by Jane Holland
Lucille and I have been waiting in the suffocatingly hot front room for roughly an hour, sitting across from each other without saying anything. A bee has come in through one of the wide-open windows and is starting to investigate Tamsin’s flowers, lying on the coffee table where I dropped them, still in their plastic wrap. I welcome its busy droning, something to focus on rather than Lucille’s tears, her uncontrollable, whimpering grief difficult to bear.
There’s a young female police officer on her feet by the door, looking bored and a little awkward. She keeps glancing at her watch.
Tamsin’s death is my fault. I knew how fragile she was, yet all I could think about this morning was escaping this house. Buying her flowers, for God’s sake. As if anyone could heal such a terrible wound with a few roses and lilies instead of sitting with the poor woman, holding her hand, helping her to get over the shock.
We should never have left her alone today. Not the day after hearing of Dad’s death, not in this heat, not on top of everything else she’s been suffering.
We’ve been asked not to go anywhere until the doctor has finished her examination. On his arrival, the officer in charge asked us, politely but firmly, not to leave the chateau grounds without permission. He was sympathetic though and didn’t look as if he suspected us of murder, so it’s probably just a precaution until cause of death has been established.
I told the police about the guard on the gate disappearing, but apparently this is quite usual for contract guards on the Cap. The guard had not gone home or to a bar, as Lucille had angrily suggested, but moved on to a nearby property, covering them in rotation over the course of his shift. His boss had been contacted, and all this confirmed within the first half an hour of the police arriving.
The young officer looks up in relief at the sound of the door upstairs opening again, followed by voices on the landing. The doctor comes downstairs with the police a moment later, talking volubly in French, so fast that I can barely follow what she’s saying.
I jump up and hurry out into the hall, ignoring the police officer’s protests.
‘Doctor?’
She stops in front of me, her gaze frank as she looks me up and down in an assessing manner. ‘You are the niece?’
I nod. ‘Caitlin.’
‘I’m very sorry, Caitlin,’ she says, her smile sympathetic.
‘Thank you … I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.’
‘Mercier,’ she says, and transfers her case to her other hand while she she shakes mine. ‘Sophie. Good to meet you.’
‘What can you tell me about my aunt’s death, Dr Mercier?’
‘There’ll need to be a post-mortem before we can make any kind of definitive judgement. But on the face of it, this looks like a simple coronary.’
‘A heart attack?’
‘That’s right,’ she says, then repeats more softly, ‘I’m very sorry.’
‘If you think it’s a heart attack, why the need for a post-mortem?’
Dr Mercier hesitates, then glances at the two police officers who had accompanied her up to the bedroom, as though seeking their permission to reply. One of the men shrugs, the other looks dubious.
Neither of them look at me.
‘Your aunt was suffering from dementia, and she had a mild heart condition too,’ the doctor tells me. ‘Did you know about that?’
I nod.
‘Well, it could be that her heart just gave out. Or it may be a complication with her medication. We’ll know more after the post-mortem.’
Lucille has followed me out into the hall. Her voice anxious, she asks from behind me, ‘What kind of complication?’
One of the police officers bends to the doctor’s ear to say something. She nods without comment.
‘This is my aunt’s housekeeper,’ I say awkwardly, since we didn’t have a chance to speak to the doctor before she was taken upstairs by the police.
‘Of course,’ Dr Mercier says, smiling at us both. ‘Forgive me though, I can’t really say any more at the moment. It wouldn’t be appropriate. Perhaps you could ask the police to keep you updated with the findings of the post-mortem. Au revoir, mesdames.’
She slips past us with an apologetic shrug and heads for the front door, which is standing open, bright sunlight pouring in across the polished wood floor.
‘Doctor, wait,’ I say, and run after her.
Sophie Mercier stops on the top step in the sunshine, looking back at me uncertainly. ‘Yes?’
