The Nighthawk

by Sally Spedding

  “The name of this girl at the café?” I persisted. “Can you remember it? And do the initials SB mean anything to you?”

  “SB?” She repeated, studying her hands. “Yes. Now I remember. Sophie Blumenthal, that’s it. A parasite with a capital P.”

  “Got to be Jewish with a surname like that,” added Martine while I, with a quickening pulse recorded it and Karen’s harsh reference to her, in my replacement notebook.

  The plot thickens...

  “Christian wouldn’t have had a problem with that,” Karen put her in her place. “None of us would have.”

  “Did Joop and Christian have other ambitions beyond Mas Camps?” I

  ventured.

  “Well, the MBF - Militär Befehlshaber in Frankreich - was always looking for willing helpers. I overheard Christian mention it and the money he’d make if he’d joined, but Joop...”

  “Go on.”

  “You couldn’t stand him, could you?” Martine accused, still smarting. “I can tell.”

  Karen tried twisting round to respond, but sudden pain defeated her.

  “Please go and check there’s enough milk for the week,” she suggested, still wincing. “If not, try the épicerie by the Hôtel de Ville. Ten minutes, hein? Oh, and don’t forget to pick up any post.”

  *

  I waited until the door shut behind her, then turned to her. “You were saying about Joop...”

  She closed her eyes again. In my former job, I’d seen parents who’d lost custody cases and then their kids to murder, but the one tear coming from the woman next to me, clinging to life and her shifting memories, just then, represented double their grief.

  “He branded Christian an atheist traitor, who then called him a ‘Pope lover’ because he’d become a Catholic. So Joop knocked him out, then spat in his face,”

  And she, a child looking on.

  “What about your father? Was he content with life? He’d not always worked the land, had he?”

  She hesitated. “No. And for him to quit a pensionable job in Holland for nature’s whims in the middle of nowhere, must have been quite a leap, but he and Moeder wanted a good, safe life for us. Apart from the 1941 harvest, our domaine was one of the most productive...”

  Karen was about to add more, when her telephone rang. A familiar code appeared, and when she picked up the receiver, Thea Oudekerk this time, was shouting.

  “I speak to my son now or I’m coming over to you myself! Understood?”

  A fearful Karen glanced at me.

  “He’s just gone out to buy some more catheter bags. I’ll get him to call you back when...”

  “Liar! Liar! Liar!”

  In the black hole of silence that followed, we again stared at each other.

  “She won’t give up,” I stood to place a hand on her shaking shoulder. “You know that.”

  Rain on the round window the only sound.

  *

  The morning was slipping away, with people I still had to see and places to go.

  “Wait.”

  Karen pulled her handbag towards her. Bright red, matching those stilettos she’d insisted on wearing earlier instead of her trainers.

  “You might like to see both photos of me and Maja at that three-day event, and the envelope used to send them here. I’d really value your opinion.”

  “When did they arrive?”

  “The day after I moved in. Weird, isn’t it?”

  She scrabbled around inside the bag’s various compartments, growing ever more impatient, until she stopped.

  “Voilà.”

  I held my breath. Given that both were almost seventeen years’old, their focus was still sharp, the colours surreal. The first image showed a glossy, chestnut mare with a plaited mane, carrying a blonde, slim-thighed female over a high, wooden fence bordered by two palm trees in patterned pots.

  However, the second photo told quite a different story, with both casualties heaped together on the dry grass. A hatless Karen lay pinned under her mare whose legs jutted out in all directions. I turned away, only to notice her gaze fixed on me, waiting for my reaction.

  “How awful…”

  “I was lucky to survive. She didn’t.”

  “Who else has seen these?”

  “Herman of course, and Joel and Martine. Only yesterday she and I were taking another look.”

  “What the hell went wrong?”

  “Didn’t I explain before? A spectator who deliberately flashed a torch in front of Maja as she faced that jump, took the photos and was sick enough to send them here as a souvenir.”

  “Any message? Postmark?”

  “Nothing. But weirdly, the envelope had a Dutch first-class stamp.” She looked at me with those fine but sorrowful eyes. “I wish now I’d kept it because my Rotterdam address was also handwritten. And no, I still don’t recognise the writing.”

  I sensed a black tide moving in. Trickle by trickle. Wave by wave, licking my boots, my legs as I handed thse photos back, scooped up her tapes and the rest, then planted a kiss on the top of her head. Her hair which hadn’t got as wet as mine, smelt of summer.

  She flinched imperceptibly.

