To her credit, Rousseau was thoroughly decent about it all. She could have laid into him, run to the press and spouted all manner of hogwash – they’d have lapped it up. But she’d been more inclined to hide. The way she behaved, you’d think she’d done nothing at all. She even defended Darlier, though heaven knows, there was precious little there worth defending. Yves suspected there’d been something going on between them, but even if there was, he doubted it was the reason she stuck up for him. It was just the way she was. Do all the slog and then take none of the glory.
That was the strange thing about her. She was cheeky, stubborn, infuriating, bolshie – basically an almighty pain in the ass – but at the same time remarkably humble. Her one redeeming feature. It was why he’d agreed to take her for her internship. He’d been reluctant at first, but then he thought that if she was serious about it, she needed to learn how it was done. And on the whole, she learned well. He’d been afraid she’d be full of herself, one of those dreadful women who think the only way to prove themselves is to be abominably feisty, but she turned out to be sensible. Most of the time, anyway. Still got a bee in her bonnet every so often, but generally ended up deferring to his better judgement.
‘A good sport,’ he’d told Maryse – a word hardly used these days, but it summed Rousseau up exactly. ‘Just needs to be kept in hand and she’ll do all right.’
‘I hope she realises how lucky she is to have you to keep her in hand,’ Maryse observed drily.
Yves declined to answer. Maryse could be a little caustic at times.
‘In fact,’ she continued, ‘now that she’s been trained so well, she’d surely make a very good personal assistant.’
Yves decided it was time for his first cigarette of the day. Till then he was grumpy at the best of times; Maryse winding him up was the last thing he needed. Retorting with an inarticulate grunt, he poured himself another cup and stepped outside. Behind him, Maryse broke into a cough as she cleared the breakfast table. A smoker’s cough like his own, though she didn’t smoke. Something else he’d shared with her. Generous to a fault. ‘Work with Rousseau again?’ he called through the door. ‘When hell freezes over! And get that cough of yours seen to, I’ve told you before!’
He didn’t smoke the cigarette. He held it between his fingers and stroked it, slid its smoothness beneath his nostrils, letting his fingers play with it.
He looked out over the garden. It was the last day of summer, overcast and chilly, disagreeable as his mood. How long before this craving ceased? He held the Gitane in front of his eyes and practised hating it. He was in the middle of this exercise when his phone rang.
He didn’t recognize the number and he answered with a bad-tempered, ‘Yes?’ Who the hell was calling him at this hour?
‘Yves? It’s Magali Rousseau.’
He let a couple of seconds pass. The garden, he noticed, was quite spruce at this time of year. In a softer voice, he said again, ‘Yes?’
‘There’s something I’d like you to look into. If you’ve got a moment, that is.’
‘Aren’t you on holiday? Indian Ocean or somewhere?’
‘Yes. We’re in Mayotte right now. Charlotte and I. But something’s cropped up. I need your help.’
‘Not out there, I hope.’ He only had a hazy notion of where Mayotte was. Too far was all he knew.
‘No, out here’s covered. It won’t take you long, I promise.’
Yves brought up the day’s schedule in his mind: three meetings, two reports to write, a new raft of anti-terrorism measures to implement. Not a minute to himself today, tomorrow, ever.
He held the cigarette to his nostrils again, the anticipation spreading through his body. He smiled. ‘Let’s hear it, then,’ he said.
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Perfume Island
If you’d like to read more about Magali and Charlotte, how about Perfume Island?
People come out here, they do things they wouldn’t do back home…
All they wanted was a quiet evening together. Then came the phone call. And a chain of events which would take Magali Rousseau into the sinister heart of the tropical island of Mayotte. Where a gloss of beauty hides a tangle of contradictions and fears. Where the scent of perfume covers the stench of poverty. And where Magali goes on a perilous search for the truth.
In 2011, Mayotte became France’s 101st department. Generosity? Or the cynical occupation of a colony? Perfume Island – a mystery story where the setting itself is a mystery. A geopolitical oddity seething with tension. A wonderland waiting to explode.
