Lake Isle

by Nicolas Freeling

  Nothing odd, surely, thought Castang. Conventional appearance, ordinary clothes. Smallish for a cop, but well muscled. Dark hair, cut short. Well-polished shoes and clean fingernails – two items he was fussy about. Leathery kind of face, neatly shaved; boxer’s nose – he had been a fairish welterweight, too short to be more – and one crooked eyebrow where someone had split it. Tie, plain dark red – that couldn’t arouse disapproval. The judge was feeling a bit liverish; that was all. Would have liked a bigger audience for the lecture on discipline and discretion: a whole amphitheatre full of humble policemen with downcast eyes.

  ‘Very well, as long as that’s understood. Local newspapers are always excitable.’

  ‘Good, sir.’ This sobriety of language seemed to please the judge, who gave him leave to go, in quite a polite way.

  Lucciani was walking about, much bored and one couldn’t blame him.

  These small provincial towns… Upon a couple of benches sat a couple of old men joylessly contemplating municipal flowerbeds. Everything prim, anchylosed, arthritic. If the square had trees even, thought Castang. Or a fountain. Movement, glitter, silver music. Just brass music, say, as provided by municipal fire-brigades. Nothing here but dust; dried-out, sealed in and lamentable.

  The commissariat of police was another dreary barrack, shutters covered in the same peeling grey paint as all the houses. Even in rich, cool September sunshine there seemed nothing that grew and was glad anywhere, and the pettiness of a small town struck more huddled and joyless than ever. Dump, he thought disgustedly.

  He said as much to young Lucciani, who mysteriously seemed to know his way about.

  ‘The ramparts are nice. Grass, you know, and old trees.’ Yes, to be sure, where sheep might safely graze.

  He had to make a start somewhere, and felt no enthusiasm.

  ‘Yes,’ said the local commissaire of police. One Peyrefitte by name. Perfid, very likely, by nature, but at present assuming a large air of tolerant indifference: no skin off his nose, all this. ‘Don’t know what he should want to call you for.’ But without hostility. ‘Pleased to help. Turn the whole thing over to you. Don’t see that there’s much to be done, but that’s your affair. Whoever it was is miles away by this time. Commonplace sneak-thief is likeliest. Only a bit of money pinched, but got scared off. Thought the place was empty; surprised by the old lady; lost his head and lashed out, like. Somebody gave his nibs the idea of a country-house removals crowd, but I don’t see much in that: they come with a truck.

  ‘Anyway, his nibs phoned me, and I have it all for you here; photos, sketch-plan, measurements – and the papers of course – doctor, witnesses, for what use they are in a thing like that.’

  He was a rough-cut, heavily-built man, who came on a bit strong with the local accent and the rustic behaviour: a suggestion of ‘I’m only a country hick’. Making a thing of how straightforward he was. Have confidence; rely on Joe. The local expert. ‘Born here: know everyone. Not like a foreigner – I know what’s said, and what’s left unsaid.’ This sometimes concealed plenty of dishonesty – the bluff greasiness of a grower swearing his Beaujolais is real, with a tanker-ful from Argentina standing at the back door. Peasant slyness. With the bourgeoisie, just servile and insinuating enough.

  Castang thought he could probably get along all right with the man, as long as he didn’t step on any toes.

  The technical dossier had been shoved across confidently, as though ‘what can’t speak, can’t lie’. He shuffled through it: it had been neatly done.

  ‘She was found in the kitchen, I see.’ Odd, surely?

  ‘Like what would a man be looking for in the kitchen? Right, a bit weird. But her bag with the purse in it was lying on the table. Emptied, sure. How much nobody knows: the son estimated she might have had a few hundred francs.’

  ‘She wasn’t moved?’

  ‘No, no; would have showed up. What clinches it anyhow is she was hit for sure with the iron. Stood there on the board in the kitchen. Hit on the back of the head, could have stolen up behind her like, wanting to keep her quiet. Or maybe some threat to make her turn round. Anyway he clonked her. Too hard, got a fright, and whizzed. Those shots show how the entry was forced. Common crowbar, so he came meaning to break in. Quite neat, it wouldn’t have made much noise. Bedroom at the back. But these old ladies sleep light.’

