At one point she became aware of Luc on the bed beside her, lips touching her forehead, then Chloé coming in with her nature box. Silence again as she tumbled back through a whirl of shifting shapes, frames within frames, sinuous patterns slithering through an orchard, till she came to a bench where Wise Wally sat with a pipe of precious metal extracted from the sands of Cameroun. I want you to write a report...
‘Feeling better?’
‘Much. Heat fever, Luc says. Not drinking enough water. I’ve just drunk about ten gallons.’
Magali rolled her eyes. ‘There I am phoning my mum every hour to tell her to stay hydrated and you’re wasting away right in front of us.’
‘And what’s more, I’ve missed a whole morning’s precious observation for Plodder Praud.’
‘You missed Cyril too. Quite a spectacle. He arrived mid-morning looking as if he’d seen a ghost.’
‘He probably had, knowing Cyril.’
‘Volatile to say the least. He promptly had a row with Praud about the interviews, demanded a file on Escarola which Praud was supposed to get, and when Praud said he didn’t have it, he zoomed off. I think what upset him most was learning that Praud had recruited you. In his view it’s a trap. Praud’s only buttering you up – me as well as a consequence – because he’s understood Pico thinks highly of you.’
‘Quite possibly. But a trap? That’s paranoid.’
‘He says Praud won’t hesitate to denigrate you to Pico as soon as he gets the chance.’
‘Oh, dear.’ Sophie sighed. ‘Sounds like he still hasn’t got over the snub. I thought a night’s sleep might calm him down.’
‘I don’t want alarm you, but he looked more like he’d been up all night plotting revenge. Mind you, Praud’s almost as bad. When Cyril had gone he told Bondy that if Cyril was going to be like that, he could bloody well wait for his file.’
‘Oh god, it’s like Spy versus Spy. And somehow I’ve landed in the thick of it. Maybe Luc’s right – stick to something harmless. Like you.’
‘Speaking of which, I asked Cyril about the mysterious Viviane that Maya mentioned to you. Viviane Mevel – she was Maya’s dealer in Paris but she sold her gallery, which is why Maya had her paintings in L’Ophrys.’
‘She wanted to know if Cyril had got in touch with her.’
‘No, he hasn’t. Maya’s paintings don’t interest him – what he wants is a link to that mining scam in Cameroun. But he gave me her number, so I did. Guess who she sold the gallery to? Mickael Durvez.’
‘Er... Right.’ Sophie gave her a quizzical look. ‘Am I supposed to have heard of him?’
‘See what happens when you fall asleep? You wake up Sophie Van Winkle.’ She laughed. ‘It links to my Granet enquiry. Xavier got back to Luc – Mickael Durvez is the dealer the Borellys bought their picture from. But there’s an extra touch to the story I didn’t know about. Apparently, the Granet Museum initially thought the painting might have come from a theft which occurred some years previously – various paintings disappeared from the Zamini gallery in Marseille when it was under renovation. It’s still there, run by the daughter today. So I phoned them and got a list of the stolen paintings. Twelve, all from the early Provençal School: Granet, Guigou, Monticelli, stuff like that which no one has ever heard of, unless you’re a specialist. The paintings were never found.’
‘But if the one in Xavier’s parents’ house came from the theft, that would make it genuine, wouldn’t it?’
‘Right. It turned out it was a different one, so that was a bit of a dead end. But it’s partly what led the museum to decide theirs wasn’t genuine. I’m just getting the feeling it all links up somehow. Viviane, Durvez, Maya – the link there has to be Escarola. When I told Praud and Bondy, they questioned me quite closely. Bondy did anyway, so it must be relevant to his arson investigation. What I can’t make fit is Granet. The only connection there is Durvez, so the question is whether he’s dodgy or not. Apparently Viviane’s sale of the gallery was sudden, but I couldn’t draw her on the reason.’
‘Maya knows more than she’s letting on. Perhaps you could get more out of her than I did.’
‘No smoke without fire, anyway. Whether five thousand hectares of Sainte Victoire or a heap of leaves next door. All we need now is to get the full picture.’ Magali pressed the tips of her fingers together. ‘Preferably one that’s genuine.’
