by Michel Bussi
Half asleep, she reached over to touch the duvet next to hers. Her hand found only dry earth. Marc had vanished. Only a note remained in his place:
Gone to buy croissants. Marc The bastard! Next to his note was the guidebook. The message was clear: You’re on your own!
Cursing, Malvina got to her feet. She had been stupid ever to put her trust in a Vitral. What had she been thinking? Now look at her: stuck up a mountain, on her own, with a mobile phone that had no signal. Like some naïve child, she had walked straight into a trap. And now there was only one solution: to go back down the mountain.
Malvina left everything behind her in the cabin – duvet, torch, food
– and immediately began walking down the mountainside, eyes fixed angrily on the ground. Not once during her descent did she even glance at the sliver of morning sun that made the Swiss mountains look like the Himalayas.
One hour later, the Nature Reserve Office came into view. A few children were already messing around in the adventure playground while their parents spent a ridiculously long time tying the laces of their walking boots. Marc’s van was not in the car park, of course. The piece of shit really had abandoned her.
She checked her phone. Finally, a signal. She would be able to get out of this hellhole. There was a message on her voicemail. Someone had tried to get hold of her last night. Her grandmother, probably. Who else could it be? Malvina clicked on the message and was surprised to see that it came from an unknown number.
Marc Vitral? Crédule Grand-Duc?
She put the phone to her ear.
‘Malvina, it’s Rachel. Rachel de Carville, your great-aunt . . .’ Her great-aunt, heir to the Elytis and La Baule perfumeries.
What the hell did she want? They hadn’t spoken in years. ‘Malvina, my poor girl. You must call me as soon as possible.
Something awful has happened at Coupvray. Oh, darling . . . your
grandmother and your grandfather have both passed away. They
were found this morning, in their beds, and neither was breathing.
They went to heaven together, my poor angel . . .’
Malvina switched off her phone. Her arm fell to her side as if the
phone suddenly weighed a ton. For a long time she stared into the
dark forest, newly aware of the silence that surrounded her. Then
she reached for her bag. There was no time to think, cry, or even
pray. She had to act. To understand. To seek vengeance. She had
one sole target to focus on. A very real target and still very much
alive.
Inside the bag, her fingers tightened around the handle of the
Mauser L110. Vitral thought he was so clever, but he had made the
mistake of falling asleep last night. She was good at pretending to
be a mad girl tortured by nightmares when it suited her. All she’d
had to do was grab her gun back. Anyway, that hypocrite would
never have been capable of using the revolver. Unlike her.
4 October, 1998, 7.19 a.m. ‘Hello, Jennifer speaking.’ Marc was still in the archives of the Est Républicain. His friend at France Telecom was working all that weekend. This was the one advantage he had, and he could not afford to waste it.
‘Jennifer, it’s Marc again. I need another favour. It’s a big one . . .’ ‘You can ask me whatever you want. You know that, Marc.’ ‘I need a phone number and an address. Mélanie Belvoir.
B-E-L-V-O-I-R.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Try the area around the Jura and the Doubs first, then all over
Franche-Comté. And then just try anywhere in France.’ ‘No problem . . .’
Marc heard the muffled sound of Jennifer’s fingertips tapping the
keys of her computer keyboard. He could not stop staring at the photograph on the front page of the newspaper spread out before him. The resemblance was uncanny, almost surreal. Who was this Mélanie Belvoir? There had to be some rational explanation . . .
‘Sorry, Marc,’ said Jennifer. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Maybe she’s ex-directory?’
‘I tried that too. Nada!’
‘Shit. Are there any other Belvoirs in France?’
‘Hang on . . .’
More muffled typing.
‘Yeah. Three hundred and forty-eight of them.’
‘And in the Jura?’
‘Let me see . . . Oh, that’s narrowed it down. Only twenty-three.
But no Mélanie.’
‘Maybe she changed her name . . .’
‘Who is she, this Mélanie?’
‘Sorry Jen, it would take way too long to explain. The craziest
stuff has been happening, but I’m in a desperate rush. Could you try checking cancellation requests under the name of Mélanie Belvoir?’ ‘How do I do that?’
