“I’d like you to call in to my old home, Mas Camps, five kilometres from here, just over the river from where you and Martine...” she stalled, “found him. Where it all began.”
Her way of saying yes.
“OK. But I must check out a few things this end. And by the way, his room ought to be kept locked for the time being.”
“Why?”
“Procedure. Just in case.” An awkward pause before she thanked Martine and dismissed her. Now my turn again.
“A favour, Dr. Fürst.”
“Depends what it is.”
“I’d like to look at Martine and Joel’s rooms as soon as possible. It is important.”
Her neat, arched eyebrows raised even further in surprise.
“So is privacy, Monsieur Lyon. Even they need my permission before going into each others’ quarters. And Herman’s.”
Did she want a result or not?
“Your French is good, by the way,” she observed suddenly, probably as a distraction, “Most Anglais don’t bother.”
“There wasn’t much call for it in my former job, but I’d kept up my reading after university. Zola especially. And Verlaine. Also, Mauriac.”
“I’m impressed.”
“I can’t do jokes, mind.”
“Not many around here, I’m afraid.”
I glanced at my watch. 08:23. I wanted to be outside, gathering samples, finding more clues...
“So, who’s living at Mas Camps now?” Trying to hide my impatience.
“The Pastados. Man and wife. They’ve lived there since my mother sold it in 1946. In their seventies now, a sour old couple as I recall. You could pretend to be looking for a place like theirs. Get your feet under the table. Find out if they ever heard of strangers being on our land in early October 1942. And any more since they bought it. See where they’re coming from. Are they open or secretive? Or scared.” She leaned forwards in her wheelchair. Her expression serious. She looked almost beautiful. “My real name is Liesbet Ryjkel. I don’t want them knowing where I am now or my new identity. Is that clear?”
“Fine. But…”
“No buts, and afterwards - more discreetly than dear Herman may have been – you could explore Saint-Antoine de Bayrou and count how many silver, C class Mercedes there may be, either parked on the streets or visible in garages and on driveways. But remember, just look, don’t speak, and certainly no mention of Herman being dead. Many folk have relatives in the gendarmerie. It’s a small, nasty world out there. As for my history, there are still those like the Pastados, who knew me, my mother, father and two brothers. Who’d possibly seen something suspicious that mysterious October night. So, just be curious. No mention either of your having met me.”
“Of course not, but Dr. Fürst, I still need more background to both your requests for help. I can’t operate out of context.”
She was about to speak when a sharp knock on the door made her jump. Martine announced that the ex-army lieutenant turned self-employed electrician who’d been contacted late last night, had come to mend the gates and check out the cameras.
“Shall I go?” I said, annoyed at this interruption. Aware of yet more of the morning slipping away.
“No, please.”
*
Robert Taillot, a tall, grizzled guy - like me, in his early fifties - wearing camouflage fatigues and singing as he worked, came and went. Karen had reassured him that Herman - whom he admired - was fine. He in turn, reassured us that her gates and CCTV problems had simply been due to wear and tear. Nothing more sinister. I wanted to believe him. Then, with his business card also mentioning ‘other security services,’ safe in my shirt’s top pocket, the woman who only yesterday had been a name on a letterbox, began her backstory.
*
“Was this mystery of yours ever covered by the Press?” I asked her afterwards, closing my notebook. “Interviews, photos, etcetera?”
The question seemed to catch her by surprise.
“I never saw anything, and recall Moeder complaining about it, but then we were only a month away - to the day in fact - from submission to the enemy. My family obviously not important enough.”
I found that hard to believe, but she was right in one respect. Wartime had its own rules and priorities. Then something else I’d noticed. The way she’d flinched while mentioning her elder brother’s name. Jozeph, known as Joop. The way her fingers locked together so tightly, her knuckles glowed through the skin like polished ivory.
I took a guess. “Did he often hurt you?”
She flinched again. “Whenever he could. Yes.”
