The Guardian of Lies

by Kate Furnivall

  ‘It was mighty kind of you to invite me.’

  There was a pause, a small crack in time into which a sudden stillness seemed to slide. The birds fell silent. The only sound was the creak of leather as Joel Dirke swivelled in his saddle to get a better look at me.

  ‘Well, Eloïse, as one horse-lover to another, let’s talk straight, shall we? Why did you invite me out here?’

  I didn’t for one minute think this question would not arise at some point. ‘Tell me first’ – I smiled and eased Achille a few steps closer – ‘why you accepted the invitation, if you thought it was something more than a local Camarguais native offering friendship.’

  ‘You’re an awkward cuss to pin down,’ he laughed.

  But by then I’d slid out of the stirrups, swung my leg over Achille’s broad haunches and vaulted to the ground.

  ‘Let’s give them a break,’ I suggested.

  He nodded but didn’t move. For a moment I thought he might gallop off. It didn’t worry me. If I whistled Tonnerre would come. But he jumped down and together we ambled towards one of the pools where the water glared bright as a searchlight in the harsh sunlight. Shadows were lengthening and bees darted in and out of the purple flowers heavy with pollen. The horses lowered their heads to graze and the major asked his question again.

  ‘Why did you invite me out here?’

  Joel Dirke was a man used to getting answers.

  ‘I have a suggestion to make,’ I said. ‘I thought you might pass it on to your CO.’

  It didn’t go down well. He flipped off his hat, his dark hair still springy but edged with a line of sweat, and fanned himself with its brim.

  ‘My CO has plenty on his hands right now, dealing with the murder of Senior Master Sergeant Michael Ashton. In Serriac. In broad daylight.’

  I couldn’t blame him for the flash of anger.

  ‘I understand,’ I said quietly. ‘It was terrible. Everyone is in shock in the town. But my point is that even though it was the protesters who did the damage, there is a sense that the air base is to blame. Emotions are ready to overflow.’

  His dark eyes never left my face.

  ‘So,’ I continued, ‘I am suggesting that Dumoulin Air Base sets up a public relations exercise to calm everyone down.’

  Still no comment. Just the stare. The waiting.

  ‘I believe that it would improve the situation by calming nerves.’

  A pair of wading birds, black and white pied avocets, glided down to the pool and their long stiletto beaks started jabbing in the shallows. I thought of the knife jabbing into Mickey’s back.

  ‘You could issue an invitation to a select group of town dignitaries to visit the base. A kind of inspection. To reassure them. To explain how safely the nuclear element is stored.’ I ran a hand down Achille’s warm flank to give my words time to settle. ‘To impress them not only by your American expertise but by your hand of friendship.’

  I didn’t look at him. I busied myself pulling out some tangles and burrs from my horse’s white coat and giving him a good scratch behind his ears.

  ‘Eloïse.’

  I glanced over my shoulder at him. His hat was back on and he was gathering Tonnerre’s reins in his hand.

  ‘I will think about it,’ he said with formal politeness, and swung up into the saddle.

  *

  ‘Do you think you’ll ever go back to ranching?’

  I was making conversation. Coaxing my companion out of his silence, though the silence was not unpleasant. I’d led him along a low ridge to a more wooded area to show him where in the shade of a copse of ash and feathery willow a fierce young stallion was guarding his pretty-faced mares. As Joel Dirke observed them, the stiff lines of his face softened and I began to think he had horse-blood in his veins.

  ‘No, never,’ he said with a smile. ‘It’s too much like hard work and brutal in the winter. No, there was never any question of it. As children my brother and I were obsessed with airplanes. We ate, slept, dreamed of aircraft at all times. Both of us trained as pilots and flew P-51 Mustangs during the war,’ he tipped back his hat awkwardly, ‘but my brother got shot down over Germany. Don’t look so pained, he survived, thank God, but had the good sense to give up flying and find himself a cosy desk job in San Diego instead, while I’m still hurtling through the skies at over six hundred miles per hour.’

  ‘I hope for his sake that his job is still with aircraft though. It’s important to work at something you love doing.’

