One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  Without any conviction, she Googled the name Philippe Brun. He was best known, she discovered, as a lawyer specialising in workers’ rights, but among the namesakes there was also an expert on lentils, a jazz trumpeter, a horse rider and – she had to smile – a police officer.

  ***

  The next day she invited Antoine for dinner. They hadn’t spoken since he had made what was tantamount to a declaration of love and she couldn’t leave him hanging on indefinitely. They spoke for a while about neutral topics – books, climate change, Antoine’s parents. His father was going blind, he said, but he was fortunate to have his sister, Carole, living close to them in Grenoble. Then after a lull in the conversation, Antoine said, ‘I’m sorry about the other night. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’

  ‘Why on earth not? It’s better to be open.’ She looked at him tenderly. ‘It’s me who should be sorry. I’ve been silent all week.’

  ‘I’ve put you in an awkward spot. I had no right.’

  She placed her hand on his and moved closer to him, smiling. ‘You had every right, Antoine. You’ve been a dear friend to me ever since we met. And there have been times when I looked at you and wondered what was happening, when I’ve been on the brink of saying something myself. But there was something in your manner which prevented me. A little distance, as if… I thought if I did say something, you’d be horrified.’

  ‘And now it’s you that’s horrified.’

  ‘Not at all. I understand now what was holding you back.’ She removed her hand. ‘So you’ve split from… your girlfriend? For good?’

  ‘I wasn’t being fair to her. At first I said it was too soon after Anne’s death. But as time went by I couldn’t keep using that as an excuse. So I told her the truth.’

  ‘You actually mentioned me?’

  ‘Not by name. I just said there was someone else I was attracted to. But she guessed. I told her some time ago about our trip to Mannezon. I was intending to say everything then but in the end I held back. I mean I didn’t specify… how much I liked you. Nothing was actually said about breaking it off. But we had another… explanation yesterday. Whatever happens, I don’t think we’ll be seeing each other again.’ He glanced at her worriedly. ‘You mustn’t let that influence you. It’s entirely my problem, my decision. I just felt it was better that way, whatever you decide yourself.’

  Magali was aware that she ought to say something nice. Sophie was right: Antoine had a fundamental kindness that made you want to treat him well, make sure you didn’t upset him. ‘You know, it’s strange,’ she said. ‘That first time we really spoke, on the walk to Roquefavour, remember? You sounded like everything a woman could ever ask for.’ She paused. She wasn’t saying quite what she’d intended. ‘And then we became friends. It was wonderful.’

  A look of puzzlement came across his face. ‘You mean by that time it was too late? Once bitten, twice shy? But you can dictate whatever terms you want, Magali. I’m not looking to tie you down. It isn’t even a matter of… You don’t have to say anything tonight. I already feel much better just splitting up with Patricia. And telling you my feelings. So you know why I’ve been as I was and that now my circumstances have changed and that whenever you feel like a chat or some companionship or a walk in the countryside together, you can rely on me. It needn’t be any more than that. I’ll be happy just being able to express how genuinely pleased I am to see you, not thinking all the time that I’m upsetting Patricia.’

  Magali reached out and touched his cheek. It was astonishing, she thought, how a man of his age could look, all of a sudden, like a schoolboy. She felt a desire to kiss him – which she instantly repressed. A few days from now she’d be stepping out with a newly sprung Vincent Darlier. To the dither was added a dilemma. Men.

  ‘I’ve been feeling a bit confused lately,’ she said. ‘Obsessed with the Enzo case, the whole detective thing. Sophie’s adorable, it’s not her fault at all, but I wish I’d never let her talk me into putting up that plaque’

  ‘It’s not up now,’ he pointed out. ‘There’s no reason you shouldn’t stop.’

  ‘I know you want me to.’ She couldn’t prevent a sharpness to her voice. ‘But what if I’m right? What if I stop and there’s someone out there planning another murder?’

