‘I don’t know if he fiddles with these when he comes to see you but he’s got through a whole bunch at the station.’ Marty returned the string to his pocket and sighed. ‘Then there are the footprints. The ground was so drenched that they aren’t very clear but we’ve got the size. Daveney’s.’ He addressed her a brief, tight-lipped smile as he walked to the door. ‘You know, it’s well before the trial that we need to weigh the evidence. We need to decide right now on whether to charge him. So I’m not saying your counter-evidence is nothing but, frankly, compared to what we’ve already got, it doesn’t add up to much.’
Magali had the impression that Commander Bernard Marty had taken a strong dislike to her. And as she watched him walk to his car, his broad back a stolid slab of reproof, she decided the feeling was mutual.
A little later, she was painting over the graffiti, so she missed Charlotte’s message. Luc emailed me with the news. I’m so sorry, Magali, it must be terrible for you. Phone me back if you want to talk. But I’ll quite understand if you don’t.
It was when she thought of Charlotte’s loss that Magali felt her own become almost trivial. Yes, she was sad, and she’d miss Antoine dreadfully, but there wouldn’t be a hole in her life as there was in Charlotte’s, permanent, gaping, irreparable. What would have happened if, instead of Antoine, it had been Luc at her house? The mere thought made her so sick with worry that the only way she could handle it was by clinging to the comfort of reality, shamefully thanking God it was ‘just’ Antoine.
Charlotte was the only person in whom she could fully confide. Though Luc knew about the threats, she couldn’t describe her fears to him, couldn’t say how impossible life would be if she were ever to lose him. She didn’t say it to Charlotte either but she didn’t need to – Charlotte knew only too well. And when Magali said a second time that she hoped Marty wasn’t making a huge mistake, Charlotte understood that something was troubling her. ‘You don’t think it has something to do with Enzo?’ she asked, a sudden tension in her voice.
‘All I can say is I hope not. Because if it does, then it’s far, far worse than anything I’ve imagined up to now.’
Even Charlotte was silent at that, and Magali, realising she’d either said too much or too little, backpedalled. ‘But I don’t think it does. There’s nothing to trace me to you or Enzo. Only a handful of people know I’ve been working on it.’ To go into the details would mean dragging Charlotte into events that didn’t concern her, a shadowy world of doubt and suspicion and tenuous, paranoid imaginings.
She changed the topic. ‘Have you had any offers on the house?’
‘Not yet. No one’s too keen on living where someone was murdered. I dare say it’ll have to go below value, but still.’
‘Someone will turn up eventually.’
‘A young man visited when I was down there, actually. He knew what had happened but he seemed quite interested all the same. But I haven’t heard anything since.’
‘It’s not the best time of the year. If you wait till spring…’
‘Mmm. Did he get in touch, by the way?’
‘Who?’
‘This young man. He said someone had stolen some antiques of his and the police were doing nothing so…’ Her voice faltered. Then it sank to a whisper. ‘So I gave him your address.’
For a while there was silence. Then a stifled moan came through.
‘Charlotte? Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’ The whisper again. A barely contained sob of fury and dread. And the sickening realisation that the man who killed her son had returned to the house to taunt her.
‘Charlotte – if you can do this, if you can remember – can you describe him to me?’
Chapter 20
Where did Krief get his last paragraph from? How was he allowed to publish it?
Plucked from the local fare of pétanque competitions and kindergarten fêtes, Sentabour, for once, emerged from obscurity and was given front-page treatment. Thirty-six point headline drama. Sleepy Sentabour was no more. Henceforth it was Sentabour the sensational, home of the Hosepipe Killer.
Most of the article consisted of facts, carefully chosen and packaged by Marty and released at a press conference: the circumstances of Antoine’s death, the evidence gathered so far. A local man with a history of mental illness was helping with enquiries but had not been formally charged. Very probably, the intended target was not Pessini but Magali Rousseau, psychotherapist, at whose house the murder was committed.
