The skid shocked him, and he fought to control it, but the front tire clipped the curb – and after that he knew what was coming.
The Ducati mounted the pavement, and in the glare of its headlamp, Chauvin saw a low wall of sand, saw it spray to either side like clouds of shimmering moths’ wings, and he heard a horn blaring, brakes squealing—
‘Catherine!’
He screamed her name because here it came – here it came – and it felt OK, was the way it had to be, and maybe now, maybe after all he might get to see her, the real Grace.
He started to sing ‘Grace Kelly’ again, one last time.
One phrase in, the Ducati smashed into a tree, and Thomas Chauvin flew away, propelled into the blackness of forest and night, and it didn’t hurt at all, he was really flying.
And then there was landing, and absolute darkness descending.
And silence.
‘Jesus!’ Sam said.
‘Fuck,’ Gabe said, staring, horrified.
Jac Noël said nothing, just took the Freelander on along the road, edged carefully past the Golf and the truck, both stationary, people getting out.
‘What are you doing?’ Gabe said.
‘Jac, we have to stop,’ Sam said.
‘Be calm.’ Noël drove around the next curve, then pulled over, turned on his hazard lights again. ‘Wait.’ He laid a hand on Sam’s left arm. ‘You have to stay in the car.’ He looked back at Gabe. ‘You too. You still have blood on your T-shirt. I’ll go.’
‘I can’t just sit,’ Sam said.
‘You must.’
Noël got out, walked back to the spot where a third vehicle had pulled over and three men and two women were now gathered, all peering, exchanging grim words, one of the women on her phone, reporting the accident, saying that two men had climbed down to help. Looking over the edge, Noël saw that one held a flashlight, and in its beam he saw a man lying prone on the hill, another man on his knees beside him.
‘Ou est le moto?’ the second woman on the road asked the man beside her.
‘Là,’ he said tersely, and pointed.
Noël looked, saw, in the moonlight, the smashed remains of the Ducati, saw that Chauvin and the machine were a distance apart and knew, before the men began to make their way back up the slope, one on his phone, the other man shaking his head.
‘Mort,’ he heard a man say, and the woman on the phone passed on the information.
‘Trop vite.’ A man to Noël’s right sighed.
‘Tous fous, ces motards,’ the second woman said.
Noël muttered something, shook his head, turned and walked slowly back around the bend to the Freelander, got in and locked the doors.
‘He’s dead.’ He turned off the hazard lights, started the engine.
‘Are you sure?’ Sam felt surreal, out of control.
‘Ninety per cent.’ Noël checked his mirrors, signaled and moved off.
‘What are you doing?’ Gabe demanded again.
‘I didn’t get close.’ Noël was calm. ‘I saw him from the road, but two men went down, came back and told the others he was dead.’ He looked in the rearview. ‘There’s nothing we can do. There are seven people on the scene, it’s been reported, there are no cameras to say we were here, and we were not involved.’
‘Of course we were fucking involved,’ Gabe said. ‘He was riding my bike.’
‘Which he had stolen, and which you will be reporting as soon as we have our story straight.’
Sam was listening, but remembering Chauvin’s vacation rental papered with photographs of Cathy and Grace, and though he felt real sadness at the death of a young man, the greater part of his thoughts were already with his daughter, fearing her reaction.
‘What story?’ Gabe’s voice was disbelieving.
‘Number one,’ Noël said, ‘we need to get away from here. Cathy’s not hurt, thank God, and you, my friend’ – he glanced at Sam – ‘don’t need to get snarled up in all kinds of bad legal shit in another country, am I right?’
‘You’re not wrong,’ Sam said, his conscience telling him the opposite.
‘We were chasing him,’ Gabe said.
‘We were not chasing him,’ Noël insisted. ‘We were never right behind him. We played no part in the accident. We did not force him to ride faster than was safe, and we definitely did not cause him to lose control.’ He paused. ‘Sam, I hardly know your daughter, but after all she’s been through, do you think she needs an unpleasant, long-drawn-out investigation? Surely she needs to recover and put it behind her?’
