Walls of a Mind
Page 30
And Chief Inspector Nouvelle felt a reserve of sympathy opening.
But when he opened her purse and removed her keys, she knew she would never forgive.
He backed out of the musty room, flipped the switch, secured the door, and left them.
Aliette’s derrière grew numb. Her eyes adjusted. There was the sound of a bird outside.
Later, Henri Dardé came to. He sat there, blinking away the pain. Magui Barthès had lost the battle to control her bladder and cried silently, confined in her sticky puddle. The boss could do nothing to help them. It was probably getting dark in the world beyond the walls.
She sank into herself, to a blank place, past anger. Just sitting, waiting for rescue.
…which eventually arrived in the form of Sergio Regarri accompanied by four gendarmes from the detachment at Saint-Brin. He smiled, supportive, nonjudgemental, coaxing her back to life.
She wished he wouldn’t. She deserved all the negatives surely coming her way.
· 56 ·
SOMETHING ABOUT AVI’S OMELETS?
She wrote a report. She borrowed Mathilde Lahi’s car.
They found a FAMAS F1 semi-automatic assault rifle leaning against an olive tree in the grove up the hill, a weapon such as those used by the military and special units of the police. The forensics said it was possible but, lacking round or shell, not conclusive that it was the source of the shot that put a bullet through the boy. An English retiree who did occasional translation work at the Palace of Justice listened once to the relevant bit from the conversation recorded on Stephanie McLeod’s cell phone and confirmed the name MacGregor Spratt. From Edinburgh. Sergio’s office assumed the task of finding and informing the family, and sending an anarchist prince back home.
They found her car by a beach near Biarritz, keys on the floor and none the worse for wear. A gendarme had come upon it Sunday night, waiting alone by the sea after the crowds had cleared. Another car had gone missing from the same site. It seemed the man called Avi Roig had selected a less conspicuous but more affluent BMW for the next part of his journey — to Bilbao, it turned out. They learned this when it was also found. After that the trail became pure speculation. A boat to England? A bus to Portugal? Another car to points south, to Gibraltar and a ferry to Tangiers? He was gone. They assumed he was travelling with a Sako TRG42 338 mag tactical rifle. They knew he knew how to use it.
Margot Tessier was also gone.
When Aliette’s car came back, the forensics indicated traces of treated blonde hair in the trunk.
‘But they found the same hair in the front, on the passenger seat,’ argued Sergio Regarri, too transparently seeking any sort of silver lining. A complicit agent was better than a dead one.
‘No,’ she rebutted. ‘He’s the kind who’d prop her up, a dozing wife, till he got clear of the neighbourhood.’ She knew her judge was doing his best to prop her up — her morale, if not her reputation. But some things were just too obvious and Sergio’s unconvincing attempt at positivity did not sit well. ‘She’s dead. I heard it happen, I’m sure of it. They’ll find her in a crevice in the Pyrenees.’
‘If they ever do.’ He knew she was probably right.
Poor Margot. Cop and judge shared a silent moment, though from drastically separate places. The disappearance of the formidable Margot Tessier left uneasy ambivalence on both sides of the table, an undefined nexus where personal and professional merged in messy, unmentional ways, and never the twain would meet.
‘And there was this…’ passing her a slip of paper protected in a sheath of plastic.
It was a notepad page with Bistro Les Oliviers letterhead and an image of a tree. Avi (Roig or Louk — it was still problematic in her mind) had printed in pencil, in a wobbly but readable hand: For the olive tree is the tree of pain. It brings peace only to those who see it through God’s eyes. Pierre Magnan, La maison assassinée. Aliette recalled an instinctive outflow of sympathy for an unhappy man who had murdered for love. And faith. ‘I read that. Years ago,’ she noted glumly.
‘Other side,’ he prompted. On the back were the codes to the phone left on the bar. ‘They told me it’s a business package. Common voicemail. Handy. You might try it with your team.’
‘Mm, merci.’ She might look into it.
Sergio smiled valiantly, pressing on, determined to push back against her gloom. ‘But you said he said something. I mean Saturday night when you were asleep. It was strange and… well, I love to watch you sleeping. Something about Avi’s omelets? Do you want to add that?’
‘No.’ It was too late. She revised her report. Sergio signed it and sent it upstairs.
When they finally released her car, she drove it back to the dealer and traded it in. At a big loss. Still practically new. She drove away, anonymous in a serviceable grey hatchback. That was the saddest day so far in the bright new south. It had barely been a month since that glorious day of escape to the beach, flying on the wings of a revelation.
But how could she live with traces of Margot in the trunk?
EPILOGUE
A dull dread accompanied Aliette on each visit to the hospital. Stephanie McLeod was healing; they were sure there would be a moment when Stephanie could say her piece. And she would have to answer back. There were words to be found — real words, but impossible things to be explained. Strictly speaking, it was not a cop’s responsibility. But it was. And four weeks later, late August, the time of la rentrée, the return to school, to work, to life — Stephanie was brought out of induced coma.
In due course, the inspector was summoned. She sat in the same chair. ‘I’m not sure how to tell you this, Stephanie, but…’ She tried.
Stephanie absorbed it. She seemed to understand. ‘He was like my parents, only more so. I always felt that.’ Her smile was wan. Instincts are immutable. What can you do?
‘Not that it matters, but I need to know: Did he force you?’ The boy who’d been a Prince.
‘It’s still not totally clear. Therapist says I probably don’t want it to be.’
‘Probably?’
‘I went out. To help him. I had to. I mean it was me who’d…’ Her breathing caught.
