Walls of a Mind

by John Brooke

  A shrug. ‘One big family at the end of the day.’ Indeed, a tone approaching cold.

  Aliette had long ago learned to suppress the prick of vexation when people so automatically resented the police. Leaning close, she assured her neighbour, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t pull my gun. Just want them to know I am on their side.’ In fact, she rarely carried her gun. And certainly not to a funeral. People’s presumptions could be so crass.

  Perhaps Jocelyne Grasset got the inference. Gaze turning toward the lady across the lawn, receiving sympathizers, her tone softened. ‘Poor Madeleine. She’s looking like she’s fixing to follow close on Joël’s heels. I heard things, but I haven’t seen her in an age. My Lord!’

  ‘Is she approachable?’

  ‘Always used to be. It’s Noëlli you have to beware of.’

  Aliette nodded a merci. There was the faint sound of piano drifting, note by lugubrious note, from inside the house. A familiar tune. Did she not know any others? ‘What is that tune?’

  ‘No idea.’

  Aliette moved on. She nodded a hello to Dr. Boutes, one of two physicians serving her community. Boutes was the weary yet steady late-middle-aged choice, vastly preferable to the arrogant, younger, newer man carrying on the shabby affair with the woman at the maison de la presse. She had visited Dr. Boutes in March, presenting with a terrible cold, first fruits of a perpetually damp stone house… She waved to Monsieur Porta, mayor of Saint-Brin. He returned it with a smile. Being greeted so casually by two local pillars was a comfort. She hoped the doctor and the mayor would explain her role to those curious guests who might not yet have met the new cop. Alone on the elegant lawn, it occurred to the chief inspector that for the first time since joining the Judicial Police she felt herself a true representative of the burgher class. Her mother would like that. Odd that it took a funeral. Here, it was truly a community event.

  She drifted toward Madeleine Guatto. She was surrounded by murmuring ladies, each with a drink in one hand, the other solicitously touching their friend — her wrist, a stooping shoulder, the small of her slight back, the sharp edge of her hip — the way one does when expressing sympathy and concern. Which is what one expects of friends, yes, but it seemed almost bovine: Madame Guatto looked entangled. Aliette was instinctively repelled. Who could stand such close attention? Like a touchy-feely press scrum… She felt more eyes watching her and turned.

  Paul Guatto’s quizzical gaze registered. He approached, glass in hand. ‘Is he here?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The killer.’

  Aliette accommodated this with a quick ironic smile. ‘Your brother was well loved.’

  Paul Guatto’s smile conveyed a darker shade of irony. ‘Sure. We all are. When we die.’

  She felt instantly frustrated with this man. ‘Can’t you forgive him — especially now?’

  ‘I will…I promise I will work on this.’ Paul met her eyes. Same imperious hawk-like gaze as his father. The twins had got a darker, more liquid and romantic thing from Madeleine.

  He guided her toward the bar. She asked, ‘You believe he brought this on himself?’

  ‘Yes. And he was so…let’s say naïve, that he probably hadn’t the slightest clue.’

  ‘You were going to say stupid.’

  ‘You see? I am trying to give my poor brother the benefit of the doubt here.’

  A twist of her lip conveyed a cop’s scorn for his little performance.

  Paul Guatto sniffed it away. ‘If a person has to die like that he should at least be aware of the path he’s headed down. Otherwise, it’s only pathetic, no? …Can I get you a glass?’

  The bar was set up in the shade of the entrance to the house. The façade of the massive home was old and noble — no sign of prosperous farmers anywhere, which is what they really were. And the piano music from inside coloured it all just so. ‘Merci.’ Accepting a glass. A respectful, ‘Chin, chin…’ Sipping, nodding the obligatory compliment, she asked, ‘What is that piece?’

  ‘La Vigneronne. It was Jo’s theme song during the vote.’

  ‘It’s sad.’

  ‘My sister’s in mourning. Played at speed, it’s inspirational, a song of revolution.’

  ‘You mean the war against the Italians? What, 1975?’

