From where she was parked, next to a kindergarten in an adjoining street, she had a good view of the house. But there were still several angles uncovered and if, as she feared, it wasn’t Metot’s movements he was watching but her own, there were any number of places he could be. She tilted the mirror to see as far as possible behind her, but she kept forgetting to check it. Sometimes, to her shame, her mind was distracted and she realised that for a number of minutes she hadn’t been watching anything at all. Every so often, she got out and checked the neighbouring streets for men engaged in the same operation as her, fighting boredom behind the wheel of a car.
She had the ham sandwich for lunch and the tuna sandwich for supper. Four times she went to the nearest café, ten minutes away, where she knocked back an espresso and availed herself of the toilet before hurrying back to the car. The high point of her day, causing her to reminisce and ruminate, was the parents picking up their children from the kindergarten. She didn’t go back to her hotel till ten o’ clock.
The following day, she managed to get there in time to see the children being dropped off. She still didn’t have a thermos, but to the sandwiches (egg and tomato, liver pâté) she added a banana and an apple. She debated at length with herself on what combination to have for lunch, settling finally on liver pâté and apple. At 2.47 the Metot couple came out together and walked straight past her car without noticing her. They returned at 5.24. Nothing else of interest happened.
At 7.48 she took the car key from her pocket and clutched it in her hand, the solid feel of temptation in her palm. Dear me, Madame Rousseau, not doing very well, are we? Only day two and you’re skiving off already. You need to be more focused, you know, this is no good at all. Magali heaved a grumpy sigh, folded her arms and pushed herself deeper into the seat.
At 8.03, temptation won. ‘Sod you, Verney,’ she muttered as she slotted the key in the ignition. And leaving the egg and tomato sandwich untouched, she drove off in search of a restaurant.
The next day she told the hotel she’d be staying for another week. They registered the booking and she asked them to lend her a thermos, filled with coffee, which they happily provided.
She had to change places a couple of times before finding a decent spot, next to a tree, more or less hidden from anyone walking on the pavement. She started the day resolute, but by mid-morning was in full assessment of the pointlessness of the exercise. What was the hurry, in any case? The killer was only just starting to make his plans. Before Metot’s life was truly in danger, she’d have plenty of time to persuade Balland she was right – why, maybe she could even persuade Vincent.
On the other hand, that supposed they were amenable to persuasion.
She was running these questions through her mind, pouring herself some coffee, when her phone rang.
She let out a yelp of pain as the coffee spilled on her leg. She grabbed the phone. ‘Sophie?’
‘Magali…’ Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. ‘Are you still in Clermont?’
‘Yes.’ A flutter of apprehension rose in her guts. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘I thought I should let you know,’ began Sophie in a voice both steady and tense, as if she was trying to hold back an animal straining on the leash. Magali began to imagine the worst: Daveney running amok, committing some dreadful atrocity. ‘The post arrived not long ago. There was a parcel addressed to me. A book.’
Magali held her breath. ‘And?’
‘The inside was smeared with jam.’
Not Daveney, no. Far worse. Magali’s gaze encompassed the streets that now were so familiar to her, and she saw them paved with the wasted effort and foolishness of her quest. He was always going to be one step ahead. She’d walked right into his trap. ‘Where was it posted from?’ she said calmly.
‘Le Puy en Velay. Yesterday.’
Le Puy. An hour or so south of where she was. What was he doing in Le Puy? Did he live there? Or had he been passing through on his way to Clermont Ferrand? Or to Sentabour? If the whole set-up with Metot been intended to throw her off the track, he could be in Sentabour right now, watching Sophie’s every movement, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
‘Is Luc back from Nice?’ she said.
‘No. He gets back tomorrow.’
The killer would have seen that. She’s on her own in the house. Had he been waiting for her to open the book? Could he see her now through the window, first the bewilderment, then the horror as she realised what it meant?
‘Where’s your car?’ said Magali.
‘Outside.’
‘How far?’
