by John Brooke
Fine, sure. The closer to home the better…
Being the organized and efficient woman that she was, the new system worked — Joël Guatto crashed and burned, but Stephanie did not miss a shift, a delivery order, an emergency stop for an extra litre of guignolet. So after the election they continued on. The new portable was the work phone now — if it was not in the drawer below the cash while she worked the floor, it was in Stephanie’s bag, wherever she happened to be. It was a better way to work.
But when she missed her shift last Wednesday night, Avi had known why.
The thing never stated in their deal was that Avi was looking out for Stephanie.
She rejected that. Vehemently. For him, it was a mission.
The new work phone had a dual SIM card capability, a so-called ‘remote working’ business feature that enabled the subscriber to access a common voicemail from a second phone listed on the contract. Which was Avi’s. Before presenting the new phone to Stephanie, he removed the twinned SIM card and put it in his wallet. Inserted in his personal phone, a message on the work phone was also a message for him, if need be. An extra bit of insurance for his business. Had he mentioned that to Stephanie? No. There was nothing personal in the work phone voicemail — or there was not supposed to be. But there were trust issues on both sides of the equation.
There were these stupid men she felt she needed in her life.
Stephanie always used her personal phone for personal things, but it sat there in the drawer with the work phone for good portions of a day and Avi learned enough about Joël Guatto to be worried. The smarmy Brit called Prince was more difficult to suss. When Guatto went down, Stephanie must have panicked, abandoned her personal phone, given the work phone number to the ugly little twerp. Then the police arrived and she’d panicked again. After running to Prince on Wednesday, she ran back home to Avi. She stopped answering Prince’s calls. Avi took them instead. And his messages. It was still the work phone, after all. In the week before the bombs, Prince called often, cajoling, wheedling, oblique and slimy. But much came clear.
On Sunday morning, the DST goon had demanded Stephanie’s cell phone. It was there in the drawer beside the work phone. Avi handed it over. They had taken her phone away.
She’d come in yesterday morning and taken the work phone. Then disappeared.
Reeling from the news of the bombs, Avi had called at least a dozen times, frantic. He’d left pleading messages. No reply. An instinct warned him against inserting the twinned SIM card and searching the work phone voicemail… When he tried again on his personal line, Stephanie had deleted her voice and any mention of the bistro. Sure enough, the DST goons had come racing back. They bashed around the bistro and up in his apartment, but she wasn’t there and they rushed back out, took their mad search up the hill. Avi knew they had flagged the work phone too.
·
Avi had spent today struggling to focus on the next day — two tables booked for Wednesday lunch, two more for supper. He screamed at France Télécom until they reconnected the landline. He pleaded with Roos, a faithful regular who’d become something of a surrogate mother to a fellow ex-pat, to fill in for Stephanie until this crisis was sorted out. He swore it would be.
But he prayed Steph was making tracks to Spain. Alone.
This evening Margot Tessier had come in, insisting Stephanie McLeod was still in the area. The boy too. Avi’s heart sank. He’d steeled himself, preparing to surrender his phone and probably be charged for interfering with French security. The cold-eyed DST boss didn’t say a word about Avi’s phone ploy. It was another matter altogether. It made his head spin, his heart sink deeper and freeze. He felt like killing her then and and there.
· 23 ·
FIRST FIGHT
The phone rang. ‘Oui?’ Mathilde Lahi said, ‘Your judge.’
Aliette took a breath and pushed the button. ‘Bonjour.’
Instructing Judge Regarri asked, ‘Do you really hate me that much?’
‘What did I do now?’ But she knew.
‘If I get transferred to Saint-Pierre and Miquelon, will that make you happy?’
Roland Bousquet was wasting no time in lining up his powerful ducks. ‘What did he say?’
‘That I should try to gain more control over my purview.’
‘Am I your purview, Sergio?’ A blatant move to soften the moment.
He wasn’t biting. ‘On paper, of course you are. Please, Aliette — he is the king of the castle and he will do whatever it takes.’ Her judge was serious, if not angry.
