One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  ‘I thought you’d like to know how we’re getting on,’ he said, using the ‘vous’ form again.

  ‘That’s very kind of you.’ It was true, she did want to know. She wasn’t a detective any more – had never been one in fact – but she’d thought so much about Enzo’s murder that forgetting it instantly was impossible.

  ‘Well, she’s a tough nut to crack,’ he said, referring to Brigitte Bussert. ‘But we’re closing in on her. Just a matter of time.’

  ‘I see.’ Magali left a pause. ‘Have you charged her?’

  ‘Working up to it. It would be nice to get a confession but even without one it all adds up.’

  Despite herself, Magali felt her interest reawakening. ‘What’s her defence then? If she’s got no alibi any more.’

  ‘She hasn’t got one. She admits she was at the house for half an hour, she just denies she killed him. But if it wasn’t her, she wouldn’t have needed to lie in the first place, would she?’ His intonation was strange: sure of himself but at the same time asking her opinion.

  ‘What reason did she give for that?’ she asked.

  ‘Panic. The first time we questioned her was the day after the murder. Routine, that’s all, she wasn’t a suspect. But she thought we were going to pin it on her so she made up an alibi. By the time we got round to questioning Alice Perrin, Brigitte had fully briefed her.’

  ‘And Alice went along with that?’

  ‘They go back. Brigitte thought it could hold. And it did for a while, she bought herself some time.’

  ‘But she’s still not confessing.’

  ‘No,’ he conceded with a sigh of dissatisfaction. ‘But she thought she’d got away with it and now I imagine she’s finding it hard to cope with. She might take a while to come round.’

  Magali had never met Brigitte Bussert. All she had was a photo and a collection of emails. From those, it was true, she had pictured a woman swept away by the force of her own emotions. ‘What if she tries to kill herself?’

  ‘I can’t see that.’ Vincent sounded surprised. ‘We had her in for twenty-four hours and she didn’t let up a minute.’ He lowered his voice. ‘All this is strictly confidential, by the way. I have to meet up with the judge to decide whether to go ahead and prosecute. I’m confident we can, but don’t mention any of this to Madame Perle, not yet.’

  ‘Of course.’ Magali managed to sound gracious as she added, ‘Congratulations, you must be relieved.’

  ‘I couldn’t have done it without you, you know.’

  ‘Why? I’ve done nothing.’

  ‘I was ready to let it drop till you appeared. Walk out on everything.’

  ‘Everything? You mean…’

  ‘Resign. I wasn’t getting any satisfaction from the job. Not just the Perle case but going further back. The posting to Padignac wasn’t what I wanted. I’d pretty much lost all motivation. But that day you appeared and you were so hesitant and yet you’d already figured out so much and you took such an interest… You got me back on track. I remember walking back to the station and I literally had a new spring in my step.’

  She had to suppress a giggle, as an image formed of a uniformed gendarme skipping through the streets of Padignac. ‘Glad to be of help,’ she said jocularly. So that was where her talent lay: getting jaded gendarmes back on track.

  ‘We must get together some time. Celebrate.’

  ‘Yes.’ She was surprised to hear herself adding, ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘I have to go to Montpellier in a couple of weeks. We could meet up there on the Friday if you like. Stay the weekend.’

  ‘Um… well, why not?’

  ‘Good. I’ll make the arrangements. I’ll send you the details by email.’

  What, she wondered, would the details include? Or more importantly, leave out?

  ‘I’ll look forward to that then,’ she said. And hurriedly rang off, alarmed by her own readiness.

  A whole weekend? The one night would be plenty. Perhaps not at all, in fact. She’d see.

  All the same, one immediate consequence of the call was that instead of reaching for the wine, she put on her tracksuit and running shoes.

  On her return Magali took out the notebooks again, working backwards this time. In the last entry, the day Roncet died, Ragolin was resting on a farm, not yet aware that shortly he would be recording in intricate detail the Battle of Jena. Rather than read through the battle descriptions – hypnotised was fine, comatose less appealing – she concentrated only on the comments in the margin. Not because she expected to find anything significant but because she’d punished herself by running more laps than ever before and now she was feeling good.