Sam stared at the dark road ahead, thoughts jamming his shocked, exhausted brain, aware that this was wrong on many levels but knowing at the same time that Noël was right. Three Americans and a PI versus one mentally ill Frenchman. No guarantee of a good outcome, certainly not an easy or straightforward one.
‘I’d have to ask Cathy,’ he said, ‘but I know which I’d choose.’
‘The guy is dead.’ Gabe was badly shaken. ‘I hated him for what he did to Cathy, but he was sick. He didn’t deserve to die.’
‘Of course not.’ Sam turned in his seat. ‘But he’s dead because he stole your bike and rode it recklessly.’
‘Not forgetting abduction, imprisonment and stabbing,’ Noël said briskly. ‘None of which – if you ask me – the cops need to know about.’
The sound of sirens chilled them all, coming closer.
‘They may already know,’ Sam said.
‘Not if Nic’s had anything to do with it.’ Noël paused. ‘We’re going to need a cover story.’
‘What we need,’ Sam said, ‘is to get back to the house.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Noël said. ‘Nic can get Cathy out of there, get the door fixed.’
‘I’m going back to her,’ Gabe said. ‘I’ll walk if I have to.’
‘There’s no guarantee we’ll be able to cover this whole thing up,’ Sam said. ‘Neighbors might have heard me kick the door in.’
‘Just a little bang,’ Noël said. ‘No shots fired.’
‘Doesn’t mean they didn’t call it in,’ Sam said.
The sirens pierced the air and two emergency vehicles flashed by at high speed.
‘I think we might get lucky.’ Noël leaned across and opened the glove box, pulled out a flat sealed plastic bag. ‘Clean T-shirt for you, Gabe. Put the stained one in the bag and give it to me. I’ll deal with it.’
‘Maybe I’d rather deal with it myself,’ Gabe said.
Sam glanced at him, saw his tension and understood his anger, even if it was being directed at the wrong man.
The right man beyond anger now.
Justice self-administered.
Maybe that was what Chauvin had intended at the end.
‘I’m going to tell Nic we’re on our way back.’ Noël paused. ‘I’m guessing you both want to be with Cathy when she hears about Chauvin.’
‘For sure,’ Sam said.
‘And then we can all agree on the same story,’ Noël said.
‘Whatever,’ Gabe said.
‘Makes sense,’ Sam said.
And shut his eyes.
June 20
Cathy had wept when she’d learned of Chauvin’s death.
‘How can I cry for him, after all he did?’ she’d said, bewildered.
‘I think I’d be more troubled if you didn’t feel for him,’ Sam had said.
‘The guy was a total headcase,’ Gabe said, ‘but he loved you.’
They were all still at the house in the early hours of Thursday, Noël continuing the work Nic had already begun, starting with the door repair, a ‘safe’ repairman fixing the wood and putting in a new lock, which the owners would presumably believe their tenant, the late Thomas Chauvin, had installed.
‘What can I do?’ Sam asked Nic.
‘Take care of your daughter. Leave the rest to us.’
The ‘rest’ including photographing, then obliterating from the scene all evidence of crimes committed. Keeping certai
n items, in case the truth emerged. The Falcon knife found in the back garden, dropped by Chauvin when he jumped, photographed and bagged, along with the cord and tape used to bind Cathy and gag Gabe; and Sam believed Jones when he said that Noël had ways and means of safeguarding as well as disposing of key things, depending on the outcome.
He was getting that surreal sensation again, unused to being out of control at a crime scene, yet finding it almost comforting right now to sit back and let others take charge.
Their territory, after all.
He’d wondered, briefly, how he felt about Cathy working for a man as complex and secretive as Nic Jones. Had decided that, given what that man had just gone through for his daughter, he felt just fine about it.
‘Have we even apologized to you for that debacle at the restaurant?’ Nic asked Gabe suddenly, in the midst of things.
‘Not yet,’ Gabe said. ‘Not that it matters a damn.’
‘Did Jeanne get a chance to tell you Michel Mont was responsible?’
