The Nighthawk

by Sally Spedding

  Bugger…

  I straightened up to see the cook himself standing by the closed rear door, arms folded, his expression darkened by the sky above and not one I’d easily forget.

  “Just taking a look,” I said. “Nice car.”

  “What’s it to do with you, hein? Why not check your own?”

  “I’m just about to. And Mademoiselle Mannion’s.”

  He unfolded his arms.

  “So you’ve got an obsession?”

  “I guess so.” My forced grin seemed to fall on stony ground. “And a few others.”

  “Such as?”

  “Justice.”

  Those long, dark lashes blinked. That had surprised him.

  “Who for?”

  “Whoever deserves it. Especially getting Legal Aid for those on low incomes, and… “

  “What job was that then?” He interrupted.

  With a cold gut, I realised I’d never said. Neither, it would seem, had Martine nor their boss. I glanced upwards at the blackening sky, the pines and cypresses sashaying backwards and forwards making a wall of sound. There’s no CCTV coverage here, I thought. Be careful.

  Don’t trust Joel…

  “Citizens’ Advice. In my spare time,” I said. From what, I didn’t say. “It’s nationwide in the UK. Very rewarding, most days.”

  “Right.”

  I knew then he didn’t believe me. Perhaps he’d put pressure on his boss and Martine to fill him in. I could imagine the scenario.

  “Tell me a bit about Herman,” I ventured as he seemed reluctant to shift himself. As if he could intimidate me by simply being there. Giving nothing away.

  “For a start, he was gay.”

  Had he wrinkled his nose on that last word? Hard to tell.

  “Anything else?”

  “Does there have to be?”

  “Did you get on with him?”

  “Sure. We all did. One happy team. Ask Dr. Fürst.”

  “He may have been killed by someone he knew and trusted. Think of it. And somewhere, there’s a new pistol floating around. We wouldn’t want that getting into the wrong hands, would we?”

  “That why you’re here?” Eyeing me even more closely. “You’re some kind of flic, aren’t you?”

  “I want to help Dr. Fürst, and Herman of course.”

  “I wouldn’t if I was you. I’d get out.”

  Odd that, I thought. Another warning. I’d soon have to start listening. Or

  perhaps he was referring to himself...

  “About Herman.” I persisted. “Can you think of anything else.?”

  “No, except he was thinking of becoming a Jew, but his mother was totally against it, because of the way they’re still treated in France right now. You can’t blame her.”

  Dr. Fürst’s argument exactly.

  “And once upon a time, vigorously deported by the French themselves,” I added.

  He shrugged as if the past was nothing to do with him, but I’d read of the Vel’d’Hiver round-ups in Paris. How Nice was just one southern city which, with the help of local volunteers, had been very efficiently purged.

  “So, he was serious about it?”

  A nod.

  “Any idea what triggered this off?”

  Another shrug. “But every time we took a break here, he’d complain about his mother’s views. Religion’s a personal thing. You alone have to decide.”

  “Did you?”

  His mouth opened and shut as if he’d been caught out.

  “Course. I’d got no parents to hassle me. My time at the Abbaye Saint- Polycarpe was my own choice. I needed to achieve - I don’t know - a pure, ecstatic state, free of crap.”

  Strong words, I thought, recalling Martine describe him as ‘a nun.’ But there was no time to quiz him on the rest of his background. “To find God?” I said instead.

  “Not just find Him, be part of Him.”

  “And are you?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I’ve only just met you. I’m not psychic.”

  “But you’re on to me, yes?”

  “I’m asking questions of everyone, including Dr. Fürst. And here’s another one. Do you have a recent kitchen inventory? How many saucepans, knives etc. there are?”

  “I know what an inventory is, Monsieur. And the answer’s no.”

  “Something serious has happened. Dr. Fürst suggested I be the one to inform you.”

  “Of what?” Brushing raindrops from hair that had slipped over his left eye.

  “Herman’s head has been removed.”

  He stared at his car with an uncanny stillness. Planning a quick getaway, perhaps?

  “Not funny, Monsieur.”

