by Fred Vargas
‘What?’ asked Marc.
‘Whether Sophia did give him a reason before going off, and if so what it was, and also whether there is anything under the tree.’
‘Oh, not that again!’ cried Lucien. ‘There’s nothing under the bloody tree. Just old clay pipes from the eighteenth century-or rather bits of them.’
‘There wasn’t anything under the tree,’ Vandoosler said carefully. ‘But what about now?’
Juliette was looking at them in puzzlement.
‘What’s all this about a tree?’ she asked.
‘A beech tree,’ said Marc impatiently, ‘close to the back wall in her garden. She asked us to dig under it.’
‘The beech tree?’ said Juliette. ‘But Pierre told me himself he’d had it planted to hide the wall.’
‘Well, well,’ said Vandoosler. ‘That’s not what he told Sophia.’
‘Why on earth would someone plant a tree in the middle of the night, without telling his wife? Getting her all worked up about nothing? That’s idiotically perverse,’ said Marc.
Vandoosler turned back to Juliette.
‘Did Sophia say anything else? About Pierre? Any hint that she had a rival?’
‘She doesn’t know,’ Juliette said. ‘Pierre is sometimes away a lot on Saturdays or Sundays. Getting a breath of fresh air, he says. That sounds suspiciously like an excuse. So, as anyone would, she has wondered about it. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about, I must say. It may not seem much of one, but it’s a distinct plus.’
She laughed.
Mathias, still not moving, looked intently at her.
‘We need to know,’ announced Vandoosler. ‘I’ll try to fix a meeting with the husband, somehow get to see him. What about you, St Luke? Are you teaching tomorrow?’
‘His name is Lucien,’ muttered Marc.
‘It’s Saturday tomorrow,’ said Lucien. ‘A day off for saints, soldiers on leave, and some of the rest of the world.’
‘You and Marc, follow Pierre Relivaux. He’s both busy and prudent. If there is a mistress somewhere, he will have timetabled her in classic style: Saturdays and Sundays. Have you ever had to tail someone? Do you know what to do? No, of course you don’t. Apart from following clues through history, you’re good for nothing. But three historical detectives, who manage to work their way into the unfathomable past, ought to be able to stalk someone in the here and now. But perhaps you don’t like the here and now?’
Lucien pulled a face.
‘Think of Sophia,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Don’t you care what happens to her, is that it?’
‘Of course we do,’ said Marc.
‘OK then. St Luke and St Mark, you get on the trail of Pierre Relivaux all weekend. Don’t let him out of your sight for a minute. St Matthew will be working, so he can stay in Le Tonneau with Juliette and keep his ears open. You never know. As for the tree …’
‘What is there to do about that?’ asked Marc. ‘We’ve already played the card of being council workmen. But you don’t seriously think …’
‘Anything’s possible,’ said Vandoosler. ‘With the tree, we’ll have to tackle it head on. Leguennec will help. He’s tough.’
‘Who’s Leguennec?’ asked Juliette.
‘Man I play cards with,’ replied Vandoosler. ‘We invented this crazy game called “Whaling”. Great game. He knows a whole sector of the sea like the back of his hand, because he used to be a fisherman in his youth. A trawlerman, Irish Sea and so forth. Good guy.’
‘What’s the use of a card player who knows his way round the Irish Sea?’ asked Marc.
‘The card-playing fisherman joined the police.’
‘Like you, is he?’ asked Marc. A bit dodgy?’
‘Not at all. And to prove it, he’s still in the force. These days he’s inspecteur en chef of the 13th arrondissement. He was one of the few people who stood up for me when I was chucked out. But I can’t get in touch with him direct, that would put him in an awkward position. The name Vandoosler still raises hackles in the police. St Matthew will have to handle it.’
‘On what pretext?’ asked Mathias. ‘What am I supposed to say to this Leguennec? That a lady we know didn’t come home one day, and her husband doesn’t seem worried? Far as I know, grown-up people have a right to go where they want, for heaven’s sake, without the neighbours calling in the police.’
