by John Brooke
‘More or less, yes… Marcelin Guatto was of age by then. That was his big moment. The shootout at Montredon in ’75, over in the Aude.’
Shooting Italians?
‘No. Us. The police. The winemakers go out like a small army of vigilantes, sidetrack and set flame to two boxcars full of plonk from Italy. Our people show up, pretty soon they’re shooting at each other. Farmers with hunting rifles against cops with machine guns — only for about half an hour, but still. One cop, one wine producer dead. Twenty thousand of them came for his funeral — the wine producer’s. I was there, still in uniform, directing traffic, controlling crowds, it was quite something, anger en masse, I’d never been exposed to anything like it. After the war with the Italians, Marcelin Guatto became a sort of local hero, a crusader who’d put his life on the line defending the cause. It obviously went to his head. It got a bit pathetic hearing about it when I was interviewing him about that poor girl.’
Aliette told Joseph Lopez that the weapon used to kill Marcelin’s son gave her Guatto case an air of political assassination, but people she hadn’t got to talk to had ruled that out.
‘Which people?’
‘DST. Proc. Divisionnaire…I don’t really know.’
Lopez chuckled. ‘Sounds like you have your work cut for you, Madame Chief Inspector.’
Somewhere behind an old policeman’s wry view of vested interests in high places, the noon bells in Perpignan began to peal. They were a southern minute or two ahead of Saint-Brin’s.
‘Nice bells there,’ she ventured.
‘Oui! And you should see what I’m having for my lunch. But you? How is life in Saint-Brin?’
‘Oh, pretty quiet…’ What to say when the new doctor’s affair with the woman who ran the maison de la presse was the most intriguing conversation filtering through town? Rather than sharing that sordid tidbit, she said, ‘Listen...’ holding the phone toward her open window, letting Joseph hear the Saint-Brin bells, now sounding noon. Hearing them, Joseph Lopez would know that directly below his former office the benches along the garden walkways had been abandoned and that the place and the street, bustling ten minutes ago, were now utterly empty. And would remain so till three.
·
The chief inspector requested the presence of both Magui and Henri. To reinforce her own presence, if need be. And to deflect the sad pressure of this first encounter. Informed of their destination, Mathilde Lahi was rueful. ‘Poor Joël…poor Marcelin! I’m so glad Maman didn’t marry him. Then again, Maman would’ve made him a different man. Eh?’
Neither part of the equation known, an answer was impossible.
Henri was another weekend cyclist and he knew a quieter, prettier way. On an empty back road traversing the plateau between Cazouls and Cazedarnes they passed parcels of vines… piney scrubland…an ultralight flying club, quiet on an weekday afternoon…an abandoned chapel. There was a haze over the sea, forty kilometres distant. Descending, they followed a crumbling wall to an open gate. A sign: Domaine Guatto. Before entering, Aliette pulled over and pushed the button. The retractable top rose up over the three cops and latched itself into place. Driving in as if on their way to the beach was inappropriate. They were Judicial Police coming to make first contact with a family who’d lost a son to criminal violence.
· 4 ·
A TASTE OF LE GUATTO
The wall was crumbling, but the house and grounds were in good repair. An outpost of Second Empire grandeur four stories high, built of dull grey stucco. Tall slim windows framed by sturdy ochre-stained shutters, a row of dormers along the steep slate mansard roof coated with silvery paint. The spiky line created by three turrets rising from the front peak was balanced by a larger observatory-like dome on one rear corner. Impressive, though not particularly southern; rather, a generic example of a certain level of wealth at a certain time in France. Well-kept lawns, a bench strategically placed in the peaceful shade of the umbrella pine. Orange and pink and white and violet showed proudly in the garden along the sunny side of the house. Two barn-sized structures could be seen around back. Aliette turned off the main drive and stopped in front of one.
The large door was open wide, but there was not a soul about. The entry was decorated with a wine barrel, a pot of geraniums on top, a quaint visitor’s bell nailed to the wall. A notice tacked below it indicated hours of business for tasting and buying. A rooster wandered out of the building adjacent. Aliette was expecting it to be followed by barking dogs.
