One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  Lucille Daveney also wrote letters to politicians and celebrities about purity. She was very keen on purity – of the mind, the environment, the cosmos (of which she appeared to have understood the secret). Her house was a vast, brooding mansion set behind a garden protected by railings. Magali had at first imagined it stuffy and full of crumbs, smelling of old age and medicine, but one day Paul drew out a camera to show her pictures of the inside, and she saw that it was spotless. And however cold it was outside, the windows were always open to let in fresh air.

  The father, though, was a mystery. Paul was looking much more at Magali’s painting of the flower but it didn’t seem to be unlocking much. The last time she asked, he said, ‘I told you already, he died six years ago, he was a salesman.’ As if there was nothing more to say. But both of them knew there was plenty to say. He’d just been waiting for the right moment to say it. Precisely when she wouldn’t be there to listen.

  She sighed. ‘Of course I do, Paul.’

  ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, then.’

  ‘Paul, I –’ The line went dead.

  She tossed the phone down angrily and stood for a moment with her hands on her hips, pondering what to do. Then she picked up the phone again. ‘Antoine? I’m going away for a few days. Can you water the plants and feed Toupie? I’ll leave the key in the usual place.’

  Sorry, Paul, but some things are more important than others.

  Chapter 7

  It wasn’t a double murder but a triple. Michel and Lucie Terral had been married for three years when they moved into a house in the village of Rondas, half an hour from Royan, where Michel worked as a mechanic and Lucie as a primary school assistant. They’d been trying for a baby ever since the marriage and when Lucie became pregnant, they said the house brought them luck. Five months later, they were murdered. When Magali drew up at the house, the couple – and their unborn child – had been dead for less than three days.

  ‘Private detective, eh?’ Commander Yves Balland stared at Magali with puzzlement – and possibly a touch of disdain.

  ‘Trainee,’ she said. ‘It’s very kind of you to allow me here.’

  ‘Well, you can thank Darlier for that. Thinks very highly of you.’ He turned and walked to his car, where he collected a briefcase before approaching the house. ‘Forensics have done their bit, so you can come in and tell me what happened.’

  ‘Well, I don’t think I can –’

  ‘What you think or don’t think can come later. Start by looking.’ Darlier didn’t want to throw you in the deep end? Well, I want to see you drown.

  Magali stood at the entrance to the dining room as Balland trod softly, with very small paces, glancing all around him, before coming to a halt by the doorway leading to the kitchen. He gazed down sombrely at the floor. ‘There you have it.’

  She approached cautiously. Two large patches of dark, dried blood were all that remained of Michel and Lucie Terral. The two patches were separated by a narrow strip of tiling, as if the couple had been trying to reach out to each other, but hadn’t quite managed to touch. Apart from a single upturned chair, there was no sign of a struggle.

  ‘Michel,’ said Balland, pointing to the nearest patch before indicating the second. ‘And Lucie.’ He stood with hands in pockets, waiting for her to speak.

  Magali drew a deep breath. She’d spent the night in a hotel by the station in Royan, where she’d woken at four in the morning. Unable to get back to sleep, she studied Darlier’s file on Enzo Perle, which she’d already read on the train. By the time she picked up her car rental and drove out to Rondas, her mind fuelled with caffeine, fizzing with the facts of Enzo’s death, the crest was threatening to turn into a tidal wave.

  ‘I saw a ladder at the back of the house as I was driving up. Propped up against the garage. Is that what was used to get in?’

  He nodded. ‘We found some fibres on the window. They’re in analysis now.’

  Magali stepped through the doorway into the kitchen. ‘That door leads to the garage, right? So if Lucie was here, she might have heard a noise out there and gone to ask Michel to check. And the killer could have come in and grabbed her from behind. Or else…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did the killer go upstairs, do you know?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’ll go up in a minute.’

  ‘In which case the noise might have come from the dining room or the stairs. She heard it and came out of the kitchen to see what was happening. Unless she was going the other way, trying to escape.’

  ‘No, she fell this way, into the dining room.’ He took out a cigarette but didn’t light it. ‘That’s two different scenarios you’ve given me. What was this noise she heard?’

