Ghosts from the Past

by Sally Spedding

  “Eduard Gallas is a busy bee too, by all accounts,” I said, not only comparing this one guard with the trio we’d used in Nottingham, but the difference in lighting. Here was subdued. Our shadows furred against the wall behind us. Even Aubuchon’s shoes had lost their sheen.

  “Is she ready?” He asked the guard, who seemed shifty. Nervous. A fly button undone, I noticed.

  “This way, sir.”

  The first three cells housed three sleeping figures - all male, all middle-aged, accompanied by the distinct smells of Ricard and whisky.

  “Drunks,” said the gendarme. “No trouble so far.”

  “Good.”

  However, when we arrived at number 4, the same guard turned to face us, panic reddening his cheeks. “It’s impossible!” he cried. “She was here a minute ago. Now she’s gone.” He then swore using words I’d never heard of.

  “We need to keep calm,” said the suddenly bloodless Chef d’Escadron, while my mind was in eighth gear.

  “Can’t have gone far without wheels and in this weather,” I said, knowing then that any chance of finding justice for Laure had faded as fast as the last snowfall. “And at least, thank God, you’ve got her Browning. I hope you personally won’t have to carry the can for two police-issue weapons being involved.”

  36. Elisabeth.

  Tuesday 15th March 6 a.m.

  Les Tourels. At last. My place, and it always would be. Don’t ask how I got here, except my special skills had obviously made the pensionable security cell guard more than happy. He’d been married too long with nothing happening in the bedroom department, and while buttoning up his trousers after our brief encounter and reaching up to adjust the angle of the sole CCTV camera, I’d run to the staff car park where a short but convenient power cut to that circuit had just compromised security. Lights and all.

  *

  Newly-separated Aimée Lecroix having extricated herself from my mother’s bathroom, had not only provided space at her poky Mignonville flat, but also given me a lift from Poitiers’ main bus station before her early shift at the retirement home. During our short journey, she’d warned me how Maman’s behaviour was again impossible. How, apart from having tried to kill her, she’d bleated to Philippe Aubouchon - a long-standing friend from my parents’ early days - with her so-called story. Denigrating me, if you please. For another clutch of used banknotes from my Guernsey account - the same as I’d just given him - Aimée added how Danny Lennox’s ex-wife had discovered an unexpected Will and in contesting it, would stop at nothing to reveal the dangerous truth. Her words…

  Merci Dieu. But please God, could you stop my bruise from leaking and bring my niece to justice before she wreaks more havoc?

  *

  Suddenly, came the roar of a powerful engine and sprays of slushy mud, before one of those same hard-topped Jeeps complete with muddy bullbars, jerked to a halt by the closed gate. Four men brought on board by special order. Didier Rousson and Raoul Paranza leapt out, looking stressed and tense, unlike my young nephew who followed them, attached to the tattooed Lieutenant by a leather harness. His little mouth rimmed by chocolate. A brazen defiance hardly matching his delicate situation, was aimed not at those two gays, but me. ‘Black-Face.’

  “A word of advice before you go,” I addressed Rousson then lowered my voice. “Use Swiss banks only for my payments and take care around Aubouchon.”

  They didn’t need reminding about the most senior member of my team who’d tampered with the Police HQ’s electrics to help me escape. A man who several years ago, had pressed himself close during an official visit to my school, who’d later admitted erectile disfunction. Someone however, who still lived in hopes, but meanwhile not overly given to altruism.

  Again, something wasn’t right. I peered into the Jeep’s murky gloom.

  “Where’s Eduard?”

  “Do you care?”

  I ignored him.

  “And the pilot?” Another of Aubouchon’s useful contacts.

  “A man called Philippe took him away from Bellac,” the boy chipped in. “Said he had far too much to say and was a liab…”

  “Just shut the fuck up!” snapped Paranza, before slamming shut his driver’s side door. “Or you’ll be next.”

  My nephew stuck out his tongue.

  “What about the chopper?” I asked, which had proved nothing but trouble to borrow, and had cost me half what I’d earned in a year at my school.