  ‘No, no, no, Madame Inspector. This is real history. The revolt of ’07. Against Paris. They wanted to use our wine for fuel in cars. Useful, but still — very low regard. A hundred years ago it was the political fight that transformed this region. That was their song.’

  ‘Led by the man for whom your father was named.’

  ‘Marcelin Albert.’

  ‘From what I understand, it could come to that again. The way it’s going with Spain?’

  ‘Worse. Total loss of markets. They don’t need our wine for gas anymore.’

  ‘So then, why was your brother…naïve, as you say, to focus on this issue?’

  ‘His focus was my father’s guilt. His speeches were a delusion.’ Aliette sipped her drink. Paul Guatto was just getting started. ‘…Don’t you think less than a half of one percent proves he was not the right man for this problem?’ This was strictly rhetorical, veering close to out-and-out contempt. ‘My father knew this. I knew this. My sister-in-law knew this. That smart girl who tried to help him knew this.’

  ‘But not your sister.’

  Paul Guatto rolled his eyes. ‘Two peas in the same stupid pod.’

  And now Paul Guatto blinked, fighting tears. And anger.

  A frail hand cradling an empty glass interceded. ‘Paul, could you pour me another glass?’

  His torpid smile reformed. ‘Maman…of course. Pardon. I didn’t see you.’

  ‘I am a ghost, cher…The rosé would be lovely — if it is still cold. Merci.’

  He took the cue, and the glass, and went back to the bar.

  Turning to the inspector, assessing none too subtly. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Aliette Nouvelle.’ Extending a hand. ‘My condolences.’

  A nod. No hand. ‘Aliette…That is different. You are not from around here.’ Her accent.

  ‘No, madame.’ She smiled, a humble guest, sizing up a woman all experience said was riding a helping medication. ‘Nor yourself?’

  Easy guess: Madame’s accent was foreign to the neighbourhood — flat, none of the vowel-peaking sing-song mode. But an iffy gambit. Presumptuous, close to rude.

  Madeleine Guatto only smiled, as if vaguely recalling that this was true. ‘No. But if one stays inside the fold long enough, one can begin to forget these things. This place becomes a planet unto itself. Like living in a spell. Except days like this, of course…’ She accepted a glass of wine from Paul without really acknowledging him. Her eyes were fixed on the new girl. She sipped and confided, ‘I read a lot. Perhaps you could recommend a good book?’

  ‘Do you like Swedish detectives?’

  ‘I adore them. The more neurotic, the better.’

  ‘Ah. Well then, I’ll bring you this Brazilian I’ve found. Definitely the next level of neurotic.’

  ‘I will hold you to that…Aliette.’

  She demurely clinked glasses with Madeleine Guatto.

  Who enquired, in the manner that a mother will, ‘And how long has this been occurring?’

  ‘Which, madame?’ Though the lady’s implication was clear.

  ‘I take it you have taken up with Paul?...I’ve been out of touch with almost everything.’

  ‘No, madame…’ looking to Paul for help here.

  His look said, Sorry, anyone who recommends Brazilian detectives is on their own.

  Aliette saw no way around it. She explained her role and presence.

  Instead of the dry scorn Aliette expected, Madeleine Guatto’s grimly fixed party smile turned natural and bright. Grief and medication notwithstanding, Madame Guatto was ha
ppy to have the chief inspector as her guest, somehow pleased she was a woman who was also a natural outsider. Apparently the impulsive offer of a Brazilian policier was exactly right; it had opened a door…

  When the doleful music from inside suddenly stopped, the entire party seemed to freeze momentarily. A telephone could be heard ringing.

  ‘Like a party game from years ago,’ commented Madeleine Guatto, bemused.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed the chief inspector.

  ‘And me without my chair.’

  They shared a spontaneous smile for musical chairs, birthdays, love...

  Before being swallowed up in the next swarm of well-wishing friends, Madeleine Guatto allowed herself the softest conspiratorial laugh — wise, motherly. Life was one long bitter joke, but there were these moments that enabled one to carry on. ‘It is my pleasure to meet you, even on such a sad day.’ She raised her glass. A vote of confidence in Aliette Nouvelle.

