by Peter May
“In those days he was involved with the island youth movement. And this place was used as a kind of activity centre for youngsters in the summer. He had a set of keys.”
“So Killian stumbled upon Kerjean having sex with some woman, and that was enough to motivate Kerjean to want to kill him?”
“She wasn’t just “some woman,” Monsieur Macleod. She was Arzhela Montin, the wife of the first adjoint of the mayor, a privileged and respected man in the island community. On the face of it, happily married, with two young children. Montin was a Parisian, regarded as being quite a catch for an island girl. For a woman like that to be having an affair with a man like Kerjean… well, it would have been the talk of the island. And it very soon was. Within a week of Killian catching the two of them together here, the story was out.”
“And Kerjean thought it was Killian who blew the whistle on him?”
“He didn’t just think it. He was convinced of it. And there were dire consequences, for both Kerjean and his lover. Kerjean worked for the council at that time. A kind of cantonnier, involved in island maintenance. Roads, verges, hedgerows, and clearing the kilometers of pathways that criss-cross the island for walkers and randonneurs. It took the administration no time at all to find a reason for sacking him. He also worked as a kind of informal stringer for the Breton newspaper, Ouest-France. They couldn’t get him fired from that position, but all the sources of official information that provided him with most of his copy, dried up just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
“And the woman?”
“Oh, her reward was a very messy divorce. The first thing Montin did was kick her out of the family home. And by the time Kerjean went to trial, Montin had divorced her and won custody of the children.”
“Well, at least they still had each other. I mean, Kerjean and Arzhela.”
“Oh, no, monsieur. She refused to ever see Kerjean again. And when it came to his trial she gave some pretty damning evidence against him.”
Enzo turned his gaze toward the sun shimmering across the strait. Scraps of white sail caught the light, flashing against the petrol blue of the ocean, late-season sailors out catching the breeze. “So what was the consensus of opinion at the time? Was Killian really responsible for letting the cat out of the bag?”
“No one knows for sure. By the time it became an issue, Killian was dead. But to be perfectly honest, monsieur, it would have seemed very out of character to me. Adam Killian was not exactly integrated into the island community. Incomers rarely are. Particularly the English. I’m sure he knew or had met Montin at some point, but I can’t imagine for one moment that he went knocking on the man’s door to tell him that his wife was having a relationship with the cantonnier.”
“So why would Kerjean think he had?”
“You’d have to ask him that. Not that I’d recommend it.” The gendarme scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Although I imagine it was probably the timing of it all. Kerjean and Arzhela must have been pretty sure no one else knew about them. Then Killian chances upon them here at the fort, and in a matter of days it’s all out in the open.”
They walked along the grassy bank in silence then, to where it rose up above the line of chimneys sunk in the earth. From here they had a panoramic view across the island, and Enzo felt the comforting warmth of the sun on his face. He tried to imagine the encounter here that day. How had Kerjean reacted? He was known for his violence and his foul mouth. Had he said or done something that had prompted the reclusive Killian to seek revenge in some way? “What was it that first pointed investigators in Kerjean’s direction?” he asked.
“Well, it was a strange situation,” the adjudant gendarme said. “Killian was found by his cleaning lady the morning after the murder. She called the gendarmerie, quite hysterical. A radio call went out to a couple of officers who were down at the harbour in the van. By the time they got out to Killian’s house, Kerjean was already there.”
Enzo turned to look at him, surprised. “What was he doing there?”
“I told you that he was a stringer for the newspaper Ouest-France. He said that as a matter of habit he was always tuned into police frequencies and heard the radio call going out to our officers. Told us he’d driven straight out there. Murder on Groix! He could sell the story all over France.”
“So he got to Killian’s place before the police?”
“Yes.” Guéguen pulled a face. “Which provided a very convenient explanation for his fingerprints being found on the gate and a muddy footprint in the garden. And, as I told you, island officers in those days had no idea how to treat or secure a murder scene. So all sorts of people had tramped all over it before senior investigators arrived from the mainland.” He shook his head. “There was hell to pay, I can tell you. And, in the end, it probably cost us the conviction.”
“What other evidence was there against Kerjean?”
“You mean other than his lack of alibi, his murder threats against Killian, and the item of personal property we recovered from the scene?” Air exploded from between his lips in remembered frustration. “Dammit, Monsieur Macleod, if our people hadn’t been so inept there’s no way Kerjean would have got away with it.”
“Tell me.”
The gendarme removed his kepi and scratched his head. “About two days after the murder a pen was discovered in the grass near the annex. A very expensive, hand-crafted pen called a Montblanc. Turned out to have Kerjean’s prints all over it. He confessed that it was his, a gift, he said, and claimed that he must have dropped it when he was there to report on the murder. The boys from the mainland were already suspicious, and they really turned the spotlight on him then. Which is when they discovered that he couldn’t account for his whereabouts the night of the murder.”
“Where did he say he was?”
“At home in bed.”
“Aren’t they all?” Enzo grinned. “So there was no one to vouch for that?”