“Had you upset him in any way? I mean you were a lot younger. My kid sister used to get up my nose quite a lot...”
“I don’t like what you’re implying.”
“I’m not implying anything. Just trying to get a clearer picture.”
“No. I still adored him. Anyhow, Christian would always try and make things better.”
“Christian?”
“Two years younger.”
“So Joop was a bully?”
She never answered me.
Chapter 10. Karen.
Post-Confessional peace must feel like this. Also, relief for sharing what little I knew of my missing family with this English newcomer. Even though Herman’s new pistol was out there somewhere; even though my guilt at his death wouldn’t ever go away, John Lyon would be a safe pair of hands. An attractive one at that. I could tell by his reaction to my vision of that young girl’s dress and that shabby, spinning top up in the other tower’s attic. How he’d not thought me mad to say how the temperature had suddenly dropped and how those items vanished into thin air immediately afterwards.
And what’s more, like me, he’s always been a loner.
My main concern was how he’d relate to Martine and Joel, because with Herman, the balance of personalities had been a fine one and it worked. I also noticed how Joel had kept eyeing him warily during the alarm exercise. Joel who must be kept sweet at all times. Why John Lyon’s request to search his and Martine’s rooms might have to wait.
*
Although the sky was still an impossible blue, the night’s wind continued to pummel my tower and the black pines rocked together more wildly than ever.
Damn... The phone.
I never answered it straight away, instead listened. Just in case. Naturally, I was ex-directory and the English ex-flic just one of five people who had my number. Dr. Baerck in Rotterdam and my team here, were the others. Herman included, most likely with my details stored in his missing wallet.
Merde.
“Dr. Fürst? Capitaine Serrado here from the Saint-Antoine gendarmerie. Just checking all’s well with you.”
A prime example of a gross mismatch between a voice and physical appearance if ever there was. A silver tongue belonging to a fat, sweating pig whom I’d encountered hanging around here the day I moved in.
“Is there any particular reason for this call?” I said, beefing up my German accent. “I mean, if I did need to reach you, I have your card right in front of me.”
“Routine, Dr. Fürst. From now on, I’ll be checking up with you on the second Friday of every month. We have a duty to protect all our, how shall I say, vulnerable citizens.”
The way he said ‘vulnerable’ made my skin crawl.
“That’s very considerate of you, Capitaine, and I can assure you, all’s well here. Perhaps, however, we could have more of a police presence through the Gorges de Salerne. Too many drunks and coke-heads are making it a very dangerous route for
other road users...”
“You mean yourself?”
I swallowed.
“I mean my staff.”
Silence. A delayed click followed, meaning one thing. Who’d been listening in? And where? How come the creep knew my number? Since when has the law round here pre-empted anything? He’d lied, knowing something was up. Perhaps a local resident collecting free water from the rocks over the road, had noticed
Herman setting out on his last journey into town. Maybe he’d seemed distressed. Maybe some fisherman down river had already found more of him, but if that was the case, surely Serrado would have said?
My darling little Herman.
I resolved to get Martine to take me to the church of Saint-Jean le Martyr and bless his sweet soul in before it was too late.
*
“Did you pick up that call after me and listen in?” I challenged Joel when he came to clear away my breakfast. He didn’t hide his resentment.
“That’s ridiculous. All incoming calls go direct to you. Besides, I was busy loading the dishwasher.”
Martine seemed equally upset at my question. She’d been in the laundry room - not her usual environment - and accepted my apology with a grunt. To prove I wasn’t going mad and, to restore some normality to the morning, I switched on my Amstrad to continue with my notes, but something was wrong.
What on earth was up with this thing?
OPERATION CANCELLED.
INVALID USER
Invalid user? Correct up to a point, but I wasn’t smiling. Certainly not after six attempts with the HELP programme to shift this obstruction. Joel had undergone IT training. I called him again. This time he was in the kitchen stuffing a quail. Still resentful and taking too long to get up here. But I couldn’t fall out with him, not now. Not after Herman.
