Walls of a Mind

by John Brooke

  He shrugged — and lied, it was clear. ‘I don’t know. Just one of Noëlli’s songs.’ Adding, ‘Please excuse my children’s emotions. You feel free to come and go.’

  He waved wearily as they drove off, loyal Blako at his knee.

  ‘She shouldn’t do her hair like that,’ said Magui once they were safely past the ancient gate.

  ‘No,’ agreed Aliette.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ asked Henri.

  Magui explained that with those ears, it made Noëlli look far madder than she surely was.

  While the two inspectors debated Noëlli Guatto’s sanity, Aliette wondered why her father would lie about the music. They were a family that did not communicate or appear to like each other. She’d seen that before — murder brought out long-buried blame and recrimination. If it was not political, if history had moved past Marcelin’s tragedy, what other reasons could there be?

  Money. Or love.

  · 5 ·

  STEPHANIE…

  The glossy election flyer outlined the Hunting & Fishing party platform, and urged, Votez votre CPNT candidat Joël Guatto et Stephanie McLeod, suppléant — which translates as deputy and/or replacement. This is obligatory information on all party handouts. Images are optional, but they were both there. Their victim’s Anglo deputy looked hardly out of school. Tapping the page, Aliette asked, ‘…and this girlfriend?’ Stephanie McLeod, the object of Noëlli Guatto’s bitter spite.

  ‘Smart girl.’ Magui Barthès had Joël Guatto’s laptop screen turned so all could see.

  ‘How smart?’

  ‘ENA.’

  ‘ENA?’ That meant very smart.

  Henri Dardé had laid out carefully arranged piles of paper. He handed her another sheet. Included in Joël Guatto’s CPNT file was requisite information on his proposed deputy. Aliette noted her birthday. She would be twenty-two in July. A child in the dirtiest game of all. But yes, a bright one. Mademoiselle McLeod had already completed a year at L’École Nationale d’Administration, probably the most exclusive school in France.

  And always contentious. Cynical journalists were forever raising the question: Why is it that so many of our best and brightest pass through ENA before entering the ranks of the political and business elite? To which those who trusted in excellence replied: Because ENA sends them out equipped with the enlightened ideas and lifelong connections that ensure stability in the Republic. Because peace and prosperity are built around like-minded thinking in places that matter. (No?)

  That was debatable.

  But it was a fact that most Enarques, as the students are called, came from so-called ‘ruling’ families, both the new and the long-established — leading some citizens, happily egged on by the media, to accuse the school of fostering a worrisome inbreeding.

  That a girl from a village with the name Stephanie McLeod was enrolled was intriguing, to say the least.

  Then Henri passed her this:

  Dear Mr. Guatto, My name is Stephanie McLeod. I am enrolled in ENA and have recently completed a six-month apprenticeship in the offices of Regional President Roland Bousquet. Rather than returning directly to the faculty, I am taking time away to reconsider my personal options. I am currently living and employed in the area. I understand you have declared your intent to run under the CPNT banner. The CPNT platform and its ideas and goals are very much in line with my own thinking. Not perfectly — there are no perfect politics in a country as large and diverse as ours. But it is a good point of departure at this stage of my intended career. Thus I write to offer my services in your campaign. It will be a busy time for you. I believe I could contribute in helping organize your various activities; also in preparing your message. Attached is my CV. I would value the opportunity to meet with you.

  A job application. And she had got it. Plus the man. ‘Do we have a sense of how it went?’

  ‘Seems she more or less ran it, and then some.’ Magui Barthès clicked a series of keys.

  The computer provided a window on Joël Guatto’s brief life as a busy candidate — schedules, confirmations for appearances, his speeches and talking points, his requests for contributions to his campaign. Each communication had been through Stephanie McLeod’s computer. It was more than simply fixing up his grammar. The back-and-forth of email showed Guatto’s pleas for funding and his political messaging had been carefully honed by his bright assistant.

  More than that, Stephanie McLeod had pushed her man to be louder, stronger.

  Angrier? Scanning a sampling, Aliette could discern nothing that might compromise his safety. No dark subtext; just tradition, local values, support for the salt of the earth, the usual clichés. She shrugged. ‘Smart or not, it’s all still quite bland.’