  ‘I’m sorry. You’ve taken this to heart and it’s all to your credit. I shouldn’t be trying to influence you.’ He bunched his fingers in emphasis. ‘It’s not that I want you stop. I’m simply concerned for your well-being. I see that you’re happiest when you’re painting and this is so different. And I’ve said to myself – now, I hope you won’t take this badly – that if you really want to paint, that’s what you should be doing. And assuming I like them, of course, I’d be more than happy to buy up most of your production.’

  ‘Antoine,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You’re such a darling. My very own sponsor. I know your offer has nothing to do with my artistic merits and everything to do with the kindness of your heart but I’ll bear it in mind, I promise. I can’t take it up right now, though. I need to get my feet back on the ground. I can’t go round pretending to solve murders. I certainly can’t make a living from it. I’m no more an artist than a detective. I’m a supermarket cashier.’ She drew in her breath and sat upright. ‘So I need a little time to think. All these things happening at once. I don’t want to be rushed into anything.’

  Antoine gazed at her as if her words were of such profound wisdom that his life was for ever altered. ‘Of course,’ he murmured. ‘Of course.’

  When he took his leave, they hugged each other outside. She rested her head on his shoulder and they stayed in each other’s arms, close and comfortable, feeling the rightness of it. Then she broke away, whispered, ‘Thank you for everything,’ and ran back inside.

  ***

  She sat at her computer and checked her email. There was a message from Vincent, saying he was about to book two rooms at a hotel in Montpellier for the weekend of the 23rd. If she was still happy with the idea, he’d meet her off the train. She typed, ‘Fine – I look forward to it. I have to be back on the Saturday, so just the Friday night, if that’s all right.’

  She was about to log off when another message popped up on the screen. The sender was madamebook@hotmail.com, the subject purchase feedback. She frowned – what purchase was that? Spam, no doubt, and she almost binned it but decided to check first. You have not evaluated your recent order. Please reply to this email stating if you are dissatisfied.

  It took her a moment to recall what the email was about. Then she remembered the law book she’d received by mistake. She went to get it, browsing through it again as she wondered what to reply. She came across the seller’s card, tucked between two pages, and took it out to study it. No name or address and a signature that was illegible. Whoever sent it either had no business sense or no wish to be identified.

  The email had been sent from an iPhone. Again the sender had not signed off, other than ‘kind regards’. That in itself wasn’t strange: people sometimes assumed their email address in the bar was enough. Except in this case the address was no use at all. A woman, ostensibly, but Magali had no way of knowing who she might be.

  She rubbed her eyes and switched off the computer. Not worth worrying about now. She’d reply in the morning, if at all.

  She flicked through the book again, wondering if there was anything worth reading. She was about to slip the card back inside when she felt a slight difference in the way the pages sped beneath her thumb. Barely noticeable but definite, as if something very fine had been inserted between a couple of pages. She ran through the book again until she found it.

  Nothing had been inserted. It took her a moment to realise what had happened. She stared in horror. Carefully, neatly, a single page had been cut out of the book.

  Chapter 16

  Looking at the book again in the cold light of morning, she understood what had happened. Due to some technical fault, the paper had been truncated. No doubt the sa
me flaw had affected a whole batch, but no one would have noticed it at the printers. As a result, hundreds of students must have wondered what happened and hoped their future wouldn’t depend on summing up page 82.

  Before rejecting the alternative – that the page had been cut out deliberately – she examined the defect closely. The cut was straight and regular, barely a millimetre from the spine of the book. To do that without forcing the book open and making a crease in the spine would be difficult. More importantly, neatness wasn’t Coussikou’s way. He splashed his books with coffee and ink. For whatever reason, he wanted the damage to be seen.

  But how had the book reached her? She’d thrown the envelope away, but the label glued to it had borne her printed name and address. It had to be a mistake. Someone in Dijon had got the idea that she’d ordered it through their website. Amazon it wasn’t – the lack of an invoice or any other document apart from the flimsy card meant that the sender was a small, independent operator. Poorly organised, too, to make a mistake like that.

  Perhaps another student on the course had ordered it. But that didn’t explain how it came to Magali instead. Unless Madame Book had obtained a file of students’ names from the university and got them mixed up when printing out the label. Paid for the names probably. Universities never did that before but in this day and age, any tiny bit of cash was welcome. Magali was indignant but it wasn’t worth raising the issue because she’d never find an actual person responsible.

