‘Demanding money with menaces? I don’t think so. And the notes were left in the conservatory, where the old man met his death.’
‘You don’t suspect him of that?’ Her voice was shrill.
‘I would hope to eliminate him from our enquiries – with your help.’
‘What can I do?’ She sat down on an old kitchen chair in the scented garden, folding her hands on her lap like a humbled child. Lebatre sat gingerly on the edge of an upturned rain barrel. A bee buzzed contentedly, drunk on pollen.
‘His movements – early morning – yesterday.’
‘He was here – all night – with me. He didn’t get up for work till late – almost half-past seven.’
‘Any other witnesses?’
She shook her head, her eyes fixed on him, knowing that her answer was not good enough. ‘I swear to you he never left his bed.’
‘How can you be sure of that?’
‘Because I don’t sleep. Not well. I wake at five – and usually go down to make myself coffee.’
‘But why should you go to his room?’
She paused a little uneasily. ‘I’ve got used to checking him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he would go into Aix and not come back till all hours. I was always worried about him.’
‘Why?’ asked Lebatre bleakly.
‘I never knew what he was doing.’ She was staring down at the baked earth. A slight breeze wafted the smell of lavender to him from the field behind the house.
‘Are you telling me the truth?’
‘The truth?’ she hedged.
‘Yes. Surely you knew what he was doing?’
‘Drinking,’ she grunted.
‘And?’ prompted Lebatre.
‘Whoring.’
‘But with what sex?’
‘Women, of course –’
‘Come on, Mariola –’
‘Don’t call me that.’
‘You know what he was doing. If you’re trying to help him, don’t lie to me. He was a male prostitute, wasn’t he?’
She said nothing, still staring down at the earth.
‘Please …’
Then she looked up. And her eyes were screwed up with pain.
‘Do I have to say that?’
‘It’s the truth, isn’t it?’ said Lebatre patiently. Yet he felt for her. His own mother was alive in a small village not too far from Aix. Supposing his path had been Jean-Pierre’s?
She nodded and then spoke bitterly. ‘It’s his father who was to blame.’
‘Why?’
‘He did things to him. When he was a child.’
‘You mean he interfered with him?’
She nodded again. ‘He was a brute of a man.’
‘Where is he now?’
‘He left us. Went to work as a builder. Now he’s dead.’
‘Jean-Pierre. Does he work?’
‘Yes, he has a job on a farm. He drives a tractor.’
‘Is the job good?’
‘It’s hard work.’
‘He’s always kept it?’
‘Monsier Roche – he is tolerant.’
‘That means there have been times –’
‘My son drinks. Too much.’ She sighed. ‘Now he’ll lose the job.’
‘You’ll be all right. You’ve got a pension, haven’t you? If he goes inside there’ll be something.’
She shrugged. ‘So I’ll be all right?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘What shall I do without my son?’
Lebatre looked away. ‘When did all this business with Marius Larche begin?’
‘Years ago.’
‘Did money change hands?’
‘No. That’s why he felt owed.’
‘Would you describe your son as bisexual?’
‘That he has been with women as well? I think he has. He says he has.’ She paused. ‘I hope he has.’
‘Why did he begin to try and blackmail Larche?’
‘Jean-Pierre felt he had been used – used too much by a man who should have been paying for his pleasure. We are very poor. Getting poorer.’
‘And so – didn’t he want rather a lot?’
‘It was absurd. I told him it was absurd.’ Lebatre noticed she was trying to disclaim responsibility now. ‘But he probably wrote the notes when he was drunk. And let’s face it, my son was drunk an awful lot of the time.’
‘You’d testify to that?’
‘If it would help. Would it?’ She seized the straw.
‘It might. Do you think he would agree to be hospitalised?’
‘A dry-out?’ She laughed.
‘Rather than going to prison?’ insisted Lebatre.
‘Are you serious?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re a good man.’ Suddenly she was animated. ‘What about Larche?’
‘He’s already said he wants to drop charges.’
She stared at him, shocked. The sudden hope she radiated made him feel ill. ‘Will he?’
‘He can’t.’
‘Why not?’ she beseeched.
‘Because Larche reported him and he confessed. But if we could say your son was an alcoholic. I mean – you can count on Larche’s sympathy.’
‘Sympathy!’ she flashed out. ‘That rich bastard – and him a policeman too.’
‘Do you want your son to go to prison?’
‘You know I don’t.’
‘Then you have to co-operate.’
‘With my son a suspect for murder. On top of everything else?’ She looked at him hopelessly.
‘I want to eliminate him as a suspect,’ Lebatre snapped. ‘Come on – pull yourself together, Mariola.’
This time she did not object to the use of her first name and he realised, with some regret, that he had broken her pride. Now she was staring at him abjectly.
‘What can I tell you?’ she asked.
‘I want to know if he hated Larche.’
‘Yes – he had grown to. Over the years. As his health broke down.’
‘As his drinking increased?’
‘That’s what I mean.’
‘Did he ever threaten his family?’
‘No. His hate was directed at Marius Larche. I happen to know he felt sorry for the old man.’
‘Sorry?’ asked Lebatre incredulously.
