by Unknown
Now, she had to lift Mélodie, take the whole weight of her and somehow turn and, without slipping and falling, make her way to the shingle strand. Without letting go of the child, Jeanne looked all around her, to determine the safest pathway through the water.
Beyond the boulder was a deep pool. Jeanne Viala had a flicker of memory about pools like this, where she’d once paddled and swum with her father when he was alive and he would try to tickle a trout for supper from under the overhanging stones.
She stared at the green pool. There were fish in this one, she suddenly saw. But dead: the white bellies of two dead fish floating on the surface of the water. But, strangely, not borne away by the current . . . as though they were still attached to something below the water line . . . not fish at all . . .
Jeanne gagged. She looked away. Shivering, clutching the girl, she felt her stomach keep rising. She tried with all her will to keep the sickness down, but she couldn’t. Her body convulsed and she vomited up her sandwich. Flecks of this regurgitated food spattered Mélodie’s arm. Then the water bore it away, towards the green pool, towards the white soles of the feet of the drowned body and the thin funnel of tissue, like scarlet smoke, drifting up from the depths, where the head must lie.
So now it arrived.
Audrun knew it was the last storm of her life and when it was over, if she survived it, everything would be altered, and she would be free. It came flying in to La Callune on a late afternoon, when the sun was still hot and the sky empty and blue.
First, Audrun heard the wailing of an ambulance, then she saw a posse of police cars gathering on the road. She began to count the police officers: five, six, seven . . . and she thought, I may have to say it seven times or more, over and over again, the same thing, the same statement.
She went to her bedroom and changed her clothes, putting on a clean cotton dress and brown sandals she’d bought at the market in Ruasse.
She tidied her hair. She could hear the police radios coughing and shrieking like zoo animals. It was all exactly as she’d imagined it would be, as though she’d seen it in a film – in hundreds of films, as she sat alone in her chair on winter afternoons, with her crocheted rug over her knees and the light from the television the only light in the room – and these films had also shown her something else: they’d taught her how she, the innocent witness, should behave.
She half expected Aramon to come running down to her bungalow, blubbing with terror, but he didn’t appear. So she knew what he was doing: he was hiding. Anywhere he thought was safe: in a wardrobe with his old clothes and his shotgun; in the attics; in the spinney of holm oaks behind the dog pound. As though he believed, if he curled up like a hedgehog, he’d become invisible . . .
The day was sliding towards sunset when the first policeman knocked at Audrun’s door. Another man was with him, dressed in plain clothes, the kind of man who, in the TV movies, is the one to piece everything together.
This man – unlike the mere flics – is always given a tainted private life: a failing marriage or a drink problem or an incurable sadness of heart; the things that make film-characters human and real.
So Audrun knew that it was to him that she should address everything – in a voice that faltered just a little (because of the shock of it all), but in a sequence that was logical. And this man would be kind to her and patient and would listen while the flic took notes . . .
His name was Inspecteur Travier. His age was about forty and he was good-looking. He sat down in Audrun’s kitchen, which was tidy and clean.
‘The body of a man has been found in the river,’ he announced gravely.
Audrun gasped. Her wait to hear these words now felt unbearably long, as if it had lasted years and years. She clutched at the bodice of her cotton dress.
‘Drowned?’ she forced herself to ask in a breathless voice. ‘Not one of the fishermen from our village?’
‘No. We’re ninety per cent certain the body is that of the missing English tourist, Anthony Verey.’
‘Pardi!’ exclaimed Audrun. ‘I read about that in the papers. So he was in the river! Did he slip and fall? The river can be so treacherous, unless you know it . . .’
‘The cause of death has yet to be determined,’ said Travier, ‘but we have reason to believe, from a wound found in the gut, that a crime was committed.’
‘Pardi!’ said Audrun again, and she got up to snatch a glass from beside the sink and filled the glass and began gulping the water.
