The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  I try to still my restlessness and behave as one ought to behave at the breakfast which welcomes in a new decade. Gisèle’s periodic worried glances tell me I am not altogether succeeding.

  Marthe’s story has finally convinced me that Madeleine had a stalker other than myself. And if that is the case, even if what I have confessed to Contini is the truth, it is up to me somehow to find him. First, however, there are a few tasks to perform.

  I manage to track down Gagnon and convince him of the need for security at Mme Tremblay’s house from tomorrow on. He agrees readily. He feels he owes me favours. The hunt through the woods around the Rosenberg place has yielded results. Gagnon is very pleased. Trebly pleased because, as he underlines, his success is one in the eye for our pompous Mayor. Yes, yes, he assures me. Of course he has told that disgruntled Contini. He makes it sound as if he has told him in order to make up for Henderson’s death - not that he has spared a tear for the man he, at least, is still certain is Madeleine’s murderer. We have reason to be proud of the Ste-Anne police force he emphasizes.

  After a bit of a chase, I track down Jerome. His voice tells me he is not altogether happy to hear from me. I convey an invitation from Mme Tremblay to Monique and to him. I also tell him about Maryla’s accident and suggest he check in on her and Stefan. Then I try to grill him about what it is that he knows, about his sources too, but he refuses that conversation. Having done his best for me, he has now given me up to the mercy of a greater authority.

  With Gisele’s permission, I ring Marie-Ange Corot in Paris and tell her answering machine I will be waiting for her at the airport.

  Then I drive through the half-empty city. I park in front of Madeleine’s apartment. I gaze up at her window for too long. Chastising myself for my musing, the lapse into a perennial reverie, I force myself into practicality. Like some deputy of Contini’s, I confront the super at his polished teak desk and barrage him with questions about the day of the University assassinations. He looks up at me blankly.

  ‘Hey. You got yourself the wrong man. I’m only filling in. Old Olivier will be back on Wednesday.’

  ‘When did he leave?’

  ‘Christmas Day I started.’

  I curse my bad luck. From the pay telephone in the corner coffee shop, I ring all the friends Madeleine and I had in common. Two of them are at home. I pay them visits and repeat my questions. I find out nothing new, except that Madeleine had talked of going back to Paris as soon as the run of Hedda Gabler was finished.

  I try the political editor of Le Devoir who contacted me not so many days ago. Journalists always hear things.

  We meet for an early evening drink at a bar on St Denis. By the end of our circuitous chat, a weighing of motive and circumstance, he has me convinced that Madeleine’s killer could have come only from Ste-Anne.

  This does nothing to ease my sleep. The mists still won’t lift from my memory. Contini’s hypnotic voice maps out terrain and strategy. Pierre Rousseau again emerges as a more than plausible murderer.

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, Mme Tremblay and I are sitting in the lobby of the Sûrete de Québec building and I am far more nervous than I thought possible. Maybe it’s because I still don’t know what I am going to say to Contini. I need time.

  The sight of a man in handcuffs, his head bowed, two policemen at his side, underscores the fact that I may not be allowed to leave this building. Freedom suddenly beckons to me in all its fleeting glory. I am about to make my apologies and head for the door, when I hear my name called.

  ‘M. Rousseau, Mme Tremblay.’ Ginette Lavigne, her hair too bright against the sobre grey of her suit, addresses us. Her voice seems to rebound through the expanse of the lobby.

  ‘Here,’ Mme Tremblay murmurs, as if she were marking her presence at a school roll call.

  Ginette’s smile is only for her. ‘Detective Contini would like to see you first and then I’ll take you down for the ID .’

  The elevator door swishes shut behind us with an eerie finality. Yet it does manage to open at the ninth floor. We are ushered into a long rectangle of an office ranked with desks. The grimy light which comes through the tall windows does nothing to cheer the functional blandness of the half-empty room. Soiled paper coffee cups are everywhere. Telephones ring into the void. The occasional officer picks one up, sprawls in a chair and scribbles on a sheet of paper.

  ‘You wait here, M. Rousseau.’ Lavigne points me to one of the unoccupied desks.

  I am about to protest, but she has already whisked Mme Tremblay through a door at the side. I doodle on a pad, pretend indifference. There is nothing I can do to prevent Contini warning Mme Tremblay about me. My drawing takes on the semblance of a row of prison bars.