  He paused and ran a hand fondly over his mount’s neck, and eventually nodded. ‘Yes.’

  Whether that was yes to his brother’s job or yes to working with what you love, I couldn’t tell.

  ‘It must be nice to have a brother with good sense,’ I laughed.

  ‘I met your brother the same night I met you. André, isn’t it? He came to a meeting at the air base. He didn’t speak much but what he did say seemed eminently sensible to me.’ He tightened the reins a fraction and flicked some flies from around Tonnerre’s ears. ‘I’m very sorry about the accident. Godawful for him.’

  ‘What was the meeting about?’

  He shook his head at me with amusement. ‘Allow me to retain at least some professional integrity.’

  ‘If André was there, it must have been about Intelligence security.’

  ‘Why don’t you ask André?’

  I skipped over that. ‘So why was Gilles Bertin there?’

  ‘You ask a whole heap of questions, Eloïse. Why are you so interested?’ He cocked a dark eyebrow at me. ‘A bit too interested, perhaps.’

  ‘Of course I’m interested. You come down here, take over a chunk of my father’s land and immediately the Caussade champion bull is slaughtered and our stables burned down. Wouldn’t you be interested?’

  ‘You have a point, I admit.’

  He turned his head away to inspect the reed beds on our right from where I could hear the high-pitched jeet of a yellow wagtail. I wanted him to look back at me. I wanted him to say – yes, I can see that the United States Air Force has messed up your life right now, though it’s all for the good of France, and in return you can ask me any questions you like and I’ll answer them to the best of my ability, as well as arranging an open day for visitors to the Dumoulin Air Base. That’s what I wanted him to say.

  But it doesn’t work like that.

  ‘That’s a lot of reeds,’ he commented. ‘Are they ever harvested?’

  ‘Yes, it’s called sagne. We grow it throughout the region for thatching, mainly on the old traditional cottages that some of the gardians still live in. There is a disused one a couple of kilometres away. Come on, I’ll show you.’

  I pushed Achille into a canter. I wanted this American to understand the kind of life we lead here, to feel connected to our community. So that he would fight for us.

  *

  The motorcycle screamed past us. Ripping up the dirt road. Shattering the stillness. A terrifying blast of sound that sent both horses into a blind panic, and it took all our skill to stop them bolting. I hated it. To see the animals spooked. To smell their fear. Their ears back, eyes rolling, muscles taut, adrenaline pumping. A horse is a prey animal and its instinct is to flee. I steered Achille round in a tight circle on one rein to keep control, but Tonnerre was stronger and gave Joel a hard time, fighting to throw his head. By the time we had them calmed down, still huffing heavily, the motorcycle had roared into the distance, vanishing from sight.

  ‘Crazy son-of-a-bitch bastard!’ Joel shouted into the cloud of dust that hung like smoke in the motorcycle’s wake. ‘He could have killed the horses or us if they’d bolted. Did you get a look at him?’

  I soothed Achille’s neck. ‘No, the bike was past before I saw it coming. A flash of black. Maybe a flying helmet. I don’t know for sure.’

  ‘Crazy loon! I thought people round here knew better when it comes to animals.’

  ‘They do,’ I insisted. ‘That idiot was not a local man.’

 
‘Let’s hope he breaks his infernal neck.’

  I edged Achille up close to Tonnerre to reassure and calm the stallion and felt like doing exactly the same with my military friend.

  ‘Joel, relax. After you’ve seen the thatched cottage we’ll ride over to the lagoon to take a look at the flamingos. They are breathtaking.’

  I had been keeping an eye on the horses, checking their jitters, so didn’t see that Joel was smiling at me until I glanced up.

  ‘May I say, they are not the only things round here that are breathtaking?’ he commented courteously, and eased his horse into a gentle canter.

  Dammit. I didn’t mean him to get that connected.

  *

  Joel Dirke spotted it first. Sharp pilot’s eyes.

  ‘Look!’ he pointed up ahead.

