‘And did they say what they were doing here?’
‘Just passing through. Lovely country. A driving holiday, they said.’
‘And they paid cash?’
‘Had to. No cards here.’
‘And how did they spend their days?’
‘Out first thing. Back in the evening. Didn’t see much of them.’
‘They had a car?’
‘Black it was. Or maybe dark blue. German, I think. One of those Beetles.’ The dough was dealt with, floured in her hands, its top criss-crossed with a kitchen knife and then laid on a tray. The first of a batch. Madame hauled out another fistful from a bowl and slammed it down on the table, sprinkled flour over it and set to work, pushing in the heels of her hands, grinding down with her knuckles.
‘Registration?’ he asked, hopefully.
‘Didn’t look. No reason,’ she replied.
‘Old or new?’
‘Not new. Looked like it had done some travelling.’
‘Any dents, scratches, stickers?’
Madame Archant shook her head.
‘They have much baggage?’
‘One case. Between them. There was probably more. In the car,’ said Madame, huffing and puffing over her dough.
‘What makes you think there was more in the car?’
‘I saw it, didn’t I? In the back seat. Bags. Like carrier-bags. Stuffed down behind the front seats. Messy, it was. Maps for their driving holiday, food wrappers. Blankets too, and a couple of pillows. Like they might have camped in it.’
Jacquot nodded to himself; camping out certainly seemed an option.
Madame glanced across the table at him.
‘So? What have they done? Bank robbers? Murderers? What are you after them for?’
‘To help with an investigation,’ replied Jacquot.
Madame grunted, laid a second boule on the tray, sliced its top and reached for more dough. There was, Jacquot felt, a sense of disappointment in that grunt, either because she wasn’t likely to get more information, or because her two lady guests weren’t in the kind of trouble she felt they deserved.
‘Dites-moi. Did you know they were sisters?’
‘Sisters?’ Madame said the word as though it didn’t come anywhere close to describing the two women who’d stayed in her house. ‘If you say so, but . . .’
‘But?’
‘They were so different. The way they looked, the way they behaved . . .’
Jacquot took this in, seemed to consider it. Then, getting up from his chair, he gave a small stretch, as though working his back, and leant against the mantle. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, Madame Archant, I get the feeling you didn’t much care for them, the two ladies.’
Madame let her breath hiss through her teeth, as much from her rolling and pounding as from obvious disapproval. Jacquot was right; he’d touched a nerve. He looked out of the window. Her husband was bent over his trestle, sawing steadily, elbow and shoulder powering up and down. His shirt was off and he was clearly a tough, well-built man a little younger than Jacquot. The branch he was sawing was quickly despatched and another reached for. The son, eighteen or nineteen, a good-looking lad with a tanned face, equally strong frame and mop of brown hair, helped him position the new wood on the trestle, then set about stacking what had already been sawed.
Had the husband done something he shouldn’t have? wondered Jacquot.
But he was wrong. It wasn’t the husband, it was the son.
‘She should have known better,’ began Madame Archant, stiff with indignation. ‘The younger one, that is. It’s just not the way to behave. Took advantage, she did. My age, too, or thereabouts. Old enough to be his mother.’
‘She was . . . friendly with your son?’
‘Friendly! I’ll say. Jean caught them at it. In the barn. The second night! They were booked for three nights. But that was it. Gave them notice at breakfast.’
‘How did they react?’
‘The younger one, she couldn’t give a damn. Just gave a simpering little smile.’
‘And her sister?’
‘Not amused. Face set like stone.’
‘And you don’t know where they were heading?’
‘No idea. And good riddance.’
‘Would you mind if I spoke to your son?’
‘Not much point,’ said Madame, wiping her hands after the last boule, picking up the tray and heading for the oven. ‘Deaf and dumb, he is. Now you know. Just took advantage, she did.’
