‘It had better wait, Claude. I think it needs Madame Cambon’s authorization to –’
‘But she won’t agree, Jane. She’s holding out on us on purpose. And it will all go to ruin or up in smoke. That’s what she wants. Despair is eating her. And what’s destroyed in one year can’t be picked up as easily in the next. It’ll set us back much more than one year.’
‘Claude, I – I can’t offer the commitment yet. Not yet. Surely two or three days won’t make such a difference. It will have to wait. I’m sorry.’
The old man shook his head, baggy eyes downcast. Common sense and Jane’s adamant tone warned him that, for the moment, he was beaten. They walked on in silence, the mountains soaring up behind them. It was a couple of degrees cooler here, so close to the mountains, or was she shivering with uncertainty?
‘Would you be willing to drive me to the airport? If it’s not convenient, I could take the old car and leave it there, but you might need it while I’m gone.’
‘Of course I will. If there’s anything we can do, Jane, to …’
She shook her head violently. ‘Do you mind if we drive back to the house now? Then I can confirm the time of the flight and let you know when I’ll need to leave. If possible, I’d like to set off this evening.’
Back at the empty house she had a few undisturbed hours to prepare herself. For what, she didn’t know. Her life, as she had known it, was being dismantled. And she was about to face the woman who was responsible. The woman with whom Luc had spent the last hours of his life.
12
Line One to Métro station Château de Vincennes, the last stop. The terminus. A fifteen-minute walk in a surprisingly attractive suburb. Her journey had been city-hot, sticky, dusty, but once she was out in the fresh air, it was a fine early-summer day east of central Paris. The château, a large and imposing fourteenth-century castle, was across the street. Jane stayed on the opposite pavement and continued towards the Bois de Vincennes. Young women were sauntering in short sleeves with babies in prams, drinking in the sunshine. A couple of men, one black, one Arab, were drilling a cordoned-off section of a small crossroads. A waiter was placing two or three tables with accompanying chairs outside a modest eatery, preparing for the lunchtime trade. There was a pleasing choice of cafés, bars and restaurants along the way, catering, she supposed, for the tourists who had travelled to visit the castle, where Charles V had been born.
Jane glanced at the app on her phone to confirm her route to avenue de la Dame Blanche, 94300 Vincennes. It stated twelve minutes from the Métro station. She had no notion what she would do when she arrived. Knock? Press a buzzer? Stand across the street, like a stalker or private detective, waiting for ‘Annabelle’ to appear? What if she was away or at work? Or if the address was a block of flats with a steady stream of inhabitants coming and going. How was she to recognize ‘Madame Cambon’?
When she reached the avenue, cutting through a wooded path to arrive at its starting point, she found herself in a calm, leafy setting. It was an elegant street facing directly on to the famous Vincennes woodland. There were buildings only on one side of the avenue. Fine conifers and spreading Cedars of Lebanon grew in the manicured gardens and at the park’s edge. Several of the properties were four-, five- or even six-storey art-deco apartment blocks. Iron gates and railings. All were well maintained. Why hadn’t Luc housed his mistress and child in a less upmarket neighbourhood? Why gamble their London home for this?
A few rather lovely red-roofed maisons bourgeois with white façades clinched this as a very affluent district. They were possibly also divided into flats, maisonettes discreetly set back from the avenue in private grounds. If ‘Madame Cambon’ inhabited a floor in one of these she would be harder to catch sight of. There could be a back alley for residents’ exclusive use, to avoid the main thoroughfare. A gated entrance opened by a code that led out onto a narrow, rarely frequented lane. Jane would have to make a tour of the entire block to find such a path. She wandered back and forth on the woodland side of the street, one tiny stretch of the perimeter of what had once been royal hunting grounds.
Jane was looking for number sixty. She glanced at her watch. It was a quarter to one. Her prey – she was feeling very much like a stalker now – would either be making herself some lunch in her kitchen (the boy would be at school), out at work or possibly lunching with a girlfriend. The fact was, the woman could be anywhere. The possibilities were multitudinous. The chance of her being at home at this time of day was slim. Jane might need to hang around till evening, when the son returned home from school.
