by Peter May
A brass bed was pushed against the gable end and flanked by two, small, marble-topped bedside tables with matching lamps. On the left-hand table stood a telephone next to an old-fashioned answering machine. A smoked plastic lid protected the cassette inside. A pinpoint of green light glowed next to the rewind button. Jane crossed the room and switched cassettes. “You’ll probably want to hear this.” She rewound the cassette and hit the play button.
Enzo dropped his overnight bag on to the bed and perched on the edge of it, reaching for a stout walking stick that leaned against the wall, and listened in surprise as he heard what was unmistakably Jane’s voice.
Papa? Papa, are you there? For God’s sake, Papa, call me back. You’ve got to tell me what’s going on. You must.
There was a long silence, during which it was possible to hear her rapid breathing. Then,
Oh, God, Papa, please!
Another silence, then the line went dead, and Jane leaned over to switch off the machine. He noticed how pale she had become.
She said, “You can’t know how it feels to listen to that. And I must have done it a hundred times. Like listening to a ghost. The me I was in a former life, when I still had a husband and a life ahead of me.” She turned toward Enzo. “That was about two minutes after his call to me. For some reason I couldn’t get through again straight away. And then it rang and rang, before the answering machine cut in.” He heard the tremor in her voice as she drew her breath. “You can hear my distress. I’ve always thought I must have been uttering those words at the very time he was being murdered. That perhaps the killer himself heard them, and maybe even wondered what it was that Papa had told me.”
“What exactly did he say in that call, your father-in-law?”
“Just that he couldn’t tell me what was wrong. But that if anything happened to him, Peter was to come here as soon as he returned from Africa. He’d left a message in the study that only Peter would understand. And he said it was ironic that it was Peter who would finish the job. Then he made me promise that if something happened to him before Peter got back, I was to make sure that nothing in the study got disturbed.”
“What did you think when he meant by something happening to him?”
“That he was going to die.”
“He was terminally ill, of course.”
“Lung cancer, yes. I thought his condition must have deteriorated. But then, as things turned out, it wasn’t that at all. He believed that someone was going to kill him. He must have.” Enzo heard the same distress in her voice that he had heard on the phone. “Why didn’t he just tell me? Oh, God, he was so old-fashioned! Some things you could only confide in another man. A woman had her place, and that was in the home. God forbid you should trust her with anything more than a shopping list!”
For the first time, she noticed the walking stick in Enzo’s hands. He was running his palm over the smoothly carved head of the owl that was the handle.
“That was his,” she said. “He must have been carrying it when he was shot. It was found lying beside the body.”
And Enzo felt a sudden, strange connection with the man. In a way, it was as if he had just met him downstairs in his study. Already he had formed an impression of an ordered and obsessive mind. And now, holding his walking stick, it was almost as if he was making physical contact, reaching back through almost two decades to the night his life had been taken, and the curved head of the owl in his hand had been the last thing he touched on this earth.
He laid the walking stick carefully on the bed and stood up. “You know, Jane, even if he had told you that night, there was nothing you could have done about it. You were hundreds of miles away in another country.”
“I might have had some idea of who killed him. Mr. Macleod. I might have been able to put this behind me and move on. As it is, there’s not a day goes by that I don’t think about it. Or a night when I don’t wake up in the small hours and wish to God I was free of it. It’s like he put a curse on me that night, and I can never escape it until the whole damned thing is resolved and his killer caught.” She looked at him, distraught, tears brimming in her eyes. “I can’t go on like this. I just can’t.”
Almost without thinking, Enzo extended an arm and drew her toward him. She offered no resistance, and pressed her face into his chest as he held her, trying to quell the sobs he felt rising from deep inside her. “If it was a message that only Peter could understand,” he said, “then we have to understand why, so that we know how to look at what he’s left us. We’re looking with eyes that aren’t Peter’s. That has to be the key.” And he remembered his words to Raffin in Paris. I hate to be anyone’s last hope. But for Jane, he realised, that is exactly what he was.
Chapter Eight
The Auberge du Pecheur occupied a three-story whitewashed building above the Eco-Museum, on the curve of the hill as it rose steeply up from Port Tudy toward Le Bourg. A hand-written menu chalked on a blackboard leaned against maroon doors in the yellow light of a coach lamp over the entrance. Heads turned curious eyes in the direction of the door as Enzo ushered Jane in ahead of him. A waitress in jeans and a knitted top led them to their table past tables and shelves crowded with island bric-a-brac: ceramic seagulls; pewter pots; an enormous, traditional, Groisillon cafetiere called a grek. Painted boats and seascapes hung on cream walls crowded with brass and glass and uplit by dozens of small table lamps.
Diners occupied several tables in the restaurant, and Enzo doubted if there was a single one of them who didn’t know who they were. With the possible exception of a young couple in hiking boots and heavy sweaters, anoraks over the backs of their chairs, who looked as if they could be late-season tourists on a walking holiday. There was an audible lull in conversation as Enzo and Jane took their seats, and interested ears strained to hear what they might say. Enzo took some satisfaction from the realisation that whatever discernible conversation might ensue between Jane and himself, it would be in English and unlikely to be understood.
