Castang’s City

by Nicolas Freeling

  She was in a bad enough state. Half in coma, flat out from loss of blood – she’d cut her wrists too. Hopefully they’ve been too sloppy; they’ve tried three or four ways, and got muddled. One can sometimes save them that way, if they haven’t got pneumonia too badly on top of the rest. The poor bitch; she’d been crawling round in circles, on her hands and knees, with no clue what she was doing. The gendarme had got his jacket off and over her, trying to warm her, trying to get her out of coma. She was alive though, and making incoherent sounds.

  "Poor cow. She was tumbled down in the ditch and couldn’t get out. Nighty rucked right up her back. Shone the torch an’ thought what the hell’s that? Big white bottom. Still, it showed up!" He had ‘made her decent’, was holding her up, warming her, wanting to shake her up, not daring to, because of her wrists. She was plastered with the thick mud of the alluvial riverbed. Who knows, thought Castang, it might have helped stop or at least slow the bleeding.

  TWENTY

  PICKING OUT THE SPLINTERS

  By no means at the end of his troubles, Castang. This fatal conscientiousness over small details – Richard called it the itch to have things tidy… Why on earth worry about that car? It was off the road, wasn’t it? And locked. Either it would get stolen or it wouldn’t, but either way it was not important. Noelle might have thrown the keys away, or she might have lost them: if you go crawling about in undergrowth the shallow pocket of a dressing-gown is not the best place…well you aren’t going to find them, he told himself while they were wrapping the woman up and hooking her to the life-support system.

  Hospitals are always a pest. It’s not that they aren’t well used to the cops blowing in in the middle of the night with people in an extreme state of dilapidation: smashed up road-accidents go to Surgery Two: drug overdoses go to the resuscitation block at Medical One: heart attacks to the Cardiology-Special annexe of Surgery Three. As for the badly burned, they should never have been brought here in the first place. There’s a special unit for them in another town: what did that stupid ambulance driver think he was doing?

  It is an understood thing too that much of the flotsam-and-jetsam ‘belongs to the police’ and gets tucked away in a private room with a cop on guard. It’s a system; familiar. Try and deviate from any pattern in a rigid, centralised, and so-called Cartesian society like France, and the bureaucrats get restive. Once the elementary tagging was accomplished, and the doctors being a bit reserved about things – ‘One wouldn’t want to predict: this is going to be touch-and-go for some hours’ – an administrative ape with a clipboard was pestering him. What’s all this anonymity stuff? Is this patient under police responsibility? If not who are the relatives, what’s her status (once her sex was settled)? It’s PJ business, is it? Castang, who didn’t want the PJ dragged into this, damned his own stupid eyes; should never have set foot here; should have left it to the gendarmerie but was afraid of somebody selling the coconut out of sheer stupidity. As it was he was making things worse by drawing attention to them.

  Thérèse was in bed, but out at once when she heard a ring. She heard his news with a stony face. No, Thierry wasn’t in yet. There were spare car-keys somewhere and she’d look in the morning. She didn’t exactly say so, but this was what came to a people de-christianised and ceasing to live according to principle. Prayer might save Noelle: as for hospitals… He should have brought her back here: they had an excellent doctor two minutes away. Nobody, explained Castang laboriously, could take that responsibility. And sorry, the night was getting on.

  It wasn’t much after two. Vera woke up, of course, however still he tried to be. It didn’t matter, she said: she was alert anyhow.

  "You got back on duty rather abruptly, huh?" said Richard. "You’ve seen this, I suppose?" A nasty headline in the local paper.

  ‘OVERWHELMED BY HER TRAGIC DESTINY, THE WIFE OF ETIENNE MARCEL ATTEMPTS TO PUT AN END TO HER DAYS.’

  "I did my best," said Castang bitterly. "The combination of blabbermouth imbeciles and bloodsuckers beats you every time. Someone recognised her – or me."

  "Can’t be helped."

  "What beats me – too – is that the moment one forms any hypothesis about this affair a new fact arrives to contradict it."

