by John Brooke
Stephanie wearily dismissed this. ‘I need some space just now.’
‘Your boss was saying. You’ve been through a lot lately.’
She bridled. ‘Not that it’s any of his business. But, yes. A lot… Joël tipped the balance.’
‘I can understand that. You want to tell me about it? …Sit, please.’ Stephanie McLeod sat, smoothing her skirt, gawking at a yellowed but cherished and carefully preserved poster of Johnny Halliday performing in the mall at Nantes. ‘Coffee and a little something?’
Stephanie nodded, obviously nervous. This was not a picturesque bistro terrace on a mountain road and she was no longer the friendly waitress.
Aliette would fill that role. She went to fetch refreshments. On the way to the pantry, she tapped on Magui’s door — fortunately shut — and instructed her to stay out of sight. She assumed her visitor had walked past Magui’s door none the wiser as to the role of the woman on the beach with Sophie Guatto. A second sneaky move in as many days? Trust is a horrible responsibility.
Stephanie took her coffee black. She chose a cinnamon torsade from the box Henri Dardé was assigned to secure each morning. She repeated her apology. ‘I’m sorry for running off.’
Aliette came out swinging, but gently. ‘So where did you run to?’
Stephanie sampled her pastry. ‘I went for a swim.’
‘Down the hill?’
‘No. The mill…a spot down the road.’ She met the inspector’s eyes. ‘I was afraid.’
Bon. Her visitor was already hedging against her need to trust. ‘Go on.’
‘Then I went to Beziers, waited till he showed up and we had it out. Took all night. I got your message this morning…’ And here she was.
‘Monsieur Roig didn’t tell you when you called to tell him you wouldn’t be in?’
‘I didn’t call him.’
‘You missed work — just like that?’ Not at all like a disciplined ENA girl.
She shrugged. ‘Two tables. He can handle it…he thinks he can’t, but he can.’
Aliette discerned an abiding vein of exasperation with Avi Roig. And poked at it: ‘You don’t seem to have much respect for your employer.’
Stephanie sighed. ‘I appreciate everything he’s done for me. It’s just that it’s gotten to be more than that, and right now I…’ Yes, exasperated. Nibbling her pastry, she gazed away.
‘What has it gotten to be?’
‘Like another father some days…an older brother? More than a boss. He forgives me.’
‘And you forgive him.’
‘I try.’
Stephanie’s guarded tone gave Aliette to realize that the gloomy chef had once been another boyfriend. She sensed a complicated strand of emotion linking her and Avi Roig. ‘And so?’
‘So now the slate is clean. I need to regroup, make some decisions about my life.’
‘Go back to school?’
‘Yes.’
‘Focus on the future.’
‘Yes. The future.’
‘No more sleeping with politicians so you can exact revenge on other politicians.’
Stephanie’s breathing caught. She stared, cheeks flooding.
The inspector leaned across the table and explained. ‘Joël Guatto was murdered. I am conducting a murder investigation. You worked closely with Monsieur Guatto during that last part of his life. Closer than anyone, apparently. It is normal and logical that we would learn as much as we can about you. And about you and him. It’s not nice, but it is part of the process. We’ll be trusting you to add more as we go along. Every little speck of information helps.’
Stephanie McLeod was deeply red, on the verge of tears. Aliette sipped coffee, letting her breathe and absorb this new part of her reality. Then added, not unkindly, ‘I assume that is why you listened to your better instincts and came to see me today. Yes?’
Stephanie nodded, forcing her tears back inside.
‘I don’t care if you slept with him. That’s not important. But did you kill him?’
‘No!’ The tears surged and flowed.
‘Good.’ The inspector extended a calming hand. Stephanie McLeod allowed her to touch one of hers. ‘So now, Stephanie, help me find who did.’
