by John Brooke
‘You have?’ Aliette nodded dumbly. Then mumbled, ‘Right.’ Isabelle disappeared before she could ask her to reveal her user name. The boss sat there, absorbing this revelation.
Chief Inspector Nouvelle realized she was not surprised that Junior Inspector Escande had already discovered the Miri thread. These younger cops seemed to know instinctively how to use cyberspace. They came and went, no qualms at all and without a stumble. So: good for Isabelle… Or was it? What else was Isabelle doing that her boss didn’t know about? And what exactly was her ‘position’?
Feeling like she was leading from the rear, Aliette logged back on. Within a minute, she was sure Isabelle had to be IssaE.
Wasn’t Issa some kind of goddess? The chief inspector went to Google to find out.
• 10 •
THE LINE WAS NOT SO FINE
Aliette composed a brief requesting a preliminary investigation.
Three days later, she received a call from the Palais de Justice.
Substitute Procureur Danielle Dilobello, whom Aliette had come to like, said, ‘Interesting, but this fine line is actually not so near the limits, I’m afraid. Let alone over it.’
Aliette knew her brief was being rejected.
But Maître Dilobello was scrupulously polite, even somewhat apologetic. ‘I’ve been looking at this Miri thread. It’s open in front me right now. Yes, many damning comments. But in and of themselves, that’s all they are, Inspector. That is not to say I don’t agree with the moral principle you bring to play here. Any mindful citizen would share your concern. All these horrid people sexting and sharing pictures of their naked friends. But —’
‘These women are not mindful citizens, Maître. I live there. I sense it’s getting out of hand.’
‘But a hate crime? We usually keep those for our skinheads and jihadis.’
Aliette was just as polite in protesting. ‘Hate is hate. Speech directed at an individual putting them in danger is a crime. Speech apologizing for or in support of individuals causing harm is too.’ Even when uttered from behind the mask of a user name within the privacy of a virtual room you needed a Saint-Brin library card to access.
The sub-proc agreed wholeheartedly. The both knew the law.
The chief inspector acknowledged, ‘Of course we’d have to prove a link from the comments to the act.’ That was why she needed a mandate.
‘Which is the sticking point here, Inspector: Linking a mugging with a posting. Irrefutably?’
‘A series of postings,’ she respectfully noted.
‘We still have to know the context of the attack. To know that, we need evidence beyond the observations of two children.’
Aliette’s silence acknowledged a point beyond debating. She had two seven-year-olds who’d seen one attacker to Luc Malarmé’s imagined two. But — back to the Miri fans: ‘I’ve stood beside them, Maître, heard them talking. They hate him. Yes, they’re allowed to. But they’ve no right to foment a lynch-mob mentality.’
Danielle Dilobello acknowledged, ironically, and with regret. ‘They are indeed allowed to talk, Inspector. And post messages. Disorganized, bloody-minded, off-the-cuff thinking is not against the law. These posts are just Miri fans letting off steam.’
‘It’s a small town. One of our posters has to know our perpetrator, I’m convinced.’
Maître Dilobello kept it abstract. ‘Facebook is filled with this sort of thing. My son and his friends were at it for days last autumn. On Luc’s side. My son loves that African band.’
‘This is not Facebook. This is just them. Us? Our lovely townspeople. I believe he needs to be protected by the law.’
Dilobello asked, ‘What’s he like?’ Adding, ‘I have all his records.’
‘Bashed up.’ Aliette would not mention his poisoned dog.
Trying not to be dismissive, the Proc’s rep mused, ‘Perhaps if someone were to denounce the mugger… I find more people have been doing that lately. I mean, over and above your awful-neighbour tax cheats… Lots of good citizens calling in hate crimes and suspected terrorists these days. Not sure it’s such a healthy thing. But in this case, we might have something to build on.’
‘Can we call it an attack, Maître? Muggers steal things. His assailant took nothing.’
‘Either way, you won’t know the context of this violence till you interview said assailant.’ A beat to remind the cop who was boss here… ‘And you absolutely need to know.’
‘And he is not a terrorist. He sings songs.’
