One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  Magali launched herself across the room and slammed into the back of the killer’s legs, toppling him on to the settee. ‘Run!’ she yelled, but Sophie was groaning on the floor, and the killer, twisting round and wriggling off the settee, lashed out at Magali with the knife. She sprang back and ran towards the hall but the coffee table was out of position and she went flying over it and landed awkwardly on her side. She scrambled to her knees and crawled towards the door. She’d almost reached it when the killer fell on top of her, his arm round her waist, and she felt the knife pierce the side of her ribs. He rolled off her to strike again but her weight was pinning his arm to the floor and in the time it took him to break free, Sophie was there, raining blows with the poker.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  The question was screamed at whoever was there, at the crazy situation around him, at whatever had made such a mess of his life. It was screamed by Paul Daveney.

  What was he doing here? Come to kill her? Or kill himself in front of her?

  ‘Paul, be careful, he’s here, he’s armed!’

  Sophie tugged at her arm. ‘Come on!’

  Magali managed to get to her feet and they made it into the hall. She turned the bolt and was opening the door when there came a violent blow to her back and she tipped sideways into Sophie and the pair of them fell to the floor, sprawled among the broken glass of the picture. Behind them she heard the grunts and gasps of fighting, then a cry of pain from Paul. Then the flash of a torch and a shot rang out and she didn’t know what was happening any more. Did Paul have a gun? Had he shot himself?

  Sophie was the first to her feet and she tried to drag Magali away, but all Magali could see was the killer above her again, ready to bring down the knife. She pushed with her feet, sliding backwards along the hall, and her fingers closed on a piece of glass which she waved in front of her as the killer, a silhouette against the pale orange glow from the street, turned towards the light approaching from the sitting room.

  ‘Magali?’

  The familiar voice was asking not where she was but if she was still alive.

  ‘Vincent!’ she answered, closing her eyes with relief as the killer, throwing the knife to the floor, leapt down the steps and vanished into the night.

  A moment later he was at her side, cradling her head in his hands. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I think so.’ She twisted round to look for Sophie. She was crouched against the wall, sobbing, shaking, moaning, but unharmed.

  ‘You’re bleeding.’ Vincent shone the torch on Magali’s wound and let out a hiss of concern. He helped her to her feet. ‘You need to rest. I’ll call an ambulance.’

  They went back into the sitting room. As Vincent got out his phone, he said, ‘Well, at least he’s done for. At last.’ And the beam of light sliced across the room and settled on the crumpled body of Paul.

  Chapter 34

  ‘See that? That’s old. That’s more than a million years old.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A dinosaur egg. There used to be lots of dinosaurs round here.’

  ‘You mean there’s a baby dinosaur inside?’

  ‘Not any more. There used to be.’

  ‘But it’s hard. It’s like a stone.’

  ‘Now it’s a stone but that’s because it’s so old. A million years ago it was an egg. With a real baby dinosaur inside.’

  Elodie was impressed. That’s what he loved about her. One of the many things he loved about her. She was so easy to impress. She listened to him and trusted him and believed everything he said.

  ‘What happened to it?’ she asked.

  ‘Nobody knows. It never got born for some reason.’ He looked away and murmured, ‘Sometimes it’s better that way.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Elodie.

  ‘Maybe if that dinosaur had been born it would have grown up into something terrible.’

  ‘All dinosaurs are terrible.’

  ‘Not all of them. Some are nice. They just eat grass and stuff.’

  This went against what Elodie knew. ‘But they’re monsters. They run after other animals and eat them.’

  ‘Some do. But some are nice, like I said.’

  ‘So how do they choose?’

  ‘How do they choose what?’

  ‘If they want to be nasty or nice.’

  ‘Oh… I don’t think they do. They’re just born that way. That’s why it’s sometimes just as well not to be born.’

  Elodie considered this for a while. ‘You mean everyone’s born nice or nasty? We don’t decide?’