“They do wonderful seafood here,” Jane said. “If you’re into that.”
Enzo smiled. “I am.”
The waitress brought a chalkboard menu to their table and sat it up on a chair for them to read. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Enzo, then she smiled. “Nice to see you again, Madame Killian,” she said in French. Jane just smiled and said nothing, and the waitress left them to make their choice.
“The shrimp are always good. And the dorade.”
“Then I’ll have shrimp for an entree, and dorade for my main course.”
Jane grinned. “Now I’ll feel bad if you don’t like them.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll pretend I do, even if I don’t.”
She laughed, and some of the tension seemed to leave her. “Such a gentleman.”
“Shall I choose a wine?”
“Please.”
Enzo cast his eyes over the wine list and picked out a 2005 M e moire Blanc from Chateau Clement Termes. When they had ordered, he rested his chin on interlocked hands and looked appraisingly at Jane Killian. “How come an attractive woman like you never remarried, Jane?”
She seemed to think about it for a long time. Perhaps deciding whether or not to speak the truth, or whether to brush his question aside, some superficial response to satisfy his curiosity. In the end her reply, Enzo was sure, came from the heart. “They say that for every one of us, somewhere in the world, there is the perfect partner. They also say that most people never get to find theirs. I was lucky. When Peter came along, I knew I had met mine.”
“How did you meet?”
“Oh, it wasn’t anything very exciting. We were both at Edinburgh University. Peter was from London. I came from Bristol. Edinburgh wasn’t either of our first choice, but that’s where we both ended up. As if fate had decided it for us.”
“You believe in fate, then?”
She smiled. “No. But sometimes it’s nice to think that something so right has been planned. That we actually do mean something in
the great scheme of things.”
The wine arrived, and the waitress filled each of their glasses.
“Peter had always been interested in charity work. He was a great believer in the individual making a difference in the world. I never understood, after all that he saw and experienced, how he ever managed to hold on to that belief. He came back sometimes from his trips, usually to Africa, with stories that reduced him to tears in the telling. He saw awful things, Mr. Macleod. Hunger, disease, war. Terrible suffering on an unimaginable scale. And still he thought he could make a difference. For a few, maybe he did.”
“You were never tempted to join him?”
“I didn’t have his strength. In the face of such suffering, I think you have to remain resolutely dispassionate in order to be able to help. I would have been far too emotional, completely useless. Somehow Peter never let it affect him. Until afterwards. In the field he was only ever totally practical. He saved his tears for me. And in a strange sort of way, that made me feel very special. Admitted to a place in the very heart of him that no one else ever reached.” She looked very directly at Enzo. “So you see, Mr. Macleod, there was no way I could ever replace him.”
“It’s Enzo,” Enzo said. “Not even my students call me Monsieur Macleod.” He sipped his wine and let the smoky vanilla flavour slip back over his tongue. “So how did you fill your life during his long absences?”
“I had my career. In publishing. Very prosaic, I’m afraid. I got to live my life vicariously through the authors we published. And through Peter, of course. How I wish we’d had the Internet in those days. It would have been so much easier to keep in touch. And I might have had a more enduring record of our conversations. These days I keep every email I send and receive. As if keeping a record of my life might give it some meaning.” She laughed, but too late to hide the bitterness.
From the moment he had met her, Enzo had sensed an emotional charge within her, almost like a controlled explosion, a part of herself on which she kept the lid firmly shut. Now, for the first time, he felt the force of that charge escaping, involuntary words betraying her disappointment with life and a feeling of self-pity.
“Are you still in publishing?”
“I work for a small house in the east end of London. One of the few independent publishers left. But I’m not sure how much longer we can survive. Most of the small houses have been gobbled up by the conglomerates. Sales and profit are the only criteria that apply these days. Quality and diversity are dirty words in publishing.”
It was the same bitterness that had seeped out of her just moments earlier. This was a woman, Enzo realised, who had simply never been able to put her life back on the rails after the death of her husband and the telephone call that presaged the murder of his father. If fate had indeed brought her and her perfect partner together, then it had also torn her life asunder. And perhaps the only comfort she could take from the thought was that, after all, she really did mean something in the great scheme of things.
Almost as if she sensed his perception of her, she smiled, a wry smile dissipating that bitterness and self-pity. “But I really do try not to think too much about such things, Enzo. I don’t want to end up a bitter and twisted old widow.” Almost as if she feared that’s exactly what she’d become.
The shrimp arrived and for a few minutes became the focus of Enzo’s attention, soft flesh dissolving in a creamy garlic sauce to be washed over by more M e moire. When he looked up again, he found Jane watching him. “Interesting eyes. One brown, one blue.”
“Waardenburg Syndrome. Which also gives me the silver stripe in my hair.”
She nodded. “So what was it that brought you to France, Enzo?” But before he could answer she added, “Curious name for a Scotsman.”
“Italian mother. It’s short for Lorenzo.”
“Ah.”
“The ferry.”
She frowned her confusion. “What?”
