Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  Having studied her for a moment as if deciding whether or not to press his panic button, he said, “you do realise that much of this area can be treacherous in winter, especially the higher parts. Sun one minute, the next, whoosh!”

  “Really?” Thinking of her tinny, little car. Herself being used to flat, all-too accessible countryside.

  “Yes. Not long ago, two walkers almost died on the GR 65 above Figeac. And they were really experienced…”

  The GR65 was one of the Grandes Randonées, always well-signed and usually a definite path. Delphine suddenly doubted her own stupid ambition as he turned to his computer and began to scroll down. There were two matches for ‘Les Cigales,’ both in the back of beyond. One a Maison de Retraite in Gramat, the other a farm near somewhere called Salvignac. But which to choose?

  “My grandmother used to live near Saint-Chels,” he said, once the printed list was in his hand. “But when widowed, she felt frightened. It can be like the Wild West in parts.” He handed over the printed sheet. Still warm.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Anything that moves, pop-pop.” He mimed a shooting action, then looked at her. His blue eyes showing concern. In fact, a lot of him reminded her of Martin. Why she was here at all. Even if he had supposedly put a tracker on her car and stood by while Roza was being set upon.

  “You’re not going there on your own, are you?” The salesman then probed.

  “Course not,” was too quick, and she could tell he’d noticed. “An old friend’s been in touch, suggesting I call in.”

  “And didn’t give you directions?”

  Damn.

  He went over to the coffee machine. “Espresso or long?”

  “Long, thanks. And two sugars.”

  He brought it over, and although the plastic cup was hot, and the smell delicious, the cold wind of fear seemed to encircle her. Perhaps she could trust him. Should trust him. “I’ll tell you,” she said at last, aware of another man she assumed was his boss, beginning to close the showroom for the lunch break.

  When she’d finished, her listener generously offered to loan her a demonstration model Grand Vitara taxed until March and due to be sold on in the next few weeks.

  Having thanked him profusely, Delphine mentioned insurance. “I can pay you something towards it.”

  “As a customer you’d be covered. Do you have any penalties?”

  Where do I start?

  “No.”

  “Good.” And, having checked her details, handed her the firm’s contact sheet, signed agreement and the keys. “You’ll have more speed when you need it,” he added. “More protection, and I almost forgot, her tank’s almost full. Don’t forget to buy diesel, not petrol. She’s silver, parked just next to the Servicing block.”

  Delphine warmly thanked him again while extracting her purse from her bag. “But please let me at least pay for that fuel.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll call you if I hear any news.”

  She gulped down her coffee just as a potential client entered the showroom, and within seconds, Jules Charbon was on the case, clearly under pressure to sell even though it was lunchtime. He gave her a wave, then was soon lost behind one of the pristine, new cars that hopefully she could afford once she’d fulfilled her dream of one day being Lieutenant Delphine Rougier.

  33.

  12.30 hrs.

  Having tucked her beloved 2CV away behind the Servicing block as Jules Charbon had suggested, and left him her keys, Delphine had the oddest feeling she might never see the little turquoise car again and kissed its soft-top roof as one might to a boyfriend for the last time.

  She then sat for a few minutes in the new Suzuki’s comfortable driver’s seat to acquaint herself with a completely different dashboard and everything else. The gear stick, for a start. And a Satnav. Jules Charbon had been right. His off-roader felt strong, secure and, with a more efficient heater, the interior quickly became warm. Another plus was if Lucius Seghers still intended to tail her, he’d have easily recognised the 2CV. A car becoming less common with each passing year.

  *

  Feeling much more reassured, Delphine left Figeac before pulling into a deserted layby to check how the Satnav worked. Before her accident, Pauline’s Rav had been equipped with one, and although often invaluable, it had also landed her in some surprising places.