‘Did he call directly?’
‘Of course not.’
Meaning the Procureur. Or perhaps the Divisionnaire? She didn’t ask. Same difference if you want to talk about a career-menacing dressing down. She said, ‘It’s the logical place for me to go. And if no one is going to help me…’
He chose not to fill the space there.
She asked, ‘What do you expect me to do?’
An impasse… She waited it out.
Till he quietly advised, ‘Find out why Guatto went to the condo at the beach.’
‘Working on it — if only people will stop interrupting.’
‘I’m sorry. Am I interrupting?’
She let her frustration flow. ‘People with bombs are interrupting. People with creepy black cars and no accountability are interrupting. People who — ’ She was about to include, People who are too afraid to take the bull by the horns are interrupting —
But he cut in. ‘Margot Tessier has the resources and she wants to share.’
‘I know, I know… She stopped by last night and whispered it in my ear.’
‘What are you saying?’
She told him.
‘That is interesting.’
‘You weren’t there, Sergio. And we are still not looking for the same thing.’
‘You don’t know that. Not for certain.’
Which sounded like an echo from the night before. She didn’t want to hear it. She’d been needing to scream at someone. Now she did. ‘I do not want her nose in my investigation!’
‘Is that an order?’ Posed with the hint of a bitter laugh. Inspectors do not order judges.
No, it wasn’t funny. She sat there at a loss. Could a man ever comprehend a woman’s innate dislike for a member of her own sex, not to say her utter professional distrust? ‘She’s a bitch,’ Aliette muttered. ‘A bitch wearing blinkers. The last thing I need for something like this.’
He did his best to keep it purely reasonable. ‘It’s better to be her friend than her enemy.’
‘Right. Merci.’ She cut the call. She had just had her first fight with Sergio Regarri.
Merci, Roland Bousquet. Merci, Margot Tessier... ‘Fool!’ The inspector hurled her notes at the wall. Did she really expect instant total loyalty because she’d let him touch her body?
Mathilde Lahi looked in. Was everything all right?
Aliette waved her away. She had a million things to do before Friday afternoon.
· 24 ·
UNDUE INFLUENCE
Two gendarmes were stationed at the entrance to the long dirt lane leading to the gate to Domaine Clorres. They both loved her car. They loved her… leaning in to have a look, too close, having fun being professionally obnoxious. Seems they had no idea who she was.
In no mood, she flashed her warrant card. They shut up, jumped back and waved her through.
The compound gate was open, the place quiet — a lull between police forensics activity and the start of repair construction. The sweet but not unpleasant odour of putrifying grape sediment hung in the air, contained by the connnected two- and three-storey structures on all four sides of the hacienda-like layout. At one end the ochre-wash walls were coated with a pinkish sheen, the result of two vats inside the cave blown to smithereens. The terra cotta roofing in that area had colla
psed. Luckily the main house was at the other end of the quadrangle, forty metres away.
They sat in a bright, modern kitchen with a view of the vines, the sea not far beyond.
‘But this is normal, honest business!’ Guillaume Ricard was deeply tanned, barrel-chested.
His wife Clara — Clara Clorres — was a finer shade of earthy brown. She wore her affluence more naturally than her husband. She insisted on being present at the interview.
‘Of course, madame.’
In fact, Clara knew the wine business and the new regime. She, more politely, told the inspector that her husband was not wrong: There was nothing illegal in the new business coming in from Spain — the new rules from Strasbourg made it clear.
Aliette listened politely as the lady displayed her firm grasp of the new economics.
Perhaps unwisely, Clara added, ‘The issue is mainly moral, quoi?’
‘And I can live with it,’ muttered Guillaume, not happy with his wife. The project with his Spanish connection was a carefully planned, solidly financed growth initiative.
The back-and-forth between husband and wife gave a cop to understand there had been some serious talk in this kitchen prior to her visit. She suggested, ‘Apparently, others can’t.’