Chapter 29 Workshop Woe
By the time she’d showered, pumped, and satisfied the various demands of Chloé, Dorian and Tatty Fur, the guests were already gathering beneath the pergola for lunch. Penelope was being interviewed. Apart from Martin and Eddy, whose turns were yet to come, everyone else had been in, but nothing was revealed of what was said. Sophie had a quick word with Claire, who seemed vastly relieved. Her interview had been brief and she gave no details other than Praud’s reassuring remark that they had to ‘follow up every lead, however unlikely’. Apparently, he hadn’t said where the lead had come from. Sophie then spoke to Lyle, who gave away very little except that they’d focused on his movements on Sunday, when he’d been the first guest to arrive. Sophie gathered that they’d been especially interested in his conversations with Isadora and the Forsters.
All that, of course, was recorded on Praud’s dictaphone, as well as in his notebook, to which Sophie had no access. ‘Frustrating, maybe,’ said Magali when Sophie grumbled, ‘but only to be expected. He doesn’t want you running around on your own but nor does he want you at the heart of it. So he puts you somewhere out on the fringe. Observing.’
‘The best way to avoid frustration,’ Luc declared smugly, ‘is to not get involved in the first place.’
When Penelope emerged, she wore her habitual mask of bland politeness, with no sign of her true emotions visible. After a brief, whispered conversation with Martin, the pair of them sat side by side and the meal began.
A few minutes later, the two gendarmes appeared. ‘Bon appétit,’ said Praud.
‘If you’d like to join us,’ Adeline began, as if they were a pair of friendly hikers who happened to be walking past.
‘Thank you, but no. We’ll be getting sandwiches from Saint Abel.’ Not the done thing, you understand. ‘We’ll start again at two with Monsieur Best.’
‘Well,’ said Martin as the gendarmes walked away. ‘All over bar the shouting, is it? I hope you lot will come to my help when you hear them beating me up to extract a confession.’ When nobody answered, he went on, ‘No? So much for group solidarity. Though of course why should you? Hang him out to dry, that’s what you’re thinking. Whichever one of you did it must be rubbing their hands in glee.’ Again no answer other than the clink of cutlery and a few soft murmurs approving of the roasted red peppers with almond pesto. ‘Prime suspect. Top of the list. Well, it’s lonely at the top, you know. Doesn’t anyone want to swap? Claire? Or have they let you off the hook?’ Claire blushed deeply and shifted in her seat, but kept her head down, saying nothing. Taking pity perhaps, Martin switched to a less fragile target. ‘Eddy? How about it? I’m sure if we dig into your murky past, we can find a motive.’
Eddy laughed out loud. ‘You’re giving it your best, Best, full marks for that. But my advice is to work on it some more. The right sort of baloney can get you a long way in prison. Might even stop you getting buggered.’
‘Stop it!’ Adeline slammed her hands down on the table. ‘Can’t we behave like civilised human beings?’
‘Aw, spoiling your lunch, am I?’ Eddy put on an affected drawl. ‘We’re artists, darling, what do you expect?’ Then he became serious. ‘All right, the workshops. Are we ever going to get them?’
‘This afternoon.’ Adeline’s voice was cold. ‘As soon as the interviews are over.’
‘Good. At last.’ Eddy munched his food for a moment, then said, ‘I want the recipe.’
‘Very simple.’ Isadora was happy to oblige. ‘The secret’s in the olive oil. If you want to get –’
‘No. I’m asking Gareth. Seriously now,
how do I write a thriller? You must have done a bit of homework, surely. Come on. The recipe.’
Gareth glared at him, blinking. ‘There isn’t one.’
‘Bullshit. You’re not telling me those guys don’t know what they’re doing. Patterson. Sells by the bucket load. He’s got a recipe. What is it?’
‘Well, I suggest you read a few, study the –’
‘I have. Every time I take the plane. Tom Clancy, there’s another one. But hell, study them? I’m not at school anymore. You advertise this course as –’
‘All right!’ Gareth’s fist came down hard on the table, gripping his knife upright. ‘Straight after lunch, interviews or not. But I’m telling you now, it’s for everyone. Brainstorming just one person’s idea? No way.’
