Walls of a Mind

by John Brooke

  The inspector paused. ‘Alors?’ Tell me more.

  There was no more, not for the police. Madame Fortuno stared, mum, ever bleak, ever resentful. She had said her piece. She was terrified of becoming involved but could not resist the urge to blame. Aliette walked away. She’d had enough of village mentality for one day.

  She knew they would never tell her everything. But they were telling her a lot.

  · 27 ·

  TEA WITH NOËLLI

  Noëlli Guatto presented herself at the commissariat dressed for a party. Expensively tailored silk to her knees, white high heels to match. A tea party? Throwing her arms around ‘Inspector Henri!’, she bestowed a triple kiss. Henri Dardé blushed but remained rock steady. In the visitor’s off-target motions, restless hands and racing eyes Aliette divined a downer, maybe two, taken in a failed attempt at balancing some speedy anti-depressant. She was not averse to chatting with people under the influence. Truth was truth; more often than not, drugs cleared a path of least resistance in the journey toward it. ‘Did you drive in alone?’

  Noëlli assessed the question with a busy nodding, ‘With my brother. Paul?’

  Paul was down the street on business. He would call in an hour.

  Mathilde Lahi brought tea and biscuits. Henri sat at Noëlli’s side, instructed not to say a word unless invited. The interview began with queries taken from Magui’s compiled notes on the small growers pegged as problematic. That Magui had written them off as angry, fearful, but ultimately powerless and even disinterested was not mentioned. Presenting them as possible killers was a good way to get their guest warmed up and trusting. Police foreplay, as it were. Noëlli spilled her tea, took bites from four different biscuits, while willingly, if erratically, doing her best to address all questions put her way. Aliette was getting a picture of a sister, medicated or otherwise, who had a wide-ranging interest in her brother’s affairs. A sister who would know if her brother was still in love with Stephanie McLeod. As Noëlli Guatto’s makeup lost its definition and her hands appeared to search for each other, disconnected on the table, and her earnest willingness became a glaze of sweat, it was time to switch tacks. ‘Thank you, Noëlli, this is excellent. It would appear you know everything and more about your brother’s business.’

  She ruefully recognized a compliment. ‘One doesn’t want to be embarrassed. I know my brother. I wasn’t going to let him get manipulated.’

  ‘Of course you weren’t. And so, what part of Joël’s business would take him to the beach?’

  ‘The beach?’

  ‘Where he was shot?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ She reached for one of her four partially eaten biscuits but rejected it for another, then for another. Then could not decide. ‘Well…no part. He was just there walking. Before picking up his boys? Didn’t we already talk about this?’

  ‘Someone knew he was there, Noëlli. For some reason. They killed him there. Why?’

  Noëlli Guatto sat staring at her biscuits.

  ‘Let me put it a different way. What did he know of Roland Bousquet’s business?’

  ‘What business?’ This from the side of her mouth as she gulped, and spilled, more tea.

  ‘Business related to wine from Spain. What he was fighting against, your brother. That was his focus. His cause, yes?’ …The barest, wary shrug to indicate agreement. ‘There must have been something he and Stephanie McLeod had dug up which — ’

  Her eyes expanded drastically. ‘That little slut!’

  ‘ — which Joël failed to exploit in the campaign, but which I believe he was in the process of moving on that day.’

  Noëlli’s agitation was momentarily stopped cold. She replaced her teacup in front of her with studied precision. ‘Why do you believe that?’

  ‘Because Joël was in love with her and she had worked for Roland Bousquet and she had information that could help Joël’s cause if only Joël would be courageous enough to use it.’

  ‘But Joël would never hurt my father.’

  ‘But Joël still loved Stephanie McLeod.’

  Noëlli’s eyes began to dance again. ‘But she left him!... She ruined his life, and she left him. She went off with that… that little foreigner without any hair.’

  ‘Prince. He’s called Prince. We also know Joël approached this man. Who is wanted for planting bombs, by the way. Any thoughts on that?’

  It was as if a spider had fallen on the table. Noëlli’s hand shot sideways.

  Henri caught the teacup before it could fly… ‘Merde!’ But his lap was soaked.

  Aliette shushed him. ‘It’s just tea, Inspector. If you want to leave…’ He left.

