The Dead of Winter

by Lisa Appignanesi

  I push away grogginess, then get up before the succession of nightmarish images which hover over me can leap and pounce. My mouth feels as if a winter of grit had settled in it. I empty the glass of water by the bedside to wash it away, find a robe folded over the back of a chair and make my way down the hall to the bathroom.

  When I come back, Oscar is standing there, a pile of clothes folded in his arms.

  ‘Heard you moving. You okay?’ He inspects me obliquely, veils a frown. ‘Thought you might like these.’

  He puts the clothes on the bed and gestures at the rumpled heap in the corner. ‘Breakfast when you’re dressed. Elise has taken the kids off to school. Then she’s going to the supermarket.’ He hastens to add this, as if one or other of us might not be fit company.

  A glance in the small mirror tells me why. My face is mottled and lumpy, a battleground of bruises and cuts, as if I had blundered into the ring with the world’s champion heavyweight.

  I pull on Oscar’s jeans and turtle neck and look out the window. The sky is an icy, pitiless blue. Trees and ground and studio roofs are covered in a pristine coat, so lustrous it hurts the eyes. If I stand here long enough, maybe the brilliance will pierce through the shroud of depression which encases me.

  Oscar’s voice wills me down the stairs. I pad along slowly, my legs not quite my own.

  He grins as I come into the kitchen. ‘I could use you in the studio. Change my palette to Francis Bacon’s.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘By the way, Elise told me she spoke to you…’ He hesitates, puts a mug of steaming coffee in front of me, scoops eggs onto a plate. ‘About Madeleine. I… She had asked me not to talk about it.’ His glance is at once embarrassed and stubborn.’

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Ya?’

  I nod. We all have our secrets about Madeleine.

  ‘Tell me about last night.’

  I sip my coffee and try to construct a narrative that makes sense, but Oscar is impatient.

  ‘Michel Dubois, eh! Who ever would have thought he had that in him. Not that I know the man well, but he was always so helpful. He never struck me as… as…,’ his voice evaporates into silence.

  We look at each other. On this bright morning at this comfortable family table, we are both unequal to the notion that there has been a murderer in our midst.

  Finally I shrug. ‘Yes. Dubois. Mme Tremblay’s trusted Dubois. Or at least it would seem so. Certainly, he didn’t take kindly to me last night.’ I finger the rawness of my face. ‘The police will tell us more.’

  As if on cue, the doorbell rings and Contini strides in, only to slump into the first available chair. He looks haggard.

  ‘Long night,’ he mutters. ‘Any more of that coffee going?’

  ‘So you’ve found your man, Detective. It really is Michel Dubois.’

  Contini nods. ‘He confessed to everything, poor bugger. Great floods of tears.’

  ‘And you believe him?’ My voice holds a challenge.

  His features dimple into wryness. ‘The evidence won’t be far behind. There’s enough of it already. Ya. I believe him.’

  ‘To everything?’ Oscar queries.

  ‘Yes, everything. Murder, arson, breaking and entry - even pushing Mme Orkanova’s car off the road. Yours too. You forgot to tell me about that Rousseau.’ His expression as he empties his cup of coffee is querulous.

  ‘But why?’

  ‘Rousseau will have to explain that to you later, M. Boileau.’

  ‘How are you feeling by the way?’ Contini asks me as we get into his car.

  ‘Like I’d rather not have a body.’

  He flashes me a grin. ‘Know the feeling. Guess I owe you a thank-you for leading us to Dubois. How did you guess he was our man?’

  ‘I didn’t. Not until he lunged at me last night. Outside. During your little show.’

  He chuckles. ‘So it worked. I had a hunch it would flush our man out.’

  ‘You suspected him already?’ I am aghast. ‘But you led me to believe…’

  ‘That I had you in my sights.’ He laughs. ‘I’ve had several of you in my sights. ‘You, Dubois, Boileau… Yes, him too. Any man who knew Madeleine Blais and was big enough to carry her dead weight, heave her up to that height. Not easy. I told you before, Rousseau. I’m democratic in my suspicions. As democratic as Madeleine Blais was with her favours.’

