Cars had formed a jam outside the Renaissance cinema where an army bus had stopped to let the school children alight. The impatient drivers honked.
Suez-Panama bit his lip and swayed unsteadily on his feet. “It suited you, didn’t it, to kill him?”
“Nobody’s been killed.”
“Then why’s my uncle dead?”
“Who’s Dupont?” Anne Marie asked again.
“The American who hanged himself because it suited you.”
“Suited who?”
“The French—the colonizers.” Suez-Panama pointed in the direction of the rue Gambetta. “You think you can do as you please.”
“Your uncle hanged himself. I can assure you,” she said, trying to make her voice calm and full of conviction.
“Hégésippe Bray survived French Guyana and the forty years of prison.” He shook his head. “Just so you could murder him in a cell. In his own land.”
“I wasn’t in Pointe-à-Pitre when it happened.” She resented the lameness in her voice. “Your uncle left a note. A note saying he wanted to die.”
“Hégésippe Bray, who couldn’t read or write? Hégésippe Bray, who’d never been to school—he left a note?”
Anne Marie realized her mouth had fallen open. “How can you be sure?”
“You’ll have to do better than that, madame le juge.”
She shook her head. “But I have some of his writing.” She was aware of a stammer in her voice. “Something Hégésippe Bray wrote on the back of a photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“Of his wife—the woman from Martinique.”
“No. A witch would never have allowed a photograph. It could’ve then be used against her. A evil spell cast against her.”
“It is your uncle’s writing—I can assure you.” Again she spoke convincingly.
“The only thing Hégésippe Bray could write was his signature.”
“He confessed to having killed Raymond Calais. In the note he said he wanted to die.”
The morning had lost its freshness. Anne Marie put her hand to her throat.
A sense of failure. Failure and futility.
The pink tongue and the bulging eyes.
The memory of the prison cell came flooding back, and without thinking, she turned and glanced toward the prison on the far side of Place de la Victoire, with its low white walls and its green paintwork. Suddenly Pointe-à-Pitre seemed a hostile place—an alien place.
“I thought I could trust you,” he said, and sarcastically added, “Madame le juge.”
“I’m sorry.” Anne Marie turned away. She walked fast in the direction of the Palais de Justice.
His voice called after her, “You killed him.”
Heads turned in Place de la Victoire.
“A murderer. Just like all the others. You’re a murderer with blood on your hands.”
34
FR3
An abandoned spoon, bent and left upside down, glinted dully on the third step of the Palais de Justice. Anne Marie, slightly out of breath, went up the steps and past the procureur de la République. He was surrounded by three men. Two wore ties and neat tropical suits. The third—a tall, gaunt black man with sunken cheeks—had a pale, white raincoat.
Politicians, Anne Marie thought. Only politicians from France wore jackets in this heat.
The procureur and the three men stepped out into the street. The procureur nodded, a look of wisdom on his plump face. His hands were in his pockets, and a small, unlit cigar was stuck in the corner of his mouth.
The man in the raincoat bent over. “A spoon.” He shrugged, gave a small laugh, and threw the spoon into the gutter.
The procureur laughed, too. Turning his head, he caught sight of Anne Marie. There was no sign of recognition, but the smile slowly died on the large face.
Anne Marie entered the bustling cloister of the Palais de Justice.
It was cool out of the sun. A crowd of people was breaking up, caught in the inertia of indecision. A television team was in the process of stowing away their equipment. A white man and two technicians. One of the technicians—he wore earphones and a soiled FR3 T-shirt—was unscrewing a microphone from a long metal pole.
“What’s happened?”
The desk of the greffier général was surrounded by people who chatted excitedly and pushed against the desk, each person demanding the attention of the old man, nearly deaf and only a year away from retirement.
Anne Marie elbowed her way toward the television team. “What’s going on?”
“Another bomb.”
“Where?”
The reporter had sandy hair and iron-rimmed glasses. “At the airport.”
“Anybody hurt?”
“A man’s been killed.”
“Who?”
“A soldier. According to the procureur, a bomb disposal expert.”
“The bomb went off?”
“A second bomb. Booby trapped, and the poor bastard had climbed up onto the wing to defuse it.”
The ground floor of the Palais de Justice was a large, cloistered courtyard and in the middle there was a pool of water that was made an improbable deep blue by the square tiles. A few rocks were scattered about the pool—dark, volcanic rock that in places emerged from the water’s surface. Several sea turtles glided through the shallow water or basked on the outcrop of rocks, indifferent to the bustle around them and the inexorable course of French justice.
“The wing of a plane?” Anne Marie asked.
“The Miami 727. The bomb went off almost immediately and the man took all of the blast. Made mincemeat of him. The plane’s virtually undamaged.” He grinned. “Good news for Air France. Bad news for the soldier.”
“And the other bomb?”
“It blew a small hole in the fuselage.”
“Anybody else hurt?”
“At four o’clock in the morning? There was nobody about.”
Anne Marie pushed the hair back from her forehead. Her skin was damp. “A professional disposal expert?”
“Ask the procureur, madame.”
“Why?”
“He might give you a different answer.”