‘A pretext? Easy. It seems to me, now I think about it, that a couple of weeks ago, three men came and dug up the lady’s garden, claiming to be council workmen. They were impostors. There’s your pretext: it’ll do fine. You provide the other elements, and Leguennec will catch on. He’ll be round.’
Oh, thanks very much,’ said Lucien. ‘The commissaire encourages us to go dig up the tree, then the commissaire sets the police on to us. Terrific.’
‘Use your brains, St Luke. I’m setting Leguennec on to you, that’s different. Mathias doesn’t need to give the names of the diggers.’
‘Well, Leguennec will soon find them out, if he’s any good.’
‘I didn’t say he was good, I said he was tough. Yes, he will find out the names, because I’ll tell him myself, but only later. If necessary, that is. I’ll tell you when to call him, St Matthew. And for now, I think Juliette is tired.’
‘You’re right,’ she said, sitting up. ‘I’m going home. But do we really need to call in the police?’
Juliette looked at Vandoosler. His words seemed to have reassured her. So she looked at him and smiled. Marc glanced at Mathias. The godfather’s good looks were ancient, they had done good service, but they were still quite effective. How would Mathias’ regular features be able to compete with the older man’s faded but powerful beauty?
‘I think it’s time for bed,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Tomorrow morning, I’ll pay a visit on Monsieur Relivaux. After that St Luke and St Mark will take over.’
‘Mission logged,’ said Lucien. And smiled.
XIII
VANDOOSLER, CLIMBING ONTO A CHAIR, HAD PEERED OUT OF A skylight to see whether anyone was getting up next door. On the Western Front, as Lucien called it. What an oddball that one was. And yet he had apparently written some reputable books about the Great War. How could he get interested in all that stuff when there was plenty of excitement in the corner of one’s neighbour’s garden? Well, maybe it was the same kind of thing.
And perhaps he had better stop calling them St This and St That. It got on their nerves, which was understandable. They weren’t kids any more. Yes, but it amused him. In fact he got a real kick out of it. And so far in life, Vandoosler had never seriously considered giving up anything that gave him pleasure. So he would see how they got on with the here and now, the three time detectives. If you were into detection, what difference did it make whether you were researching the life of the hunter-gatherers, the Cistercian monks, the lads in the trenches, or Sophia Siméonidis? Anyway, for now he had to keep an eye on the Western Front, to see when Relivaux woke up. There wouldn’t be long to wait. He wasn’t the sort of person to sleep late in the morning. He was a determined and disciplined man, of a slightly annoying kind.
By nine-thirty, Vandoosler decided from the stirrings next door that Relivaux was ready. Ready to be called on by him, Armand Vandoosler. He went downstairs, greeted the evangelists who had already gathered in the common room and were sitting side by side eating their breakfast. Perhaps it was the contrast between their talk and their action that amused him. He went next door and rang the bell.
Pierre Relivaux did not welcome the intrusion. Vandoosler had foreseen as much, and had opted for the direct approach: retired policeman, concerned about the missing woman, a few questions, perhaps we would do better to talk inside. Pierre Relivaux replied as Vandoosler had expected, that it was his business, and nobody else’s.
‘That’s quite true,’ said Vandoosler, installing himself in the kitchen without being invited to do so, ‘but there’s a slight problem. The police may come and see you, because they will take the view th
at it is their business. I thought the advice of a retired policeman might be useful.’
As expected, Relivaux frowned. ‘The police? Why are they involved? My wife has a perfect right to go away, hasn’t she?’
‘Certainly she has. But there has been an awkward sequence of events. Do you remember the three workmen who came a couple of weeks ago to dig a trench in your garden?’
‘Yes, of course. Sophia said they were checking old electricity cables. I didn’t pay them much attention.’
‘That’s a pity,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Because they weren’t municipal employees at all, nor were they from Électricité de France, or anything else official. There are no cables running through your garden. The men were impostors.’
‘What on earth would anyone do a thing like that for?’ Relivaux protested. ‘What the hell is going on? And what does that have to do with the police, or with Sophia?’
