Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  It was the train, dear Liesbet. Two carriages with no windows, crawling west from Dansac. At dead of night I saw it, heard its wheels that seemed almost to be singing. 3 a.m. as I remember. Worse were young, human cries carried on the Tramontane. Cries I will never forget. Maurits and I argued fiercely over it. He insisted the track had been closed since 1935 when the feldspar works built another through into the next valley. A more direct route north. Maurits said once France was liberated, it would be torn up and used for scrap or upgraded for tourists going south….

  Here, her strange words became smaller, closer together, and I was just about to return the folded page to the others when my door opened.

  “You’re crying,” said Martine, not missing a trick. “Here’s a tissue.”

  John Lyon followed her in.

  “Interesting afternoon,” he said and, like a typical man, eyeing not my grief, but my shabby pile of letters.

  “Certain pieces of the puzzle are almost in place, but it’s dangerous ground.”

  He was windblown, which suited him, also smelling of wood smoke. His cagoule’s sleeves stained and torn; the cuffs singed. I passed him Moeder’s letter, while Martine, now on double pay, organised my bed for later with a more Herman-like attention to detail.

  “There’s no railway now. No nothing,” he said, havng read it. How odd he’d not appeared to notice the unmotherly little barb at the end of the first paragraph.

  …but first when it mattered to you.

  “Martine and I were both near the river there.”

  “Maybe your mother was hallucinating?” The stand-in nurse interrupted, then seemed to regret it. Especially on seeing my face.

  “And I dreamt up all that mysterious activity in our vineyards before and after the disappearances? I don’t think so.”

  She turned her back on me, and John Lyon sighed in frustration. I was tempted to throw in the towel right then and there, before he handed me back the letter. Soot on his wrist.

  “I met this old girl in Dansac,” he announced. “Someone tried setting fire to her house while I was there. God knows why.”

  “And you saved her life?” Martine quipped. He ignored her. The worst thing anyone could do. I was curious.

  “Her name?”

  “She never said.”

  “Does she know yours?”

  Silence, meaning yes. He wasn’t being careful enough. When would he learn?

  “Wolves in sheep’s clothing,” Martine muttered, pushing my bed until it was flush against the wall. He pretended not to hear her.

  “She mentioned a fourteen-year-old Jewish girl with the initials SB whom she’d been unable to save. Of certain ‘operations,’ that had been in place. Deportations I guessed. A word she couldn’t say, nor give that girl’s identity. I’ve read up a bit on Rivesaltes and Gurs and I’ll do more digging. Just like Herman.”

  “Herman?”

  My pulse juddered.

  “He’d spoken to her as well. Perhaps found out too much. Told someone he shouldn’t have. Who knows?”

  My thoughts exactly, But I wouldn’t give John Lyon that satisfaction. He was enjoying being a cop again, but that little episode could have been at my expense.

  Pay attention. Don’t give him too much rope...

  “Herman never mentioned an old bird living in Dansac. And how does any of this connect to my search? Or is that destined to fizzle out like a damp squib?”

  “The clue might lie in your late mother’s letter about that train she saw. There

  is a connection, if you’d just let me follow my instincts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Near my bed was a locked cupboard whose code only I knew and, having hidden the keypad from view, I unlocked it. Just two weapons remained. One, a Smith & Wesson 45 revolver, the other, a Walther.22 pistol. Both new, unused. I passed John Lyon the S&W, watching how expertly he checked the magazine to count its ammunition. The same with the Walther.

  “Have you permits for them?” he asked, focusing on both serial numbers.

  “Of course,” piped up Martine. “Doctor Fürst would get done otherwise. I just wonder as well, where and when Herman’s new Glock will show up. If he used it to defend himself.”

  Enough…

  “Whether he did or not, a weapon like that won’t hang around for long.”

  Glad to be distracted by my remaining armoury rather than think of him, I made John Lyon an offer.

  “Should you decide to keep one of these weapons while you’re here, it’s solely to protect me, and no account reveal my whereabouts to anyone, however insignificant they may seem. Is that clear?”

