The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  I digest this and suggest to the nurse that Mme Tremblay may well be talking of her grand-daughter’s funeral and not her own.

  ‘Oh, I see. Yes, of course. Still, it will be best to keep her here.’

  I concede that. I also stress that for evident reasons all newspapers must be kept from her. ‘And on no account must any journalist be allowed to sneak through to disturb her. Will you make sure of that?’

  ‘Yes, yes. Of course.’ Her voice takes on that trill of excitement that a mention of the media always seems to elicit. ‘But how will we know whom to let in, if she has visitors, that is?’

  ‘Look, I’ll try and arrange for a couple of friends to come and sit with her. I’ll ring you back with their names.’

  On the spur of the moment I contact Gisèle Denos, the publicity director at the theatre. She answers on the second ring. She hasn’t left home yet.

  ‘Pierre,’ her voice is husky as if she has already been through a day’s worth of cigarettes. ‘I’ve just seen the papers. It’s too awful. I can’t take this murder on board. The police came to interview me yesterday morning.’

  ‘Oh?’ I interrupt her nervous flow.

  ‘Yes. An Italian guy.’

  ‘Contini,’ I fill in for her and feel a sudden tingle of apprehension.

  ‘That’s it. And he didn’t breathe a word about murder. But he asked about you. We’ve got to talk Pierre. Are you in town?’

  ‘No, that’s why I’m calling.’

  I explain about Mme Tremblay. Gisèle is aghast and only too willing to help. ‘Yes, sure I’ll sit with her. The office can go and stew. All I do is answer journalist’s questions about Madeleine in any case. And it’ll be worse today. Far worse. My assistant can cope. I’ll enjoy keeping the snoops away from Mme Tremblay.’

  With a small sense of triumph, I ring back Nurse Reynolds and then despite the unusual silence of the office, try to pretend this is an ordinary working day. Not a Saturday. Not a day five days after Madeleine’s death.

  I stack the heap of unopened mail in a tray. I switch on the computer for company. I make myself a cup of instant coffee and carry it back to my desk. Pen in hand, I press the button on the answering machine and listen to a voice which after a few high-pitched seconds identifies itself as M. Lefevre who wants to change his will after the disaster of Christmas with his son and daughter-in-law. Two messages later comes one from his son enquiring about the nature of power-of-attorney. His ancient father, he says, is definitely losing his marbles.

  On impulse, I ring back both father and son and listen to their plaints, soothe them, and give them an appointment for the coming week. The very fact of a named date on which things can be sorted out will, I know, calm their relations.

  I scribble down names and numbers of two more people seeking appointments, then pause as I hear Marie-Ange Corot, Madeleine’s agent in Paris again. I have forgotten to return her call.

  Glancing at my watch to check the time in France, I dial the number she has left, only to be greeted by another answering machine. Relieved, I convey my apologies and say I will try her later.

  No sooner have I put the phone down, then it startles me with its ring. I stare at it in fascination, wondering who thinks they’ll be able to reach me here on a Saturday morning. On the third ring, I pick it up.

  ‘Mr. Pierre Rousseau?’ A tentative voice says in English.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Oh thank goodness. Mr Rousseau, this is Raff. Raff Rosenberg. You came round last night.’

  ‘Yes.’ My attention is total.

  ‘We’re in trouble here. Don’t know what to do. Bricks have come through the windows. Two of them. Horrible messages wrapped round them. And there are these people outside. Lots of them. They don’t look friendly.’ He swallows noisily. ‘We’re scared.’

  ‘Have you rung the police?’

  ‘No. You see, that’s just it. We don’t want the police here. We were going to leave this morning. There’s just Annie and me now. The others cleared off in the night. We wanted to tidy up. My parents…’ He leaves the sentence hanging, then rushes on in rising hysteria. ‘But now, it’s a complete mess. There’s glass everywhere. Annie’s hurt.’ A sob escapes him. He chokes it into control. ‘We just want to get out of here. We thought you could come and talk to the people outside.’

  ‘Look Raff,’ I put on my most soothing voice. ‘You’ll have to face the police sometime. Better here than at home, no? I’ll get them to come straight over. I’ll come with them. You go and sit tight in an upstairs room.’