  ‘Sometimes it’s difficult.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘To decide. Sometimes we don’t really know if we’re nice or nasty. Sometimes we want to be nice and we end up nasty.’

  ‘Everyone I know is nice. Does that mean I’m lucky?’

  ‘Even at school? Everyone’s nice?’

  ‘Not everyone. Lucie’s not nice.’

  ‘Lucie?’ He saw the young woman’s body on the floor.

  ‘She threw her crayon at me. We’re not friends any more.’

  ‘Why did she do that?’

  Elodie shrugged elaborately. ‘She’s not nice.’

  ‘Well… I don’t know. Maybe you ought to give her another chance. Maybe she was just in a bad mood.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘I think Lucie’s probably very nice.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Elodie didn’t seem convinced. ‘She’s not as nice as Sarah. Or Camille.’

  ‘Well, it’s difficult to be nice all the time.’

  ‘But you are. So’s Mummy. Most of the time.’

  ‘Not all of the time?’

  ‘Sometimes she gets angry. If I’m naughty. But you never get angry.’

  ‘No. Because you’re too nice. I can’t.’

  ‘Sometimes I’m naughty.’

  ‘Not really. I don’t think you’re ever really naughty.’

  ‘Mummy thinks I am. Sometimes.’

  ‘That’s because she’s Mummy.’

  ‘Sometimes she doesn’t love me.’

  ‘She does, Elodie. She loves you. She loves you as much as a mother can and even more.’

  ‘But sometimes she shouts at me and she doesn’t love me then.’

  ‘She loves you. But sometimes being a mother means telling you not to do things that are wrong.’

  ‘Why don’t you ever tell me not to do things that are wrong?’

  ‘I’m not a good father. I ought to but it’s difficult. I love you too much. Marion loves you just enough. She’s a good mother. She’s perfect.’

  Elodie frowned. ‘How can you love someone too much?’

  ‘That’s a difficult question. I don’t know,’ said David. ‘Actually, I don’t think you can.’

  ***

  The three of them went into town. It was Saturday afternoon and the streets were crowded with Christmas shoppers. Marion bought a brown felt hat for her father and a handbag for her mother. David bought a CD. Then they went to a tea shop and Elodie had some chocolate cake and gave him a spoonful to taste. When they came out it was getting dark and the Christmas lights were on. They strolled around for a while till Elodie said she was cold, then they went back home. Marion curled up on the settee and Elodie lay on the floor, reading The Little Red Hen. David put on the CD he’d bought, Purcell’s Sweeter than Roses. Marion said it was beautiful and asked him where he’d first heard it. He said he’d heard it on the radio.

  It was three days after the shooting at Rousseau’s house and he still hadn’t been arrested. Franck had spent a night at the police station but the only charge they could stick on him was trespassing. When he told David about it, he made it sound like a joke, boasting about the improbable story he’d made up to explain his presence at the house. The fuzz did all they could to break him down, short of physically beating him, then suddenly they lost interest. Franck didn’t make the connection with the rumpus at Rousseau’s house, he just thought he’d got the better of them.
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  Captain Darlier’s killing of Paul Daveney made the national news. He was suspended from his duties and an official enquiry was launched. David expected to see Rousseau on television, but apart from an interview in La Provence, she stayed out of the limelight, letting Commander Marty do the explaining. A coordinated effort was under way, he said, to find the man who’d killed at least six people.

  David made a stew with barley and pork and tomatoes, Elodie’s favourite supper. He left it to simmer and went into the sitting room where Marion and Elodie were reading. He watched them silently for a while, then announced that he was going to the shop to get some sparkling water.

  When he stepped outside, he felt sad but not immeasurably so. He was rather surprised about that, disappointed really that he didn’t feel sadder, but perhaps he’d done all the crying he could and now it was simply a matter of getting it over with.

  Each step he took as he walked to the garage left behind a puddle of blood which dried like wax, preserving a perfect footprint. From behind closed shutters, the people of Orange gathered to watch him pass. Never before had he been so visible but the person they saw was the wrong one. They should have seen the luckiest man alive, father and husband blessed by the purity of love. But they nudged each other and pointed. ‘David Sollen,’ they said. ‘Who would have thought it? The killer.’

