Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  Although Capitaine Serrado was nearing the end of his late shift, he sounded as annoyingly fresh as a daisy. Give him a day in Nottingham, I thought ungratefully, before relaying Sophie Blumenthal’s whereabouts, plus her potted history, and my own role in this not so quiet backwater. I urged him to suggest surveillance for the recluse, also to check her beloved grandson hadn’t been involved in that microlight crash.

  He agreed, adding unexpectedly, “if Christian Ryjkel perished and Maurits and Eva Ryjkel had made a Will with their sons as beneficiaries, I wonder if this particular Jewess might have felt entitled to his share of Mas Camps when it was sold? Just a thought, Monsieur.”

  The ‘Jewess’ word sounded as hard as that ice hanging outside my flat’s window last Christmas. ‘Monsieur’ not much better.

  “They were an item,” I said, not mentioning her Spanish truck driver story. “But never married.”

  “Who says?”

  I re-grouped my thoughts.

  “Could he have collected while his mother had been alive?”

  “Not if she and his father had previously made a ‘donation entre nous,’ then only after her death. Otherwise, one’s offspring own the greater portion of the biens over the surviving spouse. They decide if he or she can sell or not, and if they agree, they sign. So, if there’d been no such arrangement between his parents and only Joop Ryjkel survived, he and his sister would have done quite well out of Mas Camps.Their names would be on any sale documents.”

  “Did this ever come to light during your investigation into the disappearances?”

  “Not mine. And yes. Only the girl had signed.”

  As he spoke, more unwelcome thoughts wormed their way into the light. So Liesbet had enabled the sale of Mas Camps. But had her mother really wanted to sell? And who’d have benefited the most from this, further down the line?

  “Blame Napoléon,” Serrado added, but I barely heard him.

  “And when Eva Ryjkel later died in Holland?”

  “Ah, you’ve got me there. Here again, Joop Ryjkel - if he somehow still lives - may have been gifted a half share of everything with his sister. But I’m sure Dutch law is less restrictive than ours, and in your country, you can bequeath everything to a cats’ home.”

  I stayed focussed.

  “Eva Ryjkel could have died intestate.”

  “Many do. However, I think your new friend would have needed a lot more than her mother’s leavings to buy and do up Les Pins the way she has. And employ three full-time staff. I heard the mother only owned a modest, two-bedroom house in Rotterdam. In fact, entre nous, Monsieur, I’m inclined to start checking her daughter’s bank account.”

  Silence.

  There’d be nothing I could do to stop him.

  “When did you realise she wasn’t Dr. Karen Fürst?” I ventured.

  “The day she signed the compromis de vente last June. Ricard Suzman told me. He’d known when she’d first called into his office. She wasn’t fooling anyone.”

  I felt hot then cold. Tried not to over-react. I needed him. Mustn’t push it... Mustn’t listen... The ‘bait’ word writ large.

  “And something else, Monsieur Carpenter-Cameron-Lake. I wouldn’t involve Robert Taillot in your dirty work. He’s a marginal. Slippery as an eel. We’ve been on his

  back for years. Ever since he had to leave the army.”

  He meant bugging him. My mind rewound our yesterday’ afternoon’s conversation.

  Shit...

  “How do you know I’ve involved him in anything?”

  Come, come, Monsieur. You were once a Deective Inspector.”

  Once...

  That just about summed it up. Besides, what precisely was so wrong with the ex-army lieutenant that his line was bugged? Karen trusted him, didn’t she?

  “We must take care of Sophie Blumenthal,” I reminded him. “Please. Right now, she’s priority.”

  Chapter 43. John.

  Wednesday 16th April. 09:05 hrs.

  We’d arrived back at Les Pins much later than expected, with mercifully nothing disturbed. An exhausted Karen refused to have her catheter bag fitted, so I helped her on to the commode. There was no embarrassment, just a natural, necessary procedure, but undressing her had resurrected feelings I’d almost forgotten.

  One she was safely in bed, I investigated the chiller cabinet and made short work of a bottle of Côtes du Rhône. Omce my head hit my pillow I didn’t stir until the sun’s even light filled my room.