  “I’m not trying to be. We don’t yet know where it is, and until we do, this stays between us four. Understood?”

  “Find the Evil Eye,” he muttered, and before I could ask what he’d meant, had

  slipped indoors without a sound. His trainers, I noticed, designed for silence with those thick, flexible soles. All the rage with young males when I’d left the UK. This character had more layers than an onion, but how long would it take to peel them away to discover his core? How risky would that be for the woman three floors up, and why was I focussing more on him than Martine Mannion?

  The Evil Eye?

  That cryptic parting shot still lurked in my mind as I turned my attention to the green Seat saloon, opening it with spare keys Karen Fürst had lent me. Although still dusty, with a withered pine cone being blown off its roof, the specially adapted interior was, judging by the clean mats, the tidy map holders and new air freshener that dangled over the dash, well-cared for. However, unlike what I’d found in its owner’s room, there was nothing more revealing. Not even his new Glock. Just a gut-pulling ache that he wouldn’t be sitting on those funky, patterned seats again.

  *

  As Martine’s central locking was still kaput, I ignored the rain and pushed her Saab’s boot upwards. Although the same grasses were still there, other items including that yellow cagoule, had been shoved into the darker area under the rear seats.

  Martine Mannion was untidy, that was all and, seconds later, as I stepped into the lift and pressed 3, I told myself to go easy on her and Joel, or risk non-co-operation. Instead, quiz their boss on her knowledge if any, of Dansac’s past, and the hydra-headed Suzman family.

  Chapter 16. Karen.

  2.55 p.m.

  With the Seat’s spare car keys safely back in my possession and John Lyon’s promise for an update on his morning visits lurking like some dark fish in the shadows, he asked to see my green file labelled PERSONNEL PROFILES. How could I refuse without appearing to have something or someone to hide? Impossible.

  Having already opened the section on Joel, he was making notes in that handy little pad of his. The writing more tense than for his graphology test when he’d first arrived here. His face too, especially the frown before he spoke.

  “Find the Evil Eye...”

  I blinked in surprise.

  “Pardon?”

  “Joel’s response when I explained about Herman’s missing head. It’s what that Jewish poem of his is about. Coincidence, eh?”

  “I have no idea. Perhaps he said it to annoy you. I mean, let’s be frank, there’s seems to be no love lost.”

  He continued to write, but I could tell he was dwelling on it. “Orphan, it says here. So, who were his guardians?”

  “Apparently, he went into care as a new-born baby, then as a teenager, stayed with a succession of friends until sitting the Bac. After that, in rented rooms before those three years at St. Polycarpe.”

  “You never saw his birth certificate?”

  Damn.

  “No. An impossible task to get hold of it in time, and I needed help here quickly. Even Herman’s had been mislaid.”

  He didn’t seem convinced, instead checked Martine’s background. That same frown still in place. I was tempted to ask him to investigate Girard Mannion for
child abuse, but later, not then.

  “On paper, a good family.” His sarcasm would normally have made me smile. “I knew types like her father who had ten letters after their names yet caused untold misery behind closed doors.”

  “Pavement angels, fireside devils?” Moeder’s favourite expression.

  “Exactly.” His finger rested on AEJ. “Does this outfit still exist?”

  “Doubt it. And I can’t really ask Martine as she’ll get nervous. She, Herman and Joel had all been unhappy at my having this kind of information, but jobs were and still are, scarce. End of story.”

  He dropped his hand into his jeans’ side pocket. “I found these grasses up by the car park in the Gorges de Salerne today, and even without a proper comparison with those still in the Saab’s boot, I’d say they were from quite a different source.”

  “Meaning?” My voice sharper than intended.

  “Not sure. But we keep this under our hats. OK?”

  “OK.”

  “By the way, where is he?”

  “Who?”

  “Joel, of course.”

  “In the kitchen, I expect. Where I pay him to be.”

  Immediately I locked the files away in my little safe, Martine herself came in to refill the morphine sac and those over my bed. John Lyon seemed distracted by this, and hesitated.

