals. Laure is representing the parents in the ongoing search for a new primary school principal. Aline and Marie Dafy have also wandered by in their day’s rounds, though in much nicer clothes. They’ve come to hear their sister-in-law sing with Luc Malarmé. Their father-in-law is there. Claude likes it, you can tell. All we need now is his wife the librarian, muses the chief inspector. And Jocelyne Grasset?

  No, that is probably wishful thinking, and Aliette is working at not letting it cloud reality.

  Reality is a class of eight-year-olds from the primary school (accompanied by their teacher) on the grass in the first circle, ignoring their lunches for the moment while they clap along to a spritely acoustic version of ‘Le tigre,’ one of Luc’s standards. Chloé Dafy is adding a playful flute to Luc’s bouncy rhythm and leading the answer part of the chorus in a way the kids cannot resist. Many of the others too, when the chorus comes around again, including two new members of the Police Judiciaire. A hunting song of a different sort:

  Bang, bang, bang, bang

  Chasing piggies in the forest

  Tiger, tiger in the dark

  Aliette would join in, but…she’d rather watch. Feel it. Feel good for Chloé Dafy.

  And for Luc Malarmé? Who knows how long Chloé can keep their song going?

  …But that’s between her and Luc. Yes, Inspector?

  …Mais oui. Absolutely! Just the job. No more nosing around in other people’s hearts.

  For the moment, Luc Malarmé looks immersed in the song, no more, no less, singing strong, strumming efficiently, doing what he does, here in the heart of town. And while the music lasts, the moment is suspended, and the world seems perfectly fine to Chief Inspector Aliette Nouvelle.

  fin

  And they were not afraid of what the great god Pan had made…

  Van Morrison

  Piper at the Gates of Dawn

  NOTES

  French police services operate under the auspices of the Ministry of the Interior.

  The National Police provide policing services to cities and larger regional towns. They have both a corps of ‘uniforms’ and plain-clothes investigators.

  The gendarmerie is mainly represented by uniformed cops. It provides basic policing services to smaller centres and rural areas. In 1950, the gendarmerie was placed under the direct authority of the Ministry of Defence, and their ranks flowed from the military. In 2009, management of the gendarmerie was transferred to the Ministry of Interior. In terms of organizational ‘culture’ the gendarmes are still a breed apart from the uniforms in the big cities.

  The Judicial Police (Police Judiciaire) are brought into either jurisdiction to investigate so-called ‘serious crimes.’ PJ investigators are trained specifically. They are all plain-clothed.

  The Municipal Police serve mayors and town councils, carrying out duties required for crime prevention, public order, security, and public safety. This includes traffic tickets, crowd control, disaster measures coordination, etc.

  The Procureur (Proc) is the Public Prosecutor. Operating under the Ministry of Justice, the Proc oversees and controls judicial inquiries:

  -supervising investigations (either directly or through assigned instructing magistrates);

  -being in charge in the co-ordination of the services involved; and

  -deciding which service will be responsible for inquiries. (If not PJ, it might be Customs, etc.)

  Without being police officers themselves, the prosecutors and their deputies (substitutes) have all the powers of a judicial police officers. Even if they do not use these powers frequently, they can decide to personally take part in investigation.

  Instructing Judge and Magistrate are interchangeable terms. Representing the court (the Proc), they act as first-line instruction (think ‘refereeing’) for police officers conducting investigations. They also can and do go into the field and conduct investigations.

  The Légiste is the Medical Examiner at a crime scene, also doubling (here) as the pathologist.

  As with some place names and geographical configuration, I have taken some liberties with the administrative structure outlined above.

  – JB

  OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES

  The infamous Jacques Normand, France’s Public Enemy Number One, escaped from prison over ten years ago. But the Commissaire is convinced that the outlaw is alive. Find him, he commands young Inspector Aliette Nouvelle. Bring him in.

  When the star attraction at an upscale brothel, a Marilyn Monroe look-alike, is found murdered, Aliette embarks on an unsettling journey, all the clues leading her to a sisterly cult and the ancient goddess who rules it.

  When the ex-lovers of a former schoolteacher start dying at an alarming rate, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle is drawn into the investigation, not least because her boss is also in jeopardy.

  Inspector Nouvelle’s inves
tigation into the murder of a Basel art gallery security guard and an unknown masterpiece uncovers a cross-border art fraud conspiracy. She uses work as an excuse to get some distance from her faltering relationship.

  After a difficult breakup, Aliette Nouvelle has received a transfer to the south of France. When the scion of an old wine-producing family is killed on the beach, it appears to be a politically motivated murder. It turns out to be anything but.

  Ordered into the city to attend counselling sessions until the police-appointed psychologist rules that she’s truly over her gun phobia and fit for service, Aliette Nouvelle finds herself unofficially investigating a puzzling murder spree.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  John Brooke became fascinated by criminality and police work listening to the courtroom stories and observations of his father, a long-serving judge. Although he lives in Montreal, John makes frequent trips to France for both pleasure and research. He earns a living as a freelance writer and translator, has also worked as a film and video editor as well as directed four films on modern dance. His poetry and short stories have been widely published, and in 1998 his story “The Finer Points of Apples” won him the Journey Prize. Brooke’s first Inspector Aliette Nouvelle mystery, The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle, was published in 1999, followed by All Pure Souls in 2001. He took a break from Aliette with the publication of his novel Last Days of Montreal in 2004, but returned with her in 2011 with Stifling Folds of Love, The Unknown Masterpiece in 2012, Walls of a Mind in 2013, and Tropéano’s Gun in 2015.