“It’s true, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“The difference in pubic hair—between men and women.”
“I don’t know.”
“But you’re a doctor, Luc.”
“Then I must’ve forgotten. Funny, things I did in third year anatomy—I forget about them at this time of the night.”
“It’s not the autopsy.”
“You’re an investigating magistrate, you’re not expected to stand in on every postmortem.”
“The procureur wanted me to go.”
“If it was so important, why did you walk out halfway through?”
“Sometimes you can be very unfeeling.”
“You’re stopping me from sleeping, Anne Marie.”
“I worry about Fabrice.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I worry about my son.”
“There’s nothing you can do. Not in the middle of the night.”
“I think I’d better get back to the house.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“Why can’t we ever talk, Luc?”
“Now?”
“You never want to discuss anything.”
“I have a job to do, too.”
“Sex’s all you care about and once you’ve got what you want, you go to sleep.”
“I blame my biological clock but you see, I’m not a civil servant. I’ve got an important meeting tomorrow. I’d like to get some sleep.”
“Fabrice comes home from school and tells me he’s been kicked out of his English class.”
“You were never kicked out by your teacher when you were at school?”
“I was only too glad to be able to go to school. Education wasn’t compulsory in Algeria—at least, not for everybody.”
“A goody-goody.”
“The English teacher’s written he’s insolent and aggressive.”
“Who on earth could he have inherited that from?”
“Fabrice’s never aggressive at home, and he’s good at English. He spends his time watching the American channels on the television.”
“See the teacher.”
“I am bogged down with work.”
“You want a good job—or you want to be a good mother?”
“I’ve got so much to do.”
“Work of your own making.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you work so hard at the palais de justice, it’s because you want to. Because it keeps you occupied, Anne Marie. That’s why you go to the damned autopsy—and everything else. Because it keeps you from asking yourself questions.”
“Thanks for the sympathy.”
“Questions about yourself and about your life. You put it all out of your head. The other investigating judges don’t have anything like your workload. Look at Monneron.”
“That’s not true.”
“You went to your postmortem to show you’re better than everyone else. A woman but better than all the others. You went because you like to feel that without you there’s no justice.”
“The procureur’s breathing down my neck for results. Since they found the girl …”
“Let the gendarmerie get on with it. You’re always saying it’s the police’s job to do the initial work. The gendarmerie and your alcoholic chum Lafitte. Take some time off, for heaven’s sake. Go and see about your son. And then perhaps you’ll let me sleep.”
“Luc, there are times when I feel …”
“Not tonight, Anne Marie, not tonight. There’s nothing you can do for Fabrice tonight. He’s a sweet kid and I’m fond of him, even when he sits looking at me and he’s not listening to a word I’m saying because he’s got his Walkman on full blast. Go to sleep. In the morning, you can drop by at the lycée. Speak to the teacher, find out what’s going wrong.”
“Why doesn’t Fabrice talk to me about it?”
“For somebody who’s dealing with men all day long, you’re not very good with male psychology.”
“Kind words.”
“He’s turning into a man.”
“So what?”
“Anne Marie, you don’t like men.”
“What entitles you to say that?”
“You think Fabrice doesn’t realize that?”
“You can be a bastard, can’t you, Luc?”
“Sleep, Anne Marie. You need the rest.”
“Just listen to me for once. I would like to get Fabrice to talk but he doesn’t want to. This last year he’s been drawing away from me. If he had a father …”
“Anne Marie …”
“I’m a woman. There are things I can’t do. I know I’m not always getting through to Fabrice.”
“You’re using your emotional blackmail.”
“Blackmail on who?”
“Anne Marie, we’ve been over this before.”
“What blackmail?”
“I am not the boy’s father.”
“I’ve never asked anything of you. I don’t even ask for warmth or affection.”
“You want me to go?”
“I don’t ask for warmth and affection because I know I won’t ever get them. Not from you, Luc.”
Outside, along the beach, beyond the hum of the air conditioner, the frogs were croaking their private monody.