Guéguen raised a wry eyebrow. “For once it seems, he didn’t have a woman in his bed.” He raised a finger. “But here’s the thing, monsieur. His car is always parked outside his house in Locmaria. Always. But a neighbour, coming home late that night, noticed that the car wasn’t there. Even although the house was all shuttered up and in darkness.”
“So how did he account for that?”
“Said his car had broken down on the road on the drive back from Le Bourg, and he’d been forced to abandon it.”
“How did he manage to get out to Killian’s place, then, the next morning?”
Guéguen smiled. “Good question, monsieur. Of course he had an answer for it. Said he’d gone out at first light and got his car going again. Then came home and had his breakfast. Which is when he heard the police call on the radio.”
Enzo nodded. “And no one saw him?”
The gendarme smiled. “Not a soul.”
“You said Kerjean had threatened to murder Killian. How did that come about?”
“In a pub in Le Bourg, Monsieur Macleod. Le Triskell.”
“Oh, yes, I know it.” Enzo recalled the bar with its small deserted terrace opposite the doctor’s house in the Place du Leurhé.
“One of Kerjean’s favourite haunts. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d got drunk there. The regulars knew him well and usually gave him a wide berth. But that night, about a week before the murder, he was in drowning his sorrows over his fractured relationship with Arzhela. He was very vocally, very loudly, telling anyone who’d listen, what a bastard that Englishman, Killian, was. How you could never trust an incomer, and a foreigner to boot. Killian had ratted on him, he said. Ruined his life. And if their paths ever crossed again he’d strike the old bastard down and dispatch him to the cemetery, where he belonged.”
They climbed down mossy and overgrown steps to the old parade ground and headed back toward the gate at the far side.
“The thing is,” the gendarme said. “Kerjean had motive and opportunity. He had threa
tened to kill the victim, was first at the scene, and had left traces everywhere. The evidence was circumstantial, sure, but the juge d’instruction at Vannes decided there was enough of it to proceed with a prosecution.”
“Which failed.”
“Yes.” Guéguen’s mouth set in a hard line. It clearly still rankled. “Largely because of our inept handling of the crime scene. Kerjean hired a good lawyer, who blew gaping holes through our case by exposing failures in procedure.”
They passed through the shadow of the entrance tunnel and Guéguen pulled the gates shut behind them, locking and securing them with a chain and padlock. Then they crossed the outer moat and followed the muddy track between high walls that led to the outside gates. Enzo found himself breathing more easily out here. There was something almost oppressive about the fort, open though it was. Something to do, perhaps, with its dark history. German occupation, a chance encounter leading to the destruction of lives, and perhaps even the death of Adam Killian.
Enzo had a sense of Killian almost everywhere he went on the island, as if the man was following him, haunting him. Knuckles tapping his forehead, urging him to focus, begging him to think. As if somehow it should be obvious. And there was a tiny voice nagging somewhere at the back of his head, telling him he was looking in the wrong place. Come back, it said. The answer’s in my study. That’s where I left my message. Not here. But Enzo was nothing if not methodical. “What other evidence was found at the scene?” he said, and walked with Guéguen toward the cars.
“Very little. The annex, and the house itself, had been searched. Not very carefully. The killer was clearly anxious and in a hurry. The place was a mess.”
“Do you know if anything was taken?”
“No. Killian lived on his own. His daughter-in-law went through the place for us, of course, but said she wasn’t aware of anything obvious that had gone.” The gendarme opened the door of his Renault. “We found prints everywhere. Killian’s. His son, the son’s wife, the femme de ménage. Others that didn’t match anything on the database.”
“But not Kerjean’s?”
“Apart from those lifted from the gate, no. We recovered three shell casings from Killian’s study. No prints on those, of course. Even if there had been, they’d have been vaporised when the gun was fired. But ballistics was able to determine that the weapon used was a Walther P38. A very common semiautomatic handgun. Standard issue to German soldiers during the war. So it’s quite possible that a number of those weapons found their way into circulation on the island after the Occupation. You know, as trophies.”
Enzo nodded. He said, “Adjudant, I have a couple of very big favours to ask.”
Guéguen turned inquisitive eyes on the big Scotsman. Enzo had said very little during the gendarme’s exposition. Quietly listening, asking the occasional question. Whatever favours he wanted now, would surely provide some kind of indication of the way his thoughts were moving. “Go ahead.”
“I’d like, if possible, to get my hands on two items of evidence.”
“Which are?”
“The autopsy report. I take it there was an autopsy?”
“Of course. But that’s a tall order, Monsieur. That report would have been submitted as evidence and would be held with everything else at the greffe in Vannes.”
“It’s possible, isn’t it, that there is a copy on file at the hospital where it was carried out?”
Guéguen exhaled deeply. “It’s possible.” And he shook his head. “But I’m not at all sure how easy it would be to get ahold of it.” He paused. “And the other item?”
“I’d like one of those shell casings recovered from the crime scene.”
Guéguen looked at him in amazement. “Well, even if it was possible to lay hands on one, why? I told you there were no prints on them. What could you possibly learn from a shell casing?”