And then it occurred to her that it was Wednesday. French schools were closed all day on Wednesdays. Mother and son could be out on an excursion. Museums, swimming-pools, football pitches, dentist, library or walking in these magnificent woods … This was an insane expedition, utter foolishness. Even should she track the woman down, what was she intending to say to her? Her opening gambit: Bonjour, are you Madame Cambon? Well, how about that? So am I. I believe your son’s father is my husband. Oh, is he your husband as well? He is. Well, that complicates matters.
There was no social etiquette for such a scenario. Even Luc would be hard pushed to write the script.
Jane had not until that moment seriously entertained the possibility that Luc might have been a bigamist. The plot grew more grotesque with every twist and turn.
She was now standing directly outside number sixty, facing the building. It was one of the art-deco blocks, six storeys high, with a pale rose and white façade. Each apartment, or those facing the street, at least, enjoyed a road view via a semi-circular balcony. Six storeys meant a minimum of six flats, six sets of occupiers. She shuffled up to the gate, trying not to behave in a manner that could be perceived as conspicuous or shifty. There was a code box for access to the grounds. She pressed a button beneath the digits in the hope that during daylight hours the code was not required. It remained locked. She searched briefly for a set of buzzers. Yes, to the left of the gate. She scanned the list of names. Cambon was not among them. She fingered down the list again. Abbé. Nicolas. Beaulac. Manéval. Therlault. Palomer (interesting: Palomer was a Provençal name, meaning pigeon-keeper). Guinard.
Definitely no Cambon. Seven names, not six. Seven residents, or was one the concierge? Jane ran her finger back up and down the list to see whether there was a note beside any, stating that it was the concierge’s bell. Aside from ringing all of them, which she was not intending to do, not yet anyway, what was her next step? Her options?
A dog in the grounds or in a ground floor flat began to bark. She glanced up, still deep in thought. Bolting from out of a side-door entrance and now running wildly about the grass, tugging and worrying at a tea-towel he must have stolen, was Walnut.
Walnut. Oh, my God. Was this some delirious dream?
In all Jane’s imaginings, enactments played out over and over in her mind, nightmare storylines that had threatened to swamp or suffocate her, this scene had never been in the play. She called the spaniel’s name and immediately he scampered towards the iron fence, tongue hanging out, as he had done so often when chasing along, panting, at her side. ‘Walnut, it’s Jane.’ He barked a greeting. ‘Do you recognize me?’ She glanced about her. There was no one watching her. The dog was leaping back and forth playfully. He dropped the cloth and turned a circle, overexcited.
‘Yes, you do, viens içi!’ She scanned the length of the railings. How could she access the dog? If she could lean over, reach down and lift him up, she’d take him, but the spiked iron fence was too high. Anger shot through Jane. Walnut was wagging his tail, waiting for his mistress to throw a ball and a game to begin. ‘Whoever you are, you have even stolen our dog,’ she said aloud. She wanted to shout all the names she had just read on the doorbells, to rain down a torrent of threats and blasphemies.
She crouched on her haunches and slipped a hand through the railings. ‘Come here,’ she encouraged. Walnut approached and licked her hand. She stroked his muz
zle, patted his black head and his tail began to wag, like an overwound clock. He yapped and puffed and jumped. ‘You remember me. Of course you do.’
‘Walnut! Walnut, viens içi.’
Her voice calling the dog from inside. Jane leaped hurriedly away from the fence, almost tumbling backwards as she rose, teetering to her feet, burying herself within the shadows of a tall Lebanon cedar.
She held her breath as though, in spite of the traffic, the honking of horns and a crane grinding several streets away, she might be heard. The spaniel turned and ran back to the caller, its new mistress, disappearing through a door set to the side of the ground-floor balcony. Jane heard the gentle thud as the door was closed, securing the animal inside.
She had to think. She was incensed, outraged. You stole my husband and now you have our dog. She had to think. Her reflections, convictions were fragmented. After disjointed minutes, she decided to return to the long street of cafés and bars between this spot and the Métro station where she had seen a waiter setting up tables outside a pizzeria. She needed a drink. She had to think. Nothing was as she had played it out in her mind.