  Satisfied that she’d found an explanation, she set the book aside and returned to the final draft of her report. What she sent in the end was in two distinct parts. The first was an objective, detailed description of facts, the second an explanation of those same facts from the point of view of the killer. In a brief email to which the file was attached, she apologised to Verney in advance: she was well aware that she hadn’t complied with instructions and would quite understand if he chose not to mark her work at all. But she had good reason for writing it that way and if he so wished, remained at his disposal to discuss them.

  For better or for worse, the words were written and despatched. Just for good measure, she sent it to Yves Balland as well and then, released from dither, she made her way with a spring in her step to the Spar.

  It was late afternoon when the elderly lady, dressed as if for a wedding – fur coat, handbag, gloves and hat – bought a pack of yoghurt and an onion, which she paid for with a fifty-euro note. As Magali counted the change she felt herself being examined, but she got it right and in return received an emphatic ‘Thank you,’ along with a dip of the head and a luminous, if somewhat disturbing smile.

  ‘Now that’s a rare occurrence,’ Retsky muttered. ‘Lucille Daveney. Must be almost a year since she’s been in.’ And he added darkly, ‘They never got over it, her and that fruitcake son of hers.’

  ‘Over what?’ said Magali, her voice rising to a shriek. But another customer was approaching and Retsky moved away.

  Magali whisked the items through and went after him. His mind was on gherkins and it took him a moment to understand what she meant. ‘She had a daughter,’ he said. ‘Poor thing.’ Then he shook his head and returned to the gherkins. ‘It was way before my time.’

  Magali gawped. She felt as foolish as she looked, and it triggered a rush of anger. ‘Can you mind the till for a moment?’ she called. ‘I’ll be right back.’ Before he had time to answer, she was already out of the shop.

  She caught up with Paul’s mother at the corner of the street where she lived. ‘You wanted to see me.’ She stood in front of her, blocking the pavement. ‘Why?’

  Madame Daveney was taken aback for a moment. Then she tilted her head. ‘And so I have. I thought about going to your house but I didn’t dare. So I sneaked a look in the shop. I hope you don’t mind.’

  ‘Not at all. But there’s no need to sneak, you could come to my house any time.’ Magali lifted her blockade and they continued walking together. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’

  ‘Curiosity, my dear, nothing more. Paul’s told me such a lot about you.’

  ‘Yes, he’s told me a lot about you,’ said Magali. ‘Some of it very interesting. But we’re not actually getting anywhere. Not making any real progress.’

  ‘Oh, you surprise me.’ Lucille Daveney sounded almost offended. ‘I think he’s much better.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Brighter, you know, happier. He used to be so gloomy. And he’s much healthier without all those drugs he was on.’

  ‘Drugs? You mean his medication? Has he stopped?’

  ‘He stopped a while ago. So you see, it’s doing him a world of good. I’m very surprised you think otherwise.’

  ‘I told him not to stop the medication,’ said Magali. ‘Maybe one day but not yet. He’s not ready.’

  ‘But I tell you it’s been weeks and he’s been fine. It takes a while to get them out of the system but he’s purer now. All that poison’s gone.’

  ‘He never told me. He knew I’d disapprove. Does his doctor know?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Madame Daveney sniffed. ‘I don’t bother with his doctor. A visit to you is worth a hundred of his doctor’s prescriptions.’

  ‘But it’s not the same. I can’t replace his doctor.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘It’s too soon. There’s so much he hasn’t told me. About his father, for instance.’ She left a brief pause. ‘About his sister.’

  If Lucille Daveney’s step faltered, it was barely noticeable. An instant later she continued, though at a brisker pace than before. ‘They’re dead,’ she said, and a little wave of her hand dismissed them as if, gone from this world, they could no longer be of the slightest relevance to anyone.

  ‘The point of therapy is to dig down into the past.’ Magali found herself having to state the obvious. ‘It isn’t just to pass the time of day.’

