by León Melín
Public announcements could be coded – county court judgements, government auctions. The list of the day’s activities in Paris, the readers’ letters’ page could all work, but Lucas would never be able to decipher them.
The business section, in its irrelevant orange paper, was even more opaque; the financial dart board of X’s and Y’s and neoletters, €, $, ¥, ₤, but no clue as to how a contract killer attracted new clients, and how these got in touch. Films and books make it all too easy, and of course it could be easy, but also for the police to track them down after the fact.
Madame Saint-Jean could possibly understand it better than Lucas, but it seemed unnecessarily complicated. Lucas’ first idea, of a communication, a customer helpline, based around the Figaro, seemed hard work.
The death section was morbidly relevant. But there was no section marked ‘Not dead yet, but hoping’. It was in this section that the essential Frenchness of the French establishment was clear. The names were all French.
Lucas had spent his working life dealing with those outside the establishment, the victims of his work, and their names reflected the cosmopolitan, worldly nature of Parisian genes – Arabs, Ivory Coasters, Guyanese, Caribbean islanders, Indochinese, Maghrebians, Corsicans, Spaniards, Poles, Germans, Scots, English, Russian, Chinese, Turkish.
But here in Figfrance, the lawyers, the doctors, civil servants, military men, minor aristocrats, were all French names, des, double barrels, accents. All dead, or at least, twice as many dead as married; and twice as many married as had children. The page seemed to announce the permanent decline of the French establishment. Like Madame Saint-Jean, their medical or social sterility determined their extinction. Their cleaners would take over the country.
The private adverts for houses offered more promise; Lucas read every one, from the 1st arrondissement to the 6th and on to the banlieues; there were no houses in the unfashionable areas. A code, he was looking for; rue de la Morte, or près du cimetière, seemed to be the easiest way to set up a system. Women – of the world – “How did you manage to bump off your old man”; “Oh, I found the most delightful man, in the Fig. No trouble at all”.
Lucas would have to find the back copies of the Figaro for the weeks before Le Mans and the Sunday after. It would take time, but that was all. Codes could always be broken, if you knew that one was being used.
Flicking back through the paper, Lucas re-read one of the mourning notices. The name of the deceased was there; so, too, was the address. With that information, one could get the telephone number from Minitel. Most notices included only the town – Lyon – or the church address.
One of the wedding announcements included the address. Or, rather, it was an anniversary celebration, a happily married couple of 20 years long-standing. M. Reynaud was impossibly aged 35, typo ? but Madame’s age was politely ignored.
It was typically a woman thing, these Catholic obsequies. Most women were punctilious in their social duties, something Lucas had grown to accept but never condone, never adopt through mother, sister, girlfriend.
Newspapers were unlikely to sub-edit public adverts, so the age error was the woman’s. An easy typing error, an obvious one. But why include the man’s age at all ? it didn’t seem necessary, it was almost like a signal. And then Lucas’ heart stopped, his head seemed to grow, his eyes watered, and he felt the warm blood pump in his neck, cold air made him shiver.
He was reading M. Reynaud’s sentence of death.
The rucksack cowboy would know immediately. The ladies of the hairdressing salon, the sun-tan beds, the thalassotherapy centres would know. But they could never tell, because of what had happened to their own husbands.
“We are delighted to celebrate our 20 years together:
Céline, née Massiot
Et Cédric Reynaud (35)”
And the address in Rennes.
- - -
How could such secrets, secret still
remain ? Were women, ladies, such an other world that they could openly – amongst themselves – discuss the murder of each other’s
husband ?
If so, what other secrets could they hide ? Were they the Cabal ? the mythical secret organisation that held all power in the world ? that pulled the strings in Washington and Moscow ? It didn’t seem likely. And yet . . ?
And now, the question, should he go to Bazas, or go to Rennes ?
And how could he get some cash ? He had never got around to writing the report on the Englishman he had been following in le Mans, so he could not invoice for his work, nor claim his expenses, so he had received no cheque, which he couldn’t now cash, anyway.
