The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  ‘What?’ My fists are clenched again. I confront him boldly, note every shift in those mobile features. ‘Did you prowl round my shed?’

  ‘The shed? Why? No. No.’ He gives the impression of being genuinely confused. ‘It was something I ended up by telling Contini. Perhaps I shouldn’t have, but at the time, it seemed important.’

  I slump back into the chair as if my spine had crumbled. I know what he is going to say.

  He urges me to drink. My mouth is as dry as ashes. It transforms the wine to vinegar. But I drink it all the same while Giorgio with a diplomat’s tact recounts how Madeleine, when he had last seen her, had mentioned a series of anonymous letters she had received, invasive letters that troubled her deeply, hateful letters she had at last angrily concluded could only have come from me.

  ‘I told the detective that she suspected you. I wasn’t sure I should have. So I came to see you.’

  I massage my brow. A pain I can’t get rid of has lodged itself there.

  Giorgio gets up to stoke the fire into life. I barely hear his murmur. ‘Were they from you?’

  The ‘yes’ hurts my throat.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ he says softly. ‘If you want to.’

  I tell him briefly, tersely, about the odd compulsion of the letters. There is a look of such fraternal compassion on his face that I barely stop myself from recounting my doubts, my terror, concerning the fateful night of Madeleine’s death. But I manage to skirt that. Instead I find myself telling him about the break in, about Minou, about the chase - the events of the last few hours which brought me here to him.

  Giorgio has a gift for listening, a peculiar intent concern, which is also like a neutral space. Maybe he learned it as a priest. A good confessor. Or maybe, it was already him. I almost wish I could tell him everything, what I know and what I don’t know. But I hold back. I finish by saying, ‘I hope my coming here isn’t irresponsible.’

  ‘Auberge. That’s what it means. A place of refuge. I’m glad you’ve come. Even if you suspected me.’ He laughs and I look away in shame.

  ‘No. no. Don’t worry about it. We’re all trapped in suspicion and fear. Murder is so much harder for us moderns to bear than suicide. It throws everything askew. The violation of it. The brute force. I have tried to reason it out for myself, but I have no answers.’

  ‘No,’ I echo him dismally.

  ‘I console myself with the thought that at least Madeleine didn’t act as her own judge and executioner. Didn’t condemn the entirety of her life. Judge it null and void.’ He throws me a glance full of whimsical irony. ‘You see, I am good at self-consolation.’

  ‘I see. I wish I could share it.’

  He looks at me as if he could read my mad desire to be somehow implicated in Madeleine’s death.

  ‘More selfishly - and this my confession - the revelation that Madeleine’s death was a murder stupidly eased a little of my hurt. I had told myself that we had become friends again, you see. Good friends. I thought she counted on me. And then, to have her pop herself off without consulting me, without coming to me - that was very difficult to bear. I knew that I had failed in friendship.’

  I stare at him and find myself wondering again whether Madeleine ever went to bed with him. I don’t ask. Somehow it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. That startles me. What surprises me more is that in an odd way I find myself hoping she did.

  ‘And now?’ I ask softly.

  ‘Now? Now I think she’s up there laughing at us. Revelling at the commotion she’s caused. Flirting with the angels. Giving Gabriel a really hard time. Telling God he ought to do something about poverty and injustice.’

  ‘You really believe that?’

  ‘Maybe I do. Yes, maybe I do. The wine’s not bad, is it?’

  ‘But I’m afraid I have a hankering for coffee. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘And you want to make it longer?’ He laughs and leads me into the kitchen which is all clean silver surfaces and arrays of giant pots.

  ‘You know,’ he says, as he fills a kettle. ‘It seems to me - and probably this is my selfish side again - that murder is like an accident. Like an act of fate, or an act of god - if he doesn’t mind my bringing his name into this again… We reproach ourselves, we do a litany of ‘if only’s, we grieve. But we cannot be directly responsible. Only one person is directly responsible.’

  I flinch.

  He sees it, pushes the plunger down abruptly.’You must ring the police, Pierre. Tell them about everything that’s happened today. Do it now.’

  ‘There are things I don’t want them to know.’

  ‘We all have things we don’t want anyone to know.’