Gabe shook his head.
Cathy remembered the young Parisian waiter, recalled him complaining, as several others had, about being treated like suspects during the long night after the poisonings.
‘He did all those things?’ She felt baffled. ‘Why?’
‘Mostly for money,’ Nic said. ‘Paid by a guy who’s not my greatest fan.’ He looked back at Gabe. ‘I’m deeply sorry. I hope you’ll let us make it up to you.’
‘No need,’ Gabe said. ‘It was a bad scene.’
‘Mont’s being prosecuted,’ Nic told them. ‘I had no choice this time, with clients being harmed.’ He shook his head. ‘More than enough police involvement for me.’
‘Cops not your favorite people?’ Sam said.
Nic smiled. ‘Let’s say we’ve had our moments.’
Which did not, having witnessed him and Noël in action, greatly surprise Sam.
Cathy’s wrists were bruised, she was exhausted, and the trauma might come back to bite her at a later date, but she’d come through relatively unscathed. Noël had photographed Gabe’s shoulder wound before cleaning and dressing it, but insisted that a doctor look at it.
‘Another friend,’ he said. ‘Will you be at Cathy’s?’
‘What I’d like,’ Cathy said, ‘is to book us all into the Radisson Blu. There’s no room for my dad at my place, and the hotel’s so close to Le Rêve, and’ – she smiled at Sam –‘you’re going to have to get some sleep before you fall down.’
‘Maybe you and Sam would rather be alone?’ Gabe asked.
‘After you risked your life to save my daughter?’ Sam said. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘I made things worse, not better,’ Gabe said.
‘You were here with me,’ Cathy said. ‘Better doesn’t begin to describe that.’
Another dawn had arrived by the time they got back to the restaurant, Sam standing back again, observing the warm embraces between his daughter, Luc and Jeanne Darroze.
Everyone fit to drop, but all singing from the same hymn sheet.
The cover-up version.
No one but those present ever to learn what had happened.
The ceiling crawlspace photographed again, including Chauvin’s belongings, then carefully removed by Noël.
Gabe’s story – soon to be reported to the police – would be that he’d left his Ducati in the rue de la Rampe some time Tuesday afternoon and had gone for a stroll. He’d gotten talking to a bunch of tourists, shared several bottles of wine with them and taken the bus back to his apartment in Golfe-Juan, where he’d spent all of Wednesday.
It was only when he’d come to Le Rêve this morning because he’d had a call about a vandalism issue, that he’d discovered that the bike – and his Ducati black key – were missing, the assumption being that someone had seen him leaving the bike, had followed and picked his pocket.
‘What if someone saw Gabe ride the bike away?’ Cathy asked.
‘Then he’ll say he came back again after that,’ Nic said. ‘Got the time frame wrong.’
‘What if they saw me break the window?’ Gabe said.
‘I think they’d have come forward by now,’ Jeanne said.
‘Probably,’ Gabe said.
‘Just focus on the story,’ Nic told Gabe.
‘Which is that I’m a careless drunk.’
‘You drank and chose not to ride your bike,’ Noël said. ‘Responsible.’
‘And soon, the cops will inform you that the thief met with a fatal accident, and that your Monster is a write-off,’ Nic said.
The dead man almost forgotten, it seemed to Gabe, in the concoction of a lie.
‘I’m not sure I’m a natural liar,’ he said.
‘Me neither,’ Cathy said.
‘Seems to me,’ Sam said slowly, ‘this lie’s as much for Chauvin’s family’s sake as it is ours. If their son hadn’t crashed Gabe’s bike, he’d be facing a long jail sentence.’
‘And we’d all have to testify.’ Gabe sounded brittle. ‘Which makes his death kind of convenient, doesn’t it?’
‘His death is tragic,’ Sam said. ‘His whole obsessive young life seems tragic to me.’
‘Oh, God.’ Cathy covered her face with her hands. ‘I hadn’t even thought about his parents. How selfish am I?’
‘You’re exhausted and traumatized,’ Sam said. ‘I think you can let yourself off that guilt trip.’