  When Mme Tremblay re-emerges, she casts me a searching look, but she winds her arm through mine as Lavigne leads us back to the elevator. This time, when its doors open, there is a palpable chill in the air. We are in the basement. We are in the morgue.

  Lavigne must notice Mme Tremblay’s shudder, for she addresses her with an air of apology. ‘It should only take a moment.’

  The long windowless room is cold, yet airless. It smells of chemicals and something I don’t want to identify. Mme Tremblay leans heavily on my arm as a grey-faced, spectacled man exchanges a few murmured words with Lavigne, then pulls open a vault in the wall. Mme Tremblay looks away, but I am rivetted, as if Will Henderson’s prone body contained my own mortality.

  The sack is pulled back to reveal a pale waxy face, pain etched in its mouth, its eyes closed in sleep. The long dark hair gleams, somehow too alive. In death, Will Henderson looks like a Renaissance Christ. Only his mourning mother’s lap is missing to complete a pietà.

  ‘No!’ Mme Tremblay’s wail is loud in the stillness of the room. ‘Too young. So young.’ She hides her face in her hands.

  Ginette Lavigne and I hold her up on either side. Her eyes meet mine for the first time. The look is too stark. I turn away in confusion.

  In the lobby, Lavigne deposits me, like some lesser package, with a woman in a white lab technician’s coat and takes Mme Tremblay away to the canteen.

  The woman gives me a cursory smile, one that barely creases her face and waves me once more towards the elevator. ‘Follow, me please.’ Her voice is as thin as her face and whistles slightly.

  ‘Where is Detective Contini?’

  ‘Oh, we don’t need him. It’s a very simple, standard procedure.’

  ‘I need to see him.’

  ‘Really, I promise you. There’s no need. And there’s nothing to be nervous about.’

  ‘I have to see him,’ I repeat.

  The elevator door opens and shuts again as I refuse to precede her into it. The woman’s smile vanishes.

  ‘Very well,’ she says through gritted teeth. ‘We’ll go up to the ninth. But he may not have time to see you.’

  ‘He’ll make time.’

  She casts me the kind of look one gives to troublesome time-wasters and reluctantly leads me to Contini’s cubicle of an office.

  Contini sits behind his desk, a telephone balanced between ear and shoulder.

  ‘Ya, the security guard, he mutters. Just check his alibi for Christmas Eve and get him there.’ He throws me an impatient glance, then swivels his chair to turn his back on me.

  I gaze at the picture on the wall. It shows a steeply wooded valley beneath irridescent blue skies. A sculptured stone village studs a distant mountain top. Umbria, the caption reads. On his desk, there is a photograph of a darkly severe woman and two plump children.

  ‘What are you doing in here, Rousseau? I’m a busy man,’ Contini swivels back to me. The brusqueness of his words is undercut by the smile which flickers across his lips. ‘Nervous eh? Don’t worry, Mlle Johnson knows just what she’s doing. She’s a very experienced hand.’

  The lab technician turns a stern headmistress’ face on him. He waves her out through the door and shuts it behind her.

  ‘So you’re afraid I wo
n’t keep to my side of the bargain? You think I’m just a corrupt policeman whose word can’t be trusted. Here.’ He takes the recorder from his jacket pocket and flicks the tape into my hand.

  ‘It’s not that.’ I put the tape between us on the table. ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  ‘Changed your mind? What the… Look Rousseau, you’re wasting my time. And I’m not feeling great today.’

  ‘I’m not going to do it. No sperm test. You can keep the tape.’ I don’t know why I am saying this except that I don’t want Contini to know more than I do about myself. And I don’t want to be held captive until I have worked it out.

  ‘Okay. No problem. Is that all?’

  His response astonishes me. ‘You mean I can go?’

  ‘Go. For the time being.’

  I don’t move. ‘I…I’d like to see Madeleine’s journals.’

  ‘Sure. When we’re through with them. If Mme Tremblay allows it, that’s no skin off my nose.’

  ‘I want to see them now.’

  ‘No can do. They’re evidence.’

  I sit there stubbornly and he bursts out laughing. ‘There’s nothing in the journals about a child, Rousseau.’

