The Accident on the A35

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  Seventeen

  As soon as Raymond stepped out of the limousine with his mother, he realised that the central character in the funeral was not his father, but himself. The coffin was little more than a prop around which the performance was enacted. Lucette took his hand as they walked up the path to the little chapel. She looked rather fetching in her mourning outfit. Raymond had never seen her dressed in black before. The little cop was standing by the roadside smoking a cigarette. By the low wall bounding the churchyard, a labourer was leaning on his shovel next to a freshly dug grave. He removed his cap as Raymond and his mother passed. It was beginning to rain in fat, heavy drops. Those waiting by the entrance to the chapel bowed their heads solemnly. Raymond mimicked the gesture. He felt ludicrous. But his new suit helped. He had tried it on the previous night in front of the mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. His mother insisted that he come down to the drawing room to show it off. She had wiped a tear from her eye and told him that he looked very handsome. Even Thérèse looked impressed. He felt like an actor donning his costume for opening night.

  The priest greeted them. Lucette, who as far as Raymond knew had no religious beliefs, made a little curtsey. Inside, he was surprised to see that every pew was occupied. This for his father, who rarely socialised, never had a good word for anyone, and whom no one liked. Even the town’s mayor was there, bedecked in a silly ceremonial sash. As the official stepped forward to offer his condolences, Raymond noticed that the flies of his trousers were not properly closed.

  During the service, Raymond made no effort to listen to the priest’s words. Lucette kept his hand clasped in her lap, but she did not appear particularly upset. She seemed to have forgiven him for lying about the 200 francs. The incident had not been mentioned again. Raymond gazed at the coffin containing his father’s remains. He was aware of the gravity of the occasion, but he felt little other than the cold draught emanating from the back of the building. From an early age, Raymond had learned to expect little from his father. If he had given up trying to please him, it was to protect himself from the disappointment he felt when his approval was not forthcoming. Once, when he was seven or eight years old, the family had driven to Ferrette for lunch. It was a Sunday in spring, Easter perhaps. It was a warm afternoon and they had eaten on the terrace of an inn, overlooking some gardens. Raymond’s father was in an unusually expansive mood. He took off his jacket and ordered a second carafe of white wine. Raymond noticed the droplets of water that formed on the cold glass, and Bertrand explained the process of condensation. After lunch, his parents remained at the table and Raymond had been allowed to go and play. At the foot of the gardens was a large pond. Raymond was delighted to find that it was populated by frogs and newts. Forgetting that he was in his smartest outfit, he lay on his belly at the edge of the water with his hand outstretched. Eventually, a bullfrog alighted it on it. Raymond observed the pulsing of its throat and the slow blink of it eyes. Its skin was no thicker than membrane. Seized by an idea, he ran to the kitchens of the inn and asked for a jar, which he filled with pond water and a globule of spawn. There was a stagnant pool at the foot of the garden. He would turn it into his own colony of frogs. When the time came to leave, his father asked what he had behind his back. He took the jar from Raymond and poured the contents onto the verge at the side of the car park. He then instructed his son to return the jar to the kitchens. Raymond howled all the way home. By the time they reached the house, his throat hurt and his breath came to him in fitful gasps. Later, his father came to his room. He sat down on the edge of the bed and explained that the tadpoles would only have died and he had not wanted Raymond to become attached to them. He then placed his hand on his son’s forehead and said he was sorry.

  The following day, Maître Barthelme returned home from work later than usual. He presented Raymond with a jar of frogspawn, which he must have returned to the inn to collect. Raymond looked at him uncertainly. He did not want this jar of spawn. It was not the spawn that he had collected. The frogs that grew from it would not be his frogs. Nevertheless, he understood that his father was making a gesture of atonement. He thanked him and accepted the jar. When he held it up to his face, he saw that it contained not only spawn, but also some hatched tadpoles. After the evening meal, his father helped him clear some of the slime from the pond at the foot of the garden and filled it with fresh water. Finally, Raymond tipped the contents of the jar into the pool and watched the tadpoles weave their way into their new home. For the next week, Raymond spent every hour after school crouched over the pond, observing his charges. The spawn melted away and was replaced by more tadpoles. A few days later, however, the tadpoles were all dead, eaten by birds or floating on the surface of the water.

