One Green Bottle

by Curtis Bausse

  ***

  Antoine came round early in the evening, bearing a heavy wicker basket. ‘I’m so sorry. It was yesterday, I know, but I got tied up, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting anything! How did you even know?’

  ‘I don’t really remember, to be honest. One just discovers these things.’

  He put the basket on the table. Magali lifted out a home-grown pumpkin wrapped in newspaper. ‘It’s huge! It’ll keep me in soup the whole winter.’

  ‘One of my better efforts,’ said Antoine, handing her a second parcel. ‘You can change this if you don’t like it. I didn’t really know what to get.’

  ‘No, it’s fine,’ said Magali, leafing through the book about Internet art. ‘It looks interesting.’

  ‘There were loads more about Picasso, Cézanne and so on. But you know all about them already, I thought, so I went for something different.’

  ‘Quite. No, this is exactly right. Lots of new ideas in here. Thank you.’ She kissed him on the cheek.

  ‘How was your birthday dinner?’ he asked.

  ‘Fine. Just with Luc and Sophie.’ She clasped her hands in glee. ‘They’re expecting a baby!’

  ‘Wonderful. When’s it due?’

  ‘June.’

  He nodded and smiled. ‘That’ll be nice,’ he said, and left it at that. Something, she saw, was bothering him.

  ‘You’ll stay for supper?’ she asked.

  ‘No, I ought to be getting back.’

  ‘A drink, then. Actually, I’ve got a favour to ask. I’ve written a report for my course. I need someone to read it. It’s a bit long so if you’d rather not, I quite understand.’

  ‘No, I’d be glad to,’ he said. He seemed relieved to be given something to do.

  ‘I’ve been at it the past two days, chopping and changing.’ She set the printer in motion. ‘It’s the fourth draft at least – I can’t tell any more if it’s utter rubbish or…’ She retrieved the pages and arranged them neatly. It looked more definite printed out, harder to contest. But she knew where holes could be picked if you were that way inclined. Which Verney, an academic, no doubt was. ‘You’re not just the first, you’re the one I most trust to be objective. Before I take this any further, I need an honest opinion.’

  ‘Can I add comments?’

  ‘Of course.’ She waited till he was settled, the report in his lap and a glass of whisky beside him, then went into the kitchen, listening out for tell-tale gasps or puffs, if not the occasional guffaw. But apart from clearing his throat a couple of times – scepticism there, no question – Antoine made no sound.

  ‘So,’ she heard him say eventually. ‘A serial killer.’

  She went back to the sitting room. ‘A hypothesis.’

  ‘You’re sending this to your tutor? Not the police?’

  ‘I don’t think they’d take it seriously.’

  ‘But your tutor will?’

  ‘I don’t know. He might think it’s a bad joke. Throw me off the course.’

  ‘Well…’ Antoine scratched his head. ‘I’m not familiar with reports of this sort but I’d say you’ve struck the right tone. Factual, impersonal. It’s fairly clear, on the whole. I’ve underlined a couple of woolly bits. And a number of typos.’

  ‘And… the content?’ She sat on the edge of an armchair.

  ‘Perhaps you could add a table,’ he said, ‘to summarise it all. You point out the similarities but you might be accused of skimming over the differences. I think in something as serious as this, it has to be totally balanced.’

  ‘Right. I’ll do that.’ She nodded energetically. ‘But I want to know if you think it makes sense at all. Suppose you’re my tutor, what’s your reaction?’

  His expression was puzzled. ‘What makes you think it’s worth asking me about that?’

  ‘You’re more grounded than I am. Sometimes I think I’m raving.’

  ‘Grounded?’ His laugh was almost a grimace of disgust. ‘Look, Magali, I’m hardly qualified –’

  ‘Is it plausible or not? That’s all I’m asking.’

  He sighed. Several seconds passed before he said, ‘Too much coincidence, you say. Three different murder scenes, linked by a common thread – the presence at each of an object which exists in duplicate. A book about Napoleon in Wallenheim, a purse in Rondas and a music score by Eric Satie in Mannezon.’

  ‘And in each case, one of the objects was damaged. Coffee stains over the book, the Satie score with an ink spill on it and the purse – wait a minute.’ She fetched the pictures she’d taken in the Terrals’ bedroom. She hadn’t focused on the purse in particular but it was visible on the bed with the rest of the contents that had been tipped out of the drawers. ‘I’ve blown this one up so it’s a bit blurred, but see? The corner’s snipped off. That’s not wear and tear and it hasn’t been caught on a nail or something. It’s deliberate. You’d need a good pair of scissors to do that.’

  ‘And there was another purse like this next to the bodies.’

  ‘On the dining-room table. Just as the book and the music score were near the bodies too.’ She passed him the photos, then sat with her elbows on her knees, scrutinising his expression. ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘Do you know anything more about this Coussikou?’

  ‘Not yet. I Googled the name and it’s the pseudonym of a young woman in Montreal, which isn’t much help. And there wasn’t any sign of it on eBay so I called Elsa Soulier. She thinks she might have got it wrong. She’s going to call back.’

