Martine stared at her. Hoping for more information, perhaps?
“And his wife, Yvette?” I asked.
“A wisp, so I’ve heard,” the gardener volunteered. “But a chic wisp none the less. Always in the Boutique des Vagues spending, spending. I reckon he held her down under the bath water to save money.”
I wondered then if André Besson’s brief but sickly eulogy for her, had been another pretence?
“Was she local?”
“I’m not sure. But she looked very Spanish.”
“If she had been those three kids’ mother, it might explain their appearance,” I said, also thinking of Joel. “Did you hear anything about a funeral?”
“Don’t ask me,” Karen kept her eye on Martine who’d begun to clear away the mugs and other breakfast paraphernalia. “Odd, really, given his position. My gazoil delivery man said there’d been nothing about it on the Mairie’s public notice board, nor the newspapers.”
“Monsignor Besson said Joel was heartbroken.”
“I’m sure he was. But he never mentioned her to me. This has all come out of the blue. It’s so hard to believe.”
Silence followed, save for wet snow dripping past the window. A dank, unpleasant day. Karen rubbed her still unmade-up eyes.
My watch showed 10. 15 hours. Time to change tack; to play Devil’s advocate with the Ryjkel story.
“Would you say Mas Camps had run at a profit when you were there? I mean, a good profit?” I quizzed her. “Enough to buy that brand new car?”
“Must have done, although I never heard money discussed. Moeder was
thrifty to the point of meanness. I was jealous when Vader and my brothers all had new overcoats and trilby hats while I wore her efforts with the old sewing machine.”
“So, who was jealous of you?”
“Monsieur!” Martine snapped, affronted.
“It’s OK. He’s right to dig.” Karen closed her eyes as if back again in that household of four. Foreigners in a foreign land during the worst period of its history.
Probably too successful. Too clever. I saw no good reason for Martine to stay, but how to ask her to leave?
“You’ve touched upon other jealousies.” I reminded Karen. “Can you elaborate?”
She was clearly gathering more of her thoughts, then shot Martine an unwelcome glance before continuing. “Joop gave me a really hard time. Hid my few toys, even broke them, like my rocking horse he rode so hard till its stirrups snapped.”
“Anything else?”
“Christian held a flame for some girl at the Café des Étoiles, but I think Joop really loved her. Look,” she fixed her smudged eyes on mine. “I was just an eight-year-old. To me, Christian had all the breaks, all the favours. If I’d had kids, I’d have given them equal of everything.”
She lowered her head. A gesture of defeat, perhaps?
“You’d have made a brilliant Maman.” Martine reached over to lay a chafed hand on her shoulder, but it was shrugged away. “Oh God, what have I said now?”
“Nothing.” Karen looked across at me. This wasn’t going to get any better. But one question needed an answer.
“The name of this girl at the café?” I persisted. “Can you remember it? And do the initials SB mean anything to you?”
“SB?” She repeated, studying her hands. “Yes. Now I remember. Sophie Blumenthal, that’s it. A parasite with a capital P.”
“Got to be Jewish with a surname like that,” added Martine while I, with a quickening pulse recorded it and Karen’s harsh reference to her, in my replacement notebook.
The plot thickens...
“Christian wouldn’t have had a problem with that,” Karen put her in her place. “None of us would have.”
“Did Joop and Christian have other ambitions beyond Mas Camps?” I
ventured.
“Well, the MBF - Militär Befehlshaber in Frankreich - was always looking for willing helpers. I overheard Christian mention it and the money he’d make if he’d joined, but Joop...”
“Go on.”
“You couldn’t stand him, could you?” Martine accused, still smarting. “I can tell.”
Karen tried twisting round to respond, but sudden pain defeated her.
“Please go and check there’s enough milk for the week,” she suggested, still wincing. “If not, try the épicerie by the Hôtel de Ville. Ten minutes, hein? Oh, and don’t forget to pick up any post.”
