by John Brooke
‘Bonsoir... Time for a refill.’
‘With pleasure, Madame Chief Inspector.’
Aliette was waiting for Jocelyne to move to a less formal greeting. She did not dare push the matter. It had barely been six months, after all. Their brief meeting at the funeral was a stark reminder that it would happen slowly, if ever… Maybe it would. They were close in age. The last time she’d come in, Jocelyne had confided that she and Alain hoped at least one of her three adolescents would choose to go to the wine school at Montpellier, but, ‘You can’t force it. You can only show them it’s not the worst way of life.’ Jocelyne read the psychology columns as closely as any city mother, and she hoped for the same things.
Aliette settled herself at the tasting counter while Jocelyne went to replenish her jug.
Returning, she accepted a five-euro note. ‘Can I offer you a glass?’
‘I would enjoy that... Something chilled?’
‘Of course.’ She poured a glass of Eulalie Rosé — named for a grandmother.
The offered glass was tasted and complimented. Subtly dry as opposed to candy sweet.
Business rite concluded, two woman became neighbours again. More or less.
‘Alors?’ What’s new?
Did Jocelyne really want to know? Aliette sipped her rosé and thought perhaps she did. Wine was her livelihood and her culture. She asked, ‘You friends with this Clorres family?’
‘Not really, no. But they didn’t deserve — ’
‘Is there really a war going on around here?’ The way she posed it was a clear reminder that she was new, and that the face of things was still more mask than map.
Jocelyne Grasset shrugged. ‘Those CRAV imbeciles seem to think so.’
‘But do you? If there is a war, the other side killed Joël Guatto. That’s my problem. But I don’t see it. And I don’t understand it.’ Jocelyne paused midway in her reach to refill the inspector’s glass. Her gaze turned flinty. A trust issue? Had she just been accused? Aliette was used to such reaction. ‘I apologize if that sounds wrong. I do. But I really need to get a better lay of the land.’ She smiled. She knew people may distrust the police, but they want to talk about murder. They just have to find the proper words.
Jocelyne Grasset poured more wine for her neighbour. Who was also her customer. Who was also a cop. ‘We know we have to control our production,’ she said. ‘The Spanish won’t — they have a different system. They will have their own problems. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon. But we have to control ourselves — now, and we do. Or we’re trying to. We adjust. Everyone knows we need to. There are functionaries on at least two different levels watching carefully. They’re a pain in the neck, but they’re on our side. No one wants anyone to fail, but some are bound to. That’s life…’ Nodding at Aliette’s glass. ‘You’re drinking one of our adjustments. The market wants rosé, we make a rosé. A good one. And we keep going. We don’t need to march. We don’t need to blow anything up. We certainly don’t need to kill a shrill alarmist like poor Joël…’ Now Jocelyne smiled, but ruefully. ‘Joël Guatto was like a baby. Politically, I mean.’
‘Joël Guatto was very much against what Clorres is doing.’
Jocelyne only nodded. She threw back her tiny portion of wine and began to pack up.
The inspector took the hint and downed hers. She would remember that she liked it. Would Sergio like a rosé? A picnic maybe? Getting down from the bar stool, she asked, ‘You going to hear Roland Bousquet at Maraussan on Friday?’
‘Sure.’ She wiped a damp cloth across the counter.
‘Roland Bousquet is not a baby.’
Jocelyne heard it clearly. ‘Roland is an operator and an opportunist, no one who knows him would deny it. But he’s no one’s enemy, Inspector.’
‘Is he honest?’
‘He’s a politician.’ Big shrug for the ways and means of les élus.
Aliette hefted the plastic jerry can. Five litres is not light.
Jocelyne Grasset held the door. Her smile turned fanciful. ‘I think it must be about love.’
‘Love?’
‘We heard about some girlfriend. His deputy?’
‘Yes, we’re looking there too.’
‘Merci, Inspector. Bonsoir.’