  ‘Because that’s what you’ve got to prove, isn’t it? That the others got their damaged objects from the same source as Roncet.’

  ‘Right. Which means finding out who Coussikou is. At first I thought he specialised in books but the purse throws it open much wider. It looks a bit antique to me, I don’t know, maybe Balland can check on it. And I’ve asked Roudy to see if Roncet received any parcels in the days leading up to his death. Also to get hold of his emails, if the police still have them, that is.’

  ‘And what does he say about your… hypothesis?’

  ‘I didn’t tell him. I thought it was premature.’

  ‘And it’s not premature for your tutor?’

  ‘Maybe, I don’t know. He’s not a journalist. It was him I had in mind when I was writing it, not Roudy.’ She made a gesture of defeat. ‘Perhaps it’s not for anyone. I just felt better once I’d written it.’

  ‘Yes, I can see it’s not something you’d want to keep to yourself. Though heaven knows what his reaction will be if you do send it.’

  ‘It would be more logical to tell the police but I don’t think Darlier would give it a second look and they certainly wouldn’t up in Wallenheim. Balland, maybe, but I hardly know him. I don’t know how he’d take it.’

  ‘I think, as it stands, he’d say that many stranger coincidences happen all the time. He’s looking for a burglar, remember. It doesn’t fit with the other two at all.’

  ‘It was disguised to look like a burglary. How can you explain that Lucie Terral went to the garage to get the fish pie and the carrots but for some reason she didn’t –’

  ‘Magali.’ He sounded almost sick.

  ‘Is something wrong? You look…’

  ‘I’m fine.’ He passed his hand over his face and smiled at her weakly. ‘I said I was busy yesterday. Actually, I was having a long discussion with Patricia.’

  She tried to recall. His daughter lived in Lyons and had two children of her own. But her name was Geraldine, wasn’t it?

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t…’

  ‘My mistress,’ he said, and gulped the last of his whisky.

  She stared at him. She emitted a brief, nervous laugh as she made a vague gesture of surprise. ‘Oh. I didn’t…’

  ‘No, of course you didn’t. No one did.’

  ‘And how long…?’

  ‘Eight years.’

  ‘Oh… So it started before…’

  ‘That’s why I say mistress. If it
was after Anne died, there wouldn’t be any problem. Or at least not quite the same.’

  The tone of his voice alerted her to something. ‘And the problem now is…?’

  ‘Patricia wants to move in with me, which I fully understand and respect.’ He gazed at Magali helplessly. ‘The problem is I’d rather be with you.’

  Chapter 15

  ‘So now you have a choice,’ said Sophie when she came round for lunch a few days later. ‘Antoine or Vincent. A or V. Opposite ends of the alphabet.’

  Magali laughed. ‘Chalk and cheese too. Well, before it was an X, so maybe I should go for the A.’

  ‘I’m sure you could do worse. I don’t know your gendarme, of course, but Antoine strikes me as… well, just kind, I suppose.’

  Magali nodded thoughtfully. Kindness. If only she’d looked for kindness before, she’d never have married Dickhead. But instead she was swept off her feet by his confidence and success.

  She switched her thoughts back to Antoine. ‘Yes, he’s always been kind to me. But I must admit it threw me when he confessed. I’d always thought he was so upright, so moral. Uptight, in fact. And yet… there you go. Just like Xavier.’

  Sophie considered this for a moment, a piece of quiche poised on her fork mid-air. ‘But with scruples,’ she said finally, popping the quiche in her mouth.

  ‘You mean a cheat with scruples is better than one without?’ Magali sighed. ‘His wife never found out, from what I gather. Or if she did, she never let on. But I’m sure if she knew, she wouldn’t have thought much of his scruples. Apparently he managed to overcome them quite easily.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ Sophie conceded, before adding with a smile, ‘It’s just that with Luc… well, I have to confess that we’ve talked a few times about you and Antoine and we both agree it seems like a very good match. And now he’s actually come out and said it.’ She spread her hands. ‘He’s in love with you!’

  ‘You know, I think if he’d said it a couple of months ago, I’d have been more enthusiastic.’

  ‘So what’s happened since? Darlier?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Magali gathered the plates and took them to the sink. ‘Yes, I suppose he intrigues me. I can’t quite figure him out. But I’m sure he’s no more… dependable than Antoine. Probably a lot less. You know what?’ She turned to face Sophie as she wiped her hands. ‘There’s really no reason why I should bother with either of them. I can just as well be on my own.’

  She saw that Sophie struggled with that: it wasn’t something a young, pregnant wife could readily envisage. In the end she just shrugged. ‘Yes, of course.’ Then she came and placed a hand on Magali’s and said, ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t want… It’s entirely your choice.’

  Magali smiled. ‘Don’t worry. You know I like talking with you.’ Then she took Sophie in her arms and held her close and said, ‘You know what really makes me happy? What’s more important than anything? Having you and Luc together, close by.’

