by Kate Mosse
Only when the aftershock of white clouds of dust mushroomed up into the hot air did Bauer emerge from his hiding place.
He looked at the entrance, now entirely blocked, then nodded.
‘Gut gemacht. You have done well,’ he said. He dabbed the back of his neck again with his damp handkerchief. ‘Tell your men to pack up. Clear everything. We move north tonight.’
Chapter 63
CARCASSONNE
Marianne dropped the last of the false identity papers into the sink. She put a match to them, watched the flames flare and die, then turned on the tap. The kitchen was filled with the stink of damp ash.
‘That’s the lot,’ she said. ‘What a waste.’
Suzanne nodded. Her hands were stained black where she had carried each sodden, pulpy armful outside. There was a small patch of earth beneath the kitchen window where she’d buried the evidence, hidden from the Fournier house by the overhang of the balcony. She went back to the sink and washed her hands, scrubbing at them until the last of the ink and ash was gone.
‘What are you going to do now?’ she said, shaking them dry.
‘Send a telegram to Sandrine to warn her about Authié.’
‘What about Lucie?’
Marianne’s face grew still. ‘I can’t believe she’d do such a thing.’
Suzanne put her hand on her friend’s shoulder. ‘Why don’t I go and see what she’s got to say? But I’ve got to find Robert Bonnet first and tell him we’ve had to get rid of this lot.’
Marianne sighed. ‘After all your hard work.’
‘Better safe than sorry.’
‘I know. Even so.’
Suzanne leaned forward, gave Marianne a peck on the cheek. ‘Be back as soon as I can.’
Marianne bolted the door after she’d gone, then walked briskly through the house to collect her purse, hat and gloves. The silence seemed to echo around her. When the others first left for Coustaussa, frankly it had been a relief and she’d enjoyed the peace. Liesl was no trouble, but her unhappy presence cast a pall over the house. Sandrine had been the opposite, rushing around to check the post each morning, then going to the library and the cathedral, trying to do too many things at once. Marieta had been withdrawn and anxious. But now she hated the quiet. And every day, she felt more tired. Less able to cope. If it hadn’t been for Suzanne, she would have gone out of her mind with the strain.
A knock on the front door made her jump. For a moment she was tempted to ignore it, then she heard Lucie’s voice.
‘I need to talk to you,’ she said in a loud whisper.
‘Talk? Don’t you mean apologise?’ muttered Marianne.
‘Please.’
With a sigh, she opened the door and Lucie stepped inside. Marianne was shocked at her appearance. She looked wan and drawn, with dark roots showing through her corn-coloured hair.
‘Your Captain Authié has just left.’
Lucie’s eyes widened. ‘He’s been here already?’
‘What do you expect?’ she said sharply. ‘You could have at least telephoned to warn us you’d blabbed to the police.’
Lucie flushed. ‘I tried to, but the line was occupied.’
‘You can’t have tried awfully hard.’
Lucie lifted her chin. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’
Marianne’s self-control snapped. ‘Whatever were you thinking? Authié’s with the police. Deuxième Bureau more likely than not. How could you tell him anything?’
‘You say that as if I’m supposed to know what it means,’ Lucie said, ‘but I don’t. I don’t care about all that kind of thing. He was civil to me, that’s all I know. He says he can help me find Max.’
‘Help you?’ Marianne said in disbelief. ‘Don’t be so naïve.’
‘Don’t grumble at me, I can’t bear it,’ Lucie said. ‘It was Sandrine who went to the police in the first instance. She was the one who made a report, not me. I begged her not to, it’s not my fault.’
Marianne took a deep breath. Tried to get her temper under control, knowing there was a grain of truth in what Lucie said. Knowing she was angry with herself too. Because nearly three weeks had gone by, she’d allowed herself to think the danger had passed.
‘All right,’ she said, holding up her hands. ‘All right, all right.’
‘He knows where Max has been taken,’ Lucie said, her voice threatening to break. ‘I can’t bear not knowing, Marianne. After all these weeks with no news. I couldn’t bear it a moment longer.’