  “So, it’s me and Martine on our own?”.

  “Not for long. Just act normally with her. Appear to be grateful. She seems to like that. I’ll call you every half hour, promise.”

  “Take my personal pistol.”

  “No. You might need it.”

  That sudden streak of terror in her eyes, the way she followed me to the door in her wheelchair, pleading for me to stay, almost made me change my mind.

  *

  I then dug out Robert Taillot’s businesss card, but the ex-Lieutenant wasn’t at home. I left a brief message, and when finished, let the phone booth’s door bang shut behind me, too busy wondering yet again where in God’s name was Herman Oudekerk’s head, and how on earth could I search any other premises or property without an official Warrant?

  And then, a faint buzzing sound I’d already noticed outside, began to increase. I glanced up to see a microlight aircraft hovering like some large gnat against the clouds, before scooting away down the valley, towards the Mediterranean.

  Chapter 33. Karen.

  Could I have stopped John going? I asked myself. No. He’d stood by my door as if his mouth wasn’t hurting at all, or those red-raw patches on his cheeks, his lips and around his eyes weren’t stinging…

  Just like Joop did each Sunday morning - a terrier with a bone - his precious Church calling. And if I was at risk here, it was all my fault.

  Then there was Herman’s mother. Normally, I’d have flung these doors open wide for the flics, the whole judicial process, but that would spell the end of any privacy for myself and John to solve my Mas Camps mystery. And if that elusive truth, as he seemed to think, somehow caused her son’s death, then Mevrouw Oudekerk would have to be fobbed off until May 9th. My deadline.

  I did try calling her back but the line was busy.

  “Bet she’s spilling to the Fuzz,” said Martine suddenly returned from her errands, catching me unawares. “We’ve plenty of milk now, by the way. Oh, and I called into the Bureau de Poste, just in case. One item.” She handed me a white, oblong envelope with its address and my Box number on the front. Stamped in Perpignan, dated yesterday.

  She waited while I opened it and read on the plain postcard enclosed, my Dutch name followed by a short note in typed, block capitals.

  YOUR PERSONAL INVITATION TO LA CHASSE.

  ADVANCED NOTIFICATION.

  La Chasse? What the Hell did that mean? No date, place or time either…

  Martine cocked her head.

  “Something up?

  The sender knew my Box Number.

  Having stuffed the postcard back into its envelope, I buried it deep inside my handbag. “Monsieur Lyon’s not getting enough sleep. I’m worried about him driving too much,” was my reply.

  “We’ve something he could take for that. You know what I mean.” />
  I did

  “Perhaps tonight, then.”

  *

  Next came a funeral cortège winding past the gates like a slow, black eel, making me shiver inside my warm track suit. Again, I checked through my bag, surreptitiously placing my Spreewerk 38 handgun near the front. The one whose serial number I’d recently filed down. I’d planned the same for my others, but too late.

  “Something missing?” asked Martine, coming closer.

  “One of my files. More a nuisance than anything.”

  “Spooks.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She did her disappointed act. But not for long.

  “Whose file?” She peered at herself in my mirror. Her black eyes sliding over in my direction. John’s advice on gratitude had flown with him.

  “Yours.”

  Those fearsome eyes grew large.

  “Never. Let me see.”

  I moved my wheelchair to obstruct the drawer. This is my room, my house, remember?”

  She didn’t like that. Be careful, I told myself. She’s young and strong...

  “Why not ask the Anglais. He’s been in here too. Setting you against me, isn’t he? Bit by bit... What else has he said?”

  “Nothing. He likes you. Admires how you’ve stepped into Herman’s shoes. After all, there’s his twenty francs to prove it.”

  That seemed to work. For the time being at least. She poured me another fruit juice, this time from the dispenser. Pineapple, my favourite. Less acidic than grapefruit which made my bladder sting. She brought it over.

  “I think we need Plan B,” she sat in the chair John had just vacated.

  “Which is?”

  “I dump Herman’s car and, if his mother shows, I’ll suddenly remember how he’d wanted to visit Israel.”

  “Israel?”

  What a cunning piece of work she was, and how easily she manipulated me with her moods. She was indeed a true gardener, planting autumn’s bulbs and summer’s seeds in optimum conditions for optimum growth.

  Re-filling my glass, checking on my hair clasp, she spoke in a low, conspiratorial tone...

  “Now we’re on our own, I’d really like us to re-visit Mas Camps again. Theoretically, I mean. Its simmering tensions, its jealousies and more than

  anything,” she paused to take a breath. “The bloody cash.”