And everyone is paying the price.
Read the beginning of Perfume Island.
Chapter 1
Not enough oil. And the knife’s too small. Damn!
Tossing the knife aside, Magali slid her fingers into the gash and pulled. With a sound of creaking leather, the two halves of jackfruit came apart. She set to work with the knife again, jabbing at the core to prise it away. Meeting resistance, she grabbed and tugged, ripping out chunks the size of golf balls. Bits of it clung to her fingers, covered her hands in slime. She poured on more oil, rubbed them together. The slime turned into a slippery, viscous syrup. She sighed, wiping the sweat from her forehead with her arm.
Not a good idea, this. What had she been thinking? Still, at least they’d have a laugh when she told Charlotte.
Where is she, anyway? Should be back by now.
She stepped out onto the balcony. Here and there in the puddles of light from the rare, feeble street lamps, gaggles of youths were wandering moodily about, gesticulating and shouting. On the market square where she’d bought the fruit, a couple of men, urged on by supporters, appeared to be spoiling for a fight. Magali’s breath quickened. She ought to ring Charlotte, tell her to be careful. The riot still wasn’t over.
Unless they’d already got her. Stopped the car and dragged her out and… No, don’t be silly. They wouldn’t do that to a tourist.
She went back in, tore off a strip of kitchen roll, and wiped her hands. It made little difference. She was rubbing and scraping, wanting to giggle, inclined to groan, when the phone rang.
‘Charlotte?’ Gingerly, she held it between the tips of her fingers.
‘Just to let you know I’m on my way. Shouldn’t be long.’
Magali let out a quiet sigh. ‘How was it? Did you find everything?’
‘Mmm. Took me a while to find the mozzie coils. But the supermarket was fine. Still not a lot of choice, but more than Sofidep. A bit pricey, though. How about you? Feeling better?’
‘Yes, it seems to be easing.’ An attack of cystitis she’d overplayed in order to do the cooking. ‘I went out, actually. Thought I’d get something special for dinner.’
‘Special? What for?’
‘Do you know what day it is? Anniversary?’
‘Um... Your divorce?’
‘Not far off,’ she said with a laugh. ‘You and I met a year ago today.’
‘Wow! That’s nice. Nice of you to remember.’
‘Well, it changed my life quite a bit. To put it mildly.’
‘Mine too.’ A couple of seconds passed. ‘So what’s on the menu?’
‘Fish curry. Skipjack.’ There was so much more that could have been said, but then, she thought, they’d have time over dinner. Twelve unforgettable months. ‘And there was going to be jackfruit but I’m afraid it’s got the better of me.’
‘You mean you actually bought one? Whole?’
‘Yeah, I went overboard a bit. Thought it’d last the whole holiday if I freeze it. But right now it’s staring up at me like something out of Ali
en. And emitting this musty smell that stinks out the whole flat.’
‘We’ll do it together when I get back,’ Charlotte said. Then muttered an expletive. ‘God, this road’s dodgy!’
‘Take care when you get into town. There’s some sort of riot going on. Nothing serious, or at least... It’s got a bit quieter now but there are still some men roaming around. Or boys.’
‘Really? I didn’t notice anything.’
‘Not when you left, no. It started after. Just a demonstration, but then it got out of hand. You know they had that festival or whatever before we arrived? Well, someone –’
A sudden thud, a shriek of surprise. A succession of crunching and cracking, followed by another thud.
Then silence.
‘Charlotte!’
No answer.
‘Charlotte? What happened? Are you all right? Charlotte!’
A few seconds of crackle. The line went dead.
She’d gone off the road. There was no other explanation. She was in a ditch somewhere, maybe the car had turned over.
No, not a ditch, just the verge. She’s all right. Maybe a little concussed, she’ll ring any moment.
