by Peter May
She scratched the cat under its chin, ignoring Enzo’s jibe. Whatever thoughts they had provoked, she wasn’t about to divulge them. The cat stretched its head back, eyes closed. “Killian himself would have made an interesting subject. The immigrant who sees his heritage as a stain on his new nationality. A Pole who wanted to be more English than the English, and when he couldn’t quite achieve it for himself, invested all the time and effort in his son. He turned Peter into the archetypal Englishman, baptised in the Church of England, sent to public school.”
Enzo chuckled. “And educated at a Scottish university.”
“I don’t think Adam Killian saw any difference. Only the Scots see themselves as different from the English. To the rest of the world British, English, Scottish, it’s all same thing.” She cocked an eyebrow and tilted her head, expecting a challenge. When none came, she just shrugged. “Anyway, Adam made sure that no one would ever know that Peter’s roots couldn’t be traced all the way back to the Norman conquest. They played word games together when Peter was still a boy. All designed to expand his vocabulary, provide him with an unassailable grasp of the language, mould him into the Englishman Adam had always aspired to be.” She gazed thoughtfully off into the middle distance. “Jane’s tragedy was that she lost them both within a few weeks of each other. No sooner had she found her family than she lost it.” She looked up. “A little like you, I suppose, with Pascale.”
Enzo nodded. The thought had not escaped him.
The cat stretched and stood up, before stepping gingerly on to the desk top and looking cautiously at Enzo from a safe distance.
“And what did any of it matter? That search for an identity, a nationality. With both of them dead, the family line ended there.” She paused. “Just as mine will end with me, unless I have a child. I guess that’s the thing about being the daughter of adoptive parents. With no surviving blood relatives that I know of, I feel a certain responsibility. A certain reluctance to let my passing be the end of a whole thread of human history. But that is a decision I have yet to make.” She examined Enzo in the cold, harsh light of Adam Killian’s study. “Not a problem for you, of course. With two daughters that we know of, and God knows how many other progeny that we don’t.”
Air exploded from Enzo’s lips in exasperation. “That’s completely unfair, Charlotte. I’ve made mistakes in my life, sure. Who hasn’t? But I’m not the one who’s kept our relationship at arm’s length. And I’m certainly not going to walk away from the responsibility of our child.”
Charlotte ran the flat of her hand back over the cat’s head, following the curve of the spine to its tail. “Maybe. But I’ll tell you this. Whether or not I have the baby is a decision I will be making on my own.”
And Enzo felt a chilling sense of finality in this.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The landscape through which he had trudged in the dark looked very different in the sunshine of the following morning. Picture postcard clouds, like tufts of cotton wool, tumbled across a watercolour wash of pale blue, and the insipid yellow November sunshine brought the warmth of the south with it on the edge of a brisk wind.
The mechanic from Coconut’s said little as he navigated his Land Rover among clusters of cottages, winding through rolling countryside toward the flat, open clifftops of the southern elevation. Before leaving the garage he had listened to Enzo’s tale of tyre-slashing vandalism with an ill-concealed scepticism, passing thoughtful eyes back and forth over the Scotsman’s bruised and battered face. Whatever he believed, he merely muttered oaths and imprecations. Then he threw four spare wheels in the back of the Land Rover.
They would, he said, have to report this to the gendarmes, and Enzo’s insurance would be picking up the tab.
In the parking area at the Trou de l’enfer, the mechanic examined each of the tyres and shook his head in disbelief. “Never saw anything like it,” he said. “Not here, not on the island. It could only have been an incomer that did this, monsieur.”
“You’ve been here a long time, then?”
“All my life.”
“Always worked at Coconut’s?”
His laugh was sour. “No, monsieur. I used to have my own garage in Port Tudy. Service and repair. It was a good going business until that damned trial.” He opened his tool box and prepared to start jacking up the jeep.
Enzo frowned. “The Kerjean trial?”
“Damned defence lawyer destroyed my reputation, monsieur. And those customers that gave evidence, claiming my work was substandard? Lying bastards! All with axes to grind. But it’s hard to keep a business going in a place this size when folk spread those kind of stories about you. It was in all the newspapers, and on the telly.”