‘That’s just it,’ said Vandoosler, appearing to be genuinely sympathetic. ‘Someone round here, a busybody, or at any rate someone who doesn’t seem to like you, has found out they weren’t genuine. I suppose he recognised one of the workmen and asked him. Anyway, he’s told the police. I know about it, because I still have a few contacts down at the station.’
Vandoosler told lies with fluency and enjoyment, and it put him completely at ease.
‘The police just laughed at him and didn’t follow it up,’ he went on. ‘But they stopped laughing when this same busybody nosed around some more and discovered that your wife had “gone missing without telling anyone”, as they are already saying in the neighbourhood. And furthermore that this mysterious trench was ordered by your own wife, who wanted it to go under that beech tree over there.’
Vandoosler pointed casually through the window to the tree.
‘Sophia did that?’ asked Relivaux.
‘She did. According to this witness anyway. So the police now know that your wife was worried about a tree that appeared from nowhere. Also that she had someone dig underneath it. And that since then she has disappeared. For the police, that looks like a lot to happen in a couple of weeks. You have to look at it from their point of view. They’re programmed to be suspicious of any little thing. So they’ll certainly be round to ask you a few questions, you can count on it.’
‘Who is this “witness”?’
‘The information was anonymous. People are cowards.’
‘And just what is your interest in all this? What if the police do come round to see me, what business is that of yours?’
Vandoosler was ready for this predictable question too. Relivaux was a conscientious, stiff kind of fellow, apparently without an ounce of originality. That was indeed why the former commissaire was prepared to bet he had a Saturday-and-Sunday mistress. Vandoosler looked at him: moderately bald, moderately fat, only moderately attractive, moderate in everything. For the moment, quite easy to manipulate.
‘Let’s say that if I were able to confirm your version of things, that would certainly calm their suspicions. They know me of old.’
‘Why would you want to help me? What do you want from me? Money?’
Vandoosler smiled as he shook his head. Obviously Relivaux was moderately stupid too.
‘Well,’ Relivaux went on, ‘it looks to me as if you people in that ramshackle disgrace you live in, forgive me if I’m mistaken, but you all seem to be …’
‘Hard up, ‘Vandoosler finished the sentence. ‘Quite right. I see you are better informed than you let on.’
‘I’m used to dealing with down-and-outs,’ said Relivaux. ‘It’s my job. Anyway, that’s what Sophia has told me. So what’s your motive?’
‘Let’s just say the police and I have had our little run-ins in the past. When they get a bee in their bonnet about you, it can go on and on. So I try when possible to help other people to avoid it. A small-scale revenge if you like. Anti-police protection service. And it keeps me busy. No charge.’
Vandoosler allowed Pierre to reflect on this specious and poorly argued motive. He seemed to swallow it.
‘What do you want to know?’ Relivaux asked.
‘What they will want to know.’
‘Which is?’
‘Where has Sophia gone?’
Relivaux stood up, spread his arms wide in a gesture and turned round.
‘She’s gone away. She’ll be back. There’s nothing to get steamed up about.’
‘They will want to know precisely why you’re not getting steamed up about it.’
‘Because I haven’t put the kettle on. Because Sophia told me she was going away. She said something about meeting someone in Lyon, if you must know. It’s not the other side of the world.’
‘They might not believe you. Be more precise, Monsieur Relivaux. Your peace of mind could depend on it, and I believe you do care about that.’
‘It’s really of no particular interest. On Tuesday, Sophia got a postcard. She showed it to me. It just had a drawing of a star and a date to meet at a certain time in a hotel in Lyon. Take such and such a train tomorrow night. No signature. Instead of keeping calm, Sophia got into a state. She had got it into her head that the card was from an old boyfriend, a Greek called Stelios Kutsukis. Because of the star. I had a certain amount of trouble from him, on several occasions, before we got married. He was the mad-rhino kind of admirer.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
Oh, nothing. Anyway, one of Sophia’s admirers.’