Ricard slapped the table. The coffee splashed. ‘These are anarchists!’ he growled. ‘From the north. Probably not even French, the bastards, from what I’ve been told by the Arab.’
Aliette winced. Poor Nabi. No wonder he was off-loading responsibility in every direction.
She said, ‘Not all of them, monsieur. We’re almost sure they had local help.’ How else could northern anarchists have been so accurate in their targeting? ‘As Madame says, it goes beyond business. You both well know not everyone in this area is happy with your growth initiative.’
‘Then find them and put them away. Peasants,’ Ricard blustered, tossing militant growers into the same contemptuous basket as northern anarchists. And probably Arabs.
‘We will. But the thing with Monsieur Bousquet…this could be the crux to our succeeding.’
‘It’s either grow or die. Roland understands this too.’
His wife said, ‘Guillaume…’ in the way a wife will when she knows her husband is about to go past certain limits.
‘It is well within Roland’s mandate to act as spokesman and conduit for local business!’
Aliette said, ‘But he is not supposed to be receiving extra — ’
‘I have never paid Roland Bousquet a single sou!’
‘I have different information.’
‘You show me your proof!’
‘Maybe not directly. We still have to talk to Monsieur Aurier.’
‘Alex Aurier’s son is my right hand. Been with us for fifteen years.’
‘Just so.’ Alexandre Aurier was the local mayor — at Sauvian, another village a few kilometres east. Had this business been facilitated through Domaine Clorres connections via their mayor to Regional President Bousquet?
Ricard remained stubbornly defensive, refusing to admit to any shortcomings in his business dealings that might compromise his integrity. His barrel chest swelled. ‘There is no — !’
Madame clapped her cup down hard on the counter. ‘Guillaume, stop fucking around with our welfare!’ He stared daggers. She softened. ‘Is it really worth it? We were this close, cher…’ Holding a miniscule space between her thumb and finger. ‘Your children are worth more than money. Me too, I hope.’
He shrugged, disgusted. ‘They won’t find Roland’s name anywhere…They just won’t.’
Bon. Nothing written. Almost nothing said. But it was clearly acknowledged.
It was Clara Clorres Ricard who said, ‘I’m not quite clear here, Inspector. Are we being accused? Or helped?’
‘Very fair question, madame. To be honest, I still don’t know. Someone else is looking into the bombings. My mandate is the murder of Joël Guatto.’
That landed like another bomb. After advising the Ricards not to warn their friend Alex, Aliette journeyed five kilometres farther, into Sauvian, another old community swallowed by new developments in the process of being transformed into a bedroom satellite of Beziers. The mayor’s office was in Rue Forge, but Aurier was behind the counter at his pharmacy in Rue Marianne, a thin man in a white smock, happy to greet her. Less so when he realized she only needed information, none of it related to medication. It was a long, patchy hour — no acerbic wife present to break his macho testicles and a steady stream of clientele coming to his counter afforded Monsieur Mayor plenty of pauses in which to carefully consider his responses while he served them.
The inspector persisted. When Aurier escorted her out and locked the door at the stroke of noon, she came away with an undeniable, though legally still unusable, picture of favours and connections from the office of Roland Bousquet to Domaine Clorres brokered through the Mairie at Sauvian. Provable or not, it corroborated the claims of Stephanie McLeod. Whatever she had seen or heard during her stage in Bousquet’s office, Stephanie had perceived correctly.
Naïve or otherwise, her anger did not flow from a fantasy. It was real.
As was her miserable guilt over the killing of Joël Guatto.
Back to the question: Where was Guatto headed that day? The Just Friends rental condo?
Why? On the trail of Stephanie, likely. Her anarchist friends, only maybe.