“I am grateful to you,” I said as he took my place at the desk, noticing how his copper-brown hair extended below his collar. How traces of game meat lay beneath his finger nails. “What’s your password?” He asked without looking up.
“That’s private.”
“OK. So we stay on square one.”
“Liesbet10.” I felt odd saying it. Although familiar with only a tiny part of my story, he made no comment. Typed it in. Sighed when that same, negative message re-appeared.
“Best create a new one.”
“Evacomeback. My dead mother.”
The room was too warm with the early sun filling the round window. I unwound my scarf and let it drop on to the desk where it resembled a skein of blood, as I imagined an afterbirth to be. Or the leavings from Herman’s severed neck…
Enough.
“No joy.” Joel half-turned to face me. If I hadn’t sensed a gay undercurrent not long after his hiring, I’d have shown him how to touch me intimately, like Herman sometimes did. To make me feel alive again. “We have a big problem. And it’s Friday, remember?”
“Meaning?”
“Tec Monde may hang on to this computer until the middle of next week.”
“Tec Monde? I don’t want some local geek ogling my hard drive. No way.”
“They’re based in Roche-les-Bains. I used them while I was at the Abbaye Saint-Polycarpe nearby. I could arrange a guaranteed collection for Wednesday. And there’s no snow forecast.”
He knew I was in his hands.
“Will my material be safe?”
“Confidentiality’s part of the deal. I can guess what’s involved.”
He can’t. Nobody does.
“Contact name?”
“Max Heimlat. A mate of mine from school. He’s tops.”
I’d assumed a German persona for myself for a very specific purpose. To keep local wolves from the door. Right then, a small alarm bell began to ring in my mind, but because I needed my beloved Amstrad, and the precious memories it held, I ignored the warning and let him go, on condition he called me on arrival in Roche-les-Bains, and when he left.
Chapter 11. John.
I phoned Carol again from the run-down hamlet of Dansac where my phone card expired mid-apology. Christ, what a guilt trip this was turning out to be, I thought. She’d also taken exception to “some German woman” checking up that she, Carol, really was my sister.
I pulled the booth door shut behind me and just missed stepping into a well-placed and still-soft dog turd. I looked around. There was nowhere to buy a new phone card. Carol would just have to understand...
Sweat from my forehead soaked my handkerchief as I walked back to the car, aware of curious, unseen eyes on my every move. Here a young lad who should have been in school, stood chewing the end of a baguette; there a woman in head-to-toe black, wobbled on her bicycle into the wind. All seemingly normal, and a place that Liesbet Ryjkel and her family must have visited many times. Yet already, faded shutters were half-closed against the sun like the eyelids of those feigning sleep. I was tempted to visit the dusty boulangerie I’d passed earlier but having been in the CID for many years taught me one thing. Small steps lead to the biggest breaks.
And first, was the Bayrou river.
*
I’d made sure my Volvo was invisible from the muddy track that Martine and I had taken yesterday, and with a clump of fig tree branches, obliterated our footprints. As for the makeshift dam, although almost disintegrated, it might still yield some clues. Convinced I was alone, I squatted down to focus on the various fragments of detritus that clung to its side. A sodden page from some magazine, a pair of torn underpants - way too big for Herman - and a baby’s dummy which I hoped had nothing to do with that wrecked pushchair. With my father’s ex-army issue binoculars, I scoured the current beyond, hoping to glimpse again that distinctive blue fabric I’d seen near Les Pins; the empty trousers, the hands that Karen Fürst had so depended on.
Nothing.
The wind suddenly broke through the huge bamboos, bringing ice on its breath, attacking my cagoule, my inner clothes, my skin. There was clearly nothing else for me at this particular spot, so I stood up and trained the old binoculars on to what lay beyond the far bank. The former Domaine Mas Camps where Karen Fürst had grown up too quickly, with too little affection. Too little of everything, it had seemed.