  He stood in the garage, the gun heavy in his hand, imagining how it would be. Once, out of curiosity, he’d gone into a field and fired a bullet into the trunk of a tree, making a small, neat hole. But a soft, warm body was very different, and it makes a terrible mess.

  He closed his eyes, picturing them first as they’d been when he left the flat, then as the mess they were going to become. That in itself wasn’t difficult – he knew very well what sort of mess it was. But between the two images lay a precise sequence of events that his mind was unable to picture.

  He tightened his jaws, forcing himself to concentrate. It would have to be Marion first. He’d call her into the bedroom asking her to look at something he’d put on the bed, and before she had time to be puzzled or ask him why, he’d step behind her and pull the trigger. Then he’d walk quickly out of the room and do the same to Elodie. He’d have to look at the floor all the time, make sure he didn’t see into their eyes. If he was successful in that, it might just be possible.

  He put the gun in his pocket and strode back to the flat, head down, shoulders hunched, as if battling into a gale. He opened the door of the flat and went into the kitchen. The smell of the stew was good and he wanted Elodie to have some, but he knew that if he waited, he wouldn’t be able to do it. He went into the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, wondering what excuse he could use to call Marion.

  Anything – what did it matter? The first item of clothing that came to hand.

  Except that it did matter, it mattered terribly, because it would be the last thing she ever saw. And he realised now that he should have decided in the garage, because each second that passed as he stood in front of the wardrobe, all the clothes merging into a blur, made it more difficult.

  His eyes fell upon the jeans. The special, precious pair of jeans that had brought the two of them together. He reached out a hand and stroked the fabric. He screwed up his eyes and gripped the wardrobe door to steady himself. His stomach heaved and a surge of vomit rose in his throat. He went to sit on the bed, gasping for air.

  ‘Mmm, looks delicious,’ Marion said from the kitchen. ‘I’ll lay the table, OK?’

  She wasn’t expecting an answer but after a couple of seconds he managed to call back, ‘Fine.’

  He’d wanted them never to know. Spare them the horror of discovering who he was. But now it was too late and he had no right in any case because it wasn’t them he was sparing, it was himself. Because they, perhaps, could live with it but how could he? The bewilderment in their eyes, later turning to hatred – how could he ever face that?

  He put the gun to his mouth. The taste of metal spread its coldness over his tongue and its hardness tapped his teeth. A long time ago, his mother brought him a lollipop. He could smell her perfume as she knelt beside him. The lollipop tasted good.

  And if one green bottle should accidentally – ‘It’s ready, Daddy! Are you coming?’

  Even as a single, shuddering sob racked his body, the sweetness of her voice made him smile. How could she ever come to terms with such a gap in her life? How could he ever leave her?

  He’d never try to explain, never expect forgiveness. She’d grow up hurt and confused, always having to struggle with the stigma and the shame. But at least he’d be there for her to visit or not visit, to love in spite of everything, or to hate.

  He went into the kitchen and sat at the table and stared straight ahead. Marion turned towards him, features creased in concern. ‘David, are you all right?’

  He looked from one to the other, smiling through his infinite sadness. ‘I never made it to ten.’

  Elodie looked at him worriedly. Smart as she was, she could see there was something wrong with his smile. ‘Ten what, Daddy?’

  Epilogue

  Reclining in loungers by a hotel pool in Mauritius – after ten days trekking the steep volcanic slopes of La Réunion, Magali and Charlotte were blowing the proceeds from the sale of Enzo’s house in style. Magali was now a qualified private research agent, having carried out an internship with Yves Balland, passed her exams and received her diploma in person from Alain Verney. She was also, as Charlotte delighted in reminding her, a grandmother.

  ‘Pass us the sun cream, Gran. Don’t want to get all wrinkly.’

