One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  So they conversed sensibly and there was no candlelight and their fingers didn’t touch. And after taking a stroll round the town they said goodnight and went to their separate bedrooms.

  ***

  ‘Well, at least,’ he said as they set out next morning to Mannezon, ‘it’ll be your first and last.’

  ‘Last what?’

  ‘Case. Unless you’ve replaced the plaque with a full-page ad in the paper.’

  ‘Not yet, no. But I have been thinking there’s nothing to prevent me going legal.’

  ‘And how would you do that?’

  ‘Take a course. There’s one in Nîmes. Ten months.’

  ‘I see. So it’s back to school.’

  ‘Well, I’ll see how it goes. But if I want to continue, I’ll have to.’

  ‘Indeed.’ His frown was one of incomprehension. How on earth does she come up with these hare-brained ideas?

  ‘Can I read you my notes? Based on what Charlotte told me.’ He hadn’t shown any curiosity, but she felt a strong desire to share what little she knew. ‘Maybe you’ll spot some fiendish connection and solve the case in a jiffy.’

  He dipped his head. ‘I very much doubt it. But I’ve come this far. Might as well go the whole way.’

  She’d already studied her notes many times on her own – they didn’t offer the slightest clue. But then, how could they? She wasn’t a real detective. ‘Two suspects initially. Loïc Bussert and Gilles Mattell. Both brought in for interrogation, both released for lack of evidence. Bussert is Brigitte’s husband – she’s the woman Enzo was having an affair with.’

  ‘So a crime of passion. Need we look any further?’

  ‘There’s nothing to prove that Loïc Bussert ever went into the house. No footprints, fingerprints, nothing. Plenty from his wife – prints on the taps, hairs on the pillow, you name it. Even her overcoat. At first, she denied they were having an affair, but that wasn’t really tenable. Bussert maintains it came as a total shock, but by the time of the murder it was getting to be common knowledge. Several people in the village have said it was pretty obvious. Whether Enzo suspected that Loïc knew is unsure, but they know from Enzo’s emails to Brigitte he was trying to break it off. The couple are divorcing now.’

  ‘And his alibi?’

  ‘At home, he claims. But the time of death isn’t entirely sure anyway. The autopsy put the death sometime on Thursday, March 10th, possibly Friday morning. Very likely the Thursday evening because Enzo had been making dinner. At least they assume so – there was a glass of wine and he never drank at lunchtime. The police found two glasses, in fact, a local white he was fond of, but one of them was untouched. He phoned his mother on Thursday afternoon, and also used his computer. There’s no trace of any activity on the Friday. He’d been making an omelette, again for two, but he hadn’t started cooking it so we’re looking most likely at Thursday evening, about half-seven or eight.’

  ‘When this Bussert fellow was at home. Can anyone back that up?’

  ‘No, he was on his own. He’d argued with Brigitte and she’d driven off to see a friend, Alice Perrin.’

  ‘So no alibi at all, in fact.’

  ‘He’s a shifty type, apparently. Got a bit of a reputation.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘He worked for the Forestry. He got sacked for stealing fuel.’

  ‘Well,’ said Antoine, ‘you’ve got your man, I should say.’

  She glanced across. His face was deadpan, but he had to be joking, surely?

  ‘It’s not enough, Antoine. He’d have been arrested if it was. Without any proof he was in the house, they’ve got nothing.’

  He smiled. ‘All right. What about the other?’

  ‘Gilles Mattell. A local builder who was helping Enzo on the house. His van was seen there at 6.45 on the Thursday evening. He said he’d dropped in on his way back from another site and stayed no more than fifteen minutes. Possibly the last person to see him alive – apart from the killer.’

  ‘They’re one and the same. Never trust a builder, I say.’

  ‘Antoine!’ But now she saw he was laughing, and she said crossly, ‘You’re not taking any of this seriously, are you?’

  ‘A murder is always serious.’

  ‘So what is it? Me? You really don’t think I should be doing this, do you?’

  He didn’t deign to answer that. ‘So what’s the plan?’ he said. ‘You’re going to talk to them?’