Travier waited. Out of the corner of her eye, Audrun saw the flic watching her closely, but Travier just waited patiently, looking quietly round the room. When Audrun sat down again, Travier cleared his throat and said, ‘It’s on record that on the 27th of April, Monsieur Verey came up here, to look round the house known as the Mas Lunel—’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Audrun. ‘Oh I’m sorry but I can’t talk at the moment. I can’t catch my breath. This news is so shocking. Who found the body?’
‘A young woman, Madame. With a party of schoolchildren. In fact, one of the children was the first on the scene.’
‘Ah non!’ Audrun burst out. ‘Mon dieu, the things that happen . . .’
‘I know,’ said Travier, as if replying to Audrun’s hidden thoughts. ‘Terrible.’
Audrun kneaded her bony chest with her hand, as though massaging her heart. When she’d allowed her breathing to calm a little, Inspecteur Travier said: ‘Are you all right? May I ask you just a few questions?’
‘Mon dieu, mon dieu,’ said Audrun. ‘You know, I met that poor man. I saw him living . . .’
‘You met him when he came up here to look round the Mas Lunel?’
‘Yes.’
‘The Mas Lunel is your family home?’
‘It was our family home. Aramon – my brother – inherited it when our father died. But now it’s got too much for him – keeping the house ship-shape, and all the land . . . He’s older than me. His health isn’t good . . .’
‘So he decided to sell it?’
‘He hoped for money, Inspecteur. Lots of money. It’s the scourge of our modern world, everybody wanting to be rich. We were never rich in this family, we just got by. I don’t know what’s got into Aramon’s head.’
Inspecteur Travier paused. He rested his chin on his hand. Audrun sipped more water as Travier asked, ‘It was on that day, was it, that Monsieur Verey came with agents from Ruasse, to look round the house?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Audrun. ‘Days and dates. I don’t know . . . Oh God, I keep thinking about that poor child who found the corpse! A thing like that could disturb you for life, couldn’t it? It could haunt your dreams.’
‘She’ll be given counselling. She will be helped to forget. Now, could you confirm to me when you first saw Monsieur Verey?’
‘It probably was at the end of April. But I can’t remember the date. I don’t keep a calendar. I haven’t got very much to write on it.’
‘I understand. But you think that you did definitely see him on that occasion?’
‘Yes.’
‘And can you tell us, was he alone, except for the estate agent?’
‘No. On that occasion, he was with his sister, I think, and another friend and the agent. And then the second time—’
Audrun cut herself off, put a hand to her mouth. Silence descended on the small room. Travier, who had those same intelligent blue eyes that characterised so many of his movie counterparts, exchanged a glance with his constable, and then these captivating blue eyes of his narrowed and gazed at Audrun with thrilling attention.
‘Tell me about that “second time”,’ he said.
Audrun shook her head. ‘I can’t be sure,’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t say things I can’t be sure about . . .’
She hung her head. Both men watched her closely. She laid her hands one beside the other on the patterned oilcloth, on the little space where she ate her countless solitary meals and took her pills and sometimes just sat motionless, waiting for her lif
e – her real life, in which she would feel safe – to begin. Then she drew in a deep breath and it came to her attention how sweetly the air of her tiny kitchen was scented by the presence of these two men still in the prime of their lives.
‘The second time,’ said Travier. ‘You say you can’t be sure about it, but you thought you saw Verey again, didn’t you?’
‘I think it was him,’ said Audrun hesitantly. ‘I couldn’t swear to it. I saw a man walking up to the mas,’ she said.
‘By himself?’
‘Yes. I looked out of my window and saw him – his back view. I didn’t think anything about it, except that Monsieur Verey had decided to come back. I didn’t come out to talk to him. I just saw him walking towards the house on his own. Then, a bit later on, I was looking out of my other window, in my sitting room, and I saw him – the man I saw – crossing the road with Aramon . . .’
‘Aramon, your brother?’
‘Yes.’
