Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  The next call, should Karen answer, would be a warning.

  Why ‘duplicitous?’ Because, before leaving Les Pins, I’d sneaked into the gardener’s unlocked room directly below Karen’s and found that missing file tucked inside the top of one of Martine’s working tracksuits. Had she wanted to check it out in private, then return it? Or was there another reason?

  Second time around, its contents had made even more interesting reading. How, according to Martine’s own self-assessment, her main flaw was - coming from a tight-fisted home - a love of money. How true crime books were her passion, as were animal rights. How her abusive father had dominated for too long.

  But what should I have done? Given the file to Karen or not?

  I’d left it.

  Also, where was her old rifle? Nowhere to be seen.

  In contrast, Joel’s room had been firmly locked. No joy there. The same for Herman’s, unoccupied for four days. I’d also dug up my two samples of railway engineering and brought them along for the ride. You never knew...

  *

  Foix’s wide tree-lined boulevard, reminiscent of where I’d been dumped in Pamiers, took me past its huge, honey-coloured château, although the murky daylight hardly did it justice. In normal circumstances, I’d have been tempted to sample one of the many bars and restaurants, open even on a Sunday. But not today. Not given Karen’s situation.

  At least the rain had stopped.

  “R. Vuissol? Rue de St Éxupéry?” I asked the fifth passer-by with increasing impatience and decreasingly accurate French “They make railways.”

  “Ah!” said the woman, smiling. “You are near. I help you...”

  *

  Black-stained bricks, and silence, save for distant church bells. The factory’s steel outer double gates topped by razor wire were shut tight. Several weathered warnings against trespass almost peeled away.

  Damn. Wasted trip. Waste of everything.

  I was about to return to my car, when an elderly man wearing a beret and heavy overcoat, crossed the quiet road to join me. His French understandable. It seemed he wanted to talk, whether from curiosity or loneliness, hard to tell.

  “Big once upon a time, was Vuissol,” he said, gesturing towards the empty monolith. “During the Occupation especially. Philippe Pétain practically threw money at them to get rural link-ups started. And we now know what for.” He blew his nose into a piece of kitchen paper bordered by images of aubergines and courgettes.

  “I’m interested in Dansac,” I began warily. “A small place fifteen miles north-west of Perpignan. It seems as if a line originally existed there from the Villedieu feldspar works and in the spring of 1942 was extended eastwards, only to be sabotaged by the Resistance in the autumn.”

  The man pulled the makeshift handkerchief away from his nose. A snail-trail of mucus followed.

  “Who told you that rubbish, Monsieur? I worked here for thirty-one years. I can tell you what was finished and what wasn’t. The Dansac stretch was never destroyed. It became the pièce de résistance - excuse the quotation. Different gradients from there, you see. Some steep, others more manageable, but, as God’s my witness, we had no idea about the real reason for the track extension. No idea at all. Our boss here told us it was to transport the region’s products further afield. Wine, goats’ cheese etcetera.”

  “In carriages?”

  “Closed trucks. Two of them. Both ready at the end of September 1942.”

  The same surely, as Eva Ryjkel had described in her last letter to her daughter?

  The stranger paused to wipe his eyes with that same used piece of kitchen paper. “Can you imagine building a staircase down to Hell? Because that’s what we found out it was. And,” he tapped my arm, “completed on time, oh yes. But only after the Armistice was it all destroyed. Not like Oradour-sur-Glȃne which de Gaulle kept as a reminder for the nation.”

  “And this line went as far as Padaillac?”

  The man shook his head so violently I feared his neck might break.

  “Non, non! Add another eighty kilometres.”

  So, either Father Diderot in his sunny, spacious room, and also the caring Alize Saporo had lied, or memory let them down.

  “Your boss at the time? Do you remember”

  Just then, an equally elderly woman came up alongside and crossed the road in a show of disdain.

  “See, we’re still pariahs,” he sighed after her. “Those of us who chose to stay on here.”

  “Your boss?” I reminded him.