‘Yes. He was sorry for him.’
‘I find that hard to believe.’
‘So you may. But it’s true. I was also surprised. As the rumours grew about Henri Larche, I was very quick to condemn him. I knew your boss’s mother, for instance. Suzanne. She was a domineering woman but she had courage. She interfered in something very dangerous – and lost her life.’
‘Do you believe Henri Larche presided over that tribunal?’
She paused and then said slowly, ‘Yes, I do.’
‘Do you have evidence?’
‘None. But he seemed very thick with the Boche to me. And him with a wife in the Resistance.’
‘Were you in it?’
‘As much as I could be. My husband was. He may have been a bastard pig of a man, but he was brave in those times. He and Solange Larche and the others – they blew up the railway line. Not once but twice.’
‘Why should Henri Larche have been – as you put it – thick with the Boche?’
‘He was a great friend of the Commandant in Aix – Kummel. They used to lunch together – he was the man they tried in Lyon.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I was a waitress at Le Clozel during the war. It had been commandeered as a headquarters for the Nazis.’
‘Have you told anyone this before?’
‘I thought it was common knowledge. I certainly talked it over with Jean-Pierre.’
‘And?’
‘Oh, he thought it was innocent enough.’
‘How could it have been?’
‘Just a friendship, he said.’
‘A very dangerous one.’
‘Jean-Pierre thought it was
deliberate, so that he could find out information – and pass it on to Solange.’
‘And what do you think?’
‘I listened as much as I could – and I never heard anything being discussed. But I did hear them discussing the shootings.’
‘And?’
‘Henri said those responsible should be tried. Quickly.’
‘Unofficially?’
‘I didn’t hear that.’
‘And yet your son was sorry for him?’
‘He felt it unfair to pick on an old man. He said something else.’
‘Well?’
‘He said there was someone else responsible for the – for the – executions.’
‘Someone else? Someone who presided over the court?’
‘I don’t know – he didn’t make it clear.’
‘Do you mind if I use your phone?’ he got up quickly.
She shrugged. ‘Go ahead. Will you be wanting me again?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Directly I’ve finished this call.’
As he went out, Mariola was very conscious of not mentioning Didier. But there would be too many repercussions if she did.
Gabriel put down the phone.
‘That was Lebatre,’ he said.
Marius looked up from his statement. ‘Well?’
‘Madame Claude – she’s come up with something.’
Marius looked apprehensive. ‘Yes?’
‘Apparently your father used to lunch with Kummel. Wolfgang Kummel – during the occupation – at Le Clozel. Did you know that?’
‘No. I had no idea he even knew him – he was never asked to give evidence at the Lyon trial.’ Marius stared at Gabriel, the raw onset of fear and astonishment trickling through his stomach. ‘That old bitch,’ he said, his voice shaking. ‘What the hell does she know?’
‘You’re quite sure you never knew, Marius?’
‘Of course I’m sure.’ Marius felt sick and there was a crushing weight in his heart and in his head.
‘Would your mother remember these meetings?’ asked Gabriel.
‘Unlikely.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Alain Leger might know.’
‘Will you ask him?’
‘Yes, but – how significant is this?’ asked Marius uneasily.
‘Very,’ said Gabriel drily. ‘So significant that I think, on second thoughts, I should ask him myself.’
‘You really believe my father collaborated, don’t you? And if he did you’ve got cause to hate him –’ Marius spoke bitterly but he was bone-weary now and his emotions seemed one-dimensional.
‘I don’t think I have. My mother went to her death as she had lived – a bully. As I told you, I had very little affection for her.’ He sipped his pastis ruminatively. ‘Of course she was very brave. A heroine, like your own mother.’ He paused, sunk deep in reflection, and Marius waited patiently until he returned to the present. ‘Did your mother often talk about her experiences?’ he asked finally.
‘Never.’
‘I wonder why?’
‘You should know why. The question mark about my father must have been in her mind well before the rumours began – ever since the end of the war.’
Gabriel nodded. ‘Whoever killed him may have been waiting in the wings since the war. We’ve been doing some research on the families of those six young men who were shot – and we’re coming up with some information about them. I’m leaving Lebatre to concentrate locally now and I’m putting an enquiry team on those families, however scattered they are. We shall have to account for all their movements. It’s going to take a while.’
‘I feel so powerless.’ Marius looked down at the statement he had made on Jean-Pierre.
‘Yes,’ said Gabriel slowly. ‘I’m sorry I can’t allow you off the leash.’ He paused. ‘Marius – there is one thing you can do for me.’
‘Well?’
‘Does your mother have any periods of clarity?’
‘Very few.’
‘Talk to her about your father. Ask her what she really feels.’
‘I don’t think I’ll come up with anything useful.’
‘Try. And talk to Alain.’
‘So you are letting me off the leash.’ Marius smiled. It was now an unfamiliar facial movement and he felt stiff and self-conscious.
‘In a very limited way,’ replied Gabriel. He did not return the smile.
