by Rachel Green
She jumped across the rocks until she reached the southern edge of the cove and then climbed to the highest point, hands on hips. She tried to imagine what it would be like out here at night, stumbling around in the pitch black, tired and hungry, hundreds of miles away from home. It would have been a long sea crossing. Even a fast boat would have taken ten hours to get here from the coast of north Africa. Pierre was right – if this was the location they’d chosen to haul out it was a strange one to pick. There were plenty of more isolated stretches further down the coast so either whoever had done the smuggling was inexperienced or something had gone wrong. Perhaps there had been an accident, they’d ended up here by mistake, in the confusion the boy had got separated and somehow fallen into the water. But then, how had the other man ended up down by the fort?
Someone needed to carry out a proper search. There could be other clues here, and if the police couldn’t be bothered to search it then why didn’t she do so herself? She’d spent enough time in the company of police officers to know what to do.
A wide visual search revealed nothing of significance so Margot hunkered down and worked methodically, moving slowly from one side of the cove to the other. Where the rocks gave way to shingle, she got down on her hands and knees and worked her way along centimetre by centimetre. She wasn’t quite sure what she was expecting to find – maybe some blood on a rock, a piece of damaged boat. If nothing else there was plenty of litter – after just ten minutes she’d recovered more stray plastic than she could carry. She left it in small mounds ready to collect with a bin bag.
But then something more interesting caught her eye: lodged in a space between two large boulders was what looked like a bag. Margot lay down on her side and carefully fed her arm into the slot. When her hand emerged, she found herself holding a child’s backpack, and her heart started to beat more quickly when she realised it was the same two colours as the football strip – garnet and blue.
Instinct made her look round. Was someone watching? The beach was still empty, however, and silent apart from the fizz of water washing up through the shingle. For several long moments she sat on her haunches, trying to understand the significance of what she’d found. She took some photos of where it had been lodged and then moved to a smooth wide rock where she sat with the backpack on her lap. The bottom was wet on her thighs. Unclicking the buckles, she found it fully packed and neatly layered. On top was a waterproof coat, then a jumper, then a pair of boy’s shoes. A zipped pocket on the inside contained a plastic wallet stuffed with papers, and although she didn’t pull it all the way out, Margot was excited to see a mobile phone safely hidden inside. The lower half of the bag was soaked through, but the contents of the plastic wallet had escaped undamaged, it seemed.
She spent a few moments thinking, but then came to her senses and put everything back. She stuffed the backpack into her swimming bag and then went on her way.
***
She took her time going back around the headland. The bag was evidence and she would have to hand it in to the police, but given Captain Bouchard’s attitude last time she was in no hurry to return to the gendarmerie. Maybe she should look through it first. She was the one who’d found it, after all.
The beach was still busy so Margot kept to the concrete walkway and carried on round towards the harbour. At the turning to Rue Voltaire she paused. A short walk up the hill would take her to the gendarmerie, but she was still in two minds. Her eyes drifted across to the marina where a yacht was mooring up. Something about it struck her as familiar. Spotting the name on the backboard Margot was hit by a surge of adrenaline. Carpe Diem. Blood rose to her forehead. Teeth gritted, she marched straight over.
The skipper was too busy tying up his mooring rope to notice Margot bearing down upon him. He was older than she’d expected, salt and pepper hair, a thick, greying moustache covering his top lip. Sunglasses were perched on the crown of his head and he was scruffily dressed in an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and shorts that had long ceased to be fashionable.
“Hey, you!”
The man looked round, as did a couple of nearby fishermen.
Margot halted on the jetty directly above him, hands planted firmly on hips. “You idiot! Why don’t you look where you’re going?”
The man slowly straightened, his forehead creasing into a frown. He looked around again, as if unsure he was the one being addressed. With his bushy eyebrows and bronzed face Margot thought he might be Spanish and guessed he hadn’t understood, but just as she was searching her mind for a suitably pithy comment in Spanish, he said, in French:
“Are you talking to me, Madame?”
“Of course I’m talking to you!”
“Do I know you?”
“You could have killed me.”
“When?”
“Just now! When I was swimming in the cove.”
He looked around once more as if the cove might be hiding somewhere over his shoulder. “But I was sailing at least a kilometre offshore.”
“Yes! That was where I was swimming.”
“Really? So far out?”
There was scepticism in his tone and it angered Margot all the more. How dare he doubt her? She jutted out her chin.
“I’ve a good mind to report you.”
“What for? I didn’t see any buoys.”
“You need your eyes testing.”
“If you were swimming so far out shouldn’t you have been using a tow float? I really don’t see how I did anything wrong.”
Margot bared her teeth. Only a man could say that. “You drove your stupid boat straight at me, you old fool!”
In her anger, she swung her foot, intending to kick the mooring rope, but she’d forgotten she was wearing her ballet flats and the shoe flew clean off. It hit the rope dead centre before dropping through the narrow gap between hull and jetty, hitting the water with a comical plop. Margot’s eyes widened. In the silence that followed the man seemed reluctant to meet her eye, and when he did look up he was clearly having difficulty containing a smirk. And it infuriated Margot all the more.
