by Peter May
Mont St. Cyr was not so much a mountain as the highest hill around. It was on the south side of the River Lot, at the bottom end of the loop which defined and contained Cahors. And from here, the town lay spread out below, almost at Enzo’s feet, its lights washing the darkness and reflecting in the water. On the far side of the loop he could see the floodlit towers of the Pont Valentré, and far beyond it, cutting through the hills, headlights on the autoroute heading south towards Toulouse.
There was a huge radio mast here, clustered with antennae and satellite dishes, a telescope for daytime tourists to view Cahors more closely from on high. Enzo perched on a bench below the balustrade, and Mont St. Cyr fell away sheer beneath him. He had come here the night she died. There had seemed no reason, then, to go on living. He had been consumed by grief and self-pity, drawn to the precipice. He had given up everything for her, and now she was gone. But almost as if she knew he would need a reason, she had left him one. A tiny part of herself. A little pink-faced, crusty-eyed screaming bundle wrapped in swaddling blankets that he had hardly been able to bring himself to hold. And as he sat here that night, wrestling with his darkest demons, she had been the only light in a very black place. A light drawing him back to sanity, to responsibility, to life.
He had come here often since then. It was a place that symbolised hope, a place where he knew that however lonely he might feel, he was not alone.
Tonight he had drunk too much at Le Forum, and then eaten alone in a tiny bistro off the Place de la Libération. He had not wanted to go back to the apartment, to face an evening alone with Nicole, the conversation of a nineteen-year-old, the awful temptation of those cantaloupe breasts. Alcohol had a habit of weakening the resolve. And that was not something he would have been able to live with in the cold light of day. And, so, here he was, on this hot summer’s night, in the same place he had been almost twenty years before. Nothing much had changed, except that he was almost twenty years older, the pink-faced bundle was on the verge of womanhood, and he was still alone.
Tonight, though, he was wrestling with different demons. A man’s murder. His killer, or killers. He had a sense that there must have been more than one of them. To have carried the dismembered corpse of a pig into the church and then taken away Gaillard’s body on his own seemed a monumental task for one man. And if there were more than one, then this was not just murder, but conspiracy to murder. For which there had to be some compelling reason. Something, perhaps, which Gaillard knew, that his killers did not want him to reveal. They had successfully made him disappear, concealing for ten years the fact that he had been murdered, so nobody had ever looked for a reason. Until now.
The most puzzling things were the clues left with the skull. For Enzo had no doubt that that’s what they were. But what possible reason could they have had for leaving them in the trunk — a trunk which, clearly, they had hoped would never be found? And where on earth would they lead, if indeed Enzo was capable of ever deciphering their meaning?
He heard a car coming up the drive through the trees behind him and sighed. He was no longer alone. In recent years the viewpoint had become a popular place for young men to bring their copines. A romantic spot for back seat seduction. Reluctantly, Enzo rose from the bench and took the footpath back through the trees to where he had left his car by the basketball courts. He did not want to be accused of spying on courting couples. He saw the headlights of the car rake past the radio mast and draw to a stop at the balustrade. The engine was cut and the lights went out, and looking back Enzo could see the silhouettes of the young couple through the rear windscreen as their heads came together in a kiss. And he wondered if Sophie had ever been up here. Which led his thoughts to Bertrand, and he felt a stab of anger that his daughter should be taken from him by such a wastrel. Surely to God she deserved better?
He got into his car and started the engine, turning in the moonlight and driving several hundred meters downhill before putting on his lights. There was no point in spooking the young lovers.
* * *
The apartment was in darkness when he got back. It was after midnight. Sophie was not yet home. Her bedroom door stood ajar, and he could see moonlight slanting across the crumpled sheets of her empty bed. Nicole’s door was closed. He listened outside it for a moment and could hear her gentle breathing, almost a purr. She was asleep. He went quietly to his own room and eased the door shut. He undressed quickly in the moonlight which washed across the rooftops and through his open window, and slipped into bed.