  ‘What! So how do you know?

  ‘The post mortem, of course. I wish you’d stop being such a romantic.’

  A vision of Madeleine’s poor mutilated body flashes across my mind. In the morgue. Like Will Henderson. I force away vertigo and heave myself to my feet.

  ‘But you should do the test, Rousseau. For your own peace of mind. Be a good boy now and run along with Mlle Johnson.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘All right. Have it your way.’ He plops the tape into his drawer. ‘Go. I’ve got things to do.’

  I skirt the lab technician and hurry towards the elevator. I have almost reached it when Contini calls me back.

  ‘Heh, Rousseau. How close was this Oscar Boileau to Madeleine? Lavigne tells me he’s done a painting of her. And he appears in the journals.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ I mumble.

  He gives me his inquisitorial stare, the one that fixes me in my tracks, then grins maliciously. ‘Did your beloved police chief mention to you that they found Charlie. Charlie McNeil? Apparently he turned up in that lovely wood near your river. Convenient, eh? And now Gagnon can be a white-gloved hero and wrap things up in a nice clean package. Pats on the shoulder all round. Ste-Anne once again a drug-free zone. For the time being at least.’

  ‘You mean…?

  ‘Ya. A witness to name Will Henderson as the major bad guy.’

  I study his face. ‘Did Charlie say anything about Madeleine and Will?’

  ‘Thought you’d never ask.’ He puts his arm around me conspiratorially, loosens a tie which is already loose enough. ‘Apparently both Charlie and Will went to Midnight Mass - a little early. Henderson met up with Madeleine in front of one of the confessionals and something - innocent Charlie doesn’t quite know what, of course - changed hands. Then Madeleine went into the booth.’

  ‘So that’s how Jerome…’ I stop myself.

  ‘What about your brother?’

  ‘Oh nothing.’

  Contini pats me too hard on the back. ‘Stay close to home Rousseau.’

  16

  _________

  The thick silence of separate solitudes reigns in the car as Mme Tremblay and I drive back to Ste-Anne in the half-light of a sombre afternoon.

  But when we reach the road to her house she suddenly grips my arm.

  ‘Turn off at the barn, Pierre. Never mind the ice.’

  ‘OK. But there’s nothing to see.’

  ‘An absence,’ she whispers. ‘That’s something.’

  She is right. We both stand there in front of the car and I suspect we see the same thing. A process. A barn which is also a stable which contains a horse that Madeleine rides, and chickens and rabbits. A barn that is full of life. And then gradually the barn empties until there is nothing in it but the chipped and broken relics of past days and Madeleine’s fractured lifeless body. And now, there is only absence, white curves and ridges and hollows tracing out a lack.

  The last of the light vanishes as we stand there.

  ‘Let’s go,’ Mme Tremblay says. ‘Maybe it’s better that the barn’s gone. Fitting. Like a pyre.’

  I drive right up to the porch of the house so that she doesn’t have far to walk.

  There are flowers strewn on the steps, poking through the wooden posts of the balcony, tied to the bannister. Red carnations, amber chrysanthemums…

  ‘The people of Ste-Anne have taken Madeleine into their hearts at last,’ I murmur.

  ‘Because…’

  ‘Because of the fire.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Not too soon,’ Mme Tremblay says with no visible bitterness.

  The dogs have already set up their barking. A bearded figure opens the door even before I have helped her out of the car. It is only then that I notice that the lights are already on.

  ‘Michel. It was good of you to come.’ Mme Tremblay greets her handyman and smiles for the first time in days as the dogs rush round her. I hadn’t realised she had rung him.

  ‘Is the fire going?’

  He nods.

  ‘And you’ve managed the basics? Good. Thank you. Thank you very much. I’m expecting some visitors.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘You’ll stay for a cup of tea, Michel? Or a glass of whisky. For the New Year.’

  Dubois shakes his bulky head.

  ‘Had enough over the last days, did you? Never mind. It’s only fitting for the New Year. Have the dogs been behaving?’

  ‘Yes. Very good.’

  The doorbell rings and I glance at my watch. Monique and Jerome are early.

  ‘You answer it, Pierre.’