‘Just by the gate.’
‘You’re going to get out of that house, Sophie. He could be watching you right now. Put the phone in your pocket, grab a kitchen knife and go to the car. Take nothing with you but the knife. Be ready to use it. Drive to the police station and stay there. Call me as soon as you can. I’m on my way.’
As soon as she put the phone down, Magali let out a howl of fury and despair. She started her car and lurched away from the kerb. She tried not to think about Sophie but it was impossible. She’s in the kitchen, she’s got the knife, she’s running to the door. Opening it a crack, peering out. Stepping outside, knife at the ready, sizing up the situation before dashing those thirty yards to the car.
Had she said the right thing? Would it have been better to lock all the doors and windows and barricade herself in? But the killer, for all she knew, could be inside already.
Now! Run for it! Don’t bother locking the door – did she tell her that? Did she tell her not to turn round and fumble with the door key? Run for it, Sophie, please! Get to that bloody car!
Eight minutes passed. What was taking so long? In Magali’s mind, the scene played out on a loop, again and again, with the only variation the hiding place of the killer. The settee, the door, the garden hedge – each time she imagined him springing out, and the deadly flash of a Stanley knife, and a sickness churned in her belly. Nine minutes. Ten. When she stopped for a traffic light, Magali reached for her phone with a sense of dread. She was just about to return the call when the phone lit up. ‘I’ve just arrived at the station. What’s going on? First Clermont Ferrand, now Sentabour…’ Her voice began to crack. ‘Why’s he coming after me?’
Magali’s body sagged with relief. ‘I wish I knew. Oh, God… You took ages to call!’
‘I couldn’t find the car key. I was petrified! I didn’t even dare to call when I got to the car. It was like one of those horror films, you know? Where he’s hiding behind the seat?’
‘He’s playing with us. I haven’t a clue where he is. But he could be in Sentabour now and you’re going to stay at that station until I arrive, OK? Tell them exactly what happened. I’ll phone Marty. Maybe there’ll be prints on that book but I doubt it. The address was typed? A label stuck on to the envelope, like the others?’
‘Handwritten. But in capital letters, as if he was trying to disguise it, you know?’
‘So he didn’t have access to a printer. Maybe it was more of an impulse. Whatever he was doing in Le Puy, my guess is he doesn’t live there. Jam, did you say?’
‘Strawberry. Not just a blob, he emptied, like, half a jar.’
‘And what was the book?’
‘The Everything Guide to Raising a Toddler.’
An icy spasm ran through Magali’s blood. ‘He knows you’re pregnant.’ She slammed her palm down on the steering wheel. ‘My God, he’s sick,’ she muttered through clenched teeth. Then, ‘Don’t tell Luc. He’ll only want to come back and he’s better off where he is. I’ll call him later.’
The light turned green. Magali blasted her horn at the driver in front. ‘Magali,’ said Sophie as the car leapt forward, ‘Do drive carefully, won’t you?’
Chapter 29
When the Clio hit 160 kph, it started to shake so much you wondered what was holding it together. But Magali kept her foot down hard, speed traps be damned. She had no illusions – her presence in Sentab
our a few minutes sooner or later would not make a spot of difference. Sophie was safe in the station, the world would continue to turn and the killer, wherever he was, would be plotting his next moves just as before. But she’d rather be talking to Marty – screaming at him to believe her – than helpless and fuming on a motorway. And at least she’d be with Sophie. If the killer burst into the station wielding an axe, at least they’d be together.
But the killer wouldn’t do that. He was cunning, stealthy and devious. He circled and watched, and pounced when the moment was right.
She called Marty from the motorway, moving into the middle lane do so. Not so much a matter of reducing speed but bringing the noise level down to a point where she could hear what he was saying.
‘Yes, I’ve sent someone round. And as soon as I’ve finished talking to your daughter, I’ll be there myself.’ She recognised his tone of voice. It was one she used herself when trying to be polite to an awkward customer in the Spar. ‘If your man turns up at her house, we’ll be the first to know.’