*
I waited until the door shut behind her, then turned to her. “You were saying about Joop...”
She closed her eyes again. In my former job, I’d seen parents who’d lost custody cases and then their kids to murder, but the one tear coming from the woman next to me, clinging to life and her shifting memories, just then, represented double their grief.
“He branded Christian an atheist traitor, who then called him a ‘Pope lover’ because he’d become a Catholic. So Joop knocked him out, then spat in his face,”
And she, a child looking on.
“What about your father? Was he content with life? He’d not always worked the land, had he?”
She hesitated. “No. And for him to quit a pensionable job in Holland for nature’s whims in the middle of nowhere, must have been quite a leap, but he and Moeder wanted a good, safe life for us. Apart from the 1941 harvest, our domaine was one of the most productive...”
Karen was about to add more, when her telephone rang. A familiar code appeared, and when she picked up the receiver, Thea Oudekerk this time, was shouting.
“I speak to my son now or I’m coming over to you myself! Understood?”
A fearful Karen glanced at me.
“He’s just gone out to buy some more catheter bags. I’ll get him to call you back when...”
“Liar! Liar! Liar!”
In the black hole of silence that followed, we again stared at each other.
“She won’t give up,” I stood to place a hand on her shaking shoulder. “You know that.”
Rain on the round window the only sound.
*
The morning was slipping away, with people I still had to see and places to go.
“Wait.”
Karen pulled her handbag towards her. Bright red, matching those stilettos she’d insisted on wearing earlier instead of her trainers.
“You might like to see both photos of me and Maja at that three-day event, and the envelope used to send them here. I’d really value your opinion.”
“When did they arrive?”
“The day after I moved in. Weird, isn’t it?”
She scrabbled around inside the bag’s various compartments, growing ever more impatient, until she stopped.
“Voilà.”
I held my breath. Given that both were almost seventeen years’old, their focus was still sharp, the colours surreal. The first image showed a glossy, chestnut mare with a plaited mane, carrying a blonde, slim-thighed female over a high, wooden fence bordered by two palm trees in patterned pots.
However, the second photo told quite a different story, with both casualties heaped together on the dry grass. A hatless Karen lay pinned under her mare whose legs jutted out in all directions. I turned away, only to notice her gaze fixed on me, waiting for my reaction.
“How awful…”
“I was lucky to survive. She didn’t.”
“Who else has seen these?”
“Herman of course, and Joel and Martine. Only yesterday she and I were taking another look.”
“What the hell went wrong?”
“Didn’t I explain before? A spectator who deliberately flashed a torch in front of Maja as she faced that jump, took the photos and was sick enough to send them here as a souvenir.”
“Any message? Postmark?”
“Nothing. But weirdly, the envelope had a Dutch first-class stamp.” She looked at me with those fine but sorrowful eyes. “I wish now I’d kept it because my Rotterdam address was also handwritten. And no, I still don’t reco
gnise the writing.”
I sensed a black tide moving in. Trickle by trickle. Wave by wave, licking my boots, my legs as I handed thse photos back, scooped up her tapes and the rest, then planted a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair which hadn’t got as wet as mine, smelt of summer.
She flinched imperceptibly.
“So, it’s me and Martine on our own?”.
“Not for long. Just act normally with her. Appear to be grateful. She seems to like that. I’ll call you every half hour, promise.”
“Take my personal pistol.”
“No. You might need it.”
That sudden streak of terror in her eyes, the way she followed me to the door in her wheelchair, pleading for me to stay, almost made me change my mind.
*
I then dug out Robert Taillot’s businesss card, but the ex-Lieutenant wasn’t at home. I left a brief message, and when finished, let the phone booth’s door bang shut behind me, too busy wondering yet again where in God’s name was Herman Oudekerk’s head, and how on earth could I search any other premises or property without an official Warrant?
And then, a faint buzzing sound I’d already noticed outside, began to increase. I glanced up to see a microlight aircraft hovering like some large gnat against the clouds, before scooting away down the valley, towards the Mediterranean.
