Paul moved closer to her, till his face was within a few inches. She could see the fury in his eyes, feel his breath on her cheek, and she tried to look back at him calmly. From the corner of her eye she could see the statue, heavy and blunt, and all she could hear was the thumping of her heart. He raised his hand and jabbed the statue against her forehead as if it was the barrel of a gun. She drew back, still keeping her eyes on him. After what seemed an eternity, he lowered his hand, flung the statue to the floor and strode out of the house.
Magali closed her eyes and grasped the doorframe for support. Then she ran to the bathroom just in time before she wet herself.
No more therapy, no more detective work. If she’d known how complicated her life would become by putting up those plaques, she would never have done it. Pretending to be a detective had led her into a gruesome, twisted world where pictures she’d rather never have seen were now a constant presence in her mind. But in the end, the danger came from the therapy. She had no idea how unhinged Daveney was and she didn’t want to find out. She locked all the doors, her hands trembling. He could be back any time, and by the look in his eyes as he left, she was sure he was capable of anything.
She went to her computer. She didn’t know exactly what drugs he was taking but a few minutes search was enough to confirm what she knew already – stopping any anti-depressant suddenly was a very bad idea. After giving it some thought, she decided to repeat, in a well-argued email, what she’d just told him. Perhaps, when he’d calmed down, he’d take more notice.
Subject: Your book. The incoming message leapt out at her. She froze. Stared at it for several seconds. Then opened it. We are still waiting for your evaluation of your recent purchase. Your opinion is important to us, so we would be grateful if you could reply to this message without further delay. Thanking you in advance.
Again, no signature. The tone was courteous, except for the curious ‘without further delay’. Why the urgency? Why was Madame Book insisting like this? And above all, why had a page been cut out of the book?
The message caused these questions to trouble Magali again, but she didn’t want to think about them. The page was missing due to a printing error. There was nothing sinister about Madame Book, nothing to link this message to Coussikou and Roncet, nor to the purse in the Terrals’ bedroom or the stains on Enzo’s music sheet.
All that was a figment of her daft, disturbed, doolally imagination. There was no serial killer on the prowl.
She clicked on reply and wrote: I did not order the book you refer to. If you give me your postal address, I shall send it back to you forthwith. Regards, M. Rousseau.
Chapter 17
‘It was taken yesterday.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I rang my son. They went out together yesterday.’ Magali’s voice trembled with anger. ‘In those exact same clothes.’
She was at the police station. Opposite her was a fresh-faced gendarme whose boyish looks did little to reassure her. On the desk in front of him was the photograph she’d found a few minutes before in her letterbox.
‘Right.’ The gendarme scrutinised the picture as if trying to make out the details. She wished she’d had the presence of mind to make a photocopy. ‘You want to lodge a complaint,’ he stated.
‘I want…’ Magali frowned. ‘I want the person who did it to be told to stop.’
‘So you’re lodging a complaint.’
She hesitated. In the few minutes of fury it had taken her to walk there, she hadn’t thought the situation through. Rather than set the police on to Paul, it would be more sensible to confront him. Or better still, Lucille. There wasn’t much point in giving Paul a piece of her mind unless she had his mother on her side.
‘What happens if I do?’
‘We’ll follow it up. If you don’t, there’s nothing we can do.’
‘But it’s menacing, right? If I complain, you’ll do something about it. Give him a warning.’
‘Menacing…’ he said with a shrug. ‘Could be just someone playing games.’
‘What sort of game is that?’ she snapped, before raising a hand in apology. It wasn’t his fault, after all. He was only doing his job. The position was perfectly clear. Either she lodged a complaint or she didn’t.
‘We’d have to find out who it is first, in any case,’ he said. ‘Unless you already know.’
‘I have a strong suspicion.’
‘So you want to make a specific complaint.’ He reached for a pen. ‘Against…?’
‘No, it’s all right.’ She reached out for the photograph. ‘It’s enough that you know it happened. If something similar happens again, it’ll be a repeat offence.’
‘As you wish.’
‘I’ll tell him I’ve shown it you. That should do the trick.’
Whether it really would remained to be seen. No longer medicated, Paul could be at the mercy of every reckless impulse that bubbled up from the murky recesses of his brain. If he was unable to control himself or distinguish right from wrong, the threat of police intervention wouldn’t have the slightest effect.
She took the picture back and studied it again. Luc and Sophie were standing by their car, holding hands, their heads close together. The photograph would have been charming were it not for the bright red cross drawn with a ball-point pen over Luc’s face.
The picture had been taken at around 4 p.m. the previous day, when Luc and Sophie had gone out together to visit a garden centre. Paul had then printed it and crossed out Luc’s head. At some point either yesterday evening or this morning, he had slid the photograph into Magali’s letterbox. She didn’t know how capable he was of acting it out for real, but the message was very clear.
‘You get all sorts,’ said the gendarme placidly.