‘Daughter-in-law,’ she corrected him. And the killer is anything but ‘my’ man, he should have been yours a long time ago. ‘And if she wants to leave the station, make her wait till I get there. She’s not to go anywhere on her own.’
‘I think she’s old enough to be making her own decisions.’
‘I hope you realise by now,’ she said through clenched teeth, ‘that we’re dealing with someone extremely dangerous.’
‘Believe me, Madame Rousseau, we’re giving this all the consideration it deserves.’
Was that sarcastic? There was something in his attitude, she felt, that had changed. A little less hostility perhaps – not that he was making an effort to replace it with anything approaching kindness.
‘What about the book? Any clues there?’
‘Your daughter-in-law arrived here barely fifteen minutes ago,’ said Marty. ‘I’m still trying to hear what she has to say.’
‘All right. One last question, then. Why has Daveney been released so soon?’
‘If you were to stop driving,’ said Marty, ‘I could tell you.’
‘Arsehole!’ she muttered, just loud enough for him to hear, before she tossed the phone aside. She moved back out to the fast lane and pressed her foot into the floor.
She was approaching the toll booth thirty kilometres from Sentabour when the phone rang. ‘Where are you?’ said a gruff, angry voice.
‘Paul!’ She held the phone to her chest and groaned. This is all I need! ‘I’m in the car. Where are you? What happened? They let you out?’
‘I went round to see you. Twice. Where are you?’
‘Paul, stay away from my house.’ She shouted above the clatter of the car. ‘It could be dangerous. You know that.’
‘Bullshit! That’s an excuse.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t want to see me. He’s not coming back and you know it. You just don’t want to see me.’ He was breathing loudly, as if he’d just been running. He let a couple of seconds pass, then said in a low voice, ‘That’s all right. I just want you to know I’m going to kill myself.’
‘Yes, Paul, I want to see you, I want to see you very much.’ Anything to placate him. ‘But I’m not joking. It so happens I have proof the killer is stalking us in Sentabour. So I advise you to stay away from my house. If you want, we can meet elsewhere. In…’ Somewhere peaceful, somewhere he might calm down. ‘Why don’t we say the church?’
There was a brief pause. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes.’
‘No, Paul! I’m on the motorway, I’m at the toll booth, give me half an hour, all right?’
‘You thought it was me, didn’t you? That’s what you told them. “It was Paul Daveney. He’s got to be locked away for the rest of his life.” All the time you were pretending –’
‘No, Paul, I never said –’
‘I was your toy. OK, you’ve got more important things to do than listen to people like me. Fair enough. But you shouldn’t have let me believe you were trying to help. I thought you were sincere.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Paul. I am sincere and I always have been but if somehow I let you down, I’m really sorry. I understand you’re upset. I want to talk to you and I’ll be there in thirty minutes. Hang on, I need to pay.’ She put the phone down, inserted her ticket and bank card and accelerated away.
‘Paul?’ she said, picking up the phone again. Then, ‘Shit!’
A policeman was beckoning to her to pull over to the side. ‘Paul, I’m being stopped by the police, I’ll call back as soon as I can, all right?’ She stashed the phone in the glove box, rolled down her window and put on her most charming smile.
‘I’m sorry, Officer. I was putting it into silent mode.’
‘By speaking into it?’ He nodded sarcastically and took a leisurely stroll round the car. He checked the insurance and MOT stubs on the windscreen. He stooped to examine the tyres. Then he was back at her window. ‘May I see your licence and insurance, Madame?’
She got out of the car. ‘I’m very sorry,’ she said. ‘I’d never normally answer but it was an emergency call. I’m a psychotherapist and a client of mine is threatening to kill himself. I need to get to him urgently.’
A mocking sneer. Good try. Full marks for imagination. He examined her papers, took out an electronic device from his pocket and started entering details. ‘Threatening suicide, eh? Do you know how many deaths occurred last year as a result of people phoning at the wheel?’