  She smiled at Noëlli. ‘Prince?’ And waited.

  ‘My brother did not…approach? What exactly do you mean?’

  ‘Your brother started talking with this man. This is well established.’

  Noëlli considered it. She shrugged. ‘Joël is a fool.’

  ‘Did you speak with him? With Prince?’

  Another long and tragically vacant pause. Finally: ‘He’s too young for me.’ Noëlli turned to the empty chair beside her — she seemed mystified to find Henri Dardé no longer there. In lieu of Henri, she reached for yet another biscuit, snapped it in two, studied the space between the pieces, then placed both pieces on the table on the edge of a puddle of tea.

  Her makeup ran further as sporadic tears began dropping through it.

  To be sure, there is also a downside when it comes to over-medicated interviewees.

  The inspector gave her a moment, then forged on. ‘But you met him…Noëlli?’

  ‘The night of the vote. He was there. With her. Poor Joël. She ruined it completely — his campaign — trying to make him be something he never could be. She twisted up his heart.’

  For the benefit of the recorder, Aliette said, ‘You are referring to Stephanie McLeod.’

  She couldn’t speak. Aliette coaxed gently, ‘Please… Noëlli.’

  ‘Yes. Her.’ Noëlli mulled it further. Then spat, ‘That girl is full of shit!’

  This from a woman dressed for champagne in the garden and sweating profusely and playing with her food like a child. Aliette stayed calm. ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘She thinks she’s so smart. Smarter than everyone.’

  ‘But Joël went back up there often. To the bistro. We know this.’

  ‘Stupid. Men are so stupid! She was so mean to him…’ One of the cookie halves was now surrounded by tea, dissolving. Noëlli rescued another in danger and put it in her mouth. ‘I told him to stop it. I warned him! I did,’ she whined.

  ‘Stephanie swears she was no longer communicating with your brother. But she also says he still loved her. Do you think maybe he was talking to Prince so he could talk to Stephanie?’

  The question sent her off on another tangent. ‘Angry,’ muttered Noëlli. ‘Joël was angry. He’s my brother, you see? My twin. We think alike. We feel alike.’

  ‘And you felt his anger. Did he talk about it?’

  ‘All the time.’

  ‘Bon. Who was he angry with?’

  ‘I warned him! I said, Joël there is nowhere good this girl can take you.’

  ‘Please focus on the question.’

  Noëlli blinked. ‘Could I have some water?’

  This as Henri Dardé rejoined them. She looked to him, imploring.

  Aliette prompted, ‘Anger, Noëlli. Joël’s anger. Joël was angry with someone. Obviously someone was angry with Joël. Who?’

  ‘You don’t understand! Joël had hope. Too much hope. Not realistic — too much the idealist, my poor Jo. His heart was so engaged in the cause. But he’s such a — ’

  ‘Causes don’t exist in a void, Noëlli.’ Aliette was getting fed up. ‘It’s between people. People at odds. Murder often happens. Please deal with that.’
r />   She couldn’t. She pleaded, ‘Joël is a baby! He believed the wrong people… Oh…’

  Aliette felt Noëlli slipping off to an unreachable place inside an arcane emotional maze. She said simply, ‘Roland Bousquet?’

  Noëlli’s response was immediate and flat. ‘Papa.’

  Papa? ‘This is not a spiritual exercise, Noëlli, please save the psychological tropes for your therapist. This is hard reality. Business. Politics. A bullet. A gun. A man. Mm?’

  ‘Papa. He’s the reason.’

  ‘It is absurd to think your father would have any part in the murder of his son.’

  But Noëlli seemed settled on it. ‘Papa,’ she repeated blankly. Settled, wretched, slipping toward the edge.

  Merde… ‘Concentrate, Noëlli. Think back. Think hard. Did your brother say anything that might threaten Roland Bousquet in any way? Any way at all? Think, Noëlli, think!’

  Noëlli kept turning to Henri, pitiable in her need. He finally responded, reaching to cover her trembling hand with his. It was sweet, if bizarre, how she smiled — smiled for him, fulsome and weird. Then stated, ‘Of course he was mad at Roland. Furious. But Joël would never hurt Papa.’

