The Unknown Masterpiece

by John Brooke

  Collecting her things, the inspector limped over the Middle Bridge and on to Freiestrasse.

  ***

  The FedPol offices on the sixth floor felt lifeless. Lots of mid-afternoon sun, but no energy. Dusty motes hanging in a vacuum, awaiting human motion. And emotion. The receptionist hardly smiled. It was just too much effort. And not a sound to be heard as the French cop limped along the corridor. If Rudi Bucholtz were there, she would dare to enter. Hi, Rudi. I really miss you… But he wasn’t there. And she didn’t miss him. Not really.

  Franck Woerli was transfixed in front his computer screen. ‘Bonjour, Franki.’

  He turned, registering a minimal grimace before he gestured her in. ‘How’s the leg?’

  ‘A little stronger each day.’

  ‘Well, we have to do our job.’ He scratched his nose. ‘Bullets, accountants, bureaucratic jerk-offs, territorial fucks — we can get killed a lot of different ways. But what the hell, eh?’

  ‘Smile, Franki. You’re far better looking when you smile. What are you doing?’

  ‘Not much, when you get right down to it. Do you know how much money our business class hides through guest worker payroll fiddles in the course of a year?’

  ‘How much?

  ‘No idea. They’re far smarter than I’ll ever be. I was hoping the French police might know.’ Poor Franck. So dry and empty and dark as he turned back to the lists on his screen.

  ‘I have this for you.’ Maybe an outing to France would cheer him up. He took the sheet, read it without comment, turned glumly back to his screen. She asked, ‘Where is Rudi?’

  Woerli’s bitter half-smile reflected off his screen. ‘Spending his days with Reubens. Or the fake Reubens, depending on who you talk to. And Hilda Gross. Negotiating.’

  ‘Negotiating what?’

  ‘Trying to get her to pass Frau Federer and her problem along to us. To him, actually. To keep it moving along.’

  ‘Makes sense.’ In theory. Rudi’s dreamy mind was another proposition altogether.

  ‘You’d think so. The old woman and her painting are out there; everything else related to her case is here in town. The art part. Not the murders. Of course, Hilda sees it differently.’

  ‘I can’t believe you people.’

  Franck Woerli turned away from his lists. ‘What matters is that Rudi is feeling important. Hilda too, I bet. These lists don’t make me feel very important at all.’

  This man’s relentless self-pity was the last thing she needed. She went to the window and looked out at the art-strewn city, the dirty timeless river running through it. Another couple had found the bench by Helvetia and her suitcase, armour and sword. ‘You live in such a beautiful place, Franki. That has to be worth something in the daily grind, no?’

  Agent Franck Woerli heaved a sigh and stood. He joined her at the window. ‘Beautiful day out there. I’d love to go out and walk around, but I might never come back. Josephina used to go out for her lunch. Every day. Rain or shine. Parks, galleries, museum, wherever. Said it helped lighten this never-ending feeling. A day like today, she’d sit by the river.’

  ‘I just enjoyed an hour with Helvetia.’

  ‘That was one of her regular spots.’

  ‘You go to the funeral?’

  ‘Yes. Pretty quiet. Her mother, a few old Ticino neighbours. Hard to say much.’

  ‘No man?’

  ‘Or woman,’ muttered Woerli.

  It can be horrible how we are always slightly ahead of realization. Unless you’re a genius. She was no genius. But still, it comes. Bound in a trance, Aliette gazed out at the spot on the far bank, just visible from Woerli’s window. She conjured Dieter Taub and placed him front and centre in her mind’s eye: a large man, the Swiss version of a Tati character, taking a large space upon the bench. It was harder visualizing Josephina Perella there beside him — a woman she had never met except in bits and pieces. But as she gazed, those bits and pieces came together and all fit there. Almost too well. She could see it: Dieter and Josephina meeting on the promenade.

  In a city of images, was this a fantasy or something real?

  She asked, ‘What do we know about Dieter Taub?’

  A shrug. ‘Head of personnel or something at VigiTec.’

  ‘But what else?’