  ‘Have you looked at yourself lately?’ Magali countered. ‘I think a visit to Dickhead is in order.’

  ‘That’ll be the day. Though never say never, I suppose.’ Charlotte let out a contented sigh, gazing out over the pool and, beyond it, the palm-lined beach. ‘You know, I very much like this way of spending Pierre’s money,’ she said, referring to the man who had been her husband. ‘And at least he was good at making it. In all other respects he was a complete arsehole.’

  ‘Dickhead and arsehole. Might have got on well together.’

  Charlotte let out a brief, bawdy chuckle, then became serious. ‘It’s as if it’s tainted, you know? Almost like a curse. So the quicker it’s gone, the better. I’d like to get rid of it all before the trial.’

  Magali sat up, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked across at Charlotte. ‘Are you dreading it?’ she asked.

  ‘I’ll manage. I’ll have to.’ Charlotte gave a little shrug. ‘But yes, to be honest, I am.’

  They were silent for a while. Then Magali said, ‘I could hardly believe it when he said he was going to defend himself. Marty reckons it’s because he doesn’t actually want to put up a defence.’

  ‘It can hardly make much of a difference. He’s bound to get the maximum sentence anyway.’

  ‘Probably. But a skilled defence lawyer could come up with all sorts of stuff. So it might make things easier for you, I don’t know. He refuses to claim he’s mad or a psychopath or whatever so...’ She shook her head. ‘I still have trouble getting my mind around it.’

  ‘I suppose if nothing else you’ll get a clearer idea of who he is but... Right now I can’t summon much interest in that. Maybe when the time comes, I will.’

  Magali didn’t answer. It was the first time Charlotte had brought up the topic of the trial, and she took it as a sign that gradually she was bracing herself to look Enzo’s killer in the face – this time in the knowledge of who he was. So far she herself had only seen photographs of him, his expression gentler, if anything, than in the portrait she’d drawn based on Charlotte’s description. Balland had met him though, and he’d said that in his view, David Sollen was ninety-nine percent normal. He just happened to let the other one per cent get the better of him.

  Magali was unconvinced, but she didn’t bother to argue the point. Throughout the internship, Balland had lost no opportunity to put her down, constantly remindin
g her who was boss. Strangely enough, though, she was never irritated because he managed at the same time to make it clear that he respected her.

  The same, she discovered, could not be said of Balland’s relationship with Vincent. Initially, in fact, Balland had thought that Vincent had sent her to Royan to trap him. When he told her this, Magali’s astonishment caused him to grin. ‘We worked together up north a few years back. He had his sights set on the Alps – keen on skiing, did he tell you that? When it came to writing a report on him, I was honest, which is basically why he ended up in Padignac.’

  ‘Honest?’ said Magali. ‘I’d like to read it.’

  ‘Confidential – didn’t they teach you that in Nîmes? But if you haven’t already figured it out yourself, he’s manipulative and impulsive – should never have joined the force in the first place.’

  ‘So why did you let me into the house? Why even agree for me to come?’

  ‘Curiosity. Wanted to know what trick he was trying to pull.’

  ‘Except that he wasn’t. He was genuinely trying to help me.’

  ‘Indeed?’ Balland didn’t elaborate, but the smile playing on his lips said it all.

  ‘Well, at least it wasn’t a trap,’ she said crossly. ‘Whatever his motives were, at least I was trying to help.’

  ‘Which you did very effectively,’ he conceded. ‘But whether he thought you would is a different matter. But still, it’s neither here nor there now compared to Daveney. An episode which proves, I think, that my judgement of him was correct.’

  ***

  Paul Daveney, then, had become ‘an episode’, at least in the eyes of the police, whose internal enquiry concluded that Vincent had acted in legitimate self-defence. Magali cast no judgement herself – if she’d had a gun, she thought, she’d have been so terrified she’d surely have been blasting away in all directions. But for all the differences in their lives and deaths, Paul now sat along with Antoine, heavy upon her conscience.