Back on the road, heading back to Cavaillon, Jacquot felt a strange elation, and knew that it had not been an entirely wasted trip. He might not have acquired much hard information – really nothing more than confirmation of what they’d already established – but he knew there was more to it than that. The sudden proximity to the killers that Madame Archant had provided him with was cause for excitement. He had met someone who knew them, who had seen them, who had had them staying in their house. And through Madame’s unguarded, possibly pointed, comments he had also established a sense of their characters, the kind of women they were. He felt he was beginning to get to know these Manichella sisters – Marita, the elder, and Marina. The way they looked. The way they behaved. So much more than he’d got from the photos. And the differences between them:
The elder – cool, sensible, focused. Probably the one in charge.
And the younger one – flighty, nervy, ruled by her emotions, careless of the impression she made.
They were polar opposites – two competely different characters.
And he was getting closer to them now. He was on their trail. And that pleased him.
But it wasn’t over.
When he got back to headquarters, there was Brunet fresh from his cycling holiday in Corsica, tanned and glowing, with a look on his face that Jacquot recognised.
‘Another confirmation,’ he said, when Jacquot strode into the squad room.
‘When? Where?’
‘April.’
‘And . . . ?’
‘Le Mas Bleu.’
47
GUNNAR LARSSON WAS TALKING TO three guests in the hall of Le Mas Bleu when Jacquot and Brunet came up the hotel’s front steps and through the front door. When he spotted them, Larsson made his excuses and came over to greet them. He was as tall as Jacquot but half the size – cadaverous was the word that sprang to mind when Jacquot shook his hand. Just the merest flick and he could easily have swung the man over his shoulder, like a bag of brittle kindling. But for all his thinness, his skeletal frame and skull-like features, his voice was a deep unexpected growl that sounded like someone else was speaking.
With the pleasantries over, coffee offered and declined, Larsson showed them through to the salon, where Jacquot got down to business.
‘My assistant tells me you recognised the photos we sent you. The two women.’
‘Of course. From our opening party. The beginning of April. It was Clément who recognised them.’
‘They were invited?’ For a moment Jacquot imagined their names on a guest list beside a contact number. But he knew that was unlikely. He was right.
‘At the time we assumed so. But there were so many people here . . . it was mayhem.’
‘So you didn’t know them?’
‘We sent out three hundred invitations, Chief Inspector. Most of those went to friends, but others were sent to magazines, newspaper editors. So that we could pull in some publicity. You know the sort of thing . . . A number of journalists – whom we didn’t necessarily recognise – turned up and introduced themselves. These two women were with them. One had a notebook, the other had a camera. We just assumed . . .’
‘So you actually met them? Talked to them?’
Gunnar smiled uncertainly. ‘En effet, I showed them around the hotel. There was a group of them – wanting a quick peek at the rooms. So, of course, I laid on a little tour. We had no guests staying, it was easy.’
‘And who did they say they worked for? Did they have
a business card?’
Gunnar looked uncomfortable, as though he had somehow contributed to the tragedy through his carelessness.
‘I really don’t remember. It was just, you know . . . the camera, the notebook; like any other journalists. Maybe they said the name of a magazine or newspaper, but I cannot recall. We were simply being good hosts. In our business, at an opening, you don’t want to appear unfriendly, especially to journalists.’
‘So how come you remember these two particularly? Was it something they said? Or did?’
Gunnar hesitated, gave a low chuckling little laugh, as though what he was about to say might sound rather silly.
‘I remember . . . I remember they had dirty fingernails. It was the first thing Clément said, the following day. “Did you see their fingernails?” And I told him I had. We couldn’t believe it. I mean, when you write for Sud, or Boutique, or Vogue, or Elle or the other big titles, you don’t have dirty fingernails. Not Lifestyle writers. It just doesn’t happen. And their hands. Big, strong hands . . . real workers’ hands, country hands . . .’ Gunnar started to shake his head. ‘There was just something about them. Not quite right. But you don’t think about it at the time. You have guests, it is a party. And there is also a job to do. Promoting the hotel . . . So many people to talk to, Clément and I. And the staff to keep on their toes . . . the food, the wine.’ He sighed.