  She logged in ‘Les Cigales,’ Salvignac, Causses, and the automated female voice directed her on to a minor road to a place she’d never heard of. A gradual climb at first, until a vast settlement of galvanised steel buildings made her pause to stare. Groups of unkempt men hung around the line of animal transporters stuffed full of sheep, calves and pigs. The stench of dung eked into her borrowed car. She saw fear on the creatures’ wide-eyed faces. Sensed fear in the very air, as one of the men gave her ‘the finger.’ And she couldn’t help but wonder what else this increasingly stark area might be hiding.

  “Turn left in three kilometres,” her unseen instructor continued. “And follow the road for twenty more…”

  Twenty?

  Supposing ‘road’ meant a single-track lane? Or worse. And, for a moment, thinking of her mother and her shocking, dangerous secret, was tempted to turn back. However, when she’d told Jules Charbon she was actually an undercover cop, he’d eyed her with undisguised admiration. And this, somewhat pathetically, like Lise Confrere’s earlier encouragement, helped keep her going.

  *

  She almost missed the unmarked turning. On either side, rocky banks topped by derelict, dry-stone walls reared up against the grey sky. At least the pissy drizzle had stopped. At least she could automatically lock herself in if need be…

  When what passed as a ‘road’ levelled out and the rocks and walls dwindled, she could see the surrounding landscape in all its unyielding ruggedness. Because the car wasn’t hers, she took extra care neither to scrape nor tip it into the deep, water-filled ruts that edged the damaged tarmac. There was also snow sprinkled on to the higher outcrops, adding to the overall bleakness. She had her phone with its balance of 48 euros, and the fuel gauge had barely moved. Some security at least.

  As she continued along the straight, nameless stretch with more of the same in sight, those small reassurances were replaced by certain remembered aspects of the hunting process. Another friend’s father had been a ‘tracker.’ Who, along with dogs would sniff out foxes, wild boar and more recently the odd wolf, introduced last year into the Bois des Hermites, ready for the hunt. He said he’d felt like a betrayer to the creature about to be shot. There’d certainly been no money in it for him. Perhaps a leg or a head if the day had gone well.

  So, who might the tracker here be, in this Godforsaken place? Because deep in her bones, she sensed a hunt in the waiting.

  ‘I will hunt you until I’m ready then twist your necks until they break. I will hang

  your innards from fence and hedge until what remains uneaten, shrivels and dries

  like the black worms you are. That is my promise.’

  *

  Her phone. Stromae way too loud; too out of place.

  Captain Valon sounded strained and, having checked it was actually Delphine who’d answered, said without preamble, “Lieutenant Confrère left the gendarmerie an hour and a half ago. She’s not answering her phone. Has she been in touch with you?”

  “Not recently. Perhaps she’s at home?” Delphine tried to concentrate on the road ahead, fighting a growing unease. Valon was solid as a rock. Sometimes too solid. This could be serious.

  “There’s no-one there, and I suspect, given how she felt you might be putting yourself at unnecessary risk for Martin Dobbs, may also be heading to the Causses…”

  Confrère was an adult. This wasn’t her fault.

  “But when she did call, I said I was in Tours.”

  He broke off, as if talking to someone else, while the Suzuki’s big tyres kept grinding along the worsening road surface.

  “We’re liaising with Cahors
for a Special Weapons and Tactics team to take a look round,” he said next. “Where are you?”

  She was running out of trust. The ‘tracker’ word still lurked in her mind.

  “In the middle of bloody nowhere,” she finally replied.

  “I need more than that, Delphine.”

  “OK. Somewhere north-west of Figeac.” She didn’t want to mention Maréval and the helpful Jules Charbon.

  “Let me know immediately you get any kind of sign.”

  “I will,” she lied.

  “By the way, we’ve also traced that Nissan X-Trail’s number plate – the one you and Roza Adamski remembered – to a small dealership in La Cirque Popie. The business’s new owner found records going back for the past five years. It was bought from there a month ago. But not by a Lucius Seghers.”

  “Who, then?” She slowed down to let two roe deer pick their way across in front of her, aware of the narrowing space ahead.

