by Rachel Green
***
The gendarmerie was located at the top of Rue Voltaire, next to the Office du Tourism. It was an old two-storey building with thick stone walls and heavy timber doors. Each of its sixteen windows was flanked by louvred shutters, and the window-boxes overflowed with red and orange blooms. A blue enamel plaque next to the front door stated that the building dated back to 19th Century, making it one of the oldest in the region. If the façade was anything to go by, little had changed in the ensuing hundred years.
The front door was locked so Margot knocked and waited. When no one answered, she found herself peering through a small glass panel into a gloomy lobby. She knocked again and waited a full minute for a light to come on. A figure appeared from a shadowy doorway and then a man’s face came looming up to the glass, prompting Margot to step back. His expression wasn’t welcoming.
“Yes?”
“Can I come in?”
“It’s eight-forty-six, Madame,” he said, showing her the dial of his wristwatch as if to prove it.
“And?”
He appeared to tut. “The gendarmerie doesn’t open until nine on Saturdays.”
Margot rolled her eyes. Did criminals around here restrict themselves to office hours?
“Could I come in and wait?”
The man smoothed down his jet-black hair. His fringe was so shiny it looked like it had been finished with boot polish. “I’m not fully dressed,” he said, though when Margot glanced down she saw that he was wearing trousers and a shirt, albeit only half buttoned-up. She produced a smile.
“I promise not to look.”
It didn’t amuse him. “Is it an emergency?”
“Not as such.”
“Then you’ll have to wait.”
He turned to go, but Margot knocked again. He shot her a look of irritation which she returned in full.
“I’ve just found this.” She held the football shirt up to the glass. “I thought it might be important.”
The gendarme came back to the door and stooped to peer through the glass, his face contorting like a gargoyle. Not once had he offered even the suggestion of a smile. After taking a cursory look at the shirt he gave a little shake of his head. “The lost property box is next door.”
“It’s not lost property. I found it on the beach in the cove. I think it might belong to the little boy that was found by the harbour.”
His eyebrows pinched as he appeared to ruminate. He took another look at the shirt, and then glanced again at his wristwatch. Finally, he bent down and noisily slid back the bolts. “Wait here,” he said and then exited through an opening on the other side of the lobby, closing the door firmly behind him.
Margot stepped into the dimly-lit space. It felt strange to be back in a police station, although this was a world away from Hugo’s office in Paris. Apart from the two plastic seats bolted to the floor there was little that was modern. Everything appeared to be made from either stone or dark brown wood – even the ceiling was painted a chalky brown. Many of the papers on the noticeboard were curled and yellowed, and a flyer for last year’s summer festival still held pride of place. A ceiling lantern gave out light of a quality that seemed to belong to a different century. The place looked like it hadn’t been redecorated since the 1950s.
One of the seats had a horrible stain on it and the other was covered in graffiti so Margot remained standing. The blind was down on the glazed screen but the slats in one corner were damaged and when Margot stooped she could just about see through. On the other side of the screen lay a tidy office: a wooden desk piled neatly with papers, a pair of filing cabinets. Next to the cabinets, a half-open door connected to the inner room into which the gendarme had gone. Margot could hear him moving around in there. She shifted her position and managed to catch sight of him, albeit his reflection in a full-length mahogany mirror. He appeared to be alone, though he wasn’t hurrying himself. He raised one foot onto a wooden stool in order to polish his already shiny boots. Despite being tall and otherwise slim he had a pot belly that hung over his waistband like a cantaloupe in a stocking. When he put on his tunic, he buffed each of the buttons with a soft white cloth and then primped his epaulettes with a stiff brush. He was clearly a man who took pride in wearing his uniform.
A few minutes later he came into the office via the connecting door and Margot took a step back, pretending she hadn’t been watching. As the church bells were striking nine, he raised the blind and greeted her with what appeared to be a smile. It clearly was not an expression that came naturally to him.
“Bonjour, Madame. I am Captain Bouchard of the Gendarmerie de Argents-sur-Mer. How may I help?”
Margot narrowed her eyes. What a strange man. She stepped back to the screen and once again showed him the football shirt. “I was swimming in the cove a few minutes ago. When I came out I found this on the rocks.”
The captain seemed unimpressed. “What makes you think it belongs to the migrant boy?”
“It’s the same colour as the shorts he was wearing. Don’t you see?”
“It’s a Barcelona strip, Madame.”
“And?”
“They’re very common here.”
“But the name and number on the back …” Margot turned the shirt around. “Dembélé. That might be the boy’s name.”
Captain Bouchard’s mouth twitched. It was hard to imagine how he could appear more supercilious but he managed it somehow. “I hardly think so, Madame.”
“Why not? Don’t boys often have their names printed on their shirts?”
“Yes, they do, but Dembélé plays for Barcelona. He’s one of their most famous players.”
“Is he?”
The captain nodded.
Margot flushed. She had no interest in football but she should have checked. She felt foolish but resisted the urge to look away. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction. “Even so, it must still belong to him.”