For a long time he lay thinking of French medals and gold bees and stethoscopes. Of Napoléon and doctors. Before slipping into a shallow, restless sleep. He surfaced again, when he heard Sophie come in, and he glanced at the digital bedside clock. It was a quarter past two. He could never really sleep until he knew she was home. She went into her room, closing the door softly, and he heard her moving about, undressing, and then the creak of her bed as she climbed into it. What did she see in Bertrand?
And then he was dreaming of blood on a darkened altar. Great pools of it, blackened by the dark. He looked up and saw that it was dripping from the cross overhead, which toppled suddenly forward, landing with a crash on the altar. And he sat up with a start. His heart was pounding. He had heard something. Not the falling cross in his dream. Something real. Something that had wakened him. He looked at the clock. Nearly an hour had passed since he heard Sophie come in. Then there it was again. It sounded like something falling to the floor. And it was in the apartment.
Enzo slipped out of bed and crossed to the door, very slowly easing it open. He could see across the landing that Sophie’s door was shut. As was Nicole’s. And then a floorboard creaked in the front room, and Enzo saw a shadow cross the door frame. There was someone moving about in the séjour.
Chapter Eight
I
Enzo looked around his room for something that he might use as a weapon. But there was nothing immediately apparent. He thought of Raffin and his History of the World, and would have been grateful even for that. In the end he settled for one of his heavy winter brogues which he snatched from the bottom of the wardrobe. He clutched it in his right hand, level with his head, and made his way cautiously into the hall, dressed only in his boxer shorts.
He never bothered to lock the front door, and had been meaning for some time to fix the door-entry system downstairs. Now he cursed himself silently on both counts. The moon was at the back of the apartment, and so it was the light of the streetlamps from the square that fell in wedges through the French windows. They lay unevenly across the book-littered floor of the séjour, reaching towards the open double doors leading to the hall.
Enzo could hear the blood rushing in his ears. It was so loud he was convinced the intruder would be able to hear it too. He saw a shadow move across his line of vision, and he knew he had to strike while he still had surprise on his side. He moved swiftly through the hall and caught his shin on something hard and sharp, and called out in pain as he pitched forward, headlong into the séjour. His head sank into something soft and giving, and he heard a loud grunt. Both he and the intruder went sprawling across the floor. Enzo found himself lying on top of a large man breathing stertorously into his face. The smell of garlic and stale alcohol was almost overpowering.
Enzo was a big man himself, fit from years of cycling, but bigger hands grabbed his shoulders and lifted him bodily aside. The intruder roared, and before Enzo could move was on top of him. A huge, crushing weight. Now Enzo smelled body odour, the rank stink of stale sweat, and he had no choice but to breath it in as he gasped for breath. He felt hands at his throat, coarse digits like rusted steel, and he reached up in desperation to dig fingers into the man’s face, searching for his eyes, and finding a great thatch of wiry hair. He grasped two handfuls and pulled with all his might. His attacker howled and released his stranglehold on Enzo’s neck and tried to free himself from the grip on his hair.
Light flooded the room suddenly. Bright, yellow, elect
ric light, and both men froze, mid-struggle.
‘Papa!’ a girl’s voice screamed in distress. They both looked around to see Nicole standing in the doorway. She was wearing a short, almost see-through nightie, the line of her breasts and hips clearly visible beneath it.
The man on top of Enzo issued an almost feral howl of anguish. ‘Putain!’ he screamed, spittle gathering all around his lips, and he took a swing at the face immediately beneath him. Enzo turned his head to try to avoid it, but the fist caught him a glancing blow on the cheekbone, high up, just below the left eye. Lights flashed in his head.
‘Papa!’
The man looked round again. This time Sophie stood next to Nicole, naked beneath the towelling robe she held closed across herself. The man’s eyes nearly popped out of his head.
‘Two of them! You filthy salaud!’ And he swung again, this time with his left hand, catching Enzo just below the ear. Sound, as well as light, exploded inside Enzo’s head.