  I rush round to the police station. Despite the buzz the opening of the door sets up, there is no one in the outer office. I hesitate to push open the half door which leads to the inner rooms. I pause for a moment and wait. Through the glazed window on the side, I suddenly notice Contini’s bent head. Facing him is Mme Groulx in her best fur hat. It perches on her hair at a precarious angle.

  Contini’s voice weaves clearly round the door.

  ‘You’re sure that this man we’ve just seen is the same as the man you saw at Midnight Mass with Madeleine Blais? Absolutely certain?’ Contini sounds exasperated.

  ‘Yes. It’s just as I told the man from La Presse this morning.’ Mme Groulx preens herself like some plump outlandish bird. ‘He’s one of those types who hang out at the old Jew’s house. He…’

  ‘I didn’t ask you for his religion, Mme Groulx,’ Contini interrupts. ‘So now you’re telling me that you saw him before Midnight Mass. You had already seen the youth before you saw him with Mlle Blais?’

  For a moment, Mme Groulx looks confused. She adjusts her hat. ‘Yes. Yes. I think so.’

  ‘Thank you Mme Groulx. That will be all.’ Contini stands up.

  ‘Don’t you need me for anything else, Detective?’

  ‘Not right now, Mme Groulx. Oh, just tell me,’ he adds as he ushers her through the door, ‘Do you wear glasses Mme Groulx?’

  ‘Sometimes. When I need to. My eyes…’ She glares up at him with swift suspicion. ‘You’re not going to let him go, Detective?’

  ‘We’ll do exactly as the law requires of us, Mme Groulx. You can sleep in peace.’ He looks up and sees me. ‘Rousseau, what are you doing here?’

  ‘Pierre,’ Mme Groulx hastens towards me.

  ‘I need to talk to the Detective, Mme Groulx. In private.’ I open the front door for her and with a gesture made up in equal measure of unbreachable authority and irreproachable politeness which I must have learned from my father, help her through it.

  ‘So you don’t trust Mme Groulx’s eyes?’ I ask Contini.

  ‘The eyes of one or even two old ladies rarely hold up under cross-examination for murder. You’ve been eavesdropping.’

  I shrug. ‘So you’ll only hold Will on the arson charge? It seems he might have known Madeleine before…before….’

  ‘Oh?’ Pebble dark eyes glint at me. Their irony is uncertain. ‘So you’ve been carrying out your own investigation, Rousseau. That’s good. That’s good. I need evidence, Rousseau. Hard facts.’ He scrunches up a piece of paper on the desk as if it weren’t hard enough. ‘We’re taking Will up to Headquarters. We’ll do a sperm-test on him. If he complies, that is. You bet he’s got a rich Daddy somewhere just dying to hire a high-flying lawyer. Did you see that Rolex on him? Either that or he’s been making a more lucrative living as a dealer than his nerves would seem to allow for. We’ll see. We’ll hold on to him for a bit. He’s in no shape to go anywhere in any case. I don’t know what that local doctor of yours pumped into him, but I wouldn’t like it in my veins. His name’s Henderson, by the way. Mean anything to you? From Chicago, he says. But that’s just what he tells us. Who you been talking to?’

  ‘Damn, I’d almost forgotten! Where’s Gagnon?’

  ‘Preparing our charge for his little drive to the big city.’

  Hastily I explain about the kids out in the house on the Shore Road.

  Contini whistles beneath his breath. ‘Getting better
and better this place. And here I was hoping for a quiet Sunday with the Mrs. Tell you what. We’ll all drive out. Henderson, too. See what he tells us when he’s amidst friends. Set the sirens blaring. Make a little procession of it. That should give the heroic local champions of Madeleine Blais something to throw bricks at.’

  11

  __________

  Three police cars precede me along the white strip of snow-banked road. As we weave past Oscar’s place, their sirens start to flash and whine and I worry about Elise and the children and the inevitable anxieties the noise will produce. The temptation to stop and explain to them, if not just yet to confront Oscar, is great. I am not looking forward to a second visit to the Rosenberg house.

  The curve of the road makes the placards visible before their bearers. ‘Go home’ one reads and the second follows suit. ‘No killers in Ste-Anne.’ I wonder if Mayor Desforges would be proud of this instance of civic pride. Certainly he wouldn’t approve of the string of cars erratically parked along the stretch of scenic road.