  As Raymond stared at the coffin, he felt a sob rise in his chest. He swallowed hard to suppress it. His throat convulsed as if he was about to vomit. His eyes stung. He clenched his jaw shut. It was as though, even at the final moment, his father was besting him. He realised he was gripping his mother’s hand more tightly. A tear rolled down his cheek. He closed his eyes. Lucette drew him towards her. Raymond was furious with himself. He imagined his father mocking him. Lucette handed him a little embroidered handkerchief, which she produced from her purse and which she herself had not required.

  It was easier back at the house. As his parents had not been in the habit of entertaining, Raymond had never seen the house so full. Thérèse made a great display of overseeing the staff that had been hired for the occasion. After an initial period during which various mourners had shaken his hand and offered their condolences, no one paid any attention to him. He could drink as much sherry as he liked. The atmosphere grew less sombre as the guests forgot the reason for the gathering. Raymond wandered from the hall into the drawing room. He was quite taken with one of the waitresses. She was a dark-haired girl with brown eyes. She went about her business efficiently but without any hint of subservience. Raymond observed her increasingly openly, but she was oblivious to him, or pretended to be. He became convinced that she was wilfully ignoring him. He followed her into the hall when she went to replenish her tray. She disappeared into the kitchen and, as Thérèse was guarding the doorway, he did not have the nerve to follow her. He drifted among the guests in the hall, waiting for her to come back out. He was surprised to see the mayor emerge from his father’s study onto the landing on the first floor. He could not imagine what he might have been doing there. The official paused at the foot of the staircase to shake hands with a group of guests. No one paid any attention to Raymond as he ascended the stairs.

  He pushed open the door to the study. The little cop was standing behind the desk drinking a glass of sherry.

  ‘What are you doing in here?’ Raymond was emboldened by the alcohol he had consumed.

  Gorski ignored his question, replying instead that he had been impressed by the way Raymond had conducted himself at the funeral. He made no reply. Gorski walked across the room and closed the door.

  ‘Since you’re here, this is as good a time as any to have a little chat,’ he said.

  He guided Raymond to the armchair by the window. Raymond was reluctant to comply. He did not like the fact that Gorski had been at his father’s desk and was now behaving with a proprietorial air. Nevertheless, he sat down as directed. Gorski leaned against the wood panelling by the window. Raymond felt that he was going to be subjected to an interrogation. Gorski took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, before offering the packet to Raymond, who shook his head.

  ‘You don’t smoke?’

  ‘No,’ said Raymond.

  ‘The stains on your fingers contradict you,’ said Gorski.

  Raymond could not prevent himself from glancing down at his hands to verify the detective’s observation. Gorski said nothing for a few moments. He let the ash from his cigarette fall onto the exposed floorboards where the carpet did not reach the wall.

  ‘I thought you might be able to shed some light on your father’s movements on t
he night of the accident,’ he said eventually.

  Raymond looked at him. The cop wore a placid expression that he found quite irritating. ‘Why should I?’ he said.

  Gorski pushed himself off the wall and stood facing Raymond.

  ‘You know, of course, that your father was not where he claimed to be on the night of the accident; that this little club of his was no more than a fiction.’ He rotated the hand holding his cigarette as he spoke. ‘You must have given some thought as to where he might have been.’

  Raymond shrugged. ‘I haven’t.’

  Gorski tipped his head to the side to suggest that he was surprised by Raymond’s answer; or that he did not believe him. ‘You’ll forgive me if I say I find that a little implausible,’ he said.

  It then struck Raymond—of course!—that the detective had just then been going through the drawers of his father’s desk and had found the scrap of paper he had so carefully replaced. Perhaps he knew everything about his trips to Rue Saint-Fiacre; about the theft of the 200 francs; and about the stolen knife now stashed in his satchel at the foot of the wardrobe in his bedroom next door. If Gorski did not confront him, it was to give him the opportunity to come clean of his own accord.

  ‘My father and I were not close,’ he said. He resented making even this admission to the cop, who, to his mind, had no business delving into his father’s affairs.