But it wasn’t enough to drown out Sophie’s scream as she struck her father’s attacker full in the eye with a tightly clenched fist, following up with a left hook which caught him squarely on the nose. The man bellowed and blood spurted from his face. Enzo took the chance to heave him off, and he scrambled to his knees. The room was spinning, and he was unable to stand up.
‘Papa, what in God’s name are you doing?’ Nicole screamed at the man.
‘I knew he was up to no good!’ He was clutching his nose, blood trickling through his fingers, tears streaming from both eyes.
‘You’re Nicole’s father?’ Enzo was slower than he might have been in other circumstances. But still incredulous. ‘And you thought….’ He waved a hand wildly at Sophie, who was standing breathing hard, and ready to inflict more damage if necessary. ‘Jesus Christ, man! This is my daughter. Do you really think I’d be setting up some kind of love nest with Nicole right under the nose of my own daughter?’
Nicole’s father blinked at him in confusion, sitting on the floor amongst Enzo’s books, bleeding and gasping for breath.
‘You can check the sleeping arrangements if you want. Christ Almighty! What kind of pervert do you think I am?’
Nicole strode across the room, her face beetroot red with humiliation. She took her hand hard across the side of her father’s face. Enzo could see the force in it, and winced. He would not like to be on the receiving end of Nicole’s ire. ‘How dare you!’ she screamed at her father. ‘How dare you humiliate me like this! I hate you!’ And she turned and fled back to her room, deep sobs catching in her throat as she went.
Sophie knelt in front of Enzo and cupped his face in her hands. ‘Are you okay, Papa?’
Enzo put his hands over hers and gazed into her face. ‘I’m fine, Sophie.’ And he squeezed her wrists. ‘Thank you.’ Beyond her he saw, in the hall, Bertrand’s metal detector. It’s what had tripped him in the dark and sent him careening into the intruder. Bertrand! That stab of anger again. But he couldn’t be angry with Sophie. Without her intervention, God knows what damage Nicole’s father might have done him. ‘Go to bed, pet. I’ll deal with this.’
‘Are you sure?’
Enzo nodded. ‘On you go.’
Reluctantly, Sophie stood up. She glowered at the man whose nose she had very probably broken, and marched back through the hall to her bedroom.
Enzo leaned on a pile of books and pulled himself to his feet. He was giddy, and his face felt swollen and bruised. His shoulder-length hair was a tousled mess. He ran his hands through it, drawing it back from his face. With an effort, the farmer, too, heaved himself off the floor. The two men stood unsteadily glaring at each other.
Nicole’s father wiped his bloody hand on his trousers and held it out for Enzo to shake. ‘Pierre Lafeuille.’
Enzo hesitated a moment, then shook the proffered hand. What else was there to do? ‘Enzo Macleod.’
Lafeuille nodded, his eyes darting aimlessly around the room, anxious to avoid Enzo’s. ‘I thought….’
‘I know what you thought,’ Enzo interrupted him. ‘You were wrong.’ And he felt a momentary pang of guilt, recalling the fleeting temptation of the cantaloupe breasts. He looked at the farmer’s bloody face. ‘You’re still bleeding. We’d better clean you up.’
Lafeuille followed him across the séjour, through an archway and into the dining room. A breakfast bar separated the dining room from the kitchen area, and Enzo put a large bowl on it and boiled a kettle. When it had come to the boil he poured water and disinfectant into the bowl and handed Nicole’s father a wad of gauze dressing. The farmer dipped the gauze into the water with filthy hands and smeared the blood all over his face. Enzo threw him a towel. ‘Whisky?’ he asked.
‘Never tried it,’ Lafeuille said.
‘What?’ Enzo couldn’t believe it.
‘We make our own vieille prune on the farm. And poire. No need to go buying the commercial stuff.’
‘Well, now seems as good a time as any to have a go. I could certainly do with a drink.’ Lafeuille nodded, dried his face and watched as Enzo poured two generous measures of amber Glenlivet into short, chunky glasses, and added a splash of water. Enzo took the bottle and lifted his glass and picked his way back through the séjour to his recliner. Lafeuille followed, clutching his glass in one hand, and his nose in the other. ‘Push those books off that chair and take a seat,’ Enzo said. Both men sat and Enzo raised his glass. ‘To daughters.’ And for the first time, Lafeuille cracked a smile.