  In the morning, which comes too soon - we have spent so much of the night talking and watching out for my tracker - he says to me, ‘Would you like me to come with you?’ I could… Paloma and Sylvie won’t be back until tomorrow.’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You’ll go straight to the police?’

  ‘I’ve left messages. For both Gagnon and Contini.’

  ‘You’ll keep in touch?’

  ‘Yes. And thank-you.’

  He nods and follows me out to the car.

  The day is perversely bright. The sky a deep crystalline blue. The snow so dazzling we have to shield our eyes. Birds chirp and swoop at our passage.

  ‘Someone, somewhere’s done something right.’ Giorgio’s voice is rueful.

  I turn to him. ‘Contini told me Madeleine had had a child.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘So you had no inkling.’

  He shakes his handsome head. ‘When?’

  ‘He didn’t tell me. Maybe he doesn’t know. And he could be wrong.’

  We study each other again for a long moment and suddenly embrace.

  Two potential fathers hugging against the gleaming snow.

  Back on the autoroute, all the calm acquired in Giorgio’s presence dissipates. My rear-view mirror preoccupies me with growing tenacity. I keep to the right hand lane, hide between trucks. I decide not to confront my house for any fresh damage, nor to drop in on Mme Tremblay as I had planned. Instead I go straight to the office. I need the comfort of closely peopled streets and a sobering dose of normality to stop my fears from running away with me.

  Arlette Gatineau, my secretary, is already at her desk. A thin, serious woman of my own age, she wishes me a happy new year, then repositions her spectacles and reads from her message pad.

  ‘A Detective Contini rang and says he’ll ring back later. He’s very busy today. Police Chief Gagnon phoned to say he’s personally at your disposal and will come whenever it’s convenient.’

  She gives me a quizzical glance over the top of her glasses, but puts no questions into words.

  I hired Arlette some eighteen months ago when she arrived in the vicinity of Ste-Anne. Her husband commutes to Montréal. I hired her because she is intelligent and doesn’t gossip - though she takes in everything around her and when asked will give me a sharp little portrait of her impressions. We get on splendidly.

  Now her quizzical glance lasts a second longer than usual and I know she needs confirmation about the unusual events which have upset the town. She is too new to it to know about my past relations with Madeleine.

  I can’t quite give the explanations she seeks. Instead I tell her that I’ll be out much of today and probably a little erratic in my movements for the next few. She’ll have to hold the fort. I also ask her to get hold of Maryla Orkanova for me and see if she needs any help. I am worried about Maryla and wonder if I should ask Gagnon to put her, too, on his security list.

  ‘Mme Groulx is waiting for you,’ Arlette informs me. ‘I’m afraid she insisted and I couldn’t put her off.’

  We smile at each other. The ordinariness of that complicit smile gives me strength and I march calmly through to confront Mme Groulx.

  ‘Pierre,’ she looks at me in her most queenly manner. ‘I’m not pleased with you. You didn’t stand up for me in fr
ont of that horrid Montréal detective. What right he has to stick his nose into our business, I don’t know.’

  ‘What can I do for you on this bright morning, Mme Groulx?’

  She narrows her eyes.

  ‘So you know now?’

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Who did it. It was that awful drugged youth, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Mme Groulx, this is not the police station, and I’m as ignorant as the rest of us. Now please. Is there some business you want to transact?’

  A smile plays over her thin lips. She shows me her gold tooth. ‘Yes. A small change to my will. In favour of my great grandson, Noël Jourdan.’

  ‘You’re sure of that? You know each change costs you.’

  ‘I’m sure. He’s a smart boy. A brave boy. He’ll go far. I want you to put in five thousand for him. Subtract is from my donation to the Seminary.’

  I note the change in my black book. ‘I’ll send the amendment round for you to sign.’

  ‘No. I’ll drop in. Tomorrow morning?’

  ‘That’ll be fine.’

  She doesn’t get up. Instead, she clears her throat and shows me her tooth again. ‘Did Mme Tremblay enjoy my tortière.’

  ‘Very much, I think. It was delicious.’

