Body on the Rocks: Crime in the south of France (Madame Renard Investigates Book 1)

by Rachel Green

  She spent the day anxious and unsettled and when night fell went up to the bedroom in the attic. With the lights turned out she trained her binoculars on the sea. The Mediterranean was one dark featureless mass. How many other boats might there be out there right now, making that same dangerous crossing?

  Margot swung the binoculars closer to shore and focussed on the harbour. The fishing boats were amassed on one side, the yachts and pleasure boats lined up on the other. She scanned the jumble of tall masts to see if Carpe Diem was amongst them, and spotted what she thought was it tucked in at the end. A light was on inside, but the blinds were down and she couldn’t see in.

  She lowered the binoculars, her mind settled. If she didn’t hear anything from Pierre by noon tomorrow she would go to the garage herself.

  ***

  After her swim, Margot went home and changed into a V-neck top and a pair of skinny jeans from Comptoir des Cottonniers. She took Rue Voltaire into town and turned right at the war memorial to take the alley into Place Saint-Marc. The square was lined with a range of shops selling knickknacks and souvenirs, and although it was a well-known tourist trap Margot habitually called in – tucked away in one corner was her favourite café, Le Paname. It was busy inside so she waited by the door. Raymond, the young waiter, spotted her immediately and greeted her with a friendly wave, and when Margot took a table under the canopy he appeared beside her before she’d barely had time to light her cigarette. He eagerly stood waiting with pencil and notepad.

  “Good morning, Margot. How are you today?”

  Margot shook the life out her match and dropped it in the ashtray. “I’ve had better days.”

  “Oh, I’m sure things will improve. What can I get you?”

  Margot watched his eyes travel from his notepad to her legs. He’d had a schoolboy crush on her for years now and she couldn’t resist teasing him. A few summers ago, she and Hugo had spent the whole of August down here and Margot had become friends with Raymond’s mother. Raymond had been falling behind with his studies and Margot had agreed to give him some home tutoring, but Raymond, sixteen at the time and with teenage hormones coursing through his veins, had spent more time looking at her legs than listening to what she’d had to say. They’d taken to spending their sessions discussing Shakespeare in the garden, and Margot had the horrible suspicion she was the one who’d started him smoking, even though Raymond had insisted he’d had the habit already. He’d just been trying to impress her.

  “I’ll have a café crème, please.”

  “Coming right up.”

  He went back inside with a happy little smile.

  When he re-emerged, Margot waited for him to finish arranging the coffee things and then smiled as he looked at her.

  “Raymond.”

  He almost stood to attention. “Yes, Margot?”

  “I wonder if you might help me.”

  His eyes bulged. “Yes. Of course.”

  Margot leaned back and admonished herself. It was nice to know she could still stir up such desires in a young man but she really oughtn’t encourage him.

  “A friend of mine has a problem with her car. Is there a garage nearby you could recommend?”

  “Well, there’s the Citroën dealer on the industrial estate. You know, the big one.”

  Margot nodded. “I know it. But someone mentioned Garage de Paolo … near the port.”

  Raymond pulled a face. “I’m not sure I would send your friend there.”

  “Oh. Why not?”

  He sent a glance over his shoulder before moving a little closer. “Just between you and me, the owner is a bad sort.”

  Margot’s interest suddenly picked up. She flicked the ash from her cigarette as she leaned in. “What kind of bad sort?”

  “They say he likes young ladies.”

  “And?”

  “He has strange tastes.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I heard there’s a room above the garage where he likes to take pictures. He ties them up in chains and does all kinds of weird stuff.”

  “With their consent?”

  Raymond shrugged.

  “Do the police know about this?”

  Raymond appeared to want to smile, perhaps at her naivety. “I’m sure they do, but given who his brother is they’re not going to do anything.”

  “Why – who is his brother?”

  “Enzo Bellucci.”

  He said it with an ominous tone as if it were obvious who that was, but Margot had no clue.

  Another customer was signalling for his attention and Raymond dithered. “I’m sorry. I have to go.”

  “Just a second.” She caught his arm. “Tell me more about Enzo.”

  “All I can say is, they’re not the kind of people you want to get involved with. Tell your friend to go to the Citroën garage.”

  Margot nodded and let him go.

  ***

  As she was heading back down the hill Margot was distracted by a shout, and the thump-thump-thump of heavy, running footsteps.

  “Madame!”

  The town was busy with shoppers and several heads turned to see who was causing the commotion. Margot’s eyes widened when she spotted a man hurtling down the street towards her, a red object raised above his head.

  “Your shoe! I rescued it.”

  He came to a halt directly in front of her, juddering the last few metres so sharply that Margot had to take a step back. He seemed very pleased with himself, but he was so out of breath from the exertion that all he could do for the first few moments was pant noisily and grin stupidly. It was the skipper from Carpe Diem, Margot realised, though he was dressed a little more smartly than before. He had on a pair of sharp white slacks, and his pink linen shirt was a vast improvement on the Hawaiian monstrosity she’d seen him in yesterday. He’d also slicked back his hair and had a shave – the smell of cologne coming off him was actually quite appealing.

