by John Brooke
‘…Which is one scenario but still pretty much square-one territory,’ advised her judge.
‘But now you tell me about this Prince who’s on DST’s list…’
‘Maybe. Still just a name.’
‘…who’s been hanging around up at the bistro listening to Joël Guatto talk, who is not really Charles Stuart. Who may be an anarchist who sees the so-called system the same as she.’
‘But they don’t assassinate. They blow things up.’
‘Exactly.’
He stopped. Faced her. ‘But he would be on their side. Guatto. I mean, if you put him that context.’
She nodded, ‘It definitely puts Guatto in a different light, granted. But it connects to her. And it adds substance to the beach.’ She continued walking.
Sergio Regarri fell back in beside her but did not respond.
‘Whoever this Prince is, Stephanie McLeod is lying about him. I think he’s down at the beach or thereabouts. I think she went to see him Wednesday. Big worry there — far more than just another boyfriend. I think Joël Guatto went to see him too — on Monday. And obviously someone else went down there too.’
Her judge went straight to the point she had deliberately fudged. ‘She ran?’
‘Well, better to say ducked out the back before we could really get down to brass tacks.’
He mulled this. Did he notice an inspector’s face warming? Aliette put a little distance between them, played at observing the passing throng… now considering a woman, the better part of her hidden under a chador and drab brown robe; but on her feet, a pair of exquisitely designed red sandals. Very fine. The kind one could wear to the office or out for a drink.
Turning, tracking the shapeless figure, she asked, ‘Where would she find those?’
Sergio Regarri turned from his deliberations. ‘Find what?’
‘Those sandals.’
‘B’eh, ask her…’ They kept moving. He played with the pieces. ‘She admits to sleeping with Guatto until he lets her down.’
‘Politically. Seems to have her own large weight of guilt to bear. Freely admits she pushed him too hard. Feels she’s somehow responsible for what happened.’
‘Not the man she thought he was. And now it’s bye-bye, Prince. Yes?’
‘So she says. She was hiding lots. Frightened, backing away from something.’
‘But if that’s the truth, how did this Prince guy disappoint her?’
She thought, Good point, monsieur le juge. But had to note, ‘It may be another lie.’
‘Think she needs a push? Bring her in to detention, sweat the boyfriend angle?’
‘Instinct tells me not just yet. She says they broke up. Let me confirm that first.’ Maybe Stephanie’s Prince would come into clear relief in the process. ‘Maybe he is just a boyfriend.’
‘Fine.’ Five steps on, he suddenly added. ‘But there’s only the one Prince in the system and he is very political.’ Sternly. As if warning her not to let this thread go loose.
Good. He was seeing the possibilities. But the system was out of reach till she had firmer context. In the meantime, ‘Will you allow me to talk to Bousquet?’
‘About what, Inspector?’ Sergio suddenly sounded distinctly pained.
‘Aliette, please… About kickback on wine deals. Using his office to broker Spanish business. She swears she heard Roland Bousquet cooking up deals with Guillaume Ricard for Domain Clorres, and money for Roland was a part of it. I talked to the co-op manager at Saint-Brin yesterday. There are ten more I can go and see. There are plenty around here who see Guillaume Ricard as a traitor, if not the enemy.’
‘You’ll need a lot more than that if you want to talk to Guillaume Ricard about murder.’
‘I know, I know... And there’s the mayor of Sauvian too. Umm — ’
‘Aurier. Alexandre Aurier.’
‘Merci…Stephanie reeled it all off for me, chapter and verse, all in her head. A very bright girl, if sadly disillusioned.’
‘B’eh, ENA.’ It went without saying that Stephanie McLeod was bright. But bright did not mean worldly. ‘Look… Aliette, it may be sleazy but it’s not illegal. Not quite. Roland Bousquet knows his business. The way Roland worked the contracts on the new stadium? It created an entire sector of investigative journalism. He sailed through it all. Nabi Zidane would love to bury Roland.’
‘Well, then, maybe the wine industry will open up a window of opportunity for Nabi.’