  He touched my arm.

  “Sure. Don’t worry.”

  But I couldn’t help it.

  “For now, could you please go up to the attic and leave no stone unturned?”

  “Why?” Again, Martine couldn’t help herself.

  “I’m hoping Monsieur Lyon soon might know.”

  He then opted for the Smith&Wesson 45. Its more solid weight the decider.

  Chapter 19. John.

  ...but first when it mattered to you.

  The one sour note in her mother’s revelatory letter. Yet, despite that male-dominated family, Liesbet Ryjkel had been a strong-minded little girl. Now she wanted evidence of those childhood items she’d seen in that attic when first viewing Les Pins. As if there wasn’t enough reality to deal with, I thought, climbing the narrowing wooden steps, also dwelling on how Father Jérôme had so vehemently brushed Dansac and its plausibly dark history, aside. How that mysterious train, and the mystery woman’s account would be doing anything but.

  Half way up, I realised too, his secular surname rang a bell Karen Fürst hadn’t wanted to hear.

  *

  While the Bayrou’s torrent raged below and the storm punished the tower’s wall, a taut thread of fear made it hard for me to believe that the four of us weren’t alone. That the dense, blowing forest just metres away, hid an enemy intent on striking again.

  Four more steps to go, as lower down, the previously absent Joel and his supper trolley were leaving the lift. The aroma of fish and grilled cheese drifted up the stairwell as I looked down on his smooth hair as he set a single, pink rose upright in its slender glass holder.

  Then came an altogether different smell, reminding me of Carol and George’s termite problem before their renovations where, even there, as here, a dusty, slightly sweet residue persisted.

  No windows, instead, a conical ceiling supported by wooden beams set like the spokes of a wheel, ending directly under the tiled roof. Judging by the regularly- spaced holes in the paintwork around the walls, there’d been plenty of hooks. But why? For clothes, such as that mysterious girl’s dress Karen claimed to have seen?

  I also noticed an area where the stones’ subtle textures seemed smoother, slightly depressed. Had some been removed and replaced in a hurry? If so, why? And the more I poked round, the more I guessed this attic had been a store room of sorts.

  Next, on all fours, I scrutinised the floor tiles which were probably the originals laid down in the 1930’s or 40’s. While my eye followed how the triangular and half-moon pieces in red, brown and pale green had been arranged to cover the whole surface, I wondered who might one day be inheriting it all.

  I’d just crawled over to where faint lines of discolouration suggested a chest or large box might have stood there, when a familiar, male voice caught me unawares.

  “You up here as well, hein?”

  Joel Dutroux, blocking the doorway as he’d done downstairs. His even-featured face was tense. Dark brown eyes roaming this curious, circular room.

  “Dr. Fürst asked me to check for damp. That’s all.” I eyeballed him, getting to my feet. “Any problem with that?”

  “Just with you being fucking everywhere. God knows what you’re really doing here at Les Pins. I bet you think I killed Herman and spirited his head out of the freezer…”

  I stopped myself from men
tioning what Madame Tanguy at the garage had said. That would drive him away.

  “Your boss could also be also in danger,” I said instead. “Especially being disabled.”

  “She’s stronger than you think, Monsieur. But then, what would you know?”

  His fist tightened around the door handle, clearly an unhappy bunny. Did his employer realise how near the edge he was? For her sake, I’d find out why.

  “So, stop poking around,” he added. “Not everyone appreciates it.”

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Never mind.”

  I noticed the ominous bulge of a gun in his tunic’s pocket. Two could play at that game and I already had.

  “Is that a threat?”

  Just then, the bell rang from below, and he sprang to attention as Karen Fürst’s urgent voice reached us from the tannoys.

  “Assemble in my room! Now!”

  I followed the surly cook down into her contrastingly bright space where Martine was pulling the blind down over the port hole window. Where those same aromas lingered.