‘Just so,’ the sub-procureur acknowledged. She pronounced with polite finality, ‘Inspector, there is freedom to express. And privacy. Two staunchly defended walls in the way of your petition. And without a direct link to the assailant…’ Her tone softened, commiserating, ‘I will call this gendarme you mention and get him off his ass,’ promised Maître Diliobello.
‘Merci.’ But no point mentioning how Nic’s wife had left Nic’s hands effectively tied.
Aliette informed Junior Inspector Escande that there would be no mandate to pursue the attack on Luc Malarmé. It was a matter for the gendarmes. Isabelle was coolly sanguine. ‘He’ll be fine,’ she said, and returned to her computer, helping Magui and Bénédicte lock in the final pieces before they moved against the Roma house invaders. But the boss was disappointed. She had wanted to see how her projected junior self might have handled the investigation.
She continued monitoring the Miri thread, but no attacker was inadvertently named, much less denounced. There were only sporadic comments, none giving an inch by way of sympathy…
It seemed Luc Malarmé was doing his shopping at the Champion store in Cazouls now.
But Guerrière had seen him in the Spar outlet at Murviel.
Those who had made a sighting said the swelling had gone down, his hair was growing back, he wore shades as he went up and down the aisles filling his cart.
SainteThérèse: The creep. As if he thinks we don’t see him.
No one mentioned seeing him at the market. Maybe he had got the message.
Aliette drove past his place one evening, not sure if she was going to stop in. There was a white car parked in front. She kept going. Perhaps Luc had a friend after all.
• 11 •
POSTER WAR
A raid on the Roma encampment at Cazouls was perfectly executed. One family, ten arrests (one man who had threatened with a knife was down with a broken jaw, courtesy a speedy kick from the boot of Bénédicte Barnay); a photo in Midi-Libre, an item on the regional evening news, an editorial decrying an already marginal community’s abuse of French trust; a congratulatory call to lead Inspector Magui Barthès from the Divisional Commissaire.
Aliette took her team across the road to Hugo’s for a celebration. Then she and Magui began the long process of conducting interviews with the detainees, their advocates, the Procureur — a lot of paperwork and driving.
Isabelle Escande was assigned to Henri Dardé’s cocaine-distribution case. Henri had been visiting clubs and bistros across the territory, posing as a trucker stopping for the night, a worker come in for a glass after a day in the vines, a guy from the city. With his sun-browned face and friendly eyes, Henri got people talking. But he feared his act was wearing thin and the investigation could use a new pair of ears. Sphinx-like Isabelle was a natural magnet.
Bénédicte Barnay drove up into the hills, to an isolated hamlet called La Treille, to deal with another abusive husband and an apparently equally abusive wife. Bénédicte knew how to talk to these kinds of people. If they wanted to fight, Bénédicte could do that too.
It was a fresh May morning the week of Pentecost when the chief inspector arrived to find a flyer tacked to the community notice board beside the front door of the Saint-Brin Mairie.
Come one, come all!
You are invited to a Free Concert
in the square
at Prades.
Be my guest. Requests? No problem!
It will be my pleasure to play your favourite tunes.
Proceeds from the bar go to the mairie daycare
Pentecost Saturday. Show starts at sunset.
Luc.
The message was accompanied by a photoshopped image in silhouette of a man with hooves blowing on a pan pipe, his artfully elongated fingers shaping notes. Aliette was pleased to see it. Her heart raced briefly. Luc Malarmé was pushing back against the bad will, the negative energy.
A free concert to win hearts and minds? She would be there.
Two hours later, when she went out in search of lunch, the flyer announcing Luc Malarmé’s show had been removed. A ragged corner of the page remained tacked to the board, suggesting it had been ripped away. Crossing through the refurbished courtyard, heading for the bakery, she passed another public notice board by the door of the new Cultural Centre — and another tattered remnant of a flyer. She recognized the piper’s cloven hoof, all that remained of Luc’s message. Returning to the office with her lunch in a bag, Aliette passed the church, another notice board, another mutilated Luc Malarmé flyer. Before going up, she walked an extra block.
Same story on the board on the wall at the Maison des Vins.