  ‘And it got less than one percent,’ Henri noted. One sensed he was taking Noëlli’s corner.

  ‘Right… And now look at this.’ Magui efficiently clicked through to the place beyond Trash that cops like her knew how to find.

  FROM: Stephanie. SUBJECT: Roland B.

  SMcLeod wrote: Re. our chat this afternoon: It’s sitting there. You have to do it. And with prejudice. Your speeches have been landing on some thirsty ears. They hear you. Stop being so polite with the opposition!

  JGuatto wrote: I will address it, but in a civilized way. This is my father’s good friend and he has helped us often. If I attack in the manner you suggest, it will look worse on me than him.

  SMcLeod wrote: Joël, if Roland Bousquet is smoothing the way for Guillaume Ricard and the like, you have to confront him.

  JGuatto wrote: But I don’t know that Roland Bousquet is doing any such thing.

  SMcLeod wrote: I know. I saw it. I heard it.

  JGuatto wrote: Can you supply me with proof?

  SMcLeod wrote: I can supply you with a speech that will put him on the defensive. The ball will roll from there… Friendship has no place in this campaign, Joël. This is not a tea party in your mother’s garden. You may alienate some people — no, correct that; you will, and you are supposed to!

  JGuatto wrote: I will thank you to leave my mother out of it!

  SMcLeod wrote: Time to put your balls on the table, monsieur!

  Joël Guatto had not responded.

  Aliette asked, ‘And do we have this speech?’

  A speech attacking the incumbent Présidente de la region and Mayor of Beziers.

  Magui indicated negative. ‘Gone — beyond finding. Unless it was never written.’

  ‘That’s all?’

  ‘We might find more on hers.’ The laptop at the other end of the exchange.

  ‘Who is Guillaume Ricard?’

  ‘Wine producer. Clorres. His wife’s family. Huge operation near the beach, outside the city.’

  Aliette made a note. Perhaps Nabi Zidane knew Guillaume... Another thought occurred. ‘Were they still together, Joël and this Stephanie?’ Together at the time he was killed.

  ‘That’s not clear.’ Her contract as candidate’s assistant had ended with the election and Stephanie McLeod had since gone back to her regular work — as a waitress. As to the love affair with their victim: Magui shrugged.

  ‘So where do I find her?’

  ‘At home? Vieussan, tiny place up the mountain road. Works there too. Bistro Les Oliviers.’

  ‘By the bridge.’ Henri had biked past several times. ‘You’ll see it. Hard to miss.’

  An anti-Euro-leaning Enarque working as a waitress? ‘Bon…’ making notes.

  After assigning tasks — Magui to interview Joël Guatto’s estranged wife, Henri to gather information on the Bousquet-Clorres connection; Magui suggested he start with the manager of la Cave Coopérative at Saint-Brin — Chief Inspector Nouvelle left for the hamlet of Vieussan.

  ·

  There were two ways from Saint-Brin. Across to Cessenon, a tight left, and up D14 tracing the River Orb.
Or up through Prades to Berlou, then along the winding road tracing the rim of the valley. Aliette chose the latter route, enjoying a spectacular view down through vine-laced terrain and beyond… It was clear again today all the way to the sea. She passed a lone cyclist. Over the summit, the road began a steep, hairpin thread through forest to the river. Halfway down, the forest opened to reveal Vieussan, its rows of dwellings stacked tight along the next ridge. There was a medieval-looking tower at the peak, standing tall against the sky like a huge concrete chess piece. A dozen gear-grinding switchbacks later, the inspector caught glimpses of swimmers along the banks of the Orb. A few more turns and she finally glided across the Roman-style stone bridge and pulled up in front of Bistro Les Oliviers. A pretty place, alone on the D14, a communal garden opposite. One could probably see the river from a table on the front terrace. It appeared to be half-filled with guests at lunch under a roll-down awning. The small conglomeration of dwellings that was Vieussan began a good hundred metres up the slope. There had to be a road up there somewhere, but she couldn’t see it — only a long stairway that climbed along the edge of an olive grove behind the bistro.