Several minutes passed. Magali called the number a dozen times. Nothing. She paced the room, phone in hand, whimpering. Finally reached a decision. Rather confront a horde of Muslims in a frenzy than stay here stupidly staring at her phone, waiting for a call that never came.
She drew down the blinds, shut all the windows, hid the laptops in the cavity behind the washing machine. Even in the midst of panic, the procedure had to be followed. And then, half sobbing, she was outside. Lost. Alone. 5000 miles from home. Running about in the dark, telephone stuck to her hand, useless. No one to call, no one to come to her help. The world reduced to this seething pit of hostility.
No. Calm down, get a grip. You’re not alone if you speak the language. This is France for God’s sake! The people are friendly.
That, at any rate, was what she’d been led to believe. Except they weren’t. Not now. She’d been in the country – no, France – just two days and the way things were going, if they spotted her, they wouldn’t help her, they’d lynch her.
She needed a car. A taxi. Where are they? God damn it! Where are the bloody taxis?
Any car. Just stop the first that comes along and ask the driver... what? My friend’s in trouble, please can you help? I need you to drive me...
Where? She had no idea. Up the road. There was only one. Charlotte was on it, she had to be. Somewhere.
A car came up the street, picking her out in the headlights. Magali cautiously raised a hand, the driver slowed as he passed, staring. Her hand dropped back to her side.
Alone. Scared.
Outside the Sofidep supermarket, she dithered. Walk up to the road above the town? There’d surely be cars passing there. Or down to the centre? She’d seen a couple of police vans by the mosque. Too busy to help her? Are you mad? Can’t you see we’ve got a riot on our hands?
But the road above was dark and uninviting. She chose the centre, striding down the street and taking a right above the market square. Then she turned towards the mosque. She was halfway down the street when a group of youths appeared at the other end, brandishing sticks. Looking for a reason to use them. Car windows? Already done that. Let’s find someone to kill!
For a moment, they were as surprised as she was. What the fuck? A mzungu woman here on her own? One of them saw her phone, took a step towards her.
Magali turned and fled.
At the corner of the street, she looked back. They hadn’t bothered to follow. She heard the sound of shattering glass and a cheer went up in the still, warm air of the evening.
Magali hurried back up the road to the flat. Were the neighbours in now? They’d know what to do, they’d help, that was the spirit here. We’re all in this together. But just as before, when she rang the bell there came no answer. Five other flats, every one of them empty. Where were they all? Sheltering in the Nyora, no doubt, the mzungu watering hole, the only place in town that could be called a restaurant. Sensible enough – safety in numbers. Unless the Muslims decided to storm it. Smash the bar to bits, butcher the infidels.
She clutched her phone, scratched at the glue on the screen. It clung to her fingers, got under her nails, wrapped itself round her brain. For the umpteenth time, she tapped the number. The same, desolate succession of beeps came to taunt her.
The anniversary. The day she opened her door and Charlotte was there, desperate and bereft. Since you’re a private detective, I’d like you to find the person who killed my son. Oh, yes, how her life had changed!
Magali stood in the corridor, biting her lip, head bowed.
A ravine. Upside down. She can’t get out. Broken bones, bleeding. Dead.
She went back outside. She was approaching the Sofidep junction when a car came towards her. Followed by another. And another.
She hesitated. Stepped out into the road. Waved.
A gasp of relief as she recognised the driver: he lived in the flat over the landing. White, friendly, concerned. Young wife beside him in the car.
‘Look, I’m awfully sorry but my friend’s had an accident. I need to go out and find her, I’ve had no news, her car must have –’
‘Of course,’ said the neighbour. No second thoughts. Solidarity. ‘But where?’
‘She was coming back from –’ The phone came to life in her hand. ‘Wait a minute!’ She jabbed the screen. ‘Charlotte!’ A rush of relief. ‘What happened? Are you OK?’
‘I’m... Yes, I’m fine, it’s just... Oh, hell, Magali!’
‘What’s the matter? What happened?’
‘I hit a girl and...’ Charlotte’s voice was concentrated misery. ‘She’s dead!’