  ‘Took courage, to go into the kitchen after him.’ Sabine, he thought, did have that sort of courage.

  ‘She’d have to go a distance, to raise an alarm. You haven’t seen the place.’ Castang kept mum. ‘If it wasn’t for the crowbar I’d have thought it no more than some vagrant, a hippy looking for a place to sleep, and to lift anything handy. The gate wasn’t forced – not that it proves much. But the antiques gang would have brought a van in, and grandfather clocks and stuff, take at least two men. No footmarks, but ground was dry. The only thing that gives any weight to the idea is the son claims there was a man hanging about not long ago he didn’t like the look of; claimed to be a furniture dealer, and that is the way they work, sure enough. Somebody goes first, talks his way in, to have a look around to mark the good stuff down, like. Haven’t had much of that around here, but always time to start.’

  Castang didn’t have to hide a grin at the description of himself, because he didn’t have a grin. The man would find out sooner or later, but it had no importance.

  ‘You were satisfied with the son’s story, were you?’

  ‘Hard to see why not. He wasn’t on the best of terms with his ma – adopted, by the way. There was talk in the village about frequent quarrels, but raised voices to hitting Ma with the iron – no, that’s over-long a step to take without strong indications. Whereas what signs there are point another way. Like the time factor. No member of the family would be running around in the middle of the night. It had always been the boy’s home: he could stroll in any time. She was killed around two: she was in pyjamas and the bed had been slept in. Found next morning by the daughter-in-law, who was passing by, saw the shutter forced, thought it funny, went in being a cool young lady, found the old dame on the floor, and ran to call us together with the ambulance. I was there by nine. Now even if there was premeditation – why the middle of the night?’

  ‘Break-ins are easy to fake,’ said Castang loosely. Peyrefitte shrugged.

  ‘Maybe, but common sense is against it.’ His face said clearly that if one wanted a fancy story, the facts could always be stretched.

  ‘Sure. Just looking from that angle for a moment. I agree; it doesn’t fit the facts.’

  ‘Homicides aren’t exactly our bread-and-butter,’ there was no use in being touchy with the PJ, ‘but I hope we know how to be thorough.’ Since the PJ had been wished on him, that was.

  ‘A stranger might have expected a dog.’

  ‘Took a chance. The house could as easily have been empty. It has that neglected look. Rubbish everywhere – you’ll see. The odd thing there is I advised her to get a dog.’

  ‘You did?’ said Castang, who’d been wondering whether this episode would be suppressed.

  ‘I thought it meaningless then,’ said the commissaire, ‘and do now. She came to me a month or so back with a tale of neurotic fears. Had a row with the son, got worked up. Felt abandoned I dare say – sense of loneliness. You know how old women can be. And typically obstinate; living alone in a house too big for her, just because she always had.’

  Yes, it was the voice of common sense.

  ‘I suggested a dog: company, like; no need of a guard dog. Something to get attached to, you take my meaning, fill the gap. She’d have none of it. What could I do? Told the patrol to keep an eye open. But it’s a quiet corner, bar the local drunks.’

  Sensible if unimaginative; Sabine was not the person to get attached to dogs or canaries. She had rejected the well-meant piece of advice a bit too brusquely, and lost his sympathy. ‘The woman didn’t want to be helped.’ Sabine’s tactlessness put people off. She had no idea how irritating she coul
d be.

  ‘What about this bickering in the family?’ asked Castang lazily. ‘D’you know them at all?’

  ‘Nothing to know. I checked up, in view of this talk of being bullied and terrorised. No family bar this son, who’s adopted like I say, but that’s ancient, twenty years ago. Boy’s nervous, maybe, shouts at people, easily irritated. Nothing criminal about that. More to the point – regular job, doesn’t drink, doesn’t gamble.’

  You know your job, thought Castang.

  ‘Likes fishing. Got a young wife, two kids. Loan from finance company on the car – payments regular. No housing trouble – had a free cottage from the old lady. You know how it is – one looks for something odd in the pattern. Nothing. Had words with his ma – and who doesn’t? She was over-prone, maybe, to well-meant advice about bringing up the children and such: lived too close by.’

