18
Heleen gave the woman in the tollbooth exact change, after which the woman opened the security bar. Heleen pressed down on the accelerator and left the péage behind her. There would be many more tollbooths like this on the road trip to the South of France. So far everything was going smoothly. She was making good time. This surprised her, since it was her first time driving to another country. It was now midafternoon and she was about a hundred kilometers away from Dijon. From there she would continue straight down to Lyon.
During the trip she had not played any music. It was too distracting and made her unable to concentrate on driving. She also wanted time to think. Yesterday afternoon she had told Alex about her trip. When he heard that she was going to France alone, he had been very disappointed. He wanted to go with her and was sorry that he would not see her for a while. Well, that and the fact that he couldn’t play any video games while she was gone, Heleen thought, amused by her little friend. Innocently, he asked her a question that she had not expected from him and had hit her hard.
“Did Frank wash ashore?”
She had managed to keep her composure and had convinced him that she just had to go deal with some administrative business in France. He nodded hesitantly and asked her how long she would be gone. After she assured him that she would be back in a few days he had paced back and forth for a while and then shrugged his shoulders.
When she suddenly noticed the brake lights of the truck in front of her, it occurred to her that she was so deep in thought that she was no longer paying attention to traffic. She was startled for a moment, then slowed down, looked in her mirrors, and passed the truck.
Once she passed it, she maintained the same speed as the car ahead of her. It didn’t take long before her thoughts drifted off again. She thought back to the conversation she’d had with Angela. The woman was her complete opposite in almost everything, with an entirely different lifestyle. In her heart, she loathed the couple’s lifestyle.
Yet, she had taken Angela’s advice very seriously. She was the undeniable expert when it came to men. And, as an outsider, she could oversee the situation far better than the people who were right in the middle of it. For example, how many times had she heard that a young person had come out to their parents? Many of those parents had no idea about their child’s sexual orientation. The same people who had watched their children grow up for the past eighteen years …
That is why she’d started doubting herself so much. Frank had been the love of her life, and they had been together for a long time. Actually, she had nothing to compare it to. For seventeen years, she had lived in a very protected environment. Their marriage had been comfortable and pleasant. Sexual escapades didn’t exist in their world. That was something for other people.
She thought. For Angela, one glace had been enough to determine Frank’s sexual orientation. Frank was not gay or bisexual. Heleen had found Angela’s confirmation of this fact rather encouraging. To picture Frank living with some Frenchman, living a double life for all these years? That just didn’t seem possible. But what did those two have to do with that life insurance claim then? Fraud? But that seemed far less likely since Frank was still missing. Presumably dead … and even if he had wanted to commit fraud, certainly he wouldn’t have done it this way. Unless … Frank was still alive. Then everything surrounding his disappearance could be one big setup. The life insurance payout would be divided between all parties involved, and everyone would live happily ever after, except for her.
Heleen realized that she could hardly substantiate this concept. It brought up more questions than she could have imagined until now. Despite everything, though, she still hoped he was still alive.
The answer was with Vincent Gautier. After her conversation with Angela, she had called him. The number was disconnected. But she did not allow herself to become discouraged. She thought about all the possibilities and decided she had to go for it and continue to pursue the truth. She was better off taking the car, because Gautier could be anywhere—he could have moved. Then at least she would have her own transportation. Then she would be mobile and prepared for any unexpected situations.
Heleen slowed down for the next tollbooth. After Lyon, she wanted to get a hotel room, but before that could happen she still had quite a few hours of asphalt ahead of her. She did not care. She was on her way. She would meet him. Only he knew the truth and he would share it with her, soon.
19
Heleen parked her car in front of the flats that stood diagonally across the street from where Vincent Gautier lived. It was five thirty in the afternoon, but the sun was still shining brightly. She got out and felt a gust of warm, dry wind glide past her. Temperatures of forty degrees Celsius or more were normal here. Today was one of those days. She instantly longed to return to her air-conditioned car.
The drive from her hotel to Nice did not exactly go well. Outside of Lyon, she had been delayed for well over three hours due to a major accident somewhere between Valence and Nice. The emergency services needed more than two hours to clean up the mess. When she was finally allowed to continue her drive, she passed the somber sight of the accident wreckage on the side of the road and it sent a shiver down her spine. An accident could happen at any given time. What if she had left just a few minutes earlier that morning … ?
She had been thinking the entire night about how she should handle the meeting and conversation with Gautier. So the night had moved along at a snail’s pace. The chaotic whispers in her mind, while in a bed somewhere in a suburb of Lyon, were looking for answers to questions that could only be addressed the next day.
About fifty meters away from Gautier’s apartment, the small hairs on her arms stood straight up. There was a sign in the window. The house was for rent or for sale. Without realizing it, she picked up her pace.