· 21 ·
DEVIL ON HER DOORSTEP
Aliette lugged her jug home. Heavy — switching arms several times. She was not happy to find DST Agent Margot Tessier on her terrace, stretched out on her chaise longue, gazing at the evening star. ‘Ah, there you are. And with wine! Bon…’ Margot stood, offering her hand.
Aliette ignored it. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was at Vieussan, talking to some people. I thought I’d stop here. I’ve got something for you.’
The inspector put the jug down on the flagstone and massaged her shoulder. Margot Tessier was a bigger, stronger woman. The agent’s sand-coloured suit complemented her solid build. It went well with her richly brown southern skin. Of course Sergio Regarri would have been attracted.
Aliette’s instinct was defensive. ‘She came back from her night with you and went swimming. Talk to her boss and to the — ’
‘I have spoken with Monsieur Roig. He assumes she came in and got a phone. A work phone. We have her phone. The neighbour saw her go into her house and leave shortly after. Swimming only takes a minute. I believe she met a ride and went to plant some bombs.’
‘Would she? …after you spent the night scaring her within an inch of her life?’
‘Why not? She hates me. She told me so. She hates us.’
Aliette looked into Margot’s grey eyes. ‘We are not you, madame. Please.’
‘Don’t let’s split hairs, Inspector. A girl like her sees the world in black and white.’
‘Then why did you let her go?’
‘I obviously should have kept her.’ She shrugged, bemused. ‘For the same reason as you, I’d imagine. To catch a bigger fish. Who hates us even more than she does.’
‘She wants nothing more to do with him.’
‘No?’
‘My fish is not your fish, Margot.’Aliette Nouvelle hated the fact that she shared such a basic mistake with the likes of Margot Tessier. ‘What do you want to talk about?’
‘First I have something you need to hear.’
Margot Tessier pulled a small recorder from her purse and pressed Play. A computer voice: You have reached the voice mail of …a female voice added: Stephanie. The computer voice: Please leave a message. A male said, Hey, Steph. Where are you, darlin’? I hope they haven’t grabbed you already. If they have, we have complete faith in your ability to withstand torture for the greater good. If not, I recommend lying low till we can connect. I can see a wonderful future awaiting the two of us, Steph. Talk to you soon. Love ya, and you know it. Ta.
The inspector blinked. The agent nodded. The tape continued:
They listened to a universally familiar ring tone: All you need is love…la la la la la…All you need is — Then, connecting, the male voice: Steph! I was just — The female voice cut him off: I love you but can’t there be more than this? There has to be…I’ll be in touch.
You could hear the call being cut. Margot stopped the machine. ‘Both calls were recorded a few hours after yesterday’s events. The voices are those of this Prince person and Stephanie McLeod.’ Before Aliette could speak, she added, ‘This can easily be proved.’
But Aliette could not speak. She was feeling like she’d been punched.
Margot said, ‘Are you going to let me try your wine?’
·
Five litres filled almost seven bottles. Margot Tessier held the small funnel steady as Aliette poured. Difficult when the thing is full — she splashed wine on Margot’s chic sleeve and sun-golden wrist. By bottle three she’d got the feel. They stuck old corks in six. A reluctant host put two glas
ses on the table and they sat with the seventh bottle. ‘This is good,’ said Margot.
‘Neighbour. Just down the way.’
‘What do they think about all this?’
Aliette offered a dismissive shake of her head as she chewed her wine so she wouldn’t choke on it. Not politics but love? Gesturing to Margot’s recorder:‘Let me hear it again.’
Margot obliged.
I love you but can’t there be more than this? There has to be…I’ll be in touch.
The inspector said, ‘But he’s teasing her! Listen to him.’
‘It’s how he always sounds.’ Margot Tessier pressed a button, the machine adjusted. They heard a series of messages from Prince telling Stephanie she really was part of the group. The twangy accent, whiny, cajoling tone — all consistent. The name Ulrike kept popping up.
