One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  She studied their positions but saw nothing to link them to the events of that evening. She took photographs of each item, more out of habit than hope. The forensic team had inspected them all for hairs, fingerprints, fibres, traces of blood, but none had yielded the slightest information.

  Her eyes were drawn to the picture of mother and son. Charlotte was standing behind him, bending forward, her arms around him, both of them laughing, happy, on a beach on a windy day.

  ‘That was near my parents’ house in Brittany.’ Charlotte put the cups on the table. ‘We spent quite a few holidays there when he was younger.’

  ‘Are you Breton?’

  ‘No, my parents moved there. I grew up in Orléans.’

  Magali put the picture back in the box. A permanent fixture on the dresser, it wasn’t a clue to anything except the joy of a mother’s love. If there was a clue, it had to be something linked to the conversation between Enzo and his killer. But any of those items could have been put there for a perfectly valid reason that was independent of anything said that night.

  Despite the objects’ silence, though, Magali had the eerie sensation, just as she had in the house itself, of being close to the killer. All that was missing was the sound: oil in the frying pan, wine being poured, voices. Music, too – what had Enzo been listening to that evening?

  Charlotte arranged her son’s affairs in the box in precisely the same way as before. ‘I’ll get rid of them eventually. No point hanging on to a couple of mats or an old newspaper. I just can’t do it for the moment.’

  ‘And the house?’

  ‘Will be sold. I’ve put it on the market. I’m going down next week to sort out what’s left. It’s a big step but at least it’ll be done.’ She got up to put on a CD. ‘Liszt. One of his favourites.’

  ‘Satie as well, I imagine?’

  ‘Oh, yes, he loved Satie. Would you rather listen to that?’

  ‘No, Liszt is lovely.’

  Charlotte came and sat next to her. ‘Luc’s a music lover too, I discovered.’

  ‘Yes, he used to play the violin. It’s a shame he didn’t keep it up.’

  They drank the tea and listened to the music without speaking. After a while, Charlotte put her cup on the table and shifted on the settee in order to lie down, her head resting on Magali’s lap. Before closing her eyes, she looked up at Magali and smiled. Magali’s astonishment quickly turned to pleasure – that Charlotte could so naturally establish comfort and complicity. The head in her lap, and the hair she now began to stroke gently, belonged at once to a grown woman and a small, defenceless girl.

  She wondered what Charlotte was thinking. She guessed that what Charlotte was trying to do was empty her mind of all thought.

  Chapter 10

  Based on their phone conversation, Philippe Roudy had formed the impression that Magali was a private detective who’d read his articles, been convinced, and now was proposing to help him campaign for Nassim Benamrouche’s release. Magali couldn’t recall precisely the words she’d used, but since he’d agreed to meet her so promptly, it was indeed quite possible that she’d allowed him to infer that – evasiveness has its uses. Sitting opposite him now, though, in a café close to the newspaper premises, she felt she ought to set the record straight. ‘I’m not intending to get involved in the Roncet case. And I’m not really a private detective either, not yet. I will be next June if I get my qualification.’

  Roudy managed to rein himself in – not yet annoyed, but a notch above disconcerted. ‘So what brings you here?’

  ‘I’m helping a friend whose son was murdered last March in a village in the Cévennes. I’m not suggesting we’re looking at the same person, but when I read about the Roncet case, it struck me that there were some similarities. I was hoping you might help me narrow the profile down.’

  ‘Profile? I’m sorry, I don’t follow.’

  ‘Enzo – my friend’s son – let whoever killed him into the house quite willingly. Yet that person came – or so I believe – with the intention of killing him. From what I gather, the circumstances were similar with Roncet. No fight and nothing was stolen. I could add that in both cases the victims died from two or three blows to the head or neck, no more, one from a heavy blunt instrument, the other from a knife. And forensic evidence appears to be slim or non-existent.’

  Roudy stared at her, blinking. ‘What makes you think I’m looking for anyone?’