Chapter 2
‘Unfortunate.’ Benjamin Malo’s assessment made him, in Magali’s view, a master of understatement. Mild, almost dreamy, he rocked back and forth in a large black chair behind his desk, looking as if he’d rather be somewhere else. Swimming in the lagoon, no doubt. His slim build and smooth, tanned features appeared to be made for snorkelling, not sitting at a computer recording details of a death. ‘Let’s hope it doesn’t make matters any worse,’ he muttered, more for his own benefit than theirs. ‘Things are awkward enough as they are.’ He meant the riot, though it wasn’t referred to as such. On the news that morning, they called it ‘a disturbance.’
Malo, absent-mindedly chewing a fingernail, wasn’t expecting an answer, so Magali didn’t say what came to mind: If you wanted a cushy job, how about car-park attendant? The crisply dressed officer in front of them was a captain in the Gendarmerie Nationale.
On the other hand, when you looked out of his window, you could sympathise. Lush vegetation, sparkling blue lagoon, a band of turquoise in the distance where the sea met the coral reef. Here they were in paradise and everything was going belly-up.
Paradise, to be exact, was Mayotte. 150 square miles of tropical island, a little dot in the Indian Ocean that was, since 2011, a French department. Hounda, where Magali and Charlotte were staying, was a small, normally sleepy town on the west coast. Hardly a magnet for tourists – in this part of the world, the major player was Mauritius. But Magali had suggested it might be an interesting place for a couple of weeks or so, and a friend of hers, Pierre, had kindly lent them his flat so they thought, why not? They hadn’t arrived, as some tourists do, completely ignorant of the challenges facing the island, on the contrary. As soon as they decided, Charlotte began to research: Mayotte, a geopolitical oddity, could make for a good documentary. Even so they’d been surprised by the atmosphere. An undercurrent of tension, an edginess in the air, as if beneath the somnolence it wouldn’t take much for paradise to explode. Which, as the riot proved, it didn’t.
And now, on top of it all, an imbecile of a mzungu woman had gone and killed a local.
Perched on the edge of her chair, hair all over the place, Charlotte was far from her normal impeccable self. The
eyes especially. She’d been up all night, first at the scene of the accident, then back at the flat, unable to sleep, staring out from the balcony at a flat, moonlit sea. The eyes were harrowed by guilt.
Now was the moment of reckoning. Confession. Those few seconds of horror transposed into a stark, indelible statement. Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. Unable to face the ordeal alone, she’d asked Magali to come with her. Malo, putting them both at ease, said by all means, she was welcome.
‘I’ve drawn up a statement which pretty much covers it.’ Malo studied the screen, made a couple of amendments before setting the printer in motion. ‘You were under stress when you spoke last night to Lieutenants Dabrowski and Bonisset. So I want to make sure you agree with what’s written. At this stage it’s just an account of the facts.’
‘I see,’ said Charlotte, then looked up fearfully. ‘And later?’
‘If it goes to trial, you mean? You’ll have a lawyer putting a spin on them. My job is to make sure we agree upon the facts.’
‘If? You mean it might not?’
‘We don’t know the victim’s identity yet. Whether there’s a family somewhere. Whether they’ll want to press charges.’
Magali leant forward. ‘Why wouldn’t they?’
‘We don’t know who she was but one thing I can say is she was illegal.’ He arched his eyebrows: You get my meaning?
They did. Mayotte now was a part of France in the same way as Normandy or Alsace. Therefore part of the European Union. Fully half of the population were illegal immigrants from neighbouring Comoros. Get a foothold in Mayotte and you’re bound for Eldorado. Unless, that is, the authorities send you back. Fear of which was a strong incentive to keep a low profile.
‘It doesn’t mean they won’t. Or even stoke up trouble. As you saw with yesterday’s disturbance, a situation can flare up any time.’ He gazed at her steadily. His eyes were the colour of the lagoon. ‘We must do all we can to prevent that.’
One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1) Page 31