She heard piano music instead, drifting from the main house, pretty but sad, and slow, ultra slow, almost disconnected, like Debussy not really in the mood. Mourning music. She led her team toward it, knocked lightly on the screen door, peering into the dim, opulent room.
A woman looked up from her keyboard, panicky, as if caught in the act of something. She left a chord in lonely decay…it was obliterated as the door banged behind her and she stepped into the sun. Clearly the sister of their victim: same broad forehead, widely placed dark eyes sloping downward at the outer edge, the very noticeable ears. Though not identical: not as naturally sallow as her brother, and her hair was softer, almost curly. And a reddish-brown, not black. Tied in a ponytail, it gave a scrubbed girlish effect against an oft-washed plain grey T-shirt.
The chief inspector thought the ponytail a mistake, given those protruding ears.
·
Noëlli Guatto thought, They don’t look like media. They had to be customers, wine tourists with no idea what had occurred. She hadn’t the energy to send them away. Her instinct was to address the man. He had a nice face. ‘I didn’t hear you come in. I’ll be right over. Just let me…’ gesturing at herself. The man made Noëlli feel messy. She wanted to change her shirt.
The woman with the mousey hair said, ‘We’re not here for wine, madame.’ Offering a card, introducing herself and her two colleagues. ‘I’m sorry to intrude. There’s never a good moment with something like this, but the sooner we start, the better.’
‘Oh.’ Staring at the chief inspector’s bona fides. ‘I suppose you’d better come in.’
Before they could step inside, Noëlli changed her mind. ‘No. The cave. My mother’s very fragile.’ It wasn’t true. Her mother wasn’t fragile, she was crazy. Did the police need to see that? She led them back across the yard and into the large shadowy space. Gesturing at a row of stools lined along a makeshift bar fashioned from a plank, Noëlli went behind it. The three officers sat amid displays of bottles and souvenir goblets, family photos, framed prizes. ‘What can I get you?’ Without waiting for replies, Noëlli automatically placed four glasses, then produced a chilled bottle of white, already uncorked. ‘A taste of viognier is perfect in the afternoon.’
‘We’re fine.’ The chief inspector smiled. ‘We’re working.’
What was her name? Her handsome helper smiled too. Noëlli knew he would like her wine. ‘A shame.’ She poured a single glass and lifted it to her lips. ‘But if you are, that means I’m not.’ Closing her eyes, she threw it back. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Your name?’
‘Noëlli Guatto. I am Joël’s sister.’ The woman began to ply her with questions. ‘Yes, older by about four minutes... No, I have no idea who would want to kill my brother… Probably political, yes. What other reason could there be? But even there — why? No one thought for a minute he would win, least of all him. Joël’s campaign was more to make a statement, to remind people of certain things… What things? The wine… Yes, sure he’s a hunter. A fisherman too, sometimes. We were raised to it. But it’s the wine. Our wine has always been under siege from one side or another and it’s happening again and Joël believed he could bring a distinct voice to the issue. I mean a voice that evoked more than heartless economics. He hoped he might get some positive energy going, like before… It has to be more than business. It’s a way of life. It’s our life.’ Noëlli paused to catch her breath. And pour herself anot
her glass.
She offered the bottle again — she could see both assistants wouldn’t mind.
The woman in charge relented. ‘OK. Just a drop.’
‘Bon.’ It was Noëlli’s pleasure to pour the police a drop. They tasted without comment as she explained the situation: Too much wine, too few rules. The market was crashing, the community was threatened. Or parts of it. ‘My brother felt compelled to do something. It’s in our blood.’
This seemed a good moment to down the rest of her second glass and pour herself another.
Then tell the police, ‘Our great-grandfather marched with Marcelin in the Revolt, you know. Marcelin Albert. The Revolt of 1907? ...You’re not from here? None of you? But how is that? The police? Surely this is wrong. One would think they would get people who know the lay of the land… No?’ Noëlli sipped and wondered, Did all police have such blank faces?
The blonde chief was watching her with limpid eyes, barely touching her wine.