Same again on the board in the foyer of the post office. Neither Annie the postmistress nor Marthe her assistant had noticed anyone ripping down notices on a busy morning. Just the curé, affixing his own page before collecting his mail. Aliette perused a schedule for catechism classes during the coming summer vacation. She hoped she was not headed for a run-in with the Church.
She met Mathilde Lahi, bearing a handful of noon mail, at the mairie door, contemplating the remains of Luc’s announcement on the notice board. ‘Everywhere I’ve looked,’ noted Aliette.
‘Did you see the Miri thread? They’ve really got it in for him now,’ advised Mathilde.
Back at her desk, the inspector unwrapped her sandwich, poured milk in her tea, and logged in.
SainteThérèse: If he dares to sing one note I will charge the stage!
ChèreAmante: Bon! I will bring my husband’s carabine. Not the season, but a pig’s a pig.
MarieSoleil: He needs an audience. We’ll make sure he doesn’t have one!
Leina: Loved it when she dropped that horrid scumbag Rassillon. Right between the eyes!
Who dropped Rassillon? And who was Rassillon? Aliette hustled down the hall.
Mathilde brushed crumbs from her lips and pondered it. ‘Rassillon?’ Didn’t ring a bell. She picked up the phone. ‘Salut. No, everything is fine. Quick question: Who is Rassillon?’ She sipped tea as she listened. ‘Yes, I remember. No, not her best …Merci.’ Cutting the call, Mathilde informed the boss that Rassillon was a character in a Miri Monette film — Miri portraying a depressive cop suffering from burnout. She had killed a horrible man called Rassillon with a perfect shot between the eyes.
‘Oh.’ Aliette vaguely recalled it. Or maybe not… ‘Thank you. Who did you call?’
‘My mother.’ Before Aliette could ask the logical next question, Mathilde added, ‘No, she is not on the Miri thread. Or any thread. She doesn’t have a computer. But she does have a télé.’
‘Of course.’ Aliette returned to her desk.
TruthTeller: He was a god. I loved what he did. Back then I don’t know what I’d have done if I came face to face with Luc but it would have been embarrassing. Now? He has the air of a little boy who has been bad and knows it. I feel like smacking his bottom and sending him to his room.
No one seemed to have a reply to that. Aliette chewed her sandwich and waited…
Refreshed her tea. Began distractedly opening her mail… NEW!
IssaE: Nine years in his room’s not long enough?
TruthTeller: Did anyone actually miss him?
MarieSoleil: Exactly! His kind come by the shovelful. Does it matter what he growls about? Did it ever? But Miri? She was the best! We needed Miri. I try, and I even asked Father Paul-André for guidance. Sorry, I can not forgive that man.’
Leina: What did Father Paul-André say about it?
MarieSoleil: He loves Miri too.
ChèreAmante: There is no need to be sorry when you’re fighting a war.
SainteThérèse: They were perfect. Why would he ruin such a lovely thing?
IssaE: He didn’t do it on purpose.
Silence again. Ten minutes passed. Had IssaE snapped the thread?
NEW! Leina actually betrayed some sympathy: It has to be a heavy load.
Aliette held her breath…
IssaE teased it: It’s a bitch all right.
Guerrière: No! His lawyers may have been able to pull one over on those fat assed judges, but not on me. His fist was well aimed. And it was not the first time.
IssaE: He’d been smoking hash all night. They both had.
Leina asked: Are you sure you’re in the right place?
IssaE: I live here. Is this the wrong place to live?
Aliette cringed. Read her mail. Finished her tea. Went to pee.
Junior Inspector Escande was not at her desk.
‘Gone with Henri for lunch at the bar at Maureilhan,’ Mathilde informed her. ‘Apparently it’s a busy place. Those truckers.’ Maureilhan was a town on the main road to and from the autoroute. Lots of illicit things for sale in that bar to the parade of long-haul routiers passing up and down each day.
‘Right.’ Obviously Isabelle did not need to be in the office. Nor did TruthTeller or Guerrière or SainteThérèse need to be anywhere particular. None of them did. As if they were circling in the air with this hatred for Luc Malarmé, part romantic, part political, part absurd.