  *

  Thankfully too, no hangover and Karen still asleep in a dry bed until a cup of coffee brought a smile and a brief but tender clasping of my hand.

  I managed to wash and dress her, manouevring her long, well-shaped legs into the day’s fresh lingerie. Martine Mannion had got this drill off pat. Me, I was still learning and, while easing her briefs past the tops of her thighs, I had to turn sideways to hide my sudden erection.

  “I don’t mind,” she smiled at me again, and for a moment seemed about to reach out and touch it. “You are a man, after all.”

  My neck wasn’t the only part of me burning as I quickly cast around for a hairbrush. The orthopaedic mattress had flattened her hair at the back, so I teased it into shape. As I gently moved the brush back from her left ear, I hesitated by an area behind her ear where her hair had barely grown.

  Odd.

  “What’s wrong?” she snapped, instantly changing the mood.

  I held up a mirror for her to look.

  “It’s s long story.”

  She then asked me to fetch that same navy-blue trouser suit that I’d carefully hung outside her wardrobe, but while I was smoothing its collar over her crisp, white blouse, her tone changed.

  “Why did you stop to make two phone calls on our way back last night? What’s going on?” Her half-open eyes followed my every move as I next picked up her slacks whose central creases were still in place.

  “To contact my sister then a pal I used to know back home. Might be useful.”

  “To whom?”

  “Us both. Besides, I thought you were asleep.”

  “I told you not to involve anyone else. To inform me of everything you do.” Her tone sharpened even more. “Are you deaf as well as dumb? And was I supposed to believe that guff about my brother falling for that Jewish hoyden? It’s grotesque.”

  “We should know by the end of today,” I said, easing both pretty feet down inside the legs of that same trouser suit. “Meanwhile, your lie about currently living in Holland was risky. And not just that. Why is everyone else but you giving useful information? It’s almost as if you don’t want me to find anything out. Get justice whether for your family, Herman or...”

  Bad move…

  She suddenly turned her wheelchair away from me, catching my socked foot under its nearest wheel. That hurt. I grabbed the back bar and swung her round. Frustration and tiredness making me reckless.

  “In fact, Karen, I’d say you had something to hide. If so, could you bloody well tell me now, so I can go and get on with my life, and you yours?”

  She tried kicking me, but couldn’t.

  “You pompous prick. Get out. Now!”

  “That’s too easy, isn’t it? Lets you off the hook very nicely. Christ, I’ve been attacked twice, followed, spied on, the works. You don’t give a damn. I’m just this puppet dangling from your string.”

  “Pass me my oxygen.”

  And while she snorted up air, I rewound in my mind the techniques I’d picked up for our interviews in The Box’ in Nottingham. Word associations, the relaxation programme that fell just short of hypnosis, you name it, I’d tried it. But not for long. ‘Invasion of personal liberty” had been the law’s mantra. ‘Inadmissable statements,’ followed by a rap over the knuckles by the Chief Super. But who was there to stop me now?

  “Deep breaths,” I whispered. “Think of summer by the sea. Gentle waves lapping the shore. A breeze in your hair...”

  Gradually, her eyes began to close, her
hands loosened their grip on the arms of her chair as I continued.

  “You must also have seen your family searching for this money that had been dropped. So how come they’d got wind it might be there?”

  “Not Moeder. Never her. And yes, we had to find it. Daniel Boussioux and Jeanne Tremblant turned up too, but soon chased away. Searching became like a drug. There were nights when Vader and my brothers never slept...”

  She was breathing so deeply that little snores escaped her throat. A good sign.

  “I’m not surprised. Just think what that sum would have added to the family pot.”

  Suddenly, those deep, blue eyes flicked open. She jerked forwards, then yelled, whether in pain or indignation, was hard to tell. I’d hit a raw nerve and any Brownie points so far accrued, were swirling swiftly down the pan. Then the phone rang. Number withheld. I picked it up. Robert Taillot, out of breath. A bad line didn’t help.