‘Nabi wants nothing to do with the wine industry. Enough to do right here in town.’
‘Then perhaps you could see if Bousquet would have a reason?’
‘To kill his friend’s son? Not without causing far too much trouble. For us, not him.’
‘Are you afraid of this man?’
‘Just used to him,’ said Magistrate Regarri.
Which lost him a point or two in the eyes of Chief Inspector Nouvelle.
Perhaps he felt it? Taking her arm, he negotiated another oncoming wave of walkers. He possessed a subtle touch and he wanted to connect. She felt it. They continued on in silence to the foot of the promenade, where he grabbed her hand and led a dash through a break in the traffic and into Plateau des Poètes, a small park overlooking the area around the train station, the canal beyond. The noise receded. The scent of flowers held its own against the diesel smell.
Regarri asked, ‘What about the Guatto family?’
‘I’ll talk to them again, of course. Funeral’s tomorrow. I’ll make an appearance, shake some hands, see who’s who.’
‘Yes, good. Try your luck. Bousquet will be there, it’s almost certain…’ He thought. ‘And get a description of this Prince — not from her, send someone to the beach.’
‘Right.’
Looking past her, he brightened. ‘Let me treat you.’ Leaving legal strategy in the lurch, his newly coiffed hair bounced as he trotted over to a glace vendor and purchased two Miko bars.
They licked and nibbled by a rosebed. Below, the Talgo was pulling into the station, en route to Spain. She had been meaning to try a weekend in Barcelona. Slurping up the last bit of chocolate-coated vanilla, he accepted the offer of a tissue from her pocket and dabbed his chin. And his shirt. As he worked at it, she considered Sergio Regarri.
Aliette Nouvelle had made a pact with herself to never again fall in love with a colleague.
Never, ever.
Now, on a whim, she asked, ‘Do you want to have lunch on Sunday?’
‘Love to. Where?’
‘My house.’
· 9 ·
GUARDIAN
‘I can’t! …I’m sorry.’ Stephanie McLeod, maybe the most over-qualified waitress in France sniffled, wiping her cheeks, miserable from guilt and bad decisions.
‘Please, ma belle. No one wants their supper served by a weepy woman. It tends to ruin the point of the exercise.’ Avi Roig, Chef and Proprietor of Bistro Les Oliviers, sipped his usual glass of icy red. He handed her a tissue. He reached for an olive.
‘I can’t just go and work like nothing happened!’
Avi patted Stephanie’s shaky hand. This was allowed, at least at a time like now. ‘Stephanie, it is a tragedy, but it has nothing to do with you.’
‘It’s my fault. I know it is.’ So adamant in her misery — the only thing she was sure of.
Bemused in the face of it, Avi wondered, ‘How could it possibly be your fault?’
‘I pushed him!’ Stephanie insisted.
For such a smart girl, she could be very thick. Again, the chef explained, ‘You try to help him — he proves himself a total zero. How in the world can you be responsible for that?’
‘I know what he was thinking.’
‘You give yourself too much credit. Joël Guatto’s delusions were not your fault and you’ve no idea what happened. At least let the police fi
gure it out before dying of guilt.’
She yanked her arm away from his solicitous hand. ‘You treat me like a child!’
He did not say, Because you act like one. ‘I treat you like an employee who has had plenty of time to absorb this sad event and who should now be composed and mature enough to carry on. Please. Go. Do your job. Show me you love me. Work is love made visible!... Who said that?’
‘You’re an idiot ass.’
‘No, a realist ass. Looking out for his little dreamer.’
‘Get stuffed! Some days I could just — ’
‘You’re my point man, Steph. Get out there and make some money for me.’
She wiped her teary eyes, grabbed her tray and headed for the terrace. In a huff.
Avi Roig knew the huff would disappear the moment she stepped onto the floor. She was dedicated, if not a professional. And a warm Friday night, six tables, was exactly what she needed. How many times had he told her to take a lesson from her poor parents? Both dead of cancer before turning sixty. Why? Stress from great causes that couldn’t be let go. A silly and unnecessary waste of life. What would God say? Stephanie’s political passions were worrisome. Her sense of responsibility for a fool the likes of Joël Guatto was useless and absurd.