  “A Henri Seghers. Dr Henri Seghers in fact. His father’s name.”

  Delphine’s heart seemed to stop beating.

  “Which his son could have used.”.

  “I’d not thought of that.”

  “La Cirque Popie’s near Cahors isn’t it?” she added, still thinking of the strangely-named town. “So why travel all the way there from the Côte d’Azur?”

  “The Nice gendarmerie’s just been in touch. Every Mairie in that region confirmed the name hasn’t ever been registered with them. Unless, like your parents, he’s unofficially off the radar, for reasons unknown.”

  She let that go, thinking instead of that man with harsh, penetrating eyes.

  Valon seemed to be checking something, then spoke again “There’s more. A new bull-bar was fitted to that same car on Tuesday evening, and the apprentice who did the job near Neuillé-Pont-Pierre, recognised the car and that same number plate from news bulletins.”

  Delphine gasped.

  “Neuillé Pont-Pierre’s just north of bloody Tours. Did this guy mention his age? I mean, there’s a bit of a difference between fifty and seventy-seven…”

  Although was there? The black-coated man she’d seen four times, could have been either. Fit, with good skin and bone structure…

  “No. Just that his customer was very polite and friendly. Even paid extra in cash, for the prompt service. Only when he’d gone, did he call the local gendarmerie, and they’ve just phoned me.”

  Hadn’t the man in the Café Celeste also been polite?

  “Surely the Péages’ and other roads’ cameras will have picked him up going back and fore?”

  “If they work.”

  Still alive…

  Then she recalled a detail Jérôme Meyer had mentioned.

  “He was a gerontologist, after all. Would have known how to keep himself in good nick and have the money to do it.”

  “I’m losing it, dammit. I did know that… ”

  The line was beginning to break up, but not before her caller added that he’d also be accessing all Préfectures for records of driving licences.

  “And Noah Baudart?” She asked, hearing a background phone’s faint ring. “Anything on him, yet?”

  “Hold on…”

  She waited while the line got worse and the road curved around a strange cluster of huge, limestone rocks. For the first time in ages, patches of blue sky appeared. Then out of that blue came another surprise. “Your father’s just phoned home again, saying he thinks he’s found what he’s looking for. Whatever that means. We’re trying to trace the call…”

  Then the line died.

  Damn.

  *

  Delphine followed the mean road down towards a painted sign on a rock for the Laceyrac caves. SITE OF HISTORICAL INTEREST. But her thoughts were fully in the present, troubled not only by the fact that someone assumed to have been off the scene, even dead could still be around, but also, what the hell was François Rougier up to? Having stopped again, keeping a watch on all her mirrors, she tried making two calls. The first to Captain Valon with that Laceyrac name, then to the old phone her father had rarely used.

  Still no signal.

  So preoccupied was she with imagining him being caught and tortured, and Lise Confrère in a different kind of trouble, she failed to notice she wasn’t alone. Indeed, another vehicle was rounding that rocky bend behind her, keeping its distance. Nothing unusual in that, Delphine told herself, determined to keep rising paranoia at bay. After all, however underpopulated the area, someone was bound to either live here or have a reason to be driving?

  34.

  14.00 hrs.

  As if by magic, the rain clouds dispersed, leaving the sky an uninterrupted blue, yet bringing an unbidden thought. That bright June day in 1944 when her mother’s young life had been changed forever. Delphine wondered how Pauline was getting on with her research, and what it might or might not yield, then quickly checked her phone’s battery was still charged up in case she called.

  It was. But still no signal.

  She switched on the car radio for any kind of news update, when she realised that what seemed to be a large, white van behind her, had narrowed the gap between them. Memories of Wednesday afternoon with her mother in that enormous, stubbly field, made her accelerate, yet a sneaking thought lingered that perhaps whoever it was, might know of ‘Les Cigales.’ Perhaps not.

  With the sun low in the sky burning her eyes, she groped for her shades. Surely the twenty kilometres must be almost up? The kilometre gauge confirmed it.

