While the Music Lasts

by John Brooke

  ‘People pass all the time. They could’ve just tossed the poison out and kept going. Vet said it was laced into a piece of raw steak.’

  ‘Was he disturbing people? Barking in the middle of the night? Stealing eggs from a coop at the hamlet?’

  ‘No one mentioned anything.’

  ‘Would they?’

  ‘Probably not. But he was a good dog. Very quiet… No, it was a message to me.’

  Aliette was unable to meet his eyes. ‘Not sure how to put this… Is there anyone visiting who shouldn’t be?’

  ‘No farmer’s daughters, if that’s what you mean — they’re the ones who hate me most of all.’

  ‘Then who?’

  ‘There’ve been people in and out since I got back. Fixing things, making my house work properly again, the pool guy, the studio, an oenologue advising me on things. I need them to help me get my life restarted… Like I need you. The police?’

  But there was nothing to see here except the sad thought of a young dog in agony as it died.

  More silence as they walked back up the drive. She finally said, ‘You kept horses. Before?’

  ‘Donkeys. The plan was to raise donkeys.’

  ‘I like donkeys.’

  But like the vines, Luc had let them go. ‘You like beer?’

  ‘Sure. But it’s not a good idea… I’m working.’ She smiled. To remind him of the fact.

  He didn’t push it. She promised she would look for the person who had poisoned his dog.

  Leaving, Aliette passed a white sedan in a cloud of dust. There was a woman at the wheel, but reflections on the windscreen left her in shadowy outline. Aliette watched in her rearview as the car turned up his drive. Did Luc Malarmé really need her protection?

  She felt the opposite might be true. But they’d killed his dog.

  • 3 •

  PARIS GREEN AND PETTY PEOPLE

  The veterinarian at Cessenon confirmed lead-based arsenic. ‘Probably Paris Green.’

  ‘Paris Green?’ It sounded like a party drug.

  ‘A house paint company formulated it, sold it in big green paint cans. Years ago.’ He found a picture on the Internet. ‘People used it on their fruit. Then it was banned, but people ignored it. It kept the bugs away, no one had died, everyone knew to wash their figs. I’d imagine there are still stores of it in garages and sheds…’ The vet advised her to speak to people who’d been living in the community for a while. ‘I mean for generations. Old families.’

  ‘Merci.’

  She called Sergeant Nicolas Legault, head of the Saint-Brin gendarmerie, to request he make a discreet investigation. Since arriving, Aliette had communicated well with Nic Legault, which was a small blessing — some cops in uniform have trouble connecting with investigators in blue jeans. Though no longer attached to the military, the uniforms still had different bosses, different training, a different mentality. Nic was low-key. He had no big need to defend his turf, much less his way of thinking. He lived in the community. He appreciated that she did too.

  Nic laughed a bit ruefully when she dropped the famous name, immediately recognizing a community matter. ‘Did he make an official complaint?’

  ‘No. He wants to keep it quiet. Just a young pup. He called it Lennon. Like John Lennon.’

  ‘That’s a good one.’

  ‘Vet says it was lead arsenic. Paris Green.’

  ‘My grandfather used it.’

  ‘What kind of sick person kills an innocent dog? So mean. And redundant! — like rubbing salt. He’s destroyed. Why bother?’

  ‘It’s a small town, Inspector. These things are magnified.’

  ‘It kept him company in the vines. That’s his preoccupation now, his three parcels. They were fallow while he was inside. Says he wants to bring it back, join the co-op.’

  ‘It has to be someone with a grudge. Happens all the time. Does he have any names?’

  ‘He says everyone.’

  ‘Paranoid? All those drugs?’

  ‘No. I can usually see that. He’s as healthy as you. He has a theory.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘He says people don’t understand what’s happening to them, so they take it out on him.’

  ‘Just like Jesus… Where I come from, that’s paranoid.’

  Nic Legault came from Saint-Brin.

  …After a silence, he offered, ‘A lot of people hate him. Because of Miri.’

  ‘He claims it’s only about him. His music.’

  ‘You should hear my wife. She believes he’s pure evil.’