‘Ah, what the hell.’ Having had his fun, Eddy let it go. ‘At least the food’s good, mind. You know what? You should try giving cookery lessons instead.’
‘Ah, Madame Kiesser.’ Praud was consulting his notes at the foot of the stairs, his face a pale orange in the dim light of the lobby, the colour of cheese, Gouda perhaps. ‘How’s the observation coming on? Anything further on Best?’
Was there a hint of mockery? Perhaps he’d heard that she’d spent all morning asleep. ‘Not much to report. I’m not very good at it, perhaps. If I knew what I was looking for...’
‘Signs of stress. Erratic gestures. Anxiety.’
‘Right. I’ll see what I can do. With any luck, he’ll wet his pants.’
He drew back his head, glowering. But her poker face showed no mockery, and he let it pass. ‘He’s next up for an interview. We’ll see how it goes. He’ll be feeling the pressure.’
‘And Claire? Anything more on that note?’
‘We’ve asked the US Embassy to check their records. In the meantime, we’re working on the assumption that it was written by Best. As you said, writers make up stories.’
‘So my job’s over. If you get a confession, nothing more to observe.’
‘Everyone’s job will be over in that case, which is what we’re here for. But if not, you’ll carry on. Observation techniques, Madame Kiesser. Didn’t they cover that on your course?’ And addressing her a cursory nod, he returned to the interview room.
Penelope having gone upstairs with Martin straight after lunch, Sophie decided to take a few minutes in the Zenhouse. On opening the door, she saw Adeline lying on a mat, one leg bent towards her face, knee almost touching her nose. Sophie was about to tiptoe away when Adeline said, ‘You’re not disturbing. I did come here to try and relax but... Quite frankly, it’s impossible.’ She tapped her head. ‘It’s like Barnum’s Circus in here.’
‘I’m not surprised. With all this going on, the Dalai Lama himself would blow a fuse.’
Adeline sprang to her feet – a single, supple movement which had Sophie wishing she could trade in her body for another. ‘I just wish Eddy would lay off. Such a fucking pain!’
‘I think it’s more aimed at Maya. He wants her to know she made a mistake coming here.’
‘He wants to needle Gareth, that’s what.’ Adeline shook her head with an ill-humoured sigh. ‘OK, fair enough, Gareth’s not James Patterson. But he never claimed he was.’
‘It’s none of my business really, but Maya said he made his money from a hedge fund?’
Adeline leant against the window sill, folding her arms. ‘Originally from his father, who had a dotcom business which he sold at the right time. When it came to Gareth, he set up the hedge fund with a couple of partners but the financial world was never really his thing. He always wanted to write. And he does, which is more than can be said for Eddy. I’m not Picasso either, but it doesn’t prevent us being artists. They seem to think... You know, Gareth’s holding up very well in the circumstances.’
‘You must be regretting you ever started this.’
Adeline let out a puff of air. ‘Let’s hope we’ll be able to put it behind us soon.’ With a brave smile, she pushed herself off from the window sill. ‘I don’t feel up to running a proper workshop. But if you want, we can do something informal. I promised Chloé I’d help decorate her treasure box. That’s about all I can handle.’
‘That’s plenty, don’t worry. Whatever delights Chloé delights me.’
‘You’re an angel, Sophie, honestly. If only everyone was like you.’
Sophie had no idea what she’d done to deserve such a compliment, but she put on her best angelic smile. ‘Actually, I thought I’d sit in on the writing group, if that’s all right.’
Adeline arched her eyebrows. ‘A new vocation?’
‘Not really.’ Just a spot of observation. ‘Curiosity, I suppose. I’m not feeling inspired enough for anything else.’
‘Fine. I’m sure Gareth won’t mind.’ Adeline gave her a curious look and made her way to the studio.
The writers were gathering outside. Lyle, seated at the table with a notebook open in front of him; Eddy with his back to the table, smoking as he looked out over the garden; Isadora gazing up at the sky with a dreamy expression. Gareth was arranging bits of paper in a folder. ‘Joining us, Sophie? Excellent! We’ll just wait for Penelope, then get started.’