  He agreed with every word, and if he himself had not met Sabine… But that was a straw, a dead leaf down his shirt. Castang had the feeling that Peyrefitte had everything right, and that the best thing he could do was make a show to keep the judge happy.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘These are copies? – can I hang on to them for our file? So I’ll look at the ground; maybe do a few interviews. Show zeal for the judge.’

  ‘Interfering old bastard,’ said Peyrefitte comfortably: He had no worries, or he’d never have said that openly.

  ‘He blocked us off from looking up the mayor, as you no doubt know, and now he wants to show Paris how thorough his investigations are.’

  ‘Your bad luck,’ said the commissaire, much like Richard before him.

  ‘My boy can talk to the villagers – something for him to do. And we might turn something up on the antiques-gang angle: we’ve a file on it at home, but I’m placing no reliance on it. The house under seal or anything?’

  ‘No – the judge saw no need. Just locked – here, keys. I told the boy not to roam about without permission, but it’s scarcely a felony if he does. It’s all his now. Judge phoned the notary to see if there was a will. Another old bugger. Gives you a long answer and you’ve still got no idea at the end was it yes or no he said.’

  ‘I’ll keep everybody happy,’ said Castang.

  Starting with you. Fair words, to keep local police commissaires from thinking we might go interfering, or making a report, which would lead a judge or a Proc to make sarcastic comments about police administration. He left Monsieur Peyrefitte sitting comfortable and greased, with no hot little frictions under the collar.

  And the commissaire thought much the same. The PJ, in his experience and he’d had some, was rarely tiresome unless it thought it was being got at. Or suspected that things had been concealed.

  A muddle there might be. Anything tricky or troublesome – no. Those tales of family grievances originated if you asked him in old mother Lipschitz’s tiresome little ways. Vague. And she liked rows. She’d made a row with him, not that he’d been provoked. Artists! They were a pest: they didn’t know what they wanted. As long as they stuck to art they were all right, he supposed. Beyond that… Like grit, for a hen’s digestion.

  NINE

  Fickle weather. It had clouded over again, making Castang hope it wouldn’t be one of those enquiries spent with permanently damp trouserlegs.

  By the map the village wouldn’t be over seven or eight minutes, but it took their car double. The familiar phenomenon; roads carrying double the weight they were designed for. These quiet suburban gardens aroar with the stream of heavy trucks. Innocuous country crossroads which had accumulated so many accidents that traffic lights had had to be put in. This wasn’t country; this was suburb. Even the last bit of side road – oldish villas masked by high walls - was unsafe: far too many blind bends. Another argument against high stone walls, now considered as grossly antisocial.

  They certainly hadn’t helped Sabine. Artists had this mania for privacy.

  The village, looking just as when he had last seen it. Young Lucciani could make himself useful here.

  ‘I want to go over this ground. Those technicians - it isn’t that they miss things. But they think the wrong things important. Thorough about stuff that’s not even relevant, and miss something out just because it’s hard to measure.’ Lucciani was putting on the unjustly-beaten-dog look.

  ‘So do all the houses overlooking the square. Movements, visitors, anything outside the ordinary routine, and not just the night concerned but for a couple of weeks back. And write it all down. And if people are out, go back till you find them at home. See you about one, here in the pub. We’ll eat there if we can; it looks clean enough. Right?’ They had parked the sober, dirty car under Sabine’s wall.

  ‘I’ll be in here.’

  The gate was overlooked by half a dozen houses. It would be surprising if any comings and goings were not noticed by the good folk across the way, and that alone was enough in his eyes to rule out the antiques gang. Otherwise it would be feasible enough, but country-house burglars disliked places with neighbours, who might have nocturnal habits and restless dogs.

  No – one couldn’t rule it out. Sabine kept her grille locked, but the lock was simple, and once inside a station-wagon or even a van would remain unseen behind the wall. The local police said blandly they’d had no cases of this sort, but that statement might bear checking. What had given the boy the idea in the first place? Surely not just Sabine saying he was a furniture dealer?