The constable wrote and wrote. Travier’s face was now very near to Audrun’s. Despite the blue eyes, there was something about him which reminded her of Raoul Molezon, long ago. She found herself wondering whether Travier had ever bought sirop de pêche in a café in Ruasse, for a girl dear to his heart.
‘After that,’ he said, ‘did you see this man again?’
‘No,’ said Audrun.
‘Are you sure? Are you absolutely sure? You didn’t catch a glimpse of them both, coming back from the river?’
‘No. That was the last time I saw him.’
‘And your brother? When was the next time you saw him?’
Audrun took another gulp of her water. ‘I can’t remember,’ she said.
‘So you didn’t see him coming back from the river?’
‘No.’
‘When d’you think you saw him again – Aramon?’
‘I don’t know. I told you, my memory’s not good for dates and times. It’d be a few days after that. I think it might have been when he found a dead dog in the pound.’
‘A dead dog?’
‘Yes. He was upset. He’s fond of the dogs – his hunting dogs. But he went out one morning and there was a dead animal. He was very upset.’
‘He hunts wild boar with dogs?’
‘Yes. There’s a syndicate in La Callune.’
‘So he keeps a shotgun?’
‘Oh yes. Don’t worry, he’s got a licence. We don’t know why the dog died. But it was very upsetting for Aramon. And . . . I think it was on that day that I showed Aramon the picture of Monsieur Verey in the papers. I said to him, “Wasn’t that the man who came here?” And he got very agitated. But I think he was mainly still concerned about the dog and how to bury it in the hard ground.’
The constable stopped writing and he and Travier looked at each other. Audrun knew there were words in this look. In films, looks were often substituted for words, because movies tried to be true to life, to how things actually unfolded – in patches of silence, in wordless darkness . . .
Travier stood up now. He walked back and forth the length of the small kitchen. Back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Then he stopped and said: ‘Mademoiselle Lunel, did your brother reach any agreement with Monsieur Verey about the sale of the house?’
‘No,’ said Audrun. ‘He thought Monsieur Verey was going to buy it – for quite a large sum – but then he changed his mind.’
‘Who changed whose mind?’
‘Monsieur Verey. He changed his mind – that’s what my brother told me. Maybe he’d found another house. And Aramon was—’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, I think he was very disappointed. It was a large sum. He’d thought he was going to be rich.’
Travier sat down again and he reached out to Audrun, as though to take one of her hands in his, but she held herself apart, folded her hands in her lap. She imagined the film director saying to her: ‘No, no. Don’t let him take your hand, Audrun. Remember you’re innocent. Innocent. The innocent don’t betray weakness. On the contrary, they demonstrate that they’ve got no need of special kindness.’
But Travier nevertheless spoke in a kind voice when he said: ‘Let me ask you, Mademoiselle Lunel, do you think your brother bore any animosity towards Verey?’
Audrun stared at Travier, held his gaze. ‘Are you asking me,’ she said, ‘if I think he could have harmed him?’
‘Yes. I’m asking you if you think your brother has anything to do with the death of Anthony Verey.’
Now, she began to cry. It wasn’t difficult.
It never had been difficult. To summon tears, she only had to think about Bernadette. It wasn’t even acting. It was just Bernadette calling to her from her chair in the sunlight, where she sat stringing beans, with a colander in her lap.
Audrun put her head in her hands and let her head shake from side to side and she felt the gentle touch of Inspecteur Travier’s hand come gently to rest on her shoulder.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘to ask you such a terrible question. You don’t have to answer it. You don’t have to—’
‘I’m afraid for him!’ Audrun burst out. ‘He has blackouts. He does things and then can’t remember them. Poor Aramon! His memory’s all gone. I’m so frightened for him!’
She sobbed for a long time and her own crying sounded beautiful to her and full of harmony.
The policemen didn’t stay long after that, as she knew they wouldn’t.