‘Suffice to say, my brother cared. He felt tradition must be served.’ Noëlli presented the bottle. Le Guatto. ‘That’s my great-grandfather on the label. Joël says we can’t allow a monolithic fist called Europe to squeeze out the unique colours that make us who we are.’
She offered more wine all around. No takers. They watched her. Noëlli felt panic surging.
She forged on, ‘It’s more than preserving dialects and dances. These are metaphors, yes? But it is about guarding the personality of the real France. In fact, just the other night Joël was saying that keeping metaphorical thinking intact is really the nut of it because people understand the poetry of themselves, and this is what makes them beautiful. Otherwise, what are we? Of course, my brother did not go around making speeches like that, because one doesn’t, but it’s how he was thinking and I agree and not just because he’s my brother. Not at all.’ Noëlli gazed into her glass. Then across the bar. ‘Is this helping you solve the murder? …Maybe another taste?’
No? Well, you can’t force people, you can only set a convivial tone by pouring yourself a little more. She did so, informing them, ‘We have six reds, three whites and a rosé that is quite spectacular. Won a prize in California.’ Toasting the police, she gulped proudly.
They watched her. Noëlli knew she was making a hash of it.
Unsure what else to say, she asked, ‘Don’t you have one of those people who make those profile things so you can find the person who did this? Have you thought of that? I mean, surely.’ She sipped her wine to gain some distance. Her nerves were in chaos. She felt such deep relief when Blako charged out of the sunlight and into her arms that she began to weep.
Noëlli bent her face to Blako’s snout, kissing him as he licked up her tears.
·
Marcelin Guatto was clutching a pail. Under the sweat-stained brim of a sun hat he was deeply brown, profoundly morose. Noëlli’s face was buried in her hands. He placed a broad hand on his daughter’s quaking shoulder. ‘She’ll deal with it. Twins are close, you know.’
Aliette showed her warrant card, introduced herself, her colleagues.
He commented, ‘You are not from around these parts.’
‘Brittany. I worked in Alsace before transferring here.’
‘I’ve never been to either place,’ replied Marcelin.
She offered her condolences. He held her eyes, businesslike despite tragedy.
‘It may be political,’ he muttered, ‘but it’s not local. Not one of us. This was a professional, an assassin. The weapon. No one I know has a weapon like the one that killed my son.’
‘No conclusions yet, monsieur. Just directions.’ She wanted to ask exactly what he knew about the weapon and where he got his information, but said, ‘We appreciate your cooperation. Again, my condolences and forgive us for intruding. We will do our best to bring a resolution.’
‘Such folly. Complete and utter folly. They shot him down for a reason that does not exist.’
Noëlli emerged from her despair, soft face swollen and streaked. ‘People need hope, Papa, or how can they believe?’ Receiving no response, she put her face back in her hands.
Leaving Noëlli, they moved out of the cool cave into the warm afternoon.
Aliette said, ‘We’ll need to have a look at Joël’s house and his affairs.’
The old man shrugged.
‘I gather Joël lived here. On the property?’
‘My children live here, with me.’ Marcelin Guatto’s sad eyes gazed past her. There was a row of three small homes on the far side of the second cave. ‘Last one. The yellow.’
Aliette directed Henri and Magui to go ahead and have a look. She lingered with her client. ‘There is one more thing that might help us make a start on this: Why would he be walking on the beach? Do you have any thoughts on that?’
‘That I cannot fathom,’ said Marcelin.
Joël Guatto’s home was one of three identical places along a well-manicured laneway. The view looked down a swath of lawn to the edge of the domaine forest. Nothing like the palatial main house — it was the same common, serviceable four-level square box design as Aliette’s newly acquired home on the outskirts of Saint-Brin. She quickly ascertained the fact of a wife and two sons. Decamped, if empty underwear drawers and a dearth of toys are any indication.
Magui Barthès was installed in front of the desktop computer in the third floor office. ‘We should take this back to the shop. CPNT. Business things.’
‘Pack it… Henri?’