There’s already a small crowd of paparazzi at the gates again. The barrier is down, and I can see a guard back on duty in the gatehouse. There are several police cars out there too, parked up at an angle alongside the gate, blocking the way to all-comers. My stomach plunges at the sight of their microphones and camera equipment.
How the hell did those vampires hear about Tamsin’s death so quickly?
‘Dr Mercier, forgive me, I just wondered ...’ Reaching her, I turn my back on the press and lower my voice, aware that our conversation is probably being filmed. ‘What you said about my aunt’s medication, do you think it might have been an overdose? Those pills on the floor … Were those her sleeping pills?’ I search her face for clues. ‘Is that what you meant by a complication?’
‘I’m sorry, at this stage I really can’t elaborate.’
But the slight quiver in her voice tells me that I’ve hit on the truth.
‘Thank you anyway,’ I say.
‘No problem.’
The doctor runs lightly down the chateau steps towards her car. The guard raises the barrier for her to leave, and I watch in horror as her car is mobbed on the way out, avid journalists shouting questions at her through the windows, the police barely able to hold them back. Then the barrier is lowered again.
I realise that I have been holding my breath. I look up, away from the watching paparazzi, and exhale gently. The weather today is so beautiful, the sky a perfect blue, not a cloud in sight.
In England, Dad’s body is in a cold morgue somewhere, waiting to be buried. And upstairs, my aunt Tamsin lies dead too.
Which feels like too much of a coincidence to me.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
When I go back inside the chateau, Lucille is waiting by the door to the kitchen. Familiar territory, I suppose.
She looks round at me, her face pale and strained, but doesn’t ask what I learned from the doctor, merely turns to watch as the police hold another low-voiced conference near the door to the dining room. Carefully out of our hearing, I think. The doctor must have shared her suspicions with the police about Tamsin’s death being due to an overdose.
I recall the empty bottle I cracked underfoot, and the scattering of small white pills across the bedside rug. At the time, I assumed she had experienced some pain, and tried to grab her medication, spilling some in her haste. But seen another way, it could as easily have been the act of someone who’s just taken an overdose, throwing the remainder aside with the bottle. Someone already bereaved and in the throes of depression, who had heard of her brother’s death and couldn’t take any more blows to her psyche.
‘Everything will be all right,’ I tell Lucille, though I don’t believe that myself.
Lucille doesn’t look convinced either, clasping and unclasping her hands with obvious unease. But she nods without saying anything.
When the police come back, I tell them what happened in downtown Antibes today. I describe the battered Citroen that tried to mow me down, driven by the man with dreadlocks. The same man who had also assaulted me in Vieil Antibes on the day of Emily’s funeral. My grasp of French is strained to the limit as I reach for words outside my vocabulary.
The officer in charge is a swarthy man with sideburns and a prominent Roman nose. With a firm handshake, he introduces himself as, 'Capitaine Joly,' and his younger colleague as Lieutenant Girard. I get the feeling this second celebrity death in a month is being taken very seriously by the police on the Riviera.
Captain Joly frowns durin
g my stumbling account, but then nods gravely as I finish as though he understood every word.
‘Did anyone witness this incident with the Citroen?’ he asks.
‘There was one woman who stopped to check if I was okay. I don’t know who she was. But she saw the car.’ I pause. ‘She said she thought the driver might be high on drugs.’
‘Did you think so too?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘And he’s the same man you claim attacked you before? By the ramparts at Vieil Antibes?’
‘I don’t claim he attacked me. He did attack me.’
‘Yet you didn’t think to report that assault to the police?’ When I shake my head, he raises his brows. ‘Seems strange.’
‘I was with a friend. He persuaded me not to.’
‘Why?’
‘He said there’d be too much paperwork. And the guy had disappeared by then.’
‘The name of this friend?’
‘Robin,’ I say, uncomfortably aware of Lucille staring at me. ‘Robin Halifax.’
Captain Joly looks startled. He and the lieutenant exchange glances. Robin Halifax is clearly a name they’re both familiar with.