  “May God punish him the way he punished those poor kids. Gipsies were the first to be rounded up like stray dogs. Who’d be missing them? They didn’t have a prayer. Stripped naked, beaten and starved, and that was the good bit. I often feel ashamed to be French, Monsieur.That’s the truth.”

  I watched that same woman as she continued walking away, turning every so often to give my companion another death stare “Ricard Suzman was my boss,” he said suddenly. “He founded V.Ruissol. Couldn’t use his real name, could he?”

  Jesus...

  My companion was speaking again.

  “Once he’d retired, others came and went, making big bucks on our aching backs. I said to my wife I’d give up working there, but for what? Le chômage?” He spread out his gloved hands in a gesture of shame and hopelessness. “Four children to feed and see through university. Do you blame me? They do.”

  Serpents’ teeth, I thought in that loaded pause. But who was I, who’d never endured an enemy occupation, to judge? Yet, in my heart, I’d have joined in subversion tactics by whatever means. But what of Father Diderot and Alize Saporo now? Once whiter than driven snow?

  “I’ve something to show you,” I said to him by way of an answer. “My car’s parked just down the road. The Volvo next to that van. I just want proof that what I found at Dansac is genuine.”

  Five, short minutes later, I knew.

  *

  Father Diderot wasn’t in his room when I telephoned Les Platanes from outside Foix.

  Could I try again another time? You bet, I told myself. Nothing like a shifty liar to get me going, and if Karen hadn’t been so much on my mind, would have called there personally, just to see the expression on his face.

  Forty minutes later, rather than risk being spotted by my targets in Saint-Antoine de Bayrou’ss main square, I slotted my car in between a conveniently large petrol tanker and builder’s van in the one supermarket’s car park. Now wasn’t the time to try and break into both Suzman houses and garages in the Rue de L’Église to search for Herman’s head and Karen’s missing cook, but I could make a start with Suzman père, then, if time allowed, drive south to Banyuls.

  Yes, it was Sunday, but worth a try.

  Having passed ranks of blue gas cylinders for sale, and a display of new, wood-burning stoves, I made my way on foot along the wet kerb to the grey-painted, Notarial office. The nearest parking area comprising ten spaces, was empty. Perhaps Michel Suzman and his staff walked to work or parked out of sight behind the building. Perhaps they weren’t even there, He perhaps, in his son’s church whose aggressively ringing bell filled the air.

  Ouvert.

  “Must be busy,” I said to myself, finalising a strategy.

  *

  That same office’s one window displayed fifteen properties for sale, so I made a quick choice. While checking its price and location, I suddenly noticed the red reflection of a familiar cabriolet slowing up at traffic lights in the street behind me and was just in time to see Martine Mannion’s tense face as she sped off without waiting for the green light to show.

  No Karen in her passenger seat.

  Damn…

  I looked around for a public phone, but the nearest was in the square at the other end of the main road. Nothing for it but to try calling her from there once this errand was over.

  Here goes…

  The grime-encrusted front door led into a tiled vestibule, beyond which, a young, blonde woman sat varnishing her nails. None of
the framed local views surrounding her, included Les Pins, or Dansac, and her computer was an even older version of Karen’s.

  I coughed, and she finally looked up, clearly not wanting to be there on a Sunday.

  “I’m interested in the Abrières property that’s in your window,” I began “I’d like to speak to the Notaire about it.”

  “Monsieur Suzman, or Madame Cabriole, his new associate?”

  I tried to hide my surprise.

  “Nice to have a choice. Monsieur Suzman please...”

  She pinged a button on her own, smarter phone and spoke too fast for me to understand, save for the word ‘Anglais.’ She then indicated a wood-panelled door marked PRIVÉE.

  *

  Four sets of wall lights made little difference to the office’s gloomy interior where sepia-tinted portraits of serious-looking men hung on all four walls. I scanned them all half expecting to find one of Ricard Suzman, purveyor of more than just the law, but no.

  I then took in the dusty, fake Yucca leaning in its jardinière, a mid-length trench coat hanging from a hook in the wall, but certainly no replacement Homburg. Nor were any family photos, parcel tape or typewriting samples on show.