“You’re a married man and even if you don’t love her, you’ll never leave her.”
“Say the word, Anne Marie, and I’ll get a divorce. As strange as it may seem, I love you. Even in the middle of the night when you start talking about pubic hair.”
“You’d never leave your wife.”
“You want to quarrel? Three years now I’ve been asking you to marry me but you don’t want to live with me, share your life with me. To be together, we have to hide away in a hotel yet you expect me to be a father to your children.”
“Who’s quarreling?”
“You want to quarrel at one in the morning? In a hotel. Here in Saint-François?”
“It’s you who’s quarreling.”
“Go to sleep.”
“I’ll go to sleep and perhaps you’d better get your clothes, Luc. I’m sure your sweet little wife’s missing you.”
22
Canine
Friday, May 18, 1990
“Good morning, Monsieur Trousseau.”
He fumbled with the newspaper behind the desk, stood up and shook hands with Anne Marie. “Good morning, madame le juge.” His breath smelled of fish sandwich. He gave her a lopsided grin.
“Today’s agenda?”
“Lafitte and Parise are already here.”
“Please call them in.”
“Lafitte was saying they haven’t got any trace on the Indian.”
“Indian?”
“Richard—the Indian with the Vaton girl in the photo.” He tapped the newspaper. “Strange.” Trousseau then clumsily folded the newspaper and dropped it on top of his Japy typewriter. He was holding a ballpoint pen that he clipped to his tie. Trousseau left the office.
Anne Marie looked down on her desk.
(She had left the hotel at half past one in the morning and, getting home, had taken a pill to help her sleep. Now she was rested and was no longer sneezing. She felt unexpectedly relaxed even though Fabrice had not uttered a word during the drive into Pointe-à-Pitre. He had not answered Anne Marie’s questions but sat beside her looking out at the long, slow traffic jam. Létitia, her nose to the rear window and giggling, had not stopped chattering the whole drive. She was looking forward to the school outing to the mangrove the following week. Anne Marie had promised to let her wear her green dress.)
Without sitting down, Anne Marie put her Texier bag in the desk drawer, unlocked the metal cupboard and took out the beige dossier: Pointe des Châteaux. Before opening it, she went over to Trousseau’s narrow desk and glanced at the France Antilles. “Strange,” she repeated to herself, imitating Trousseau’s nasal intonation.
On the front page, the headlines announced that the murderer of th
e Pointe des Châteaux had yet to be identified. The article indicated that the gendarmerie and the SRPJ were working together but despite their collaboration, and despite the growing anxiety among the population at large for such a heinous crime, no lead had as yet been found.
The Polaroid of the Indian had been enlarged and was printed at the foot of the front page. DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN? The picture was blurry.
Absentmindedly, Anne Marie flicked through the other pages—the film and television programs, the world price of sugar, a new home for handicapped children at Gourbeyre, the syndicated news from France. She was about to fold the newspaper when her attention was caught by two strokes lightly marked into the margin with a red pen.
YOUNG MAINLAND FRENCH WOMAN, THIRTY, ATTRACTIVE, WELL EDUCATED, SEEKS FRIENDSHIP, VIEW MARRIAGE WITH WELL EDUCATED WEST INDIAN GENTLEMAN, 35—50. ONLY SERIOUSLY INTENTIONED NEED APPLY.
MARTINIQUE WOMAN, TWENTY-SEVEN, LIGHT SKIN, STRAIGHT HAIR, SEEKS AFFECTIONATE MALE, AGE AND COLOR OF NO IMPORTANCE, VIEW FRIENDSHIP, PERHAPS MARRIAGE. BOX 257.
“Very strange.”
When she heard the sound of footfalls in the corridor, she swiftly returned the newspaper to its place on top of Trousseau’s typewriter.
The greffier entered, accompanied by Lafitte and Parise.
The two men shook hands with Anne Marie.