  The hippy idea on the other hand was plausible all round. The wall was not hard to climb. And the type was commonplace now. Anaesthetised to bourgeois notions like property, financing themselves with small portable objects easy to sell. Hitch-hiking loosely about, thinking nothing of busting a shutter that looked a bit old or shaky.

  This sort, if surprised in a house they had thought empty, might easily overreact out of fright, and clonk an old lady to keep her from yelling.

  Even if not true, it was hard to disprove. Nobody knew better than Castang that one never laid hands on people like that unless they were silly enough to pinch something easily identified. A few hundred francs from a handbag left no trace. What would you do – arrest all the casual labour on vineyards within three hundred kilometres? That would certainly make the judge happy!

  Castang felt for keys, opened doors, turned on lights, made himself comfortable. Not a very promising terrain for technicians: Sabine had been an erratic duster, polishing some things absent-mindedly and never touching others at all. As he recalled from his visit the floor had been clean. Far from clean now. There wouldn’t have been footprints anyhow. Even the stupidest, most inexpert burglar doesn’t wear shoes with nicely patterned ridges. Worn tennis shoes from the Prisunic, which they wipe politely on the mat.

  He had to come to terms with having been here before. It happened often enough that policemen walked about people’s houses making pretty free and being nosy. It was unexpected, something of a shock, to be strolling in here where he felt Sabine’s presence so strongly, pervading everything; like the strong scent, rich as plum cake, of the old house.

  The geography was as it should be. This lobby shutter had been the one broken. Nothing in that; coincidence. Might have looked weaker than the others. Wood warped, say. Of course it must have been a burglar, and a stupid one at that. Who else would go breaking a shutter? So he busts the shutter, and presumably then the door is unlocked, or he’d have bust the glass pane to turn the key, which was in the door but told Castang nothing, having been turned and re-turned by innumerable policemen. But either way it wakes the old lady up.

  So now reconstruct. She comes downstairs and sees at once – how could she fail to see? – the broken door. Now why does she not run out, to raise the alarm? However, being Sabine, she goes instead to pursue the malefactor. Who has hidden; that was quite reasonable. Might not be an old woman, might be a man with a shotgun. He retreated, and looked for a weapon. As Sabine came into the kitchen he clonked her.

  It sounded strained, and artificial. Castang sat there sullen a
nd hunched. The fellow went into the kitchen – all right, he was looking for a knife or a poker or something. But…

  He turned his head: he had the sensation of being watched. A woman was standing in the doorway. A young woman, good-looking in an unkempt way, dressed in gipsyish fashion in sandals and a long cotton skirt, with a cardigan on top. A full roundish face with a suspicious pouting mouth and two steady unfriendly eyes which looked at him with no sign of fear.

  ‘Who are you? What do you think you’re doing here?’

  He got up stolidly.

  ‘Police officer,’ showing his ‘medal’. ‘Come to that, what are you doing here?’

  She was not in the least taken aback.

  ‘I’m Madame Gérard and I’ve every right to be here: I’m the owner. And,’ aggressively, ‘I’ve not seen you before. The enquiry’s finished anyhow: you’ve no possible business here.’

  ‘Sorry, Madame, to have to tell you you’re mistaken, both ways. The judge has called for an enquiry by the Police Judiciaire, which is me, and it’s you who have no right to be here: nobody has, without the judge’s authorisation.’

  She stood her ground, heavy jaw thrust out.

  ‘I’d like to see the judge or anyone forbid me access to my own house. Anyway, the door was open. You don’t expect me to walk past without looking.’

  ‘You’re Madame Lipschitz’s daughter, are you?’ being deliberately obtuse.

  ‘In-law,’ she said curtly.

  ‘My name is Castang.’

  She decided to be polite.

  ‘Well, I suppose that’s all right then. Though the judge might have had the politeness to let us know, it seems to me. What does he want with another enquiry, anyhow?’ She stood in the doorway in a peculiar sidling way, as though unwilling to come any further, something after the manner of a cat rubbing itself against a wainscot or a door jamb. Castang had no cats, and no feelings about them. But there was something dislikable about the movement. He had nothing to say to her last remark. But her curiosity, or suspicion, was tenacious.