But with every day that passed, it became clearer that he was trapped in an endless pattern in which he would have to go on killing and no one would ever catch him. Other culprits were always found so, inevitably, Paul Daveney was arrested for murdering Pessini. It wasn’t, as David had once thought, a matter of his own cleverness or talent; he was being protected by some malefic power that would force him to keep on killing and then come home to a wife and daughter who were pure and beautiful and innocent.
And so, resignedly, with a bitter taste in his mouth, he put up a nice little painting of a jazz quintet for sale.
‘Who’s Christie Suki?’ They were having lunch, Marion looking at him suspiciously.
She saw him flinch, she must have. ‘Oh, Coussikou. Right. I’ve got someone wanting to buy a bracelet using that name and it’s a bit expensive so I wanted to check who it was.’
He’d looked at Coussikou’s latest posts. Maple and Bambi up to tricks. Had he left the page open? Or had Marion been through his search history?
‘Oh, right,’ she said, wondering whether a young woman in Canada could really be one of his clients. But she accepted his answer because she wanted to trust him. Because she did trust him. And that was the worst part of all.
It was back to business as usual.
***
Metot’s message was prompt, brief and to the point. ‘If I don’t get my money back straightaway, I’m coming to get you. Arsehole!’
Nice touch, that last word. All the sneering emphasis exploding.
But it didn’t much matter if Metot responded or not. David was already on his way.
Piano wire, Stanley knife, switchblade, hammer. He had the whole arsenal in his rucksack. Any of them would do. He even took the gun – why not? If he had a nuclear bomb, he’d wipe the whole city from the earth.
Metot’s house was tall and thin, squeezed between two others on a residential street. He drove past, noted a few parking spaces nearby and turned up an adjacent street. He parked and walked round the block. There was a garden at the back of the house but the wall was high and the door was firmly shut. Only one way in for him – through the front. Perhaps they used the back door sometimes, but by the look of it, not for quite a while.
The front had two gates, a large one, electrically operated, leading to the garage, and a small one with a handle that opened on to a short path up to the front door.
He’d never killed in town before but he wasn’t bothered. The way things were going, he could massacre a coachload of children and not get caught.
He had to prepare a bit all the same. Couldn’t just go in without even knowing how many victims there’d be.
It was good being back at work. It took his mind off everything else. He didn’t care much any more but he still had to stay focused and as long as it lasted, he wasn’t constantly thinking about Marion and Elodie.
The best place to observe the house was from the corner of an adjoining crescent street where you could see what was happening from beneath the cover of a plane tree. As it happened, a space was free. He was walking back to his car when he saw Magali Rousseau drive past.
He bowed his head, walked briskly across the road and hid behind a white van. She didn’t appear to have seen him. She slowed down, looking at Metot’s house. She stopped in front of it for a while, then parked in the very space he wanted. He waited for her to get out but she stayed in the car.
It took David a couple of minutes to realise: she was waiting for him.
So she was smart after all. No doubt about that. Still in training, but putting the dimwit badges to shame. Was she on her own? Not so smart, that. Playing right into his hands.
He got into his car and parked in the same street as her, further away from the house. Now he could observe her observing. But he couldn’t see the house himself any more and that annoyed him. He delved into his rucksack and took out the length of wire.
How did she find him, though? Was she some kind of psychic? Did she know his thoughts in advance? He grinned. If she did, it wasn’t well enough – she’d have got here earlier otherwise.
He tucked the wire in his pocket and put on his gloves. He got out and walked towards the car. He saw her raise a huge camera to her eye and take a picture of a woman crossing the road a hundred yards away. Strange – didn’t she know who she was after? She certainly didn’t know how close he was. She was so busy fiddling with the camera that she probably never checked the rear mirror.
Just as he drew near the car, a man turned the corner ahead of him. David had a choice – walk on or turn around. He kept on walking and turned the corner himself.