‘A former lover’
‘Naturally, I tried to dissuade Sophia from going. If this card was from someone else, then God knows what she was letting herself in for. And if it was from Stelios, it wasn’t much better. But no, there was no stopping her, she packed her bag and off she went. I admit I was expecting to see her back yesterday. And that’s all I know.’
‘And the tree?’
‘What do you want me to say about the tree? Sophia made a huge fuss about it. I didn’t imagine she would go to the length of digging underneath it. What on earth did she think was there? She’s always making up fantasies. It can only be a gift from someone, what else? Perhaps you have heard that Sophia was quite well known until she gave up performing. She was an opera singer.’
‘Yes, I know. But Juliette Gosselin said that you told her that you had planted the tree.’
‘Yes, that’s what I told her. One morning at the gate, Juliette asked me about the new tree. Sophia having made such a fuss about it, I didn’t want to tell her that we had no idea where it came from, and then have that get all round the neighbourhood. As you guessed, I value my peace of mind. So I simply told her I had decided to plant a beech tree-to put a stop to the questions. That’s what I should have told Sophia too. It would have saved a lot of trouble.’
‘That’s all very well and good,’ said Vandoosler, ‘but we only have your word for it. It would be helpful if you could produce the postcard. So that someone could get in touch with her.’
‘Well, I’m sorry,’ said Relivaux, ‘but Sophia took it with her, because it had the instructions on it. That’s logical, isn’t it?’
‘Ah. That’s a pity, but it doesn’t matter too much. The story sounds convincing.’
‘Well, of course it does! Why would anyone think I’d been up to anything?’
‘You know perfectly well what is the first thing the police think of when a wife disappears.’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes, it’s ridiculous.’
‘The police wouldn’t dare go to those lengths,’ said Relivaux putting his hand stiffly down on the table. ‘I’m not just anybody.’
‘No, indeed,’ said Vandoosler gently. ‘Nobody is.’
He got up slowly. ‘If the flics do come and see me, I’ll back up your story.’
‘There’s no need. Sophia will be back.’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘I’m not worried about her.’
‘Well, so much the better. And thank you for being so frank.’
Va
ndoosler crossed the garden to go home. Relivaux watching him go, thought: ‘What the hell is he up to, the busy body?’
XIV
IT WASN’T UNTIL THE SUNDAY NIGHT THAT THE EVANGELISTS CAME UP with anything concrete. On Saturday, the only time Pierre Relivaux went out was to buy the newspapers. Marc had said to Lucien that he was sure Relivaux would say he was going to ‘consult the national press’, rather than ‘read the papers’, and that one day he would have to test this, just for the pleasure of it. Anyway, he had not stirred all day, having stayed at home with the national press. Perhaps he was worried about getting a visit from the police.
Then, maybe since nothing seemed to be happening, he appeared to regain confidence. Marc and Lucien had started tailing him when he left the house at about eleven on Sunday morning. He led them to a little house in the 15th arrondissement in south-west Paris.
‘You were bang on target,’ said Marc, summing up their day for Vandoosler. ‘The girl lives in a fourth-floor flat. Nice enough girl, easy going, quiet sort, not fussy.’
‘Let’s just say she’s nothing to write home about,’ said Lucien. ‘I have standards, you know, and Marc here will give anyone the benefit of the doubt …’
‘You’re on your own, with your standards,’ said Marc.
‘Quite so,’ said Lucien. ‘But that’s not what we’re discussing. Carry on with your report, lieutenant.’
‘That’s all. The girl has her flat paid for, all found. She doesn’t go out to work, we asked the neighbours.’
‘So Relivaux does have a mistress. You guessed right,’ said Lucien to Vandoosler.
‘It wasn’t guesswork,’ said Marc. ‘The commissaire has a lot of experience.’
Godfather and godson exchanged glances.
‘Mind your own business, St Mark,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Are you sure she was his mistress? Could she not have been a sister or a cousin?’
‘We listened at the door,’ Marc explained. ‘Verdict: it’s not his sister. Relivaux left there at about seven. I think he’s a dangerous creep.’