The work phone rang. ‘Les Oliviers.’
‘Stephanie, please.’
‘She’s working.’
‘Please, man.’
‘No.’
·
She returned, uncorked a third bottle for table five, began organizing coffee and digestifs.
Picking up more or less where they’d left off, Avi asked, ‘So what exactly was he thinking?’
By necessity their dialogues were piecemeal. But continuous.
‘On Monday? I don’t know.’
‘I know.’
‘What?’
‘He was thinking about saving the world. He couldn’t let it go. Very noble. Except he wasn’t thinking — he was dreaming. Which turns noble into stupid.’
‘Is it really so stupid to have a dream?’
‘If the dream is absurd… The thing about absurdity is its total lack of self-awareness.’
‘Fuck off, Avi. Idealism is something we need more of in this shitty world.’
Stephanie could be nasty and crude. It was her only way to hit back at his relentless attacks.
He stayed calm. He knew he was relentless. ‘Not where I come from. Idealists are a blight.’
‘This is not going to be about Israel, Avi!’
‘Everything is, neshama.’ Popping an olive. ‘Eventually. Israel is the brain of God. Mm?’
‘No! Just stop it. I am not your neshama… Be serious or go to hell.’
‘Right.’ Avi Roig scratched his nose, perusing her dessert orders.
‘Joël wanted a fair deal. For his people.’
‘Voilà, just like Moses.’
‘Oh, you’re a bastard. An uncaring, cold-hearted — ’
‘He had no power, Stephanie. I mean, no power. When he opened his mouth. When he walked into a room. You could feel it…Or more to the point — you couldn’t feel it. No disrespect for the dead, but I was forever underwhelmed by Monsieur Joël Guatto.’
‘But he did not deserve to die.’
‘This is not for us to know.’ Finishing his wine, he went to prepare the desserts.
·
Later, Stephanie was tallying her bills, focused. She was always calm when adding up the take. A banker thing she’d got from her papa? Avi leaned on the bar, eating peach tarte, sipping coffee. ‘There’s no more need for heroes,’ he said, still picking away at the mess that was Joël Guatto. ‘It’s all economics. The Euro mechanics will give them their fair deal. The French will have to be patient, maybe a bit more adaptable than the French are used to being. It’s evolution. Joël Guatto could not see past the end of his nose. Stuck in the past.’
Stephanie paused in her calculating. ‘Mechanics is a good word — they think parts, not people. They could not care less about people.’
‘It’s why people have to change a bit. That’s life.’
‘Why are you so determined to hide your eyes from reality, Avi?’
‘This is reality…’ Proffering a morsel of pie on his fork. ‘Bite?’
She ignored the pie.
‘And this is exactly where you ought to be. I can’t do this alone, God knows.’
‘But I don’t like you. And I have better things to do.’ She went to present her bills.
He knew she really did like him. Because he loved her and looked out for her best interests. Someone had to. Avi Roig believed Stephanie knew that and would always respond in kind.
The work phone rang. ‘Les Oliviers.’
‘Let me talk to her.’
‘No. And you’d do well to let it go, my friend.’
· 10 ·
A BRAZILIAN DETECTIVE
Saturday morning had brought a refreshing breeze carrying high running clouds. Inspectors Nouvelle, Barthès and Dardé were camped discreetly in the shade of a cypress, observing from a respectful distance as mourners gathered round the family tomb in the cemetery at Puisserguier. If they were noticed, they were ignored. There was a huge turnout, as one might expect for a family so central to the region’s raison d’être. Henri and Magui pointed out notables. Aliette spotted her wine-producer neighbour Jocelyne Grasset and her husband Alain. She was surprised, then not, to see one of the men who’d been eating lunch at the next table during her visit to Les Oliviers. Henri pointed out the accountant who did the books for the association of Caves Coopératives; the vignerons — grape growers as opposed to independent wine producers — were the ones most at risk from the new eat-what-you-kill Euro rules. The accountant was due at the commissariat on Monday morning, when he would translate his ledgers into profiles: Who was angry? Politicized? Who would choose the militant route? While not poets or psychologists, bean counters are privy to the thing that defines so much of who we are.