  ·

  She moved on, drink in hand, hoping to casually bump into Roland Bousquet and strike up a conversation, get his take on the tragedy and, with luck, some thoughts on an ENA girl who had interned with him named Stephanie McLeod? …But when Noëlli’s sad music started up again and the inspector looked that way and realized Roland Bousquet was watching her from the window of the salon, shoulder to shoulder with his old friend Marcelin Guatto, she let that strategy go by and went to find a sandwich, perhaps a little more wine.

  · 11 ·

  CHANGEOVER DAY AT THE BEACH

  Prince was alone at a table in a shady corner of a terrace on Valras square, nursing a bowl of coffee, composing friendly, deeply coded emails on his laptop. Saturday was changeover day — the Friends had till 3:00 to vacate their beachside condo. Jules and Suzi were hard at it, cleaning the place of every last bit of dust and crumbs. They insisted on this responsibility: their country, they had arranged it, they were hosts. And it was Jules’ stolen credit card number and alias on the rental agent’s form. Prince thought it a bit paranoid. There was a week, easy, till the next billing cycle for that card, another week after that till the agent began to receive calls from the bank and the client who never was. By then, the Friends would be long gone. These things were meticulously planned. But hey, a spotless rental unit on changeover day couldn’t hurt. Liz and Chris were walking to the new base, a rental cabin colony at Fleury, about ten kilometres west along the beach. Prince hadn’t argued. He and the two French Friends would catch a bus. They’d meet up later that afternoon. He needed time alone to send some news.

  And to think. Stephanie McLeod was making him careless. She had walked out Wednesday afternoon and not returned. She had communicated exactly once — to say she did not want to see him again. He should leave, she would forget they’d ever met. He offered to hitch up to the village. They could talk, make love, she would feel better about the situation. No. She’d be staying with Avi till further notice. Please just go away. He’d left it a day, then, against all good sense had started calling her — how many times he could not recall, but it was a dumb thing to do. She did not reply. Prince had rung her at work twice last evening. Roig was playing watchdog. Stephanie called him her boss, but he was obviously more than that. Like a surrogate father, an older brother. The moody Jew gave Prince the creeps. Instinct warned him not to push it.

  The situation was the murder of that twat, Guatto. Stephanie was petrified. Her fear was understandable given her connection — of course the police would want to talk to her; but her suspicions were absurd. Just Friends did not mete out violence on individuals. No Friend had ever fired a bullet in the name of the movement. Guns were symptomatic of the problem they’d sworn to fix. The abiding objective was random blows to industry and industrial infrastructure serving an inequitable, endlessly avaricious global business elite. But some cop had freaked her out.

  Liz had said, ‘Forget her. She’s a fucking bag of nerves and we don’t need it… Let her blab and cry, she has no real idea who and where we are.’

  Because Just Friends was a virtual army.

  Voices. Pods. Targets. Plans. Action …Then gone. No traces.

  Prince did not want to hear it, but everyone sensed Stephanie’s fear. They were all for pulling out. Any other new girl, Prince would have walked away, no problem — it had happened too many times to count, a steady stream of disaffected bourgeois kids, fun to fuck, maybe pump for cash — but once past the fantasy, most got cold feet. Normal. And normal procedure was to disappear. There was always another target. Why take risks for frightened children?

  Stephanie McLeod was a loose end he found he couldn’t leave.

  He did not argue the issue with Liz. It was between him and Steph.

  Last night had been a long night of cajoling. They wanted to split, get back to the Tarn — just another bunch of kids doing their communal thing in the woods. He managed to convince them to hang in. Joël Guatto’s murder was a gift, the perfect cover. They could move with impunity, hit the target, leave. With Guatto and all his ramifications in the foreground, no one would have the faintest clue. The cabin down the beach was booked, their tracks were covered. Another week, they’d be gone. They owed it to the movement to see it through. He was assuring the people who were awaiting his news when a shadow fell across his screen.‘…Pardon?’

  The waiter was pushing him to finish up or order something more.