Marianne sighed, then chose her words with care. ‘I understand you’re desperate – and although Suzanne and I have done our best, it’s true we’ve failed to find anything out – but even so, you know better than to tell the authorities anything. It’s why you advised Sandrine against going to the police in the first place.’
‘Well,’ Lucie said, regaining a little of her spirit, ‘Captain Authié said that what happened to Sandrine is connected to the other attacks on women. That’s the only reason he wants to talk to her.’
‘You don’t believe that, surely?’
Lucie’s chin shot up. ‘Why not? He seemed decent enough. I don’t see why you have to mistrust everyone.’
Marianne narrowed her eyes. ‘What else did you tell him?’
‘Nothing,’ she said, quickly. ‘Only Sandrine’s name. And address, but she’d already given that to the police anyway.’
‘You didn’t say she’d gone to Coustaussa?’
‘As if.’ Lucie’s eyes flashed. ‘Oh, I suppose you’re not going to trust me or tell me anything?’
‘Do you blame me? Obviously I don’t trust you. Why would I? There, I’ve said it. Is that what you wanted to hear?’
‘I came here to own up,’ Lucie shouted. ‘I’ve been worrying about it all day, even though it wasn’t me that started it.’ She paused. ‘And I tell you this for nothing. If Sandrine had been arrested, taken somewhere and you didn’t know where, you would do the same. You’d do anything to find her.’
Marianne dropped her shoulders. ‘You see, that’s it, Lucie,’ she said quietly. ‘I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t betray my friends.’
Lucie stared at her for an instant, then ran out of the house, slamming the door behind her. Marianne sank down on the seat of the hat stand and put her head in her hands. Lucie didn’t think she’d done anything wrong. She hadn’t told the police anything Sandrine hadn’t told them herself, and there were some who weren’t in Vichy’s pocket. Gaullists not Pétainists. She had been harsh on her, she knew it. Lucie had never shown the slightest interest in anything around her: politics, the town council, laws and rules and regulations, all went over her head. She’d always been like that.
But for the first time, Marianne was genuinely frightened, cold down to her bones. Everything seemed to be spiralling out of control. The worst of it was, she didn’t know what she could do to stop it. She wished she was in Coustaussa too. At least then she would know Sandrine was all right. There, she could forget real life and go back to how things used to be. Play a game of cards or listen to the wireless. Ordinary, humdrum things.
All she wanted was to feel safe again.
Chapter 64
COUSTAUSSA
Sandrine opened the shutters on another humid and overcast morning. Grey clouds scudding the hills, a sense of bristling threat carried on the breeze. Perhaps at last the weather would break. They needed a thunderstorm to clear the air.
It had been a busy three days, she’d hardly had a chance to miss Raoul or Marianne at all. She had visited each of their neighbours in turn, receiving condolences, accepting gifts of food, catching up on the life of Coustaussa since they had last been there. She had introduced Liesl to everyone and, although a few had raised their eyebrows at the arrival of a Parisian cousin, nobody said anything.
Between them she, Liesl and Marieta had got the house straight and stocked the larder as best they could, cleaned out the plumbing and chased spiders from the house. Sandrine had also rearranged the furniture in t
he salon, moving her father’s favourite chair so that it wasn’t the first thing she saw when she went into the room. The little house felt like home again.
It was Friday already and she couldn’t put off going to Couiza any longer. Ernest had rung Marianne on the day of their arrival, just to let her know they’d arrived safely, and he had spoken to his brother in the town hall. But Sandrine had to go in and present their papers in person – they needed temporary ration books, there were all sorts of forms to be filled in, filed, ticked, stamped. Yellow, red, white, blue, all of life recorded and recorded again. She was dreading it, all the queuing and bad tempers in the heat. On top of everything else, Marieta seemed particularly tired this morning.
‘I’m not sure we should leave you,’ Sandrine said again. ‘You look all in.’
Marieta clasped her hands in front of her. ‘There’s still plenty to be done and I don’t want you under my feet, getting in the way,’ she replied. ‘In any case, the storm’s coming.’