  “No idea.”

  “That Philippe man flew it away,” said the boy.

  “And the Welshman?”

  “Spotted near Mignonville,” said Paranza out of his window. “All we know.” He glanced at Mathieu, as if suddenly thinking of his own kid about the same age. “Courage.”

  And then, with another mechanical roar and stinging shower of gritty slush, they were gone.

  “Why did Raoul say that?” asked my nephew. “What’s going to happen to me now?”

  “No more questions. We’re going to get you cleaned up. Find something to eat.”

  “I hate you.” But he didn’t try to run away.

  “It’s your sister you should hate, not me. OK. Let’s move.”

  *

  Neither parent had ever told us about the special hiding place deep underground first used by stray Cathari believers fleeing the Dominicans in the Languedoc, and later by local aristocrats during the Terror. And I in turn, had never let Christine know. Why should I? She’d had enough to think about.

  The tunnel.

  I’d discovered it for myself one June afternoon while still working at the abattoir. I’d come home to an empty house, my mind and body energized by scenes of huge, old Charolais bulls barging, shitting, and rearing almost up to the steel beams, until crumpling and falling once the knife found their throats.

  Eduard Gallas, offended by my father using another slaughterhouse near Gençay, had wanted me from the moment his strange eyes had snaked up and down my body. But those were the early days when I’d made him wait. So that warm Thursday afternoon I’d carried home not only the vision of those beasts laid low in their own blood, but of his look. The obvious movement behind his fly as he’d replaced his blood-reddened overall for a clean one.

  Without bothering to change out of my own similarly-marked clothes, I’d galloped like Alain’s souped-up horses, around the carp lake and through the copse where my late Papa had strimmed away the undergrowth. He must have been in a hurry as some areas of bramble and ivy had been left, yet others lay strafed too close to the black earth. In one area, centred among several skinny firs, I’d then spotted part of a lichen-covered slab. Closer inspection showed a rusted iron ring embedded into this bright green skin.

  I’d squatted down, occasionally looking over my shoulder, hoping to see Eduard Gallas again. My boss, whose after-hours bonus was to shed his blood-stained overall and pin me up against his splattered tiles.

  Where was he now?

  Both my hands grabbed this iron ring and eased it back and fore until, with an almost human groan, matching mine, it had lifted upwards bringing with it what was clearly an ancient stone. Thick, circular and a perfect fit over what I soon realised was a body-sized hole.

  The Pit of Cocytus, no less.

  The smell from within had been almost sweet. Nauseatingly so. And I’d wondered, who or what might be secreted in there. With that lid completely off, I’d lain on my stomach to investigate, and had been surprised to see how much more space there really was.

  Almost like the womb I’d lost on my twenty-first birthday, flung into one of the hospital’s waste bins. Hen fodder, pig fodder, what did it matter? Except that Christine had hung on to hers. Oh yes. A big, ripe specimen yielding regular flows, giving her a glow that seemed to increase as my pallor intensified.

  Laure too, had been similarly blessed.

  With care, I’d edged forwards and let my arms and hands reach down into the stinking space beyond. My heartbeat pulsing in my head at the possibilities such a shelte
r afforded. Later, I’d come away from it with an almost orgasmic sense of pleasure. My special scent even stronger. My determination to keep this special secret the same…

  *

  More snow, merging sky and land as one. As uniformly pale as my confirmation dress, passed down to my niece. What a waste of fine silk…

  However, I had to focus on the present. Those I’d paid to assist, had lost their fervour, yet how, in all honesty, could I blame them? They’d been as constrained as I, and would continue to be until the worm finally turned. When as sure as night follows day, Les Tourels would be my oppressor’s next port of call.

  *

  Wearing that same brown, zip-up jumper, jeans still too big, and blue socks with a Mickey Mouse pattern, my nephew hadn’t changed a jot. Not even after his foray along the N147 and the short stay in La Rigolette where that dim-witted couple had actually wanted to adopt him. No, he was still the indolent, ungrateful little shit he always had been. And as for getting him to confess to stealing my car keys from me in that Aire de Repos, forget it.