‘On this tour of the hotel, did either of the women ask any questions? Take any notes?’
Gunnar shook his head.
‘I’m sorry, Chief Inspector. When we saw the photos last night, we recognised them immediately. And remembered the fingernails. But that is all.’
‘Please don’t worry, Monsieur. You have been very helpful.’ Jacquot got to his feet. ‘One last thing. Did the woman with the camera take a lot of pictures?’
Gunnar gave it some thought.
‘Yes, she did. Which, come to think of it, is also strange. She was just taking snaps – nothing you could really publish to accompany a magazine or newspaper story. Like the camera was a toy, something to play with. And not what you would call a professional’s camera.’
‘Did any of the other journalists have cameras?’
‘No, they didn’t. They’re the ones who write the story – a glass in one hand, a note-book or tape recorder in the other. The photographer usually comes later. Or they ask for a press pack which comes with a selection of transparencies.’
‘Do you remember if she photographed anything in particular?’
‘Poufff. Just strange things – doorhandles, windows, the floor. Sometimes it was like she was doing it for fun, to tease or annoy us. Her colleague wasn’t pleased either. Gave her a look, if I remember.’
On the way back to the office, Jacquot and Brunet played it between them.
‘So they find out where the Gilberts are spending their first night at least a month before the wedding. How do they do that?’ asked Brunet.
‘If they hung around Madame Tapis’ pharmacie in Coustellet they’d have found out soon enough,’ said Jacquot. ‘Local gossip, something overheard in a local bar or café while they’re checking Gilbert out – easily done.’
Up ahead the first of the town’s traffic lights swung into view across the road. It was red and Brunet started to slow, timing his approach so he wouldn’t have to stop.
‘So they start the stalk back in Marseilles, looking for options, and follow him up here,’ said Brunet. ‘Find out about Izzy Blanchard, the wedding, the reception . . .’
‘And decide this is as good a place as any. For what they have in mind. Remember, too, there are no parents, no one else close to him. Just Noël.’
The light turned green and Brunet increased his speed.
‘And now they’re back.’
And now they’re back, thought Jacquot.
Somewhere out there, among the shadows, biding their time.
48
DIRTY FINGERNAILS. JACQUOT LOVED THAT. In most investigations it would be a scar or a squint, a gold tooth perhaps, or a tattoo. But dirty fingernails was a first. And women with dirty fingernails. He could imagine a man with dirty fingernails. But somehow not a woman.
And how fitting that Clément Valbois and his lover Gunnar Larsson should notice such a thing.
He was thinking this, on his way back home that evening, when something in his wing-mirror caught his eye. What looked like a car, a dark rounded hump, a few hundred metres back, occasionally sliding into the mirror’s line of sight but otherwise all but hidden, backlit by the fiery furnace of a setting sun that had cloaked the countryside in a thick cover of reds and golds. He glanced in his rear-view mirror, but there was even less definition there – the Renault’s back windscreen covered in a fine dust that seemed to absorb the setting sun and colour out anything behind it. But his curiosity was aroused, his eyes now flicking from the road ahead to his left-hand wing-mirror, keeping track of the vehicle behind him.
Slowly, without drawing attention to the move, Jacquot steered away from the centre of the road and drew closer to the verge. Checking his wing-mirror again, he could now clearly see that the car was keeping pace with him, in no hurry to overtake. On a road such as this, between Cavaillon and Apt, at this time in the evening when people were eager for their homes, it was rare not to have a car race past a dawdler. But his new position, closer now to the edge of the road, with a wider view in his wing-mirror, brought him little satisfaction. The other vehicle was still too far back for him to make out model or colour or who was driving.