“What did he tell you?”
“That the man’d been trained.”
“And you don’t believe him?”
The newsman nudged at the metal frames of his glasses. “Ever since the first spate of bombings, there’s been a request for experts. But this is the first death—and the dead man had been in Guadeloupe since ’78.” He shrugged. “Not my idea of a specialist.”
Anne Marie felt tired.
She sat down on the warm concrete of the wall that surrounded the pond. A couple of turtles flapped noisily across the rock and fell into the water.
“I reached the airport just before five. The procureur was already there. They’d put up a cordon—I’ve never seen so many blue vans in Guadeloupe. They wouldn’t let us through—but I got to speak with the procureur. Said he wanted to keep it quiet and that he’d appreciate our cooperation.” The man shook his head unhappily. “They blow up part of Air France’s prestige fleet, and the procureur wants a media black out. Then we heard the second explosion. A dull thud.”
“Who planted the bomb?”
“You work here?”
“Madame Laveaud, juge d’instruction.”
He gave her a smile and held out his hand, “Michel Gurion.”
“You look so different.” She smiled as they shook hands. “I’ve seen you on television.”
“It’s the legs.”
“Legs?”
“People get used to seeing the talking head when I read the news. They don’t ever suppose that I’ve got legs.” He looked down. “Two legs.”
“What did he say?” Anne Marie’s back was in the sun, and she could feel its heat on her neck.
“Who?”
She gestured to the equipment that was being packed away. “You interviewed the procureur, didn’t you?”
Michel Gurion nodded.<
br />
“And who are those Frenchmen with him?”
“Renseignements Généraux, I imagine.” Gurion shrugged. “The procureur didn’t feel he had to introduce us.”
“What did the procureur say?”
“The same thing he always says in front of television cameras: the Republic is strong, that Guadeloupe’s a French island, a place where people are free, and where French citizens wish to remain French. He spoke about outsiders.”
“Agents provocateurs?”
“That sort of thing.” A grin. “No tradition of political violence in Guadeloupe. People here aren’t violent. They know they can solve their problems in a democratic context. Within the system.”
“Perhaps he hasn’t noticed the graffiti on the walls.”
“He said something about the encroaching threat of international socialism in the Caribbean Basin.”
“At least he admits there’s terrorism—and it’s politically motivated.” Anne Marie rubbed at the back of her hand.
The man coiling the television cable now lifted the drum onto his shoulder and carried it out of the Palais de Justice. He wore espadrilles, and the worn rope soles flapped against the ground. Anne Marie saw the television van outside—there was the blue FR3 insignia painted on the side door. The man unloaded the cable and threw it casually into the back of the van.
“He said reinforcements would be coming from France.”
Anne Marie turned. “What reinforcements?”
“More police. And officers of the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat.”
“Which means the investigation will be taken out of his hands.”
“Probably what the procureur wants. He wants to take his distance before it is too late.”
Anne Marie scratched her hand, then dipped it into the warm, blue water of the pond.
Gurion frowned. “Something wrong with your hand, madame le juge?”
“I don’t know.”
“I had that.”
“What?”
“An allergy, I suppose.”
“And?”
“And,” Gurion shrugged, “it went away.”
Trousseau came down the broad flight of stairs. He would not have noticed Anne Marie, but she called to him and he stopped. He put a hand to his eyes, to shield them against the light. He was wearing the same inelegant trousers, but he had changed his shoes for a brown pair with thick leather soles. The sound of his feet echoed along the cloister. As he walked, one finger gently rubbed the thin line of his moustache. He was carrying the portable typewriter.
“Got my message, madame le juge?” They shook hands. “About the appointment with Dr. Lebon?”
“I can’t go—but it was very kind of you. Very thoughtful to think about me like that, Monsieur Trousseau.”
“Merely doing my job, madame le juge—and trying to do it properly.” The dark eyes were ready to take offense. “I’ve lived in France, you know.”
“Monsieur Trousseau, I know you’ve lived in France. I also believe your wife’s from France. But I’m afraid I can’t go to the doctor’s this afternoon because my father-in-law’s coming in on the afternoon flight. The family expects me to be there at the airport to greet him. My husband only told me this morning.”
“Simply trying to be of use.”
“You know I’m extremely grateful for your consideration—and perhaps you could phone Dr. Lebon to postpone the appointment.”
“How’s your hand today?”
“I thought it was getting better.” Anne Marie rubbed at the skin.
“I know an old Carib at Trois-Rivières.”
Again she dipped her hand in the warm water. “I’d rather see a doctor.”
Trousseau shrugged. “But you’re free at half past two for the funeral?”
Anne Marie asked sharply, “What funeral?”
“The family’s been informed they can take the body. Hégésippe Bray’s funeral is at Morne-à-l’Eau.”
“And the autopsy?”
“The procureur didn’t think it was necessary.”
“He’s dead?” Gurion asked. “Hégésippe Bray? The old convict from French Guyana?”
Anne Marie nodded without looking at him. She could feel the anger swelling in her stomach, forming knots.
“How did he die?”
Her voice was impassive. “Hanged himself.”