‘Yes.’ She nodded and flashed a brief smile. ‘Thank you.’
As she made her way to the Daveneys’ house, Magali railed at her own stupidity. She could have carried on listening to Paul’s trivial, inoffensive chatter, taken the money, and everyone would have been happy. Instead she’d pressured him. She’d wanted to achieve some result. And she’d bungled it.
She was at the gate to Lucille Daveney’s house, about to press the bell, when a voice made her jump. ‘It doesn’t work.’
She wheeled round. ‘Paul! You scared me.’ Not for the first time, either. ‘Were you following me or what?’
‘I was coming home.’ He leered at her. ‘Did you want to see me?’
Magali took a step back. ‘I’ve just been to the police station.’ It seemed to do the trick after all – she saw a flash of panic cross his face.
He bowed his head. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done it. I was angry.’
‘It’s one thing threatening me. But if you ever bring my son into this again, I’ll have you arrested.’
Paul tilted his head to one side, bemused. ‘Your son?’
‘Luc. I could have you arrested already if I wanted. But I thought I’d speak to your mother first. I don’t think she’ll take very kindly to what you did.’
His lips parted in a gormless grin. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Don’t play games with me, Paul!’ She took out the picture and thrust it in his face. ‘As I said, I’ve told the police already. Now do you swear this will never happen again or do I tell your mother?’
It was Paul’s turn now to back away as he tried to get a look at the picture. ‘What is this?’ he said.
‘You know very well what it is.’
‘I’ve never seen it.’
‘I don’t care whether you admit it or not. I’m not expecting an apology. I’m saying it has to stop, that’s all.’ Seeing him stand with shoulders stooped and features crumpled in submission, she struck a note of kindness. ‘You’ve read my email, I suppose. If you think about what I said and take the pills you’re supposed to, then maybe we can start again, all right? You’re old enough to think for yourself and you know what it means to be sensible. But I’m not puttin
g up with any more of this.’ As she grabbed the photograph, it fell to the pavement. ‘Where have you been?’ she said, picking it up. ‘Your trousers are soaked.’
‘Up the Mataroc,’ he muttered, his voice so strained and pitiful she thought he might burst into tears.
‘At this time of year?’ It would be in full spate, and freezing. She almost added, ‘You’re crazy,’ but he didn’t need to be reminded of that.
‘I like it,’ he whispered fearfully, as if confessing to some gross perversion that would make her scold him again.
‘Fair enough.’ She’d rather he splashed about in a gushing stream than take threatening photos of Luc. ‘Well, you’d better go inside and get warm.’ She gave him a gentle tap on the arm and walked away.
When she turned round to look, he was slowly shuffling towards the front door, hands limply clasped together in front of him, bearing the weight of the whole world on his shoulders.
***
By the time she got home, she felt better. The matter was clarified, up to a point. She had no idea what, if anything, would be said between Paul and his mother, but at least he knew there was a line that couldn’t be crossed. It wasn’t a matter of therapy any more – she had no ambition to cure him. She simply wanted to ensure that he’d never scare the wits out of her again.
At the entrance to her drive, she paused to contemplate the psychotherapy plaque. Hardly surprising no one else but Paul had come asking for help – it was all but obscured by vegetation. For a while she’d thought she might make a go of it but to really do that she’d have to get into the yellow pages and that would be taking the deceit a step too far.
She started towards the studio to get a screwdriver, but then she thought she’d wasted enough time already. It was almost noon. By now she should be half-way through her run. The plaque could come down later.
She went upstairs and changed into her kit, then back down to the kitchen for a glass of water. As she looked through the window above the sink, her gaze fell upon the door to the studio. Her mouth fell open. She put down the glass and stared. ‘Well, goddamit!’ she muttered, as the rage and revulsion she’d felt on discovering the photograph came back with a vengeance.
She strode to the back door, only vaguely registering that it was unlocked, and stepped outside. She stood with her hands on her hips. ‘The bastard!’
The name LUC was sprayed in big black letters on the studio door. And as in the photo, it was crossed out with a bright red X.
Seething with anger, Magali approached to get a better look. He must have done it while she was at the station. If she’d known, she’d have spoken to him more forcefully. Taking a picture was one thing, but even apart from the threat to Luc, this was desecration of property.
A couple of yards away from the door, she stopped. The ground was wet and she could hear the gentle gurgle of running water. Surely she hadn’t left the hosepipe on? She went round to the side of the studio to look.
Something between a gasp and a scream rose from inside her, making her gag as she fought to recover her breath. A man was sprawled on the grass, water spewing from his mouth, the hosepipe stuffed down his throat. The upper half of his face was covered with his arm, but Magali didn’t need to move any closer to recognise Antoine.