  ***

  She was back to running and a 7 p.m. wine rule, but still in a dither about the report. After her talk with Antoine she’d pared it down. The Terral crime scene was dealt with in detail, as was the Enzo Perle investigation, but her own opinions were restricted to a brief section at the end, which she stressed was highly speculative. The unease surrounding Benamrouche’s conviction was given a couple of pages.

  When she read it again, she debated whether to remove her own interpretation altogether. It didn’t fit with the rest: a frilly hat of fantasy atop solid overalls of fact. In which case there wasn’t much point in mentioning Roncet either. She could hardly describe her observations of a place she’d never set foot in.

  But only the deadline itself could put an end to her hesitation and that was still a few days away. In the meantime she received a phone call from Roudy that stoked the dither still further.

  He’d checked with the Post Office and the special delivery services. Albert Roncet had received no registered parcel in the fortnight before he died. ‘I spoke to the postman who was doing that round at the time. He said there weren’t any ordinary parcels either.’

  ‘Just as I thought,’ said Magali. ‘It fits.’

  ‘With what?’ His voice became louder. ‘What’s this all about?’

  Magali hesitated. ‘All right. You’re not to go public with this, though. It might be entirely wrong.’

  ‘If you want me to help, I’ve got to know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Five months before he died, Roncet ordered a book online. When it arrived, it had coffee stains all over it. He complained. A copy of the same book was found near his body. It was unopened.’

  There was a pause as Roudy took it in. ‘What’s so strange about that?’ he said.

  ‘In itself, nothing. But the same thing happened in the two other cases I’ve been looking at.’

  Another pause as he worked out the implication. ‘You think it’s the same person?’

  ‘Roncet’s book wasn’t in an envelope or a box, so if it came through the post, he must have taken it out to see what it was. But then he left the plastic covering on, he didn’t actually open the book itself. What does that mean? He’d complained strongly about the first copy but he didn’t bother looking at the second? No, it means the second copy was delivered by hand on the night he died. By the person who killed him.’

  Roudy emitted a low whistle. ‘That would explain why Roncet let him in. Why there wasn’t a fight.’

  ‘It’s pure speculation for the moment. It doesn’t prove anything on its own.’

  ‘No. And they’ve got their culprit already. It would take a lot more than this for them to change their minds.’ He seemed to realise then how slight it really was. ‘I mean, the postman was adamant there’d been no parcel but no one’s memory’s infallible. Or Roncet could have had it for weeks and forgotten where he’d put it.’

  ‘Which is why I need to see Roncet’s emails, too.’

  ‘I’ll get on to that.’

  From the tone of his voice, she could tell she had an ally. Given his previous caution, it was no mean achievement in itself. ‘We’ll stay in touch,’ she said. ‘Thanks for calling.’

  ***

  She was adding Roudy’s titbit of information to her report when the phone rang again. It wasn’t eBay, said Elsa, but top-vente-achat. Forty-two euros, he’d paid, it was written in his chequebook, to a certain Philippe Brun. What’s more, she added, he’d gone back later and written ‘not cashed’ on the stub. That was strange, wasn’t it? Had Brun, she wondered, realised his mistake and decided it wouldn’t be fair to cash the cheque? But in that case, why hadn’t he replied to Albert’s emails?

  Yes, said Magali, very strange indeed. She thanked Elsa profusely and immediately started searching top-vente-achat. It didn’t take her long to see why Coussikou preferred it to eBay. Anonymity was difficult on eBay: sellers used pseudonyms but they had to provide enough information to make them identifiable. But you could post your items on top-vente-achat without revealing to anyone who you were. Magali found Coussikou there, but nothing suspicious. He had made three sales, all of which had been evaluated positively. There was a phone number but when she called, an automatic voice said it didn’t exist. There was no sign of any exchange with Roncet.

  Without any conviction, she Googled the name Philippe Brun. He was best known, she discovered, as a lawyer specialising in workers’ rights, but among the namesakes there was also an expert on lentils, a jazz trumpeter, a horse rider and – she had to smile – a police officer.

  ***

  The next day she invited Antoine for dinner. They hadn’t spoken since he had made what was tantamount to a declaration of love and she couldn’t leave him hanging on indefinitely. They spoke for a while about neutral topics – books, climate change, Antoine’s parents. His father was going blind, he said, but he was fortunate to have his sister, Carole, living close to them in Grenoble. Then after a lull in the conversation, Antoine said, ‘I’m sorry about
the other night. I shouldn’t have said what I did.’

  ‘Why on earth not? It’s better to be open.’ She looked at him tenderly. ‘It’s me who should be sorry. I’ve been silent all week.’

  ‘I’ve put you in an awkward spot. I had no right.’

  She placed her hand on his and moved closer to him, smiling. ‘You had every right, Antoine. You’ve been a dear friend to me ever since we met. And there have been times when I looked at you and wondered what was happening, when I’ve been on the brink of saying something myself. But there was something in your manner which prevented me. A little distance, as if… I thought if I did say something, you’d be horrified.’