‘No, I...’ For a moment Claire was troubled, as if searching for a way out. ‘I just mean... My parents were in America when I was conceived. My mother told me. Why would she lie about that? In some hippie community, she said. What are they claiming? That Henri Seibel was there as well? I don’t get it!’
‘Neither do I. It seems preposterous, I grant you.’ And yet she couldn’t believe they’d fabricated such a story from nowhere. To what purpose? Just when it seemed they were closing in on Martin Best, they came out in front of everyone and accused Claire instead. Two very different shapes: dense, unwavering punching ball and delicate drooping flower, both claiming innocence. But while there were good grounds for suspecting Martin, there seemed to be no logic behind the case against Claire. ‘Look, I hope you don’t mind my asking, but when we went next door on Sunday and Seibel was ogling... something made you react the way you did. I mean, more than just some dirty old man in the bushes.’
Again she was disconcerted, but now the response was angrier. ‘You don’t believe me? Fine. If you want to side with them, go ahead. I only came in to apologise, I don’t expect –’
‘I’m not siding with anyone.’ She put out a hand, urging Claire not to leave. ‘I’m just trying to make sense of it.’
‘There’s nothing to make sense of!’ She buried her head in her hands, and her voice came out muffled. ‘My mother dies, for once in my life I splash out on something I want, and look what happens! Am I cursed or what?’
Sophie waited for the misery to pass, then handed her a Kleenex. ‘You didn’t get on well with your mother?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Just inferring from what you said. Splashing out.’
A moment of silence, then she gave a bitter laugh. ‘Oh, you don’t want to hear about the shitty life I’ve had, believe me.’
‘And your father?’
‘Assuming he wasn’t Seibel, you mean?’ For once there appeared a chink of humour, even if it was grim. ‘I don’t even know where he is. He could be dead for all I know. They never married, I grew up in a sect near Digne – well, till I was five anyway. My mother escaped, took me with her, and I never heard of him again. The sect got disbanded a few years later, I know that, but what happened to him, I’ve no idea.’
‘Well, I’m sure this will get sorted out. If you were conceived in America, there’ll be a trace in the embassy’s visa records. Not to mention the DNA from Seibel. And you have a right to know what their source of information was. In fact, I’ll ask myself. Not directly because... well, I don’t think Captain Praud would be likely to tell me, but I happen to know Captain Eveno. I’ll see if he can get hold of it. They can’t maintain an accusation without saying what it’s founded on.’
Sophie had stopped some way short of saying she believed Claire entirely, but even this little offer of support earned her a look of such gratitude that she couldn’t help thinking one thing at least was true: Claire’s life must have been shitty indeed.
Half an hour later, with the Doliprane working its effect, she overcame Luc’s objections to join the rest of the family for breakfast. In less than two minutes, all the other guests were there, as if afraid that another body might be found at the top of the garden, and any absence was risky. Eddy and Maya went out on the terrace with Claire; Martin and Penelope sat on their own in a corner. Pausing at Sophie’s table to say hello, Lyle apologised profusely when a drop of sweat fell from his forehead straight into her coffee. She said it didn’t matter but he fetched her another anyway, muttering again that working out in this heat was no fun at all.
‘I don’t know what he does,’ said Tatty, ‘but one thing’s for sure – it works. Have you seen his physique? I practically swooned!’
‘You’d better move quickly,’ said Sophie. ‘He’s going back to the States next week.’
‘A little too intellectual for me. Books, books all the time. I bet he never stops even in bed. Proust for the foreplay, Zola for the climax. Like making love to a university syllabus. Speaking of which’ – she reverted to her theatrical whisper – ‘guess who I saw in the Zenhouse after dinner? Adeline and Isadora.’
‘And what,’ asked Magali, ‘is the connection with making love to a syllabus?’
‘The syllabus, none. But love? Ah!’ She stretched out her hands, fingers splayed. ‘The vibes. They were sitting back-to-back. Or rather, should I say, snuggling. And from what I could see, very much enjoying it.’
‘Hang on, Tatty, what are you saying? Maybe they were just doing yoga.’