Aliette asked, ‘Who is this Ulrike?’
‘Did she not tell you about his Ulrike Meinhof fantasy?’
‘No.’
‘She’s his Ulrike.’
Aliette stared at the recorder. ‘No. She’s not stupid. Something’s not right here.’
‘Love makes people stupid,’ Margot noted. ‘We both know this.’ Margot Tessier was trying hard to be a colleague and not a bitch. More than that: Trying hard to make it just us girls.
Aliette Nouvelle resisted.
Margot seemed perplexed by her reluctance. To fill the silence, she said, ‘So many of my clients are so basic. Paris sends me all this research. So many studies being done. We deal with the idealists, the politically angry. That derives from high-end notions. Patriotism, love of humankind, fanatical faith, what have you… I suppose it’s fascinating for the ones who draw up these abstract models. I suppose it helps me do I what I need to do. But I mean basic in the sense of predictable responses to your garden-variety spiritual crises brought on by disillusion. I’d never tell my bosses, but I find far more workable profiles in my how-to self-help bestsellers than in any of the academic stuff. It’s a bit sad when you think about it.’
‘How to make a bomb?’ Aliette got that research too. ‘You’re seeing her wrong.’
Margot Tessier helped herself to more wine. ‘I had her for ten hours. The deepest, darkest hours of the night. We covered a lot of intimate ground.’ A raised eyebrow to underscore the point. ‘This is one of the most unabstract people I’ve had to deal with in a long time. Which doesn’t mean Stephanie McLeod isn’t a textbook case of…of too many things. All the wrong things. I know because I’ve lived them.’ She smiled another dark, weirdly complicit smile.
‘Do you mean to say you’ve been involved in terrorist activities, Margot?’
Margot’s smile became a hurt look: sarcasm is not too useful here, ma fille. ‘I mean that Stephanie McLeod is the victim of giving in to wrong impulses. Anger as a starting point for love. Letting the little manipulator who’s riding the thin edge of fear make the big decisions. I mean completely misreading some key people in my life… You don’t know these things?’
Aliette would not share her life’s mistakes with this woman. She held her ground. ‘From what I gathered, from what I sensed when she came to me — of her own free will, I might add — I don’t believe she loves this man. She’s given up on love. She knows she’s made a mess of it. I don’t believe she was speaking straight or in good faith when she made that call.’ A large yawn came. She let it. To help push Margot away. ‘…In any event, she’s God knows where by now. The people on the place at Vieussan, yesterday afternoon, they saw her, she had a knapsack. They saw her walk to the cemetery. Surely to say goodbye to her parents before going down to the road to catch the five o’clock bus and leave forever. To get away from us, Margot. Yes, we scared her. But he did too. I know this. I know she knows he’s very wrong for her.’
The agent leaned across the table. ‘I don’t think so. They saw her go to the cemetery. After that, they don’t know. She was not on the five o’clock bus. We figure she went back to the village to get some things. Maybe there was a fight about that — sounds like it when he calls her, you’re right, he’s telling her she’s being dumb. When she gets the message and calls back, one of them leaves the line open for too long. Lots of time to plot it. We probably missed him in the city by about five minutes. Took us longer to get back up there, but we checked the bus… Today we picked up a couple of brief phone signals. They’re still in the area. Both of them. ’
‘Both of them? How brief?’
‘Just a try with no response.’
‘From her?’
‘From him.’
‘How do you know this, Margot?’
‘Unlisted numbers. Anyone else would leave a message.’
‘Not Avi Roig?’
‘He was trying yesterday… gave up. He thinks she’s in Spain. It’s him. Prince.’
‘Then go get him.’
‘We tried… He’s moving. So is she. He keeps changing phones. But her number’s still active. This phone she stole from the bistro, she’s pulled the SIM card, no doubt. When she puts it in and checks her messages, we get a basic area signal from both ends of the communication. Maybe they have a code of some kind. When she responds, we’ll have a better picture.’