He would have to avoid the police station, and avoid being recognised. Fortunately, there were many people, and many of them wearing hats. Most people were too busy to take any notice of someone in a suit.
It had been difficult enough to get in to Rungis on foot, most people arriving in white vans or lorries, or the occasional bus – although as workers here started at 2 in the morning, the usual Paris transport services were not an option. Few people lived nearby, the combination of Rungis itself with its 24-hour traffic, Orly airport, the prison of Fresnes, the massive cemetery of Thiais and the motorways were enough to put off anyone who could afford to live anywhere else.
Lucas needed to get to the fruit and vegetable markets – the fish and meat wouldn’t help him to get food or transport. Most of the fish came from Scandinavia if it didn’t come from French ports in Brittany or the north. He thought of stealing a bicycle, but knew he wouldn’t get far before the hue and cry would catch up with him; he certainly couldn’t get to Bazas on it.
Bazas – it wasn’t much to go on, but it was all he had.
He was hungry now, he hadn’t eaten for 24 hours. He stole some coffee and a croissant in the flower market. He tried to look like a buyer, someone who would be fed by the wholesalers. In the fruit market he managed to find some fruit and lettuce leaves. Some stalls offered tasters of melons, which was what he was after. In the dairy section, he was offered cheese on bits of bread; some produce just fell on the floor or he picked up as he drifted past, and he profited from the windfall. He would have liked to eat some meat, but the thought of the long walk, past the police station, and not being able to cook it – like if he found a live lobster, how could he deal with that ? Maybe later, he would be reduced to eating raw meat, tearing it with his hands and teeth. But not just yet.
In the huge car parks, he eventually found what he was looking for. There were lorries from all over France: Brittany, Gascony, Picardie, the North, There were also plenty of trucks from abroad. Animals and fish were shipped in from Norway, Denmark, Holland and Belgium.
Tomatoes and strawberries coming from both the north – Belgium and Holland with their glasshouses – and south – Spain and southern France. Some trucks would deliver a load here and drive to the other end of Europe to pick up more goods to dump at Rungis before returning home. Irish and British trucks were also here.
Chapter 14 - Fruit
Nueva was Arab but drove a Spanish truck. She was very nervous about taking a hitch-hiker and at first would have nothing to do with him; but she was driving back to Zaragoza and would pass Bazas. Lucas had spotted the Z-plates and homed in on her immediately.
“My boyfriend won’t be happy for me to take lifts.”
“Look, my new girlfriend won’t be happy either, except that she’ll see me sooner.”
“I might lose my licence.”
“It’s not strictly speaking illegal. We’re just arranging transport here, and you’re not on the highway and I’m not thumbing a lift. So, you’re not doing anything wrong – I’ve just left the police force – you can still see my haircut,” he smiled, and laughed, and she laughed too.
As a Moroccan, she had grown up trilingual, which made it easier for Lucas, whose Spanish was poor.
“I learned to drive for my father, who had a van. As he bought bigger trucks, I learnt to drive them, too,
and eventually got onto artics, so we could drive together. When he died, I moved to Spain – they wouldn’t let a girl drive on her own.”
“Is it better there ?”
“It’s not easy. Sometimes I think it’s getting better, but Spaniards are very machistic, especially when they learn I’m Arab.”
“You’re not Berber ?”
“No, that’s why we went trucking. My father wasn’t trusted by the French, or the Berbers or the Jews, so he had to keep travelling. We never really settled, and I’ve kept rolling as well. Spain’s alright, there’s plenty of work, if you want it, but maybe one day I’ll move to France.” She smiled at him.
She didn’t listen to the French radio, so knew nothing of the terrible murder that had France ablaze with outrage. They listened to Spanish tapes and Arab singers, or just watched the dry, bare countryside get progressively drier and barer as they headed south.
“I was the younger daughter, so when I arrived they called me “la nueva” and the name stuck. What about your Christian name ?”
“It never stuck.”
“Really ?”
“I’ve always just been Lucas. Some people think it’s my first name, some my surname. It serves both purposes.” Did she look at him with sadness ? or mockery ?
Lucas had been trained to listen, so he did. He was a captive audience for Nueva, who must have talked her father to death.