They sat for an hour. Stephanie McLeod was very forthcoming. About caring for her dying parents — two radicals from the sixties, one Scot, one Québécoise, who’d found each other in Paris, then built a life in southern France — ‘better for their allergies.’ About her ENA program internship in the office of Roland Bousquet during time away to care for her mother — the ugly things she saw but could never prove. ‘I’d come home and be sick to my stomach… So angry. All the trust that man cultivates — then abuses! I felt so dirty. Ashamed. And useless. I’d never in my life… I had to try to do something.’ And about thinking Joël Guatto might help her make some waves in that direction and being disappointed by the man’s timorous fears of hurting his suffering father if he made speeches attacking the virtue of his father’s friend. ‘I even thought I liked him.’
But Joël had fallen short of her expectations.
Stephanie freely admitted to probably pushing him too hard — she believed his killing had to have something to do with the wine issue, although, ‘I have no idea why or how.’
‘Perhaps he was going to speak out after all. This thing about Domaine Clorres and Roland Bousquet?’
A weary sigh. ‘He keeps talking about it and talking about it. But he won’t ever do it.’
‘Even so, a lot of talk, someone may have started to worry…’ And lured Joël Guatto to the beach — to talk personally. To make a deal?
Stephanie denied the possibility. ‘He’s weak but he’s not dishonest.’
Aliette was confused. ‘The election was almost two months ago.’ Stephanie was framing it all in the active present tense. Like Joël’s befuddled sister. Why was this?
‘He kept hanging around after the election, taking forever to close down the office we’d set up in the back of the bistro, pretending to be still involved. Not with me, with Hunting & Fishing. But it was over — they would never let him run again.’ She hung her head. Then she raised it and held the inspector’s eyes. ‘It was more about me and him. Forgive me for being arrogant, but it’s obvious. You know?’
Aliette did. ‘But were you still saying “let’s try”?’
‘No, not in the least.’ Stephanie described how the new boyfriend had come into her life that spring. An antidote to Joël Guatto. ‘He was a breath of fresh air. I couldn’t stop Joël from coming around — at least to the bistro, but I made it clear it was Prince, not him.’
‘Prince?’
‘It’s what he calls himself.’ A shrug for a boyish affectation. Charlie was his real name, Charlie Stuart. He was a student on his slow way back to Edinburgh after visiting friends at the university in Montpellier. He’d stopped in Beziers and started hitching around the area. He’d chanced upon the Bistro Les Oliviers. They’d found common Glasgow links, and connected.
‘You said Edinburgh.’
‘He lives there now. The university. But he’s from Glasgow, like Papa.’
‘Last night. How did he take it…Prince?’
‘Not well. None of them ever do. But it’s too much for me right now.’ She fretted, fiddling with her coffee cup. ‘…I hope he got the message.’
Aliette smiled. The girl was an expert with men. Less so with lying. ‘You think he did?’
‘I hope he’s on the train right now. He may as well be. There’s nothing else for him to do around here, so what’s the point? Two ships passing,’ Stephanie declared. And shrugged.
These people who are desperate for someone to trust, yet lie regardless. So strange. And sad.
The inspector made a decision not to challenge the lie. Not yet. With gentle guidance, she let Stephanie McLeod mull and burble on
about staying in the village and taking a more active role in Les Oliviers. ‘…partners with Avi.’ Or heading back to Paris, a larger life at the far end of ENA. It became quite obvious she’d had a fling with the older, lonely chef who’d retreated from the Israeli army to the same lost village as her parents. An articulate girl, once she got going, and as bright as her ENA credentials might imply. Yet Aliette sensed Stephanie McLeod was very lost as well.
Returning to the matter at hand: ‘Sorry, but we have to do this properly.’
Stephanie agreed they did.
‘For the record, where were you Monday?’
‘Nowhere special. Shopping in Cessenon. Then home.’
‘Home?’
‘Down at the river. We’re closed Monday. Tuesday too.’
‘Monday with Prince?’
‘Alone. A day off to myself. We were starting to have a bit of trouble, you know?’
‘Tuesday?’
‘I went down to Domaine Guatto. I… I had to.’
‘You were afraid to?’
‘His sister is so insane.’ Stephanie stared bleakly.