  "Then don’t fall in love with hypotheses. These ones that have no pattern – or seem to – are waiting for a new fact. You’ve got a new fact; welcome it. Being hit on the head by a welter of loud publicity is a turn of the screw. I’ll handle that: it’s my role. You’ve come back to this with a fresh mind; use it. I’ve other things," tapping a dossier Fausta had brought in. "This was one of yours and I’m taking it off your back. Concentrate totally upon this Marcel thing."

  "What is it?"

  "Raphael – the legitimate defence." It was indeed a nasty shell-splinter picked out of his back. Mr Raphael was a tobacconist. His shop had been broken into twice. The third time he had taken a shotgun and popped three vandals; one died. The judge of instruction had pegged him with unjustifiable homicide. His case had been taken up by the law-and-order brigade, anxious for a test case. The instruction had ‘gone wrong’. Much would depend, at the trial, on expert police evidence. The investigating officer had been Castang. Richard didn’t want anything ‘going wrong’ at a trial promoted to the Assize Court.

  Well, there were lots more splinters.

  "And Castang: I don’t want to sound academic. But it’s the very absence of pattern that creates one. You follow? – this succession of oddities means there is a pattern. Go on watching your crew. There’s something twisted there. A twist means a weakness. Something there will give."

  It was sound advice, even if undoubtedly academic.

  It would have been more logical – wouldn’t it? – if Richard had taken this business over, and left him the was-it-or-wasn’t-it legitimate defence? But that was not the way Divisional Commissaires worked. Quite, they were under political limelight, and had themselves to protect. But it was his throat too. There are sharp splinters. There are also large jagged fragments, with uncommonly large areas of razor-sharp edge.

  Before he got to his own office the phone was ringing. He sat, heavily, wishing he’d had more sleep.

  "Castang," said Colette Delavigne’s voice, and on the icy side.

  "I’m only just in, you know."

  "Commissaire Richard informs me – "

  "Yes, there’s a lot of detail. We’re what’s it, evaluating it, processing it, as quick as we can. It’s coming to you as fast as we can write it up. Events overtake us."

  "Yes. Good God. You’re under pressure – what do you think I am?"

  "I’ll be up to see you this morning." He punched buttons. "Liliane. Will you come to me or shall I come to you? Very Well." Another.

  "Get some cowboy to pick up that Daimler car. The good lady at the house has keys, or if she hasn’t fix it your own way. If the car’s gone that’s just too bad for the insurance company. It’s not evidence; I just want it tidied up. Search it, naturally."

  An outside line. Clothilde.

  "Madame Delavigne? – Castang, PJ. I’d like to come over and see you this afternoon: would you have the kindness to be at home?… No… Yes, if you would, please."

  Liliane, with a lot of paper. Fausta, with more paper: stuff that Richard had read and initialled, and ‘belonged in the dossier’. Well…the best way of dealing with a restive judge of instruction is to feed her lots and lots of paper.

  "Let me attempt to get this clear," said Madame Delavigne, tapping on paper with a nice birthday-present silver pen. "Are you trying to build a case against one or other of these people? Is the idea that if you all go on long enough one of them will turn into a suspect?" Very magistrate, the tone of voice. To your real dyed-in-wool jurist, the Criminal Code is something viewed with dislike and distrust. There is sound law, and unsound law: very little that’s sound about this. They are fond, indeed, of saying that the Criminal Code has no meaning, and doesn’t know its own purpose. Furthermore, the whole area surr
ounding it is riddled by termites: these impossible social-sciences people. Yet Colette was still young – his age or thereabouts – and a humane thinker. Not the kind of judge who thinks that anything to do with human beings is basically unsound, creating a grave flaw in the legal process.

  "Everything that has happened, since the original assassination, has been in the family. I argue, to do with the family. It ties up somewhere there. Even the first death, so elaborately public and outside the family circle. There’s some correlation we haven’t understood yet. They’re out of focus."