  It was Magali’s turn to be taken aback. ‘Well, if Benamrouche is innocent, the investigation has to start over from scratch. Isn’t that what you’re doing? You are certain he’s innocent, right?’

  ‘Since publishing those pieces, I’ve had death threats myself, I get hate mail by the dozen, I’ve been insulted and spat on.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Yes, I’m certain.’

  ‘Why such reactions? You mean no one believes you?’

  ‘My editor supports me. So far.’ He leant forward, tapping his finger on the table. ‘Do you know how many people vote National Front around here? In Wallenheim, where Roncet lived, it’s more than forty per cent. I’m either an Islamic terrorist or else a queer that likes nothing better than being buggered by Arabs. Roncet himself was racist as hell, he made no secret of it. So what’s he doing letting an Arab into his home?’

  ‘What was the suggestion at the trial?’

  ‘The prosecution claim was that Benamrouche tricked his way in. Made up a story about running out of petrol. Several who knew Roncet said that was plausible – for all his grumpiness, he was a trusting sort of person. But Benamrouche has a North African accent that Roncet would certainly have detected. He might have been trusting, but he wouldn’t have trusted an Arab. So what happened? He let him in to help him and then insulted him? Maybe. And Benamrouche took out a knife and stabbed him. But even at his age Roncet was a powerful man and Benamrouche isn’t. I can’t believe it could have happened that way without there being a fight.’

  ‘My question, then,’ said Magali, ‘is where can it go from here? Without any evidence that incriminates someone else, it’s not going to be easy to get Benamrouche released.’

  ‘There’s not enough evidence against him, that’s the point.’ Roudy spoke fiercely. ‘Of course it would help to have another suspect, but there isn’t one. What I’m criticising is the way the police set about it right from the start. An Arab was there so he must have done it. Simple as that. So then they pile on the pressure until he confesses.’ He took a swig of beer and leant back, muttering, ‘Believe me, if I had the slightest idea who might have done it, I’d have shouted it out long ago.’

  ‘Of course.’ Magali nodded. She’d imagined Roudy as a bearded rebel who’d be delighted to help her. But with his suit and tie and smooth black hair, he looked more like a bank manager. ‘What I’m looking for really,’ she said, ‘is anything you have which might indicate what sort of person to be looking for. Given the similarities, there must be something the killers have in common. Maybe their motives were totally different but they set about it the same way.’

  ‘What are you suggesting? They like the same clothes? The same music?’

  Magali sighed. ‘I’m saying they think the same way. They plan ahead and they’re very careful. Maybe, yes, they carry that carefulness into the way they dress. I’d say they’re highly organised. Maybe they have some sort of compulsive routine. Or they’re superstitious or they play chess… I don’t know, something that sheds a light on their personality.’

  He gave it a moment’s thought before dismissing it. ‘That’s just about everything anybody does.’ Out of the question, I’m afraid, to extend your overdraft.

  ‘My point is Roncet was something of a loner. If he knew the killer personally, then there can’t be that many people to consider. Enzo, on the other hand, had a wide circle of acquaintances. If I’m going to sift through 800 people, I need a few criteria.’

  Roudy nodded. ‘Well, Roncet was a loner all right, but he wasn’t unknown. You’re looking at a village wh
ere everyone knows everyone.’

  ‘Yes, like in Mannezon. But down there the police were quite thorough, I think, in interviewing everyone. That wasn’t the case up here.’

  ‘You can say that again. But what’s your plan? Go around Wallenheim questioning everyone who knew him?’ Roudy found it hard to suppress a snort. ‘Good luck with that. Plus, have you thought that it could be someone from his past? He was seventy-two. That’s a lot of people.’

  ‘No, I don’t have time. And I’m looking for Enzo’s killer, not Roncet’s.’ Magali took out her purse. ‘My interviews more or less start and end with you, so unless you can point me in the right direction, I’ll be heading back down south.’