Was it dangerous? Would someone actually take a shot at the man if he presumed to sing?
Aliette returned to her desk. No NEW! It had stopped for the moment. A short skirmish.
Now what? Who were they?
…Sorry, you’ll need a mandate, Inspector. Privacy is privacy! Aliette took the best part of an hour composing an email to Sub-Proc Danielle Dilobello, to which she added the cut-and-pasted latest ‘chat’ from the Miri thread. But, finger hovering… Wait, wait, wait! She didn’t send it.
If IssaE provoked a fight? Where would that lead?
By the next morning Luc Malarmé had replaced the flyer on the board by the Mairie door. By noon that flyer remained tacked in place, but a sharp knife had quartered it with a concise X, a determined hand had scrawled Non! in red marker across its four pieces.
None of the flyers in and around Saint-Brin remained in place and/or untouched by Friday.
• 12 •
FIRE IN THE VINES
Sergio had tried to back out of going to the concert. ‘Do you think he’ll even show up?’
‘Of course he will.’
‘But we don’t even like his music. Do we?’
Aliette dodged that one. ‘He needs support.’ She was going, with or without Sergio.
They drove up to Prades after an early supper. It was a cool night and they both wore pullovers. In late spring the night sky is still blue at nine o’clock. They were standing on the village place with a smattering of curious people, nursing beers. Three village kids were running the bar. Luc Malarmé did his self-monitored sound check. His face seemed healed. He sported a cotton skull cap over his still sparsely grown-in hair. Six teenaged girls paraded in a circle on the street, wielding homemade signs denouncing the event.
Miri is dead. Luc is singing. France is corrupt!
Plug your ears. Luc Malarmé is heartless!
But silently. They had been making some noise when Aliette and Sergio arrived — chanting their slogans, screaming epithets at the stage — but the village mayor had stepped out of the crowd and warned them. Mairesse Francine Tabler was not the friendliest woman, perp
etually on edge, often bloody-minded, but one Aliette quietly admired: an ex-hippie single mother who’d picked grapes and cleaned houses to make ends meet before working to win the villagers’ confidence and get herself elected as mayor of Prades. An investigation into an earlier house invasion epidemic (a Maghreb gang from the city) had brought the newly installed Chief Inspector Nouvelle into contact with dozens of village mayors — villages and the land surrounding them being prime location for frequently unguarded and usually well-appointed second residences owned by northerners and foreigners. Aliette had come to know Francine Tabler as dependable, if irascible. She observed the mayor — skittish tonight, as well she might be, glancing at the watch on her wrist one moment, at the slow-moving man on the stage the next, and over her shoulder at the girls, on guard for the slightest hint of trouble. Francine ran a tight ship. Six angry girls attempting to disrupt the event on the village place did not stand a chance.
Luc Malarmé did not seem to notice any of it. A professional, he proceeded methodically, oblivious to the anticipation and the simmering impatience building in front of the rudimentary stage. Brief dashes of voice, guitar, blues harp and keyboard made you want to hear a song.
Later, it occurred to Aliette that the musician’s unhurried stage prep and the lingering daylight might have saved a catastrophe. If Luc had been playing, if it had been dark, if the music had filled the air, carrying the people away…
It was Francine Tabler who suddenly pointed toward the northwest distance. From where she stood, Aliette could not hear but could clearly see the words, ‘Mon dieu!’ forming on Francine’s lips. Several people near the bar looked. Then everyone. There was a plume of smoke rising beyond the ridge. You couldn’t smell it. Yet. Seeing it, the locals knew it could only be one thing.
Aliette saw Francine Tabler go racing inside the mairie. In a moment the bell was clanging. It looked weirdly automatic: abandoning their drinks, several men rushed to the shed at the rear of the mairie. Volunteer firefighters, they had long practised a system. They emerged quickly and efficiently with boxes of gear. Other men sprinted off, disappearing into the small streets leading off the main street. You could hear the sound of vehicles starting up. Within a brief two minutes a convoy came rumbling up the street and onto the place. The men who were part of the volunteer brigade climbed into the trucks — which sped off toward the smoke.