‘Maybe. But I’d love to have been part of it. I’d have offered to make it a threesome but they didn’t need me butting in at that stage. Still, it gave me ideas, more than Lyle, even. Magali? What do you say?’
‘Me?’ Magali spluttered into her coffee. ‘You’re not serious, Fernande.’
‘Of course I am. After all, it’s not as if you’re new to it.’
‘To yoga?’ Magali grinned. ‘No, I’ve done a bit.’
‘Now, don’t be coy, dear. You know what I mean. You and... what was her name? Charlotte.’
‘Tatty...’ Sophie shot her a warning frown: Charlotte Perle was the one topic Magali didn’t like to talk about.[i]
But Magali was saved from answering by the arrival of Captain Praud, who waited until the room was completely silent before saying, ‘Good morning, everyone. And thank you for your cooperation yesterday. It allowed us to make some very good progress. But we still have a few loose ends to tie up, so I kindly ask you to cooperate further, if you will. More interviews. We’ll see if we need everyone, but it’s best to assume we will. Starting at 8:30.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Ten minutes. But please don’t rush your breakfast. Ah, I see you’ve almost finished, Madame Kiesser. Perhaps we could start with you?’
Chapter 26 We Have A Crow
‘We got off on the wrong footing yesterday. I’d like to apologise.’
Captain Praud’s opening took her by surprise. What had prompted this change of heart? The aggressiveness of the day before was explained easily enough – she’d disobeyed his orders and gone next door with Cyril. But now he was all sweetness and light, as if he’d had a sudden conversion or discovered that it was a case of mistaken identity, and she wasn’t the person he thought.
She glanced at Bondy, but though he seemed less embarrassed than the day before, his features gave her no clue. Shaking her head, she said, ‘It’s for me to apologise. You had every right to be annoyed. I shouldn’t have done what I did.’
‘An independent streak. Nothing wrong with that, I always say.’ He held her gaze with a steady smile, then brought his hands together. ‘Good. All settled then. Though while we’re at it, perhaps you could also convey my apologies to Madame Rousseau. She mentioned yesterday she’s been looking into that painting below the stairs. Granet, or a copy anyway. I wouldn’t know, art isn’t my thing. I was probably a bit brusque, my mind was elsewhere. Please tell her I’m sorry, and if she finds out anything else, I’d be glad to hear it.’
‘I’ll let her know. Thank you.’
‘Now we had to take your fingerprints yesterday, naturally, but it goes without saying you’re not a suspect. On the contrary, you’re helping us identify the suspect.’
‘Helping? In what way?’
‘Well, as I understand it, you were helping already, questioning Thibault Seibel for example – a fine initiative – and I’m sure you had every intention of telling me about the stolen orchid, which may yet prove to be of interest. At this stage, we’re not ruling anything out. But it would be of greater benefit to everyone if your independent enquiries were made more official, shall we say, more part of our team work as a whole. How does that sound?’
‘It sounds perfect, Captain.’ Interfering reclassified as independent enquiry – what more could you ask for? ‘I’d be only too glad to help in any way I can.’
‘Excellent. Now, I gather Lieutenant Bondy has told you about the necklace Madame Best supposedly lo
st in the wood. Well, she admitted yesterday evening that she wasn’t even wearing it – the story was invented between the pair of them. She was wearing it, I gather, on Sunday evening without any problem, and a close examination of the clasp shows that it was broken or bent intentionally. She further admitted that Henri Seibel molested her, after which her husband went to remonstrate with him. But apart from acknowledging that, he admits to nothing. He still insists that Seibel was dead when he got there.’ He leant forward, fingers interlocking. ‘As you no doubt know, most murders are carried out by a member of the victim’s family. Not in this case – Thibault Seibel has accounted for his movements perfectly well. Which means we’re now convinced that the killer came from this house. Unfortunately, we’re not necessarily the best placed to find out who it is. We can ask questions, but people have their guard up. Not just the culprit – everyone. They probably let it down a bit when we’re not around, so if you quietly observe, who knows? You might spot something we don’t.’
‘I see.’ All that flattery for this? The intention now became clear: the saccharine words were a hollow trick to fob her off with the illusion of being useful. She tilted her head. ‘I just... observe?’