  "Don’t waste my time with metaphors. If they’re your suspects they’re a singularly unconvincing crowd. This wife who has attempted suicide; pass that for the present… These two brothers, whom – I agree with this girl inspector of yours; they sound like dimwit members of the Bonaparte family… The sister; middle-aged pious female… The children; surviving children I should say…daughter shows no sign of instability, and the son, mm, every sign of instability, but not energy enough to do anything but drift about cadging on his father’s credit. What motive could he possibly have? What motive could any of them possibly have? On your own showing they’re united, affectionate and loyal. The father was the mainspring, kept it all running. Kept them in jobs, in comfortable situations. They’ve everything to lose from his death, nothing to gain… This son-in-law. Energetic, ambitious, climbing. Has obvious qualities of his own, but it wasn’t doing him any harm, was it, having a pa-in-law prominent in local politics, powerfully influential in all that concerns local business? Nothing here carries conviction.

  "The terrorist thing is totally exploded, I grant. I’ve here a confidential report from DST, to the effect that no local extremist group, and they’re categorical, is more than talk and hot air. A group from outside? Marcel was not prominent in anything but local affairs, the assassination is unsigned and unclaimed. Where’s the point in it, what would they be attempting to show or gain kudos by?

  "To my mind it points to personal vengeance by some envious and disappointed ex-competitor, collaborator, whatever. The Mayor poohpoohs this – he has reasons of his own for wishing to play down such a notion, of course. Commissaire Richard sends me a long detailed report attempting to demonstrate that it isn’t so. I’ve no complaint of his police work, naturally: I’m talking about wilful obstinacy. Won’t-See is a lot blinder than Can’t-See. I’m getting no real support from the Procureur on all this."

  Castang, feeling muzzy, and unenthusiastic about the way he’d chosen to get back to work, had no ideas and no comments to offer. A tirade about Richard was banal coat-trailing and she didn’t even expect him to react: her opinion of his intelligence wasn’t that low. As for scoring points off the Proc, there was only one thing a cop could do when his feet got set in the mazy path of Parquet politics, and that was act stupid.

  "I can only follow where a thing leads me. This inquiry’s barely begun and what do I know? – beyond the awareness I have to know a lot more about all these people." A glance of extreme acidity welcomed this platitude. Madame Delavigne turned pages of her dossier, and made a noise like Tchaa, with a lot of fricative and sibilant in it.

  "This suicide – a genuine attempt, or a self-dramatisation?"

  "It’s just this minute happened, right? And aren’t they all? If you mean a fake attempt taking damn good care that she’d come to no harm, I can only answer, not according to what I’ve seen or been able to judge of her character."

  "Yes, yes, yes, I’m not asking for a lecture on psychology. I’ll get a long cautiously-worded report about nervous depression and what am I to make of that?"

  "Is she a criminal or has she criminal knowledge you mean? – nothing at present to support that."

  "This Thierry…"

  "Nothing about this Thierry; he’s a pain in the neck, I should guess to all but a few middle-aged women."

  "He sounds too wet to be true."

  "Very likely that’s so: I’ll have to see whether we’ve turned anything up. Young Lucciani was taking an interest in him last night: obviously he’s not had time to write it up yet. Try to recall that I’ve had some days off, and I’ve had other preoccupations."

  "Yes, Henri, I know. Try to enter into my problem too."

  "Put it that Thierry is an expert consulter of his own interest. Has a nicely feathered nest, and wouldn’t do anything to disturb it."

  "Is that a bit superficial?"

  "I’ve twenty people whose behaviour patterns we’re attempting to establish. To do that with the resources at my disposal… get more people on it and we might have results quicker. You see what happens – this woman has a nervous depression and it monopolises our energy. If among this group of people there’s a candidate for homicide I can’t help believing we’ve more promising horses than Thierry. He might have all sorts of weird grievances. He could imagine, maybe plan an elaborate scheme for assaulting anyone from the mayor down, but would he be able to carry it through?"

  "It’s a point."

  "People like Thierry defeat their plans – won’t say voluntarily even if unconsciously since you don’t wan’t any police psychology – by making them too complex. We’ve two assassinations. Assuming the second one is, but Deutz is unusually categoric about it – still, that’s only one expert opinion, then they’re linked because they can hardly be anything else. Then the second follows the pattern of the first. To wit two simply-planned and expert crimes, carried out with skill and resolution. Simplicity and efficiency. Do you see those as characteristic of Thierry? – I’m damned if I do."