‘Are you sure?’ Liesl peered out at the hazy sky, white and flat and lowering. ‘It’s been like this ever since we got here.’
‘Blowing up from the south,’ Marieta said doggedly. ‘Best to go now, madomaisèla.’
Sandrine sighed, knowing Marieta was always right about the weather. ‘Well, all right. We’ll be as quick as we can, but please, please promise me you won’t overdo it. Marianne would never forgive me if she thought I was running you ragged.’
Marieta smiled. ‘As if,’ she said. ‘Besides, how will she know, è?’
Sandrine smiled back, but she was on edge as she walked to the lean-to at the end of the garden and got out the bikes.
‘Is Marieta all right?’ Liesl said.
‘She’s tired, but she won’t ease up.’
She noticed Liesl had the camera Max had given her in its case on a strap around her neck.
‘Isn’t that rather heavy? Are you sure you want to bring it?’ she said.
‘It reminds me of . . .’ Liesl began, then stopped. ‘I like to keep it with me,’ in a quieter voice. ‘In case there’s something to photograph.’
‘I’m going to call Marianne from Couiza,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘I’m sure there’ll be news by now.’
Liesl said nothing.
It took fifteen minutes to get down to the town. It was very humid, oppressive air, so they were both out of breath by the time they arrived at the Mairie.
‘You have your new papers, your carte d’identité?’ Sandrine asked Liesl for the third time.
‘Everything.’
They joined the long queue of people waiting to be seen, shuffling forward step by step. Suzanne had acquired false papers for Liesl, but this would be the first time they had tried to use them. What would happen if the official noticed something wrong and challenged them? Sandrine knew there was nothing she could do, she had simply to hold her nerve and hope Liesl did the same, but she kept checking and checking everything again.
‘Good morning,’ she said brightly, when they reached the head of the queue. She handed over all three sets of papers.
‘There’s only two of you,’ the official said, peering at her over the top of his spectacles.
‘Marieta Barthès remained in Coustaussa. Ernest said he—’
The man’s face lightened. ‘Ah, you’re Mademoiselle Vidal.’
‘That’s right,’ said Sandrine, the words coming out in a rush. ‘Sandrine Vidal.’
‘And this is,’ he glanced at the photograph, then up at Liesl, ‘the other Mademoiselle Vidal.’
He stamped the documents quickly, then handed the papers back. ‘Third door on the left.’
Thanks to Ernest’s brother, they found themselves moving swiftly through the system. Even so, it took a long time. They were sent from bureau to bureau, answering the same questions over and again. Presenting Marieta’s papers, explaining she was too old to come in person. It got easier, but each time Sandrine’s heart was in her mouth.
Finally, after three hours, they emerged with temporary ration books and permis de séjour.
‘We did it,’ Sandrine said, under her breath. She squeezed Liesl’s hand. ‘So what do you say to some lunch? I’m starving.’
Liesl smiled. ‘I could manage something,’ she admitted.
The Grand Café Guilhem on the bridge by the railway station was serving lunch – tomatoes, black bread, white goat’s cheese and cured ham. Liesl left the ham, but was persuaded to order a cherry ice to follow. Sandrine tried a little, but it tasted of saccharine.
‘I’m going to try to get through to Marianne. Find out how things are at home and let her know everything’s gone all right at our end,’ Sandrine said when they’d finished. ‘It’s bound to take a while. Will you be all right for an hour or so?’
Agreeing to meet outside the post office in an hour, the girls separated. Liesl went off in the direction of the river with her camera and Sandrine joined yet another queue. The Tramontana was still twisting up the dust and the thermometer was pushing ever higher.
It was a slow, hot business as the line moved slowly forward. The three customers ahead of Sandrine all wanted to place calls interzone and the operator was struggling to cope. Tempers were fraying. The closer people got to the front, the more anxious they became that whatever they wanted would sell out – stamps, envelopes – and there were a few near arguments, sharp elbows and paniers, each person determined to have her rights.