  Come on…

  There was no further radio news relevant to the case, so she turned to France Musique where Fredericke von Stade was singing the cycle of Songs from the Auvergne. Far too joyous for her current mood. Besides, unexpectedly, the road ahead had widened enough for two normal-sized vehicles to pass each other. Should she let this van go, or keep it behind her? Before deciding, she noticed a slender layby on her right, where the usual junk had been thrown. At least it was somewhere to stop with the engine running, and let the van go by.

  But no. Instead of passing, it pulled up behind her, and immediately she recognised its driver.

  *

  “Roza told me to look out for you,” Patrick Gauffroi said, standing by Delphine’s car door, wearing a full-length, brown waterproof. His hair, unlike yesterday at the hospital, was uncombed. His features tense. She’d taken the precaution of locking herself in the Suzuki, opening her window just a little. The middle of nowhere was no place to take chances with a guy she’d only met three times. “I had no choice,” he added, then eyed her borrowed car. “Nice wheels. Dare I ask where from?”

  “Tell you later. OK? By the way, how is Roza? Being protected at last?”

  “Yes, after a few pointed phone calls.” He peered in. A hint of stubble and the remains of aftershave plus the perfume she remembered from the Adamski’s caravan and the hospital. “But it’s you I’m more worried about.” He patted the car’s roof. “Even with this.” His eyes narrowed. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  ‘Bad blood there, I’m afraid…’

  “I could ask the same of you. You followed me?”

  “Sure thing. And I told the helpful Mr Suzuki to look after your 2CV. They’re like gold dust now.”

  Gold dust?

  Two words from what seemed a long time ago.

  He squinted into the sun. Kicked away an empty yoghurt carton. “Just like me, he was worried about you.”

  She wondered what else the helpful car salesman might have told him, which was why she kept her shades on, still unsure of this man who wasn’t giving up. Why so interested in her? And was that earnest look in his eyes genuine, or disguising something else? Could he be the ‘tracker’ to lure her into disaster?

  ‘I’d like you and Mademoiselle to be together for ever.’

  *

  “I’m not letting you do this crazy thing on your own,” he said suddenly. “I’ve had enough tragedy. Enough hassle, what with the FN on my back about my Ro
ma…”

  My Roma?

  She blinked. That was all he’d needed to say, and the way he’d said it made her relay everything about Martin and ‘Les Cigales,’ his partner who’d gone to Saint-Denis, and her father who’d claimed to have found what he was looking for. Also, the horrible threats, what had happened to her and her mother on Wednesday afternoon and Lieutenant Confrère’s erratic behaviour. What she didn’t mention was Pauline’s current research tasks or Valon’s latest news. Nor was there time to mention Basma and her phantom daughter.

  “You can’t worry about everything,” he said when she’d finished. “let the flics do their job. They’re paid enough, with big, fat pensions to go with early retirement. Unlike you or me… But as for your Maman, I did call in on her this morning. She was fine, and she’s now got my phone number, just in case.”

  “Did she really seem alright? She can be a good actress.”

  He glanced back at his van.

  “Hey, wait there. Won’t be a minute.”

  *

  He was less than that, having left her feeling stupid. Like a kid abandoned in the playground. He returned to hand her a small, black gun. Neat in every way, and half the size of Irène Rougier’s old Luger. Warm from his hands.

  “She’s sorted, and now, so are you. It’s a Berretta semi-automatic, with thirteen rounds left. Just in case.”

  Delphine had seen the very same on recent TV cop dramas.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “Never you mind.”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t want it.”

  He looked at her as if she was mad, then asked, “what info did you give your Satnav?”

  “Les Cigales,’ Salvignac, Causses. A farm, which seemed more promising than a retirement home in Gramat.”

  She passed him Jules Charbon’s print-out.

  “Your guy’s been very useful,” he said. “But then he would be for an undercover cop.”

  “He’s not my guy, and that was a joke.”