  Franki considered it. Shrugged. Sighed again. ‘You tell me, Inspector.’

  ‘We know, because he just told me, that Helvetia is one of his favourite spots as well.’

  ‘And so?’

  ‘You don’t need a phone or email when you’re sharing a park bench at lunchtime.’

  Franck Woerli’s dulled-over eyes lit ever so slightly as the notion filtered through to a mind dangerously anaesthetized by tax fraud. ‘I will look into this.’

  ‘It’s just a thought.’ But she was thinking, Good, Franki. Do it. Be a cop. In parting, she told him, ‘You come next Friday. Rudi too. Order him — I know you can. My shoemaker will inspire him to great things. He’ll have Inspector Hilda Gross in the palm of his hand.’

  Woerli yawned. ‘This is not my territory, Inspector. I’ve become a tax specialist.’

  ‘Didn’t Augustine say something about man surpassing himself, Franki?’

  He looked at her blankly. ‘And you know, I’m starting to appreciate it. I may not feel important, but I feel very safe inside my lists. Which is most important, yes?’

  She did not dignify that with a reply. Said, ‘We’ll have lunch afterward. At the Rembrandt.’

  35

  An Angel’s Protector

  Monique buzzed. ‘Officer Sachs. Village-Neuf Municipal Police.’

  …Officer Sachs? ‘Oui?’

  Officer Sachs identified himself as the one who’d handed Hubert Hunspach into her care that first day at the river. They had received a call from a Christine Charigot last evening: a man was lurking on the edges of her property. They’d hurried over. Hubert Hunspach had tried to conceal himself in the branches of a plane tree at the back of the garden — futile in late November. ‘We actually had to threaten to shoot him out of the tree like a pigeon before he’d come down. Kid insists he’s doing a planque.’ A stake-out. ‘For you, Inspector.’

  ‘I’m on my way.’ In yet another sticky-seated, tobacco-smelling, requisitioned car.

  The one-way mirror revealed Hubert Huspanch sitting at a table. No headphones today. A dishevelled teenager in need of sleep. ‘Pretty young for a recruit, Inspector,’ ventured Sachs. ‘Can’t say I blame his pa for losing it.’ A sardonic laugh. ‘Kid demanded police protection.’

  ‘He’s having problems at home.’

  Officer Sachs escorted her to the interview room and showed her in.

  She took a seat, confronted her informant. ‘Alors, Hubert?’ Please explain.

  ‘I saw him. The guy on the rock. ’

  ‘His name is Robert.’

  ‘I know that too. Saw him in the mall a week ago. With his mother. I was going to call you, but I had to make sure. It took a while to track them. I had her car marked — finally saw it on the high street yesterday on the way home from school. Turned into circle René-Descartes, a development two down from ours. I took a little walk after supper, saw it parked, went round back. It’s definitely him.’

  ‘I did not and would never ask you to break the law, Hubert.’

  Like a seasoned lowlife, the boy shook his head. Too late for moralizing.

  ‘What did you see?

  ‘B’en, him and his mother. Screaming at each other in the kitchen. Same as at the mall. Poor guy’s really in tough with her.’ Hubert knew all about the never-ending battle. ‘He is so white!’

  ‘Hear anything?’

  ‘No. Not in the house. But in the mall — horrible! He wants to do what he wants to do, she’s screaming about the horrible men, how they’re going to hurt him. In front of everyone.’

  ‘The horrible men?’

  ‘It’s what she said.’

  ‘Was his father there? In the house?’


  ‘Didn’t see him.’

  ‘Brother? Sister?’

  ‘Seemed to be just the two of them. And then I didn’t see him — I figured he went to his room to listen to some tunes. Only place to go. So I waited. I guess someone saw me. Suddenly the flics were shining lights, telling me I was under arrest.’

  ‘Did Robert come out?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And you told them you were working for me.’

  ‘Because I was.’

  Aliette left Hubert and conferred with Officer Sachs. ‘Who is this woman?’

  ‘Triage nurse at Three Borders.’ The Clinique des Trois Frontières in Saint-Louis.