Mariola Claude telephoned Marie Leger towards the end of the afternoon. They were both members of a small women’s club in St Esprit that met regularly for talk and craft activity in the back of the Café de Paix. But however engrossing the demonstrations of sewing or silk making or weaving or flower arranging were, it was the talk that they all fed on. The St Esprit Women’s Circle was particularly vociferous and Mariola and Marie had gravitated towards each other very quickly. Both bored, both bitter, they pooled their rancour and each emerged more stoical as a result. Now seeking further comfort, Mariola filled in every detail of her son’s arrest, the possible solution to an impending sentence and his drink problem, the involvement of Marius Larche and her own impossible position.
When she eventually paused for much-need breathing space Marie broke in with enthusiastic commiseration and astute questions about the nature of the charges. It was only towards the end of the long call that Mariola introduced the subject of Didier.
‘Estelle tells me Solange told Henri that “Didier knows it wasn’t you.”’
‘Now that I don’t understand,’ said Marie excitedly. ‘He’s always said it was.’
‘I haven’t told the police.’
‘Are you going to?’
‘No, but I’ll tell you something in confidence.’
‘What’s that?’ Marie’s voice hissed out in a new surge of rabid curiosity.
‘My Jean-Pierre. He’s been to see him.’
‘Why?’
‘To try and find out what he really knows.’
‘With what end in view?’
Mariola was silent. Then she began to explain.
‘This is a funeral feast.’
‘For Henri?’ André Valier frowned at his wife over the white paper tablecloth. It was nine and the Valiers were dining with the Leger sisters at Le Clozel. The evening was humid and thunder clouds hung over the crowded terrace. The dinner had been organised by André. He had been very excited when he had phoned Annette earlier.
‘I’ve had an idea.’
‘What?’ she had asked bleakly.
‘I’m going to run a piece on Henri Larche tomorrow – something retrospective.’ He had stroked the goatee beard in the way he often did when he was worried.
‘You mean speculative?’
‘I’ll write it myself.’ He had ignored her derision; she doubted if he had even noticed it. ‘But I need to talk to the Leger sisters.’
‘I think that could be a mistake. They’re both very emotional.’
‘Perhaps. Will you invite them to Le Clozel tonight?’
‘They wouldn’t come. They hardly know us.’
‘Don’t they sell cushions in that shop of theirs?’
‘They may well do.’ Annette’s voice had been resigned. She knew what was coming. The question was – would she accept it? And if she didn’t, maybe he would withdraw altogether.
‘I’ll buy the restaurant some. Or the paper will.’ He laughed without any obvious sign of humour.
‘It may be too last-minute an idea for them.’
‘I’m sure you can convince the ladies that – a certain flexibility would be to their advantage.’
And of course she had convinced them. Very easily – particularly when the Leger sisters discovered how many cushions she was thinking of buying. Now as they made somewhat stilted conversation, lubricated by Andre’s studied charm, over a very good daube, Annette sat back and watched him skilfully bring the action to a head, realising at the same time how much they had grown apart for she had not seen him in action for a long time. He alternately teas
ed and flattered the sisters until dumpy Marie was a gauche mass of blushing confusion and even the more sophisticated Mireille was coyly amused.
Slightly sickened, Annette looked down to the lower terrace on the river-bank with its cluttered fairy lights and huddled wooden tables. Twilight was deepening. The river was slow flowing and silent. Occasionally a fish jumped and broke the calm and sometimes muted conversation rose to a muffled shriek of laughter. But little else intruded on her thoughts as she watched a moth fly high over their table which was a little apart from the others – as instructed by André. She forced her attention back to the conversation – she instinctively realised it was potential good copy.
‘And so – someone finally caught up with Henri Larche.’ He paused for simulated reflection, while Mireille Leger looked away – and her sister sparkled with anticipation.
‘Not before time,’ she said, delighted to have the opportunity to discuss her favourite subject.
‘Marie –’ her sister remonstrated, but there was no spirit in her voice. Clearly, thought Annette, she is only going through the motions of disapproving of her sister’s indiscretion. And this is only the beginning, she thought dully.
‘Of course, you knew him.’
‘I knew him all right. He helped my brother swindle us out of our share of the estate. Now we’re a couple of paupers.’
‘Oh Marie – it’s not as bad as all that,’ sighed her sister. For a moment Mireille caught Annette’s eye. Then she looked away. Had there been an appeal there, Annette wondered. But there was obviously no stopping Marie now. She’s playing straight into Andre’s hands, she thought.
‘Yes,’ said André confidingly. ‘I heard some rumours about that too.’
‘Of course I wrote Henri Larche some letters I should never have written.’
‘Marie –’
‘Well, it’s public knowledge, isn’t it? I see no point in denying anything. I’m impetuous.’ She smiled unrepentantly, drawing her squat frame in, fingering her neck, eyes lowered.
Annette shivered. Why did André always prey on the weak?
‘I can quite understand how angry you must have been.’ Andre’s voice was quietly neutral. ‘You’ve been deprived of your rights.’
‘Henri Larche got his just desserts.’ Marie picked at the food. ‘It’s not murder. It’s justice.’
‘Marie –’ Again her sister protested but André cut across her quickly.
Murder is a Long Time Coming Page 10