Walnut, here. If she had not seen Luc’s body, had not identified that blue-cold face herself, she might almost be convinced that he had upped and left her and was living here, that he had chosen this other life – a complete family – over the one he had shared for so many years with her.
Madness set in and began to spin its web. Had the corpse been real? Had she been tricked into believing her husband was dead, into identifying him, when in fact he was still alive? You read of such scenarios in newspapers, or in films noirs. An insurance fraud and a tricky woman. An insurance fraud to raise funds. Might that be the story here? A crooked method for salvaging Luc’s financial catastrophe. Bodies switched. A corpse replacing Luc from the car’s wreckage. She would call Roussel. She pulled her phone from her handbag and began scrolling for the detective’s number. No, stop. Stop. She was out of control, tipping over the edge. She had to calm down. Breathe deeply. Get that drink.
Luc was dead. But Walnut was here.
The prospect that Luc might have preferred spending time with this other ‘Madame Cambon’, with her and their son and the dog, broke Jane’s resolve. Without any control over what she was doing she collapsed to the kerb, her overnight bag at her side, and began to sob. She cried with such force that the retching and gulping threatened to empty her of her innards, of all volition and strength.
Luc was dead and he had betrayed her. Their long life together had been a sham; it had meant nothing. Luc, her friend since she was a kid. Had any of it been real?
She sat hunched at the pavement’s edge, staring blindly at the traffic. To throw herself under a car seemed the easiest option. For a third time, she was looking her own death in the face, staring at it down the barrel of a gun. One lunge and it would be over, wheels crushing the life out of her, but she withdrew. Impossible to identify which fraying thread kept her clinging to life. The thirst for revenge? The desire to kill the other woman? Cowardice?
A troop of horses clopped by, each with a child in the saddle. Their cheeks were flushed from exertion, from the pleasure of their activity. They had been riding in the woods and were obviously making their way back towards their stables, trotting two by two. Jane, from ground level, watched the handsome beasts. Luc had loved to ride. He and Clarisse used to gallop around the estate for hours. Clarisse had taken pleasure in the fact that Jane was not very comfortable on a horse and had never accompanied them. Had Luc taught his son, Patrick, to ride? Here, at these stables?
Who knew about his clandestine life? How was she, Jane, ever to get beyond this? We must talk, he’d said to her before Christmas. Had he been intending to come clean, to put an end to the duplicity, request a divorce over the duck and Haut Médoc, move in here with his dog – their dog – and this other family?
Slowly, she lifted herself to her feet and picked up her bag. She needed a coffee or a cognac or both. To reassess, to draw up a game plan for her next move. She stepped, on heavy feet, towards the woodland track that led to the road where the château reigned.
The pizzeria was crowded. No tables were available. In any case, Jane could not face even a morsel of food although she had not eaten that day. Instead she installed herself in a café-tabac situated on a corner further along the same street. It was a poky, fuggy little joint, its wooden floor littered with discarded game cards and strips of cellophane peeled from cigarette packets. The customers with their drawn, sallow faces were drinking beer or staring at an overhead TV screen relaying horse-racing. Here she drank two cups of strong espresso and a brandy and sat staring out of the window, biting her fingernails, a habit she had never before indulged in. It was then she spotted Walnut. The boy, who was perhaps eleven, had the spaniel on a lead and was loping in the direction of the Métro station, carrying a rucksack over his shoulder. She leaped to her feet, grabbed her overnight bag and ran to the door, pushing it open with a fierce urgency. Immediately, the proprietor behind the bar yelled after her, ‘Hey, lady, you haven’t settled your bill. Eleven euros fifty, if you don’t mind.’ Heads turned, accusatory or disinterested gazes. Jane was fumbling for her purse, dropping keys, desperate not to lose the trail of the child. She had only caught a brief glance of his profile. She might not recognize him again. It was the dog, Walnut, she had to follow. Her dog. She tossed a twenty-euro note onto the zinc bar and ran, twisting and staggering as she hurtled along the street towards the entrance to the station. No boy or dog was anywhere to be seen. She clumped down the stairs to the ticket barrier, scanning all about her, returning to street level, perspiration breaking out on her forehead, heart palpitating.