  He’d done nothing wrong. I was the wicked aunt, with the blacked-in face. And that was that. But little did he know…

  “I want to go back to La Rigolette,” he whined, standing inside the locked bathroom door. “Annie and Thierry were nice.”

  He repeated that complaint while fighting me off as I tried to wash his matted head under the shower. A thankless, messy task with me having to clear up every stray hair, every morsel of dirt. Pointless too, given what lay ahead. “And see Mamie…”

  “You can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  I paused, having to choose my words carefully, just as I’d done with that big-nosed, small-dicked Chef d’Escadron who’d received my registeerd post envelope on Thursday 3rd March.

  “Because you wouldn’t be safe. The enemy is at the gate. Trust me.”

  “I trusted you before, remember? Besides, I haven’t got any enemies.”

  Like a dog, he shook himself free of water and tried head-butting me out of the way.

  “But you have. I heard how those men behaved with you. What they said about you behind your back. ‘A fuck-up.’ What does that mean?”

  Cons…

  “You’re eight years’ old.” I said, snatching at the nearest towel and wrapping it around his head. “Never use foul language like that to me nor anyone else again. Compris? God’s listening.”

  “No, he isn’t. And besides, you’re my enemy. You made sure that helicopter had to turn back on the way to Paris. And everything else bad that’s happened to me.”

  I laughed, drying his hair more vigorously. Almost savagely.

  But was it true what he’d said about Gallas, Rousson and Paranza? If so, they’d always be out there with damning tongues, yet considerably enlarged bank accounts.

  “You treated me worse than a dog,” he went on. “Jabbing me with that needle thing. Making me sleepy. Shutting me up in the poky boot of your car for so long. In Paranza’s grotty caravan for two nights…”

  “I’ve had to. And will have to again.”

  “Why?” He glared up at me from beneath a shaggy fringe. Darker now than Danny’s hair, but not those eyes. “Do you mean Laure? You said I should hate her, not you.”

  “Stand still.”

  “Non.”

  “When all this is over, we’ll go and see your Papa.”

  “Where is he?”

  “On the mend, in hospital. He had an accident.”

  “You mean you’ve hurt him?”

  I pulled the boy off the shower tray and smacked his little pink buttocks, leaving a glowing red hand print on each. “Now get dressed. We’ve wasted too much time already.”

  “Where’s Laure?” He asked, having pulled his jumper over his head. “Is she alright?”

  La Sainte-Marie…

  “I said, where’s Laure? My sister?”

  Time for more lies.

  “Back in Wales. Keeping an eye on everything. Come on. Vite!”

  “What about Danny? Why hasn’t he bothered with me? My best mate?”

  And then, dear God forgive me, I lost it. His noise, his waywardness. The sheer bloody-mindedness of all his eight years.

  The next moments passed in a blur of thrashings and kickings until at last, amid a fresh fall of snow, all was quiet. It was then, more than ever, I missed Philippe Aubouchon’s Browning with its almost full chamber. But what if that and the Smith&Wesson should lead back to him? Never mind the dead. Where the fuck would I be?

  It wasn’t the cold making me shiver, but the the thought of that man himself.

  *

  I didn’t have long, knowing that here would, like Les Saules Pleureurs already, soon be everyone’s port of call. In fact, as I locked the back door behind me with my key that I’d had the forethought to leave with Aimée, felt the brush of death so close, so vivid, that I dropped it in the snow.

  No car, no means of self-defence still being analysed at Police Headquarters. As for my replacement phone - I’d have considered leaving that with my nephew, just in case. But what use would it be where he was going? There’d be no signal. Nothing. He’d have to use his wits and wiry strength, should the one who wanted him dead, appear. No time for a hot snack either, from the fresh items Aimée had given me. Instead, a packet of Bourbon biscuits had been gobbled down before we’d even reached the front door.