‘She won’t respond.’
‘Are you absolutely sure, Inspector? She could be as crazy as he is. Ulrike? And demanding the next thing. Why does she not stomp on her phone? That number’s the only thing connecting them. She wants to stay in contact.’
‘She does not love that man. She did not help him plant any bombs.’
‘Maybe. Maybe you’re right. It is tiresome. That accent?...But he loves her. I can hear it.’
Aliette yawned again. ‘Margot, it’s been a long day. I have a murder case that needs me.’
Agent Tessier sat there tapping on the table with her manicured nails, assessing. Realizing she was not going to win over Aliette Nouvelle with a girls-only tête-à-tête? It was not that her bronzed face hardened, it was more an emptying effect, the soul of a spook retreating to default mode.
Professional distance was re-established. ‘I want that boy. She is going to help me get him. I have this feeling. And I have the tools. Which I am willing to share, Inspector.’
‘Are you really so locked in, Margot? A real Javert, you.’ The loveless, relentless cop from Hugo’s masterpiece, so tragically obsessed with rules. ‘Can’t you see beyond your idea here?’
She smiled as if she’d had Javert tossed her way before. ‘We’re trained to see a certain way. And there is the evidence, I’m afraid.’ Tapping the recording machine. ‘We’ve been listening since Guatto. She was there at the beginning, she’ll be there when we bring him down,’ Margot reiterated, her total certainty reinforced by the cement-like walls of her trained mind.
Aliette was sure the ‘beginning’ had started a good while before that, but for whom and why remained to be established. She only nodded, fully steeped in fatigue and futility.
Finishing off her wine, Margot stood. She looked at her watch. ‘Neighbour still open?’
Aliette didn’t know. She hoped not. God forbid that Margot Tessier should come visiting on a regular basis with the excuse of refilling her jug. ‘You people leave so much to be desired.’
A cool nod, depositing the recorder in her bag. ‘I am well aware that many of my fellow law enforcement officers are wary of my…our…let’s call it operational leeway. Do you think I don’t know that? One wishes for sympathy. Obviously. But we would not have that extra freedom if the system did not demand it. No one’s irrational, Aliette. Or locked in, for that matter. There are purposes for every need. It doesn’t mean we can’t work constructively with other branches when circumstances require. I will keep you informed.’
She said good night.
At least she didn’t ask to use the bathroom.
· 22 ·
THE WORK PHONE
Avi Roig was another person much discomfited by a visit from DST Agent Margot Tessier that evening. Now he was in the woods, hiding from her cold eyes. He opened his phone, switched SIM cards, entered the code that linked his phone to the work phone voicemail. 2 MISSED CALLS — number unknown. No messages. He could only guess what that might mean. He closed his phone and removed the SIM card, looked up at the stars as if he might see the satellite that was surely seeing him. Then he carried his bike back down to the road and took a different way home. He still clung to the hope that Stephanie was long gone. The fact of two missed calls supported it. The unknown number left him feeling ill. So much was suddenly sickenly unclear.
Avi had always had a separate line for the bistro. In the past couple of years Stephanie had become the voice of Les Oliviers. She was better at that part of the business than he. ‘Bonjour. Thanks for calling. We are open Wednesday to Sunday…’ She might add that day’s specials.
When Stephanie announced her intention to work for Guatto, she’d insisted she could handle both jobs — she promised she’d never miss a shift. Avi knew better. A role like that, she would be running around the entire region. And talking all day long. He did not want to be leaving messages and waiting while she was hustling money, charming media, or hashing out strategy with her candidate. A new work phone had been part of their deal. He would terminate the landline and get a cell. She would carry it, do reservations and fulfil her other duties on the fly. Stephanie could continue to earn money working for him (which she needed to do) while she worked for her idiot politician, but only if she carried the phone. It would help him know he could count on her. She accepted.
Then asked for the use of the small enclosed back terrace as a campaign office.