  ‘The suspects? I don’t know. They’re not really suspects any more. The search has been widened to everyone Enzo knew before arriving, Facebook friends and so on. And I can’t… I’m just here to…’ She didn’t know how to finish.

  ‘I think if either of them had anything to confess, the police would have extracted it.’

  ‘Mmm. Me too.’

  ‘So if you’re ruling them out, we’re starting from scratch.’

  ‘I think that’s the best, don’t you? No preconceptions.’

  ‘And the police? Who’s in charge? We’re deep in gendarme territory here.’

  ‘The orders are given by the magistrate. The footwork’s done by a certain Vincent Darlier, a captain in the Padignac gendarmerie. Very thorough apparently, but not very focused. That’s what Charlotte felt.’

  ‘Well, focused or not, you’re best off starting with him. If he wants to cooperate, that is.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

  ‘An amateur detective stepping in to solve it all for him? He might think he’s equally justified in telling you to get lost.’

  Magali nodded slowly. ‘You know, that’s very encouraging, Antoine. Thank you.’

  ‘We’re in the movies, my dear. The chauffeur speaks unpalatable truths, and the heroine stubbornly ignores them.’

  ‘I’ve seen some of those. The best are where she shoves her fist in the chauffeur’s big fat gob.’

  ***

  Along with the four essential ingredients of a village – bakery, bar, war memorial, church – Mannezon boasted an art gallery, where Antoine gallantly declared her paintings to be far superior, and a general food store, where they stopped to buy some apricots. Enzo’s house was a further three miles, a hundred yards down a track off a narrow by-road.

  A small old stone building, it looked out over the valley towards a range of hills in the distance. As they stood admiring the view in the warmth of the limitless sunlight, Magali had to remind herself why they were there. In the beauty of such surroundings, the very notion of murder was out of place.

  But when they opened the door, the brightness of summer vanished. The house was no less pretty inside than out, but this was the very room where Charlotte’s son had been killed – an iciness lurked inside.

  She forced herself to concentrate. ‘A heavy blunt instrument.’ She didn’t need to look at her notes – she could still see Charlotte’s haunted features, her face drained of colour, as she told Magali the details. ‘An old pipe perhaps, or a piece of scaffolding, could have been picked up in a scrap yard. Or even just outside. It hasn’t been found. The killer must have taken it with him, no doubt tossed it away. It could be lying now at the bottom of a river.’

  As she stood in the kitchen where Enzo had been cooking, she couldn’t prevent herself from shivering. Mushroom omelette, Charlotte had said, a detail that caused her to sob with grief in front of Magali, who hadn’t known what to do and started crying too.

  ‘It feels spooky,’ she whispered. Getting no reply, she turned round. A wave of panic swept through her when she saw Antoine wasn’t there. She ran to the door: he was outside, hands in pockets, head bent.

  He looked up at her. ‘I’ll wait outside, if that’s all right.’ He flashed a pinched smile in her direction. ‘Take your time. I’m not in any hurry.’

  He didn’t want to know. Why should he? She had no right to drag him here and feed him gory titbits as if they were somehow instructive. Oh, and did I tell you, a single blow to the head was all it took? Just above the right ear. The second on
e crushing his face was just to make sure. Fascinating, don’t you think?

  She went back inside. A feeling of helplessness swamped her. She cast her eyes round the kitchen. She didn’t know where to begin. In the beginning was the blow, and it felled him, and life was no longer in him. But what came before the blow? Who did he argue with? Or not argue with – there was no sign of a struggle. The blow came from behind, sudden and unexpected. He didn’t even have time to be surprised.

  Therefore, the killer was known to Enzo, who had let them in without suspecting anything. But Captain Darlier knew that already, as did Charlotte. What could Magali possibly find that was new?

  She went upstairs. Two bedrooms and a bathroom. The larger room, where just a few months ago Enzo would have been making love with Loïc Bussert’s wife, was cluttered with books and clothes. Magali stood in the doorway and didn’t dare to enter. The untidiness reminded her of Luc. Artistic types. They’d have got on well. She put a hand to the doorframe to steady herself.