  My trip to the attic forgotten, Karen Fürst was pointing at her CCTV screen, hand shaking. “Thank God you’re here. We have two intruders in the grounds, maybe three. Martine and I saw them quite clearly. There may also be a dog. We heard it baying, even from this far away.”

  “Most likely a wolf,” said the cook, avoiding me. “One’s been hanging round our bins a while now.”

  I instinctively rested my right hand on the revolver in my jeans’ pocket as I too, scrutinised the screen seeing nothing but the stormy darkness. “Can you describe these peolpe?”

  “Hard to tell, but definitely athletic. Mind you,” she added, “in my book, anyone is who can walk.”

  “Are they after our cars?” Martine also stared at the screen. “Christ, I hope not.”

  “No blaspheming, please. I keep telling you.”

  “Whoever is there, let them feel no-one’s interested,” I suggested. “Give some rope. If we hear signs of entry, that’s when we act.”

  Joel shook his head.

  “He’s wrong. We should be confronting them.”

  “I’ll take Monsiieur. Lyon’s advice. if you don’t mind. He was in the police force for how long?” She turned to the right, for our eyes to meet.

  “Thirty-two years, excluding Hendon.”

  “Hendon?”

  “Where I trained. By the way, who owned Les Pins before you?”

  “What’s that to do with anything?”

  “Could be significant.”

  “Never mind that.” Joel still resentful at having been overruled. “Like I said, we should be downstairs, on guard.”

  Karen Fürst turned from him to me. “The answer to your question is the present Notaire’s father. In his late seventies now. Apparently, against all the odds, he survived terminal pancreatic cancer.”

  “Typical,” said Joel with surprising ill-feeling for someone he probably didn’t know. Or did he?

  He then fiddled with his trolley, as if waiting for his boss to agree to eat. He was different around her. Was she the mother figure he’d never had? His food part of himself on offer?

  “He struck me as being a broken man,” she added. “Yes, Ricard Suzman was just that.”

  Chapter 20. Karen.

  “Suzman?” John Lyon’s eyes widened. “Any relation to Paul, Marie and Holy Joe I saw by the church in Saint-Antoine earlier? Plus a silver Merc. C class and an Aude plate?”

  “Later,” I said, seeing how he champed too hard at the wrong bit. How my cook seemed upset, observing his every move. Did he suspect Joel might have been involved with Herman’s death and the missing head? No, how could he?

  “I hope you remembered my warning to keep stumm,” I said instead.

  Joel laid a linen napkin on my knees.

  “Think about it,” he said, smoothing it down. “We never had any serious hassle before Monsieur Anglais here showed up. Before Herman was... ”

  “The start of a revolt, maybe?” Martine broke in.

  “I do have a name,” the ex-flic. reminded him. “So please show me the courtesy of using it. And if it’s my presence that’s brought the Suzmans out of their hole, then I’d best ask them some questions.”

  No…

  “I don’t think so,” I warned him. “Not your remit.”

  He was clever, alright. That surname had turned Joel’s face the colour of his own choux pastry. He asked if I’d like any of the trout en croûte, au fromage he’d so painstakingly prepared. I nodded a lie. In fact, the older man could have it if he wanted. After all, I thought ungratefully, he must keep up his strength.

  *

  With the security lights set on CONSTANT, a pristine Walther in the cupboard if needed, and the CCTV screen still showing nothing new, an atmosphere of distrust still hovered. I had to disperse it.

  “Sspeaking of Les Pins,” I said to John Lyon, because I rarely let anything drop. “Having seen what was in that attic, I couldn’t look at any other property. I remember blurting that out to Ricard Suzman, and how he’d smiled as if I needed sectioning. Perhaps he’s spread the word that I’d lost my marbles. Perhaps there are those who think I’m a danger and want me dead.”

  Silence.

  John Lyon broke it.

  “So, he had a family while living here?”

  “Just the one son. Michel. The current Notaire I mentioned.”

  “Any wife?”

  “Must have been one - or a partner - but I never saw any evidence.”

  “Where does he live now?”