  Aliette nodded a curt merci, sang a silent hallelujah, looked twice to see that the recording machine was working as it should. She allowed Henri to allow Noëlli to hold his hand. Henri’s attentive hand had opened the door and she now had a recorded statement tying Guatto to Bousquet in the context she required. Political corruption. The court could work with that.

  She moved on. ‘The morning of his death Joël called the bistro, twice. Avi Roig has told me this. And he called Stephanie McLeod’s home. We have the record of these calls.’

  A window on the morning of Joël’s killing brought a return of the timorous fog. Noëlli struggled. ‘I did not see Joël that day. Did I?... No. I…I had my appointment. I came home. I had a bath, cold…it was so hot and I had a cold bath. I sold a case of wine to some Germans…had a drink with Mama…then…no, I can’t remember. I may have fainted. Yes.’

  ‘You fainted.’

  ‘They called and said that Joël was …and I… Yes. When I heard it, I passed out.’

  ‘Yes, it must have been a horrible day. But earlier — did he discuss his plans? What was Joël doing at that point? I mean apart from hanging around at the bistro?’

  ‘Nothing. Working with Paul.’

  Aliette sipped her tea. ‘I don’t believe you, Noëlli.’

  ‘But why not?’ Yet more of that irritating, druggy whine.

  ‘Because Joël went to the beach and we know that Prince was living at the beach and Stephanie was spending her time there.’

  On the precipice of tears again, she reiterated, ‘I warned him.’

  Too oblique.

  ‘But that day, Noëlli? Did you warn him that day? The day they killed him!’

  ‘I don’t know what he was doing!’

  ‘How could you not know that? You knew everything else.’

  Noëlli bridled as if slapped. Clutching Henri’s hand, she stood. ‘I cannot answer these questions! They hurt me!’ She tugged. Henri rose, unsure…

  Aliette said, ‘You will answer my questions or go straight to garde à vue. Is that clear?’

  Henri gently freed himself.

  Noëlli shrank back into her chair, tears flowing now, pulling at her hands, chewing on her lips in a way that was difficult to watch, till her eyes rolled up into her muddled brain and and she collapsed, shoulders quaking in miserable high drama, head lost in her arms like a bad girl banished to her room on Saturday night. They watched her, three bemused cops —

  Till she stopped.

  ‘Noëlli?’ Henri enquired. A few tentative times. He seemed afraid to touch her.

  When she would not respond, Magui Barthès stepped forward, gently lifted her chin.

  The woman’s eyes rolled. Noëlli Guatto was unconscious.

  Merde, merde, merde!…

  ·

  Dr. Boutes’ cabinet was around the corner. Magui and Mathilde had Noëlli propped and more or less mopped when he arrived. He took a light from his bag and explored her eyes.

  Paul Guatto came rushing up the stairs, close on the heels of Henri, more embarrassed than concerned. ‘Sorry. She was up very late. Out by herself, walking in the fields. Been at it all week — these long walks, all alone, won’t even take the dog. She’s not dealing with this very well. High as a kite one moment, down in the very depths the next.’

  Dr. Boutes said there was no need for further pills, at least not just now. ‘When she’s able, get her home and into bed. Then back to her doctor.’ He left.

  Mathilde went to the pantry, returned with smelling salts.

  Noëlli sputtered, coughed, cried... Her brother helped her to her feet.

  In departing, she reached out for Henri, faux tragic, close to comic. He reached back. Aliette interceded, ‘Merci, Noëlli. You have a rest and give some thought to my problem. We’ll continue this. Au revoir.’

  She turned on her heel and went back to her office. Worried.

  Noëlli Guatto’s collapse allowed doubt to flood back in. That brief sense of breakthrough was wavering. The inspector stood by her window, watching Paul Guatto guide his broken sister into the car, now not sure at all if Noëlli’s assertion would be enough to move Magistrate Sergio Regarri toward endorsing a primary investigation into the dealings of Roland Bousquet.

  She was no beginner. She knew absolute clarity is akin to unconditional love. Still…

  Chief Inspector Aliette Nouvelle sat at her desk, distracted.

  During the brief chaos created by Noëlli’s crisis, she had missed a call.

  Margot Tessier, sharing another attempt by Prince to connect with Stephanie MacLeod.