Rousseau had seen him now. From the back, yes, but if she was as good as he thought, she’d taken a picture, got his height and build, his clothes and the colour of his hair. In a matter of minutes now, she’d be matching that with the description she must have got from Charlotte Perle.
He walked all round the block again till he got back to his car. Rousseau was still up ahead, watching the house.
Was she also looking in the rear-view mirror now, taking pictures of everything that moved? He got into the car and performed a three-point turn in the street. It was less risky than driving straight past her, but conspicuous all the same.
Chances were she had his number plate now.
He set off aimlessly out of Clermont-Ferrand, the streets a blur through the tears he couldn’t hold back. He didn’t know whether it was relief or despair, he simply knew that one way or another, everything would soon be over.
***
He found himself on the road to Puy en Velay. When his mother was told she had cancer, she went to Le Puy en Velay and walked for a month on the ancient pilgrim path towards Santiago de Compostela. It was something you did to find yourself, she said, and when she came back she was more reconciled to dying. Now, on this overcast day in December, his own life almost over, David could see the attraction. Get on the path and keep on going till you drop. Then he’d prop himself up against a tree, take the gun from his rucksack and blow his brains out.
At the entrance to the town he stopped for petrol. While he was waiting in the queue he put his CDs in the glove box and he moved forward without looking and bumped the car in front. It was the gentlest of taps but the owner got out and said, ‘Why don’t you look what you’re doing?’ David apologised but the man didn’t say ‘That’s all right,’ he said, ‘Look what you’re fucking doing next time.’
David got out of the car. He inspected the other man’s car for damage. There was none, not the slightest scratch. ‘You want to make an official complaint?’ he said. ‘Take it to the insurance? Go ahead. I don’t mind.’
The man looked at him as if he was crazy. Then he scowled and got back in his car.
By the time he’d finished filling his tank, David’s mood had changed. The world was full of cunts like that. It was practically impossible to get rid of them. Ideally you should be able to stick a knife in them right there in the petrol station. Instead you had to let them off scot-free.
He had the man’s number plate, though. You never know, one day it might be worth teaching him some manners.
No, he thought, walking off into the sunset wasn’t the answer. If he had to die, he’d rather die fighting, not on some stupid path towards a God that didn’t exist. How could he run away when that bastard Metot had called him an arsehole? He, David Sollen, the Maestro, chicken out on account of Magali Rousseau? Something wasn’t right there. Something wasn’t right at all.
He parked in Le Puy and walked through the streets till he came to a bookshop. Out of curiosity, he flicked through a couple of guides to the Compostela path, but they only served to focus his mind even more on the task ahead. He bought a book for Elodie, The Little Red Hen, and for Magali Rousseau’s dear, pregnant daughter-in-law, The Everything Guide to Raising a Toddler. The salesgirl asked if he wanted it gift-wrapped, indicating the paper prettily patterned with strawberries. ‘Thanks,’ said David, ‘but I’ll do it m
yself.’
An hour later he was back on the road to Clermont, his palm thumping the wheel as Springsteen thundered through the speakers.
By the time he got back to Metot’s house it was dark. Rousseau’s car was where he’d left it, the poor bitch still inside. Mind you, he knew the feeling himself. Sitting and waiting. It was part of his job as well.
She stayed till almost ten. He didn’t stay all that time himself, he went and had a kebab, but when he came back she was still there. He guessed she’d eaten a sandwich in the car.
Did she leave because she was fed up? Or because she was being replaced by plain-clothes police? David waited a bit longer. No other car took her place. He advanced and took it himself. He waited again, looking in his mirror to see if anyone took the place he’d vacated. No one did.
Was it possible that she hadn’t got his number plate, still didn’t know his name, and was there all on her own, on spec, just in case he turned up? He went back to his hotel, increasingly convinced that it was. And with that came the understanding that he was free to come and go as he pleased, free to kill whoever he wanted, because whatever force was protecting him was making sure that not even Magali Rousseau was going to catch him.