  ‘In the first case, the killer getting into the garage. And in the second…’ Magali hugged her arms to herself, grimacing. ‘Well, the sound of someone having their throat cut. Whatever that is.’

  ‘So in one scenario, Lucie was killed first and in the other it was Michel?’

  She hesitated. Did he know the answer already? ‘Which way was Michel facing?’

  ‘This way, towards the kitchen. Lying on his front, right arm beneath him, left arm stretched out.’

  She looked at the dining-room table. A book, a purse, a fruit bowl, a furniture catalogue. ‘He might have been at the table when he heard something, and jumped up, knocking the chair over. He was stabbed as he walked past the stairs.’ She pointed into the kitchen. ‘There are some carrot peelings on the floor. She may have been going to put them in the bin when she heard it. Not a great commotion – it must have been quick. But he might have had time to shout. Lucie would have stopped short in the doorway.’ She paused. ‘The killer would be there, by the wall.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Out of sight. Otherwise she wouldn’t have come out of the kitchen. She’d have run. Or grabbed a knife or something.’

  ‘So you’re going with that scenario. The second.’

  ‘It feels more likely, yes.’

  ‘It has to do more than feel. Why?’

  ‘Well…’ It was like being back at school. Come on, Rousseau. Where does the Seine take its source? ‘In the first scenario, he’d have seen the lights on and come in anyway?’

  ‘It happens. Not so often, perhaps, but it does.’

  ‘But there’d have been more sign of a struggle. If Michel was lying here, it meant he was coming towards the killer – coming at him. What wounds did he suffer? Just the throat?’

  He nodded. ‘A single cut. Clean.’

  ‘So he was killed from behind, like Lucie. That’s the second scenario. Which suggests they weren’t here when he broke in. He was upstairs when they got back.’

  Balland stood, lips pursed, nodding to himself. Then tucking the cigarette behind his ear, he opened his briefcase and handed her an envelope. ‘Take a look at those.’

  They weren’t pretty. In Enzo’s file, there hadn’t been photos like this. Perhaps Darlier had kept the worst ones back. She was glad the bodies were no longer there. She didn’t think she’d have been able to handle that.

  But now she was able to see the exact positions, and the way Michel’s left arm reached out towards his wife, as if in a desperate attempt to warn her or seek her help or simply, knowing it was over, grasp her hand one last time.

  ‘This one especially,’ said Balland, handing her another photo.

  Magali’s stomach churned. She stared at it for a while, unable to concentrate. What she saw made no sense. A patch of pale yellow with a pinkish slit curling away in neat, clean layers. Above it, to the left, a single dark puncture. Then she realised it was a close-up of the wounds on Lucie Terral’s neck, taken in the morgue. The wounds had been cleaned and disinfected, the better to see what instrument had made them. An involuntary shiver ran through her body as she forced herself back to her role – whatever that was. ‘The weapon was very sharp. Like a Stanley knife.’ She looked at the picture of the body again. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t have an
y experience, all this may be stupid but…’

  ‘What?’ he barked. ‘Come on, it doesn’t matter how stupid it is.’

  ‘I’d say he’s left-handed. The cut looks deeper here on the right, then tapers away. And just above where it ends there’s this single jab, quite deep. So if he was standing where I think he was, he would have lunged forward and made the smaller cut first before moving behind her and… doing this.’

  Balland took the pictures back. He studied Magali with undisguised curiosity before saying, ‘Yes, that’s the way it seems.’ He trod between the patches of blood and started to go up the stairs. ‘Any other observations?’

  ‘No, but I’ve got a question.’

  ‘Go ahead.’ He motioned her to keep to the left of the stairs. In the centre, Magali saw, were traces of mud.

  ‘I read what you said to the press. A burglary gone wrong.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘You mentioned a couple of puzzling details but you didn’t say what they were.’