‘Look, I was at the toll booth. It wasn’t as if I was actually driving.’
‘You receive a call, you pull over to the side, no problem.’ His stylus jabbed at the screen. ‘You don’t accelerate away.’
She bit her tongue. Several more minutes passed while he finished entering the details. Then he made her sign the screen in recognition of her offence. He said she’d be getting a fine and points would go on her licence. He explained the procedure, and the reasoning behind it, in detail. Magali stood meekly nodding as he milked the situation for all the enjoyment he could get.
As soon as she was back in the car, she grabbed the phone. She dialled Paul’s number. There was no answer.
She turned to see the policeman staring at her in amazement. Resisting the urge to stick out her tongue, she put the phone in her bag, did up her seat belt and drove off.
***
The church was locked. She hadn’t thought of that. You always assume that churches are places you can go to for comfort whenever the need comes upon you. She’d imagined sitting in a pew with Paul, low voices murmuring in the soothing dimness of the church. But he wasn’t there.
He could have waited in the porch but he hadn’t. Perhaps he hadn’t come to the church at all. She didn’t think he’d really try to kill himself, but she didn’t know him well enough to be sure. Neither, for that matter, could she be very sure that he wouldn’t kill someone else.
She sat in the porch for a couple of minutes, shivering. Somewhere in Sentabour, a manic-depressive in a hot-blooded rage and an all too cold-blooded psychopath were on the loose. And both were after her and her family.
She clasped her hands together and gnawed at her knuckles, pondering. Then she took out her phone and dialled.
***
‘You’re going to Paris,’ said Magali as she led Sophie out of the police station.
‘What?’
‘I’ve phoned Charlotte. No problem. She’ll put you up for as long as it takes.’
‘I’m sorry… For as long as what takes?’
‘For as long as it takes for us to find him.’
Magali wasn’t exactly sure who ‘us’ was. It might have been her and Balland or her and Vincent. Or both. Her and Roudy, why not? Anyone to reassure her she wasn’t all on her own. What she wanted was someone there by her side, someone who knew as well as she did how the killer worked. Preferably someone with a gun.
By that test, though, she was entirely alone. The ‘us’
was just a way to fool herself she wasn’t.
‘I can’t,’ said Sophie. ‘I’m half-way through a commission.’
‘What’s more important, a sculpture or your life?’ Magali pointed at her daughter-in-law’s belly. ‘And I don’t need to remind you it’s not just yours we’re talking about.’
‘Why Charlotte?’ Sophie was none too happy at having her life hijacked. ‘It’s not that I don’t like her but I’ve got friends of my own I can stay with.’
‘This man knows what he’s doing. How do we know he hasn’t been reading your emails? You’re safer with someone he doesn’t suspect you’d go to. I’m putting you on the train myself and you’ll stay with other people at all times and phone me when you get there. I’ll phone Luc and tell him to join you there straight from Nice. Neither of you are coming back here till he’s caught.’
‘Can I take some clothes?’ said Sophie, spreading her arms helplessly. ‘A toothbrush?’
‘What if he’s at your house?’
‘I thought he’s supposed to be in Clermont-Ferrand.’ She was almost laughing. ‘Besides, Marty’s there with a whole battalion of police. Aren’t you taking this too far?’
‘Sophie,’ she said. ‘He’s a mad, dangerous, psychopathic serial killer. You can’t go far enough with someone like that. All that time I was thinking he might turn up in Clermont-Ferrand, he was actually coming after you. He probably never set foot in Clermont-Ferrand. We only know he was in Le Puy. Yesterday. Which gives him plenty of time to be here now.’
‘If I’m going to Paris, I’ve got to have some clothes. And my sketchbook.’
Magali sighed. ‘All right.’ They got in the car and she headed towards the house. If Marty was there, it was true, they had to be safe. And at least it would give her a chance to see what he’d found.
One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1) Page 21