There followed a portrait of Antoine: a retired school inspector, discreet but well-respected, he was known in Sentabour for his yearly contribution to the village fête. He was also the treasurer of the Hikers’ Association.
And then, by way of conclusion: Who is Magali Rousseau? Except that it wasn’t the end of a story but the start of a new one. Rousseau, the mystery woman, object of Krief’s private agenda, a juicy little scoop of his own.
As a therapist, Magali Rousseau delves into the puzzle of the human mind. And yet she appears to be a complex person herself, leading an enigmatic double life. For as downtime from her official job she works as an amateur sleuth with a special interest in murder. Last August, accompanied by the victim Antoine Pessini, she visited Mannezon, a village in the Cévennes, where a young man had been killed at his home a few months previously. A few weeks ago she went to Rondas, Charente, scene of the gruesome murder of another young man and his pregnant wife, again in their own home. Neither of these cases has as yet been solved. Will Magali Rousseau be the one to do it? Although not qualified as a private detective, she is eager to bring the perpetrators to justice. Whether this laudable aim is a help or a hindrance remains to be seen. She is thought to believe that far from being isolated cases, these murders are the work of a single person. The spectre of a serial killer raises its frightful head. Is it pure coincidence that a murder has now occurred in her very own garden? When questioned on this, she refused to comment, denying all activity as a sleuth. If she does turn out to be right, questions will need to be asked as to how a rank amateur can succeed where the police have failed. For the moment, though, it might be safer to assume that she has fabricated a fantasy world as dark and delusional as those of the patients she treats.
Like policemen, journalists were people she’d always seen from afar. Looking for angles, hounding celebrities, flirting with the boundaries of libel – all that was part of their job and it belonged to a different world. But now she’d become an item of curiosity, a journalist’s prey herself. In Krief’s distorted view she was fair game. And within her rose the helpless rage of an animal trapped in a corner.
Sleuth? For heaven’s sake, what kind of a word was that?
***
‘I’ve read your report.’ Alain Verney jabbed a podgy finger at Magali’s assignment. His round, comforting face was contradicted by the sternness of his voice. ‘I’ve also read the report about you.’
Verney’s secretary had phoned that morning. She didn’t say Verney had read Krief’s piece. She just said he wanted to speak to her. Urgent.
Magali was growing accustomed to being asked to explain herself. ‘Some of what’s been said about me is exaggerated.’ She didn’t know what had been said about her nor who might have said it, but it sounded like a good line to open with. Neutral and circumspect.
‘But you did, did you not, advertise yourself as a private research agent?’
‘Only for a very short time. I didn’t expect –’
‘How long for is immaterial.’ He leant back in his chair, locking his fingers across his belly. ‘You were aware of the legislation.’
‘Yes, that’s why I signed up for this course. I wanted –’
‘The reason that law was introduced,’ he began, then gesturing to the room around him, the shelves lined with leather-bound tomes, ‘the reason this course exists, was to put a stop to practices like yours.’
‘I know.’ She was back at school, hauled up before the headmistress. You are a naughty girl
, Magali Rousseau. Magali made her expression as contrite as possible. ‘I’m very sorry.’
Momentarily at least, the apology did the trick: Verney glanced at her, nodding approvingly, and shook his head like a sad, disappointed parent. But he still had a point to make. ‘It goes against the ethics of the profession. Against the standards we expect our students to set. It is in fact,’ he added, raising a finger in emphasis, ‘incompatible with attendance on this course.’
She’d been expecting it. From their point of view, it was logical. To allow her to continue would bring the whole establishment into disrepute. ‘I understand.’ She reached for her bag. Being thrown off the course was one thing, but she wasn’t about to spend the next hour being lectured to.
‘Not that you do attend,’ said Verney. ‘Physically, I mean. You’re a medical secretary, is that right?’
Magali groaned inwardly. Had he been speaking to Xavier? Further proof of her dishonesty. And she was to drink the chalice of shame all the way down to the dregs. She blinked, put on her most disarming smile and said nothing.