  ‘Not that puzzling, really. Just a matter of tying up loose ends. Firstly, why target this place at all? A mechanic and a canteen worker. Hardly the A-list, is it? Unless he was out on the prowl, spotted an opportunity. The other thing is we’re going with your second scenario – the pathologist is pretty certain. Now unless, for some reason, the couple were both in the hall or the garden, there’s no way you could get upstairs without being seen. Which means, as you say, they were very probably out when the burglar arrived. But we don’t know where. We know they came home after work because Michel made a phone call and Lucie sent an email. And they were about to have supper when the killer struck. But where did they go in the meantime? No idea.’

  He stood at the entrance to the bedroom, Magali at his shoulder. The contents of every drawer had been emptied on to the floor. On the bed was a green leather jewel box, with a bead necklace next to it.

  ‘So this is where he was when he heard them come back,’ said Magali. ‘May I?’ She stepped into the room and took photographs.

  ‘She had a few jewels. Earrings, a gold chain. Downstairs a couple of pictures are missing, worthless except for the frames. And a porcelain vase which might fetch a bob or two. Maybe more, but that’s all Michel’s father noticed. He was too upset to look very closely, but even if there’s more, we’re looking at a few hundred euros at the most.’ Balland shook his head and sighed.

  Magali recalled her sense of horror when Charlotte had told her about Enzo. One minute you’re cooking supper, the next you’re lying dead. Below the surface of normality a current of something brutal and absurd could erupt without warning.

  Next to the bedroom was another one, smaller, unfurnished. ‘The baby’s,’ said Balland.

  ‘A boy.’ The room was empty apart from two packets of glue and half a dozen rolls of blue wallpaper, one of them unwrapped, waiting to be put up.

  ‘He came in,’ she said, pointing to the traces of mud. She tiptoed round the edge of the room, taking more pictures. ‘Didn’t just stand in the doorway. Why?’

  Balland observed her with raised eyebrows. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘When did they buy the paper?’ she asked.

  ‘No idea. Why?’

  ‘Just a thought. Did they buy anything else with it? Apart from the glue.’

  ‘You mean the Stanley knife?’ He moved to the window and opened it. ‘We’re checking.’ He lit his cigarette, took a deep drag and blew the smoke outside. ‘So you’re helping Darlier, are you?’

  ‘Well, I haven’t done much.’

  ‘I’ll give him a ring. Tell him to hand it over to you entirely.’ His laugh turned into a cough and he cast a distasteful glance at his cigarette before stubbing it out and tucking it back in the packet. ‘Anything else up here?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ They made their way back downstairs. ‘I noticed a car round the back,’ she said. ‘It belongs to the couple?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘If they didn’t spot the burglar’s car when they got back, it must have been hidden. Behind the clump of trees, for example, further along the road.’

  ‘The fog was thick that night. It could have been closer.’

  ‘But still not next to the house. The best place to park would be where the Terrals’ car is now.’

  ‘Too hidden. Coming from the village, you can’t actually see there’s a space. Not from the other side either, not in that fog.’

  ‘Right,’ said Magali as she followed him into the kitchen. But although the explanation was reasonable enough, something didn’t seem right at all. She didn’t have time to think it through, though; her attention was now on the kitchen. ‘These carrots. Are they cooked?’

  Balland smiled. ‘A bit more than half, perhaps.’

  ‘Which means the killer switched them off before leaving.’ She peered through the glass of the oven door. ‘And in here?’

  ‘Was a fish and potato pie. Supermarket brand, frozen. The wrapper’s in the bin.’

  ‘Takes half an hour to cook?’

  ‘We think it had been in for about ten minutes. He switched the oven off too.’

  ‘Didn’t want the house burning down. Thoughtful of him.’ It was also the sign of someone calm under pressure. His burglary had just gone terribly wrong, yet he had the presence of mind to switch off the oven. Which on the face of it was an odd thing to do. If the house had gone up in flames, so would all of the evidence.

  She understood now how vital it was to get to the scene of crime early. The five months that had passed between Enzo’s death and the day she arrived in the house had wiped away the trace of what happened and carried it into oblivion.

  ‘Any clues in the garage?’ she asked.

  ‘Plenty of mud again. But nothing else apart from the fibres.’