Eddy turned round, crushed his cigar on the flagstones, and took out a sheet of paper from his pocket. ‘Story time, eh, Forster?’ he said.
‘That’s the idea.’ Gareth kept his eyes averted, his voice neutral, as he continued his preparations.
‘Well, we’ve got one already, haven’t we?’ He held up the paper. ‘Perhaps you can account for this.’
‘I’m sorry?’
Eddy didn’t speak for several seconds. He seemed to be weighing his options, thinking his way through a difficult choice. ‘Martin?’ he said eventually. ‘Could be. He wants us all in the game, his little closed circle mystery. So now he needs us all to have a motive. But it’s game over for him in any case, so what would be the point?’ He shook his head, speaking to everyone now. ‘No, it’s not him. It’s our ever so attentive host, the bestselling author getting his revenge.’
Gareth’s jaw muscles set to working double time. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Maybe I asked for it. My dear wife tells me I’ve been behaving abominably. Brushed him up the wrong way, called his bluff. He doesn’t like that at all. But hell, I’m a businessman. I didn’t get where I am by letting people take me for a ride.’ He crumpled the paper and threw it at Gareth, not so much in anger as in scorn. The paper bounced off and landed on the ground. Gareth picked it up, read it and slid it to one side. ‘I repeat, I have no idea.’
As the two of them faced each other, the hostility thick and heavy in the heat of the afternoon, Sophie reached out and pulled the paper towards her.
Remember the fire on the Sainte Victoire? Well, the man who stood to gain knew exactly where to put his lit cigar. Advisable, Henri Seibel, not to blackmail him. RIP.
Chapter 30 Every Trick In The Book
Ten to three. The Café du Carrefour in Moudiret is no longer serving cooked meals, so Cyril settles for a pâté sandwich and a lager. The beer is insipid and the pâté tastes of something metallic with a hint of vomit thrown in. But he’s too preoccupied to complain so he sits munching mechanically, getting a grip on himself as he reviews the confusion of the last twenty-four hours. Tries to anyway, but the grip won’t hold; whatever he gets of himself drips between his fingers like slime. Do it! What did Auguste mean? Do what? Normally their conversations are clear. He can be cryptic at times, hide one meaning behind another, leaving Cyril to figure out for himself what the best course of action is, but there’s never been such a mystifying message as that. And it wasn’t advice but an order, bursting out with the force of a sudden terror surging up from nowhere in a nightmare.
He’s in a state. He’s been in a state since Pico dropped him, threw him away like yesterday’s news. He shouldn’t be, he knows that – a good gendarme is one who doesn’t let his emotions rule him. If Pico notices, he won’t hesitate to draw the obvious
conclusion: that Cyril can’t cope with being rejected, assigned to a secondary role, and therefore isn’t fit to be promoted. Because no matter how far you rise, there’ll always be someone above you to rub it in that you’re nothing, you’re worthless, someone to force you over the arm of a chair and thrash you till you bleed. A good gendarme is one who takes the rough with the smooth, but Cyril took enough rough to last a lifetime before even reaching his teens. Surely he can’t be expected to take any more?
He must keep himself under control. He managed all right last night. He went back early, and simply being with Gabrielle made everything right again. At one point she said he looked upset and asked him what the matter was, but he put it down to the heat, the complications of work, and she was too busy with her upcoming trip to pursue it. He didn’t mention Sophie, naturally. He didn’t mention the murder at all – no point bothering her with that, not when her mind was full of cousin Francky’s shoes and Aunt Ursula’s coffee machine. This morning they made love, the last time for three weeks, slow and soft and sweet, and he wanted it to last forever, wanted not to have to go back to Venturi.
He thinks about their honeymoon. They rented a chalet on a campsite by the coast and strolled to the beach at night and spoke about the future. Soon she’d graduate, and with the promotion he was confident of getting, they’d have a good, steady income. Once they were both settled in their careers, they could think about having a baby. There’s nothing wrong with his present post, but he knows he’s capable of better. He’s thinking of doing a degree in criminology. Gabrielle said he should. One day, she said, he’ll be right at the top, more respected even than General Pico, and she’d be there at his side, happy and proud to be married to such a man.
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