She noted two young boys, twins, their mother holding each by a hand. Magui confirmed that this was the estranged Sophie. She assumed the victim’s mother was the frail, rather absent-seeming woman supported by Noëlli and Paul. Her grey-white hair was elegantly long and loose, her jet-black brows a reminder of a once-regal raven mane. But her ashen skin bespoke a soul who’d been hiding in her room despite the summer. Possibly over-indulging a habit to blunt whatever pain she carried? Even from a respectful distance, one recognized the signs.
Marcelin Guatto was as tan as his wife was wan. He had placed himself slightly apart, waiting alone by the unsealed door to the family tomb, beside the casket bearing his son.
No Stephanie McLeod. She would not be welcome. She would be arranging her tables for lunch. But, ‘Red tie, grey suit?’
Magui Barthès adjusted her viewer. ‘B’eh…Roland Bousquet.’ A face anyone would know.
‘No mayoral sash today,’ observed ever-laconic Henri.
‘He’s here as a friend of the family.’ Magui clicked off another shot. For the record.
Sash or no, two burly men in shades were trailing Monsieur Bousquet at a polite remove.
The priest and three undertakers in identical blue coats were standing by. Finally, the last of the mourners seemed to have arrived and found a place in the circles. The priest stood over the casket and raised a hand. The murmur disappeared behind the breeze. There was a final prayer and homily, a last blessing committing Joël Guatto into the hands of the Lord. Roland Bousquet stepped forward, put a comforting hand on the shoulder of the grieving father as the three men in blue coats lifted the coffin through the door and onto a ledge in the eternally dark room.
Aliette had driven up to Vieussan before coming over to Puisserguier. Not to see Stephanie McLeod. Or Avi Roig. And she hoped they had not seen her. Though it would be hard to mi
ss her lovely car. But if Stephanie had lied, and Avi Roig had let her duck away, well… She’d driven past the bistro and up to the village place and asked some youngish mothers about Stephanie’s new boyfriend.
Thin. Punky, pins and tattoos. Shaven head. Pas très beau, in their considered opinion. Before heading to the reception at Domaine Guatto, Aliette sent Henri and Magui down to the beach with this basic description. Not to the scene of the murder but farther along, to Valras. They should spend a few hours nosing around. Nabi Zidane’s team had canvassed thoroughly as to waiters and shopkeepers and holidaymakers noticing Joël Guatto the day of the murder — without useful result. But they had not yet known about a bald British punk.
‘Charge lunch to the investigation. We’ll talk later. Ciao.’
·
She parked at the end of a long line, checked her hair and face in the rearview, and put on the grey straw hat with the silver ribbon. This had been purchased for the wedding of a certain judge up north, then put away, then worn once several years later on a magical day in Basel with a certain long-lost Claude. She hoped it would be discreetly formal enough for a society funeral in the south at the end of June. Under the hat: a navy blue linen ensemble, a plain white cotton T-shirt, the same oxblood pumps from yesterday’s stroll in les allées. The chief inspector could have added sunglasses, but she felt there was no point hiding. Yes, she was working. She was also showing up as the area’s top cop — to pay her respects to one of its top families. A show of support? A reminder of her presence. It’s not easy defining one’s role at such moments.
The crowd was spread across the front lawn, servers in black and white wandering amongst them carrying trays. Aliette headed for Jocelyne Grasset. Not friends, not yet, but each month she walked the hundred steps or so to Jocelyne’s cave to refill her plastic jug with five more litres of very tasty Grasset red. ‘Salut.’
‘Madame Inspector.’ Cool. No move to shake hands. Jocelyne approved of the outfit, not so much of her. Not here.
Have to roll through that… ‘Big turnout. I had no idea.’