The apartment was indeed for sale. The house was empty. The part of the living room that she could see from the street was completely empty; all that was left was the wire that hung from the ceiling where a lamp used to be. It was over before it had begun. Damnit—she had driven all this way for nothing. But this time she would not just turn around and go home. She walked to the entrance of the apartment complex. Next to the doorway was a doorbell and nameplate board. The empty box behind number 49 confirmed that Gautier had moved.
Nevertheless, Heleen pressed the doorbell. What did she have to lose? Maybe Gautier was still in the middle of moving and was just there to gather the last few items. Or maybe he was checking his mail. Or … well, it didn’t matter why he was here. If she didn’t take some kind of action, nothing would change in the current situation anyway.
She pressed the bell a total of five times. There was no response. Just when she was considering if she should harassing the other tenants, she heard someone calling out.
“Allo?”
Heleen took three steps back and saw that a window on the ground floor was opened up all the way. A young woman looked down at her. She could only see her face and estimated her to be in her mid-twenties. She fired off a sentence in French. She had no idea what the woman in question was trying to say and tried to make that clear with her hand gestures
“English?” she tried.
To her relief the woman switched to English after a slight hesitation.
“There is no one there. You must make an appointment with the real estate agent. The phone number is on the sign.”
Heleen gave her an exaggerated nod to indicate she understood. Then she tried to explain why she was there in her best high school English.
“I do not want to buy this apartment. I’m here to see Vincent Gautier, the man who lives or lived at number 49.”
The woman was trying to size her up.
“You’ve come for Vincent Gautier?”
“I came all the way from the Netherlands, especially for him,” Heleen confirmed. “I need to speak to Mr. Gautier urgently. Could you tell me where I can find him?”
The Frenchwoman lo
oked at her with pity and shook her head slowly. “That won’t be possible, madame. You see, Vincent Gautier died last month.”
20
The apartment was rather sloppy. Seat cushions sprawled around, empty coffee cups on the table next to the couch, the prints on the wall were anything but free of dust, and the floor was covered with stacks of newspapers and magazines. Although the difference between her own home and this apartment couldn’t be bigger, Heleen was grateful that the Frenchwoman, who had introduced herself as Bernadette Chabol, had invited her in.
The announcement that Vincent Gautier was dead had been a real shock to Heleen. It was the only scenario she had not thought of. The one thing she could not have imagined. Apparently, it had been easy to see on the look of defeat and shock on her face, because Bernadette had immediately asked if she wanted to come in. She nodded at her in a daze.
“So you drove all the way from Holland just to speak with Gautier?” Bernadette clucked her tongue. “Ever hear of a phone, email, or friends? They could have saved you the whole trip!”
Heleen shrugged her shoulders. “I only had his phone number. That didn’t work. So I decided to go by car and confront him directly. Now I realize that I may have jumped the gun a little.”
Bernadette smiled. “A little?” She looked at Heleen. Heleen could see in her eyes that Bernadette meant well and understood that she was simply stuck in this situation and had no other choice than to make the best of it.
“So, you needed to talk to Gautier urgently?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, obviously I have no idea what this is about. It’s not any of my business. But it seems very important to you, so if I can help you somehow …”
Heleen sighed deeply. She closed her eyes and quickly thought about what her next step should be. She could tell part of the story, or make something up, but eventually she decided to just tell her the whole story. In all probability, this would be the only conversation they would ever have. Maybe her one chance at gaining some information. After all, her one short visit with Angela had also brought her something important.
“Last summer my husband, Frank, and I went on a vacation together,” she began. “He had booked a cruise on the Mediterranean to celebrate our fifteen-year wedding anniversary.”
Bernadette listened carefully to the unbelievable story. When Heleen came to the Vincent Gautier chapter, she frowned and squeezed her eyelids together. Finally, the story ended, literally at her front door.
“And now here I am,” Heleen concluded, “hitting another dead end.” She forced a smile. “The story of my life.”
Bernadette looked at her. Her gaze moved to the side. She thought hard for a moment.
“At the moment I don’t have anything useful to tell you. Off the top of my head, there’s nothing I can think of that would be of any help to you.”
“Okay, so tell me your story,” Heleen replied. “How did you get here? Who knows where we will stumble upon a clue as we go along.”
“My story,” Bernadette muttered. “It’s not very spectacular. I was born in Bordeaux. My father is French and my mother Swedish. At home I grew up trilingual. In addition to having me know French and Swedish, my mother thought it was important that I spoke and wrote English. After a variety of circumstances, I ended up here and met my boyfriend, with whom I’ve been living for the past two years. He is a programmer, and I translate Swedish to French. Hence, I am almost always at home. This is actually my workplace.”
She pointed to a closed door. “My office. Small and tidy. Sometimes I feel trapped in there, so I move into the living room with my laptop. At least I have a little view. The downside is that I am easily distracted and tend to make a big mess.”
Heleen waved her apology away, and Bernadette got up.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Coffee with milk and sugar, if you’ve got some?”