  *

  My suede boots were already letting in freezing water, and my toes through my wet tights were numb as I took care to tread only on those slushy areas of ground likely to melt further. Thanks to my scarf tied tight over his mouth, my companion was silent. His pace sluggish, deliberately out of step step. My old but serviceable waterproof with its tartan lining, weighing him down. This was an almost impossible task. Like Vervain had been. When Philippe Aubouchon had told me in the cells that the Noctran in the horse’ system had matched with a trace found in my car boot and strongly in the Dog Collar’s result, I’d had to beg and pay him again for an assurance that this information wouldn’t be made public just yet. That I’d be protected until I could become a wanderer, like my hero of heroes, who’d finally knocked the Son of God from his perch.

  Dream on…

  *

  That tunnel had been a surprise. Wet, not dry, as I’d expected, and of course, he’d made a fuss, soon dropping to his waist in that fetid, black water that must somehow have accumulated over the years. However, my detailed safety instructions had his full attention, as if even he sensed this was the last chance saloon.

  Afterwards, with the tricky job done, leaving me with wet, aching arms and numb hands, I checked my watch. Something at least, I’d been allowed to keep. And the keys to Les Tourels. Its gate and the house. However, no point in visiting Alain. John Lyon had set me up as the main suspect there and could even be lying in wait. My second target might eventually forgive me. Make the best of his remaining, neutered days, and even understand. As for his slippery, self-regarding mother-in-law, my Maman, it had been decided she’d be next. But time was running out, and I hadn’t a clue as to her whereabouts.

  *

  Her Citroën Saxo still stood in the car port, in good order; with a full tank, just in case. The spare key hidden in its usual place, but before I could claim it, my phone began to ring. Just to hear that voice stopped my throbbing heart, and once the short, menacing call had ended, my priority was to get in that car and take a short journey. Also, to hope that my distrustful nephew was obeying me.

  37. Laure.

  Tuesday 15th March. 8.30 a.m.

  John Lyon and a senior cop called Aubouchon arrived at Trois Ruisseaux after I’d endured a silent, strained breakfast of less-than-fresh bread, and a bowl of tepid coffee. Strained, because since Sunday afternoon, I’d given everyone the slip and holed up in a derelict hut almost buried by snowy weeds at the farm’s furthest perimeter fence. Another hiding place where Sophie and I had once played and exchanged secrets. Some too embarrassing to repeat
. Where I’d almost frozen to death, grieving for my beautiful horse while sounds of police sirens and useless, barking dogs had come and gone.

  Moi, la méchante who’d caused yet more trouble, had been found by dubious hero Robert Kassel whose rifle butt prodded me outside into the snow while he’d threatened to call the gendarmerie there and then, until I’d begged for John Lyon instead.

  *

  And there he was, shaved, and wearing what looked like a new, brown, leather jacket and tan trousers with a sharp crease down each leg. Over his arm he carried a black cagoule with a tartan lining, which he’d promptly slipped over my shoulders.

  Ready for all contingencies, it seemed.

  It was odd, seeing him without Alison, whom I’d thought about a lot. And I mean a lot. She and I had been getting on well. I’d felt she’d looked out for me. That I’d not had such a bad heart after all. But where was his black Citroën hire car?

  Instead, a large, silver 4X4 with tinted windows stood parked next to a Talbot Samba with dented sills and the snazzy white Mazda belonging to Robert Kassel’s partner. The snow had muffled his arrival, but not what he had to say to me in private, in a barely-used room adjoining the much warmer kitchen.

  “Are you rested and ready?” He asked, before glancing at his watch. “We’ve places to go, people to see.”

  Never quite sure about him, this was my chance. Clean-shaven or stubbled made no difference. I needed him on my side.

  “Where?” I said. “I’m half-dead.”

  “That’s your fault, Laure. We must talk.”

  Papa had said the same…

  “What about? Her killing Danny, Vervain and…”

  “Wait”” he barked. “The Juge d’Instruction in Poitiers is holding preliminary interviews relating to recent events and he’s asked me to accompany you. I really wouldn’t cause any more trouble.”

  “Preliminary to what exactly?” I interrupted, to regain lost ground.