  The pounding in my head takes on a new intensity. ‘You mean Madeleine and Michel Dubois…’

  ‘No, no. Not quite like that. I was thinking of Fernando Ruiz. But tell me your side first.’

  I tell him about the attack, the trek through the woods, the car in the boathouse which confirmed Dubois’ identity. He drives slowly, listens intently to my every word as I run through the events of the evening.

  ‘One of my men followed you, but he lost you in the woods. Those were the orders. Follow anyone who tries to leave the scene. But you’re dumb, Rousseau. You should have come to me and told me. Dubois had it in for you. I don’t like to think what would have happened if we hadn’t turned up in time.’

  ‘I’m here. More or less in one piece.’ I finger my face. ‘But you did think it was me?’

  ‘For a minute. Well, maybe a minute and a half. When I got the break down of phonecalls from the Tremblay number. The one to you at around 1.20 on Monday morning gave me pause, I have to admit. On top of that there was the key ring. And then…but you don’t know this, Dubois pointed the finger at you.’

  ‘At me?’

  He nods. ‘When Ginette Lavigne first interviewed him, he told us he’d been out late on the night of Madeleine’s death, after midnight mass, and thought he’d just make sure everything was okay at the Tremblay place. He saw the light on in Madeleine’s room and the man with her, he said, looked like you. That’s what gave me the idea for the mime. From a distance - maybe it’s just the distance of jealousy - all you guys have not a little in common.

  ‘Michel Dubois was jealous of me?’ my voice rises to a pitch of disbelief and Contini throws me one of his cynically knowing looks.

  ‘What’s so strange about that? I’m no fancy psychologist but it’s clear to me that Dubois loved Madeleine in his own deranged way. You had her and he didn’t. So he hated you. As for the rest, he was also around when the barn was ablaze. In fact it was he who handed Henderson over to Gagnon. The two of them were together, though Dubois isn’t mixed up in the drug stuff.’

  ‘Wait a minute. You’re telling me Will Henderson saw Dubois set light to the barn.’

  ‘What Henderson saw was the blaze. He could hardly miss that. And he saw Dubois. Though he couldn’t remember or didn’t know his name. As for the rest, he was as vague as he was about everything except his daily fix. It doesn’t matter. Dubois admitted everything. It makes perfect sense. Unlike your two-bit confession. Giving me the run-around like that. Adding nothing to my story. Telling me you carried Madeleine Blais up to the loft on a ladder, when the only ladder in the barn had half its rungs missing. I should charge you with wasting valuable police time.’

  ‘And I should charge you with extorting confessions.’

  He snorts and suddenly veers the car towards a scruffy roadside diner. ‘What do you say to another cup of coffee? I’m not quite ready to face the old lady yet. I don’t think she’s going to like this.’

  ‘Is that where we’re going?’

  ‘That’s where we’re going.’

  The diner is one I’ve never stopped at, though it reminds me of the site that led to my first affair. A couple of truckdrivers sit on scuffed mock-leather stools at a less than sparkling counter. A plump woman with ample breasts and steaming face stands behind it. There is a smell of frying onions and thrice percolated coffee.

  Contini beats his chest like a stage King Kong and breathes deeply. ‘Good stuff. Fancy a burger? Got to keep the energy levels up.’

  ‘Coffee will do me.’

  We slide into padded windowside benches. They squeal and
squeak at our weight.

  ‘But you wanted me to do the sperm test?’ I mutter as soon as the coffee has arrived.

  ‘Sure. In the daze of it all, you could have forgotten the platform.’

  ‘What platform?’

  ‘The one on the pulley system that went up to the loft in the barn. Lavigne spotted it on her second visit. It was all neatly tucked away to the right of the beam, but Lavigne saw it. Dubois installed it himself. So he knew just how it worked. He used it on the night, then put it back in place, almost out of sight if you didn’t know where to look. Neat job.’

  ‘So tell me what Dubois said,’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ Contini’s lips fold into coyness. ‘Oh the big night. Sure. But, here,’ he passes me a cigarette. ‘You’re going to need this - though it’s pretty much as I imagined it for you. I just wasn’t altogether sure of my man.’

  ‘Get on with it, Contini.’