My lenses picked out scrubland punctuated by copses of black cypresses and single limestone boulders which morphed into a screen of white-streaked rock, rising to the sky. Another ancient barrier like the one behind Dansac. A conspiracy of enclosure.
No sign of any vineyard, and as for the dwelling itself, just a trickle of dark smoke was blown towards me from an unseen chimney.
And then came a single gunshot hitting the water, blinding me with spray. No time to find the bullet or hide myself. Suddenly I was a rookie cop all over again on the beat back in Mapperley, but at least there’d been cover. But here, alone, I was a sitting duck.
*
Speeding out of Dansac towards what I’d spotted of Mas Camps, the thought of Carol and George’s immaculate accommodation grew even more tempting. No, I told myself. See this through. What’s a month out of a lifetime? Plenty, when you can die in half a second.
I pulled in by a deserted crossroads and took the road to the right, narrowing to a single, disused track. An ancient sign with the handwritten words, MAS CAMPS. PR0PRIÉTÉ PRIVÉ helpfully pointed the way, and I proceeded in first gear, wondering if that careless huntsman was still around, envisaging Karen Fürst’s troubled face. I was doing this for her and the poor Belgian nurse disposed of like so much rubbish. Whatever we were up against in the search for the truth, was growing deadlier by the minute. Just then I could have done with a cool beer, and thinking of it made my tongue thicken. My throat close up.
2 KILOMETRES.
Where was this place? With sharp stones, old bricks and other debris making the Volvo’s chassis heave, I realised there’d be no room for me to mend a puncture or make a quick getaway if necessary. This track hadn’t changed since the days of horse-drawn travel and, as I drove, keeping a wary eye on my rear-view mirror, I tried to imagine that last trip made by Maurits Ryjkel and his two grown-up sons. How both had been excused conscription to the Service D’Ordre Légionnaire on the grounds of producing wine for France and its occupiers further north. How some locals had been jealous of this exemption. Could this have been enough of a motive to remove them for ever? If so, little had that threesome known ...
*
With my window wound down, I picked out the sound of dogs barkin
g. A multitude of them, it seemed, as I negotiated a steep slope in second gear where at the bottom, the track became knee-high grass littered with the rusted skeletons of old machinery and the added hazard of half-sawn logs.
The hovel appeared in front of some wrecked old cabane and a heap of decades-dead vine roots. That same chimney smoke faltering. No telegraph wires either, I noticed, and I’d just engaged reverse gear to turn the car round when suddenly, as if from nowhere, three ginger-coloured hounds tore towards me. One butted my thighs with giant, muddy paws, while the others snarled yellow, hungry teeth.
“Aie, aie!” Came a high, grating voice. “Aie, aie!”
The animals duly slunk away and as I was brushing my even more stained jeans, an elderly couple who moved like the undead, took their place, drawing closer. Their skin crinkled as walnut shells. Their rheumy eyes flickering with suspicion. Both, like that cyclist seen earlier, were dressed in black. Both wore thin, old wedding rings. The man in particular, seemed worn out.
“Monsieur’dame Pastado?” I held out my right hand. They nodded, but neither took it, instead waved their walking sticks after their disappearing hounds. “I’m Geoffrey Lake, from London, Royaume Uni...” I continued. “My wife and I spotted your place from up there while we were out walking.” I pointed to the land behind. Sun and wind hitting my face.
“And?” barked the woman, sharp as an awl. Her grey hair caught in a bun on top of her head, while thin, greasy strands fell across her face.
“I know this sounds forward of me, but…”
Damn. That recent gunshot had seared into my brain. I was waiting for another.
“But?” She repeated, eyes narrowing.
“I’ve a passion for history - of this area especially. Would you by any chance
be willing to sell?” Again, I surveyed the scene. “It seems there’s an awful lot to do here.”
“Allez!” The man in an over-sized beret, waved that same stick at me. “Before he blows your brains out.”
The Nighthawk Page 5