‘Lots of paperwork, boss.’ Henri Dardé was at the bookcase, engrossed in a photo of Noëlli Guatto — younger, in a formal dress, standing in front of a grand piano, bathed in light. She looked grateful. For the applause? Did Henri know the poor thing liked him? Did he know the boss would likely leverage that? Henri was largely masculine, but also very boyish — and according to Magui and Mathilde, badly in need of a girlfriend.
They found plastic cartons in the kids’ room and filled them. As they left, the brother was standing in the next doorway, arms folded, glum, quizzical. Paul Guatto was made more like his father than the twins — more French than Spanish was a quick way of dividing it. Lighter, finer hair, smaller ears, bonier nose, fairer skin, albeit steeped in plenty of sun. After appropriate condolences, she asked, ‘Can you tell me about your brother’s movements on Monday?’
‘I was with him for most of the morning. In the vines. We had the oenologist. We’re thinking of taking one of our fallow parcels in a new direction… Jo left around eleven, I guess. Was going into town — lunch with his lawyer. Settlement stuff. Then to see his boys after school.’
‘Was Joël nervous the past few weeks? Depressed? Fearful? Did you sense anything wrong?’
‘B’eh, fearful of what? Our operation is well-diversified.’
‘I mean his campaign.’
‘His campaign was over and done. He lost. He knew he would.’
‘Any idea why he might have been down at the beach?’
‘He liked it there. Good place to be alone. And school’s not out till five, I believe.’
‘You can’t suggest what was on his mind?’
‘His mistakes?’ Just there, the bitter thing emerged from brother Paul.
‘How long has Joël been separated?’
‘She moved the last of her things a few months ago. It’s been in the works for about a year. She couldn’t live with his political fantasy. Who could blame her? When he took up with his little English campaign manager, that sealed it.’
The voice of Noëlli intruded, this time with rancorous force. ‘She’s a peasant! She’s not even French!’ Noëlli appeared at her door. She had washed her face, applied some colour around her mouth and eyes and changed her shirt. It was an elegant blue rancher’s shirt from the Camargue, patterned in a white traditional Provençal motif. For the benefit of Inspector Dardé?
‘An Anglo?’
Paul clarified. ‘His deputy… Stephanie. Stephanie McLeod.’
Noëlli hissed, ‘A manipulative bitch.’
The inspector was accustomed to resentful eyes. But the loneliness factor — she never got used to that. For one desolate moment Noëlli Guatto’s exhausted eyes took Aliette to the lonely side of anger.
Paul Guatto did not respond to his sister. To a waiting cop, he declared, ‘I love my brother, but he was an idiot. A sentimental idiot.’ Controlling his grief, he bowed stiffly and went inside.
Noëlli hugged herself and did likewise, on the verge of tears again.
The three identical doors and accompanying wooden shutters were painted Provençal yellow, blue, and ochre, respectively. It was an attractive little lane, but far from happy.
Aliette sensed Noëlli Guatto knew more. She sensed Noëlli was using her misery to hide it.
·
Marcelin Guatto stood with his dog, watching as Magui and Henri loaded the trunk of the car. Still no sign of Madame Guatto. Aliette wrote her name on a form and presented it.
He waved it off. ‘Take what you need. Take it all. I never want to see it again.’
‘But you will probably see us again, monsieur. It’s the nature of the business, I’m afraid.’
‘I know all about how your business works.’
Indeed he would. ‘Could this crime be left over from that time — the accident?’
He stared far away…at his forest. ‘That family has moved on. I even offered them a settlement, something for their other child’s education. They said no. We’re the ones who keep it.’ He meant his family. All the Guattos owned his mistake. ‘I haven’t hunted in twenty years.’ Desolate, Marcelin Guatto proffered his pail. ‘At least nothing with legs.’
The pail was filled with mushrooms. The dog wagged its tail. Time to go back for more?
Aliette smiled for a defeated man with a pail of chanterelles and nothing to gain from lying.
When all was carefully packed, she got in behind the wheel. Noëlli’s sad piano started up in the salon. She asked, ‘What piece is that?’