One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1)

by Curtis Bausse

  The psychotherapy plaque came down, Carole Pessini dropped her charge and the media, Krief and Roudy foremost among them, hailed her fortitude and skills. Magali, in reaction, beat herself up more harshly: she’d been the cause of two men’s deaths, Antoine’s as much as Paul’s, both of them falling victim to her obsession, and it made little difference in the end that she’d been right.

  Paul was buried on a grey December afternoon with barely a dozen mourners in attendance. Recalling the hostility at Antoine’s funeral, Magali was reluctant to approach Lucille Daveney, but when she did, the old woman, patting her hand warmly, drew her aside. ‘A terrible end to a difficult life. But you did your best, my dear, I’m sure of that.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Magali. ‘But I’m afraid my best wasn’t good enough. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not your fault if the police run around playing cowboys and Indians all the time. Nor even if Paul came to see you in the first place – that was me. But then,’ she added with a melancholy sigh, ‘I suppose I wasn’t to know that he would become enamoured of you in quite the way he did.’

  Magali imagined mother and son discussing her over dinner, and wondered what words of encouragement Lucille had offered. She couldn’t blame her – Paul, presumably, edited his accounts, presenting fantasy as fact, and omitting to say, for example, that he’d taken the key from beneath Toupie’s bowl, made a duplicate, and was in the habit of sneaking in and lying on Magali’s bed.

  ‘I think in future I’ll stick to detective work,’ she said. ‘I’m out of my depth with therapy.’

  ‘Really?’ Lucille appeared to find this almost amusing. ‘I always thought it was rather simple.’

  ‘Delving into people’s unconscious? I don’t think so.’

  ‘But I said to Paul there’s nothing to hide. I was very surprised, you know, to learn that he’d never told you about Yvonne.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘His sister. But then he was only three when it happened so perhaps he didn’t remember. On the other hand, you’d think it would be difficult to forget something like that.’

  The other mourners had left and Luc and Sophie were waiting patiently by the car. ‘Like what, Madame Daveney? She died as a child, I gather.’

  ‘Killed. By her father. An awful business.’ Lucille Daveney turned her face to the sky for a moment, then began to walk briskly out of the churchyard. ‘Paul was the one who found her, which of course upset him terribly. So really, my dear, it should have been very simple – but then, if he didn’t tell you, you could hardly be expected to guess. I suspect he thought that if he did, it would all be over too quickly and he wouldn’t see you again.’

  ‘But...’ Magali shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Did you ever speak to him about it? Did you tell him exactly what happened?’

  ‘Oh, no, why on earth would I do that? It was distressing enough as it was for a boy his age.’ Lucille Daveney looked at Magali as if to say, what kind of therapist are you? Then she gave a brief nod and walked away down the road, muttering something which Magali didn’t catch.

  ***

  ‘I’m going in.’ Charlotte closed her book and stood up. She took a few steps towards the hotel, then came back and knelt close to Magali. Hunching lower, she kissed her, then rested her face against hers. ‘See you in the room?’ she whispered.

  Magali smiled. ‘Be there in a minute.’

  But she lingered a while longer, gazing out over the sea as she reflected upon the extraordinary direction her life had taken since Xavier walked out on her. All things considered, she thought, she had a lot to thank him for.

  A man walked by on the beach, his skimpy swimming trunks showing off his physique, from afar reminding her of Vincent. He’d called her just once since the night he’d come to her rescue, and he’d sounded sick with despair. Magali had tried to think of something to make him feel better but she couldn’t.

  The man on the beach turned and saw her looking at him. For a moment their eyes met, creating a contact across the distance between them. Then Magali stooped to gather her towel and went in to join Charlotte.

  Dear Reader

  Thank you for your interest in this book. I’d be very grateful if you could share your honest opinion of it by writing a review on Amazon.com. For authors whose books are not reviewed in the mainstream press, Amazon reviews are a crucial way of getting noticed. Your comments will be highly valued. Please follow this link to write brief a review. There’s no obligation to go into detail – a couple of lines can suffice. Thank you!