‘Discreetly, of course. No one’s to know about this. But I’m sure I can count on you not to go about it like a bull in a china shop. That’s our way – we hardly have a choice in the matter. No one here knows you’re a PI, am I right?’
‘Adeline knows. So Gareth too probably, and I dare say Isadora. But I told her my only concern here was the course. Mind you, that was before the murder so I don’t know what she thinks now.’
‘All the more reason for discretion.’
‘And specifically you want me to observe Martin Best.’
‘What’s your opinion of him?’
‘Extrovert. Bit of a know-all.’
She wondered if she ought to mention the marks on Penelope’s arm. Henri Seibel molested me. Was that what she’d told them? Perhaps showing the marks as proof? If so it was another fabrication – they could only have come from Martin. But Praud’s underhand manoeuvre made it an easy decision. Let him wait. Before saying anything about it, she’d speak to Penelope herself. An independent enquiry. ‘Nothing else really. I don’t suppose that’s of much help.’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘I believe he’s been treating this like something out of Agatha Christie, am I right?’
‘He’s a fan of hers, yes.’
‘Rather a strange attitude, wouldn’t you say? To treat a real murder like a novel? A bit of fun?’
‘Totally. But he’s a writer, so...’
‘Yes?’ The droopy eyebrow wriggled.
‘That’s what they do, isn’t it? Make up stories.’
‘I suppose so. But it could serve as a front. An elaborate sort of defence. Do you think he’d be capable of that?’
‘Difficult to say. I hardly know him.’
‘You’ve seen more of him then we have. Don’t worry, it’s only your impression. It doesn’t count as evidence.’
‘Well, from what I’ve seen of him, yes. Quite capable.’
‘There you go.’ He gave the table a pat of satisfaction. ‘Just the sort of observation we’re looking for.’ He stood up, offering his hand to shake. ‘Thank you, Madame Kiesser. I’m glad we understand each other now.’
Sophie stayed as she was, hands in her lap. ‘Just one question if you don’t mind.’ Since you weren’t going to tell me yourself.
He sat down again. ‘Yes?’
‘What’s all this about Seibel being Claire’s father?’
‘Ah.’ He gave an awkward smile. ‘You’ve been speaking to her.’
‘She came to me this morning. Very upset. In tears, in fact. She says you made it all up.’
‘We didn’t make anything up. He reached for the folder in front of him, drew out a sheet of paper in a plastic protector, and slid it towards her. ‘It was slipped under the door yesterday evening.’
Claire’s mother was raped by Henri Seibel. Claire is his daughter. She’s here to get revenge.
‘So there was something to it.’ Sophie gave it back, shaking her head in perplexity. ‘What does this mean?’
If anything, Praud’s perplexity seemed even greater than her own. For a moment he was silent, considering his response. ‘You’ve no doubt heard of the Grégory affair?’
‘Of course. Who hasn’t? The little boy who was tied up and thrown into a river.’
‘Some thirty years ago now. Still unsolved, unfortunately. A defining feature of that case was a number of accusations made in anonymous letters sent by someone who became known as The Crow.’ He tucked the sheet of paper back in its folder. ‘What does it mean? Quite simply, Madame Kiesser, that in Venturi View we have a crow.’
Chapter 27 Claire Bourane
July 22nd 2001
Freedom. So this was what it was like. Not in the sun or the breeze or the cars whooshing past, not in the here and now, the sights and sounds around her, the rumble of the motorway above, but in her destination. Where she would be and what she would be tomorrow. And the feeling inside of release, escape, step by step, turning around to face the traffic, thumb outstretched, hopeful smile begging to be rescued. This is what it was like to leave your life behind and be free forever.
She’d sneaked out this morning after breakfast, heart in her mouth, afraid the receptionist would ask her where she was going. But why would he? She was fourteen. Nothing more normal than a girl her age going out for a stroll. Nor would her mother notice, not till she emerged, and that would be hours. Up in her room with the latest, some beery, chain-smoking jerk called Jean-Louis, who burped all the time and resented Claire for being there.