  ‘Be that as it may,’ said Gorski, ‘I would have thought you’d be curious about where he must have been all these evenings.’

  ‘Even if I did, I know no more about it than you.’

  ‘I haven’t said anything about what I know or don’t know,’ said Gorski mildly. ‘We’re talking about what you know.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know anything.’

  Was there any real reason he did not mention his trips to Mulhouse? Except that it amounted to nothing. So what if he had found an address on a scrap of paper in his father’s desk? There was no evidence that he had ever been there. But there was something else: if his father had chosen to keep a part of his life secret, was that not his right? Despite everything, Raymond felt a certain loyalty to him. And, certainly, he felt no compunction to divulge anything to this wheedling cop.

  Gorski was watching him closely. ‘You never had any conversation that made you suspect that your father was not being truthful about his whereabouts on Tuesday evenings?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You never suspected that he might have a mistress or anything of that sort?’

  Raymond gave a little laugh through his nose, in order to give the impression that he thought the idea ridiculous.

  ‘He never let slip anything about having been to Strasbourg?’

  ‘To Strasbourg? No.’

  Gorski pounced. ‘Somewhere else then?’

  Raymond felt his cheeks colouring. He was being cornered. ‘Do you think if my father had had a mistress somewhere, he would have told me about it?’

  Gorski shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘but when three people live under the same roof, it’s very difficult to hide things from each other. Tell me, for example, does your mother know you smoke?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Raymond.

  ‘Let me put it another way: do you conceal the fact that you smoke from her?’

  Raymond said nothing.

  Gorski nodded in acknowledgement of this tacit admission. ‘But your mother will have noticed those stains on your fingers. If she has never mentioned it, it’s because the two of you choose to conspire in a lie. It’s perfectly normal. People like to avoid confrontation. Without ever having spoken about it, she knows you smoke and you know she knows you smoke, but you choose not to acknowledge it. In a similar way, I believe that you know where your father was on the night of his death.’

  ‘I don’t,’ said Raymond, a little too forcefully. He made to get up from his seat, but Gorski gave a little shake of his head and held out the palm of his hand. He took a step closer to Raymond, so that their feet were almost touching.

  ‘I’ve been a detective since before you were born,’ he said. ‘I’ve spent twenty-five years being lied to. And when you make a living being lied to, you get pretty good at reading the signs. For example, a few moments ago, when I asked if your father had ever let anything slip about being in Strasbourg, you cast your eyes upwards to the left. Of course, you were not aware of it. It’s a reflex. And you know what it told me? It told me that you were lying; that you were recalling something you then declined to share with me. Now, that’s fine. Strictly speaking, you’re not obliged to tell me anything. But don’t think I don’t know you’re hiding something.’

  He took a step back to indicate that Raymond could leave.

  ‘I don’t care what you think.’

  ‘If you didn’t care what I thought, you wouldn’t lie to me.’ He gave a tight little smile. ‘I’ll be keeping my eye on you,’ he said as Raymond departed.

  Raymond leant on the balustrade of the landing. His forehead was pulsing. The guests below continued to enjoy the hospitality. The atmosphere had grown quite convivial. A man in a blue suit was telling a lewd joke to a group of men gathered around the trestle table where the food had been set out. It was clear that no one was in the least bit concerned that his father was dead. The pretty waitress was standing in the doorway of the drawing room with a bored expression on her face.

  Eighteen

  Schmitt did not look up from his paper. ‘Your boyfriend rang again,’ he said. Gorski did not have to ask whom he was referring to. Lambert had been trying to get hold of him for three days. If Gorski had not returned his calls, it was partly out of a desire to demonstrate that he was not at his beck and call, but also because he did not want to admit that he had so far failed to examine Bertrand Barthelme’s financial records. Gorski nodded curtly in response to Schmitt’s remark, then instructed him to have Roland sent to his office.

  ‘You mean the Foal?’ Schmitt replied.

  Gorski looked at him blankly. ‘The Foal?’ he repeated.

  ‘That’s what everyone calls him.’

  ‘Ah, yes, the Foal. Of course,’ Gorski said, not wishing to appear that he was not in on the joke.