  One Green Bottle was initially published in 2015 by Meizius Publishing. This new edition contains previously unpublished bonus material in the form of the short text that follows, By The Light Of Day.

  By The Light Of Day

  ‘They let you in on your own? Isn’t Mummy with you?’

  ‘She’s outside.’

  She means outside the room. A few yards away. But if she doesn’t come in, she’s outside everything. The prison, his future, his life. That’s what the locks are for. They put you in to keep you out. Sight and mind. For the good of all. And for good.

  Prettier than ever. Hair in a mess and gap-toothed grin. ‘Did the tooth fairy come?’ Of course he did. Or she. Whatever. ‘Spoilt you, I bet. Good on you.’

  She knows what it is to be bad. Hit other kids and get told off and be made to say you’re sorry. What she doesn’t understand is why. Not why it’s bad but why he did it. But then, how could she? Nobody else can either.

  She is seven. And he loves her more than ever because she keeps on loving him.

  The explanation. A search for words to say what can’t be said. Not because they’ll upset her, though they will, but because the right words don’t exist. What he needs to describe keeps moving out of the way. Like when you try to remove a speck from a glass of water and it slips away from the spoon. Then hangs there immobile till you try again.

  It isn’t a condition. Love doesn’t come with strings attached. Or maybe it does – that’s just something they say. Marion used to claim she could never love a man who wore white socks.

  ‘I’ll love you if you tell me. If you help me understand. Will you do that, Daddy? Please?’

  That’s all. Help her. He just has to try, make the effort. He doesn’t have to succeed. But what’s the point of trying if you don’t? If you know before you start that you can’t.

  A deep breath. Several. ‘I’m bad.’

  ‘No, you’re not. You’ve always been good to me.’

  ‘That’s because you’re special. You’re my daughter.’

  ‘Why are you bad to other people?’ Her eyes will be reproachful, as if all he’s done is say a naughty word, and if only he’d been more careful he wouldn’t be here.

  He could say he was two different people and sometimes the bad one pushed the good one aside and did something awful before the good one could stop him. It isn’t entirely wrong. Once it was there, the little seed of temptation grew into something terrible, but he didn’t notice the seed arrive and by the time he became aware of it, the roots were already deep. Yes, he could say that to her because that was what it felt like. Something that settled upon him and found a tiny crack and wriggled its way inside.

  But that’s the easy way out. If he wants, he can let the psychiatrists believe it too. They test and probe and pull him apart to see where the seed came from, and it wouldn’t be hard so say it floated down from outside. But everywhere there are seeds and they only take root if the soil is right. Who else but he could have nourished it? Who else but he could have given it room to sprout?

  The image is wrong in any case. He no more has seeds drifting into his brain than he hears voices. All he has are thoughts which he makes himself. Not just the plans but the tiny speck that became the idea. Lead us not into temptation. Wrong, all wrong. There’s no God and no Satan, no one to do the leading, no place to be led to. There’s only a self, a brain that is his alone, muscles and limbs he orders to move in
certain ways, carry out the plans he devised, give him the pleasure he craved.

  His mouth will be dry and his heartbeat quick. But still he’ll force himself to say it. ‘Because I like it.’

  She’ll struggle with that, just as he does himself. ‘Why?’

  It goes round in circles. The things that he says to himself and to her and what she can understand of it all and the love that is now more confused. But in the end her way out will be to cling to his love for her, the single solid certainty she has. ‘Always,’ he’ll say. ‘For as long as I live. You’re special. You’re my daughter.’

  Elodie’s eyes light up and he carries her smile back to the cell and the warmth of it keeps him going through the long cold corridor of time.