“Possibly everything,” Enzo said. “Indulge me.”
The gendarme frowned again. “I’d love to, Monsieur Macleod, I really would. But I’m not at all sure I can. The autopsy report, maybe. But a shell casing…” He blew air through pouting lips and gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug.
“Well, maybe you have a favour or two you can call in. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”
Guéguen stood staring at him for a long moment before setting his jaw. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Chapter Thirteen
The Maison de la Presse was set back off the road, opposite the boulangerie. It was the biggest bookstore and newsagent in Le Bourg. Enzo found a parking place in the market square and wandered across the street. He wore Killian’s scarf around his neck, to keep out the chill of the morning. It was another stunning fall day, white sparkling frost still lying in the shadows where the sun had not yet fallen.
Enzo found the sharp, cold air clearing the fog from a head that was still fuzzy from too much wine the previous evening. Jane Killian had poured with a generous hand during the casseroled meal they had shared at the dining table in the main house. Gently tipsy and mellowed by the wine, she had been disappointed when he took his leave just after ten, pleading fatigue and the need of an early night.
And then he had stood in the dark of the chill bedroom above Killian’s study and watched her undress beyond the unshuttered window across the lawn, knowing that she knew he would be watching. And he had found that he was very nearly aroused by the thought.
All the newspapers and sports rags were lined up in two revolving racks opposite the counter. It took Enzo only a moment to find a copy of Ouest-France. He lifted it out and took it to the counter. A thin-faced, middle-aged woman with short, silvered curls cut close to her head smiled at him. “Seventy centîmes, monsieur.” He handed her a five-euro bill, and she searched out his change in the till. “You’re even better-looking in the flesh.” She almost giggled. “So to speak.” And blushed.
Enzo looked at her blankly. “I’m sorry?”
“The photograph they had of you in the paper didn’t do you justice.”
“Oh, yes.” He forced a smile. “I’ve been known to crack a few lenses in my time.” It was her turn to look blank. But he pressed on. “Can you tell me, madame, where I might be able to find back copies of Ouest-France?”
She frowned. “Mmm. How far back do you want to go?”
“About twenty years.”
And her face uncreased as enlightenment dawned. “Ah. You want to look at coverage of the Killian murder.”
“The trial, actually.”
“Oh, well, that would be about eighteen years ago now. At Vannes.”
“Yes.”
She shook her head solemnly. “I’m not sure where you’d find editions that old. The bibliothèque in town here usually has the current edition for patrons of the library. But whether or not they keep back copies, I wouldn’t know.” She barely paused for breath. “I hear that man’s been threatening you already.”
Enzo raised his brows in surprise. “What man?”
“Thibaud Kerjean.” Even although there was no one else in the store, she lowered her voice and leaned confidentially toward Enzo. “He’s a bad lot. And done nothing but give this island a bad name. No one likes him, monsieur. They never have.”
“Except a whole procession of female admirers, apparently.”
She folded her arms beneath mean little breasts pressed flat by a blouse two sizes too small. “Tramps. Every last one of them.”
“Arzhela Montin, too?”
“Hah!” The woman tossed back her head in disdain. “Worst of the lot. Everyone knew what was going on between her and Kerjean.”
“Did they? I heard it was a pretty well-kept secret until Killian stumbled across them out at Fort de Grognon.”
“No, monsieur. It was the talk of the island.”
But Enzo was more inclined toward Guéguen’s version of events, that nobody had known about it before the incident at the fort. After all, it was almost twenty
years ago now, and people’s memories of when they knew or didn’t know about something would inevitably be suspect. He had no doubt that it had, indeed, been the talk of the island once the story was out. “I don’t suppose you know what happened to her, after the divorce.”
“Oh, she’s married again now. Calls in here most mornings for the paper.”
Enzo was taken aback. “She’s still on the island?”
“Never left, monsieur. Found herself another incomer who didn’t know any better and went to live out at Quelhuit.” She grunted. “Almost within sight of the very place that poor Adam Killian found her having sexual relations with the cantonnier. And her married to the mayor’s adjoint, too! She had no shame, monsieur. Then or now.” She leaned forward again, in conspiratorial mode once more. “Personally, I can’t for the life of me understand what any of these women saw in the man. He’s creepy and rude. In here every afternoon for his racing paper and tobacco. I’ve always tried to be civil to him, but he’s done nothing but bite my nose off with every polite enquiry about his health or innocent comment about the weather.”
Enzo suspected there was probably nothing either innocent or polite that ever rolled off the tongue of the libraire. But as he lifted his paper he saw that she had suddenly flushed, and seemed flustered and self-conscious. He turned, following her eyeline, to see Kerjean entering the store. He was wearing the same donkey jacket as two nights previously. The same worn and oil-soiled jeans. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, his head pulled down into his collar. His face betrayed evidence of a rough evening the night before, deep shadows beneath bloodshot eyes, a complexion that was pasty pale and bloodless. He flicked a sullen glance in Enzo’s direction, then ignored him as he went to pick a couple of journals from the rack.
Enzo turned back to the libraire. “So where can I find the library?” he asked.