‘Look in the archives. You can get in through the administrator’s account and do a search on cancellation requests – they date right back to when our records were first digitized. That was at least fifteen years ago.’
‘We’re not supposed to do that, Marc. I could get fired . . .’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve done it loads of times. Please Jen, it’s urgent . . .’
‘You owe me big time for this, Marc. I want to be taken out to dinner somewhere really nice.’
‘Anything you want, I promise. Just do it, please.’
Again, Marc heard the sound of Jennifer’s fingertips tap-dancing on the keyboard.
‘OK, I want a two-star restaurant, at the very least. God knows I deserve it! I’ve found the woman you’re looking for. She cancelled her subscription with France Telecom five years ago, on 23 January 1993. At the time, she was living at 65 Rue du Comte-de-la-Suze in Belfort. Since then, not a trace of her.’
‘OK, Jennifer. Could you check requests for call forwarding?’
‘What?’
‘Call forwarding. Usually when customers cancel their subscription, it’s because they’re moving house or going to live with someone else, so they ask for calls to their old number to be forwarded to the new one, for a few months. That’s archived too, and you can access it in the same way, through the administrator’s account.’
‘You’re unbelievable! Three stars – I want a three-star restaurant for this! And as much champagne as I can drink.’
‘You’ve got it, I promise. And Hungarian violinists if you want them . . .’
‘I’m going to hold you to that.’
The seconds of silence that followed seemed interminable to Marc.
‘You were right,’ Jennifer said finally. ‘Mélanie Belvoir requested call forwarding to a number belonging to Laurent Luisans. I assume you want the address? The village is Dannemarie, in the Doubs, and the address is 456 Route de Villars. You realise this information is strictly confidential. What do you want with this woman? Is she an ex? Does it have anything to do with the list of hospitals I gave you the other day?’
Marc frantically scribbled down the address on the first piece of paper he could find: the front page of the Est Républicain.
‘You’re the best, Jen! I’ll take you out to dinner and explain then, I promise. Champagne, the works . . . Could you do me one last favour? Are you connected to the internet right now?’
Jennifer sighed. ‘Yes . . .’
‘Can you find me the shortest route from Montbéliard to that address?’
‘Jesus Christ . . . Who do you think I am, Miss Moneypenny?’
The Citroën slowly climbed the road that led to the Swiss border, seven miles further on. Marc kept his foot firmly pressed to the accelerator pedal, but that did nothing to encourage his van. Gradually, as it moved higher up the hillside, he left the edge of the town. The road snaked around a waterfall before continuing its upward trajectory. The villages became smaller and less numerous, until the only human dwellings along the route were a few scattered chalets.
The village of Dannemarie appeared as the van
rounded a bend. According to Jennifer’s directions, Mélanie Belvoir’s chalet was located as the road left the village, a little higher still, closer to Switzerland, just beneath the ridge line. Marc drove through the silent village. It was eight in the morning, and there was not even a bakery or a café open. One last turn and he left the village. Marc braked and parked the van on the pavement.
It would have been madness to drive to the doorstep and throw himself into the mouth of the wolf. Crédule Grand-Duc was undoubtedly on Mélanie Belvoir’s trail too, and after years of visiting the Vitrals in Dieppe he would recognise the orange-and-red van from miles away. He might as well have driven up honking his horn.
It was cold outside. Marc walked quickly, and spotted the Xantia after the third bend in the winding road. It was hidden on a small path, just off the main road. A little higher, he could see a chalet
– Mélanie Belvoir’s, almost certainly. Walking on the dew-wet grass beside the road, Marc approached the Xantia, making sure he couldn’t be seen in the vehicle’s rear-view mirror.
The detective sat calmly inside the car, a white plastic cup in his hand. Marc moved stealthily towards him. If anything went wrong, he knew he could always use the Mauser, but his plan – if you could call it that – was to take a more direct approach. Grand-Duc was nearly sixty-five years old, while Marc was twenty, fit and strong. There was not much doubt over who would win in a fight.