And Enzo realised that this was Michel Locqueneux, the mechanic who had serviced Kerjean’s car the day before the murder. “So what did you really think, then, of Kerjean’s story about his car breaking down?”
Locqueneux shifted his focus away from the wheel nuts he was loosening to cast a withering look in Enzo’s direction. “He was a damned liar! There was nothing wrong with that car. If he’d really had a problem, why didn’t he call me? Kerjean’s not the sort to let something like that go.”
“He claimed to have fixed it himself.”
“Hah! Kerjean couldn’t change a wheel on a toy motor, monsieur, and I doubt if he’s ever lifted the hood of a car in his life. Except maybe to top up the wash-wipe. He might be good with words, but he doesn’t know the first thing about cars.” He pulled off the front nearside wheel, and it rolled away a couple of meters before toppling over.
“You didn’t say anything about that in court.”
“No one asked me, monsieur. The procureur was an idiot, and the defence lawyer was too busy trying to make me look like one.”
Enzo watched, then, in thoughtful silence as Michel Locqueneux changed all four wheels, stewing in his own bitter memories. When, at last, he was finished, Enzo said, “Kerjean still lives in Locmaria, doesn’t he?”
“More’s the pity. There’s not a soul on this island who wouldn’t have liked to see the back of him eighteen years ago.”
“Except for a certain number of ladies, I gather.”
Locqueneux curled his lips in distaste. “God knows why. Must be some kind of animal attraction he has. Because that’s what he is, monsieur. An animal.”
***
Locmaria was built around a sandy bay on the southeast corner of the island, a jumble of fishermen’s cottages tumbling down the hill to the beach and a handful of houses that looked out over the water toward the harbour wall and a rocky promontory beyond.
Enzo parked opposite Le Bateau Ivre, which translated literally as the drunken boat, a pub whose darkened windows were filled with strange papier mâché pantomime characters. Captain Hook. Puss’n’Boots. He peered through the glazed panels of the door and saw a young man moving around inside behind the bar. He pushed at the door and it scraped and rattled as it juddered open. A bell rang.
“Sorry, monsieur. We’re closed.” The young man was sweeping out.
“I’m looking for Thibaud Kerjean’s house.”
The man paused mid sweep and peered at Enzo. If he recognised him, he made no sign of it. “And what would you be wanting with a man like that?”
“A little chat.”
“Pfff.” The young man exhaled through lips pressed against his front teeth. “You’re more likely to get a mouthful.”
“I take it this is his local watering hole?”
“It would be, monsieur. Except that he’s barred. He does his drinking in Le Bourg.”
“So where will I find his house?”
“Take the road around the east side of the bay, monsieur. There’s a row of cottages facing the water. Kerjean’s is the stone-faced house with the well in the front garden.”
Numerous small sailing vessels and fishing boats were moored out in the still waters of the bay, whitewashed cottages on the
rise above the rocks along the west side, the sea beyond glinting like cut crystal in the low-angled sunlight. Enzo walked past several cottages facing west across the bay, stopping finally at the dry stone wall that bounded the garden of a neat, stone-faced cottage with a cobbled courtyard and a circular stone well sunk in its centre. A battered green Citroën Jumper van sat out in the courtyard. White shutters were opened on the windows and two sets of portes-fenêtres. The three dormers in the roof were all shuttered over.
Enzo walked to the front door where a black anchor hung on the wall. He breathed deeply, summoning resolve and determination, and pulled the rope on an old ship’s bell bolted to the stonework. The peal of it rang sharply out across the bay, startling a line of seagulls on the quayside. There was no sound, or sign of life from within. He rang the bell again. More vigourously this time. It was more than possible that Kerjean was still sleeping off whatever excesses he might have indulged in the night before.
Finally, he saw a movement behind the glass, and the door swung open. Kerjean looked bad in the cold light of day which revealed a sickly pallor and deep shadows beneath his eyes. Silvered stubble covered his face, and his hair was a bird’s nest of tangled, greasy curls. He wore a flannelette robe, and his bare feet drew the cold from a stone-flagged floor. He squinted at Enzo from behind puffy eyes.