‘To daughters.’
And they drank deeply from their whisky glasses, so that Enzo very quickly had to refill them. ‘You like it?’
Lafeuille nodded. Then, ‘I’m sorry. She’s my little girl. She’s very precious.’
Enzo was touched. It seemed incongruous that a big bull of a man like Lafeuille should express such tender emotions. ‘They all are.’
‘I’ve never been to Cahors before.’ Lafeuille lived no more than a hundred kilometers away. ‘Never been anywhere. Missed my national service, because my father died and there was no one else to run the farm. This is the furthest I’ve ever been from home.’ Enzo looked at him with fresh eyes. He wore thick, blue paysan trousers and a crumpled cotton jacket over an open-necked checked shirt. His flat cap was folded into one of the pockets of his jacket. His hands were huge, scarred shovels, and he looked strong enough to pull a plough on his own.
‘I was scared when Nicole went to Toulouse,’ he said. ‘Her mother went with her to look for accommodation. I didn’t want to, because I was afraid if I saw what kind of a place it was I wouldn’t let her go.’ He seemed compelled to unburden himself. Perhaps, Enzo thought, he felt he owed an explanation to the man he had just tried to throttle. ‘When she told me she was moving in with you for the summer because you wanted her to work for you, I knew she believed that to be true. But I didn’t.’
Enzo ran a hand ruefully down the side of his face. He could feel a swelling on his left cheek, and it was painful to the touch. ‘No, I probably wouldn’t have either. To be honest, Monsieur Lafeuille, I only offered her the work because I’d promised to get her a job at the hospital and forgot. And I knew she needed the money.’
Lafeuille flushed deeply and got immediately to his feet. ‘Then I’ll take her home with me right now.’
‘No, no,’ Enzo said quickly. ‘She’s doing a great job. I really do need someone with her kind of skills. She’s a smart kid.’
‘We don’t need charity.’
‘Of course you don’t. But I do need Nicole. Even after just one day, I realise how difficult this project would be without her. Here, let me refill your glass….’
The big farmer hesitated for a moment, then sat down again, reluctantly, and held out his glass. Enzo filled it liberally, and the two men drank in silence for several minutes.
‘It’s hard being a father,’ Enzo said finally.
‘That’s true,’ Lafeuille agreed. ‘What’s your girl’s name?’
‘Sophie.’
‘Where’s her mother?’
‘She’s dead.’
Lafeuille looked at him, reappraisal in his eyes. ‘You raised her yourself?’ Enzo nodded. ‘Mon dieu, I could never have raised Nicole without her mother.’
Enzo shrugged. ‘You learn how. Sometimes the hard way.’ And a slight smile flickered briefly in his eyes. ‘She was about twelve years old,’ he said, ‘getting ready for school one morning, and her face was all flushed and pink. She told me she had cramps and felt sick. And I thought, oh my God, she’s starting her period. I guess that’s the sort of thing mothers usually deal with.’
Lafeuille chuckled. ‘Not if you grow up on a farm. You know about these things before you can walk.’
Enzo grinned. ‘Aye, well, it’s different for us townies.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I sat her down and started to explain it to her in terms I thought she might understand. Nothing too explicit. And she listened and nodded solemnly as I talked round and round the houses. And when, eventually, I’d finished, she said, “Are you talking about menstruation? Because I started my periods last year.”’
Lafeuille laughed and his nose began bleeding again. He dabbed at it with the gauze. ‘Putain! That’s priceless!’
And so they sat and drank whisky until the bottle was finished, talking about their girls. And when the first light appeared in the sky, Lafeuille got unsteadily to his feet. ‘I’ve got to get back and milk the cows.’
‘You can’t drive in that state.’
‘I’ve driven in worse. Anyway, there’s no one on the roads at this hour. It’s just myself I’ll kill.’
‘Let me at least make you a coffee.’