  ‘Oui, oui, oui…Almost done, mate, almost done.’ He drained his bowl, packed his laptop and walked away. No, no tip for you, mon ami — Prince smirked and met the waiter’s glare as he cleared his precious table. Reap what you sow, greedy Frog. He headed for the boardwalk, out of sorts. Blocked. Not at all sure how to handle Stephanie McLeod.

  Suzi and Jules had received Stephanie’s cry for help. They’d done some searching, decided she was worth a look and passed her on to Prince. She had a pedigree, actual history in her veins. Both parents had been listed radicals, outlaws from the original wave, her mum implicated in mailbox bombings in Quebec, her dad accused of throwing accounting monkey wrenches into his bank’s Asian sector investment portfolio, dark numbers designed to fuck it up and expose it to the world. Junk bonds, derivatives, a new thing coming called a hedge fund that played on the failure of economies — Arnie Burns was a banker who’d seen the ugly heart of capitalistic darkness and listened to his soul. Beautiful. And a fellow Scot!…Thanks to the clever French Friends, Prince knew all this and more before Stephanie McLeod served him his first beer.

  He knew McLeod was as false a name as Charlie Stuart. He was deeply thrilled when Steph confided that she knew this too, the night they first made love. What a weirdly beautiful night.

  Prince and Liz tolerated each other’s explorations. Indeed, Liz and Chris from Canada were having their little thing. Sexual jealousy went against the Just Friends manifesto. There was also the notion that sex revealed the heart and the heart could never lie. In this business, trust was the hard thing, certainty something to be cherished. After six weeks, Stephanie remained marginal. Her level of talk, the things she knew. Too different. The others persisted in treating her the way they treated all newcomers — like a possible spy. While Prince was falling love.

  He knew Steph needed him to help her see it in no uncertain terms. Her life. Her role.

  Prince stopped where the boardwalk ended and removed his boots and socks. There was a big crowd now. It was the first day of the official season; the place was filling up fast. Lots of milk-white bodies. He thought he heard five different languages as he tooled along, boots slung over his shoulder, laptop tight in his hand. He realized he felt truly European on this tacky stretch of the Mediterranean. Did they want to hear what he was doing on their behalf? Not likely. For them, the only thing that mattered was the soporific sun.

  He allowed himself to test the water. Warm… He wondered about Stephanie.

  Then stopped dead in his tracks.

  ‘Quoi? ...connard
! T’es malade?’ You idiot. Are you sick? An oily woman stretched out on her mat beneath him, bitching, thinking he’d stopped to hit on her.

  In fact Prince was feeling a bit sick as he watched Suzi and Jules being escorted from the condo by four guys dressed for business, not the beach, and bundled into the back of a 4X4 with tinted windows. But he was trained to stay cool. Pulling off his shirt, he told the bitchy Française, ‘I just got here, OK? I need to get acclimatized. That’s normal. And I’m contributing to the local economy. Why are you people always so rude?’ He said it in low but serviceable German, which left the woman sputtering. He turned and headed back the way he’d come, no hurry, gawking, tentative, another new arrival, bone-white, already starting to burn.

  No one in a suit came running across the sand.

  When he got to the boardwalk, he put his shirt and boots back on and opened his cell phone, praying Liz and Chris had stopped along the way for lunch. If they’d found this place, they’d surely know the next one.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Auntie’s not well. Best not disturb her just now.’

  ‘Poor thing.’

  ‘A hat might be a good idea, with this sun.’

  ‘OK. Ta.’

  ‘Ta.’ Prince closed the cell and drifted back toward the busy centre of town, slow, easy, a new vacationer making a first exploratory pass. But anger got the better of him.

  She was a treacherous, neurotic little viper...

  And he’d bought her every word. Had she folded so completely? He hated believing it. But what else could he believe? Thank God he’d brought his laptop. Suzi’s would be stripped and examined within an inch of its life by people who knew how. Did the French police torture?

  Prince calmed down, slightly, realizing that Suzi and Jules could not tell what they didn’t know. Who he was. Where he was based. And neither could Stephanie Mcleod. The Just Friends system would work. It was one small bit of comfort in the face of a disaster.

  Prince considered his suddenly far fewer options. Think, think, think! And stay calm.