“Just watch where you’re going in future!” she snapped, and retreated inelegantly down the boardwalk, feeling the eyes of the fisherman pursuing her every step of the way.
Chapter 6
Margot forgot all about the gendarmerie and went straight home. She took off her one remaining shoe and threw it in the bin, and then sat in her courtyard, arms tightly folded, simmering. How dare he laugh at her? The temerity of the man. She lit a cigarette and blew angry jets of smoke into the air.
It took ten minutes for her to calm down. She was still tempted to report him, but her anger faded. There were far more important things to think about than some stupid yachtsman.
She took off her swimsuit and tossed it into the washing machine and then put on a loose dress. After pouring herself a small cognac, she retrieved the backpack from her swimming bag and took it out to the table in the courtyard, though for a while sat with it unopened on the seat beside, mindful of what an intrusion this was. If some misadventure befell her one day she would hate to think of a stranger going through her things. This bag might have been the boy’s prized possession: his schoolbag, a favourite gift, something he’d bought with saved-up pocket money. It wasn’t right, but if it offered some clue as to what had happened to him then she had to look. Margot took a deep breath, and then unclicked the buckles.
The waterproof coat was a cheap one, nothing in its pockets, no labels inside, something that could have been bought anywhere. The jumper was neatly folded. The black leather shoes looked new and unworn. Margot imagined his mother packing it for him on the eve of his big trip. How proud she must have been.
She put the clothes to one side and then took out the plastic folder. The first thing that struck her were two maps: Michelin Map no. 734, ‘National Map of Spain’, and Michelin Map no. 725, ‘National Map of Southern France’. Both of them were new, and when she unfolded and carefully examined them they didn’t a
ppear to have been marked in any way, no ‘X marks the spot’ or highlighted roads. Tucked into a fold on the map of France was an envelope containing two €20 notes. The mobile phone was an old-model Nokia with a cracked screen. The remainder of the folder’s contents were a sheaf of loose papers and a diary which promptly drew Margot’s attention. It was written in French, in a child’s hand, and every page had been filled up to April 14, the day before the bodies had been found. The final entry read:
We met M. Etienne in the woods. Papa gave him a hug. M. Etienne said we would go to Spain tomorrow. Papa gave him our money and M. Etienne rubbed my hair. His hand smelled of petrol. He gave Papa a picture of his boat and a map. We slept in woods and I was cold.
Margot flicked back to the front of the diary. On the title page:
This diary belongs to Aswan. Aged 7. 987Q+R4, Tiaret
So there it was: the little brown shape on the rock now had a name – Aswan. The boy in the Barcelona shorts whose favourite player had been Dembélé. A thin slice of her heart melted.
Margot photographed the page with her phone and also noted down the address in her own diary. At some point she would write to them and let whoever was there know what had happened. She turned to another page:
We were in the lorry a long time. My legs hurt from walking but Papa said the driver would not stop. Then the lorry got broke and we stood on the road. It was very dark. Some men came and fix it. Then they were angry and shouted. They made me scared. Papa said M. Etienne would come soon and make us safe. He said when we got to Spain he will get work and we will go to Barcelona. Papa said we will go to the Nou Camp every Saturday.
Margot paused. Could the body that had been found by the fort be the boy’s father? It seemed plausible. If Aswan had got into danger his father would surely have stayed with him, though how the backpack, the shirt and the two bodies had ended up so far apart was still a mystery.
She photographed the rest of the pages and then put the diary to one side. The bundle of loose papers came next. Many of them were notes scribbled on scraps of paper in handwriting so bad she couldn’t decipher. There were also a number of receipts, one dated April 12 from a shop in Algiers. Scribbled in large letters on another piece of paper was an address in France: 27 Rue Baudin. Margot took a picture of that, too.
It seemed unlikely the Nokia would still work but after a few seconds of holding down the power button she was surprised to find the screen come to life. The battery was down to one bar so Margot wasted no time. Just one number was stored in the contacts. Seven incoming calls were listed in the call log: the first on April 9, the last on the 12th. All seven were listed as ‘Number unknown.’ No outward calls had been made.
A single received text message: ‘7 4 3 1’.
She pressed through the menus to find the phone’s own number but the battery promptly died. Not that it mattered; it had all the hallmarks of a burner phone.
Margot left the phone for now and went back to the address. 27 Rue Baudin. She typed it into the maps app on her phone and got back four results, one of which, she was surprised to see, was close by. Rue Baudin was in the commercial port, just a few kilometres up the coast. An internet search came up with a vehicle repair shop – Garage de Paolo – which, according to its website, carried out repairs on all makes and models. Margot stared at the screen, perplexed. Why would Aswan’s father have written down the address of a vehicle repair shop?
She put the papers back in the folder and returned everything to the bag just how she’d found it. She had all the information she needed for now; it was safe to hand it over to the police.