  “Ah. Bonjour.”

  The seated functionary closed a file, swivelled round a little and stood up. For a moment, I felt as if I’d collided with a wrecking ball, such was his height and bulk. Karen had been right. I could imagine him devouring thick, bloody steaks for breakfast, this outsized widower who’d left such a hot dent in my Volvo’s front seat. I reminded myself to go steady. Draw him out...

  He reached for my right hand. His own warm, but for a second only while sizing me up like a lion might a deer. His crown of thinning fudge-coloured hair could have matched that Homburg’s inner size, while his eyes replicated those of his three adult children. However, it was his skin that transfixed me - so smoothly different to mine where apart from recent depredations, each crime I’d been allocated in Nottingham had notched up another wrinkle.

  “John Lyon,” I said, because Roger Carpenter and Geoffrey Lake had brought too much bad luck. It triggered no obvious reaction.

  “How may I be of service, Monsieur Lyon? I do have a number of urgent appointments this afternoon, so time is of the essence.”

  He signalled a smaller, less padded chair and faced me, legs apart. Rugby-sized thighs strained like the rest of him, against the expensive-looking fabric of his waist-coated, brown suit. His matching socks lay smoothly inside his shoes which alone would have set me back a month’s police pension. By contrast, in that ski jacket which he’d nor recognized, and knee-stained jeans, I felt at a complete disadvantage.

  “Your Abrières property,” I began. “Has it been on the market long?”

  “Too long, Monsieur. If you’re serious about it, I could twist some arms. Knock at least twenty percent off.”

  Twist some arms...

  Why did I think of his dead wife in her bath? Of Joel with a missing finger? His English came across as natural enough. And why not? If he’d come through the exclusive ENA system like most lawyers, it would be.

  “Cash, or mortgage?”

  “Cash. I’ve an easy access account in Crédit Agriciole and been meaning to buy over here for a while.”

  From a desk drawer, the lawyer produced a sheet of blue paper bearing his name plus several qualifications along the top, while a nearby filing cabinet yielded the property’s details. He handed these over.

  Abrières, near Dansac.

  The poster in the window hadn’t mentioned that detail. He watched me. Waiting.

  Boss aftershave. Clearly a family favourite.

  “Whose cash?” He demanded.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Is Doctor Fürst suddenly feeling generous? She can certainly afford to be.”

  I swallowed.

  He eyed my watch then me. Faced with such malevolent energy, my tongue had gone rigid. My throat shrinking.

  “It’s not every day she allows a man - especially of her age - to get so close. You must have noticed by now how everything is to her, affordable?”

  He’d already examined my notebook…

  Fuck him.

  “Who’s Dr. Fürst?” I challenged.

  “Come, come, Monsieur Lyon. Do you take me for an idiot?”

  Why the Hell had I given him my real name?

  “I resent your insinuations, Monsieur Suzman, when I came here in good faith, to buy a property. But the longer I stay in this dump, the more I’m tempted to try elsewhere.”

  His phone rang. A snatched bark.

  “Not now.” Next, the crash of the receiver against its cradle. “And,” he glared my way, “I object to your intrusion into our lives here. Both my sons have complained to me.”

  Now…

  “Both? I thought you had three?”

  Snake eyes fixed on my ski jacket’s pockets in case I was tooled up again. My empty gut churning.

  “What are you implying?”

  “Things I’ve heard on my travels. Travels that must be familiar to you and your brood.”

  I got up. Backed away, keeping him in full sight.

  “She’s on her own now, is the delectable Dr. Fürst. Hadn’t you better get to her side before anything happens?”

  Either he was bluffing, or I’d not been the only one who’d seen Martine Mannion driving out of Saint-Antoine too fast.

  Before heaving himself from his chair, Michel Suzman checked his expensive watch.

  “Alas, Monsieur, I must take my leave.” A six-teeth smile and another handshake, cold, even quicker than the first. “Corinne will give you some useful print-outs on buying in France, specially designed for étrangers.”