  She did not want to get into concepts of evil with Nic Legault. She returned to the matter at hand. ‘Poisoned dogs are not within my mandate.’ Suggesting, ‘Old families?’ in a very neutral tone, she said, ‘Please ask around.’

  He promised he would, but she doubted Nic would throw his heart into it.

  Evil? She hoped Nic’s wife was not the killer.

  Mathilde Lahi buzzed. ‘Jérome Giffard to see you.’

  ‘OK…who is Jérome Giffard?’ It sounded like she ought to know.

  ‘Primary school principal?’

  ‘Ah…Well, send him along.’

  A man appeared at her door moments later. He was tall, bending as he hovered in the doorway, and rake thin, the brown corduroy jacket and grey flannel slacks both a size too large for an underfed frame. Stringy hair, a chipped front tooth. And distracted, eyes dancing in all directions, haunted, searching for who knew what. She rose, offering her hand. ‘I don’t believe we’ve met. How can I help you?’

  ‘This was my father’s office.’ The sonorous voice fit the template, calling out kids running in the hall. The way it boomed, she feared he’d come to reclaim a chair that had been in the family.

  ‘Was your father with the police?’

  ‘Deeds and records. He was chief actuary.’

  ‘And you are the school principal…’ offering him a seat.

  Jérome Giffard remained standing, half in, half out of the room, peering in all directions.

  ‘So, how can I help?’

  ‘It’s that Luc Malarmé.’

  That Luc Malarmé? Standing there, Jérome Giffard seemed fearful, as if expecting someone — his papa? — to come up from behind and slap the back of his head. But perhaps he had some information. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s singing in the street. Again…he was out there today at noon.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ It was the wrong question. Cautiously, she added, ‘Where?’

  ‘In the lane, at the far gate to the school yard. Big crowd. I told him to leave. He wouldn’t move.’ His fitful eyes finally landed on her waiting gaze. ‘I won’t have it.’

  Aliette had already decided she did not like Jérome Giffard. She imagined how the children entrusted to his care must feel. Did he smack their hands with a ruler? She replied in defence of Luc — and the children, she was sure, ‘But he has the right to sing in public. The lane is a public walkway, I believe.’ It was another wrong response. He raised his chin, eyes narrowing, like she was challenging him to a fight. Which she was. She followed with a question. ‘Does it upset them? The children?’

  ‘Madame Chief Inspector, that is not the point.’

  ‘I’m not sure how I can help you, monsieur. I’m not even sure this is your problem, or —’

  ‘I spoke to Nicolas Legault. Useless. And his wife is one of my hardest-working parents.’

  ‘You say he’s not on school property?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter where he is, this is not appropriate behaviour. My parents are not happy. They want me to do something. My role in this community is —’

  ‘Monsieur Giffard.’ Not loud, but clear. It succeeded in cutting off the speech which was too obviously about to flow. ‘I appreciate your role. But there is no law against singing in the stree
t, so long as it’s not the middle of the night under someone’s bedroom window. I’d advise you to keep the children in the schoolyard till their parents come to collect them. If they feel that is what they need to do.’ Before he could blurt his opposition to that, she asked, ‘What do they say, exactly? Your parents.’

  ‘They say he’s asking for trouble. They do not want this man singing to their children.’

  ‘And the children — what do they say?’

  Jérome Giffard shook his head: irrelevant. He turned to leave. ‘Then I’ll talk to the mayor.’

  ‘His office is directly below this one. Maybe you knew that?’

  He sighed. They were now enemies and they both knew it.

  She asked, conciliatory, ‘Can I see him? I mean, when?’

  ‘At noon. He’s there at noon. Tell him to stop!’

  It sounded like an order. The next day the chief inspector went out at noon and walked past the school, but missed seeing Luc Malarmé singing to the kids.

  The rest of the week she was in town for meetings.

  In the end, Aliette did not pursue the killer of Luc Malarmé’s dog. It was not that she was above it. On the contrary. For a strange moment she’d been overwhelmed by it, though discombobulated was perhaps a better word. If she pursued the matter of the dog, she would be obliged to move closer to the man. Instinct warned it was not a good place for her to be.

  In truth, she was relieved to offload Luc Malarmé’s complaint.