  Flagged around noon. Beep. Steph, look luv, there’s no fear in answering. They know we’re here, we know they’re there. But we travel low to the ground. So long as we’re on our game, careful like, there’s no way in hell they can track us. We walk away and they’ll be sitting there. Let them listen!...Have to be brave, Steph. Like Ulrike. We have to talk. Beep.

  · 28 ·

  POLITICAL EVENT AT MARAUSSAN

  It was just coming up 5:00 on a pleasant Friday evening. Aliette moved among the crowd gathered in the weed-ridden receiving dock area at the rear of the Cave Coopérative at Maraussan, surreptitiously assessing faces. The surrounding streets were filled with dirty vans in from the fields. Indeed, deeply tanned faces everywhere confirmed a large contingent of growers and producers. Her neighbours the Grassets had made it. Monsieur Planes, the twinkly-eyed mayor of Vieussan. She marked several faces from the place at Saint-Brin. And Guillaume Ricard, proprietor of Domaine Clorres, with Clara, looking good in tailored denim. Defiant? Foolhardy? Her eyes found Noëlli Guatto, on her brother’s arm. Looking fragile, poor thing. But where was their tragic father? You’d think Marcelin might come out of hiding to hear his old friend Roland.

  A loading bay had been transformed into a podium, with microphone and speakers, proudly bedecked with a giant tri-colour flag as a backdrop flowing down behind. People congregated in small groups, clasping cups of wine, swigging beers. Some were visibly pent up. The cry, ‘French wine for France!’ brought stout echoes, obligatory toasts, laughter mainly. And there were harsher oaths. ‘Fucking Spics!’ elicited more toasts in solidarity, if less ebullient fun.

  But it was bigger than the wine business per se. For every tanned man who worked in the vines there were ten less-rugged faces, signalling nine-to-five. Plus mothers pushing prams. Old men and mémées in lawn chairs. Economy is identity. This affected everyone.

  The air was filled with anticipation as they awaited Regional President Roland Bousquet.

  She looked to make sure Magui and Henri were circulating, observing.

  She assumed there would be an
agent representing Margot Tessier, more likely three or four, watching, compiling lists…

  A voice beside her noted, ‘She’s not here.’ Avi Roig was looking slightly wild in battered sandals, worn-out jeans, spattered olive green Les Oliviers T-shirt…the exploding hair.

  She responded with a question. ‘Did you really think she would be?’

  Wild, but barely a flicker in his dour eyes. ‘Roland Bousquet is the source of all her trouble. If she hadn’t tried to blow the whistle on that corrupt bastard, she’d never have gotten mixed up with Joël Guatto and landed in this mess. I’m kind of hoping she’ll walk right into the middle of it and give him a piece of her mind.’

  ‘It’s a nice thought.’

  The noise level rose. Avi Roig left her, moving forward with the throng. The car stopped in the middle of the depot lot, the chauffeur-security man hopped out with grim efficiency and opened the rear door. There was a desultory cheer as Roland Bousquet emerged and waved. Markedly desultory. Derogatory noises too. Monsieur le Président was dressed for the occasion. Top half a walking Tri-colour: crimson tie, the edges of a royal blue hankie flashing from the breast pocket of the immaculately white shirt. No coat. Not for these people, not today. Just so, the lower half of his costume, denims and a pair of work boots, was another bit of calculated theatre. Roland Bousquet smiled and waved and began to work the crowd, relaxed, in no big hurry to reach the makeshift stage. The observing cop easily discerned the shrewd mind directing the show. He knew he had his work cut out for him this evening, but he was a master, more than up to it.

  The site was well, if cynically, chosen. Dating from 1905, the hangar-sized building was the first Cave Coopérative in France. Tous pour chacun — Chacun pour tous. Not as romantic as the Musketeers, but just as true. The Cooperative movement had started here. If you were a member, the Cave could not refuse to buy your grapes: basic security for a simple farmer. Roland Bousquet reminded his audience of these facts, several times, artfully appealing to their sense of solidarity while also putting some distance between himself and the ones whose job it was to run a competitive operation in a competitive world. Roland knew how to spin trucks transporting plonk from Spain into the larger dream of a better future. And basic principles were at play here — of course they were. Freedom and equality and brotherhood meant accommodating new ways. Different people were doing things in different ways, but no one was anyone’s enemy. The expanding diversity of the region’s commerce would ultimately benefit them all!