“You don’t wear the veil ?” had started her off.
“No, it would be impossible to do my job. In Spain, most Arabs don’t, only the wives of the rich Saudis who live in Marbella. But I have enough problems with men as it is. I’ve seen women in veils – especially in France. If they stopped at a truck stop for the night in a veil, they would have 50 or 100 truckers queuing up to see them. You have to show you’re tough, you can take care of yourself, and that you have a boyfriend, otherwise they’ll be all over you.”
“So, even if you haven’t, you would have to invent one ?”
“Yes, you’ll do for today, although the suit’s not quite right.”
When they stopped for dinner, Lucas learnt what she meant. In the great truckers’ restaurant, the hundreds of drivers were mainly men, none of the few girls were as attractive as Nueva, and most of the men were powerfully built, broad, rather than tall, so just as imposing sitting down in the cab or at the table.
“Is your job physical ? I thought you guys just drove.”
“You’d be surprised – even driving is hard work. The modern cab is so easy to drive even a girl could handle it, but until a few years ago, the gears, the clutch, the steering were all hard.”
“You don’t look that strong – not like these oxen.”
“I can unload a 40-ton truck in an hour – fruit, cement, bottles, cesspits. Sometimes I use a forklift truck – I can drive that as well. Mostly, I carry it on my back, if I have to unload. But my job is to drive – I’m not a packer.”
“I thought so, so it’s only by accident.”
“That’s just the loading. After, you have to secure; climb up on top some times, tie it all down, that can be hard, in all weather. The worst is the breakdowns – I have to do it all. Now it’s easier with recovery service, but I learnt most fixes. I still have to change tyres – they weigh about 80 or a hundred kilos each.” She showed him her muscles. “Think what I could to you with these,” she teased him.
“I can understand why you’re not scared of me; compared to these types, I’m hardly threatening.”
“Oh, these guys are easy; they just want a chat or maybe a fuck. You, I don’t know what you want – that’s dangerous.”
- - -
He slept outside, on the grass by the truck. He was nice and warm in his bag for the starlit summer night.
The dawn brought the dew and the dew brought the stench of piss out of the urine-soaked soil, watered daily by thousands of beer-swilling teamsters. Lucas could hardly breathe without inhaling it, the slightest move wafting more powerful breezes towards him. He got up early; his sleeping bag had soaked up the vile vapours. He hung it up in a tree while he waited.
Nueva was constrained by European norms to limit her driving, which was recorded and checked. Driving had become much more sociable as a result, drivers arranging barbecues, drink parties, even orgies, although mostly they just talked. Lucas did not want to become the subject of their conversation. As soon as they legally could, he insisted that they set off, offering to pay the motorway tolls to move faster.
“I’m trying to get back to Spain on this tank; I want to avoid paying the taxes on the petrol.” So south they went, following the same route that Napoleon took when he invaded Spain.
Chapter 15 - Lust
The streets had a sweet smell, as if the melons had invaded the place with their perfume or, more likely, as if they absorbed the air of the place where they grew. Bypassed by the motorways of modernity, Bazas is a tranquil town, now; the ramparts were testament to a more troubled history.
Small town though it is, it had a Cathedral. Lucas went inside. Though not often used today by the police, the religious penchant for recording such things as births, deaths and marriages meant that the local priest often knew as much as anyone in a town what was going on. It seemed likely that a small town would be more catholic than a big city, although why a serial killer would want to go to church, except maybe to confess, wasn’t at first obvious.
The Cathedral was surprising. First by its size in a small town, triple doors and statuesque façade boasted of ancient wealth, helped, no doubt, by having a Pope born not ten miles away. The inside was even more impressive, with unbelievably thin columns sweeping up to the ceiling, strong enough to hold up the heavy roof for centuries and to survive hundreds of years of religious and political wars. Indeed, the engineers who had rebuilt in the sixteenth century had not dared to use the same fine pillars, and had resorted to concrete-like granite pillars of more cathedral-like thickness.