  Mme Tremblay face has grown taut. She arranges an invisible strand of hair back into its knot and hastily puts things into the fridge. ‘Take them into the salon,’ she calls after me.

  But it is not my brother and Monique at the door. A tousle-haired young man in a black motorcycle jacket and leather trousers confronts me. Noël Jourdan.

  ‘Oh!’ he says. ‘I thought… What are you doing here?’ The words come out in a challenging hiss as if I were a spy from an enemy state and it were treason to he seen fraternizing with me.

  ‘Visiting Mme Tremblay.’

  ‘You…’ He gives me a contorted look, half fear, half suspicion. ‘So you’ve changed sides again.’

  ‘And you?’ I match his aggression. ‘What are you doing here?’

  He holds out a flat white box. ‘Gran’mère asked me to bring this round. A tortière. For Mme Tremblay. But if she’s not here…’

  ‘She’s here. Maybe you had better come in.’

  He shrugs, waves to someone behind him. I see a motorbike. A figure slides off the seat and removes a helmet.

  ‘Martine!’ The sight of her reassures me. ‘Come on in. I’m sure Mme Tremblay will be pleased to see you.’

  ‘Hello M. Rousseau. Thank you.’

  Martine has more social grace than her sullen friend. As I usher them inside, I realise that they are both painfully shy and slightly bewildered. They don’t know where to put their hands or their feet and they gaze up at the pictures of Madeleine with a mixture of awe and avid curiosity. Noël makes brash remarks to hide it and holds on to the tortière as if I might steal it away.

  I urge Mme Tremblay through from the kitchen and tell her I will see to supper. She should be resting and sipping whisky. Dubois skulks after her, like some protective genie. As they go into the living room, I hear Noël laugh, ‘Hey Michel, found any more murdering Anglo arsonists lately.’

  Minutes later, as I am warming a couple of store bought onion pies in the oven alongside the tortière, the doorbell rings again.

  This time I am right in presuming it is Monique and my brother. He holds a small case in his hand. His other is at his collar which seems to be chafing. He refuses my gaze.

  Moni
que is full of artificial excitement. She kisses me loudly on both cheeks and lets out a spew of words about the weather and the roads as she hands me her padded coat. Beneath it, she has a tidy skirt on over ample hips and a pink sweater which is just a little too tight. Something about her reminds me unhappily of my stepmother.

  While I hang coats, Michel Dubois comes into the hall and tries to slip out the door with a muttered, ‘Bonsoir.’

  Jerome holds him back. ‘I didn’t see you at mass on Sunday, Michel.’

  ‘Busy.’ He grunts a second ‘Bonsoir’ and is down the steps before my brother can say any more.

  There is a hollowness in the living room when I usher Monique and Jerome through, a silence which Monique ruptures which a breathless, echoing ‘Maman’ as she rushes over to Mme Tremblay who sits as motionless as an effigy in the sofa.

  ‘Welcome Monique. Welcome Jerome.’ Mme Tremblay’s voice comes fractionally too late and barely disguises the effort that has gone into her words.

  ‘Thank-you, Mme Tremblay.’ Jerome shakes her hand solemnly. ‘I haven’t had the opportunity…’

  She waves away his condolences.

  Martine is standing up. ‘We should go now.’

  ‘These kind children have been delivering a tortière for our supper. Why not stay and join us?’ Mme Tremblay says with sudden inspiration.

  ‘No, no. We’re due elsewhere.’ Noël is stealing unhappy sidelong glances at my brother. ‘Aren’t we Martine?’

  She nods. I notice that the scarf round her neck is still Madeleine’s.

  ‘We’re off, then.’ Noël shuffles from foot to foot.

  ‘You’ll come again. I would like that.’ Suddenly Mme Tremblay rises. Rises slowly. ‘You probably haven’t met Monique yet. Monique Blais, Madeleine’s mother.’ She gives it the emphasis of a public proclamation.

  ‘Oh.’ Martine’s exclamation fills the quiet in the room like a train’s whistle.

  ‘You’ll thank your grandmother for me, Noël. And you take care on that motorbike. From my peek through the window, it looks much bigger than the one my husband used to drive.’

  Noël’s chest swells to the amplitude of a champion’s facing a cheering studio audience. ‘Don’t worry Mme Tremblay.’