  Roudy pushed the money away. ‘You’ve come all this way, it’s the least I can do. But as for your psychological profile, I can’t really help you there. My angle of attack is to expose police deficiencies, the weakness of the evidence, the underlying racism. To be honest, I don’t hold out much hope. I’ve been up to Wallenheim several times and got short shrift.’ He took out a pen and paper. ‘But if you have time to play with, you could start with Elsa Soulier. Roncet’s sister. She’d be the one who knows the most about who he was acquainted with. And you might even get a sympathetic hearing.’

  ‘You mean what? She’s on your side?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t say that.’ He gave her the phone number. ‘She doesn’t give a damn about another Arab in jail. But she knew her brother well enough, even if they weren’t that close. And she doesn’t think Benamrouche killed him.’

  ***

  She was dining in a restaurant close to her hotel when her phone rang. ‘Am I disturbing you?’ said Darlier, but barely waited for a reply. ‘Something to celebrate.’

  She thought at first he meant her birthday – a soon to occur non-event. But he couldn’t know that. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Bussert. We’ve blown her alibi.’

  She could tell by his voice he’d had too much to drink. ‘You mean… she did it?’

  ‘We’re not there yet. But she lied. She always maintained she left her coat there the previous day but she was there that evening.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I spoke to Alice Perrin again. She spilled it all. Couldn’t keep it to herself any more. Bussert begged her to say she arrived at her place earlier than she did. An hour earlier. During which she was at Perle’s house.’ He made a sound that was almost a moan of pleasure. ‘We’ve got her!’

  Magali didn’t answer. She stared straight ahead, seeing nothing.

  ‘Magali?’

  She dragged herself back. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I haven’t told his mother yet. I thought you might like to do that.’ For the first time he used the familiar tu form rather than vous.

  ‘Right… Yes, I will, it’s kind of you.’

  ‘Not straightaway. I’ll let you know when there’s something solid to tell her.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘How did you get on with Balland, by the way?’

  ‘Fine, yes, thank you, it… I got plenty of material for my assignment.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I can hear people. You’re at a dinner party?’

  ‘Uh… yes. A few friends, that’s all.’

  ‘I won’t keep you long in that case. I just wanted to let you know.’

  ‘Thank you, Vincent. That’s very kind.’

  ‘Magali?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve been meaning to call for a while. I’d like to… There are some beautiful places round here. If you like walking. Or maybe just go for a drive. Whatever takes your fancy.’

  ‘Well… Can I call you back? I really ought to be getting back to the table.’

  ‘I’m sorry, yes, of course. I just wanted to say…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for everything. We’ll speak again soon.’

  She put the phone back in her bag and returned to her meal. But after a couple of mouthfuls she pushed the plate away and called for the bill. She walked back through the cold night to her hotel. She lay on the bed, trying to understand what was happening. Not to the investigation but to her. The answer didn’t take long to find.

  She’d once driven Xavier’s Alfa Romeo fifty miles after a warning light appeared on the dashboard. She had to stop when smoke began to pour from beneath the bonnet. ‘You know what that is?’ he said, before coming out with a new diagnosis that would later become familiar to her. ‘That’s borderline fucking psychotic.’

  Since her arrival in Sentabour, Magali’s mental state had improved no end, to the point where it occurred to her that whatever she’d suffered from before was entirely induced by Dickhead’s ludicrous pronouncements. They weren’t official and she didn’t believe them but he was a doctor after all, and little by little they’d made their way into her psyche. The cunning bit was the borderline. She wasn’t actually anything specific but she hovered on the edge of everything, so she finished up thinking there was very little holding her sanity together.

  In Sentabour, though, she had the freedom to do and think what she wanted without being told she was crossing over the border into doolally land. And gradually she understood the meaning of self-fulfilment.