  ‘He thinks so highly of you,’ the old woman sighed, coming to a halt in front of her gate. Her gloved fingers lightly brushed Magali’s hand. ‘I’d invite you in…’

  Magali waited for the reason, or the many reasons, she couldn’t, but Paul’s mother let them hang invisible in the dusk. ‘I have to get back to the shop,’ Magali provided. Her anger was gone. Though at one level disappointed not to be ushered further into the mystery, she’d taken a decision.

  ‘Yes,’ said Lucille Daveney, as if that was the reason she’d been trying to remember herself. ‘You’d better run along then.’ She raised a hand in farewell and walked up the path, a tall, shadowy figure returning into the dark.

  A few minutes later, having apologised to a bewildered but forgiving Retsky, she was back in the neon glare, the scanner reading barcodes of tomato sauce and tinned peas and sliced ham and detergent.

  For Paul’s next visit, she removed the picture of flowers from the wall. She wondered if he would notice. Apparently not, or if he did, he didn’t comment on it. She supposed subconsciously he must have noticed, but she couldn’t be sure. No one knew what went on in Paul’s subconscious, least of all Paul himself. He was more agitated than usual, tugging at his bits of string more tightly.

  The picture had been part of her therapy technique and that was why she removed it. She wasn’t a therapist any more.

  Paul spoke about sport. He used to be good at basketball, but once he had forgotten that half-time had taken place and he ran the wrong way with the ball, wondering why nobody stopped him as he raced to the other end.

  After the basketball story, he was silent for a while. Then he started on another story about flowers. His mother had made him do flower arrangements and he won a prize at a local show but he felt ashamed because only girls arranged flowers.

  Magali nodded encouragingly. Had the missing picture unlocked a chain of memories, ramifying into sexual confusion and inadequacy? But then with barely a pause, he quoted at length the letter his mother had written to the UN Secretary-General. ‘Pesticides,’ he concluded, ‘are a crime against humani
ty.’

  In the silence that followed, Magali intervened. ‘That’s interesting, Paul. You know what you’ve said so far today tells me? That we’ve gone as far as we can.’

  There was a long pause as he grappled, unsuccessfully, to understand. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that we’re not going to get any further with these sessions. You’ve told me as much as you’re ready to. For the moment at least. The stories are different but they never say anything new. Unless we go beyond them, I’m taking your money for nothing. I can’t do that.’

  He stared at her, wide-eyed. ‘You mean you’re stopping?’

  ‘You were supposed to tell me about your father, remember? You said you would but you haven’t. You had a sister too but you’ve never mentioned her. Would you like to talk about her now?’

  She let two minutes go by. How long, she wondered, would a real therapist wait? Two hours? Two months? Or perhaps they knew the right things to say, a few well-chosen words precisely timed to zoom right in and crack the secrets open. However they did it, their bag of tricks must contain something other than empathy, because empathy wasn’t working.

  Paul’s nostrils flared. A wild expression came over him. ‘It’s only ever been about you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Pretending to listen, pretending to care. You’ve never given a shit!’ On the last word his voice rose to a shout and he got to his feet, fingers twitching uncontrollably. He looked round the room and his gaze fell upon the statue from Borneo. He seized it and came towards her, arm raised.

  Magali slowly backed away, her eyes never leaving his. She reached the door and opened it. ‘I know this is difficult for you. But I’m asking you to be reasonable, think it over for yourself. This is for your own good, it’s because I want you to get better.’ It wasn’t empathy, it was bullshit, but now she was getting a glimpse of his subconscious and she knew she had to keep talking. ‘Give it a couple of weeks. You need to start taking your medication again and come back to me when you’re calmer. Think about whether our sessions are serving a purpose, whether what you’ve been paying has been worth it. Everyone likes to be listened to, you know. But therapy has to be more than just talking. You have to dig deep, and it’s not always easy. You’ve made progress, certainly. But we’ve reached a point now where you’re treading on the spot. Maybe there’s a barrier up ahead, I don’t know. That’s for you to determine. My role – and my duty – is simply to tell you what I see.’