  ‘And that Monique of hers?’ She bends towards me. ‘You know she isn’t worth a tenth of Madeleine. A hundredth.’ She lowers her voice. ‘I have it that she only turned up here because of that arsonist. That murderer,’ she emphasizes stubbornly. ‘You know they both come from Maine. How much did Madeleine leave her in her will?’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know that Mme Groulx. Madeleine Blais’ will is not in my hands.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ She gives me a doubtful glance and then preens herself. ‘I haven’t told you. About that motorbike outside the church at midnight mass. I hadn’t realised. That was Noel’s. My great grandson’s. How about that! He offered Madeleine Blais a ride on it and apparently she gave him a big kiss.’

  ‘What a pretty picture,’ I say through stiff lips. The tidbit of information makes the hair on my neck bristle. ‘Did they take it? The ride, I mean?’

  She looks confused for a moment. ‘Well, I don’t know. I’ll ask.’

  No sooner does Mme Groulx make her exit, than my brother strides in. He stands uncomfortably on the other side of the desk. ‘They haven’t locked you up yet, so maybe I misinterpreted.’

  ‘What?’ I want to lunge at him.

  ‘Rumours.’ He is dismissive. ‘I haven’t much time. The boys start coming back today.’ He shuffles from foot to foot, his expression troubled. His reason for coming seems to have deserted him.

  ‘Tell me Jerome, I say softly.’

  He clears his throat. ‘It’s about Mme Tremblay and Monique. They’re so at odds. Perhaps, I don’t know… if only Mme Tremblay could be a little more charitable. Monique doesn’t mean ill. It’s just that life has blunted her. She’s grown coarse.’ He gives me a sudden pained, naked look. ‘Hasn’t she?’

  He doesn’t give me time to answer. ‘Tell her. Explain to Mme Tremblay. It will be a good deed.’

  He rushes away, cloaked in virtue once more.

  I sit there a little stunned and wonder at the dreams he must have clung to all these years. Even longer than myself. We are a family of dreamers.

  Arlette’s buzz wakes me to the present.

  ‘Two Messieurs Lefèvres for you and I have Mme Orkanova on the phone.’

  It takes me a moment to remember the appointment I set up in the midst of last week’s distress. I talk briefly to Maryla who sounds well enough. Dr Bergeron has given her a few days off and Mme Préfontaine has come to sit with her and help out with the house. I keep the anxiety out of my voice and tell her it will be nice for her to enjoy a few day’s rest at home. I stress the home.

  Then for the next hour, I am caught up in a bitter saga which is not my own - and which for perhaps that reason seems to hold out solutions.

  By the time the two Messieurs Lefèvres have left, my watch shows after one. I ring Gagnon who is out. So, too is Contini.

  With a heavy heart, I make my way to the parking lot and covertly check for any cars with dents and scrapes on their passenger side. There are two, but neither of them bears the imprint of my paint-work or Maryla’s. Despite my reluctance, I force myself to head home. It is daytime, after all. Nothing happens in the daytime. And I need to change.

  In the bright mid-day sun, the house looks innocent and as sedate as the town dignitary who constructed it in his image. For a moment, I pretend to myself that all the events of the last days, from Madeleine’s terrible death to the vandalism of yesterday evening, are the product of some wild nightmare, brewed out of indigestion and a guilty conscience.

  In a flurry of optimistic fancy I walk round to the front door and tell myself reality will show no tell-tale signs, But the salon window really is boarded up and between the ornamental firs, Minou’s casket makes a forlorn hump in the snow.

  Without her, the house feels emptier than ever. I dash up the stairs two at a time and averting my eyes from the bed, grab a suit from the closet and pick a shirt and underwear from the heaped jumble on the floor.

  I change quickly in the bathroom. The sight of the razor lying open in the middle of the sink gives me pause. I am about to pick it up when I notice the blood on its edge. With a dreadful certainty, I realise it is Minou’s. My skin feels as if it is crawling with maggots.

  The ringing of the telephone jars me into movement. I pick up the receiver. Silence meets my ‘Allo,’ and then, as I am about to hang-up, a high falsetto voice screeches, ‘Sal cochon.’

  ‘Who is this?’

  ‘Up your arse.’

  The line goes dead.