  “You seen today’s L’Indépendant?”

  “Not yet. Why?” Aware of Karen pulling the tubes from her nose and flinging them on the floor.

  “Joel Dutroux’s been barbied up on the Col des Chèvres. Banner headline, photo too, from when he was at the Abbey. Could be his microlight was tampered with. The guy at Accents du Vent’s got his registration form as proof he hired from there as he usually did. What’s left of the wreckage is still being tested...”

  *

  So, it was him.

  His, then Sophie Blumenthal’s fearful faces came to mind.

  “You OK, Monsieur?”

  Pause.

  Karen was on full alert. I moved away from her, lowering my voice.

  “Look, he may have been taken from here for a purpose. And I reckon Martine Mannion was operating under instruction too.”

  “Was?”

  Fuck.

  “Is.”

  “Why Joel, though? He seemed a good guy.”

  “He was privy to his boss’s search for her family. Probably stole portions of her hard drive, pretending to be Max Heimlat, this fictitious repairer. And as a sick

  souvenir, his little finger was left stuck to the fridge here, with a nice little threat, neatly typed. Too many pies, cher Joel, it said.”

  I heard Taillot take a deep breath.

  “You’re not serious? But why, if he’d been doing as he was told?”

  “Despite my initial judgement, he was extremely loyal to Dr. Fürst and his mother and grandmother. Too loyal. I’m convinced he needed women to love and approve of him. He also might have been gay. I had meant to tell you, but...” “So, who mutilated him?” Taillot quizzed. “Maybe even killed him?”

  My recent chat with Capitaine Serrado came to mind.

  Be careful.

  “Not sure. At Les Pins, he was armed with a Glock. Could certainly defend himself, but no-one’s mentioned hearing any sounds of gunshot. And I know what you’re going to say about silencers.”

  I relayed how two or three intruders had been seen on the CCTV just before my attack in the woods. Also, the strange disappearance of the old trunk from the other tower, and my eventful trip to Roche-les-Bains ending with that same warning reminder left with Joel’s finger.

  “Seems the Notaire here’s been busy.”

  “You told the flics?”

  “I can’t. Why I’m using you, remember?”

  “Where’s this finger and the note now?”

  “Safe.” Then cursed myself on both counts.

  “Better hand them in. Or you’ll get done. Believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “And Herman? What’s he up to in all this?”

  Shit...

  Karen must have heard. She’d silently propelled herself so close. Her face taut with tension.

  “Being a rock, as usual,” she said, loud enough for Taillot to hear.

  “Thought so. Look, you wanted certificates,” the ex-lieutenant, brought me back to his tasks. “I’ve copies proving Joel was a Suzman. Watch this space.”

  I recalled that Olivetti typewriter in the Notaire’s dark corner.

  “Filicide?”

  “Doubt it. Papa wouldn’t soil his beautiful hands. Too much to lose. Remember your recent attack at Les Pins? Cast the net a little wider...”

  “Find the Evil Eye...”

  “You mean his two other kids?”

  “Bingo. But leave well alone, hein? Like Papa. Need I say more?”

  . I glanced at Karen, still too close, then updated him about Opération Anges. When he didn’t respond, I gave a prod.

  “Have you anything on Girard Mannion or railway timetables from Villedieu for September/October 1942?”

  The tiniest of ominous clicks…

  Damn. Damn…

  “Sorry, don’t trust this line,” the ex-army man hissed.

  “Nor me.” But too much had been said already.

  “Meet at midday. OK?”

  “Where? Here?”

  But he’d gone.

  Hell.

  “Have we a problem?” asked Karen.

  “No, but I’ve got to go. Won’t be long. Set your alarm once I’m out of here. Ignore the phone and on no account open the gates to anyone. Not even the gazoil man if he calls.” I then dug in my jeans’ side pocket and pulled out the slightly bulked-out envelope Sophie Blumenthal had passed to me as we’d left her home.

  Liesbet Ryjkel scribbled on its front.

  “For you,” I said. “From Sophie.”