  The way he sneered on that last word loosened my tongue.

  Nothing to lose...

  “Before I go,” I began, “I’d like to ask if you normally go around slicing little fingers off your own kiddies’ hands? Oh, and thank you for both warnings. I’ll do my utmost to pay attention.” I opened my wallet and extracted a somewhat curled label bearing my Nottingham address.” And should my very private notebook come to light, do please send it on. The new Walther 22 as well.”

  The air had grown as cold as those freezers in Les Pins, but I felt better.

  “Thank you, Monsieur Lyon. Very useful indeed for the Summons you’ll be receiving to answer charges of impersonation and libel.”

  And that’s when I spotted a large, green Olivettii typewriter on a smaller desk set in the far corner of the room.

  *

  My car couldn’t come soon enough, yet beneath my adrenalin rush from seeing the

  white shock on Suzman’s face, lay a heart-stopping fear. Why had Martine been heading away from the eastern Pyrenees? Why leave Karen now? And was that thug’s threat really no more than that? Whatever, there certainly wasn’t time to drive to Banyuls. I had to reach Les Pins as soon as possible.

  But first, two phone calls…

  I was far too heavy on the gas and almost reversed into a couple pushing a loaded supermarket trolley. Plenty of stares - the last thing I wanted - but was soon well clear of Saint-Antoine where the last call box before the dismal tundra ahead, stood nestling next to an empty villa’s unruly garden.

  Karen picked up and launched into her story.

  “She was all ready packed to go, if you please,” she complained about Martine, shock dulling her words. “Obviously planned, the sly bitch. Stole Vader’s old rifle too.”

  “Do you know the serial number? It could be traced.”

  “For God’s sake, it’s forty-six years old.”

  “Immaterial.”

  “Not to me it isn’t. He’d paid over the asking price to a fellow farmer. It’s of great sentimental value. But would that bother a tough dyke like her? No.”

  “I found her missing file. It’s inside her track-suit top.”

  Silence.

  “Damn her. So why not tell me?”

  Another silence. Just th
en, in that claustrophobic space, I simply couldn’t be bothered.

  “Get back soon, John” she said finally. Her voice noticeably softer.

  “I will. And if Martine does call, say I’m there with you.”

  *

  I had to switch my whirring mind from the disgruntled gardener, to the next job in hand. Les Platanes. First, I tried hiding my number, but no joy. At least speaking into my handkerchief was something I could do.

  “No, Monsieur,” answered another receptionist. “Father Diderot’s not yet arrived back. Is what you have to say, important?”

  “Yes. But first, a query. A friend of mine thinks his own and Father Diderot’s ancestors link up. He wonders where the priest was born and if he’s ever been to the UK.”

  “That’s confidential information. Ask your friend to speak to the owner here. Now then, what’s your message?”

  I took a crazy punt.

  “Tell him Liesbet Ryjkel sends her love.”

  *

  Within eight minutes, I’d reached the gates to Les Pins and, because they didn’t open, sounded my horn three times.Every second seemed a lifetime...

  Come on...

  I blasted the horn again and, as each section finally began to nudge apart, to the rub of iron on stone. I noticed a pale mask of a face up at the nearest tower’s third floor window. Also, from the corner of my eye, a silver Mercedes slipped by as smoothly, silently as a bream underwater.

  With a thumping pulse, I quickly let myself in, disabled the alarm before opening up freezer 3. Having extracted the stiff, yellowish little finger hidden inside, I pushed it deep into my track suit’s back pocket. Later, I’d hide that vital souvenir in my car’s boot along with those two chunks of ironwork, the knitting pattern from Alize Saporo’s old kitchen, my camera and other oddments. The brute I’d just visited had just done me a favour. From now on, I’d be staying one step ahead...

  Chapter 35. Karen.

  Relief and apprehension played tricks with my mind and body as I heard John’s tap on my door. Being alone after Martine’s tirade had been no joke, and I propelled myself forwards to let him in.