  He shouldn’t have called, she thought. If he hadn’t mentioned that spring in his step, she wouldn’t have gone out to put one in her own, wouldn’t have roused herself to emerge from the doldrums. Because having got rid of the toxins caused by alcohol, crisps and Les Z’Amours, she was, temporarily at least, back to her previous state of borderline bonkers trainee private detective.

  So it wasn’t by chance but sheer pig-headed obsession that a few minutes later she came across a comment that made her frown. Legros unreadable.

  It took her a while to remember where she’d seen the name before. Napoleon, Master of War by Thomas Legros. The book she’d picked out of Elsa Soulier’s shelf. But it hadn’t been opened, so how did Roncet decide it was unreadable?

  She flipped through the previous notebook till she came to another note: Order Legros from Coussikou. A reminder to himself to obtain a book which he then decided was unreadable without even bothering to open it?

  She moved forward again, looking for further references to the book. There was nothing for two months, then an entry for May 2011 which would have caught her attention even if she hadn’t come across the name before: No reply from Coussikou. Bastard! The last word had been underlined so heavily that the page was almost ripped.

  It was surely of no consequence but intriguing all the same. And after thinking about it a while, finding no explanation, she picked up her phone and dialled.

  Chapter 13

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Elsa, but I have a little question about your brother’s notes.’

  Elsa Soulier’s voice was curious. ‘Go on,’ she said.

  ‘That book I saw on the shelf at your house – Napoleon, Master of War. It’s referred to a few times in the notebooks. Apparently he ordered it from somewhere but then didn’t like it. Unreadable, he said. Yet it hadn’t been opened, so there’s something there I don’t get. I wondered if he’d ever mentioned anything about it to you.’

  ‘Oh, yes, he got in a right tizzy over that. I was the one who showed him how to complain.’

  ‘But why would he complain about a book he never opened?’

  ‘That was a different one. I don’t know where that one came from.’

  ‘A different book? Or a different copy of the same?’

  ‘Different copy. I suppose he ordered it again.’

  ‘But he thought it was unreadable. What does that mean? Dull? Badly written? Why would he order a new one?’

  ‘No, it wasn’t badly written. It was one he was keen to have. I can’t remember why. Something to do with Austria, I think. But it was covered in stains.’

  Somewhere on the edge of Magali’s consciousness something stirred, a connection trying to make itself felt. ‘What sort of stains?’ she said.

  ‘Coffee, I think, or tea. Rings, you know, like when you put a mug down. That sort of stain, mostly.’

  ‘And it was covered in them? Enough to make it unreadable?’

  ‘Well, maybe not unreadable. But he’d paid for a book that was new. You don’t expect it to be full of stains. He was furious, and rightly so. How could anyone be so careless? Or else it was plain dishonesty.’

  ‘Have you still got it? The book?’

  ‘Oh, no. I threw it away. I’ve got enough of his clutter without that.’

  Magali almost growled with ir
ritation. ‘You say you helped him complain. He got it over the Internet?’

  ‘Yes, I don’t remember where. Ebay, I suppose. He didn’t know about leaving comments. It was the first time he’d done it. You can leave an appreciation, I said, so he did. Several, in fact. And he didn’t mince his words, I can tell you.’

  ‘Do you remember the seller’s name?’

  ‘It sounded like couscous, I remember that. It made me laugh. I mean, knowing what Albert thought about… those people.’

  Magali didn’t respond to that. ‘Coussikou?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, that’s it. Strange name, I thought, but there you go.’

  ‘And what became of it? The complaint.’

  ‘He never got an answer, he said. I think he kept on trying but I don’t know what happened in the end.’

  ‘But he got a new copy eventually.’

  ‘Either from Coussikou or somewhere else. He never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Why didn’t he open it, do you think?’

  ‘No idea. Perhaps he didn’t have time.’

  ‘No time? Why not?’