‘Which is why you were granted a dispensation. No doubt a mistake on our part. But that’s why we offer distance learning – amongst other things, it gives a chance to mature students who want to get out of the job they’re in and do something different.’
‘Yes,’ said Magali brightly. As far as she could tell, he still believed she worked for Xavier.
‘And mature students, of course, will often come with a different outlook.’ He glared at her pointedly.
‘I’m very sorry, Monsieur Verney.’ How often did he want her to apologise? She rose from her chair. ‘It was a lapse on my part and I fully understand your position.’
‘Now, this report,’ he said, motioning her to sit, ‘is an example of what I mean. It’s six times longer than it should be and lies completely outside the range of assignments you were given.’
‘Well, I… I’m afraid it goes along with my… When I put up the plaque, you see, I had a visit from –’
‘Yes, I know. After I read it, I phoned Commander Balland. Who told me you were in touch with Captain Darlier, so I called him too. I don’t know exactly what motivates your behaviour, and I don’t think I want to. What I will do, though, on the basis of what I heard from Balland and Darlier, is give you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘You mean I… I can stay on the course?’
‘Whether my decision is sensible remains to be seen. Assuming you satisfy the remaining requirements – and don’t break the law in the meantime – you will become a qualified private research agent. And the key requirement there is to remain focused on the job at hand. I think it preferable that if you’re called upon to cooperate with the police, you should be able to do so without resorting to dishonesty.’
The extent of her gratitude surprised her. She’d been prepared to give up, resigned to expulsion, and now she was being offered a second chance. A lifeline tossed to somebody drowning. It was all she could do not to hug him.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry to have put you in this position. But I felt the need to tell someone. I wanted to ask your advice.’
‘I’m an academic, not a policeman, even less a journalist. From our point of view, your description of the crime scene in Rondas, despite a number of mistakes, is an adequate piece of work. As for the rest…’ He fluttered his hand, dismissing it. ‘If it amuses you to imagine a serial killer, that’s your affair. By all means, keep on with it. And if it transpires you’re right, you’ll be fully vindicated. But don’t try to get us involved, it’s not our job. My advice? Do you know a good investigative journalist? One you can trust?’
***
A trustworthy journalist. Wasn’t that an oxymoron?
Roudy. She felt she could trust Philippe Roudy. But he was a tepid, careworn, closet banker of a journalist, not a good one.
Maybe that was harsh. He was good in his own way. He fought a cause and he persevered and he had the courage of his convictions. But she needed more than that. She needed someone to go out on a limb for her, risk his career, his reputation, everything. And Roudy would never do that. Or would he? She’d only met him once in the flesh and first meetings can be deceptive. As Charlotte Perle, in all her anguish, had now come to realise.
‘I was planning to call you,’ he said. ‘I heard what happened.’
Planning. Not quite the same as doing. She let it pass. ‘Now I’m in the same spot as you.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘A murder. A convenient culprit. The truth ignored. A familiar story, isn’t it?’
It took him a while to understand what she was saying. ‘You mean the man they’re holding isn’t…?’
‘He’s a mental case, Philippe. But not a murderer. I know it.’
‘You sound very sure of yourself.’
‘As sure as you are with Benamrouche,’ she lied.
‘Right…’ He left a pause. ‘Well, I don’t know the details of what happened down there, I’m afraid.’
‘Not a problem. I’ve got it all written down. Want me to send it?’
‘Go ahead, if you want.’ Tepid and cooling. ‘But from what I gather, you won’t have many people listening to you.’
‘Of course not. Paul’s convenient, as I said. Like Benamrouche. A nutter, an Arab… Why look any further?’
‘That’s not precisely what I meant.’ A clipped tone, verging on curt. Back to his overdraft style.
‘What are you getting at?’
‘It’s bad enough for a journalist. I don’t exactly have superintendents lining up to hear me. But someone coming along pretending to be a detective.’
‘I didn’t lie to you. I was straight. I said I was training. I still am. They could have thrown me off the course but they didn’t, they…’ She sighed. ‘Look, I know I’m totally discredited,’ she continued, a hint of bitterness creeping into her voice. ‘That’s why I’m calling.’