  In his office, Gorski dialled the number of the Strasbourg station even before he had sat down. He could not plausibly postpone calling him any longer. The receptionist put his call through to the detective division. As he waited, Gorski held the receiver in the crook of his neck and struggled out of his raincoat. He threw it over the back of his chair and took out a cigarette and lit it. Eventually a voice informed him that Lambert was out of the office. It was the ideal outcome. Gorski replaced the receiver in its trestle and sat down. The reports into Barthelme’s death were still on his desk. Gorski pondered going over their pages again. Sometimes a salient detail only revealed itself on a third or fourth reading.

  Someone gave a little cough in the doorway. Gorski looked up. It was Roland.

  ‘I didn’t know if I should just—’ he began. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt your call.’ He was nervous, no doubt anticipating that he was to be reprimanded for some misdemeanour. He did indeed look like a foal. He had a narrow, equine face, eyes too far apart. His legs were long and gangly and looked as though they might give way beneath him at any moment. His distinctive features were not ideal for the task Gorski had in mind, but that couldn’t be helped.

  Gorski told him to close the door and have a seat. He offered the young gendarme a cigarette, which he declined. Roland seemed reluctant to sit in the presence of his superior, but he eventually did so. His uniform was immaculate. Gorski was aware of how easy it would be to intimidate him. He had the twitchy demeanour of one eager to please. Whenever Gorski saw him in the communal areas of the station, he looked ill at ease. He liked him.

  ‘You recall the errand you ran for me recently?’ Gorski began.

  ‘Yes.’ Roland spoke tentatively.

  ‘During the drive, did you speak to Madame Barthelme or her son?’

  R
oland shook his head. ‘Barely a word. I didn’t think—’ He still appeared to assume he had done something wrong.

  Gorski stubbed out his cigarette. He asked how old Roland was.

  ‘Twenty-three.’

  ‘I expect you’d like to be a detective some day.’

  Roland replied that he would.

  ‘Have you had much training in surveillance?’ Gorski asked.

  ‘A little.’

  Gorski then asked him to describe Raymond Barthelme. This he did with great accuracy, even down to the colour of his eyes and the clothes he had been wearing.

  ‘That’s very impressive,’ said Gorski.

  Roland looked down at his hands. ‘I always imagine that I might be called to give evidence in a trial, so I try to commit as much as I can to memory.’

  Gorski smiled. He recognised himself in the earnest young cop. He instructed Roland to go home and change into an inconspicuous outfit. Until otherwise instructed he was to shadow Raymond Barthelme.

  ‘Call the station every three or four hours. If I’m not here, you can report to Schmitt, but don’t mention Barthelme by name. Refer to him as “the subject”.’

  Roland was clearly delighted at this elevation in his duties. He nodded vigorously and assured Gorski of his discretion.

  With Roland dismissed, Gorski remained seated at his desk. He ran his fingers over the manila cover of Bertrand Barthelme’s post-mortem. He was intrigued by what he had learned of Barthelme’s previous life. There was no denying that his colourful past in the city where the murder of Veronique Marchal had taken place made him a more plausible suspect. The coldness—cruelty even—that characterised his relations with his wife also made it easier to conceive of him engaging in the arcane sexual practices indicated by the ties on Mlle Marchal’s bed. And he was, furthermore, clearly a man capable of deceit. None of this, however, constituted evidence, and if Gorski was reluctant to share his information with Lambert, it was because he was all too aware that his Strasbourg colleague would not be so chary. As things stood, the only evidence came from Weismann’s claim to have seen Barthelme in the stairwell. Lambert might have no reservations about the manner in which he had extracted this information, but Gorski could imagine the ease with which even the most mediocre advocate would demolish the historian’s testimony. And yet, Gorski could hardly place the blame at Lambert’s door. It had been he, after all, who had first posited Barthelme as a suspect. On one point, however, Lambert was correct. If Barthelme had been a client of Veronique Marchal, it was likely that there would be some evidence among his financial records. By the same logic, however, if his accounts showed no unexplained transactions, it would constitute a blow to Lambert’s flimsy edifice.