Aliette took her hand. ‘We’re past that part, Stephanie.’
‘Anyway, he was stumbling backward, I tried to grab him, I lost my footing… So, I didn’t grab, I pushed. But I was holding him and I went too.’ Stephanie emerged from the painful fog. ‘Everything I do is wrong.’ The girl was feeling fateful.
The inspector knew the feeling. She was not her mother or even her friend, but she tried to turn her sights around. ‘You stayed alive. That was right. You can try again.’
‘I will.’
‘You’ve decisions to make.’ School? Running a bistro? Growing olives? Living a life…
Stephanie promised she would make them.
But it wouldn’t be till her body decided she could walk to bathroom on her own.
·
In that same period Chief Inspector Nouvelle went to Montpellier to meet with the Divisional head. He blamed her lack of preparedness. She would have to rethink her so-called philosophy concerning firearms, and if not that, her future with the force.
She agreed: henceforth, she would carry her gun. Magistrate Regarri was similarly castigated but avoided transfer to Saint-Pierre and Miquelon. For good or ill, the case was something they were bound to share.
A little more than a year later, they were picnicking on the sand at Vendres, at approximately the same spot where Aliette had escaped to that day when Joël Guatto had trudged past. It was now a favourite spot of two well-seasoned lovers. ‘Where I fell in love,’ Sergio would say whenever anyone asked. He was the sentimental one. She would only smile.
The September sun was pleasant, the air was crystal clear, but a week of Tramontane had left the sea too cold for swimming, another summer gone. The upside was th
at, apart from three kids working kites and a pair of nudists in the dunes, they were alone.
She had received a note. An email, from where, it was impossible to know. The only hint was the Send time. ‘He’s somewhere ten hours ahead of us. Or behind…’ She had not forwarded it to the court. She printed one copy and deleted it. It was there if anyone really wanted it. But she had no thought of pursuing it and she trusted her judge to respond in kind. It was more a memento than a clue; she’d brought it along to share while they sipped their beers and shared a sandwich.
Salut. It is the time of our year when we take stock. Yom Kippur, our new year. Ten days in, we each in our own way celebrate the Day of Atonement. It helps us deal with our anger, if only in the sense of acknowledging and apologizing. It’s when we must humble our souls, the day when we are instructed to seek out those we have frustrated, angered, betrayed — and offer our contrition. Anger is surely the expression of a soul bashing against itself. Righteous anger is the worst. I know this. The evening prayer says, All the people are in fault. May all the people of Israel be forgiven, including the strangers who live in their midst. You are a stranger who still lives my midst, and where I live now I am still very much alone. I keep thinking I could have helped you. You could have helped me. I regret that. Too late, of course, but there it is. I atone… In good faith.
She hadn’t replied. Was one meant to respond to the atonement? Had he expected her to? She was not a priest. ‘I think it’s more for him than me.’
Her judge didn’t know the protocol of Atonement either. ‘Do you think he’s contacted her?’
‘Probably.’
‘And?’
‘She’ll deal with it.’
Aliette Nouvelle had to believe Stephanie McLeod would deal with it correctly. And strongly.
Sergio Regarri said nothing as he allowed her to lift the sheet of paper from his fingers and release it to the wind. Within moments it had been blown out of sight. Then she leaned against him and watched the sea. One man’s anger had been the cornerstone in their alliance. She liked the idea of allegiance. Something solid there. The notion of good faith was as flighty as the orange kite dancing dangerously low over the sparkling waves.
· fin ·
OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES
The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle
Jacques Normand, France’s Public Enemy Number One, escaped from prison over ten years ago. But the Commissaire is convinced that the outlaw is alive. Find him, he commands Inspector Aliette Nouvelle.
“This book dropped into my lap and I was smitten: interesting premise, fascinating central character and good writing. Poetic images, film stills and literary writing, none out of place.” — The Globe & Mail
All Pure Souls
Inspector Aliette Nouvelle returns to solve the case of the murder of a Marilyn Monroe look-alike in a French brothel.
“All Pure Souls is definitely not a dimestore detective novel. The writing is good and the dialogue is sharp…” — Montreal Review of Books
Stifling Folds of Love
When the ex-lovers of a former schoolteacher start dying at an alarming rate, Inspector Aliette Nouvelle is drawn into the investigation, not least because her boss is also in jeopardy.
“The writing may feel impressionistic but the climax is as threatening as they come.” — The Hamilton Spectator
The Unknown Masterpiece
Inspector Aliette Nouvelle’s investigation into the murder of a Basel art gallery security guard and an unknown masterpiece uncovers a cross-border art fraud conspiracy. As the bodies pile up on both sides of the French-Swiss border, she throws herself into the case, using work as an excuse to get some distance from her faltering relationship with Commissaire Claude Néon.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Brooke became fascinated by criminality and police work listening to the courtroom stories and observations of his father, a long-serving judge. Although he lives in Montreal, John makes frequent trips to France for both pleasure and research. He earns a living as a freelance writer and translator, has also worked as a film and video editor as well as directed four films on modern dance. His poetry and short stories have been widely published, and in 1998 his story “The Finer Points of Apples” won him the Journey Prize. Brooke’s first Inspector Aliette mystery, The Voice of Aliette Nouvelle, was published in 1999, followed by All Pure Souls in 2001. He took a break from Aliette with the publication of his novel Last Days of Montreal in 2004, but returned with her in 2011 with Stifling Folds of Love and The Unknown Masterpiece in 2012.