  ‘You don’t look as pretty as usual, with your puffy face. I feel I’m revealing secrets to a stranger.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Drink your coffee.’

  I swallow a few bitter mouthfuls.

  ‘Okay. This is the précis version - without the tears. Dubois blubbered like a baby. Couldn’t wait to tell us, really. Though words aren’t altogether his métier. You would have made it sound more elegant.’

  ‘Get on with it.’

  ‘Right. So he sees Madeleine Blais at midnight mass with a man. He follows them back. He’s her stalker by the way. He’s been tailing her for ages. Whenever the opportunity arose. He followed her to Boileau’s for her portrait sitting. Even went into her apartment. It was easy enough to borrow Mme Tremblay’s set of keys. And he was there on the day of the Polytechnic assassinations. That excited him. It may even have planted a seed. And, of course, he was around when Madeleine came here to visit. Quite an intimate in his own way.’

  He sets his face in challenge waiting for me to contradict him.

  I don’t. My fingers are digging into my palms. My head is still pounding.

  ‘So, on the night, he spies. He sees the light go off downstairs and on again in Madeleine’s room. There’s a bit of kissing, maybe a bit of nudity. Anyhow, I imagine he’s excited. And angry. His rationale seems to go something like this - if the beautiful, unattainable Madeleine can do it with some stranger, right here on home ground, then why not with me?

  ‘After Madeleine waves off Fernando Ruiz in her car, Dubois is still lurking. She must hear something, for she calls out. She calls out your name. Pierre. Ruiz told us that too, so this must be the second time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘That’s what Dubois claims. She had already phoned you. So she probably thought you’d hot-footed it over. And so, she calls out ‘Pierre’. That’s another reason Dubois has it in for you. It seems he’s loathed you for years. Envied you. I imagine he’s even mentioned you obliquely in his confessions to your brother.’’

  There is a speculative gleam in the eyes Contini turns on me as he takes a bite out of his burger and I look away.

  ‘I don’t know anything about this,’ I mumble.

  He shrugs. ‘The man has imagination. By his lights, it seems you were the one who took Madeleine away from him. Before you appeared on the scene, she was all his.’

  ‘Madeleine never mentioned him. Not in all the years.’

  ‘No. Well, the man’s obviously got his idée fixe. Imagines all the signs of requited love, whether they’re there or not. There are people like that. Not all that rare, apparently. They send letters. They stalk. They do worse. Sometimes they’ve never even met the objects of their obsession. I read a book about it once. Ya, I do sometimes read. A syndrome named after some Frenchman.’

  ‘Clérambault.’

  ‘That’s it. So you know.’

  He pauses, munches. ‘Anyhow, back to the night. When Madeleine called your name, that really got him worked up. He had it in his head anyway that since she was sleeping with everyone now, she could also sleep with him. But Madeleine refused. She laughed at him when he propositioned her. That laugh - I can almost imagine it. Astonished, contemptuous, provocative. It sent him over the edge. Things got rough. She struggled. My scenario wasn’t wrong. You remember…?

  ‘I remember.’ I don’t like to remember.

  ‘He got his fingers round her throat and she went limp, unconscious. That was the bruising our lot found. It wasn’t quite consistent with the marks left by the rope. In any case, Dubois thought he’d strangled her, so he strung her up to make it look like suicide - though what he said was that he didn’t like to see her lying there, looking pathetic on the ground. Maybe it just made the grounds a little too messy for him. After all, he was in charge of them. At the last, she apparently opened her eyes and landed him a kick. That excited him again. He finished himself off with a hand job. Remember the spatter of sperm on her coat?’

  I stare at the creamy white splodge the milk has left in my coffee and I feel I am going to be sick. I grab one of Contini’s cigarettes and rush outside to take a deep puff of air and nicotine. I lean against the wall and close my eyes to the glaring light, but darkness brings a rush of images so hideous, I open them again quickly. The world swims before me, everything doubled up on itself, askew, as if the landscape had spawned a maze of distorting mirrors.

  When he comes out, Contini pats me lightly on the shoulder. We don’t speak again until he has pulled back onto the road. And then I find myself asking, ‘So Dubois was pleased when you all thought it was suicide.’