‘I wonder if they even know yet,’ Gabe said.
The morning seemed to darken.
‘I’ve been worrying that Chauvin might have had a photo of Cathy on him,’ Sam said to Grace two hours later, calling from his hotel room. ‘Or worse, a copy of his letter to me.’
‘What if he did?’
‘The letter would be a major problem, but I doubt if the cops would care about a photo. The accident was clear-cut, with witnesses, no other vehicle involved. Another joyrider getting himself killed.’
He sighed, rolled over on his bed, gazed out at the blue sky.
‘You OK?’ Grace asked.
‘Wishing you were here. Under different circumstances.’
‘I’d settle for having you home.’ Grace paused. ‘Cathy says she won’t fly back with you.’
‘I know. She says she’s OK, and she won’t leave Gabe.’
‘I suggested he come too,’ Grace said.
‘They’re not about to walk out on Nic after this,’ Sam said. ‘And I don’t blame them. I wish I could just say to you, come over with Joshua, but I walked out in the middle of a major case.’
‘I know it,’ she said. ‘When are you coming?’
‘I might stay till Sunday. Think that’s too long?’
‘To be with Cathy, after all she’s been through? Hardly.’
‘Are you remembering to set the alarm?’ Sam asked.
‘Sure,’ she said. ‘Though aren’t we off red alert?’
‘We are,’ Sam said. ‘All in custody or dead.’
Yet still, something was playing at the back of his mind.
Maybe once he’d had a few hours of sleep, it would come to him.
‘I’m going to stretch out, catch a few z’s,’ he said. ‘Call you later.’
‘It’s expensive,’ Grace said. ‘You might be out of a job soon.’
Sam smiled. ‘Our daughter’s trying to pay for everything.’
‘Don’t let her,’ Grace said. ‘She needs to save for her old age.’
‘I’ll be sure to pass that on,’ Sam said.
June 21
Dinner with the kids Thursday evening had been wonderful, despite events. Gabe had made his police report and been informed about the accident; it remained to be seen if anything further would emerge. The city was hectic with Cannes Lions, a massive creative communications festival, restaurants jammed, but Nic had organized a table for Sam, Cathy and Gabe at the Saint-Antoine, a relaxed seafood restaurant in Le Suquet with a view of the harbor. They’d shared a huge seafood platter and several glasses of rosé de Proven
ce, and Chauvin being strictly off the menu lent the evening an air of almost magical unreality.
And then, taking a stroll Friday morning along the promenade, Sam’s phone rang.
Nic calling from Le Rêve. ‘There’s someone here who needs to see you, Sam.’
Cold foreboding slapped at him. ‘Cops?’ he asked quietly.
‘Chauvin’s father,’ Nic said.
Paul Chauvin, having left his wife sedated with her sister, had paid a visit, before leaving Strasbourg, to their son’s apartment, a place that had been off-limits to them for some time.
‘Thomas felt that we disapproved of him,’ he told Sam now in perfect English, ‘but the truth is we feared for him.’
He was in his mid-fifties but looked older – the way parents seemed to instantly age when news of their children’s sudden death struck them. Sam had seen it too often.
Nic had brought them coffee and had gone, with Jeanne, to his office.
‘How did you know about Le Rêve, sir?’ Sam asked Chauvin.
‘My son’s apartment led me here. A locked room filled with photographs of a beautiful young woman. Your daughter, Catherine.’
‘Cathy,’ Sam corrected.
‘When I looked at Thomas’s computer, it became clear that he’d been following your daughter’s life in a disturbing way. It took less than an hour to learn where she worked and lived.’ Paul Chauvin paused. ‘He seems to have become almost equally fascinated by you, Detective Becket.’
Sam said nothing.
‘I came here hoping to meet Cathy, but Monsieur Jones told me that you were in Cannes, and that it might be better for Cathy if I spoke to you.’
‘How can I help you, sir?’ Sam asked.
Paul Chauvin looked into his eyes. ‘I’m terribly afraid of what my son might have done before he died.’
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