Aliette moved on, edging closer to the nut of it. Phone records secured by Henri Dardé indicated Joël Guatto had been looking for her in the late morning on the day he was killed. ‘…he left messages at the bistro and on your cell.’
‘Mm.’
No denial there. Glum acceptance. ‘You didn’t call him back?’
‘I wasn’t in the mood. You know?’
‘I think I might.’ And the records confirmed that she hadn’t responded. ‘Did you keep it?’
‘Didn’t even listen to it. Delete, delete, delete.’ Tone hardening as she recounted.
Would the world be different if she had? Stephanie’s anger was intriguing too.
She was musing on the ‘totally depressing’ Guatto family when she suddenly jolted up, all in a rush, saying she had to get back and set up for lunch.
Aliette noted Stephanie’s car from her office window as it rumbled off. A tired Renault, at least ten years old, sort of blue, sort of green. Had she noticed it yesterday while she’d sat with Avi Roig? No. Who would? Probably one of several million in France. But cars passing on that isolated stretch of road were very singular. She surely looked right at it — but she didn’t know it. But Roig? He would know that car. Had he turned a blind eye to Stephanie’s panicked run to the beach? Why?
· 8 ·
STRATEGY
Her judge’s office was in the courthouse. But he said, ‘I’ll meet you at les allées.’
He gave her a spot and a time. For him, it was a five-minute walk through the charming streets of the old city. For her, it meant another nerve-wracking, stop-start trip through the unfathomable warren that was downtown Beziers. Aliette finally found a parking spot, did a quick tour through Galeries Lafayette — still seeking the right sandals — and was waiting when Sergio Regarri stepped out of the specified barber shop at exactly 1:00 pm. He was looking good in pressed jeans and a button-down patterned shirt, rather beaten-up sandals, no socks. His sunglasses gave him a film star quality that brought a spontaneous grin to the inspector’s lips. No magistrate she had ever worked with had dressed like that. Impossible to imagine Gérard Richand strolling across City Hall square without socks on. For her part, a dove-grey seersucker ensemble, skirt at a suitably businesslike level mid-point on her knee, a Spanish-blue brushed cotton T-shirt under her jacket, bare (and now well-browned legs) and blood-coloured pumps gave the desired effect of a serious woman…
Businesslike cop. Casual judge. Somehow they matched.
‘Bonjour. Have you eaten?’
‘A sandwich.’ Gobbled in the car, washed down with water.
‘Then let’s just walk,’ the judge suggested.
With the slightest touch directing her across the street and into the flow — a touch she enjoyed — they were strolling on les allées on a busy Friday. The wide promenade was well shaded by a double row of scabrous, aged plane trees. But they could not obscure the unruly midday mess at the heart of this southern city. The air was a dense bouquet of noise and fumes — the never-ending crunch of gears, the rank odour of diesel exhaust drifting, landing on everything and everyone, the ubiquitous scent of frying meat, momentary sweet notes from steaming glasses of mint tea, the clandestine stench of dogs along the curbs and around the base of those proud trees. Most eating establishments had tables set up along the stroll. Waiters bearing trays risked their lives rushing back and forth through traffic. Kiosks offered ice cream, lotto tickets, cheap shoes…
‘So?’ She had sent information along before leaving the office.
‘There is no Charles Stuart, aka Prince, in the computer.’
‘Why am I not surprised?’ One lie usually made two.
‘But there is a Prince. A Brit.’
‘Not Scots?’
Sergio Regarri shrugged away the distinction. ‘If we can get more context, we might get to the next level. He’s interesting. Maybe.’
‘Maybe?’
‘How many kids out there are calling themselves Prince, Inspector? They’ve no idea who he actually is. All they have is some obviously coded back and forth between Prince and some friends.’
‘You can call me Aliette.’ Especially out of the office.‘…Friends without names?’
‘Not as yet. Aliette.’
‘Not with Stephanie McLeod.’
‘Not unless she’s hiding behind the code.’
Fair enough. ‘And why is Prince interesting?’
‘Sort of an anarchist type. Maybe.’