Bernadette nodded and walked to the kitchen. A few minutes later Heleen heard water boiling in a kettle. Bernadette came back with two mugs and put them on the table.
“I only knew Vincent Gautier from seeing him. We only ran into each other very infrequently. He would always greet me politely. I would estimate him to have been about fifty.”
“So you never really had any real contact with him?”
“No, and I only realized that when the police came to my door to ask me questions about him. To me, Gautier was a staple on this block. Like something that belonged here, but something I did not directly have anything to do with. But you always think of that kind of stuff afterward.”
“What did he die from?”
“A drug overdose. I was actually really shocked to hear that. Because nothing about him suggested he was a drug user. He seemed like a normal, healthy man, a little overweight even and quite the opposite of those emaciated types that you see walking around in the city. Those are real junkies with the prominent cheekbones and sunken-in eyes.”
“How did the police respond to that?” she wanted to know.
“Indifferent. They rattled off their list of questions, and off they went.”
Heleen was about to ask what was on that list of questions, when she suddenly wondered what the hell she was doing. Was she looking for a job with the police? But still, she needed to know more. She had to get to the core, and if she kept going then maybe there was a chance that Bernadette would remember something important after all.
Heleen followed her gut feeling. She opened her bag and pulled a picture of Frank from her wallet.
“This is my husband. Have you ever seen him before?”
Bernadette took her time. She looked at the picture carefully, and Heleen could see how she concentrated and tried to remember something. Eventually she gave the photo back.
“No, I’m sorry. As far as I know, I’ve never seen him before.”
“Okay,” Heleen replied with doubt in her voice. She was torn between conflicting emotions. If Bernadette had not seen him, this could mean that Frank had never been here. That made sense, right? On the other hand … “But … but you have you seen men here? I mean, Gautier was gay, right?”
Bernadette grinned.
“Well, that I know one hundred percent for sure. He had … what do they call that again? Well, I think he was pretty much the definition of being gay. Vincent Gautier was the stereotype of an old queen. You did not need to talk to him to figure out he was gay. His walk said enough.”
She raised both hands. “I don’t have anything against gay people, though. Two of my best friends are gay and have been a couple for many years. I treasure them both, and I can laugh and cry with them.”
Where have I heard that before? flashed through Heleen’s mind. “So, he was definitely gay; that’s clear. Did he have changing contacts or a steady boyfriend? Did people come to his home? Men, I mean,” she added unnecessarily.
Bernadette rubbed her forehead with her fingertips.
“There were men that visited,” she replied thoughtfully. She closed her eyes to better recall her memories. “Each one of those men was younger than him. Between the ages of twenty and thirty, I would guess. They all visited at irregular times, in the morning, in the afternoon …” She fell silent. “Of course, I’m usually in my office. I saw those people while I was sitting here working on my laptop or during a break. In the evening, we usually sit here on the couch, where you can also easily see people come and go …” Her pupils widened. “Merde!” Bernadette smiled mysteriously. “You were talking about a cruise, right?”
Heleen urged her to continue with a quick nod.
“I suddenly remembered that one of those men came by there more regularly than the others. One evening when we were watching TV, I saw him walk up the path. It was quite late, about eleven o’clock, and he wore a white uniform.”
“A white uniform,” Heleen murmured. “That’s what the pursers wear on the ship.”
Bernadette made a dismissive gesture. “But I don’t know anything
about uniforms though. Army, navy, air force, cruise ship—it’s all the same to me. So please don’t assume that this man came straight from a cruise ship. For all I know, he was dressed up for some gay party.”
“You’re right. But a white uniform, regular visits—it might be a lead.”
“It’s definitely worth a try, I guess.” Bernadette took a sip of her coffee.
“But where do I start?” Heleen wondered aloud. “I’m not from here.”
“I have no idea, but I do know two people who will know exactly what to do.”
She reached for her cell phone.
21
Heleen sat at a table in bar called La Vie. Despite the fact that she had been there for a while on her own, she didn’t feel like the odd one out anymore. During the course of the evening she had noticed that not every look that came from a lesbian was automatically a pickup attempt. Besides, there appeared to be more gay couples than singles. She had imagined it to be far worse than it was. God, was she really that uptight? Why was it that she had been so sheltered and had she seen so little of the world?
Tonight, Christian and Etienne were her “tour guides.” This cute couple made their rounds in La Vie, just as they had done in the previous bars, searching for information that could help her. They knew the Nice gay scene like the back of their hand. Compared to cities like Amsterdam and Paris, this was a small town, they explained to her. With one phone call, Bernadette had arranged a meeting with them. Christian and Etienne would meet her in front of the Casino Ruhl. Which was a perfect meeting place, seeing as the casino was located on the Promenade des Anglais and hard to miss, due to its bright-yellow neon signs. But if for any reason this tacky display of lights somehow went by unnoticed, then certainly the oversized and expensive cars parked at the front entrance would catch your attention.
Cruise: A Thriller Page 8