  The main room was dim, empty, no surprise on a fine summer day. Two people, obscured in shadow, were conferring at the bar. ‘Sorry, didn’t reserve. Can I…?’ They both pointed. She turned the corner and stepped back outside onto the terrace, sat herself at a free table beside an older couple. They had glasses of beer. They smiled in greeting — they were not French, she could tell. A pair of local men dressed for the fields were at the table next to them, working on a jug of red. Three ladies, thirtyish and dressed for lunch, gossiped at a table in the corner, waiting to be served.

  Aliette got comfortable, perused the menu. The waitress appeared, expertly ferrying four meals, two for the locals…and two for the foreigners. She wished them bon appétit and approached the inspector. On the bright terrace there was no mistaking Stephanie McLeod: definitely the young woman pictured in the information collected from the files and desk of Jöel Guatto. Her skin was fair — northern, like the inspector’s. Her mouth, lips and face were full fleshed, not fatty — sensuous, her wavy, enviably thick shoulder-length hair was shiny, flaxen, well-brushed, and smelled of apple shampoo. But her eyes were puffy from crying.

  Instinct told Aliette to wait before flashing her warrant card. The wrong instinct? Hindsight is 20-20. At the moment of their first meeting, Aliette ordered the hot duck gizzard salad with a half-carafe of red, a glass of beer to start. She’d think about dessert.

  Stephanie moved on to the three ladies.

  When she returned with the beer, Aliette began to engage. It was a lovely place, hidden at the foot of this mountain village. God’s country, agreed the younger woman. Yes, trade was good, at least in summer, lots of travellers. Was she travelling? ‘No, not travelling. Exploring… Recently transferred. You the owner?’ No, Avi was the boss…he would be out to say hello.

  Looking into Stephanie’s eyes, the inspector enquired, ‘Are you all right?’

  She was fine. Just her boyfriend…Withdrawing, smiling.

  It went like that throughout her meal — a solitary, sympathetic woman new to the area making small talk with the waitress when she had a moment in the midst of her rounds.

  …She was a student. In Paris — heading back in the fall. Political science.

  …Her parents had found their way here. From Paris, actually. They met there — father was Scots, mother Canadian… they’d met and come down here. Yes, this was home, but not for too much longer.

  Remaining anonymous and innocuously curious, Aliette enjoyed her lunch, drawing it out with dessert and coffee, outlasting the friendly foreigners — they were Dutch — till she was the last remaining guest.

  When Stephanie showed signs of tiring of politely professional repartee, the chief inspector presented her credit card and smiled a different kind of smile. She let her wallet fall open to reveal her warrant card. She said, ‘Stephanie, we have to talk about Joël Guatto.’

  Her waitress froze. Her eyes went wide.

  ‘You finish up inside. Then we’ll have a chat. OK?’

  The girl backed away, staring, dumbstruck — and obviously frightened. Aliette sat back and waited, thinking she’d built some trust even if she’d been less than forthright from the start.

  Fifteen minutes later a wiry guy in a spattered chef’s smock returned with her credit card and receipt on the tray. And a bottle. Pulling out a chair, he fixed her with dark and doleful eyes. ‘Will you join me for a digestif, Madame Inspector? On the house. Peach. Make it myself. I trust you enjoyed your meal?’ Presuming yes, he poured two small servings of the colourless eau de vie.

  She put her nose to the glass. Almost pure alcohol. ‘I really shouldn’t.’ Why? Because she was working. But her brain was not… It dawned. Madame Inspector? How did he know?

  He offered a ponderous smile. ‘It’s there on the confirmation.’

  ‘Ah.’ Confirmation on the Ministry card. Merde! Stupid…The only way past it was to dip her tongue. ‘Delicious, merci...’ What had Stephanie said his name was?

  He touched her glass. ‘Chin, chin.’ She responded in kind. The dark eyes, sallow skin tone and massive black curls tied back in a ponytail said anywhere from Spain to Turkey. He smiled again, but it didn’t really carry. Ponderous seemed to be his default mode. Up close, those broody eyes were imperious. ‘My name is Avi Roig.’

  ‘We had an Inspector Roig at my last posting. In Alsace... Richard Roig…Ricky?’

  ‘We’re everywhere. Sephardic. We wander. Yes?’