He’d called the bistro looking for Stephanie. We have to talk…
Love — the pressures brought to bear. Stephanie’d had Joël Guatto in the palm of her hand. Balls on the table, monsieur …His sense of having failed her? Was the man who’d been lost in thought walking on the beach a man in shame summoning courage? To do what? Joël linking arms with Stephanie and confronting Roland Bousquet, Papa’s great friend be damned — that was a reasonable possibility. Whereas the sum of all descriptions of the man thus far said Joël Guatto volunteering for a bomb attack was just not something he would do. Far too much to lose.
Roland Bousquet. Joël Guatto would have been thinking of Roland Bousquet.
Had Roland known this? He had the means to know it. And to hire a professional gun.
It fit far better than a syndicate of motley farmers…
Aliette headed back to Saint-Brin, brooding, frustrated by the gap in information concerning Joël Guatto’s final day. She needed Stephanie. She needed Noëlli.
·
Around four, Mathilde Lahi buzzed. Aliette went to collect a mug of tea.
Inspector Magui Barthès was escorting a rough-looking man from her office. ‘Anything you might think of, don’t be shy. I’m here.’
Thibault Bachelard, one of twelve growers singled out by the Cooperative accountant as at risk financially and conspicuously angry, frowned a gruff, suspicious au revoir as he shambled past.
‘Alors?’
Magui’s shrug indicated it was all just an exercise. ‘That’s ten. None too upset about what happened to Clorres. Or Guatto, for that matter. I don’t get the feeling any of them are as politically involved as you’d think. With their kind, it’s more down to fate.’
Aliette commiserated. But they had to cover all possibilities.
‘Yes…,’ said Magui. ‘Last two tomorrow.’
‘Right…Where is Henri?’
‘Off to an arson call — out at Babeau.’
‘Well, let’s have a look at his notes.’ Regarding his follow-up at Domaine Guatto.
‘B’eh, he hasn’t talked to her. She keeps pleading appointments with her therapist.’
‘Damn him!’ …She turned to Mathilde. ‘Do a perquisition order for Noëlli Guatto and put it on his desk. If she’s not here for tea with me tomorrow afternoon, he can take it to her. And then he can drive her downtown to garde à vue. Henri is not paid to be a social worker.’
Mathilde seemed less than enth
usiastic as she pulled up an official form on her screen. ‘Poor Henri. He really needs a girlfriend.’
‘I really don’t think she would be the best choice,’ Magui noted.
‘You don’t know that,’ countered Mathilde.
‘Have you met her?’
‘Sure.’
There were too many men who really needed a girlfriend. The boss held firm. ‘He can work it either way. I need to talk to her before Friday and I will.’
…Long day. She was finishing her updated report, feeling groggy, hungry, when Henri Dardé tapped on her door. ‘Yes?’ Weary. Time to go home.
‘Do we really need this?’ He held the perquisition order dangling between two thick fingers like a teacher with a filthy poem that needed to be discussed.
‘Apparently we might, Inspector.’
‘She has these appointments — her therapist. In Narbonne. I missed her Monday.’
‘And Tuesday?’
‘Said she needed to rest. I felt we should give her some slack.’
‘Sounds like you’re getting to be good pals. And today?’
Henri blinked. ‘Well, there’s the fire in Babeau. We were going to try again tomorrow.’
‘How sweet… That’s what Mother used to say to me. We’ll talk about it tomorrow, dear.’
‘She’s none too stable at the moment, boss…says she needs more time. Her emotions?’
‘Should I get Magui to handle this?’
Henri Dardé stared at the floor. ‘Boss, she’s mad as a mouse with her tail in a trap.’
‘But she likes you!’ He blushed… ‘You are in charge of Noëlli Guatto’s emotions, Inspector. We need a much clearer picture of Joël Guatto’s movements and communications the morning of the murder. As long as Noëlli Guatto can utter words, I want to hear what she has to say. No slack, Henri. If she does not appear within twenty-four hours, it could get bad. The perquisition order will help you if you’re feeling stuck… Tea time, tomorrow. Clear?’
Henri withdrew with a sulky nod. ‘Her mother says merci for the book, by the way.’