They walked back to one of the cars on the road and the radios roared with staccato sound all down the valley. Audrun stayed out of sight, in the shadow behind the window, watching and waiting, and the sun went down and the light became grey and flat.
In this grey light, she saw them come past her door: twenty or thirty armed officers.
Far too many, she thought. Far too many for what’s needed.
She opened her door a crack and stood watching, without moving.
The armed men moved slowly and quietly, fanning out onto the grass in front of the Mas Lunel. Travier was with them. A police van waited.
As the dogs caught the scent of them – of so many human bodies all at once – they began braying and howling and Audrun wondered whether Aramon wouldn’t – in one last act of defiance – let the dogs loose on the policemen. She could hear their claws scrabbling against the wire of the pound.
She craned her neck to see. Three of the officers had broken off from the group and were going towards the barn, as the others crept silently onwards towards the mas. Audrun’s mind stayed for a moment with those headed for the barn. She could hear them breaking the new padlock Aramon had fitted, tugging open the doors . . .
And she thought that at first, even with the flashlights they carried, they might not see it, because the vaulted dark space of the barn was so huge and because she’d succeeded so well with her camouflage . . . but then, in a matter of moments, they’d find it . . .
Driving it in there – a car so much larger and more powerful than her own little machine – had caused her anguish. It had been the worst moment of all. Her heart had fluttered pathetically, like a bantam’s heart. Her hands had begun to sweat, inside her rubber gloves. She’d stalled the Renault on the driveway, had had to rev the engine loudly when it re-started, all the while petrified that Aramon would see or hear what she was doing and then everything – everything – would be lost. But nobody came. No other car had gone by on the road.
And once the Renault was in place – with the horrible sandwich locked away inside – and Audrun had begun the task of draping the car with sacking and laying on the sacking a wild collection of objects broken and abandoned by Aramon over time, she’d exalted in her own cunning. People thought she was stupid. Just because she hadn’t been able to have a proper life with a husband she loved, they thought she had no idea how the world worked. But now she asked herself: how many of them could have done what she’d done? How many could have done this and felt such exaltation in their hearts?
Later, the police van passed
her door, with its lights a burning yellow in the darkness. And Audrun knew Aramon was inside it. She imagined the police cell where he’d be taken and his old scarecrow head tumbling down on some comfortless bed and his face, cross-eyed with confusion, staring out at the unfamiliar room.
Veronica was driven to the hospital morgue in Ruasse.
She’d been told on the telephone that forensic identification had already been done conclusively from DNA samples; she wouldn’t be forced to identify her brother; those days of putting relatives through this agony were – in very many cases, such as this one – past.
But Veronica knew that until she’d seen Anthony, until she was sure that the world wasn’t lying to her, she’d never believe that he was dead. And then she’d probably go mad. She’d sit at her window, listening for his car. She’d grow old sitting and listening there. She’d keep his room dusted, the sheets aired. She’d never rest in her delusion that, one day, he’d walk in through the door.
Now, she was looking down at a grey and bloated corpse, an assemblage of decayed and stinking flesh, its features gone, half-zippered into a waterproof bag.
It could be anyone . . . she wanted to say. It’s certainly not Anthony. He was a lean man. His hair was strong and springy. His hands were delicate . . .
But she saw that it was him.
Pity for him swelled in her like the long slow movement of a symphony, pity boundless and deep.
There was a little room where she was taken to recover. She sat on a hard sofa. A mortuary assistant brought her water. In England, she thought, it wouldn’t have been water, it would have been tea, but she didn’t care.
None of these small details mattered one jot – and never would again.
She didn’t know where to go then or what to do. Above her, all around her, she thought about the life of the hospital going on. Doctors and nurses rushing from ward to operating theatre, to recovery room, to ward again, trying to overcome suffering, trying to save lives. And the patients so touching in their belief that suffering would be overcome, their lives saved! Forgetting that in the end, every battle is lost. Every single one.