  His French was not like Ricky’s. ‘So where was your last stop?’

  ‘West Bank.’

  It took a moment… ‘Israel?’

  ‘A soldier. Ex.’

  ‘Now a chef.’

  ‘An artist, please.’

  On the strength of a very tasty gizzard salad, a subtle crème brulée, who could argue? ‘And this place is your creation?’

  ‘Very much so. Before me it was an épicerie, slowly wasting away. I took it off their hands. Took a bit of work, mind you. My olives even more so. Been almost ten years now…’ Avi Roig had gone from Amsterdam to Israel to volunteer. Then back to Amsterdam. Then to Paris… ‘Then I came through here, saw my true destiny, and stopped. Luck, mostly.’

  ‘Mm, me too.’

  He raised his glass. ‘Peace and quiet?’

  ‘And olive trees.’ Aliette toasted Les Oliviers. ‘Chin.’

  With that, he got up and offered a hand. ‘I hope you’ll come back.’

  ‘I certainly will. But you know, I actually came to have a chat with your waitress.’

  ‘I assumed that. The death of her candidate?’

  ‘You don’t mind if I sit here till she’s through?’

  ‘Stephanie left. I think you scared her.’

  That was a jolt. She knew he saw it. ‘And you didn’t stop her?’

  ‘I’m only her boss, Inspector.’

  ‘Has she something to be scared of?’

  Avi Roig thought about it. ‘Herself, mainly… She’s in a state of shock.’

  Aliette glanced up the hill. ‘She live up there?’ No reply. She saw Avi Roig’s skeptical eyes tighten. She displayed her warrant card again. ‘I really was hoping to talk to her.’

  The road up the hill was almost a kilometre north along the river road, wisely built at a spot where the slope eased. Even then it was a steep climb, ending at the village place. There were four benches in the shade of the mulberry trees, empty at siesta time. You could probably drive beyond this point and into the tiny lanes — if you did not mind having your precious cabriolet rattled to pieces on the paving stones. The inspector would walk it.

  She soon found herself in a maze.

  There were street signs, but no numbers. Avi Roig said it was a blue door along Rue Bel Air. He’
d promised she would see it. She didn’t. And because it was siesta, there was not a soul around to ask, so she followed her nose and ended up at the very top of the village, staring at a boules pitch and what looked like a herb garden. There was a bench where she sat to let the sweat dry. Directly above, the old tower she’d spied from across the river loomed, large and crumbling. She idly wondered what its purpose might have been. She would ask Stephanie McLeod. A dog, a young hound of sorts, appeared. She held out a hand. He sniffed briefly and kept moving. Good idea. Aliette got to her feet and returned to the difficult labyrinth that was Vieussan. The next corner took her down a flight of stairs…which met another lane that turned right and climbed again. In all this, not a single person. There were only cats, hunkered still as statues, watching each other. The paving stones were hell on her sandals. She finally stumbled around another corner and was dumbly astounded by the rusted sign announcing Rue Bel Air.

  Now, which blue door halfway along? There was a choice. She opened her cell and punched in the listed number. She heard ringing from inside a house and moved toward it.

  ‘Not home,’ advised the old woman in a blue smock standing in the door of the place beside.

  ‘Do you know where she might be, madame?’

  The woman’s shoulders squared with instinctual indignation. ‘What is it to you?’

  She produced her warrant card. ‘I am looking for Stephanie McLeod. Can you help me?’

  A beady stare. ‘I’m not in charge of her life…You don’t look like police.’

  The police want good relations with the public. But the uneven streets had left Aliette achy in the knees and not in the mood. ‘Have you ever been brought in for questioning, madame?’

  The old woman’s gnarly fingers twisted into a fist. Now they were enemies, likely for life. She managed to mutter, ‘Probably off to that skinny foreigner of hers.’

  ‘Her boyfriend?’

  The woman stared.

  The boyfriend who’d made her cry? A foreigner? Aliette had assumed it was a reference to a murdered Joël Guatto. There was a gap in the information. She redialled the number, identified herself to the voice on the answering machine and politely but in no uncertain terms ordered Stephanie McLeod to contact the Police Judiciaire at Saint-Brin as soon as possible.