  But then the visits stop. She’ll be a teenager, fourteen or so, maybe younger. The age of reason and understanding, weighing abstractions, determining truths. Somewhere inside, her love will be there, but its glimmer feeble, smothered by realisation. The full extent of the pain he caused, the viciousness of his evil. That word again! It keeps coming back though he doesn’t want it, nor the demons that come with it. But no other word does as well, and she’ll fall back on it too, throughout her glum and solitary years, when her only hope will be to forget him if she is going to be normal. She’ll make up another truth to wear, something easy, comfortable to slip into whenever needed. He died or went away, she has no memory of a father at all. He is an absence she neither misses nor is curious about. The gangrened limb she cut off to live her life.

  One day, when he’s almost given up hoping, she’ll be back. Same old space, same table and chair, and he the same as ever, the passage of years visible only in the lines and flesh and greyness of his face. But she will be there resplendent, a grown woman now, splash of bounteous joy, tall and proud and beautiful. What will she be? An actress? Quite possibly – she has the looks and the talent, and Marion will have taken her into that world. But she’s smart as well. Could be a lawyer – why not? Yes, a human rights lawyer, helping to make the world a better place.

  ‘I’ve understood,’ she’ll say as she holds his hand. ‘Not the part that’s out of reach, that I’ll never be able to understand, but I’ve understood that you’re part of me, and I can’t deny it and neither do I want to.’

  And then they’ll talk of other things, because the look in her eyes and the feel of her hand will be enough to say all there is to be said, and only when she leaves, and he holds her tight in the briefly permitted embrace, will he thank her for coming and whisper that he loves her.

  To which she’ll reply with a tiny nod, letting him know that she knows. And she’ll walk away before she cries, go back outside where the sun will be shining on the fullness of her life. And he will return to his cell, knowing she’ll visit again, knowing that she accepts who both of them are, and the bond will never be broken. And David at last will be happy.

  Is that the way it will really be? He has no idea. But as he awaits his trial, he knows that whatever happens he is where he will be forever. And watching his daughter grow up, each fantasy visit a pill of his own fabrication, is the only freedom he has.

  ***

  I’ve interviewed the defendant twice. Each time, my main purpose was not to assess his mental state but to get a full account of his actions leading up to and including the murder of Michel and Lucie Terral. I provide below the transcript of the interview extract most relevant to your request. As to my own view, I stress that I have no training in criminal psychology, but since you ask for my opinion, I will say that I see no grounds for any judgement that would remove or diminish his penal responsibility. Though I understand that his words are not necessarily to be taken at face value, this is a point on which he insists himself. Why did you do it?

  I’m not mad, if that’s what you think.

  Answer the question, please.

  (Silence) I enjoyed it.

  In what way?

  Not actually doing it. Not the act itself. Afterwards. It felt good, peaceful. Powerful, too, I felt very powerful. Doing something hardly anyone does. But the main thing was peace. At first, anyway. It got less each time and that was upsetting. I wanted to get it finished, get back to a normal life.

  Get what finished?

  The whole thing. Get to ten and it would be over. I only got to nine.

  You wanted to get to ten? Why ten?

  A round number. It’s satisfying. (Singing softly in English) Ten green bottles hanging on the wall… You know that song? I learned it at school.

  I asked him then to give me the names of his victims, fearing there might be some we didn’t know about. But the figure nine included the Terrals’ unborn baby as well as Denis Treboulay, although that one, he firmly maintained, was an accident.

  And you think you would have stopped at ten? Even though you enjoyed doing it?

  I don’t know. I’ll never know now. But I think so. I didn’t enjoy it at the end. I just wanted the last bottle to fall.

  You kept on even though it was unpleasant? Just to get to ten?

  You think I’m mad, don’t you?

  That’s not for me to judge. There’ll be psychiatrists for that. Why do you say you’re not?

  Nutters don’t know what they’re doing. They hear voices. God, the devil, whatever. I don’t get voices. I’m me. I’m in control all the time. (Silence) At the beginning, maybe… Not voices, but I felt close to god. Like I said, peaceful. I think the universe is a very peaceful place.