Nor was this a surprise. To the contrary — it made perfect sense. ‘Student?’
‘More a professional, if we can use that word. Agent provocateur? The kind who pushes students over the line. Match Prince with certain locations mentioned on some of this messaging and we begin to see the shadow of some kind of group or network bent on causing trouble.’
‘Here?’
‘Actually, no, not that they’ve determined…England, Germany, the docks at Rotterdam — never out-and-out violence, but always a major pain in the neck. It’s political. Anger against capitalists, globalization, the usual. Most of it loud but harmless. Demonstrations and the like, sitting in the streets gumming up the works, the odd rock through a window. Although the messaging also puts them near some large explosions. Four in the last year, some factories. A brewery. You’d think they’d spare that…’ He opened his case without losing stride, removed a file, peeked inside. ‘And a power outage in Cologne. Someone pretty smart made that happen.’
‘I don’t recall any mention.’
‘You wouldn’t. It’s nothing sexy. Infrastructure. So far they haven’t hurt anyone, at least not intentionally. And they keep quiet. Don’t call the radio claiming responsibility. They let the students and the street kids have all the glory and the blame… The Cologne blackout put them on the DST watch list.’
‘Which we can’t see.’
‘Not without a solid reason.’
But it was the second time DST had come up in as many meetings.
Judge and inspector separated as three kids came charging straight for them, screaming laughter, oblivious. A sweaty, stressed-out mother hauling an unhappy fourth child by the hand was screeching at them to behave. To no avail… They fell back into step. Aliette said, ‘It fits with how she’s thinking. Or part of her. Very angry at the system.’
A shake of his handsome head. ‘But it’s not a place to start.’
‘No.’ Whether DST was part of this or not, a big waste of time pleading and prying.
‘And so, madame… Aliette, what do we actually have?’
‘On the one hand, we have this Guatto family history of fighting to protect the wine — which breaks down to a father traumatized by a big mistake and three adult children who are emotional
prisoners to that. The sister, Noëlli — could’ve done lots with her piano but gets guilted into coming home after her papa fell apart. The other brother Paul’s good at marketing; he had to abandon a career in Paris. Only Joël went straight into the business. I’m told he idolized his father — this famous shoot-out with the Italians. But his Hunting & Fishing thing was a total surprise to everyone, not the least his papa. And he botched it…just a lot of unrealistic speeches about marching in the streets to get a better deal for the wine producers.’
‘Written by Stephanie McLeod.’
‘Voilà. And on the other hand, we have Stephanie McLeod doing an ENA-arranged stage for this Roland Bousquet, whose influence, according to my predecessor, helped Marcelin Guatto walk away from an involuntary manslaughter charge, but — ’
‘I always enjoyed working with Commissaire Lopez,’ mentioned Sergio Regarri.
And you’ll enjoy working with me, thought Aliette, and pressed on. ‘…But Stephanie leaves Bousquet alienated and angry with the dirty way things really work, signs on to help with Joël Guatto’s idealistic fight against the Euro machine, sleeps with him, yes, writes his speeches and runs his life, the whole bit, then sees what he is when he shies away from a fight with Bousquet and leaves him for this Prince.’
‘And Joël gets assassinated.’
‘And when I go to talk to her, she runs. Where does she go? She says to the river, but we know it was the beach.’ Aliette related the curious serendipity that had brought Stephanie McLeod face to face with the victim’s estranged wife for a moment on the beach — and revealed her lie. ‘And this morning she walks into the office and spills her heart but lies about her movements, which clearly mirror Guatto’s.’
‘Maybe she just went to see where it happened. If she’s so guilty.’
‘Lots of guilt. But I say she went to where he went. She told me Guatto kept talking about Bousquet, someone called Guillaume Ricard and this Clorres operation, all this cross-border business that’s cutting the bottom out of the local trade. I mean right up until he was killed. I was thinking someone was hearing about it, getting worried, they knew he was at the beach, maybe even enticed him there to talk, warn him, whatever. They kill him…’