The detective did not have time to react. The Xantia’s door was wrenched open and he was grabbed by the arm and pulled roughly to the ground. Before he had even caught a glimpse of his assailant, he took a kick to the ribs that cracked a few bones, causing him to curl up in pain. Then a second kick, to the coccyx. ‘Bast . . .’ His curse was swallowed up by the mountain’s immense silence.
Another kick. He managed to turn onto his back. A man was towering over him.
Marc Vitral.
It wasn’t possible. How could he have found him here so quickly?
‘Marc?’ Grand-Duc groaned. ‘How did you . . .’
The detective spat blood onto the dusty ground and attempted to get up. Marc’s foot pushed down on his chest.
‘Stay where you are or I’ll crush you like a cockroach.’
‘Marc, what are you . . .’
‘Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit. I’ve spent the last two days reading your lies. Your life, your investigation, your hypocritical soul-searching . . .’ Marc pressed his foot down harder on Grand-Duc’s chest, and the detective gasped. ‘Let’s get straight to the point. I know you killed my grandfather. You would have killed my grandmother too, if you could . . .’
‘Marc, surely you don’t believe . . .’
Marc’s boot lifted from Grand-Duc’s chest and landed on his face, crushing his nose and mouth.
‘I don’t have time for this crap, Crédule-la-Bascule.’
The detective spat blood again. He seemed to be having trouble breathing.
‘How did you find out? Did . . . was it the de Carvilles who told you? Mathilde? Malvina?’
‘I worked it out for myself, believe it or not. Like a big boy.’
‘I . . . I never wanted to do it. You have to believe me. I . . . was just following orders . . . I regretted it. I was honest after that . . . I really loved . . .’
Marc kicked Grand-Duc in the collar bone. The detective rolled over, howling with pain. His bloodied hand touched his shoulder. ‘Please, Marc, stop this. Please, I . . .’
‘Shut up, then. And spare me all your poetic nonsense about remorse, and love. I’m not interested in that. The only thing I want to know is Lylie’s identity. The truth!’
For the first time, Grand-Duc’s lips curved into a sort of smile. ‘So you haven’t understood . . . not everything, at least. You still have need of my services as a detective . . .’
Marc raised his foot threateningly again.
‘Not necessarily. It’s up to you to prove that to me.’
‘But how did you find me so quickly?’
‘I’m not as slow as you think. But stop playing for time. Tell me the truth about the DNA tests. And that photograph of Lylie in the newspaper.’
‘But . . . your grandfather . . . did someone sell me out or did you really guess yourself?’
‘I really did figure it out myself. I already told you that! Now quit stalling . . .’
Marc gave the detective another kick in the ribs. Grand-Duc’s body twisted up in pain, and his arm reached down past his leg. Instantly Marc realised what he was doing: reaching for his gun.
Marc thrust his hand into his bag to grab the Mauser . . .
The bag was empty.
The Mauser had vanished.
Images of the night before flickered through Marc’s brain: Malvina on her feet, awake while he slept, supposedly having had a nightmare . . . but it was too late for regrets.
Crédule Grand-Duc was aiming his revolver at Marc’s chest.
‘You were very quick, Marc. Seriously, I’m impressed. But you let your feelings get in the way. A classic mistake. You held all the winning cards – an old man at your mercy, the solution to the mystery only a few feet away, on the passenger seat of my car, the finale to my famous notebook . . . Yes, what you want to know is just there, inside an envelope. A few pages that explain everything and could make me a fortune. All you had to do was reach in and take it . . .’
Shakily, Grand-Duc stood up. His lip was bleeding and his beige jacket was heavily stained with blood and dirt. He could barely even put weight on his right leg. Marc said nothing. He was furious with himself. To have come so close and to fail right at the end. It was so stupid . . .
‘You were pretty tough on me, Marc. But I guess I deserved it. In your place, I’d have done the same thing. Worse, probably . . .’
The detective stretched his left arm gingerly while aiming the revolver steadily at Marc with his right hand.