Chapter 33. Karen.
Could I have stopped John going? I asked myself. No. He’d stood by my door as if his mouth wasn’t hurting at all, or those red-raw patches on his cheeks, his lips and around his eyes weren’t stinging…
Just like Joop did each Sunday morning - a terrier with a bone - his precious Church calling. And if I was at risk here, it was all my fault.
Then there was Herman’s mother. Normally, I’d have flung these doors open wide for the flics, the whole judicial process, but that would spell the end of any privacy for myself and John to solve my Mas Camps mystery. And if that elusive truth, as he seemed to think, somehow caused her son’s death, then Mevrouw Oudekerk would have to be fobbed off until May 9th. My deadline.
I did try calling her back but the line was busy.
“Bet she’s spilling to the Fuzz,” said Martine suddenly returned from her errands, catching me unawares. “We’ve plenty of milk now, by the way. Oh, and I called into the Bureau de Poste, just in case. One item.” She handed me a white, oblong envelope with its address and my Box number on the front. Stamped in Perpignan, dated yesterday.
She waited while I opened it and read on the plain postcard enclosed, my Dutch name followed by a short note in typed, block capitals.
YOUR PERSONAL INVITATION TO LA CHASSE.
ADVANCED NOTIFICATION.
La Chasse? What the Hell did that mean? No date, place or time either…
Martine cocked her head.
“Something up?
The sender knew my Box Number.
Having stuffed the postcard back into its envelope, I buried it deep inside my handbag. “Monsieur Lyon’s not getting enough sleep. I’m worried about him driving too much,” was my reply.
“We’ve something he could take for that. You know what I mean.”
I did
“Perhaps tonight, then.”
*
Next came a funeral cortège winding past the gates like a slow, black eel, making me shiver inside my warm track suit. Again, I checked through my bag, surreptitiously placing my Spreewerk 38 handgun near the front. The one whose serial number I’d recently filed down. I’d planned the same for my others, but too late.
“Something missing?” asked Martine, coming closer.
“One of my files. More a nuisance than anything.”
“Spooks.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
She did her disappointed act. But not for long.
“Whose file?” She peered at herself in my mirror. Her black eyes sliding over in my direction. John’s advice on gratitude had flown with him.
“Yours.”
Those fearsome eyes grew large.
“Never. Let me see.”
I moved my wheelchair to obstruct the drawer. This is my room, my house, remember?”
She didn’t like that. Be careful, I told myself. She’s young and strong...
“Why not ask the Anglais. He’s been in here too. Setting you against me, isn’t he? Bit by bit... What else has he said?”
“Nothing. He likes you. Admires how you’ve stepped into Herman’s shoes. After all, there’s his twenty francs to prove it.”
That seemed to work. For the time being at least. She poured me another fruit juice, this time from the dispenser. Pineapple, my favourite. Less acidic than grapefruit which made my bladder sting. She brought it over.
“I think we need Plan B,” she sat in the chair John had just vacated.
“Which is?”
“I dump Herman’s car and, if his mother shows, I’ll suddenly remember how he’d wanted to visit Israel.”
“Israel?”
What a cunning piece of work she was, and how easily she manipulated me with her moods. She was indeed a true gardener, planting autumn’s bulbs and summer’s seeds in optimum conditions for optimum growth.
Re-filling my glass, checking on my hair clasp, she spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone...
“Now we’re on our own, I’d really like us to re-visit Mas Camps again. Theoretically, I mean. Its simmering tensions, its jealousies and more than
anything,” she paused to take a breath. “The bloody cash.”
Goede God…
“Cash?” I swallowed my drink too quickly, and she patted my back, while ‘dead meat... dead meat… dead meat…’echoed in my mind.
“I don’t know what on earth you mean?”
“The root of all evil. Herman said he’d learnt of it from someone on his travels, but can I remember the name? Four million francs it was. I’m not joking.”