  I am about to head for the door, when the ringing starts again. I hesitate. Could I identify this voice if it kept talking. Steeling myself, I pick up the receiver.

  ‘Rousseau. It’s Gagnon. You’ve been trying to reach me?’

  With a sigh of relief I tell him about the break-in and about the cat.

  ‘Mauditcriss,’ he mutters beneath his breath. ‘We’ll get right over.’

  I glance at my watch. ‘How long will you be, Gagnon? I have to meet someone at the airport.’

  ‘Fifteen minutes, no more.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll let you in, then leave you here to get on with things.

  ‘There might be some prints on the window ledge,’ he says in his new confident manner. ‘Don’t touch anything.’

  Too late, I think to myself as I hang up. Too bloody late. I kick a stray pair of underwear into the centre of the heap and in a fury of self-deprecation, walk to the end of the corridor and turn the key in the lock of the attic room.

  PART THREE

  17

  _________

  The arrival lounge at Mirabel airport is busy with returning holiday-makers. Taxi-drivers hold up signs with boldly printed names. People cluster around gates. Grandmothers and toddlers wave erratically at the doors as if in rehearsal for the great moment. A few suited businessmen stroll impatiently between the Avis and Hertz and Budget kiosks and back again.

  My impatience matches the businessmen’s. I scan the arrival monitors and pace the elongated corridor. Near the escalator, I am surprised to see Contini. He is lounging in an armchair.

  ‘I didn’t know you were coming,’ I greet him.

  ‘It seemed convenient.’ He takes a big juicy bite from the apple in his hand and munches reflectively. ‘Had to skip lunch, though.’

  A little to one side of him, I notice Serge Monet, Contini’s sometime partner, talking to a man I don’t recognize.

  ‘Oh yes. I don’t believe you’ve met.’ Contini gestures the two men over. ‘Fernando Ruiz, Meet Pierre Rousseau.’

  Ruiz is smaller than me, dark and wiry with a hawk nose and unblinking, yet shifty eyes. He wears a leather jacket and cord trousers and his glossy black hair falls in a wave across his brow. I stare at him in nervous fascination.

/>   ‘Enchantez, M. Rousseau,’ he says in a heavily aspirated accent and stretches a bony hand towards me.

  ‘He had a haircut back in Lisbon. I’m pretty sure he’s Mme Tremblay’s hitchhiker. You certain you’ve never seen him before?’ Contini’s tone is insinuating and loud enough for the man to hear.

  Perhaps Ruiz doesn’t or he doesn’t understand, for he says, ‘I was so deeply sorry to hear about Madeleine’s tragic death. Anything I can do to help the investigation…’ He is addressing me as if someone has told him who I am. Maybe Madeleine has mentioned me as a friend.

  Contini shatters my illusions. ‘I explained you were her ex.’ He gives me one of his protruding winks and with an oafish gesture, hurls his apple into a neighbouring bin.

  I don’t know why he is playing the clown. It is Monet who is being scrupulously polite today. His lean form is encased in a smart suit, his drooping moustache carefully combed. He comes over to shake my hand and points to the screen overhead. ‘Mme Corot’s plane has just landed. It shouldn’t be long now.’

  ‘She is a fine woman, Marie-Ange Corot. I am happy to see her here,’ Ruiz intones.

  ‘You know her?’

  ‘Oh yes. We have met on occasion.’ He looks down at his boots which are pointed and shiny, like a stage cowboy’s. ‘Spoken mostly. We are in the same line of work.’

  ‘Ya.’ Contini inerjects. ‘Ruiz makes movies. A director. He tells me I have a really good cop’s face. So I’m auditioning right now. Maybe he’ll give me a part. Give us both parts. You can play the murderer and I can play myself.’

  With a smirk, he winds his arm through mine and pulls me in front of the two men.

  ‘Did you get my message?’ I ask, all my irritation suddenly in my voice.

  ‘We’re always leaving messages for each other, you and me. It’s getting to be quite a little love affair.’ Again that wink.

  ‘Have you been drinking?

  ‘No, just thinking. Too much thinking. And I’m pissed off at you for wasting my time yesterday. The formidable Mlle Johnson was not pleased to have her schedule disturbed.’