Chapter 18
Magali clutched her head and bit her knuckles and turned away and then back again, this way and that, looking and then not looking, wanting only one thing – for this to be untrue. She didn’t scream again and she didn’t cry – she stood there whimpering and choking, her breath a series of jerky, stifled gasps, her brain awash with successive waves of wretchedness and horror. And each wave mounted further into her consciousness, bringing with it the sickening realisation that Antoine Pessini was dead.
She didn’t know how many minutes passed while she grappled with the terrifying fact of the lifeless body of her friend. Only when she became resigned to the truth of it, and the rush of blood through her veins began to slow, did she start to think of the cause.
She tiptoed all round the shed. There was no one. Was he in the house? She didn’t dare enter. She took out her phone and called the police. Then she sank to the ground, her back against the shed. Antoine had come to her house and now he was dead. She buried her face in her hands and started to sob.
***
‘What was he doing at your house?’ With his rubbery lips and slanting eyes, Commander Bernard Marty looked like a strange new species out of the sea, an effect compounded by the straw-coloured comb-over that did little to hide his baldness. It was less than two hours since Magali had called, and after a brief appraisal of the scene, he’d had it sealed off and left forensics to their job.
‘Probably just dropping in for a chat.’
‘Uninvited? That was usual?’
‘No, but we’re friends, so… And he knows where I leave the key. When I’m away, he feeds Toupie – my cat. And waters the plants.’ She heard herself using the present tense, but found it impossible not to.
‘I see. A relationship of trust.’
‘Yes, I trust –’ she made an effort – ‘trusted him completely.’
‘So this was an unplanned visit and in the normal course of events he would have gone inside and made himself at home and waited for you to come back.’
‘In the normal course of events he’d have phoned beforehand to let me know he was coming. Perhaps there was something important he wanted to tell me.’
Marty raised his eyebrows. ‘Like what?’
‘Something to do with his private life, I imagine.’
Marty appeared about to speak, but instead he jotted something down in his notebook. ‘Whatever the reason, on this occasion, someone was there already. Or arrived and found him there.’
He was thinking out loud, not requiring an answer. But she answered anyway, leaping some way ahead. ‘It seems unlikely it was premeditated, if that’s what you’re wondering.’
He looked at her sharply. ‘What makes you say that?’
‘He has no enemies that I know of.’
‘That you know of. Could be some little yob who picked him out in the street and thought he’d have a wallet worth pinching.’
She tilted her head. ‘Could be. But the graffiti…’
‘Or a burglar,’ he continued. ‘Who saw you go out, went to check out your house and was surprised by Pessini.’
‘Possibly.’ She emitted an audible sigh. ‘I don’t know if anything’s missing.’
‘And if nothing is? He could have been surprised before he had time.’ The little eyes gazed at her sternly: he was there to do the thinking – her role was to answer questions. He paused till he was satisfied she understood the rules, then continued, ‘You say Pessini watered the flowers. So he’d have used the hosepipe for that?’
‘No, he only does it when I’m away. I arrange it with him beforehand.’
‘Right.’ Marty sat back, rocking gently in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Then he focused on her again. ‘So that leaves the graffiti, indeed. Luc. Your son, you said. You’re a hundred per cent certain it wasn’t there when you left the house yourself?’
‘Yes. I’m in and out of the kitchen all the time and from the kitchen window you can’t miss it.’
‘So the killer – assuming he was alone – did it himself. Might even have been what he came there to do in the first place. Or else he did it afterwards. A form of signature.’
Magali waited obediently for a question. She wondered if he always thought out loud like this. Did he announce his intentions when he was driving or shopping, step by step, examining every possibility on the way?
‘And do you have any yourself? Enemies, I mean?’
Magali didn’t answer for a moment. She thought back to Daveney’s pitiful expression when she told him off about the photograph, and the way he crept back up the path, his body hunched in defeat. What was weighing him down? Mere despondency that he’d incurred her displeasure? Or something far worse?
/> She dipped into her bag and took out the photograph, of which this time she’d made a photocopy. ‘It was in my letter-box this morning.’
Marty bent over the picture without touching it. ‘This is your son?’
‘Luc. And his wife, Sophie. The picture was taken at around four o’clock yesterday afternoon.’ Seeing it now upside down, she was struck by a feature she hadn’t noticed before: a small, dark blur which, if she mentally rotated the picture, would be from Marty’s viewpoint in the top right-hand corner. She leant forward to study it closer – something near the lens that was out of focus. She examined the edges of the photograph: on the left of the frame was a telegraph pole, on the right, a pillar marking the entrance to the neighbours’ drive. What could possibly have caused that blur at the top?
Marty took a clean sheet of paper, folded it in half and used it to pick up the photograph. He reached for an empty folder and put the photograph inside. Watching him, Magali realised how foolish she’d been to treat it so carelessly herself. Apart from her own, there’d be Paul Daveney’s fingerprints on it, not to mention those of the young gendarme she’d taken it to that morning. But then, at the time, she hadn’t known that what could easily be dismissed as a joke in very poor taste was in fact the prelude to murder.
One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1) Page 13