  But now it was all coming back. Denial of reality. She could make a list: persistent erroneous beliefs in the face of conflicting evidence. The Alfa was trivial – she actually laughed about it later, though that, of course, had Dickhead practically calling the men in white coats. Others lasted for longer, ended up causing more damage. The art gallery she opened, though everyone pointed out to her the premises were damp. After which she channelled her fantasies through Luc, who was going to be a violinist in a world-renowned orchestra. She clung to that one for a long time, though he moaned about his lessons and never practised. And the marriage itself – the most glaring example of all. The dashboard lights had been flashing for years but she just drove on, put a brave face on it till it came to a shuddering halt. She was good at brave faces, plodding on whatever. To the point of believing that her sex life was normal when she didn’t even have one.

  In cloud cuckoo land you walk on air, riding your beliefs till the headwind of evidence overcomes you. When she crashed down to earth, she generally found herself clutching a bottle of rosé. ‘Alcoholic too,’ Xavier had said, adding another delicacy to the smorgasbord of disorders. Spoken, as always, in jest.

  Now to the list of fantasies she could add her latest: she was a private detective because she knew better than Captain Darlier how to investigate a murder. She didn’t want Brigittte Bussert to be guilty, didn’t want to accept that such a beautiful homage to Enzo as her final email was an exercise in deception. But reality isn’t what you want, it’s a fact. Alice Perrin had come forward and spoken. Brigitte was there the night Enzo died and the fact of that reality could no longer be ignored.

  With a sigh, Magali rose from her bed and headed for the hotel bar.

  Chapter 11

  With the possible exception of Toupie, Magali was not at all in the mood for company, but having made the appointment, she dragged herself – and her hangover – on to the bus to visit Roncet’s sister. She arrived late because she got off at the wrong stop. She could have taken a taxi but she’d wasted enough of Charlotte’s money already.

  Elsa Soulier was a bulky woman with wispy blonde hair, a smooth, shiny face and a slight stoop, as if the burden of life were pressing her down. She was eight years younger than her brother, which explained perhaps why they’d never been that close. But after his wife died she had taken to paying him regular visits, concerned that his solitude would get to him.

  ‘You have to look after your own, don’t you?’ she said to Magali, placing a plate of biscuits on the table.

  ‘From what I gather, he coped with the solitude well.’

  ‘Oh, yes. I needn’t have bothered myself on that account. But still…’ She grinned a little sheepishly, as i
f visiting her brother could be seen as something strange.

  ‘I’ll get straight to the point, Madame Soulier.’ And on to the next train home. ‘Philippe Roudy told me you think Nassim Benamrouche is innocent. Why’s that?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t go that far. He’s a journalist, isn’t he?

  ‘You mean…’

  ‘They twist things. Who am I to say if he’s innocent or not? At the trial they found him guilty.’

  ‘That’s precisely why Roudy’s campaigning.’

  ‘Fat chance he’s got, I’d say. No one’s got the appetite for that. Not in Wallenheim anyway.’

  ‘They’re happy to see Benamrouche behind bars?’

  Elsa Soulier made no answer, but a grim, haughty expression said it all.

  ‘And you?’ said Magali. ‘If he really is innocent…’

  Again no answer, apart from a shrug and a throwaway, ‘Oh…’, as if to say, what does it matter? But then, feeling the need to justify herself, she said, ‘It’s not going to bring him back, is it? Whoever did it, he’s dead. Roudy can write his stuff till he’s blue in the face, it won’t bring Albert back.’

  Magali changed tack. ‘Did he have any enemies that you knew of?’

  Elsa Soulier gave her a glance of exasperation. ‘The police have been through all that. You won’t come up with anything new, you know.’

  ‘I’m sorry. But even if Roudy’s exaggerating them, you have your doubts, am I right?’

  ‘Whatever doubts I might have, I’m keeping them to myself. There’s been enough written about me already.’

  ‘By Roudy?’

  ‘He tried to put words in my mouth. They were just his own opinions.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Albert would never have let Benamrouche in – that sort of thing.’