Had he crossed this main road? She ran to the traffic lights, which were green. Halt for pedestrians. Cars flying by. Parisian cyclists on rented bikes. The lights were changing, traffic slowing. She stepped out. He could be anywhere. Was there another park nearby? Was he intent on dog-walking? No, he would have crossed his own avenue and headed into the woods. He’d been carrying a holdall. Was he going to play football, on his way to a gym, the riding school? But not with an animal surely.
Damn it.
He had disappeared. A driver was honking. Others followed. She was floundering in the road. The lights had turned green. She retreated to the pavement once more. There was no alternative but to retrace her steps to the apartment block and face ‘Madame Cambon’ or whatever other name the woman was parading under and have it out. Luc’s boy, Luc’s dog. For all that was worth living for, she prayed this was not Luc’s wife. The mystery had to be resolved before she went mad. She knew for sure now that the woman lived on the ground floor. The piece of luck Jane needed was access to the building. From there she could wait in the corridor or the garden by the front door to the apartment and pounce. But how to gain access to the block’s interior? She could wait by the iron gate until the return of the boy and accost him, insisting that he let her in to talk with his mother. Did Luc’s son know the truth?
What was the truth?
A telephone was ringing. It took a moment before she cottoned on that it was hers.
‘Jane, Robert Piper here.’
‘Yes?’
‘You sound a bit stressed.’
‘I’m fine. I …’ She was moving along the street, more crowded now: the bars and cafés were emptying as people began their return to work. A flock of Japanese were following a woman holding high a small flag. Faces whirled and chattered about her. She was pacing up and down, still desperately searching for the boy, trying to construct a plan, a sequence of actions.
‘Your buyers have been on the phone.’
Her heart sank.
‘It seems the chain they were in has dropped a link.’
‘What does that mean?’ She pulled back, attempting not to snap.
‘The couple who were buying from them have been refused a mortgage.’
‘Oh.’
‘Yours are still dead keen, bu
t they’ve requested a delayed completion date to help them find a replacement. They’re cash buyers but don’t want to take a bridging loan.’
Oh, shit.
‘No, I – I can’t agree to that. I need to get this over with, Robert.’
‘You want me to call the agents and put the flat back on the market?’ He didn’t sound over-enamoured of the prospect. ‘This won’t go down well with the creditors.’
‘Do whatever you think is best. I have to go.’ She snapped the phone closed.
While in conversation with Robert she had set herself in the direction of the avenue. She was peering down lanes, looking for an alleyway that might lead to a back entrance to the block, when her phone rang again. ‘I’ve spoken to them and they’ll respect your wishes. They’ll go ahead with a bridging loan. And it gets better. As they’re not now waiting on their own sale, they can move whenever you’re ready.’
‘I’m ready. You have the keys.’
‘Yes, we do. I’ll get this wrapped up for you as soon as I can, Jane. Take care of yourself.’
‘Thank you.’
‘More soon.’
‘Oh, Robert, before you go, I was wondering about Patrick …’ She let the name slip down the phone, and waited.
The silence roared back at her. She could all but hear Robert’s brain ticking over. ‘Patrick?’ he repeated eventually.
Her casual tone was a winning performance. ‘Yes, wondering whether Luc had drawn up any legal documents regarding him?’
‘He never mentioned any Patrick to me. I’ll try for a completion date next week. I’ll let you know.’ The line was dead.
It was after six in the evening. Jane was still loitering, leaning against a tall oak tree on the edge of the Bois de Vincennes, across the street from number sixty, avenue de la Dame Blanche. Many had come and many had gone but no boy and no dog had returned. There must be another access that she had overlooked somewhere. What was she to do? Find a hotel in the vicinity? Press all the buzzers? She was tired and thirsty, dizzy from hunger. A headache threatened, kicked off by brandy and strong coffee on an empty stomach. Her feet were torture from standing around all afternoon and her mind buzzed, like a wasp trapped in a jar, with the single-mindedness of her task. Had she slipped up, lost concentration and missed a coming or going?
The Forgotten Summer Page 24