“You asked me what brought me to France. Sealink ferry from Dover to Calais, then a ten-hour drive down to Cahors.” He saw dimples materialise in her cheeks as she pursed her lips, and he grinned. “I’m sorry. It was a woman, of course. A French woman. That perfect partner that fate reserves for the lucky few, then takes away again-just so you don’t get the idea that you’re something special.”
“Oh.” Her smile faded instantly. “What happened?”
“She died in childbirth.”
“How long ago was that?
“My daughter has not long turned twenty-two.”
“I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged. “I was, too. But it’s a long time ago now. I always think I’ve put it behind me. But every time my daughter has a birthday, I’m reminded that it’s the anniversary of her mother’s death. I’d love to just let it pass, but you can hardly ignore your baby’s birthday, can you?”
“You never remarried?”
He sipped his wine and glanced at her over his glass. “No.” He was not unaware of the similarities between them.
“Why not?”
“Do I really need to answer that, Jane? You did it yourself.”
She nodded, and he realised that perhaps the only reason he had divined the bitterness and self-pity in Jane was because they were things he recognised in himself. They shared a moment of silent empathy before she abruptly changed the subject.
“How did you get involved in solving the cold cases in Raffin’s book?”
He shook his head and grinned. “Because I was an idiot. I worked as a forensic scientist in Scotland, Jane, but had to give it up when I came to France. I ended up teaching. Solving Raffin’s cold cases started out as a bet. I’d kept myself up to date with the latest developments in forensics, and figured that new science applied to old cases could bring new results.”
“With a hundred percent success rate to date, I’m told.”
Enzo inclined his head. “It’s never quite that simple. And there are some cases in which science plays little or no part.” He hesitated for a moment. “Don’t raise your hopes too high. I’m not sure I can live up to them.”
She nodded. “In a way I have no expectations at all. After all this time, and the number of people who’ve come and looked and left none the wiser, it seems to me that whatever it was Papa wanted Peter to know, only Peter could divine.” She sat back as the waitress came and took their plates, and waited until they were alone again. “They were terribly close, Peter and his father. Much closer that I ever was to either of my parents. In a way they were hard to separate. Peter was like a clone of his father, a repeat version of the man. Which, I suppose, is why I felt such an affinity with his Papa. And why I took his death almost as badly. One came so hard on the heels of the other it was almost too much to bear. The only thing that kept me focused during those dark days was the promise he forced me to make during that phone call. It was the reason I had to carry on.”
And it occurred to Enzo that if keeping her promise is what had motivated her to get through that time, the fulfilment of it might leave a hole in her life that could be very hard to fill. And that while desperate to be free, finally, of what she had earlier described as a curse, that freedom might also steal away her only raison d’etre. She was an intelligent woman. And it was a dichotomy, he was sure, of which she was only too aware.
Enzo’s fish arrived. Pan-fried whole dorade. Soft, moist flesh, butter, garlic, crumbling floury potatoes. And it took all his attention, separating white flakes from fine bones, as they ate in silence until looking up to exchange smiles of shared pleasure.
“That was great,” Enzo said. And after the cold and the rain, he felt almost restored. But he waited until their coffees arrived before asking the question that had been on his mind for some days. “The thing,” he said, “that has bothered me most since I first read about this case, was why anyone would bother to murder a terminally ill man.”
But Jane just shrugged. “I’m not sure that many people knew he was dying. Relatives and close friends, re
ally. It’s not exactly the sort of thing you advertise.”
“No.” Enzo knew only too well from his brief experience of being diagnosed with a terminal illness, that it was not something you wanted to share. It was almost as if by acknowledging it, you were accepting it. “Who did know, then?
“I don’t know exactly. His doctor, obviously. Peter and I. And I don’t know who else he might have told. Certainly not Kerjean. Papa didn’t really have what you would call close friends on the island. People knew him. He was regarded as something of an eccentric, I think. But he wasn’t a man with an active social life, and after the diagnosis, he went out less and less.”
To Enzo’s surprise, when they stepped out into the street, the rain had stopped. It had seemed as if it were set to last for days. But unexpectedly the sky had cleared, and stars crusted its inky firmament like frost on black ice. Jane had loaned him one of Killian’s scarves, and he tightened it around his neck as they walked down the hill toward the harbour, breath billowing around their heads. The soft feel of it brought him in contact once again with the man whose death he had come to resolve. There was a smell from the scarf that he had noticed when she first gave it to him. A slightly stale, slightly perfumed smell. But masculine. Something that spoke of body sweat and aftershave. A long, lingering reminder of a man whose life had been so brutally taken all those years before. A presence that he had left on this earth, long after his passing. And in an odd way, it connected him to Enzo. Made it personal somehow. As if the old man had bequeathed a message to him, too.
As they passed the Eco-Museum on their right, the harbour opened up below them, bathed in a wash of moonlight that shone on every wet surface, as if all had been newly painted and the paint had not yet dried.
Rows of sailing boats tethered along the quay clunked and bumped and rocked on the gentle swell of the inner harbour, the air filled with the sound of metal cables clattering against steel masts. Lights from the hotels and cafes that lined the harbour row reflected on the black waters of the bay, broken by its ruffled surface into myriad splinters that flashed and vanished, moments in eternity only fractionally less brief than the lives of men.