No point in reprimanding her for swearing. My own head was still too full of curses as she prattled on.
“He’d heard that amount had landed somewhere in your vineyards on the night of October 7th 1942 Resistance funds never collected.”
My pineapple juice tasted like bile. I set down my half-empty glass.
“Why didn’t Herman tell me that himself? And who was it told him? This is vital.”
“I said, I can’t remember. Anyway, perhaps he needed more proof.”
Another shiver. Something had changed. She was too close. Her body odour getting stronger, but was it fear radiating from her like the fishy chill from an opened fridge? Or power?
“If true,” she pressed on, “no wonder the Pastados labelled you Ryjkels rich. I bet they weren’t the only ones. It’s weird you’ve never mentioned it.”
‘You Ryjkels?’ How dare she?
“And someone else thinks you’re rich now. Think about it? Monsieur Lyon’s been attacked twice. Joel’s vanished into thin air, Herman dismembered.” She gave me an accusing stare. “Will I be next?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. We must trust Monsieur Lyon will soon get a result.”
“Well, I can’t.”
“Please explain.”
“I’m stuck here like some some rat in a trap. Don’t get me wrong, Dr. Fürst. I’ve had no problem seeing to you and I appreciate the pay rise. I feel bloody sorry for you, actually, but we’re just pissing in the wind. And I’m too nervous to take you out anywhere like I used to. In case...”
“I was fine earlier this morning with John Lyon, thank you.”
I tried ignoring her smell, the angry blotches on her cheeks. I knew where this was leading, but I’d never grovelled in my life, and didn’t intend starting then.
“Anyway, in case of what?” I challenged her.
“I don’t need to spell it out, Dr. Fürst. But Herman had no choice. You made
him vulnerable, and he’s paid for it. Big time.” She looked down; chewed what remained of her nails.
“You egged him on, Martine. He had to impress you
. I heard him.”
“You as well, remember?”
“Rubbish!”
“As his employer, I’d have gone straight to Capitaine Serrado in the Avenue Aragon and demanded to be given protection. Yes, protection. Then Herman’s poor mother could at least start to grieve.”
Martine’s words had hit me like iron hailstones. Where was my defence now? I began wheezing badly. “Get me oxygen, quickly!”
She ignored my request. Night had come too early to Les Pins because its security lights were already on. I wheeled myself over to the pair of tubes I needed, slotted them up my nostrils and flicked the switch. Their cool, sweet air helped calm me down. But not for long. She was speaking again.
“Supposing the Anglais goes behind our backs and gets blood, fingerprints etcetera analysed? Drags all possible suspects in Herman’s death up in front of the Examining Magistrate?”
“That’s enough! Get out.”
“The trouble with you is,” Martine glared down at me, hands on those fearsome hips, “your agenda’s more important than looking after me, or whether or not Joel’s in trouble. Wise up, Doctor Fürst. End of fucking story.”
She began walking away. Defiantly, knowing I was stuck in that chair. Stuck in that life...
“My old rifle?” I queried. “Where is it?”
“In my room. You might well need it.”
“Your keys, if you don’t mind. Not that they’ll be any use now. Nor the new alarm code. It’s a matter of principle.”
“Principle? You? You fucking fraud!” She turned to fling them at my feet, and after the slamming of doors, the stomp of her boots on the tiles fading away, I was alone, but not quite. She knew far more about me than John Lyon. I’d let the balance tip her way all along. And what would she do with it? That was the question I could torment myself with. Common, damaged failure that she was.
Chapter 34. John.
A premature darkness enveloped the Volvo as I navigated pools of surface water and the slushy, dirty residue of the weekend’s snow. Tailgated by juggernauts filling the sky behind me with black spray, I followed signs for Foix and, with no reply from Les Pins when I’d called from a phone booth in Lavelenet, I imagined the duplicitous Martine Mannion attending to her employer, especilly in the bathroom. I left a message promising to be back by the early afternoon. I also suggested she try and relax.
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