Again without making it too obvious, Jacquot let his speed drop by a few kilometres an hour. But still the car behind him did not appear to draw any closer, as though matching his gradual decrease in speed.
By now his curiosity and attention were firmly fixed on the car behind him, and he wondered for how long it had been trailing him, if indeed that was what it was doing. As the road slipped by he thought back over his route from police headquarters – just the usual flow of traffic for a Thursday evening, nothing remarkable, thinning as town gave way to country, pavements to dry, dusty verges – but he couldn’t recall noticing it, coming up behind him, following the same route. Already there were a number of turnings the driver could have taken but had not, the car still holding its course and speed and distance behind him. For a moment Jacquot regretted he was driving his own car. If he’d been in a squad car, he’d simply have switched on the lights and waved the driver down.
By now he was approaching the left-hand turn for the millhouse. But rather than indicate and slow for the turning he kept up his speed and carried on, towards Apt and Céreste. He knew what he was going to do. On the next section of straight road, he was going to pull over and switch on his emergency lights. The driver behind would either carry on past him in a swirl of golden dust, or pull up ahead to see if help was needed. If the car just drove past, he would start off again and follow it, find out where it was going, and maybe who was driving. The prospect of a dark-coloured VW and two women in the front seats was almost too much to wish for.
But the driver behind did neither. As Jacquot pulled in and switched on his emergency lights, the car behind swung suddenly to the right and disappeared down a narrow track. Jacquot swore softly and, checking the road both ways for oncoming traffic, pulled out in a squealing U-turn that set him on the lane back to town.
Up ahead, on the left now, he could see a plume of dust between the vines that braided the hillsides hereabouts, and as he passed the turning he caught a flash of brakelights in the swirling golden cloud. Jacquot knew that lane. It was unsurfaced, a farmer’s track used to access the fields, but it came out at St-Beyelle and joined the old country route between Cavaillon and Brieuc. Keeping his speed low, he headed on for the next turning – another, better route, narrow but surfaced, that also led to St-Beyelle. If he managed his speed, he was almost certain he would meet up with the car at the Brieuc–Cavaillon crossroads. And if the car was a Volkswagen, or was driven by two women,
he would stop them or give chase, get a registration number if nothing else.
What he didn’t want to do, however, was draw too much attention to himself, to alert them – if they really were the Manichella sisters – and then lose them. Once again he regretted being in his old Renault, with no radio to call for assistance. Out here he was on his own, with just his wits and his service Beretta in the glove compartment for company.
Keeping an eye on the other car, still concealed behind the vines but betrayed by its pluming trail of golden dust, Jacquot indicated left and took the turning, just a couple of kilometres now before his road intersected with the track and the old Brieuc road, and the two cars came together.
But when he reached the crossroads, his view only fleetingly interrupted on the way there by the odd farmhouse and villa and rise of land, there was no sign of any traffic coming through St-Beyelle – no lights, no dust. And no sound of a car either. Coming to a stop in front of St-Beyelle’s small stone chapel he switched off the ignition and wound down the window. Not a sound. Just the warm tick of his engine, the springs in his seat and a soft evening pulse of cicadas.
He sat there for a couple of minutes, waiting. But no car appeared. Since there were no turnings off the track that he could remember, save gateways into fields of maize and vine and melon, and since there was no way the other driver could have crossed ahead of him, it was clear the car must have pulled in somewhere the other side of the village while Jacquot’s view had been obstructed.
Because the driver had finally arrived home after a hard day at the office?
Or because the driver was looking for somewhere to hide?
Jacquot decided to find out.
Letting off the hand brake, he let the Renault roll forward and turned into the single street that led through St-Beyelle. It was cobbled and the tyres bubbled over the stones, the car picking up a little speed as the slope steepened, fast enough for Jacquot to touch the footbrake as he coasted through the tiny settlement, eyes flicking to left and right, looking for a car, for figures.
Blood Counts Page 19