  A gaggle of people, maybe twenty-five of them, stand outside the house and stamp their feet as much in cold as in anger. They are shouting, their words incomprehenisble, though their mood is as clear as the writing on the impromptu placards. Amongst them I notice Martine Senegal and Noël Jourdan, a hot-blooded youth whose schoolboy scraps are well known in the town. It occurs to me that it was Noël Jourdan whom I half glimpsed at Senegal’s yesterday, sitting at a bar stool and ogling Martine. Georges Lavigueur, a mountain of a man, dull-witted and too strong, stands beside him. Next to him is Gilles Belfort, a bumptious lay-about, only and ever cowed by his mother. Some of these names featured on the list I gave Contini.

  There is also a teacher from the local primary school. A stickler for the language laws, she once lodged a complaint with Desforges about a missing acute accent from the word Québec in one of his campaign posters and asked him whether he was intent on turning back the clock and rendering the province English once more.

  From his gait, rather than his face which is all but hidden between hat and scarf, I also recognize Michel Dubois and realise that in Contini’s words, he can now be counted as one of the champions of Madeleine.

  The police cars have ploughed through the snow-bound driveway. I pull up alongside and as I get out, I hear the jeer of the crowd. A barrage of snowballs whizzes past my ears. One hits Will Henderson on the back of the head. As he turns, a lemon yellow streak of sun cuts through the covering of cloud. In its light, handcuffs glitter like expensive bracelets. The crowd hoots. More snowballs fly. One of them hits tall, moustachioed Serge Monet, the Süreté detective who has come down from headquarters with Contini today. With a pitcher’s lope, he aims a return shot. I catch myself thinking that I am glad he has replaced Ginette Lavigne.

  ‘Get them out of here, Contini bellows to Gagnon. ‘Tell them we still have trial by jury in this country. Not trial by mob. Book them if you have to. For creating a disturbance. Find out who threw the bricks.’ He drags Will towards the house.

  Gagnon is distinctly peeved at being ordered about on his own turf and he approaches the crowd with a scowl more determined than any I have ever seen on his face.

  ‘You’re not going to protect them!’ a woman screams, scandalized. We’re the ones who need protection.’

  ‘Bloody Jews!’ Someone exclaims.

  ‘Bloody Anglos! another echoes.

  ‘What the hell’re you doing with that lot, M. Rousseau?’ an unrecognizeable voice shouts.

  ‘Belt up and get out of here. All of you.’ Gagnon hollers as loudly as if he had a megaphone to his mouth. His two constables glance at him in surprise and start dispersing the crowd.

  Gagnon puts a restraining hand on Noël Jourdan’s shoulder. ‘You throw the bricks?’

  ‘Me? Never. I just came along with Martine. Didn’t I Martine?’

  The girl nods. ‘He’s been with me all the time.’

  ‘So who’s responsible?’

  ‘We didn’t see. He ran away. Round the back. Big guy.’ A smirk flashes across Noël’s lips.

  ‘Tell me about it later. Now get out of here. All of you.’

  On the fringes of the crowd, I suddenly spy Oscar. I walk over to him and ask him what he’s doing here. Despite my better intentions, there is an edge of animosity in my voice.

  ‘Curious about my neighbours,’ he murmurs. ‘Not that I expected this. Bit of a witch-hunt. The girl at the window looked terrified.’

  ‘Rousseau. Get over here.’ Contini bellows from the porch.

  I hurry towards him and he glares at me, ‘You have a hand in organizing this rabble?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You used to be good at this sort of thing. Now get this lot to open the door, will you. Some stubborn lout says he’ll only do so if you’re here.

  ‘Raff. It’s Pierre Rousseau. Open up.’

  The door recedes a crack. Raff peers through, then releases the latch. In the daylight, he looks pale and blotchy and very young, an overgrown kid.

  ‘Will!’ his voice erupts with a crack.

  ‘Where’s Charlie?’

  It is the first coherent phrase I have heard Will utter. The words introduce a certain cunning to his face. He seems nervous but oddly composed, somehow above the fray.

  ‘Charlie’s gone,’ Raff murmurs. ‘Went last night.’

  ‘Charlie who?’ Contini is right in there.

  Silence meets his question.