‘David Halifax’s son? The film producer?
‘That’s right. His father kept a holiday home near here, the Villa Halifax. So we all knew each other as kids.’
‘We?’
‘Me, Robin, and Emily, my cousin.’ I pause. ‘You must know about my cousin’s death. That’s why I’m here.’
‘I investigated her drowning myself. I’m very sorry. A sad business for everyone.’ Captain Joly strokes one of his dark sideburns with a thoughtful expression. ‘So you were with Robin Halifax when this man with dreadlocks first assaulted you. Is that right?’
I nod. ‘I was lucky that time. There was a bit of a fight, but Robin managed to frighten him off. It could have been far worse.’
‘And today, this Citroen that mounted the pavement … I don’t suppose you happened to notice the number plate?’
‘Sorry, no.’
‘Not even a partial number?’
I’m annoyed by his tone. ‘I wasn’t looking at the number plate, I’m afraid. I was too busy trying to avoid being crushed to death.’
‘Of course.’ His smile is dry, as though he thinks I’m either lying or exaggerating. Or perhaps I made a grammatical mistake. ‘So Monsieur Halifax was in the habit of coming here? To see you and your aunt, perhaps?’
‘No, never.’
His frown returns. ‘I thought you said …’
‘Madame would never have permitted him to cross the threshold,’ Lucille interrupts us, her voice a little shrill. The police officer turns to stare at her. ‘She hated Robin Halifax. He hasn’t been near the chateau for years. I can vouch for that.’
‘She hated him? That seems extreme.’
‘Madame blamed him for his father’s death,’ Lucille tells him shortly. ‘Among other things.’
‘I see,’ he says. ‘Thank you.’
The telephone rings.
Lucille glances at the gendarme, then goes to answer the call. He watches her for a moment, but Lucille keeps her back firmly turned away, speaking in a low voice to whoever is on the phone.
Captain Joly smiles round at me in a perfunctory manner. ‘Well, it looks like we’ll need to talk to your friend Robin. Just to check a few things out, eliminate him from our enquiries.’ He turns to his colleague, his tone brisk. ‘Send someone round to the Halifax villa, would you? Today, if possible.’
‘Oh, he won’t be there,’ I say quickly.
Both men look round at me, surprised.
Captain Joly says, ‘Is that so? I know the place burnt down. But I’d heard it was being renovated.’
‘The renovations aren’t finished yet. He’s got a place in town. In an apartment block near the beach.’
‘Antibes?’
‘Juan-Les-Pins.’
‘Address?’
I shrug. ‘Somewhere near the Pam-Pam.’
He glances at his lieutenant. ‘Send a car to the villa anyway. Just in case. And find out where this beach apartment is. I’d like to talk to Monsieur Halifax as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And ask where the van is. It should have been here by now.’
Lieutenant Girard looks puzzled. ‘The van, sir?’
‘For the body.’ The captain looks at me apologetically. ‘Forgive me, mademoiselle.’
I don’t know what to say. But my heart winces in pain for the woman on the bed upstairs, lying still and alone. ‘If you have no further questions for us, may I go upstairs and wait with my aunt?’ I ask, when his colleague has disappeared outside to make the call. ‘I hate the thought of her being alone.’
‘Of course,’ he says at once.
I look round at Lucille. I’m sure she will want to come up with me. But she’s still on the phone.
‘Captain Joly?’
He smiles, surprisingly charming now the formalities seem to be over. ‘Yes?’
‘My aunt told me Robin Halifax was in trouble with the police a few years back. That accusations had been made against him but never proved.’
‘You mean the fire at the Villa Halifax?’
‘And the rape allegation.’
He frowns. ‘What’s your question, exactly?’
‘Do you think it’s possible that any of those unproven accusations might have been true?’