  “I fished it out with the boat hook,” he went on. “I gave it a good clean. I don’t think there’s any damage.”

  He attempted to hand it over, but Margot kept her hands to herself. She cast a disdainful look at the shoe. It was her ballet flat, all right, but she had no intention of accepting it. “You really think I’m going to wear that again?”

  “But—”

  “You found it, you keep it.”

  He returned a baffled look; then a smile of understanding crept across his lips. He nodded slowly, and lowered the shoe. “Of course. How thoughtless of me. I’ll have to buy you a new pair.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” Margot turned on her heel and made to walk on, but he called out,

  “I didn’t get the chance to apologise. Not just about the shoe; for nearly running into you, as well. I honestly didn’t see you out there.”

  She turned back. “Then you obviously weren’t paying enough attention.”

  “Of course. You’re absolutely right. I cannot admonish myself enough. And I assure you, Madame, it will never happen again.” He gave a little bow of his head.

  “I trust not.”

  Margot waited. If this was an attempt to chat her up he clearly wasn’t very good at it. He already seemed stuck for his next line and stood there, looking abashed. She knew she wasn’t making it easy for him – fixing him with a cool stare and an unyielding face, a stance she’d perfected over the years.

  “I’ve been wandering around for over an hour,” he said, “hoping I might find you.”

  “And here I am.”

  “And here you are.”

  She gave him another chance, waiting to see what he might come up with. When he didn’t say anything, however, she turned again, prompting a last-ditch attempt:

  “Perhaps I could take you to lunch some time.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then dinner?”

  Margot came to another sudden halt. Against her better judgement, she turned and faced him for a second time. He wore a look of hopeful expectation, and so
mething about it weakened her. She let her eyes slip to his chest. He was quite handsome, in a provincial kind of way. Beneath the shirt she could pick out some definition in his chest, and for a man who must have been fifty he had no discernible paunch. Margot’s eyes returned to his. There was a mellowness there that spoke of a gentle soul. Maybe he wasn’t quite the rich layabout she’d initially taken him for. Nevertheless.

  “I’m sorry. I’m far too busy.”

  He quickly offered his hand. “My name is Raul.”

  Margot looked down at it, tanned and weather-beaten, but didn’t shake it. She did, however, surrender a small smile. “That’s nice to know.”

  She turned for a third time.

  “If you change your mind you know where to find me. I’ll be in the harbour all week.”

  “I won’t change my mind, Monsieur,” Margot called back, and this time she carried on walking.

  ***

  When she got home, Margot poured herself a large cognac and phoned Pierre. There was no answer from his office phone so she tried his mobile.

  “Pierre – is everything all right?”

  A cacophony of street noise made it difficult to understand his response. He was a little out of breath and somewhat distracted when he said, “Sorry, Margot. I’m out on a job.”

  A siren screamed by in the background. Someone shouted as if in pain. A tight knot formed in Margot’s stomach as her mind flashed back to an image of him and Hugo chasing the hit men through the streets of Petites Écuries. A glimpse into a world she thought she’d turned her back on. She regretted calling him now but held on.

  “Does the name Enzo Bellucci mean anything to you?”

  “Who?”

  “Enzo Bellucci.”

  More muffled sounds. She really ought to have hung up.

  “It doesn’t ring a bell, no. Why, what’s it about?’

  Margot pinched shut her eyes. “It doesn’t matter. I’ll call you later.”

  “Leave it with me.”

  “All right. And Pierre …”

  “Yes?”

  “Please take care.”

  “I will.”

  When the line went dead she slid her phone across the table and glared at it. Would she ever be free of that torment?

  That night, Margot sat at the bureau in the corner of her sitting room and wrote a letter to the address she’d found in the front of Aswan’s diary.

  To whom it may concern,

  It sounded rather formal but she had no names, or even any idea who might end up reading it.

  I’m writing in connection with a boy named Aswan, aged 7. It was in his diary that I came across this address.

  I don’t know if this is where Aswan lived, or if there’s any family connection at all, but if it does and you are related in some way I’m sorry to say that I write with bad news. It appears that Aswan may have died in an accident at sea. The body of a boy of his age was found on a beach in France in a town called Argents-sur-Mer, and although the body has not yet been formally identified, the discovery of this diary leads me to suspect that the victim may be poor Aswan. An older man was also found further along the coast and I fear this may be his father.

  It may be that the authorities in Argents have already tried to contact you (I’ve passed on your address), but if not, I would urge any relatives to get in touch with the gendarmerie here. In particular, if you are aware of any connection with a man named Etienne you may be able to help find out why Aswan lost his life in such tragic circumstances.

  If you are a relative, all I can say is I feel your loss deeply.

  She hesitated, but then wrote:

  I can only imagine what it must be like losing a child.

  Not in the least bit true but it seemed the right thing to say.

  Margot read it through and immediately felt sunk with disappointment. Words were so inadequate. She couldn’t help thinking she was wasting her time. She signed it anyway and sealed it into an envelope.