  Balland led the way down three steps from the kitchen to the garage. The Terrals used it as a utility room: spare furniture, boxes, garden equipment, vegetable rack, washing machine, freezer. All very tidily arranged. Just like Antoine, Michel had a board on the wall where the outline of each of his tools was drawn to indicate where it should go. Next to the board was his workbench and above that the window which had been forced open from the outside. The damage to the frame was clearly visible, but the window itself was shut.

  ‘I imagine you’d need a crowbar to do that,’ said Magali. ‘It’s fairly high up as well. He’d never have managed without that ladder.’

  ‘They’d been pruning a tree at the weekend.’ Balland went back into the house. ‘Careless to leave a ladder outside, but people do. Burglaries always happen to someone else.’ He led her to the front door and opened it. ‘Well, now you’ve seen. Not exactly a pleasant line of work.’

  ‘No. But I don’t think they expect us to be doing this sort of stuff when we qualify.’ She shook his hand. ‘Thank you very much, Commander. My first assignment is to write a report on something I’ve observed. If it’s all right with you, I’d like to write about this.’

  ‘Glad to oblige,’ he said. ‘We’ll have the full forensic report in a couple of days. And we’ll get the bastard who did this pretty soon.’ He left a slight pause and added, ‘Just supposing we don’t, though, there’s something you can do.’

  ‘Anything I can, I’d be glad to.’

  ‘Send me a copy of that report.’

  As she drove away, he was still looking at her, fingers fishing in the packet for his half-smoked cigarette.

  Chapter 8

  In her hotel room Magali lay on her bed and wondered what she’d achieved. She had more than enough material for her assignment, though what Verney would make of it was anybody’s guess. In the first batch of documents she’d received from Nîmes, the example they gave was to sit in a bus station for an hour and note everything that happens. A far cry from whatever went on in the Terrals’ house.

  As far as she could tell, she’d also gained the somewhat grudging respect of Yves Balland, which in itself was a cause for celebration. It meant she was closer
now to the person she’d been pretending to be, or at least to some strange version of it. A private detective whose only interest was murder.

  But none of that would be of any comfort to Charlotte.

  Tiredness now caught up with her, but she still couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, the image of Lucie’s severed throat appeared, escaped from a nightmare to haunt her daylight hours. Perhaps, after all, it hadn’t been such a good idea to come here. Charlotte was paying her to find Enzo’s killer, not the Terrals’, but now in her restless mind, the two crimes blurred into one. The last supper. A single presence lurking at both, lurking everywhere in fact, a face in the shadows, cruel, grotesque and unknowable.

  She rose from the bed and read Enzo’s file yet again. Not so much to find anything new but to bring it back clearly to her mind, not let the Terral case confuse her. In the section devoted to Brigitte Bussert was a photo, printed from Enzo’s computer. Brigitte was sitting at the desk in his bedroom, writing. She was looking at the camera, surprised, as if he’d just called her name, but her lips were parted in a spontaneous smile of delight. She was wearing a T-shirt too large for her, Enzo’s perhaps, and one side had slipped below her shoulder. She was slimmer than the wood-chopping harridan Magali had imagined. And she was holding the pen in her left hand.

  She turned to the autopsy report, which described in detail the state of Enzo’s body, right down to a minor bruise on his shin and a cut to his thumb to which he’d applied a plaster. But the cause of death was the two wounds to his skull, the first on its own probably fatal. In order to follow Darlier’s thinking, Magali had to imagine the scenario anew. According to the coroner, the first wound was ‘consistent with’ a blow struck from behind and to the right. Mention was made further on of the ‘probable’ position of the killer. But that left room for doubt: the blow could also have come from the front and to the left. In which case, Enzo was facing the killer.

  Brigitte Bussert was in love. Madly. On a Thursday evening in March, she went to her lover’s house, expecting to be welcomed as usual. But instead of that, she was told the affair was over. She begged and pleaded and cried, but eventually had to accept it. As she walked away, she spotted an iron bar among the debris outside. It had the effect of focusing her rage, making her realise that what she had accepted was not acceptable at all. She picked up the bar and went back into the house.