  The universe?

  I don’t believe in god, to be honest. It just felt that way. For a while.

  And then it got unpleasant. In what way?

  I don’t like blood. Hurting other people. (Silence). I don’t like killing them.

  You mean you felt bad about it? Remorse?

  (Long silence). Remorse… Maybe. It was tough on them, I suppose. But they asked for it. They complained.

  About what you sent them, you mean? The Terrals complained about the purse?

  Yes. (A brief laugh). So it wasn’t as if I was choosing them at random. Just for the hell of it. I’m not saying they deserved it but… Some complain and some don’t. They chose themselves.

  And Rousseau? What did she complain about?

  She didn’t, not to me. But I’ll bet she complained to everyone else. About my very existence. (Silence) She was right.

  How do you mean?

  The world would be a better place without me. If this was America, I’d be on death row.

  You think you deserve to die?

  No. (Short silence). I think I should never have been born.

  The rest of the interview concerned the preparations he undertook prior to the murder of the Terrals. As reported by my colleagues involved in the other cases, these were meticulous, complex and thorough.

  My conclusion, which I will state at the trial, is that at the time of the offense, neither his discernment nor the control of his actions was affected by any form of mental disorder. In fact I believe his clarity of thought at the time of the offence was not only intact but enhanced by the urgency of the situation.

  Another possible condition for a finding of abolition of discernment may be causal, i.e. a direct and exclusive relationship between the offence and a pathological mental state. While I leave it to you as psychiatrists to decide on that, I see no evidence of it myself. While the defendant’s deep-seated motivations remain unclear to me, he appears to have undertaken his preparations in full knowledge of the atrociousness of his acts. While this in itself may point to a form of pathology, I can only state what I believe, namely that David Sollen was, and remains, both morally and legally responsible for what he did.

  ***

  ‘What do I make of it? I’m a nitwit, that’s what.’

  ‘Well, well! The first time you’ve admitted as much in thirty-six years. Wonders never cease.’

  Yves Balland shared many things with his wife. Including a sense of humour, a love that grew stronger the older they got, and the convi
ction that he wasn’t, and never had been, a nitwit. All the same, it would have been nice not to be shown up by a rank amateur like Rousseau. As far as self-esteem went, he was perfectly well-endowed, but still it had taken a bruising which he wasn’t about to forget.

  ‘A fluke, mind you,’ he said to Maryse as he poured out the coffee. ‘She goes to three different crime scenes and lets her imagination rip. “It’s the same killer!” Rookie stuff. No one would bet a cent on it. If she was that good, she’d have spotted Fourlin too. And Treboulay. She missed them entirely. Huh!’

  He hadn’t put it in quite the same way, but Yves’s account to the commission set up to enquire into the investigation’s failings had delivered more or less the same message. The focus of the enquiry was on SALVAC – software based on the FBI’s Violent Crime Analysis Program, designed to identify possible links between crimes committed far apart, both in time and geographically. But SALVAC was only as good as the staff that operated it, who in turn depended on the information they received. Nothing had been transmitted about Roncet or Treboulay, while the Perle report had been ridiculously brief. At least Yves’s report had been thorough. But when you’re looking for a local burglar, you don’t run a search through a national serial killer database.

  ‘Not even,’ he was asked, ‘when Madame Rousseau put her theory to you? It didn’t strike you as worthy of consideration?’

  He remembered well. The seafood platter in Narbonne, the smoothness and aroma of the Chablis Grand Cru, and Rousseau getting hot under the collar. Had he been guilty of not taking her seriously? Perhaps he’d teased her a little.

  ‘I asked her to come and explain it. So I did consider it, of course.’ He didn’t add that dining with Rousseau was a more pleasant prospect than sitting in a restaurant on his own. ‘At that point, it was little more than conjecture. Imaginative, but nothing solid behind it.’