  ‘Well, it was there on the table the night he was killed so perhaps he was going to get round to it, but then…’ She paused, and her next words were thick with emotion. ‘It actually had a splash of blood on the plastic.’

  Whatever was trying to enter Magali’s awareness began to scratch with more insistence. Like having a name on the tip of your tongue, except of course it has nothing to do with your tongue. The name is there in your brain but you just can’t pull it up from where it’s hiding.

  ‘And his emails? The police checked those, surely?’

  ‘I suppose so.’ She sounded flustered. ‘I just let them get on with it. I wasn’t there breathing down their neck.’

  ‘Did they check that book for fingerprints?’ she asked. Roudy had said no fingerprints were found, but apparently the police hadn’t found it necessary to read Roncet’s notebooks so they hadn’t exactly been thorough.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Elsa. ‘They gave it back to me in a box with everything else.’

  Magali felt a rush of excitement as the connection, suddenly, was made: they gave it back in a box. She saw again the contents of the box she’d arranged on the table at Charlotte’s flat. The Eric Satie scores which had been on Enzo’s kitchen dresser the night he died.

  ‘What else was in the box, do you remember?’

  ‘Some coffee mugs, a cushion… the newspaper. They didn’t find anything suspicious.’ She seemed to detect Magali’s agitation. ‘What was so special about the book?’

  ‘I don’t know, Elsa. Nothing perhaps. But you’ve been very helpful.’

  ‘You’re not going to write about this? You’re not going to tell Roudy, are you?’

  ‘I promise you, Elsa, if anything ever anything comes of this, I’ll make sure your name is never mentioned.’

  As she said goodbye, Magali was already clicking on the folder of photographs she’d taken at the Terrals’ house. There were over a hundred – she’d snapped away indiscriminately – and she hadn’t looked at them since. But she quickly found the one she wanted. The book on the dining-room table was a Douglas Kennedy thriller to which she’d paid no attention at the time. Who would? The splashes of blood and the footprints were far more compelling clues. But if she was right, the key to the whole affair was a novel lying innocently on the table.

  On its own, though, it said nothing. Only if she found another would it speak.

  She searched through the other photos. To judge from the titles on the shelves, Lucie read more than Michel, but there weren’t that many in any case. And none by Douglas Kennedy. Following the pictures, she worked her way through the house, ending up in the garage. No Douglas Kennedy anywhere.

  It didn’t mean anything, of course. They could have thrown the first copy of the book away. That was quite likely, in fact. Or else it meant she was barking up the wrong tree altogether. Or just plain barking, more like.

  She went back the other way, checking the pictures again just in case. And then she saw what had been there all along, but which suddenly now leapt out at her from the jumble on the bed. It wasn’t a book at all.

  Her whole body tingled with a strange combination of horror and excitement. It became so strong that she had to stand up and breathe deeply as she paced round the room, urging herself to be calm.

  She picked up the phone, then stopped. Vincent would listen to her, of course, and no doubt remind her how much he was in her debt. But then he’d chuckle good-naturedly and compliment her on her imagination. Asking her to help him was one thing, having her demolish his investigation was quite another.

  Balland? She hadn’t heard from him – but then, why should she? He’d simply been kind to her once, let her walk round a crime scene, and now he was busy going after the local riffraff. He might listen too, but his reaction would be more or less the same, minus the compliments and chuckle.

  Who, then, could she tell? The gendarmerie in Sentabour? Hey, boss, got a woman here, batty as they come, claims there’s a serial killer on the loose.

  The tingle faded away as she realised that until she had stronger proof – any proof at all, really – there was nobody.

  ***

  For her birthday, Luc and Sophie gave her an iPad. When she opened it up, there was a photo of her and Luc with an inscription that read, To the best mum in the world.

  ‘Cheesy,’ he said, ‘but true.’

  ‘I don’t deserve this, though. Far too extravagant.’

  ‘It’s time you moved into the modern world. Connected wherever you go.’

  ‘It’s lovely and I’ll use it often, I’m sure. But the only two people in the whole world I need to be connected to are you.’