Did God exist ? Looking up at the ogival flying vault suspended on such thin pillars built so long ago by men much less knowledgeable than he, Lucas had to ask the question. Maybe they had Divine guidance, help.
Maybe Lucas, too, could get help. He knelt instinctively, in a supplicant’s pose known the world over. Maybe God had already helped him, made him a good person, someone who wouldn’t kill, prevent him from killing M. Saint-Jean. So, then, who made the rucksack cowboy evil ? Was he ? Was he evil ? An evil murderer ? Was it the
devil ? And who made him ?
He, Lucas, had been prepared to kill: out of love, for sure; to help someone; an eye for an eye; no, a lesser evil for a greater good, or something.
The Cathedral was dedicated to St John the Baptist, whose blood had been collected from Salomé’s platter and brought back to Bazas. Was it just coincidence that M. Saint-Jean had been murdered and that this church was dedicated to the same Saint-Jean Baptiste ? M. Saint-Jean had been murdered; he, Lucas, had done it – at least, hadn’t stopped it. Salomé – Nicole - had ordered it; demanded it; forced her lover to do it; flashed her eyes, her smile, her sex, her money, to get it done. Like Herod, Lucas set out to kill, unwillingly maybe, but not unwittingly and he had set out nevertheless. Salomé, the Peaceful. Nicole, the Victorious. Lucas, the Illuminator.
When he left the Cathedral he wasn’t any clearer about duality, but he felt better. Maybe that was all a church could do, and maybe that was enough.
He slept the night in the gardens behind the Mairie in a bush. It was beautifully peaceful but bitterly cold by five in the morning and he had to start walking and stamping his feet to warm up. By the time they opened the town hall doors, he was tired and hungry, but managed to wash and shave in the public toilets without attracting too much attention. His clothes were starting to be a problem, and he probably smelled, not having changed since, well, since then.
- - -
He walked. He didn’t know who he was looking for, so he walked. He knew who he was looking for, knew what he looked
like, knew he would pick fruit for a living, but didn’t know where he lived, his name. Without the cowboy hat and the rucksack he may not recognise him at all. His only clues were the Figaro newspaper and the fruit picking. So, he walked.
The first day, he went north, checking out the farms for someone, anyone with a cowboy hat. He saw a few, from a distance, but on closer inspection saw it wasn’t him. The melon fields covered huge grounds and typically only a single team worked each one, starting early, so Lucas walked long for not much work.
In the afternoon, he returned to town, walked the residential areas. It was difficult to see into the houses, the high stone walls, shutters and locked garden gates making it difficult to see if anyone was home. Some homes had left their gates open or had none, but had gravel drives. Signs stating “Maison sous alarme” or “Chien méchant”, or “Je monte la garde” with a picture of a boxer or mastiff, or just the basic “Attention au chien” dissuaded him from investigating further.
Some of the houses used their protection as a form of decoration with painted railings, fleur-de-lys spikes or even flowers draped over the fence, but ultimately these were just more eloquent ways to say “I am scared of you”.
Lucas walked. He walked down the rue des Droits de l’Homme, the rue des Libertés Publiques, the rue de Suffrage Universelle. He even traipsed down the rue des Bons Enfants. As with most French towns, the roads usually honoured politically acceptable people: the Impasse Paul Belmondo was next to the rue Auguste Rodin.
As he walked, Lucas looked for inspiration at the letterboxes, as if a serial killer and top assassin would advertise his job or as if his name might give up a clue. The only mass murderer that Lucas found that day was Stalin, J. But it was not clear whether this was really Jozef, nor even whether the name referred to a man or a woman.
In the evening, Lucas trudged tiredly around the rapidly diminishing area of activity as the town closed down for the night. By 7pm, only a few restaurants and a couple of bars were open in the town centre, no pedestrians were out, and the few cars were difficult to see into because of the fading light and the headlamps coming on. Lucas abandoned the search and tried to find some cheap food. He was tired and dusty and looked it, but didn’t look much worse than he felt, or than most of the customers. He was still carrying a couple of pounds too many so could afford to eat a simple cheese on toast for now. The usual crowd of winos and prostitutes kept him company till he returned to his Cathedral.