Parise looked as fresh and neat as ever. His khaki clothes were crisply pressed and short hair still damp. He held his képi under his arm. He gave her a bright smile, the corner of the soft eyes wrinkling with pleasure. This early in the morning, his aftershave was strong and not unpleasant.
(“You don’t like men,” Luc had said.)
“What news do you bring me, gentlemen?” She had returned to her desk. “Perhaps Monsieur Trousseau would care to fetch some coffee.”
Trousseau left the office, tucking the newspaper under his arm.
Lafitte’s eyes were puffy. “I have Bouton’s preliminary report, madame.”
“Why preliminary?”
His hand shook slightly. He placed the type-printed sheets on the desk in front of her. His smile was crooked. “You were at the autopsy, madame.”
“Can’t truthfully say I was following. Once Bouton started using the saw on the girl’s skull, my attention began to wander.”
Parise asked, “How’s your cold now, madame?”
“Clearing up, thank you.” She sniffed. “At least, I hope so.”
“You should ask Monsieur Trousseau for a natural remedy. He knows about that sort of thing.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time he’s tried to poison me with guava peel and bois bandé bark. I’ll stick to aspirin and vitamins.” She looked back into Lafitte’s puffy eyes. “What does Docteur Bouton say, Monsieur Lafitte?”
Lafitte ran a finger down the first page of typescript. “Bouton suspects cardiac shock. We’re waiting on the blood and toxicology tests from Pasteur. As yet, Docteur Bouton cannot come to a firm conclusion. Nothing really wrong with the girl. No external wounds, no cutting, stabbing or battering. Nothing wrong with her health. No hardening arteries, no internal problems. Or at least, nothing Docteur Bouton can identify. There just don’t appear to be sufficient traumata to cause death—not in a healthy young woman.”
“Cardiac arrest caused by drug abuse?”
“No signs of injection or scabbing due to a syringe; likewise, the nasal cavities appear healthy.”
“She didn’t sniff cocaine.”
“Apparently not.”
“Then why cardiac shock?”
“Bouton says we must wait for results. There are in fact various punctures and tears in the skin, but Bouton says these were caused after death and attributes them to animals.”
“Then he goes along with Malavoy?”
“If Vaton was murdered on the beach—which is not impossible, since algor mortis would suggest the body was not moved after death—it seems strange scavenging dogs didn’t do more damage to the corpse. Very little more than superficial scratching.”
“I once ran over a dog,” Parise remarked, looking down at his long fingers, “and when I parked my car, my own dog never stopped howling—he could smell carrion on my car wheels. Intimation of canine mortality.” He shrugged. “Possible the girl’s corpse gave off an odor that kept scavenging animals at bay.”
“Possible—but unlikely in Docteur Bouton’s opinion,” Lafitte said coldly.
“Perhaps the body was in the sea and got washed up.”
“No seawater was found in the lungs, which makes drowning unlikely. No salt deposits on the skin, although admittedly it rained several times on Tuesday. Nor is there any trace of blood on the beach. No traces beneath the fingernails, no sign of a struggle.”
“Vaton had been swimming.” Parise raised his hand. “It’d explain why she was naked.”
“You checked the bikini bottom?”
“Would appear to be the same bikini that Desterres left with you.” Lafitte nodded. “We’re waiting for the lab to get back to us for hairs or saliva traces.”
“On a bikini?”
“The bikini that Desterres gave you had been washed. Because of the skin contact, the bottom might give us useful information.”
“Desterres washed the top thinking the girl’d come back—that’s what he told me.”
“He’s lying, madame,” Lafitte said sharply. “Why wash a bikini top that belonged to a passing tourist?”
“I’ll ask him.”
“The bikini’s all we’ve got to go on,” Lafitte said.
Parise spoke. “We’ve had a couple of calls from people who say they saw a topless girl on the beach at the Pointe des Châteaux. They said they saw her between nine and ten o’clock.”
“By herself?”