“The procureur has called in reinforcements.” Trousseau smiled, ran a finger along his moustache. “Not that I mind. Then we can get back to our normal work of prostitutes, shoplifters, and juveniles.” The dark eyes sparkled. “Can’t say I like helicopters.”
“He hanged himself?” Gurion asked.
Anne Marie nodded stiffly.
“Patron!”
They turned.
The technician pushed his way through the crowd that still milled about the greffier’s desk. He was panting slightly. The trod-den-down backs of his espadrilles dragged against the ground. He was gesticulating, and when he reached Gurion, the man was out of breath.
“We’re wanted down at the marina.”
“I’ve got to get back to the studio,” Gurion replied.
“A police launch’s been blown up.” The man nodded. “And the Calais yacht.”
Anne Marie glanced at her watch. It was 8:22 A.M.
35
Sub judice
“I didn’t know Calais had a boat.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know Raymond Calais had a boat.”
“He didn’t.”
Anne Marie looked at Trousseau in surprise.
Trousseau had to pull hard on the steering to stop the car from going into the back of a municipal bus that had come to a halt at the edge of the marina. “Not Raymond Calais. The boat belongs to his brother. Jacques Calais.”
Anne Marie was sweating.
There was a white and red barrier across the road; painted on one of the cement posts was the word CAPITAINERIE and an arrow. A man in uniform—a round face and a holster attached to his belt—approached the FR3 van.
Anne Marie saw Gurion talking. He gestured with his thumb toward the Peugeot and grinned at them. The rims of his glasses caught the bright sunlight.
The man in the kepi shook his head and approached the Peugeot and Trousseau. He saluted. “The marina’s temporarily closed.” The palm of his hand was a pale brown.
Anne Marie leaned across and showed him her card. He took it and studied it carefully. He pushed the kepi back and scratched his damp forehead. The lips moved as he read. He ran a finger along the red and blue diagonals. “I suppose so,” he said, not addressing anybody in particular, his eyes still on the card. He returned to the pole and lifted it. The FR3 Renault went through, followed by Trousseau.
The man put the card through the window, and Anne Marie took it. He stepped back to salute. There was a small, red anchor on his kepi.
They parked near a police van.
The television team unpacked the equipment, their cameras, and their recording material. One technician carried a camera on his shoulder.
The wind was strong at sea level; it pulled at Anne Marie’s skirt—a pretty, tailored skirt that she had bought on impulse in the rue de Siam while on a course in Brest. She brushed the beige material down and, turning, noticed a smile on Gurion’s face. He looked away.
The tall masts rocked with the movement of the harbor waters. A regular tapping of wire against aluminum. The line of yachts and wooden jetties was deserted.
On the furthest jetty, a crowd had formed. Anne Marie could see the procureur.
The three men were with him and the gaunt West Indian had removed his raincoat and held it folded across his arm. Anne Marie pushed her way forward, with Trousseau just behind her.
“Over here.”
There were a few children who had moved forward to the water’s edge.
A couple of men in dungarees stood in an inflatable dinghy. One was shouting to the procureur. The other was looking at the yacht moored a
longside.
No flames.
Smoke poured in black wisps from the cabin. It was a small yacht. Two outboard motors and a hull of scarred fiberglass. The roof of the cabin had caved in, and one side of the hull had been ripped away.
“Is the fire out?”
Pieces of wood floated in the water, knocking occasionally against the hull with muffled thuds.
“Make sure you extinguish the fire.” The procureur had his hands in his pockets and the same unlit cigar in his mouth. His large face looked worried.
Anne Marie moved forward until she was standing beside him. She held out her hand and he took it absent-mindedly.
“Bonjour,” he said, frowning.
“Anybody hurt?”
The procureur turned away without answering.
The three men looked at her, their eyes devoid of interest. The black man wore his dark hair parted and combed. The white suit was immaculate. He had a crimson tie and canvas shoes. There was the unmistakable glint of ambition in his eyes.
“Who’s hurt?”
The man with the raincoat shook his head and turned away. He said something to the procureur, who nodded.
Anne Marie bit her lip.
There were a few shopkeepers from the nearby shopping mall—French women with manicures and heels that were too high for their tanned legs and for the wooden slats of the jetty. A few men—Anne Marie recognized a couple of Syrians who sold prêt-à-porter. Most of the crowd was made up of boat hands—Europeans with wiry arms and torsos, the occasional tattoo. One or two held a beer can.
She heard the whir of the television camera.
Gurion held out the microphone as he edged forward toward the procureur. The cameraman was close behind.
“Who let you in here?” The plump face showed no anger, but the procureur bit at the end of his cigar and spat dark shreds to the ground.
“A deliberate attempt to destroy a privately owned boat.” Gurion nodded toward the name written in gold letters along the warped hull, La Belle Soeur. “As well as another boat belonging to the gendarmerie—which would appear to have escaped relatively undamaged.” Gurion extended the microphone. “In your opinion, monsieur le procureur, who would want to destroy these boats?”
The procureur looked at the microphone with diffidence. “As yet I’m afraid we have no information to work on.”
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