  A thin rope of smoke was rising straight into the air from the roof of the single-storey thatched cottage. It lay set back from the dirt road some way to the north of us, surrounded by flat open grazing land. A row of ash trees and poplars offered shade, but the place had a dilapidated and deserted air.

  The smoke was not rising from the chimney, but from the thatch itself, and a flicker of red bled into the smoke as we galloped over the springy green glasswort. Another fire. Another malicious act of wanton destruction. Out here, in the middle of nowhere. What was the point? As we approached, the horses were snorting sharply and twitching ears rapidly back and forth, anxious and nervy. The instinct to flee was kicking in. Joel jumped off Tonnerre and threw me his reins, just as the red flicker became a crackling snapping sheet of flame.

  ‘Lead them away,’ he ordered. ‘I’ll make certain the interior is empty. Stay clear.’

  He ran into the burning building, terrifying the life out of me, though the downstairs seemed free of flames so far. I turned the horses and moved them back, calming them.

  ‘Come out,’ I yelled as the flames started to slide down the thatch, but there was no sign of Joel.

  A sudden movement startled the horses. It was in the garden off to one side of the cottage where a shed was struggling to stay upright. From inside it stepped a figure.

  I felt a thud, inside my head. As though someone had taken a hammer to me, but it was only my thoughts slamming into each other. The figure was Maurice Piquet. Even in a heavy leather jacket and from a distance, I knew him. As if his image was branded on to my retina. I knew his thick black hair and eyebrows that met in the middle and the way he held himself like a boxer ready for the ring. A leather helmet was pushed back off his head.

  He looked straight at me and for a moment I thought he was coming for me. He made a dart forward as though coming to finish the job of ripping my cheek off, but then halted when I swung back up into the saddle. Instead he ducked behind the shed. Instantly I heard an engine kick into life and a black motorcycle shot out with Piquet astride it. It raced up on to the dirt road and shot off at speed, making me think with a shudder of the one that had followed me out of Serriac the day I visited the mayor.

  ‘No one inside,’ Joel called out as he emerged from the building, bent over, coughing smoke from his lungs.

  I dismounted quickly, tethered both horses to a tree and ran over. By now half the thatch was aflame.

  ‘Let’s try to rake it,’ I shouted above the noise of the flames. I raced to the shed and from inside I seized a rake and long-handled hoe. Together we started to rake off as much of the blazing reed thatch as we could reach. Yanking and tearing at it, stripping swathes of it to the ground. Ash and soot swirled around us, making the air too hot to breathe, but in the end we were forced to retreat as the flames took hold of the roof timbers.

  ‘Enough,’ Joel said, ‘enough.’ He put a restraining hand on my wrist.

  But it wasn’t enough to save the cottage, and the heat burned inside me as much as inside the building. Why had Piquet done this? Set fire to a deserted old house. I could see no sense in it.

  ‘We must report it to the police at once,’ I said. Léon would know how to handle it. ‘I’ll return the tools to the shed and then we’ll ride home and drive into town.’

  ‘Eloïse, was that a motorbike I heard when I was in the cottage?’ Joel frowned and glanced down the road. ‘Did you see one?’

  ‘Yes, I did. It shot off in that direction. I’ll be quick.’

  I hurried off towards the shed and replaced the tools. The shed was draped with heavy cobwebs and grime, a retreat for spiders and rats. So why was Piquet tucked away here? What was he up to?

  I scanned the dirty shelves and tugged at a piece of sacking on one. Dust swam through the air and I found myself staring at an almost new tan leather suitcase. Not large, but big enough to hide something. I snapped open the lock and lifted the lid. Inside lay a black metal two-way radio with headphones. And folded up neatly beside it was a red Communist flag.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  LÉON ROUSSEL

  Léon closed the door firmly, thankful to see the back of Major Dirke. He didn’t want anyone walking in on this new find. Too many rumours were flying around town already and sure as hell he didn’t want another one starting up with more conspiracy theories. The leather case sat on his desk. He had inspected it closely for identifying labels, but anything that showed its maker or the shop where it was purchased had been well and truly removed. Good quality. Fairly new. It contained only the radio – a Motorola – and the flag of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the USSR.