His mouth twists at that. ‘Robin Halifax is a very clever man. We were never able to find any solid evidence against him. For what it’s worth though, his past caught up with him after the death of his wife and child. He was forced to spend several months in a psychiatric unit, in fact.’ His gaze meets mine, frank and direct. ‘I understand that you two have been friends. But I would strongly advise you to avoid his company in future, mademoiselle. Robin Halifax is …’
When he pauses, I take a sharp breath and supply the word, ‘Dangerous?’
Captain Joly shrugs. A muscle works in his jaw, as though he wants to warn me further but is reluctant to say too much without any proof.
‘Possibly.’
Lucille puts down the phone. She does not look at me, her head bowed. I get the feeling she’s been crying again. ‘That was the undertaker,’ she says in a muffled voice, ‘returning my call.’
‘Lucille, shall we go upstairs together?’ I ask her gently. ‘We could sit with Tamsin until … until they come for her?’
She nods thankfully, and the captain follows us both upstairs. To my relief, he does not come into the bedroom but stands just outside the open door.
I take Tamsin’s cold hand and try to focus on her fading presence in the room. On the woman who was my aunt, and has gone too soon from my life. I imagine her and my father meeting, somewhere beyond death, and find some comfort in that thought.
But the photograph on the wall seems to mock me.
Robin is there as a small child, slight and dark-eyed, watching me through the years, smiling at the woman behind the camera. Was it his birthday party though or Emily’s? The photo was taken in midsummer, judging by the sunlit lawn and the full-blown roses in the formal beds.
Yet both Robin and Emily were born in the autumn.
God, what a mess.
I turn away from the photograph. I’ve been hiding from the truth, pushing it aside at every turn, refusing to believe it even when it’s been staring me in the face. Isn’t it time I faced up to facts? Robin is not the perfect lover I’ve fantasised about all these years. He’s a monster whose actions are of such nightmarish proportions I’ve had to bury them deep in my subconscious.
It was Robin who killed Tamsin’s cat that night.
Who else?
Yet why on earth would he have done something so terrible, so totally beyond comprehension?
Perhaps he came back to the chateau that summer’s night and argued with Emily, possibly over me, and lost his temper. Because he couldn’t help himself. Because he’s
a born killer. Because he killed his wife and child, and then got out of that psychiatric hospital and killed Emily.
And if I’m not very careful, Robin’s going to kill me too.
‘Mademoiselle?’
The police captain has come into the bedroom and is standing respectfully just inside the door.
I leave Lucille with the body. ‘Captain?’
‘Do you have a phone number for Monsieur Halifax?’ he asks in a low voice.
I nod, and slip out of the room, gesturing him to follow me. I run up the attic stairs while he waits below, and fetch my mobile phone.
When I walk downstairs, flicking through my contacts, I find his colleague there too. The two men look at me sombrely, as though they have some grave news.
‘What is it?’ I ask, my heart thudding with sudden trepidation. ‘What’s the matter now?’
The police captain raises his eyebrows at my questions. I get the feeling there’s something he’s not telling me. Though that could be paranoia on my part.
‘We’ve been unable to track down Robin Halifax, that’s all. We found the apartment at Juan-Les-Pins, just as you described. But it’s empty, and his villa is still undergoing renovations. It looks uninhabitable.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s possible that he’s left the region. Or he may have found some other place to live.’
I look from one man to the other. ‘You said Robin could be dangerous. Do you think he’s connected to the driver in the Citroen?’
‘No way of knowing until we can question him.’ He nods at my phone. ‘You have his number there?’
‘Of course, sorry.’ I read out Robin’s phone number and the lieutenant writes it down. ‘I wish I could be more help.’
‘You’ve been most helpful, mademoiselle.’ Captain Joly smiles in a reassuring way. ‘I’m sure Robin Halifax will turn up sooner or later.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
After the officers have taken my aunt’s body away, in a flurry of flash photography from the growing press presence outside the gate, Lucille retires to her room to grieve in private. Keeping my face averted from the photographers, I dash out to retrieve my bags from the hire car, and then carry them upstairs to the attic floor again.