  As Madame Charigot had not called back to formally press charges, Hubert was allowed to leave. In her care. The inspector guaranteed safe delivery to his mother. But not before a quick turn in circle René-Descartes, which was pretty much identical to circle Georges-Simenon, and a promise from Hubert not to push his luck. ‘A bit of a cowboy, you — climbing trees is not exactly in the mandate. But I have to say you did well, Hubert. You’re a good cousin…’ but she would take it from here.

  She offered to accompany him inside.

  The boy bridled. ‘I can handle it. You keep me in the loop now!’

  ‘Your parents love you, Hubert.’

  Leaving her with a blasé wave, he slouched up the walk to his door.

  Aliette found herself wondering what it would be like being the mother of Hubert Hunspach as she drove back to circle René-Descartes and parked in front of another nondescript bedroom community home. No sign of life. She knocked…several times. No answer. She went round back but her investigation was blocked by drapes and silence. And rules. No problem getting inside — she had tools in her valise, and she had facts and evidence surrounding the death of Martin Bettelman that might give her the benefit of the doubt in court.

  But no. She had to resist, go by the book. There had been too many mistakes.

  She returned to her desk and retrieved the appropriate form. Before the day was done Inspector Nouvelle had delivered an interpellation order via a uniformed officer to the address in Village-Neuf and a copy of same to reception at the clinic in Saint-Louis. Madame Charigot’s presence was requested at her earliest convenience, police politesse for ASAP.

  Next afternoon, while in the middle of a phone debate with Procureur Michel Souviron as to assassinat versus crime passionnel in the matter of the Vietnamese son-in-law, Monique peeked in. ‘A Christine Charigot to see you?’

  ***

  Christine Charigot claimed she had never heard the name Martin Bettelman. ‘Was he the one in the tree?’

  ‘No, Madame. He was the one we found on the riverbank.’

  ‘Which riverbank?’

  ‘The beach, I believe they call it.’

  ‘Robert is forbidden to go near there.’

  ‘But he does.’

  Her guest repeated, ‘I will always protect my child.’ This was Christine Charigot’s fall-back position, regardless of where the interview led. Basic. Praiseworthy. But wearing thin.

  ‘Madame, if your son is implicated in a crime, he must help in any way in setting the matter right. All citizens share this responsibility.’

  ‘My Robert has not been part of any crime.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to him.’ And after all, this child was almost thirty years old. This was now established. The boyish, angelic face was a trick of nature.

  Christine Charigot’s clasped hands tightened. She shrugged. Her fatigued eyes focused on swirls of early snow falling lightly through the twilight outside the inspector’s office window.

  The woman’s frayed presentation told the inspector everything. And nothing.

  Everything, vis-à-vis truth and probably complicity.

  Nothing, in the legal sense of solid evidence.

  Had the inspector mentioned the word murder? No. She had to tread gently, finesse an admission, at very least a useful fact. There were always these special citizens who believe the so-called powers that be — tax man seeking unpaid accounts, doctor with bad news, the law with its immutable purpose — would go away if it were simply made very plain they were unwelcome. Clearly, Christine Charigot wanted no part of the police. She came across as if the police did not exist. The inspector was tempted to call J-P Blismes and invite him up to observe the interview. These people could be fascinating examples of psycho-social disconnect. At first. Then they quickly grew vexingly tedious and a challenge to a cop’s patient good graces with their stubborn stonewalling. But if a cop pushed too hard, it could easily fall apart.

  Which meant Aliette Nouvelle heard all about Robert Charigot’s difficult childhood — borderline autistic, a condition exacerbated by the departure of his father when he was ten, a highly sensitive and vulnerable child who had grown up (so to speak) in his own world. Few friends, always transitory. Not comfortable in classrooms, never a school prof attuned enough to Robert’s needs. Too delicate for team games. Girls were attracted, but none were right. ‘…I know I set a hard example, but I keep hoping one will measure up.’ Robert’s maman offered a weary, knowing smile, the kind often passed between women. It all came down to a boy and his mother against the world.

  ‘But you did not press charges the other night?’