‘Sorry, Marc, but you leave me no choice. Do you understand? You’re the only other person in the world who knows the truth about your grandfather. Except old Léonce, of course, but he’s hardly going to spill the beans, is he? Killing you is the last thing I want, Marc, but what else can I do?’
Finally, Marc managed to say a few words. Looking over at the Xantia, he asked quietly: ‘Did you say the same thing to Nazim Ozan?’
Grand-Duc shrugged. He stood gingerly on his injured leg. ‘Life is full of surprises, Marc. It’s hard to swim against the current. Five days ago, I was planning to commit suicide. At home, all alone. Everything was ready, my finger on the trigger. Game over. Now, I’ve won. Yet I’ve had to murder two of the people I love most in the world – Nazim and Ayla. You are the third, sadly.’
Marc shivered. He was ten feet away from the barrel of the Mateba, which was now pointed at his head. It would be futile to attempt to disarm the detective. If Marc moved an inch, he would be shot, he had no doubt about that. The mountain road by which they stood was utterly deserted, and it was unlikely that any passing motorist would see them, hidden away on this small track.
‘Let me explain, Marc. I was paid a fortune to murder a couple and make it look like an accident. I was a mercenary, and I had already killed people for relatively miserable sums all over the world. Léonce de Carville was offering me more money than I had ever dreamed of. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. How could I possibly know that I would fall in love with one of my victims?’
If only he would shut up, thought Marc. The worst thing was that Grand-Duc wasn’t insane. He didn’t even have that excuse. Yet the words came out of Marc’s mouth anyway. What was he thinking, that he could move this man?
‘Listen, Lylie is pregnant. With my child. She’s supposed to have an abortion at ten o’clock this morning.’
The detective’s revolver did not tremble.
‘This was bound to happen, Marc. You shouldn’t have got involved. You might have lived happily ever after with Lylie – the two of you make a sweet littl
e couple. She will be inconsolable. But you leave me no choice. Let’s just get it over with, shall we?’
Grand-Duc aimed the Mateba at Marc’s heart, and Marc stood, frozen, incapable of moving a muscle. Strangely, his head was filled with happy memories of their house at Rue Pocholle: birthday parties, Lylie playing the piano, Marc and Crédule watching the World Cup together, the penalty shoot-out and the Didier Six shirt . . .
‘None of this should have happened, Marc, none of this pain and grief. But it did, and it’s no one’s fault. Well, maybe Mélanie Belvoir’s . . . but even she thought she was doing the right thing.’
I should move, thought Marc. Throw myself at his feet or something.
As if reading his mind, Grand-Duc took a few steps backward, still gripping the revolver.
‘We all hang on desperately to life, Marc, even when there’s no hope left. That’s the root of the problem. That whole battle between the Vitrals and the de Carvilles was pointless. Like all wars. It was just a misunderstanding. I think you know the truth now. They both died on that plane, Marc. Emilie and Lyse-Rose. They both died in the accident. I am so sorry, Marc, believe me.’
Grand-Duc’s finger squeezed the trigger.
The gunshot echoed across the summits in the vast white silence
of the morning.
61
4 October, 1998, 8.14 a.m. Crédule Grand-Duc crumpled to the ground. Blood poured from the hole in his back like a crimson spring. Malvina stood behind him, the Mauser L110 gripped in both hands.
‘Don’t start thinking I did this to save your life, Vitral,’ she said. ‘I just can’t stand people saying that Lyse-Rose is dead.’
She let the Mauser fall to the ground. Her whole body was trembling. She wasn’t pretending this time. She really had pulled the trigger, and killed a man.
‘You . . . how did you . . .’
Malvina managed a nervous smile. ‘I’m not any more stupid than you. I had the same thought as you about the newspaper. That guy from the nature reserve, Grégory Morez, drove me to the offices of the Est Républicain in his Jeep. You’d already done the hard work for me. The newspaper was still spread out on the table where you’d left it, with Mélanie Belvoir’s address written on the front page. I just jumped in a taxi and told the driver to drop me off where the road left Dannemarie.’