  Inside was a silver bracelet bearing six silver stars. Karen’s jaw dropped.

  “My God. Vader’s gift to Moeder on their wedding day...”

  “Apparently, Christian gave it to Sophie before they parted.”

  “No.” She frowned, still scrutinising it. “I remember Moeder thinking it had slipped off her wrist somewhere. She spent ages searching.”

  Karen dangled the silver stars in front of her eyes, while light from the window showed tears glistening on her cheeks. I bent down, kissed one away, then hurried for the door.

  “Talking of your mother, did you have to sign for the sale of Mas Camps?”

  Her smile vanished.

  “What’s it to do with you?”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes. She was keen to get rid. OK? By the way, where are you off to now?”

  “My sister,” I lied. “She’s been nagging me to death.”

  *

  10:10 hours

  Had Taillot meant to meet me here? If so, where the Hell was he? For five long minutes, I hung around near Les Pins, with the unusually calm Bayrou on one side and the Col des Chèvres on the other, sunlight heightening its bright, white limestone and a dark scar just visible near the top. Also, a distant, police cordon already in place around rocks at its base. How long, I wondered, before Karen and I were reeled in as possible witnesses?

  As for Herman, if we were rumbled, God help us.

  Back in Nottingham, I’d have no more kept my colleagues ignorant, than stabbed my sister in the back. Yet here I was, in this weird, distorted other-world, manipulated - yes - but also increasingly attracted to a woman who’d given me my first ssurge of desire since WPC Alison McConnell had rested her hand on my thigh during our last dinner date.

  I decided to give Robert Taillot another minute, then phone his house in Puylaurens.

  *

  Still no joy and, having bought the last copy of L’Indépendent from the Tabac in the sunlit main square, sobered by the dead cook’s serious gaze on its front page, I called into the Café Columbine, hoping to glean more from Violette Arbrus. However, the young woman who served me my espresso and seemed more interested in another customer resting his elbows on the counter, said her boss was off work caring for her sick mother. I then walked along to the Notaire’s office to find it closed.

  *

  With my tank half full, I set off for Taillot’s home village in the next valley, where yet another towering Cathar fortress had placed the small settlement beneath it on the tourist map. At least ther
e’d been no mention of Les Pins or of Joel’s employer in the newspaper. But for how long?

  No followers, so far, but that ever-present ice in my gut spreading like an Arctic sea. The idea of again contacting Capitaine Serrado for help, more enticing by the minute.

  I drove past one of the area’s few working factories swathed in dust, fronted by three, dark grey cement mountains. The stuff ekeing in through my car’s vents, straight to my lungs.

  Hang on…

  I slowed down, noticing a plain-looking villa set at the end of a curving, overgrown track, then recognised Taillot’s metallic green Nissan Patrol skewed on the verge where that same track met the road.

  At exactly midday, I parked behind it to take a closer look. Camera forgotten.

  Jesus Crist.

  A sweet, solvent mx of a smell reached my nose.

  Chloroform?

  The driver’s door hung open, revealing signs of a terrible and bloody struggle inside. Judging by the seepage from the dead man’s main wound, this butchery was fresh, already attracting flies.

  Chapter 44. John.

  With those images of Taillot’s gaping throat and his severed penis lying on the seat beside him hogging my mind, I called the Saint-Antoine gendarmerie, only to be told by a Lieutenant Vollard that it would take at least half an hour for the team to reach Puylaurens, I looked around me at the stark contrast between the natural world and man’s savage inroads.

  Witnessess?

  Go.

  I ran half a kilometer along to the nearest property, a small, new-build bungalow, with a row of potted plants along its cream-rendered front wall. Although I saw no other neighbours, elaborate net curtains hung behind its two front windows. I knocked on the front door and waited several minutes before a man and woman both with neatly-combed grey hair, viewed my passport and listened nervously while I introduced myself as an English, former Detective Inspector. I then explained my reason for being there. Their French, when it came, was distinctly Parisian.

  “Robert Taillot?” queried the woman, whose crucifix necklace glowed in the weak sun