  As a different instinct had correctly anticipated, there was no word from Sergeant Nic Legault.

  As for moving to stop Luc Malarmé from singing in the street for schoolchildren — no, she would not. Jérome Giffard was being petty and absurd. Aliette Nouvelle would always strive to be a gracious public servant. But she would always resist that kind of person. It was her duty as a human, if not a cop.

  And she was busy.

  • 4 •

  A BATTERED BUSKER

  Two weeks passed. They wore T-shirts as they shopped the Sunday market on Easter weekend. It was a big day: Sergio’s mother was driving over from Pezenas, her first visit to Aliette’s home after nearly three years. It had to be perfect. Aliette had spent Saturday hoping for sun and lunch on the terrace, scrubbing the deck chairs and the plastic table, making sure the parasol was free of bugs and cobwebs, then cleaning every inch inside in case it was too cold. Sergio, ever strategic, had arrived in time for supper. Just as well — he would have been underfoot and she would have screamed. Saturday night they’d argued out the menu. To avoid too much back and forth to the kitchen during the apéro, they settled on paella from the vendor beside the olive stall — always a dependably tasty blend of chicken, chorizo and seafood, not too salty; and no matter if his Spanish saffron was really from Morocco or Pakistan, all you had to do was warm it. Tomato and basil salad on the side. A mild goat cheese. Raspberry vacherin for dessert. A bottle of local Viognier with the paella, then a local red. A bowl of local cherries with coffee or tea after a walk. They were on their way back to the car, lugging bags. Turning into rue de la Fontaine, they came upon a group gathered around a figure lying on the pavement at the foot of the public stairs.

  One automatically assumes an older person in distress, or a child caught up in misadventure.

  Drawing near, Aliette registered a guitar by the passage wall, its neck severed from its body, the body smashed, the strings a tangled mess. She remembered that guitar — the deep red stain, the inlaid gold work. She remembered touching it to break a spell, to divert Luc Malarmé from touching her. Now here he was, face down on the pavement and much the worse for wear, barely conscious, an ugly gash on the back of his head. His shirttails had been yanked loose, revealing ugly welts from his ribs to his buttocks, already turning black and blue. Whether from hard kicks from sturdy boots or blows from a hefty club, the beating had been severe.

  The woman on her knees beside him seemed afraid to touch him. The inspector knelt and rolled him gently. He groaned with pain. Now the woman cradled him awkwardly. Her French was foreign, but easily understood. Early tourists, from Ireland. They had turned down the stairs and there he was. Aliette had no ID to show, but the woman did not challenge her questions. If by chance she knew the name Luc Malarmé, she did not recognize the man in pain in her arms.

  ‘Just like that? No one else around?’

  ‘There were two children watching. Over there.’ Nodding at the laneway at the other end of the passage which led to the school and public swimming pool. ‘I called to them. They ran off.’

  ‘Children?’

  ‘Yes. Little. Two girls… not ten years old, I shouldn’t think.’

  On a Sunday, parked cars lined the high street, and crowds of people were passing on foot to and from the market. Someone had picked their moment precisely. Or more than one? As Aliette’s trained eyes began taking in more details, an image linked to the school principal’s complaining came into focus: Luc Malarmé busking in the laneway. There was a tattered beret on the pavement, two coins lying inside it. The idea was at once unreal and charming.

  In the exchange of information, the Irish woman was made to understand that Aliette was a police officer of some kind, and gently ceded care of the victim to her.

  Like passing a baby, Luc came into her arms.

  Cradling his battered head, she asked, ‘Can you hear me?’ An eye flickered. ‘Did you see him?’ A barely perceptible motion signalled no. ‘Was it more than one?’ Luc’s head was heavy. She tried to make him more comfortable. He flinched, groaned. ‘Sorry…’ Laying his head on the ground, she held his hand. Sergio opened his cellphone and summoned help. The gendarmerie was fifty metres up the street and a mugging was their kind of crime, but Aliette’s office was the only number Sergio had at hand.

  Five minutes later, Junior Inspector Isabelle Escande, on Sunday duty, appeared, bearing a first-aid box and towels. Luc did not want to let go of Aliette’s hand. She whispered, ‘This is Inspector Escande. She’ll take care of you.’ Repeating recent history, the chief inspector was relieved to hand the man and control of the situation over to someone else.