As Sandrine moved forward, one step at a time, she thought about how she could persuade Marieta not to work so hard all the time. She wondered where Raoul might be now. As the days passed with no word of him, the sharp pain of his absence had dulled into a regretful ache. She missed him, but she couldn’t allow herself to pine. There was too much to do. Another shuffle forward. From time to time, fragments of conversations broke into her reflections.
‘Nine thousand police and gendarmes, so I heard,’ said a woman, joining her husband in the queue. ‘Herded them all in some cycling stadium, north of Paris. It’s been in all the papers.’
‘Was it the Vélodrome d’Hiver?’
‘I don’t know.’
The man sighed, pushing his hat back on his head. ‘Lovely racing track, that. Went there once. Saw Antonin Magne take his Grand Prix.’
‘Twenty-five thousand of them, Jews, all packed in there.’
‘That happened three weeks ago,’ said a middle-aged woman in a garish housecoat. ‘Day after Bastille Day, or that’s what it said in the papers.’
‘Foreigners, were they?’
‘I suppose so,’ the wife said. ‘Wouldn’t be French, would they? I mean to say.’
‘If they’re foreign,’ said the man, ‘then I’m for it. We should send them all home. It’s always France that has to put up with the riff-raff, thieves the lot of them.’
Sandrine realised her nails were digging into her palms. She had become used to hearing such sentiments in Carcassonne, but she had expected – hoped – things would be different here.
The queue moved forward again. Then, without warning, she saw Raoul staring at her.
‘Oh . . .’
Looking straight at her from the pillar, a black and white poster with his face on it. Above the photograph, a single word in capital letters: RÉCOMPENSE.
Sandrine had expected to see something like this in Carcassonne. Raoul had warned her she might. But even though she’d been on the lookout, she’d not seen a thing and, as the days passed and still his face was absent from the police posters papering the town, she hoped they’d given up trying to find him. RÉCOMPENSE. PELLETIER, RAOUL.
Her pulse started to race and she felt dizzy, blindsided by the sight of him.
‘Mademoiselle?’
At first, Sandrine didn’t hear. She wanted to reach out and touch the poster, but she dared not. Then she felt a finger poking into her back.
‘It’s your turn,’ said the woman behind her in the queue.
‘Pardon,’ Sandrine said, tearing
her eyes away. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry.’
She stepped up to the window, feeling sick. If there was a poster in Couiza, all the way down here, then that was bound to mean there were posters everywhere. All the towns and villages. Raoul wouldn’t stand a chance.
‘How can I help, mademoiselle?’
All those pairs of eyes, somebody would see him and take the chance to claim the reward. It was so much money.
‘Mademoiselle?’ the operator said, more sharply.
Sandrine forced herself to concentrate. With a last glance back at Raoul’s face, she put her purse on the counter and got out her papers once more.
‘I need to place a call to Carcassonne.’
Chapter 65
COUSTAUSSA
Marieta looked around. She had spent the morning cleaning, but there was still dust everywhere. The consequences of a house left unlived in for two years, as if it was getting its own back for being abandoned. She moved the empty vase on the hall table. She had done it earlier, but there was still a ring on the table. The banisters, too, could do with another layer of polish.
The thunder was closer. It wouldn’t be long before the rain started. Marieta knew she should go and check that all the shutters were securely fastened, but she was so weary.
‘Apuèi,’ she murmured.
Why was there no word from Monsieur Baillard? No letter? It had been three weeks. And all of Sandrine’s endless questions, always questions she couldn’t answer. Marieta lowered herself down to the chair in the hall, hearing the wood creak and sigh. Maybe he had received the letter and was making his way to Coustaussa? The thought gave her some spark of comfort, even though there was no reason for him to know she was here.
It was so close, so humid, she could barely breathe. She felt the sheen of sweat on her brow. The rain would clear the air. The burden of her knowledge, scant as it was, was growing heavier. Not knowing whether he’d even received the letter. She couldn’t wait a moment longer. There was no question of making the journey herself to Rennes-les-Bains. It was too far to walk on her tired legs. Perhaps Madame Rousset could ask Yves to take her in the trap?