***
The next day he checked in from time to time to see if she was there. She was. Still no sign of anyone else: either she hadn’t even bothered to tell the police or they had dismissed her as some sort of crank.
The rest of the time he spent strolling the streets of Clermont-Ferrand. It was a pleasant enough town but nothing special. In the evening he called home and got his mother-in-law. Marion was in London for the whole week, she said, preparing for some big fashion event. David pretended he knew about that, though he couldn’t remember if Marion had mentioned it or not. She probably had, but his attention wandered these days, his mind was only half there. Or else she’d decided it wasn’t worth telling him any more.
His mother-in-law put Elodie on the phone and they chatted for almost half an hour. Elodie was the only one he could listen to entirely, get lost in the sound of her voice. It took him away from everything else, to a place that was bright and fragrant, and he wanted to stay for ever. Time had stood still there, making him young himself, and for a moment after he finally said goodbye, he was back before it all began, before he fled from Treboulay’s house, before whatever it was he had inside him began to corrupt his soul.
Then the present came rushing back and he lay on the bed, his hands covering his face, his body racked with deep, relentless sobs that he thought would never end.
Eventually, though, he was able to stumble to the bathroom and wash his face. The pain was simply the price to pay for the joy of talking to Elodie. Now he had to get back to the job at hand.
After settling his hotel bill, he got to Metot’s house the following day at 9.30, his body rested, his mind refreshed and alert. If the postal service delivered as promised, today the fun would begin.
Sure enough, at 10.52, Rousseau’s phone rang. From where David was sitting, he couldn’t see her face, but he remembered what she’d looked like when she opened that little picture of her darling boy and his wife, and it made him laugh.
A couple of minutes later, Magali Rousseau, trainee detective destined to die before she solved her first case, drove off like a bat out of hell.
David silently thanked the postman of Sentabour, calmly took Rousseau’s place and settled down to watch the movements of victim number nine.
Shortly before noon, the Metot couple came out of the house together. Victor Metot opened the garage door, then pressed the remote that set the gate in motion. His wife got into the car, cheerily waved goodbye and drove off. Metot watched her go before taking a small path next to the garage and disappearing round the back of the house.
David started his car and went to park in front of the garage, a few yards from the entrance gate. He put on his gloves and took out the switchblade he’d used on Roncet. He glanced around quickly. The street was empty. He walked to the gate and pressed the handle. It swung open softly, the well-oiled hinges inviting him to slip silently inside.
He walked along the path by the garage until he could see the garden at the back. He peered round the side of the house. Metot had his back towards him. He was gathering logs from beneath a tarpaulin cover and he didn’t hear David approach.
‘Monsieur Metot?’ said David softly.
Metot jumped, dropped the logs and wheeled round. ‘Who are you?’ he demanded.
‘Arsehole!’ said David. The knife went into Metot’s chest.
As Metot grunted, staggering backwards on to the pile of logs, David aimed another blow to his neck, but Metot was falling too fast and the knife barely touched him. Metot was not yet dead and he started to shout as he struggled to get up. Dropping the knife, David grabbed a log and swung it at Metot’s head. Blood spurted out from the pulp of Metot’s nose, sprinkling David’s face. Metot was sprawled on the logs, howling in agony as he looked up at David in bewilderment. With a loud crack, the log came down on his forehead.
His jacket and trousers spattered with blood, David walked back to his car, wiping his face with a handkerchief as he went.
***
‘Hey! Been a while!’
‘How’s it going?’
‘Fine. What’s up?’
‘Nothing much. Yeah... Had things on my mind. Over now.’
‘Where are you? At home?’
‘Nah... Hey listen, I just sold this little statue I had in the garage for six thousand euros!’
‘You’re joking!’
‘I paid, like, two hundred for it a year ago. A sculptress, Sophie Kiesser, lives in Sentabour. She’s hitting the big time.’