  But no history is the same. Stepping back, giving Isabelle room, Aliette was momentarily mesmerized as the junior cop bent close, cupped his head and stroked the scruff of his curly neck as if he were a cat. Luc Malarmé felt it, an eye flickered. He sensed a friend and moved his hand, tried to touch her face. This slight movement was too painful and he gave up, closed his eyes. But he was saying something to Isabelle. Aliette leaned in to hear, sensing she ought to know. In replying, Junior Inspector Escande moved closer to his face, a skein of thick blonde hair falling like a bedroom drape, concealing the moment from her boss.

  A siren sounded. Two gendarmes came clattering down the stairs. A crowd was forming. The arrival of the ambulance in the lane brought more. Aliette felt a hand on her arm. Sergio advised, ‘If she’s not lost, Mama will be arriving any minute. We’d better get back.’

  ‘I should stay.’

  ‘This seems to be well in hand…’ nudging her in the direction of the stairs.

  Indeed, it was no huge thing, a situation requiring rudimentary competence, no reason why Junior Inspector Escande and two gendarmes could not perform the necessary steps to get the victim into care and begin the investigation. ‘Merci, Isabelle. I’m at home if you need me.’

  They dined on the terrace of her generic two-bedroom stone house seven minutes from Saint-Brin. When they told Madame Regarri about the mugging, she was politely fascinated. But Aliette, nervous about her performance and rattled by the incident, had not kept track of her wine. When Madame Regarri cast a vote for Miri over Luc, admitting she was ‘too old for that music,’ ironically opining, ‘she was easier to love than him,’ the host started in on crime and punishment, forgiveness, Christian values, trite notions of evil and the gendarme’s wife, ‘this idiot school principal, all th
ose bitter women in the market…Nine years! What more do they want? A town full of self-righteous nuls!’

  It took a subtle pat on the hand from Sergio to bring her up short.

  Embarrassed, and worse — mortified by the sight of his poor mother sitting there trapped in front of her empty glass, Aliette stammered, ‘I mean, I don’t hate them. They just…’

  ‘Get on your nerves.’

  ‘I’m sorry for boring you.’ And for ranting.

  ‘Not at all, my dear. It sounds like a film.’ Madame Regarri smiled at the thought, declaring Miri would be Aliette — who instantly recognized the mischieveous gleam her handsome son had inherited.

  Sergio poured more wine, describing how Aliette had watched her junior inspector take charge of the situation ‘like an anxious mother hen.’ Mère-poule. A role Miri had often played, a presence she had seamlessly projected. Madame Regarri raised her glass, enjoyed a laugh with her son.

  Aliette laughed too. She knew Sergio’s mother was not mean, that the notion of Miri Monette playing the intrepid Chief Inspector Nouvelle was a compliment, even an expression of affection.

  So lunch with Madame Regarri was a success. But Luc Malarmé was not imagining things: There were indeed people who did not want him in their town. The vicious attack proved it.

  • 5 •

  LES DEUX FILLES

  Mère poule? Sergio was not wrong.

  They were five now: Chief Inspector Aliette Nouvelle. Inspectors Magui Barthès and Henri Dardé. Junior Inspectors Bénédicte Barnay and Isabelle Escande.

  A year ago, the elimination and subsequent divvying up of the Faugères jurisdiction adjacent to Aliette’s had resulted in the assignment of two additional investigators to her team. Bénédicte and Isabelle had reported the same day, both so young, both so new to a now forty-something cop. The two girls, les deux filles, as staff secretary Mathilde Lahi immediately dubbed them, brought fresh thinking and enviable skills to the mix at the Saint-Brin detachment. To be sure, they had started as juniors must — with the grunt work, helping where needed on cases, doing two weekend office duties for the others’ one, driving to the far corners of the territory to take, then prepare preliminary information from victims and witnesses, conducting interviews in holding cells if needed but rarely seeing the inside of a magistrate’s office at the Palais de Justice, and never testifying at the Cour d’assises. A year later the boss had no qualms about sending either of them out alone to open and conduct an investigation.