‘What? I don’t –’
‘I’m at a dead end, Philippe. I need a few words of encouragement.’
‘Well, I… Like I said, I don’t know the details.’
‘And Roncet?’
‘What about him?’
‘You know the details there. Better than I do. So what do you say? Am I wrong? Just someone pretending? Or do you take it seriously enough to help me?’ There was a silence: Roudy assessing her craziness. She pressed on: ‘Listen, Philippe, I need you. You won’t get Benamrouche cleared unless you help me.’
‘What do you mean, help you?’ he said warily.
‘We work on it together. All three cases. Enzo, the Terrals, Roncet. Four now with Antoine. I start by sending you everything I’ve got and we take it from there, follow up every lead, pick over every detail till we find more clues, build up a critical mass of evidence that can’t be ignored.’
He let out a little sigh of exasperation. ‘I’m working on Roncet, Magali. I can’t get involved in the others. My job’s up here, I’ve got other stuff going on, it’s a local paper, I can’t just drop everything to go after stories on the other side of the country.’
‘I’m not suggesting you drop everything, just…’ She didn’t know how to finish. Just tell me I’m right, believe in me. But she’d only come across as needy, wheedling, fragile – the sort of person you instinctively don’t believe. The sort of person a right-minded person runs away from. ‘OK, the emails,’ she said. ‘Just Roncet’s emails. Can you get hold of them or not?’
‘The way things are looking, I doubt it.’ From cool to icy cold, freezing her out. ‘The police still have them but the case is closed so they see no reason to release them. They say they need the authorisation of the investigating judge. He could give it but he’s reluctant, hiding behind procedural rules. Afraid that if he starts, he’ll end up having to reopen the case.’
‘But isn’t that exactly what we want?’
‘Of course it is. But we have to tread carefully, reassure him.’ He left a pause. �
��Unfortunately, I mentioned your name. Which means, I’m afraid, that he now has a perfect excuse to refuse.’
‘Shit,’ she breathed. ‘Look, I’m sorry. It’s my fault, I know. But we really do need those emails.’
‘I’ll have to start over again, put the argument differently.’ His voice was flat. ‘Send me what you’ve got. I’ll see if there’s anything useful in it.’
So much for Roudy. She hadn’t lost him, but they said goodbye like a couple of disappointed friends, driven apart by events beyond their control. She’d set out to find a staunch, untiring ally, but all she’d achieved was to make him wearier and more defeated than ever.
***
Krief? After what he’d written, the very idea seemed preposterous. But he was good, no doubt about that. He was the only one to introduce a different angle on the case: the phoney private detective angle. Somehow, in the space of just a few hours, he’d found out about her interest in the Perle and Terral cases and her serial killer theory. He wasn’t just reporting facts, he was sniffing around himself.
But then he was careful to make it look very dubious. A deluded psychotherapist whose own mind was twisted. The only surprising thing was that he hadn’t yet discovered that she was no more a psychotherapist than she was a detective.
Whatever the outcome, he’d win either way. If she was right, he’d have his sensational scoop: Amateur Detective Brings Down Serial Killer. And if not, he’d have a different story: Crazy Therapist in Sleuth Personality Disorder. Not so sensational for him, perhaps, but for Magali a disaster.
So yes, he was good. But trustworthy? I’ll be on your side, Madame Rousseau. Was she ready to believe him? No way.
She called him anyway and in less than ten minutes he was there. Had he been waiting outside her house? He was clearly making it his business to scour Sentabour for any fuel for his story. Whichever one it turned out to be. She was taking a risk, but she reasoned it was better to have him at least in her sight.
‘I’ll level with you,’ he said. ‘I had to fight to get this story. You do the local news and as soon as something big happens, you’re told it isn’t local any more. I don’t intend to be kicking my heels on the inside pages of La Provence for the rest of my life. A serial killer? I have just as much interest in tracking him down as you do.’
One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1) Page 15