“It’s not a nudist beach and local people don’t like women going topless there. West Indians aren’t prudish but we don’t appreciate the provocation of Europeans exposing their bodies. There are frequent pilgrimages to the calvary and children don’t need to see naked women.” Parise nodded. “She wanted to go swimming in the sea at the Pointe des Châteaux but she left after somebody warned her of the dangers.”
“Of not wearing a bikini?”
“Of swimming there. There’s a very strong undercurrent and it is probably the most dangerous beach in Guadeloupe—because you can be pulled by the undertow out to beyond the barrier reef. Then you’re lunch for the sharks.”
Lafitte coughed.
“I think we’ll have to send the bikini—top and bottom—off to Paris.” He shrugged. “Which means more delay. Pasteur normally does our forensic work on unnatural deaths but Bouton isn’t optimistic. Our good pathologist’s baffled.”
Anne Marie frowned. “I find it hard to believe nobody saw the corpse on the beach over a sixty hour period.”
Parise said, “Few people go to that beach during the week—not even the fishermen.”
“Apart from the bikini, there really doesn’t appear to be much to go on.” Anne Marie turned back to Lafitte. “What signs of sexual activity?”
“According to Bouton, there’s slight bruising around the genital regions, but again, the bruising most probably came about after death.”
“Excluding sexual violence as a motive?”
“There was no struggle. There are, however, several superficial cut marks on the lower abdomen possibly caused by a blunt knife or cutting edge. Bouton says the murderer may have been trying to make it look like a sex crime.” Lafitte looked at the typewritten notes. “No bruising, no irritation on the walls of the vagina or anus. Docteur Bouton finds no signs of forceful penetration, no saliva, no tooth bites.” Lafitte hesitated before adding, “The breasts are not bruised.”
“So?”
“When struggling with a woman, the rapist knows that the breasts are the most sensitive part of a woman’s body.”
“Are they?”
“It’s an erogenous zone.”
“For the rapist or for his victim?”
“And sperm?”
A shrug.
“Well?”
Lafitte’s blush grew deeper. “Bouton took smears and is waiting for results.”
“Can sperm stay alive inside a dead body?”
“All depends on the time of death, but we can’t be very optimistic. Bacteria producing lactic acid prevent the growth of pathogens in the vagina. It has a low pH and is a cleaner orifice than the mouth.”
“It has to be,” Anne Marie remarked drily.
Parise smiled and Lafitte hesitated before adding, “Vaton was not a virgin—according to Docteur Bouton she was sexually active.”
“She was a nurse, not a nun, Lafitte.”
“Vaginal scarring which Bouton sees as evidence of genital herpes. He thinks we can dismiss rape, madame le juge.”
“So Desterres’s off the hook?”
“Let’s wait for the blood test results from Pasteur,” Lafitte said. “Until we get hold of the Indian, Desterres remains the last person to have seen her alive.”
Trousseau arrived with the coffee.
“And Desterres doesn’t have an alibi.”
23
Paraboot
Trousseau had gone to fetch Madame Vaton at the hotel in Gosier and Anne Marie found herself alone with Lafitte. In the sunlight outside the palais de justice, his skin had an unhealthy tinge. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and although he kept his hands in the pockets of his light cotton trousers, he could not relax. “We’ve got another forty minutes. Why not go for a drink, madame?”
“We’ve just had coffee.”
“Perhaps something stronger. I don’t enjoy the morgue.”
“Docteur Bouton will let you drink his firewater, no doubt.”
The sky was cloudless. After an early shower, the morning air was still cool, the surface of the sidewalk still wet. Anne Marie had wanted to walk to the hospital. It would take time and save her having to wait for Trousseau and Madame Vaton in the morgue.
“We’ve got to be at the hospital by nine.”
“Then take a taxi, madame.”
“Exercise will do me some good.” She was wearing Paraboot shoes today, inelegant but practical, with thick soles.
“Exercise?”
“Didn’t you use to cycle, Monsieur Lafitte?”
The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Page 8