  Goede God…

  “Cash?” I swallowed my drink too quickly, and she patted my back, while ‘dead meat... dead meat… dead meat…’echoed in my mind.

  “I don’t know what on earth you mean?”

  “The root of all evil. Herman said he’d learnt of it from someone on his travels, but can I remember the name? Four million francs it was. I’m not joking.”

  No point in reprimanding her for swearing. My own head was still too full of curses as she prattled on.

  “He’d heard that amount had landed somewhere in your vineyards on the night of October 7th 1942 Resistance funds never collected.”

  My pineapple juice tasted like bile. I set down my half-empty glass.

  “Why didn’t Herman tell me that himself? And who was it told him? This is vital.”

  “I said, I can’t remember. Anyway, perhaps he needed more proof.”

  Another shiver. Something had changed. She was too close. Her body odour getting stronger, but was it fear radiating from her like the fishy chill from an opened fridge? Or power?

  “If true,” she pressed on, “no wonder the Pastados labelled you Ryjkels rich. I bet they weren’t the only ones. It’s weird you’ve never mentioned it.”

  ‘You Ryjkels?’ How dare she?

  “And someone else thinks you’re rich now. Think about it? Monsieur Lyon’s been attacked twice. Joel’s vanished into thin air, Herman dismembered.” She gave me an accusing stare. “Will I be next?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We must trust Monsieur Lyon will soon get a result.”

  “Well, I can’t.”

  “Please explain.”

  “I’m stuck here like some some rat in a trap. Don’t get me wrong, Dr. Fürst. I’ve had no problem seeing to you and I appreciate the pay rise. I feel bloody sorry for you, actually, but we’re just pissing in the wind. And I’m too nervous to take you out anywhere like I used to. In case...”

  “I was fine earlier this morning with John Lyon, thank you.”

  I tried ignoring her smell, the angry blotches on her cheeks. I knew where this was leading, but I’d never grovelled in my life, and didn’t intend starting then.

  “Anyway, in case of what?” I challenged her.

  “I don’t need to spell it out, Dr. Fürst. But Herman had no choice. You made

  him vulnerable, and he’s paid for it. Big time.” She looked down; chewed what remained of her nails.

  “You egged him on, Martine. He had to impress you. I heard him.”

  “You as well, remember?”

  “Rubbish!”

  “As his employer, I’d have gone straight to Capitaine Serrado in the Avenue Aragon and demanded to be given protection. Yes, protection. Then Herman’s poor mother could at least start to grieve.”

  Martine’s words had hit me like iron hailstones. Where was my defence now? I began wheezing badly. “Get me oxygen, quickly!”

  She ignored my request. Night had come too early to Les Pins because its security lights were already on. I wheeled myself over to the pair of tubes I needed, slotted them up my nostrils and flicked the switch. Their cool, sweet air helped calm me down. But not for long. She was speaking again.

  “Supposing the Anglais goes behind our backs and gets blood, fingerprints etcetera analysed? Drags all possible suspects in Herman’s death up in front of the Examining Magistrate?”

  “That’s enough! Get out.”

  “The trouble with you is,” Martine glared down at me, hands on those fearsome hips, “your agenda’s more important than looking after me, or whether or not Joel’s in trouble. Wise up, Doctor Fürst. End of fucking story.”

  She began walking away. Defiantly, knowing I was stuck in that chair. Stuck in that life...

  “My old rifle?” I queried. “Where is it?”

  “In my room. You might well need it.”

  “Your keys, if you don’t mind. Not that they’ll be any use now. Nor the new alarm code. It’s a matter of principle.”

  “Principle? You? You fucking fraud!” She turned to fling them at my feet, and after the slamming of doors, the stomp of her boots on the tiles fading away, I was alone, but not quite. She knew far more about me than John Lyon. I’d let the balance tip her way all along. And what would she do with it? That was the question I could torment myself with. Common, damaged failure that she was.

  Chapter 34. John.

  A premature darkness enveloped the Volvo as I navigated pools of surface water and the slushy, dirty residue of the weekend’s snow. Tailgated by juggernauts filling the sky behind me with black spray, I followed signs for Foix and, with no reply from Les Pins when I’d called from a phone booth in Lavelenet, I imagined the duplicitous Martine Mannion attending to her employer, especilly in the bathroom. I left a message promising to be back by the early afternoon. I also suggested she try and relax.

  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 wa
s 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.”