  “Time for an update like I said,” he glanced again at my replacement nurse as if about to ask her to leave, but she seemed far too absorbed in her tasks to be listening. He continued. “There’s no obvious evidence of frozen remains in freezer 2 or in Joel’s car. Why? Because both have been thoroughly cleaned. Tanguy’s garage on the Le Boulou road did the VW at 1.30 p.m. today. I’ve kept the receipt.”

  “Anything else?” Even though I didn’t want to hear it. Those trees planted outside Les Pins forty-seven years ago were suddenly too black. The sky too turbulent for a mid-April day. That earlier sun, just a tease...

  He eyed Martine once more as she checked the oxygen supply by my bed. “I’d prefer this to be private,” he said to her. “Given what’s happened.”

  “But I might be able to help.”

  “You’ve been very helpful already.”

  *

  With her gone, he drew up a chair next to mine. I liked his hands; solid, square with good nails. His smell too. But there was also a different one. Danger.

  “First, your pc. Is it up and running?” he asked. “Everything in order?”

  “Seems to be, although I’ve not had time to check what I’d saved on the hard

  drive. Private, personal things to do with Mas Camps. My life in paragraphs if you like.”

  “Make time, please. And sooner rather than later. So what’s been the problem?”

  “According to Joel’s ex-school friend who’s done the repair, it was certain words and phrases of mine that had caused the glitches.”

  “Weird. And this friend’s name?”

  “Max Heimlat.”

  “So he’s seen everything on it?”

  That edgy tone made me start.

  “He may have done. But what’s weird is how my memory stopped short of so much. I get glimpses of life at Mas Camps when I was small, but that’s it. A puzzle with too many pieces missing. Most of what I’ve recorded is based on what Moeder said years after we’d moved away. My life as a student and medical practitioner in the UK and Holland.”

  “No photographs?”

  “None. While packing up to leave Mas Camps, she noticed the few we’d had were missing. We searched everywhere.”

  He frowned. “Perhaps your fall is to blame.”

  Silence, in which his implication swelled in my mind like some demonic haematoma.

  “No-one’s mentioned that possibility because I suffered no head injury.”

  “And your emergency medical training? Did that cover memory loss?”

  “I dealt with physical trauma and appropriate procedures at the time. Not developments.”

  “Is it worth contacting your doctor in Rotterdam?”

  Nooit…

  “Not everyone is trustworthy.”

  “And me?”

  There came a short, welcome smile that didn’t need an answer.

  “We could take a look at your hard drive now,” he suggested. “And if there’s still a problem, I can drop by Tec Monde myself. Have you paid them yet?”

  “They’re sending a bill.” I turned my head the only way I could. Towards him. I suddenly needed a change of scene. His doggedness almost oppressive. “Your excursions,” I said, to take the heat off me. “How did you get on?”

  No prompting needed. I watched his lips as if they were the only lips in the world. He was all observation, all detached. No emotional add-ons as far as I could tell. Just facts. The concert, the Suzman clan. The dried grasses. When he stopped, my mind was on fire. Yet I felt something had been held back. I was right.

  “Dr. Fürst...” he began.

  “Karen, please...”

  “Tell me what you know about Dansac. Anything, however small, however trivial.”

  “That dump?”

  “Until we start digging properly, we’re going nowhere.”

  He waited like I imagine a midwife would wait, on full alert. Without the aid of extra oxygen, I took the deepest breath I could. “My parents never stopped there. We’d either take the trap into Saint-Antoine, or Vader might drive on to Villedieu, the next village, which boasted a Bureau de Poste. Oh, and apart from a fine church, it also had a football pitch and tennis courts.’”

  “I’m still waiting. You must have passed through Dansac quite a lot. Heard things; whispers, inuendos...”

  He didn’t look mad, but then how would I have known? When I’d first met Herman working as a nurse in a private clinic in Rotterdam, I’d thought too much was churning away behind that big forehead of his, and his eyes never seemed to blink. Nevertheless, he turned out to be the sanest, smartest, kindest guy on this planet.

  My instinct on this one needed more work.