***
The next morning the story made the newspapers. When Margot called in at the tabac, a half-page photo of the body on the rocks was emblazoned on the cover of the local daily. She snatched it from the rack. Invasion de Migrants claimed the headline. The photo had clearly been taken by someone who’d been in the crowd that day because it was just as Margot remembered – the little brown shaped morphed into the rock. Heat flushed through her as she speedread the article. They’d interviewed one of the fishermen who’d gone out on the RIB: ‘Everyone in the town is devastated by the discovery,’ he was quoted as saying. Was that so? Margot buried the paper in a bin on her way out.
She marched on up the hill to the gendarmerie. A younger man was on duty this time and he greeted her through the screen with a cheery bonjour. Margot was more succinct.
“Captain Bouchard, please.”
“Can I ask what it’s regarding?”
“It’s about the bodies that were washed up. The Invasion de Migrants,” she added with emphasis, though her bitter tone seemed lost on the young man.
“And your name?”
“Margot Renard.”
The gendarme started to turn, but froze midway. He sent a glance back in her direction before tilting his head to the half-open door of the inner office. Despite the fact that someone was clearly in there the gendarme received no audible response. He manufactured a small cough, and then stepped back to the counter. “I believe Captain Bouchard is busy right now.” His voice had suddenly climbed a semitone. “Can I help?”
Margot angled her head to try and see through the same door. She couldn’t properly see in, but a strong smell of charcuterie was coming from close by. A piece of cutlery scraped on a plate, and now both Margot and the young officer looked at the door in silent anticipation. Whoever was in there seemed to pick up on it because the cutlery went quiet. As the silence became strained, Margot returned her eyes to the young gendarme. “You’re sure he’s not there?”
The gendarme pulled a face. “It is lunchtime, Madame.”
The clock on the wall showed 12:30. Margot had never got used to the long French lunchbreaks. A good breakfast and a full evening meal were usually enough to sustain her. Whenever she’d been down here with Hugo he would always lunch alone in the kitchen and afterwards sleep for an hour in the garden leaving Margot to kick her heels, bored, for two hours.
The tension continued to build but Margot wasn’t giving in.
“I have something the captain needs to see,” she said.
“Well, if you leave it with me I’ll be sure to pass it on,” the gendarme replied.
“Yes, I could do that …’ Margot trailed away and then raised her voice in the hope it would carry: “or I could take it to the newspapers instead. I’m sure they would be interested to hear what I have to say.”
An ugly scrape of a chair leg broke the stalemate. A moment later, Captain Bouchard appeared in the doorway, having to stoop to get under the frame. He sneered at the young gendarme who knocked over a pile of papers in his eagerness to get out of the way. When he came to the screen, the big man leaned over the counter with his palms planted wide as if he were about to deal with an unruly child. Margot straightened her spine, up for the challenge.
“Yes, Madame.”
Even through the Perspex she could smell wine on his breath.
“I was asking about your investigation.”
“What of it?”
“Have you made any progress?”
“The investigation is over.”
Margot flinched. “Already?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you conclude?”
“It’s fairly obvious what happened: a boat was seen out that night, it was overloaded with migrants, some of them fell overboard, two of the bodies washed up. It’s not the first time it’s happened.”
“Have the deaths been certified?”
“Yes.”
“And what was the cause?”
“Accidental drowning.”
Margot scoffed. “How can you say it was accidental when you haven’t even carried out a post-mortem?”
“A post-mortem is only ordered where death was not accidental or caused by natural causes.”
Margot narrowed her eyes. “I know the law, Captain. I trained as a barrister.”
“In which case you should know that the matter is
out of our hands. I’ve passed my report to the Procureur.”
Margot simmered. “And what about the people who put them on the boat? Are you just going to let them get away with it?”
Captain Bouchard heaved a tired sigh. If his eyes had rolled any further back into his skull he might just have lost them. “Is there anything else?”
Margot glared at him. She was tempted not to give him the backpack, much use it would do, but finally she pulled it from her swimming bag. “I found this in the cove.”
The captain studied it through the Perspex. “You seem to have developed a knack for finding things.”
“That’s because I look.”
The captain narrowed his eyes.
“It was hidden behind a rock, near to where I found the shirt.”
The captain relaxed his shoulders, looking a little less combative. He grudgingly opened the hatch so she could pass it through.
“If you look inside you’ll find a diary,” Margot went on. “There’s no doubt it belongs to the boy. And it’s possible the man you found down by the fort was his father. Which could be confirmed with a DNA test, of course. Assuming you’ll see fit to reopen your case.”
Captain Bouchard didn’t contradict her but the look on his face suggested it was a prospect he would not look forward to.
Chapter 7
As the day passed Margot’s frustration grew. She called Pierre at work to see if he could find out what the gendarmerie were doing, but he was snowed under and hadn’t had a chance to look into it. The garage was the best lead they had and someone needed to follow up on it – she had half a mind to go there herself. The only other clue was the name ‘Etienne’ which she’d found mentioned several more times in Aswan’s diary. The impression she’d got was that he was a friend of the family, and although it was Etienne who had accepted the money from Aswan’s father it was unlikely he was the ringleader. Whoever else might be involved was being given plenty of time to cover their tracks.