  Will’s dark eyes bear down on Raff in contest with Contini’s voice.

  ‘Charlie who?’ Contini repeats. He gives Raff a nudge and moves him towards the front room. ‘Look kid, you’re in hot water already. Cooperate.’

  ‘McNeil.’ Raff blurts.

  ‘Got a home address?’ Serge Monet asks.

  Raff shakes his head.

  ‘What’s he driving?’

  ‘They all went in Hal’s car.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘You don’t have to talk, Raff.’ Will says casually. ‘Get yourself a lawyer.’

  For the first time I hear the American twang in his voice and simultaneously, I don’t know why, I can picture Madeleine with him. The image momentarily obscures my view of the front room.

  When its expanse finally materializes in front of my eyes, I am shocked. There is glass everywhere, on the floor, on the sofa, on the tables. Shards of it crackle beneath my feet. About a metre from the shattered window, a brick lies on the corner of a frayed rug. Wrapped round it is a piece of paper on which the crinkled lettering is nonetheless clear. ‘Get out and stay out.’

  Contini is turning the brick round delicately with his foot, as if it were a kitten to be played with. ‘Good thing it didn’t hit you.’

  ‘Where’s Annie?’ I ask.

  ‘Lying down upstairs. She’s got cuts on her forehead. I really think we should get her to a hospital.’

  ‘Gagnon,’ Contini hollers through the window. ‘Get one of your constables in here. We got a hospital case.’

  Outside, the crowd has all but dispersed.

  ‘Who’s Annie?’ Contini asks as three of Gagnon’s men pour into the room.

  ‘My sister,’ Raff looks as if he is about to cry. ‘Dad’s going to kill us.’

  ‘You deserve it!’ Contini growls, then with a change of heart, he puts his arm round Raff’s shoulder. ‘You speak English?’ he asks one of Gagnon’s men and when he shakes his head, he orders Serge Monet upstairs with him. ‘Check on the girl. See if she needs to be taken to hospital.’ His arm still around Raff, he leads him towards the kitchen.

  ‘We speak French,’ Raff murmurs.

  ‘Ya, sure. Speak what you like. Just give me a few terse and true facts.’ He closes the kitchen door behind them.

  In the midst of the commotion, I see Will edging towards the far side of the room with cool nonchalance. Like some male model posed for a shoot, he leans against the radiator. Behind him, the Russian peasant dolls are all assembled today, their bright painted
grins macabre in the midst of the surrounding chaos. Will warms himself for a moment, then moves casually away. The largest of the babushkas now lies open. Its top half rolls and falls onto the rug with a soft thud. When I look round, Will is already at the door. I am so engrossed by his bravura that until he has slipped out, I forget to make a sound.

  Then I prod Miron. ‘Watch your prisoner.’

  ‘Merde!’ He rushes towards the door, his partner at his heels.

  I follow in their wake. The two constables are standing on the porch looking from side to side. There is no sign of Will anywhere. One of them points to the prints on the fresh snow and they race off round the corner of the house in the direction of the copse which borders the river. I think of the marked trees Oscar’s children talked about and remind myself that I should mention this to Gagnon or Contini.

  ‘Bunglers,’ Contini explodes when I come back in. He repeats it to Gagnon who has just stepped into the room. ‘Your men are complete bunglers. Either that, or…’ He scowls at Gagnon.

  ‘Make our job easier,’ Gagnon announces tersely. ‘Resisting arrest.’

  ‘If they get him back here.’ Contini is not charitable.

  I have the feeling Gagnon is about to say something he may regret, when Monet comes down the stairs.

  ‘And?’

  Monet shrugs. ‘The girl doesn’t seem too bad. More nerves than injuries, I think. Dupuis phoned the local doctor. Said it would be quicker than the hospital on a Saturday. He’s sitting with her.’

  ‘Okay. Here’s the…’ Contini stops himself. For a split second, his posture is rigid. Only his ears seem to quiver. Then with a lunge, he makes for the door. Monet is right behind him, his pistol already released from its holster.

  ‘Mauditkriss, they’re shooting.’ Gagnon hesitates.

  ‘Shooting!’ Raff’s voice screeches into panic.

  ‘You stay here. Go up to your sister. Dupuis will take care of you.’