  And then he delivered the Pastado’s bombshell. That we, the Ryjkels, suddenly got rich.

  Fuck them.

  “That’s absurd,” I countered.

  My B.P. had shot straight up. I needed it checked. He knew what to do and was less vicious than Martine when it came to pumping up the black snake around my upper arm. “They’re lying. Except for 1941, we’d had good harvests year on year, so Vader bought us a new Renault car. A grey 402 it was. A big deal at the time.”

  “I can imagine.”.

  “I remember when Moeder was negotiating the sale of Mas Camps, those Pastados kept fabricating faults with it, like subsidence, flooding risk, and that our vines were either diseased or soon would be.”

  “A common enough tactic where I come from,” he said, releasing my arm. My pressure level was still up, but gradually adjusting downwards. “And Exchange Day’s a common cue to beat your vendor down some more.”

  I’d seen the winks and nudges between that ugly man and his even uglier wife. The gloating, toothless smiles when Moeder, defeated, accepted their derisory offer. They even accompanied us to the Notaire’s to ensure I’d sign my permission for her to sell. Me, an eleven-year-old...

  “And something else...” he was speaking again. “They claimed that when you and your mother were on your own, you suffered threats. Were they written or verbal?”

  “More nonsense. Stupid old fools.”

  “Well, someone fancied taking a pop at me near your place.” He was as deadpan as if reporting the weather. As if being shot at was a normal occurrence. He’d been the cop. Not me. I kept my shock hidden and copied him.

  “Trigger-happy hillbillies, that’s all. Herman said so himself. You might have been mistaken for a wild boar.”

  “No. The Pastados reckoned someone called Francke Boussioux was responsible. Gone in the head after his son was murdered.” He paused. Studied me too closely.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “
They said he’d been found in the Bayrou. Shot in both eyes. Must have been at close range.”

  I felt sick. Of course. I’d forgotten all about the father and son from Les Cicadas. But it seemed my ordeal wasn’t over yet.

  “The old couple also mentioned L’Enfer de Dansac in the context of the last war. What could that mean? Think, please think, because I’m convinced Herman may have stumbled upon something very hidden, very secret there, and paid for it with his life.”

  At this point, Martine tapped on the door, and once inside my room, soon picked up on the tension. John Lyon meanwhile, let himself out. Too late to give him a gun, but I followed him with my eyes, willing him not to jeopardise my mission.

  “Before Mr. Lyon gets back,” I told her, “I want both you and Joel to dredge

  your knowledge of Dansac and its surroundings. Whether from personal experience or whatever’s reached your ears.”

  “Dansac? You’re joking.”

  “I’m not.”

  “OK. But it won’t be much. I avoid the place if I can.”

  Then I remembered my dead mother’s letters. The very last one. About a train...

  Chapter 17. John.

  The battle between the trees and the gale, made thinking almost impossible as I unlocked my Volvo in the security lights’ glare. Rain too, blown from the west, while from somewhere deep in the forest I heard the crack of some weakened trunk. Then another. The sighs as they fell.

  Tumult everywhere, and no good checking if those limestone pinnacles surrounding Les Pins were about to shed loose slabs of rock on to my Volvo’s roof. If my number was up, so be it. I’d left what little I had, to Carol. Who else?

  While short-cutting towards Le Boulou, via dusty, sprawling feldspar works, I rewound my last encounter with Joel. I’d dealt with enough savvy, good-looking guys in my time to know whom to trust and who not. Those I didn’t - even if they’d passed the lie detector test - took a turn in Room 6. ‘The Box,’ we’d called it. No windows, no heating or comforting tea and a single digestive. Just us and the smart-ass the other side of the bolted-down table who’d known his rights. Trying to trip us up. Solicitors hadn’t liked the set-up, but tough. It worked.

  I could visualise the cook there now, exercising his right to silence and, given his experience at the Abbey, he’d be expert in that. As I drove over a level crossing and drew near to Tanguy’s garage which also doubled as a Land Rover dealership, I resolved for as long as I was around here, not to let that slippery customer off the hook.