‘You only had one? Shame.’
‘I’ll buy some more. They’re going to keep rising, it’s obvious. I went by her house yesterday in fact, but she’s away. Doesn’t get back till tomorrow, apparently. Totally unguarded, it was, I mean anyone could walk in and grab the whole lot from her workshop. Crazy!’
‘You mean to say you didn’t?’
‘What, steal it? Hey, Franck, I’ve quit that scene, you know I have. I won’t say I wasn’t tempted but not any more. No way. I’ll call her tomorrow, work out a deal... So anyway, what have you been up to?’
The car was parked on a country road thirty miles out of Clermont. David had splashed his face with water and changed into a new set of clothes. He remembered how careful he used to be, stuffing the old clothes into a plastic bag and putting it into a wheelie bin hundreds of miles away. This time he tossed them over a hedge.
After ending the call to Franck, he reclined his seat and closed his eyes. Sleep was impossible, but after a while he managed to relax a little. He didn’t want to arrive too early.
By the time he did, he reckoned, Franck would be sweating it out at the police station, swearing blind that he may be a thief but he’d never murdered anyone. Eventually they’d believe him but it might take a while. David smiled. You couldn’t help but like the poor clod, but honestly, he’d been getting uppity lately. It would do him the world of good to have the fuzz take him down a peg or two.
And the Maestro, meanwhile, would be settling Rousseau’s account once and for all.
Part three
There’d Be No Green Bottles
Chapter 33
He was back. He never went away. Whoever Franck Courdais was, he didn’t kill Antoine and all the others. Unless there were two of them. Magali suddenly realised she’d never thought about that. But now was too late to start: whichever one he was, he was back. The man on the piano. The evil one.
He was downstairs in the utility room, next to the trip switch. Slightly closer to Sophie than she was herself, and he probably had a torch. All Magali had was the advantage of knowing the place better, but that didn’t count for much when it came to fighting a psychopath.
‘Sophie! I’m on my way!’ she yelled, more to let the killer know than Sophie. She had to distract his att
ention, show him she wasn’t scared. Except that she was petrified, and she stood for a moment at the top of the stairs, unable to think or move. Who was he going to come after? If she met him on the stairs, there was no way she could fight him without a weapon of her own. Why, oh why hadn’t she brought the kitchen knife?
There came another scream, and the sound of someone crashing into furniture.
Magali bounded down the stairs as fast as possible. She advanced along the hall, arms outstretched, her eyes fixed on a crazily dancing light that came from the sitting room. Sophie was squealing and panting and then there came a loud grunt of pain from a man and the light disappeared. Magali strode faster, immediately tripping over the suitcase she’d left, and as she slithered against the wall, trying to stay on her feet, she knocked a picture off its hook and it shattered in front of her. Her shoes crunched on broken glass as she turned into the sitting room.
From beneath the dresser where the torch had rolled came the only source of light, just enough to make out the figure of the killer. He was standing in the middle of the room, next to the overturned coffee table. His shadow, huge and dark, covered the wall and curved on to the ceiling. He was moving towards the settee.
She didn’t see Sophie at first, only heard her breathing, something between a hiss and a snarl, like an animal suddenly trapped. Then she distinguished a shape behind the settee and she guessed rather than saw that Sophie had managed to grab the poker from the fireplace and was waving it in front of her, the killer’s shadow engulfing her now as he crouched lower and stealthily moved towards her. In his right hand, making little circles in the air, Magali detected the glint of a knife.
Sophie had only the poker to defend herself and only the settee between her and the killer, who was covering the door to the kitchen. But if he moved behind the settee, Sophie could escape the other side and make a dash for the hall.
But the killer saw that too, and instead of going round the settee, he leapt on to it, arms out wide, towering above Sophie and snaring her in the corner. Sophie, taken by surprise, screamed and backed away, jabbing up with the poker as she fell against the corner table behind her.
One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1) Page 28