“What the fuck do you want?”
“A word.” Enzo heard the tightness in his own voice.
Kerjean stared at Enzo for a long time, conducting some internal debate. At length he said, “You look like shit.”
“So do you.”
And for the first time, Enzo saw a smile light Kerjean’s face. The man whom everyone believed had murdered Killian let the door swing open and he turned away into the interior without a word. Enzo followed him into a large, square kitchen. Next to the door was a window that would flood the room with pink light at sunset. Opposite, a panelled glass door led out to an east-facing terrace. A long table sat in the centre of the room. A wood-burning Raeburn stove was set against the north wall, while cupboards and cabinets lined the others, shelves cluttered with jars and glasses and crockery. A little residual warmth emanated from the stove, and the table was littered with half a dozen empty beer bottles and the congealed debris of the previous night’s meal.
Enzo closed the door behind him. Kerjean found a pack of cigarettes on the table and lit one. He turned toward the Scotsman. “So what word do you want, exactly?”
Enzo glared at him, barely able to hide his anger. “You bastard!”
Kerjean stood his ground and smirked. “That’s two words. And I’ve heard them before.”
“You nearly killed me last night.”
“I saved your God-damned life, for what it’s worth.”
“You don’t deny it, then?”
“Why should I? It’s just you and me here and now. Your word against mine.”
“Why did you do it?”
“Why did I do what?”
“Save my life.”
“Contrary to popular opinion, monsieur, I am not a killer. But in spite of all my warnings, you’d been nosing around asking about me, poking your nose into the past. So I decided it was time to rough you up a bit, provide a little incentive to send you on your way.” He chuckled. “But I didn’t expect you to go throwing yourself into the Trou de l’enfer.”
Enzo’s anger rose up through him almost from his feet. A sudden, unstoppable surge of it, fuelled by a furious rush of adrenalin. Kerjean never saw the big fist that swung at him out of the gloom until it hit him square on the side of the head, sending him crashing across the kitchen table. His legs buckled and he toppled on to a chair, and then to the floor.
Enzo heard the sound of Kerjean’s head striking hard, unyielding stone, but in that moment he was more concerned with the pain in his hand. Sharp, stabbing, all-consuming. He called out involuntarily and clasped and unclasped his fist, waving it around, as if it might be possible to shake away the pain. For a moment, he feared he had broken bones, and was relieved to find that all his fingers could still move. He rubbed the palm of his left hand soothingly over knuckles that were already beginning to swell.
Kerjean was stunned, pulling himself first to his knees, then steadying himself with a hand on the table as he swayed from side to side, blood trickling from a split cheek and a gash on the opposite temple. He shook his head and growled. A deep, feral growl that rose up from his diaphragm, and Enzo was reminded of Michel Locqueneux’s description of him as an animal. Kerjean dragged himself to his feet and turned murderous eyes on Enzo.
Enzo faced him down, breathing hard, heart pounding, fist aching, but clenched once more, ready to strike again in spite of the pain. Perhaps it was something he saw in Enzo’s eyes, a determination to stand his ground no matter the consequences, that extinguished the fire in Kerjean. He was ten years younger than Enzo, and still fit despite his drinking. Had he chosen to make a brawl of it, he would almost certainly have come out on top. Instead, he went almost limp, all the tension draining from him, and he stooped to pick up his cigarette from where it had fallen on the floor.
“I suppose maybe I deserved that,” he said, and he drew a deep lungful of smoke, touching his fingertips to his cheek, feeling the blood and then looking at it on them.
Enzo saw the change of body language and relaxed a little. But he was still tense, and still hurting. “For God’s sake, man, why don’t you just tell me where you were the night of the murder?”
Kerjean flicked him a surly glance. “You must know the story by now.”
“Only the one you told at the trial. But your car was running perfectly, Kerjean, and you’re no mechanic. So why wasn’t it sitting out there the night that Killian was murdered.” He tipped his head toward the door, and the courtyard beyond.