“It’s of no use to him now.”
Margot’s eyes widened, blood beginning to simmer. “Shouldn’t you have it analysed?”
“If it’s been in the water that long it’s hardly going to reveal anything.”
“It’s still evidence,” Margot persisted. “It needs to be properly examined and recorded.”
After a pause he conceded a small nod. He fetched an evidence bag from a drawer and opened a panel next to the screen so she could pass it through. He started bagging it up, but Margot didn’t celebrate the small victory just yet.
“Has there been any progress with the investigation?”
“It’s too soon to say.”
“I heard a man was found down by the fort. Was there any clue to his identity?”
The captain shook his head and carried on bagging up the shirt. He seemed to have lost all interest in the conversation.
“Were they both on the same boat?”
“It would seem logical.”
Margot clenched her jaw. “There must have been more than two of them. What happened to the others?”
“Someone reported seeing some shady types sneaking through the town around dawn.”
“Did you catch any of them?”
The captain looked at her as if she’d said something stupid. “They’ll be long gone by now. They soon slip through the cracks.” He tossed the evidence bag into a box on the desk and then looked at her as if he expected her to leave. Margot wasn’t done yet, however.
“How did the shirt find its way into the cove if the body was washed up at the harbour?”
“The current must have taken it.”
“That’s highly unlikely. The current flows southwest; the cove is north of the harbour.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Yes, it is. I swim in it every day.”
“So your point would be …?”
Margot had to work to control her temper. “My point is, he must have been on the beach in the cove at some point before he died. Which means he didn’t just fall off a boat and drown.”
>
The captain took a form from below the desk and placed it on the counter between them. “Could I have your name, please?”
Margot wasn’t letting it drop. “Don’t you think that’s a possibility?”
He looked blankly back at her. “Your name.”
“Will you search the cove?”
“Possibly.”
“If his shirt was there there might be other evidence.”
“Perhaps.”
“The longer you leave it the less use it will be.”
“I am aware of that. Now, your name, please.”
The captain’s face hardened but Margot continued to look him in the eye, unwilling to back down. She couldn’t understand why he was being so uncooperative and had half a mind to remain there all morning, making life difficult for him. But common sense prevailed. She looked away and let out a sigh.
“Margot Renard.”
He began to write it down but paused mid-stroke, his head tilting upwards. “The police inspector’s widow?”
Margot fixed him with another stare. Was that how she was going to be known from now on? She could barely walk to the end of her lane without thinking that people were looking at her, muttering behind her back. The lack of anonymity here was proving hard to get used to.
The captain lowered his pen. There was at last a note of compassion in his voice when he said, “I’d heard you’d moved to the town. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Margot bit her bottom lip. This man wasn’t half the police officer Hugo had been. “So am I, Monsieur,” she said, and quietly left the building.
Chapter 4
After the chilly start, the day quickly warmed up and bright sunshine bathed the town in a rich golden glow. But Margot was in no mood to enjoy the fine weather and bought herself a bottle of cognac on her way home. Madame Barbier from the house at the end of the row paused the tending of her window boxes and tried to engage her in chat, but Margot feigned a headache and walked swiftly by, pushing the bottle of cognac to the bottom of her bag.
After locking the gate and closing the shutters, she took off her beach sarong and her swimsuit and then, because the courtyard wasn’t in any way overlooked, braved the lukewarm water of the outdoor shower. Whenever they’d come down here in summer, Margot would usually shower outside and often walk naked around the house, glad of the way it had made Hugo smile. She put on a robe and poured herself a large cognac, and then sat on the settee, smoking in silence. The air had a stillness to it. Sometimes the quiet of the house felt like a physical thing, holding her in.
Bookshelves filled the walls on either side of the fireplace; she’d arranged them exactly as they’d been in their sitting room in Paris. The one on the left housed Hugo’s record collection, the one on the right her favourite books. On the middle shelf was her pride and joy – the Riverside edition of the Complete Works of Shakespeare (which she’d read before the age of twelve, beating her father by five years who hadn’t read them all until he was seventeen). Below it was the first edition Alice Through the Looking-Glass that he’d read to her whenever she was ill. She took her tin of family photos down from the top shelf and sat on the floor in front of the log-burner, the bottle of cognac by her side. On top of the pile sat Hugo’s medal – a posthumous award for his final act of bravery. Margot set it against the books on the bottom shelf and stared at it while she drank her brandy. To say she was proud of him would be the understatement of the century but it was hard being a hero’s widow. She’d had an on-off career herself: gained a first-class law degree from UCL, had an offer of tenancy at a top London chambers, was forecast a glittering career in the judiciary – her peers had even opened up a book on her becoming a judge by the time she was thirty.
But life wasn’t like one of Hugo’s LPs – the needle didn’t always stay in the groove. Sometimes it got knocked, and you found yourself following a completely different track. Losing a child was a pretty big jolt. All she’d wanted to do in those first few months was wrap herself up in something soft, hide away. At times it had come back to haunt her and caused her to have a little relapse. In the first few years of their marriage, weeks had often gone by without her leaving the apartment. Other times she would go out and not come back for days. Sometimes she just needed space.