  ‘I only wanted him off my property. Whoever he was, those are horrible men. I will do whatever it takes to protect my child,’ she stated yet again, adding, ‘You know, I’ve spent years listening to the doctors at work paint the most ghastly pictures. Always in the wake of disasters.’ A repeat of that distant, hopeless stare. ‘It’s a war, and I have to protect my child.’

  The war had left this fiftyish woman wan and raw. Her skin bore no trace of sun or, indeed, air. Taut and veined like a ninety-year-old’s. Colourless. The midnight angel on the rock had clearly got his ethereal sheen from her. Aliette wondered if the angel’s mouth was set as hard and fast. She doubted it — this woman was a veteran of grim pressure, tragic moments. She had come straight from her shift, obviously without bothering with makeup or even a quick brush through her grey-blonde hair. She could have done with a shower too.

  ‘The officer who called at your home got no reply.’

  ‘I prefer if he doesn’t answer when he’s alone.’

  ‘Your son is not ten years old, Madame. I have it on good information that Robert spends a good deal of his time in some very challenging situations.’

  ‘I have to protect my child, Inspector. This is my duty.’

  ‘He visits Basel often, your Robert?’

  ‘He has no idea how to protect himself. They will hurt him.’

  ‘With respect, this is not the picture of Robert that I have gathered.’

  ‘You are not his mother. Those men are not his friends.’

  ‘And we are investigating a brutal crime… Tell you what, why don’t we call Robert and ask him to join us?’ She hated tormenting an already tormented mother. Having a much-desired beauty for a son could not be easy. It was plain the woman was close to a precarious place, psychologically speaking. But Christine Charigot was getting on her nerves.

  ‘I must get back. On double-shift. Hardest time of my schedule.’

  Complete denial. So strange in an otherwise functional human being.

  ‘We will provide transportation. It won’t take long.’ Aliette picked up the phone. ‘Can you help me here?’ In the awkward silence the inspector saw another lonely woman grasping for reasons as to why the world was so mean. Christine Charigot finally muttered a number. The inspector punched it in and listened as it rang thirty times before cutting the line.

  ‘He could be out. I cannot account for his every move.’

  Bon. They had broached adult territory at last, a small step closer to reality. ‘Does he work?’

  ‘Not lately.’

  ‘Not at the beach?’

  ‘It is not a joke!’ She stood and took her coat.

  ‘Not at all, Madame. And I don’t see the good of your per
sisting to dodge the issue. I can compel Robert — and yourself. You know that. And I assure you, it is quite inevitable.’

  Madame only murmured, ‘And I will defend him.’

  ‘Just have him contact me. If all is as you say it is, your Robert has nothing to fear.’

  The notion of fear brought a glaze of tearing to Christine Charigot’s downcast gaze. She buttoned her coat as carefully as she probably did Robert’s. ‘I’m working till tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Have you got a babysitter lined up?’

  Sarcasm is a sign of failure, but Christine Charigot had already walked out. And Aliette Nouvelle was not the kind to give chase, throw her against a wall and shake her. Especially not with Claude and the rest of the brigade around to see. But that day she was tempted.

  36

  Pieces in the River

  Two days. No call from Robert Charigot. Friday, Inspector Nouvelle beckoned Inspector Bernadette Milhau, gave her a new interpellation order and the address in circle René-Descartes. ‘Be nice,’ she cautioned. ‘Be careful with the mother if she’s there — but bring him. Please.’

  An hour later she took Bernadette’s call: ‘There’s no answer.’

  ‘Any sign of life inside?’

  ‘None I can see. Every window has the blinds closed tight. Both floors. Back door, kitchen. Basement’s dark as a cave. Gate, garage, both locked. Like they’ve left town.’

  ‘Merde.’ And no just cause to batter down the door. ‘If he’s in there, we can’t make him open. Go to the clinic at Saint-Louis and serve her. And bring her. This is getting absurd.’

  Twenty minutes later Bernadette called from Saint-Louis, ‘She is not expected on duty till Sunday evening.’

  ‘Quel bordel!…Go back to the house. I’m coming down.’