  "Yes, now you’re strengthening your argument, I’m bound to say."

  "I’ll tell you frankly I’m not happy with any of our present candidates. This Bertrand – he’s smooth, and there may be a lot more to him than meets the eye. I mean there might be a drama of jealousies or conflicting interests; it isn’t beyond the bounds of imagination. I can only say his life and marriage seem stable, he follows conventional patterns. The reports on him are those of a person with settled habits. Tuesday bridge; Thursday the freemasons or the frothblowers or whatever. Saturday take your wife to the theatre. And his wife, the daughter, is much devoted to both her parents, gives a good honest feel. If she’s foxing me I’d like to know about it. Again; what interest is there, what motive? Etienne Marcel and his son Didier – it’s fair to say they could both be hard, sharp, and tricky. Any number of people who’d be quite pleased to see either or maybe both slip on a banana skin. Richard’s got more people working on this. I’ve this family investigation. That’s all."

  "You think he’s using you as a stalking horse, do you? To create a distraction and get people off their guard? That would make sense."

  "I don’t know it, and don’t think it. Not my work to think any such thing. Where would I be, every time I did a job, thinking it was a set-up? You’ve no business saying it to me. Think it by all means, and then go see Richard about it, or the Proc."

  "All right; don’t get on a high horse. To my mind the whole problem lies elsewhere, but I agree I’ve no power to alter the instructions given you. What about this mistress?"

  "Clothilde?"

  "Extraordinary name for anybody’s mistress," said Colette, with the first sign of humour shown that morning.

  "I’ll be seeing her afresh today. I’ll have a report on her. There’s been a bit of surveillance done on her: I’ll see what Liliane has to say. I agree, she may not be as simple-minded as she likes to suggest."

  "There might be a pattern of conflicting interests there. Banal as the suggestion may seem, the obvious is frequently the truth. Her act of being very open and naïve may be just that; an act. Furtive in ways, she could be furtive in others. Look up the background of this separation of hers. I’ll give you a rogatory commission for Lorraine or wherever it was. See if there’s any link between her and these other people. We know for instance she went to the same riding school as Noelle: there may be more."

  "Very well."

  "That’ll do for no
w then, Henri. I won’t put any untoward pressure on you, Inspector," with a glimmer of smile. "I remain convinced – the problem lies elsewhere. This Didier – he got to know or hear of something – threatened to blow the gaff on it."

  "That would be a likely motivation, all right. I’m off then, and I’ll keep you posted."

  "Do just that."

  She’d had a little anti-personnel bomb there. Thing with ball-bearings in it. Or, more accurately, splinters. Be a cop, and you wish you were an armadillo. You’d know what to do then, when jaguars come patting at you with their soft velvet paws. Curl up, and stay still. Don’t excite the nasty beast.

  TWENTY ONE

  SECRET SOCIETIES

  He’d read a report, by some sociologist, or maybe criminologist – those cattle had different names for themselves, but were all the same in essence: they strung platitudes together, couched in lecturers’ jargon. Occasionally they were of use. Their platitude, put in new words, allowed you to see a familiar phenomenon in a new light.

  This one as he recalled had been going on about solitude. The modern structures of society, intensely fragmented, with their ever-narrower appeal to small areas of specialised knowledge and limited responsibility…yes, sure. Creating numerous areas of solitude – yes, sure. Mankind went about thus inventing pretexts for obscure types of togetherness – right, mate. Hence the amazing proliferation of little groups. The secret societies, the fellow called them. People belong to a multiplicity of little gatherings. Breeders’ club of boxer dogs, wine-label collectors, neighbourhood betterment-league.

  Castang hadn’t thought about it much. He supposed so. So what? He wasn’t a joiner himself: the Friendly Society of Worn-out Police Agents was about his speed. Married moreover to a very resolute anti-joiner.