  She took the bottle of cognac up to the attic and sat at the window. The lights were on in the harbour, but she resisted the temptation to get out her binoculars. Laughter came from down below; when Margot moved her face closer to the windowpane she saw an elderly couple walk by, dressed up to the nines, holding hands like a pair of young lovers. Exactly how she’d imagined herself and Hugo at that age, still living it up in their seventies.

  She switched on the lamp and flinched at the sight of her own reflection. What was she becoming instead – someone who stared out of windows and got her kicks from teasing young men? She quickly reached out and closed the shutters.

  No, that was not who she was. Standing there, at the top of the empty house, Margot stiffened her resolve. She was the one who’d found the backpack and she had every right to act upon what she’d uncovered. She couldn’t keep asking Pierre for help, and if the gendarmes were dragging their feet because of who might be involved her blood was going to boil. Either Captain Bouchard acted soon or she would take matters into her own hands. She wasn’t scared of anyone, despite Raymond’s warning.

  She poured half the glass of cognac into her mouth; the rest she emptied into a plant pot.

  Chapter 8

  The lobster seemed lodged in his gullet. Enzo threw down his napkin and dug his fist into his chest, battling with indigestion. The waiter, hovering nearby, looked on anxiously.

  Beside him, Marielle sighed. “Sweetheart, why don’t you take one of your pills?”

  Enzo brushed away his wife’s proffered hand. He hated taking pills, or anyone fussing over his health.

  “I’ve got some ginger capsules down in the car,” Crystal put in, seated on his other side. “Shall I send Mutt down to fetch them?”

  Across the table Marielle’s tut was scathingly audible. She muttered something about shoving the capsules where the sun don’t shine, and the air in the restaurant turned a few degrees chillier. Enzo groaned inwardly. The last thing he was in the mood for was a catfight between his wife and his mistress. They were both capable of going the full twelve rounds. “I’m fine,” he said, but Marielle wasn’t letting up.

  “If Bunny wants to fill you full of New Age crap then let her.”

  Crystal ignored the comment. “You eat too quickly, that’s the problem.”

  Marielle said to no one in particular: “He does everything too quickly, that’s my problem.”

  Crystal took the bait and fired back: “Not in my experience,” and Marielle shot a dagger across the table with her eyes.

  Enzo rubbed his face, wishing he was elsewhere.

  “Don’t you have filing to do?” Marielle sneered.

  “Don’t you have pans to wash?” Crystal sneered back.

  “Just give me the goddamn pills!” Enzo snatched the bottle from his wife’s hand and chugged a couple down with the remainder of his glass of Bollinger. Anything for a quiet life.

  It was an uncomfortable feeling to acknowledge but sometimes he regretted instigating this particular ménage à trois. Crystal, his PA, was a lively one, the feistiest mistress he’d had in years, and ever since that weekend in Paris when he’d taken her away on business and Marielle had walked in on them, she’d revelled in her role. Crystal had quickly cottoned on to the fact his wife would never leave him (she loved the trinkets too much) and never passed up an opportunity to provoke her, leaving Enzo caught up in the middle. And not in a good way.

  Mutt appeared by his side. “Boss.”

  “What is it?”

  The big man leaned down to his ear. “We’ve picked up a kid. The one who was bothering us last week.”

  Enzo looked up. “Who is he?”

  Mutt pulled a face. “Some weird shit. He’s down in the car. Do you want me to deal with him?”

  Enzo turned back to the two women. Despite all the table finery the scene before him looked more like a battlefield. If looks were daggers the air between them would be a bloodied mess right now. Glad of the distraction, Enzo slid back his chair. He nodded
to Mutt: “No. I’ll do it.” Snapped his fingers at the waiter: “Another bottle over here.” And then tipped his head to his two companions: “Excuse me, ladies. Business calls.” He manufactured a smile as he got to his feet.

  On their way down in the elevator Mutt handed him a business card. Black and gold stars decorated one side; “Need something to get you thru?” printed on the other. At the bottom, a mobile number.

  “He was handing them out on Felix Pyat,” Mutt said. “One of our boys called it in.”

  “What’s so weird about him?”

  Mutt smirked as much as his overstuffed face would allow. “You’ll see.”

  The Mercedes was parked in the two-storey garage at the rear of the restaurant. Mule got out of the driver’s seat and opened the back door, then buttoned his jacket over his bulging torso while he stood on guard. When Enzo climbed in, he found a pasty-face rockabilly slumped in the seat beside him, dolled up like a full-on greaser: sharkskin suit, skinny tie, Dickies denims. His hair was styled in the most ridiculous pompadour you could ever have the misfortune to see; the odour of his pomade more fragrant than a hipster’s posing pouch, though the petrified look on his face detracted from the coolness of his image somewhat. His wrists were bound with a cable tie.

  Enzo shared a private chuckle with Mutt, and then elbowed the kid full in the face, so hard blood spurted from his nose. He nodded to Mutt who passed back a handkerchief.

  “Bleed on my upholstery and I’ll kill you.”

  The rockabilly clamped the handkerchief to his face. He wore the stunned look of a kid who’d never been hit before.