  Eloïse had unfurled it and spread it across his desk to examine, but he had snatched it off. He would not tolerate it there. The violently red rectangle with its gold hammer and sickle and its star carried too much blood woven into its fibres for him to want to touch it.

  Eloïse had folded the flag away and tucked it out of sight in the case, snapping the lid shut with a sharp click.

  ‘Better?’ she said, and perched on the chair in front of his desk.

  He nodded. She was good at spotting his weaknesses, as well as making them seem perfectly reasonable. What she wasn’t so good at was lying to him. Major Joel Dirke had come in with her at first, but had left after he’d given his statement and Eloïse had assured him that she was in no need of an escort back home as she had driven from the farm in her own car. Léon had noticed the American’s reluctance to leave her, his hand on her shoulder. His look of concern.

  ‘Thank you for your help, Major,’ Léon had said briskly, then opened his office door and almost pushed him out. You can have too much of American boots, even cowboy ones. The team of investigators from the USAF, who were getting precisely nowhere in digging into Mickey Ashton’s murder, had been a thorn in his side all afternoon and anyway he needed to speak to Eloïse alone.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. She didn’t look all right.

  ‘Of course. I’m fine.’

  Her eyes were wide, too wide, the silky skin of one cheekbone smudged with dirt. An acrid smell rose from her clothes and hair, where the fire had left its mark on her again. But that wasn’t it. There was something more. Léon leaned forward, elbows on his desk, so that he could attempt to see what was making her give a quick toss of her head as if trying to shake something out of it.

  ‘Eloïse, I’ve been receiving reports this week of unaccustomed activity out on the marshes. More vehicles passing through than normal. I took a look around, but found nothing except tyre tracks on the dirt trails. Far more numerous than I would expect.’

  Her dark eyes studied him intently. Her tongue flashed across dry lips but she made no comment. Waited for more.

  ‘What you found and brought in today is crucial evidence.’

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘It backs up what I suspect is happening. It seems we have a group of people meeting somewhere where they won’t be disturbed. To plan something. I believe those people could well be Communists preparing action of some sort, the way they planned their protest march in Serriac. The flag in the suitcase would indicate that Communists are involved.’


  ‘Why on earth would they carry a flag around if it’s meant to be secret?’

  ‘Oh, they can’t resist it. The symbolism. The field of blood. The hammer and sickle for the workman and the peasantry. Workers unite. Destroy the hated oppressor. They would pin up the flag at their meetings the way your father pins up his champion bull rosettes. To remind them why they’re there.’

  She stood up abruptly, scraping back her chair and catching Léon by surprise. She prowled back and forth across the small office, then threw herself back into her chair with a sibilant hiss.

  ‘A Communist cell, you think?’ she said.

  ‘It’s a strong possibility, yes.’

  ‘And the radio?’

  ‘To communicate with other members. Other cells and sections.’

  She sat stiff and awkward in the chair, her scar bone-white. ‘Isaac,’ she whispered.

  ‘It’s possible he’s involved, yes. He knows the area very well.’

  ‘You think they’ve been meeting in the cottage that was burned?’

  Léon leaned back and pulled open the cupboard behind his desk. From inside he extracted an opened bottle of wine and two glasses. Without a word he poured the rich burgundy wine and placed a glass in front of her.

  ‘Now, Eloïse, time for the truth. Tell me why you lied in your statement. Why you lied to the American.’

  She lowered her eyes, dark lashes shutting him out, so he sipped his wine to hide his impatience and let her think. Whatever it is that has you scared, you must tell me. Don’t you know that? Let me help. Remember? But he sat in silence while she remembered.

  When she raised her eyes again, something had shifted. Her full lips curved in a smile of sorts. ‘You are too sharp, Léon.’

  He raised his glass to her. ‘To sharpness.’

  She lifted her wine and drank almost half of it. ‘To staying alive.’

  ‘Who was on the motorcycle? You stated that you didn’t recognise him, but you did, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Who was he?’

  ‘A man called Maurice Piquet.’