  ‘Welcome back,’ he murmured as she kissed him.

  He knew, of course, better than anyone where she’d gone – Mummy’s in the doldrums – and was always the first to spot, or even start himself, the breeze that could bring her back.

  ‘A weird one,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll tell you later.’

  ‘There’s another parcel,’ said Sophie, placing it on the table.

  To help you get close to adulterers, rogues and beautiful birds. Charlotte. She unwrapped the box to find not just a telephoto lens but the camera to go with it. ‘Wow! I could be a paparazzo with this! She’s crazy!’

  ‘A measure of her thanks, she said.’

  ‘I don’t know what for. I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘It was just knowing that you cared. She said it made such a difference.’

  ‘It’s funny, Vincent Darlier said that too. Seeing the way I cared actually stopped him resigning. Can you imagine that? But then he’s got a bit of a crush on me.’

  ‘Really? A gendarme?’

  ‘They’re human beings, you know. Just with silly hats.’

  ‘Has he charged the woman yet?’ asked Luc. ‘Brigitte?’

  ‘They detained her but she didn’t confess, which shook him a bit, I think. He’s conferring with the judge to decide what to do next.’

  ‘Why isn’t she confessing? Wouldn’t she get a lighter sentence if she did?’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe she will later. Probably been advised by her lawyer. Wait to see if there’s any weakness in the evidence.’

  ‘And is there?’

  Magali hesitated. ‘I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘A straightforward crime of passion, apparently.’

  Apart from a break to eat and another to run, she’d spent all day writing her assignment for Alain Verney. It ran to over thirty pages – eight times the recommended length. Never before, she supposed, had anyone submitted an assignment that dealt with the deaths of four people at the hands of a serial killer. She didn’t know yet if she would actually send it. Verney might think she was crazy. But he was the only person she could think of to tell.

  ‘If she couldn’t have him herself, then nobody would?’ Sophie screwed up her face. ‘That’s pretty si
ck.’

  ‘Not uncommon, though. Jealousy. One of the commonest reasons people kill.’

  ‘But he wasn’t even seeing someone else – or was he?’

  ‘Not that anyone’s aware of. A pre-emptive strike, as it were.’

  ‘That’s what I mean by sick. If he’d ditched her for someone else…’

  ‘Oh, it’s permissible then, is it?’ said Luc, laughing.

  ‘Absolutely!’ She picked up her knife and waved it in his direction.

  ‘But it happens,’ said Magali. Her mind went back to the patches of blood on the Terrals’ dining-room floor. ‘And a lot sicker things than that can happen as well.’

  ‘So that’s it?’ said Luc. ‘Done and dusted?’

  ‘So it seems.’

  ‘Charlotte must be incredibly relieved. After all this time.’

  Magali remembered it was all supposed to be strictly confidential and she nodded evasively. ‘And this gendarme with a crush,’ said Sophie, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. ‘Worth an investigation?’

  ‘He wishes to accompany me for a walk in the park,’ – she slipped into literary mode – ‘followed, I think, by a visit to the theatre. Should I accept, I shall appraise of his qualities further.’

  ‘We’ll take that as a yes,’ said Luc. ‘Does that mean poor Antoine has blown his chance?’

  ‘Children!’ said Magali sternly. ‘Enough of your curiosity. Now tell me about yourselves.’ She turned to Sophie. ‘What have you been making recently? Any interesting commissions?’

  Sophie glanced across at Luc and grinned. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say it’s entirely of my own making. I had a little help from your son.’

  Both of them laughed as they saw the realisation transform Magali’s face. ‘Well, that’s the best present I could have had,’ said Magali. ‘Congratulations!’

  She raised her glass, basking in the beauty of the scene: one of those moments when everything around you is perfect. She took out the iPad and had the pair of them pose, so right and happy and in love. It was only as she pressed the button that another image burst into her mind; with a sense of trepidation, she looked at the picture she’d taken.

  For God’s sake – get a grip on yourself!