Hugo had understood.
It was cold with the shutters closed so she went up to the little spare room in the attic where the warmth of the morning had started to accumulate. She leaned into the dormer window and peered out across the terracotta rooftops. You could see the sea from here, and part of the harbour, the Catalonian flag flying from a pole on the turret. All traces of yesterday’s grim discovery had gone and now the tourists were back in force, sitting in the shade of the palm trees, or ambling around the harbour. The day after the funeral she’d resolved to make a fresh start and move here full time; another three or four months went by before she’d sorted through their belongings and shipped everything she’d wanted to keep. Every night of the first few weeks she’d sat at this window and cried. At times the emptiness of the house had been really quite shocking. Then she’d taken to going out in the dead of night and wandering the streets, just to see who was about. Now she could sit here and not shed a single tear, but the emptiness hadn’t gone away.
She drew in a sharp breath, coming back to the present. It was almost noon so she went downstairs to make a cup of coffee. When she checked her phone, one voicemail was waiting:
“Margot. It’s Pierre. Please call me as soon as you get this.”
It was unlike him to call on a Saturday morning so Margot called him straight back. “Pierre – I’m not disturbing you, am I?”
“No. It’s fine.” He sounded tired.
“You asked me to call.”
He paused. “I have some news.”
Margot waited. At the other end of the line Pierre took a few moments to clear his throat. “We’ve made some arrests.”
She swallowed. “Hugo?”
She imagined him nod. “I’m coming down to see you.”
***
After her swim the next morning, Margot took her binoculars and went for a walk along the coastal path. She took the route south where the path climbed high over the rocky bluffs and the coastline turned wild. She stopped at every viewpoint, and scanned every beach and cove, but there were no broken boats, no more washed-up bodies. The sea glistened in the sun, looking calm and innocent.
Pierre was coming down on the midday train and wouldn’t be here until seven so after her walk Margot went to the shops. She bought herself a new madeleine pan from the homeware store and a bag of fresh apricots from the indoor market – after the cassoulet she was going to serve madeleines with honey-glazed apricots and vanilla ice cream. In Cave Saint Joan, she bought two bottles of La Grande Dame Veuve Clicquot and a bottle of fortified sweet Muscat, then called in at the tabac to stock up on Gitanes. In Paris, the three of them had enjoyed so many boozy nights together.
Pierre arrived on time, clad in his policeman’s raincoat. Paris born and bred, he didn’t seem to get that the weather elsewhere could be anything other than grey skies and drizzle.
“Good trip?” She hugged him tight and gave him a kiss on both cheeks.
“Not bad. I had a little sleep on the train. I certainly needed it.”
She hung up his coat and led him through to the kitchen. He was looking a little peaky, overworked no doubt. Hugo had always said the boy would work himself into an early grave.
“I hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m starving, as usual.”
“We’re having cassoulet for dinner, and for afters—” Margot pulled back the tea towel and proudly revealed the madeleines she’d baked. “Voila!”
Pierre grinned. “The queen of desserts, just like old times.”
He gave her another peck on the cheek.
At thirty years of age Pierre was nineteen years younger than Margot and she’d always treated him like a son. Eight months ago he’d come round
to the apartment to announce that his wife was pregnant, and Margot had been so surprised she hadn’t believed it for weeks. She’d never pictured him as a father.
She opened one of the bottles of champagne while Pierre made himself comfortable at the kitchen table. “How’s Camille?”
“She sends her love.”
“And the baby?”
Pierre looked up with a twinkle in his eye. “She’s fine. I have some pictures on my phone.” He reached into pocket. “Would you like to see?”
“You have to ask?”
“I wasn’t sure—”
Margot tutted. “It’s perfectly all right, Pierre.”
She finished pouring the champagne and then took the glasses to the table. Pierre angled the phone between them so they could both see. Noémie was a bright-eyed six-week-old with curly black hair and a dimple in her chin. “Aww, she’s so cute,” Margot cooed.
“Not so at three o’clock in the morning, trust me.”
Margot smiled wistfully. Being a parent must be so exhausting. All those middle-of-the-night feeds and nappy-changing. The woes of teething. The constant fear you might not be looking after them properly and they would fall ill. Was it all worth it? A wave of sadness crept up on her and she couldn’t stop her face from dropping.
Pierre immediately picked up on it and switched off his phone. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have ...”
Margot inhaled deeply, putting a lid on the rising emotion. “It was a long time ago.”
“Even so—”
“Don’t be silly.” She put the smile back on her face and reached for his hand. “Come on. Let’s put some music on.”
They left the dinner heating up and took the champagne through to the sitting room. Pierre went straight to the far bookcase where he greedily looked through Hugo’s record collection – he was as much into collecting vinyl as Hugo had been. He made his selection and carefully extracted the LP from its sleeve, then laid it on the turntable. The Beatles: Yesterday and Today – Hugo had a rare first pressing featuring the infamous “butcher” cover.