  She went back down and stepped out into the sunlight. Antoine was waiting patiently on a low wall overlooking the valley. He didn’t see her straightaway, and for a moment, she stood looking at him. Slim, well dressed, silver-haired. And this is my partner outside the holiday home we’re doing up. Lovely view, isn’t it?

  He was right. It wasn’t a game of Cleudo. They shouldn’t be here at all, neither of them. He turned and Magali moved towards him, smiling uncertainly.

  ‘That was quick,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What for?’

  She raised her arms helplessly. ‘I can’t do it.’

  ‘It was never a good idea. You’re not much of a Sherlock and I’m a terrible Watson.’

  She attempted a smile. ‘I didn’t even bring a magnifying glass.’

  Antoine moved closer and put his hands on her shoulders. It was all she needed. She burst into tears and fell into his embrace. Then with a startling suddenness, his lips came down on hers – but the kiss barely had time to get passionate before he broke off abruptly, and with a brief, tormented look, muttered an apology and strode to the car.

  Chapter 5

  Two weeks after driving home, ashamed and empty-handed, Magali went back to Mannezon on her own. Several times she had picked up the phone to call Charlotte, but she didn’t have the heart or the courage to tell her she was quitting. At first she thought it didn’t matter – she was quitting anyway but not saying so. After a while Charlotte would realise – that Rousseau woman’s doing nothing – but that would be fine because by that time, time would have done whatever it does and Charlotte would have started to ‘move on’.

  Then she realised she wasn’t quitting. She couldn’t. It wasn’t just that she had to get over the abject failure of the first visit, but something had happened in that house that she had to exorcise. To stand where Enzo had stood, to be so close to the killer, had brought her within touching distance of a murder. She kept imagining the bar coming down on Enzo’s head, so vivid, she felt, that if only she strained a bit further, she would surely see who was holding it.

  She didn’t ask Antoine to come and thankfully he didn’t offer. They’d gone for a walk up the Mataroc, a dried-up stream which took them to the top of the hill overlooking Sentabour. She told him she was going back and he nodded. There was no resentment between them. It was thanks to him that she’d gone there in the first place, and now that she knew what to expect, the second visit would be easier. For his part, he neither reprimanded nor ridiculed – if such was her decision, so be it. He asked how long she’d be away and she said a few days. She asked him to feed Toupie. ‘Happy to, my dear,’ he said.

  No mention was made of the kiss. On the way back from Mannezon, he’d apologised again and said, ‘Of course one can’t undo what’s done, but let’s just say it never happened.’

  The kiss that never was. A slip of the tongue, perhaps? She bit her own tongue and said nothing.

  Before she went into Enzo’s house, she spent a whole two days driving around the vicinity, her ancient Clio a pitiful substitute for Antoine’s Passat, covering all the roads within a twenty-mile radius. She marked her itinerary on a map, took innumerable photographs and recorded her impressions on her phone. This was methodical if nothing else. What she got out of it was a mental map of the area and a physical sensation each time she turned towards Enzo’s house, coiled in the pit of her stomach: this could be the road the killer took. She also got the impression that she was finally doing her job.

  On the third day she walked all round the outside of the house, taking more pictures, before letting herself in. She stood without moving, listening intently, as if she’d eventually hear some clue in the silence. As if the sounds of that evening back in March would travel to her from the past. But the house was resolutely mute.

  This time, though, she walked without fear, camera snapping every item of furniture, clothing and crockery, recording the title of every book, prying into every corner. When she had finished she locked the door and sat in the car, imagining herself back in Sentabour sorting through the pictures till one of them revealed the vital clue that nobody else had spotted. Then, while she still had it in her, she phoned the gendarmerie in Padignac. She was put through to Captain Darlier, who, far from telling her to get lost, said he could see her at 11.30 next morning. She returned to the Hôtel du Clocher.

  ***

  ‘So you know Madame Perle?’

  ‘Not especially well but yes, we’re acquainted.’