They’d stopped for the night in Aix en Provence on their way to Tuscany. A holiday, so-called, as if they had jobs to get away from. Back in Toulouse the hangers-on and spongers would be having a holiday too, like they always did, drinking, smoking, fucking, and putting the world to rights with bullshit mumbled through a haze of dope. She had to step over them when she went to school, kick their clothes out of the way, clear their dirty dishes from the sink. Frankly, life had been better in the sect, though it must have had its downsides too. Bullies and pervs, her mother told her, I had to get you out of there. Claire didn’t know, she’d been too young to notice, but at least it hadn’t been squalid. A few years later there’d been an inheritance which her mother was now bent on throwing away, opening the house to whoever dropped in, playing the head of a sect herself, but one without any rules.
Some of the drifters were nice to her. A few months ago there’d been an Australian, Nick, who helped with her schoolwork and taught her how to draw. He was from Sydney, where he’d played in a band called Space Debris. That was all she knew, but she had a passport and two hundred francs filched from her mother’s purse, and the destination was freedom. She’d looked at a map of France, then of Europe, then the world. Sydney was a long way away but she’d get there. Steal if she had to, sleep rough. Or work in restaurants, pick fruit, whatever. And people would help her, people would be kind because it wasn’t all bad, there were kind people in the world. Why, here already – barely on the edge of town, and two kindly souls stopping to ask where she was heading. Nice, she said. Well, that’s a long way, they said, and she laughed and said it was nothing, she was on her way to Sydney. ‘We can’t take you that far,’ said the driver, ‘but a little way down the road. Hop in.’ He had a thin face and curly black hair and she thought he looked like a pop singer.
She got in the back. ‘Sydney,’ said the driver. ‘All on your own like that? No luggage? Not even a rucksack. Are you running away?’
‘I’m going to stay with my cousin in Nice,’ said Claire.
‘You said Sydney.’
‘It was a joke,’ she said. ‘I’m going to stay with my cousin.’
‘How old are you?’ asked the other, turning round, and she couldn’t help gasping at the sight of a big purple blotch down the side of
his face.
‘Seventeen,’ she said, and he grinned.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Claire Bourane.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Claire,’ he said. ‘My name’s Athos. And this here is Porthos.’ The two men laughed and he faced the front again.
A few miles out of Aix they turned off the motorway. ‘It takes a little longer this way,’ said the pop singer, ‘but there aren’t any toll booths. And it’s prettier.’
‘See that ahead?’ said the one with the blotch. ‘That’s the Sainte Victoire. Very famous. Do you know Cézanne, Claire?’
‘A bit.’
‘He painted that loads of times. Dozens. Well worth a visit if you’re not in any hurry to get to Sydney.’
When they turned up a track, Claire said she wanted to get out. ‘Sure,’ said the pop singer as they stopped in a clearing. ‘We’ve arrived in any case.’
‘Don’t worry, pet,’ said the other one, purple looming large in front of her. ‘Just the two of us. Aramis isn’t here.’
Freedom. A whole continent, vast and warm and beautiful. She turned her eyes to the sky and imagined debris in space.
It was late afternoon before she finally made it back to the hotel. Her mother was furious. ‘We’ve been going frantic. I was about to call the police.’
‘Why didn’t you?’
‘We thought you’d come back. Which you have.’
‘You can still call them.’
‘What for? Since you’re back.’
When Claire told her, she stared with a bewildered expression, saying nothing. Then she fished out a cigarette and said, ‘Dressed like that, what the bloody hell did you expect?’
Jean-Louis took another swig of beer and burped.
Chapter 28 Grasping For Granet
After giving Magali a brief account of her talk with Captain Praud, and knowing full well that he expected nothing of any consequence from her, Sophie had no compunction in beginning her ‘observation’ by climbing back into bed and falling asleep. At least her body did, while her mind slipped into a semi-conscious state of fever and fatigue, where weird thoughts and images hovered like fantastical fish in an ocean trough, staring blankly as they loomed into her vision, then slowly drifting away. A bubble emerged from Tyson’s gaping mouth and turned into one of Dali’s melting clocks, draped over the bench. ... a matter of minutes ... ninety seconds to walk up the path ... anyone could have done it ...
Painter Palaver Page 16