  ‘No, not pleased, troubled. Deep down, these guys always want to be found out. They feel guilty at having gotten away with it. But not quite guilty enough to confess right away. He saw Mme Tremblay on television insisting that Madeleine had been murdered. That spurred him to set fire to the barn - both to burn the site of the crime he couldn’t face and to give us a signal. Maybe to get rid of any possible evidence, too. Meanwhile, you were everywhere. Mme Tremblay kept going to you for this and that. It became clear to him that she depended on you more than on him. That she, too, preferred you. And he worships her.

  ‘He decided to make you pay. You and yours. All those years of simmering resentment reached their boiling point. And he had nothing to lose. He came to your house the night Maryla Orkanova was there. The noise you heard in the shed - that was Dubois. So was the accident, hers and yours, the cat’s paw, and finally, the poor beast herself. And your attic collection, that really sent him into a frenzy. He’d watched you up there before, seen the flicker of the big screen casting shadows into the night. I’m glad you didn’t happen to be there when he finally broke in. Though he’d checked on that. He wasn’t quite prepared for face to face confrontation.’

  He pauses. ‘You okay?’

  I notice that my hand is shaking. ‘Just about.’

  ‘Sometimes it only hits you later.’

  We drive in silence for a few minutes.

  ‘So that’s that,’ he says. ‘I’m sure the prints on the film I found in your place will match his. He’s wearing a sweater which I can swear is the same as the one we found a strand of in Madeleine’s fingernail. His car has got all the necessary bits of matching paintwork. And we’ve got a full confession. We’re home.’

  ‘Crime passionel,’ I murmur.

  He laughs a deep throaty laugh. ‘Except in Mafia-land, they’re usually passionate. Love or money, with a little dash of perversion.’

  We bump into Mme Tremblay’s drive. I have a sudden image of Michel Dubois standing on the porch steps and staring at me from his dark, unmoving eyes. A sense of his unbearable jealousy overtakes me. Not so very different from mine. Except that for him Madeleine was both tantalising and wholly unattainable, the desired object he could never begin to possess. Whereas I couldn’t face losing what I had once had. Two spurned lovers at opposite ends of a continuum. Both enveloped in fantasy.

  I turn to Contini. ‘I don’t know that I can face Mme Tremblay.’

&
nbsp; ‘She stood up for you yesterday. When Serge Monet was busily planting the seeds of suspicion about you to all and sundry, she was the only one who was emphatic in your defence.’

  ‘But…’

  ‘You’re going to have to, Rousseau. You’re just going to have to. You’re a hero, remember.’

  20

  _________

  After the crowded commotion of yesterday evening, the house has a quiet fragility about it, as if its foundations have grown uncertain. Nothing is altogether in its proper place. Chairs are scattered. The pictures of Madeleine haven’t returned to the piano. Christmas tree baubles sit abandoned on a shelf, their glow diminished by the light streaming through the windows. Even the dogs are subdued.

  Impeccably groomed from the dark sleekness of her hair to the tips of her well-polished shoes, Marie-Ange Corot ushers us into seats. She has the manner of a woman used to being mistress of a grand house. Her politeness gives away nothing and asks for nothing. It shrouds us in formality.

  ‘Mme Tremblay should be down in a moment. I imagine it is her you want? Monique has gone into Ste-Anne for groceries.’

  ‘Yes, it is Mme Tremblay we need to speak to.’ Cowed into correctness, Contini smooths the crease in his trousers and sits at the edge of his chair. He has acknowledged a force greater than himself.

  Marie-Ange still hasn’t met my eyes, nor blinked at my appearance. I wonder again exactly what Contini or indeed Madeleine told her about me. The silence in the room lengthens.

  Contini breaks it at last. ‘Ah, a family album.’ He leans towards the coffee table and scrutinizes a page of pictures. ‘May I?’

  ‘I thought it would do Mme Tremblay good to take me through it,’ Marie-Ange murmurs, melting a little. ‘I have also suggested that after the funeral, she come back to Paris with me. She can oversee the disposition of Madeleine’s house. Perhaps it will help her. I just hope she’s strong enough.’