  ‘I see.’ Vincent Darlier nodded, hands pressed together at his lips. He was a small, stocky man of about fifty, with hair that was starting to thin, but otherwise only a slightly bulbous nose prevented him from achieving matinée-idol looks. ‘And how can I help you?’ he asked.

  ‘She wanted to know how the enquiry was progressing.’

  He took a couple of seconds to consider this. ‘So she sent you here to ask?’

  ‘Oh, no. I was passing nearby. It wasn’t out of my way.’

  ‘I see.’ He clearly thought it strange but he didn’t insist. He indicated an orange folder in front of him. ‘Slowly, I should say.’

  It was all she could do not to grab the folder and run. ‘But surely?’

  He spread his hands. ‘Who knows? I’ll only be able to say that when we get a result.’

  ‘And the chances of that are…’ She held out a palm, inviting him to finish.

  ‘Good.’ But it was spoken, she thought, without a lot of conviction. ‘Just a matter of time.’

  ‘She was wondering about the first suspects, Gilles Mattell and Loïc Bussert. They’re totally in the clear?’

  Darlier eyed her warily before deciding to answer. His tone was matter-of-fact, as if he was explaining a bit of bureaucracy. ‘Mattell, yes. He was there on the Thursday evening but it was to collect a cheque which he deposited the next day before buying more material. He was back there on Monday morning, when he discovered the body. He had no reason to kill Enzo Perle and he’s considered round about as honest and hard-working. Bussert, not so sure. If there was any evidence he was in the house, I’d lock him up straightaway. But there isn’t.’

  ‘And there has to be some, obviously. Forensic, I mean.’

  ‘Not necessarily. But if he stayed any length of time, you’d expect some.’

  ‘So he could have been in and out very quickly. Taken care not to touch anything.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He stared into the distance for several seconds. Daydreaming? Not very focused, Charlotte had said. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘And the problem with Bussert, surely, is that Enzo would have been suspicious. A jealous husband suddenly appearing on his doorstep. There’d have been a struggle, at least. But instead of that, there were two glasses of wine on the table. It doesn’t fit.’

  Darlier brought his gaze back to her, the eyes flickering, just a split second, on her bosom. ‘Well, it’s nice to talk with someone new,’ he said brightly. ‘Quite a br
eath of fresh air.

  ‘Oh, I’m glad of that,’ said Magali. She was itching to reach for the folder. ‘I thought I might be disturbing you.’

  ‘Not at all.’ He leant towards her, confiding. ‘There’s quite a bit of pressure in a place like this. Five months. A bit too long.’

  ‘What would be the normal time?’

  ‘There isn’t one. Every case is different. But some people want it sewn up in a matter of days.’

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s understandable. Obviously for Charlotte, the sooner the better.’

  ‘Oh, yes. It takes a bit of time to build a case, though. But we’ll get there eventually, don’t worry. You can tell her that from me.’

  ‘And if the killer wasn’t local at all?’

  He looked at her keenly. ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Just an idea. From what I gather, Enzo Perle didn’t have any enemies. Not down here, anyway. Apart from Bussert, that is.’

  ‘Mmm.’ He seemed to be lost in thought again. In his voice there was a slight tone of weariness, as if the whole of life was a disappointment. Then he said with a burst of energy, ‘An acquaintance, you say?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Of Madame Perle. I think she knows she can phone me any time she wants.’ He stared at her, annoyance competing with amusement. I’m not a sucker, you know.

  Magali wriggled uncomfortably. ‘I think she just… She doesn’t want to bother you all the time.’

  ‘Mmm.’ Pull the other one. He sighed and looked at his watch. Magali assumed the talk was over. But then he said, ‘There’s a café just down the road. Can I buy you a drink?’

  ‘What?’

  He laughed. ‘Don’t look so surprised. No one’s invited you for a drink before?’

  ‘No, it’s just…’ Not a gendarme anyway. ‘I’d love a drink. Thank you.’

  They sat at a terrace still largely populated with tourists and for a while they chatted pleasantly about the pros and cons of living in the country. Then after a lull in the conversation, he said with a little smile, ‘Are you some sort of private detective?’