  “I’ve never bothered to find out. Why?”

  “Do you have a copy of Les Pins’ sale details? The Compromis de Vente etcetera?”

  I shrugged.

  “Somewhere. Not my priority right now.”

  “It could be useful. Just another hunch I’ve got, that’s all.”

  Joel still looked daggers drawn. “Hunches are one thing, Monsieur. Invasion of privacy, another.”

  I also wasn’t happy, but I’d given myself that one month deadline to keep.

  My priority.

  *

  Martine pulled open one of my desk drawers and, having rummaged beneath various items, handed John Lyon a grey, vinyl folder marked LES PINS. The top sheet seemed to interest him the most. He scanned it back and fore, lips moving as he did so. The date of Les Pins’ construction in 1940. Its land registry number, vendor’s address and his only child’s signature permitting the sale. Michel Suzman, later to succeed him as Notaire, with an even longer string of letters after his name.

  He smiled at her then me, slotting it back in the file. “What’s in that other tower, by the way?”

  “All these questions!”

  “Please...”

  “Stuff left over after the builders finished. Nothing private or important if that’s what you mean.”

  “Or flammable?”

  “No.”

  Only the cook and the gardener...

  “Could I look?

  “When?”

  He checked his watch. “Soon as possible.”

  An excuse for going outside, I wonder?

  Joel hissed something under his breath and I wondered how could I go on living with this fluctuationg tension for another month. As for Martine on extra pay, who knew? This ex-flic seemed restless. His hand on my revolver.

  “There’s no electricity there. No stairs, no nothing,” I warned him. “It’s not

  even alarmed. Like I said, just a dumping ground.” He took the key from me, that

  solid, square hand warm against mine. I wanted to keep it there, but Joel was staring with a strange look in his eyes.

  “Go downstairs now,” I told him. “Stay on alert. If there’s trouble, use the intercom.”

  *

  John Lyon fixed on him as he left. Martine too.

  “He followed me up to the attic,” he said, lowering his voice. “Obviously not wanting me around. And did you see his expression w
hen the Suzman name came up?”

  “Going through a bad patch,” said Martine. “Scared too, I bet.”

  “Between the three of us...” he hesitated. “I’d be sparing with what you tell him. Something unfathomable is lurking behind that handsome façade.”

  Silence.

  “Before you go, too, please help yourself to my meal.” I said too brightly, aware of Martine’s disapproval. “It could be your last.”

  She looked from me to him.

  “Are you serious?”

  I nodded.

  His response was to lift both silver lids that covered the food, sniff, then replace them. He then eyed the door, beginning to walk towards it until Martine restrained him.

  “Monsieur Lyon, what you’ve just said about Joel... There’s something else ..” Her eyes filled up. Fists clenching and unclenching.

  He turned to face her, curiosity piqued. I listened too.

  “I saw him with that priest of Saint-Jean le Martyr, in an old garage down the Rue des Éscaliers. Deep in conversation, they were. When that priest saw me, talk about a death stare.”

  “When?” I queried.

  “When you sent Joel to the Marché de Printemps to stock up Freezer 1.”

  “April 1st?”

  “Yes, but if I told anyone what I’d seen, he’d kill me.”

  “This has been the trouble all along. I send you on everyday errands and

  soon other people who may be risky, become involved.”

  “Not me.”

  John Lyon stalled while punching the exit code by my door. “How many priests are there at that church?”

  “Just one and some old peripatetic from Villedieu.” I’m only relaying what Herman said.”

  But for some reason, the word ‘Villedieu’ made John Lyon blink.

  “Is this younger one in his mid-to-late twenties?” he asked. “Dark, good-looking? Long, tanned fingers?”

  “I’m impressed. Yes. Far too lovely to sacrifice himself for a fairy story.”

  “The guy in the Café des Étoiles said he’s Jules Suzman, aka Father Jérôme. Brother of the guy with the Merc that’s been following me and Martine. The car valeted within an inch of its life last Thursday evening.”