Kerjean stared at the stone flags, taking several long drags at his cigarette, before crossing to a cupboard and lifting out a bottle of Islay malt and two glasses. He banged the glasses on the table and filled them both. Then he lifted one and held it out to Enzo.
Enzo hesitated. Much as he enjoyed a glass of good Islay whisky, it was only just after ten in the morning, and this much whisky could ruin the rest of the day. But it felt that he was on the point of a breakthrough here, and he didn’t want to let it slip through his fingers. He lifted the glass. “Slainthe.”
“Yec’hed mat.”
Both men sipped at the pale liquid in silence.
Kerjean ran his tongue over dried lips, savouring the taste of it. “I love that smoky, peaty taste of the island whiskies. It’s like drinking the earth itself. It connects you to the ground that feeds you.”
Enzo nodded, saying nothing, waiting for Kerjean to speak. And even as he looked at him he saw, for the first time, beyond the image that the world had of him. There was a strangely attractive quality about his eyes, and the line of the jaw. Even the way he held himself. A kind of dignity, not yet entirely excoriated by the drink.
“I was with someone who shouldn’t have been with me.” His voice sounded slightly hoarse, as if reluctant to give up the secret it had held for so long.
“A woman?”
Kerjean pursed his lips and cast Enzo a look. “What do you think?”
“But you’d only just broken up with Arzhela Montin.”
Kerjean took another mouthful of whisky, and swilled it around his gums. “I can’t help it, monsieur, that women find me attractive. Or, at least, used to. When I was younger. And sober.” He paused. “Arzhela was gone.”
“Why didn’t you tell that to the police?”
Kerjean sucked in more whisky, followed by more smoke, and turned dead eyes on his visitor. “I might be many things, monsieur, but I would never betray a woman’s trust.”
“Even if it meant going to prison?”
“Even if it had meant that.” He held Enzo steady in his gaze, almost as if challenging the Scotsman to contradict him.
“Then it’
s a pity the women in your life didn’t show the same loyalty to you.”
Kerjean frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You always believed that it was Killian who told Montin about you and his wife. It wasn’t.”
In the nearly sixty seconds of silence that followed, Enzo became aware for the first time of the slow tick, tock of an old grandfather clock in the corner of the room. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Because I know who told him.”
“Who?”
Enzo took another sip of his whisky. “Tell you what, Monsieur Kerjean. You tell me who you were with that night, and I’ll tell you who told Montin about you and Arzhela.”
Kerjean drained his glass and put it on the table to refill it. He waved the bottle toward Enzo. “Another?”
Enzo had barely drunk half of his. He shook his head.
Kerjean raised his own to his lips and took another large mouthful. Then he turned his gaze back toward Enzo. “No,” he said. It was a simple, and very final, statement.
Enzo placed his glass carefully on the table. “In that case, as far as I’m concerned you stay right in the frame for Killian’s murder, Kerjean. Until, or unless, I find out different.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Doctor Jacques Gassman’s cottage stood at the end of a long, narrow, pot-holed road that cut through the banks of gorse and broom that smothered the moor between Quéhello and the sea. Its freshly whitewashed walls contrasted sharply against the crisp, clean blue of the ocean beyond. The shadows of clouds passed across the moor like riderless horses, and Enzo saw smoke whipped away from Gassman’s chimney top by the stiff sea breeze.
As he parked at the side of the house and stepped out into the freshening sou’westerly, he smelled the wood smoke. The bitter sweet smell of oak, not dissimilar to the smell of the peat they burned in the Scottish northwest.
He went around to the front garden, pushing open a rickety green gate, and knocked on the door. They was no response. He knocked again, and saw the doctor’s Range Rover parked in the shelter of a lean-to on the far side of the house. So the old boy was at home. He tried the door handle and found that the door was not locked. He pushed it open, and leaned in to a gloomy living room with a staircase at the far side. Several doors led off from it. The only one that was open revealed a tiny kitchen, sunlight streaming into it from a south-facing window.
