‘Thank you.’
‘I’m sorry about making demands on you. About the notes.’
‘Look –’
‘Don’t you understand, I’m really sorry about that too.’ There was something triumphant in his voice; he seemed like a truculent child making a false apology.
‘I won’t pay you.’
‘We’re very poor, Maman and I. You’ll have to help us someday.’
‘I shall go to the police.’ And at that moment Marius suddenly realised he would. The decision made him feel powerful. Sexually powerful. Why in God’s name hadn’t he told Gabriel this morning? Why hadn’t he gone to him before? Suddenly his mind was crystal clear and for the first time since the blackmail had started he was unafraid. His father was dead now – he couldn’t be harmed. His mother was too far gone. And Monique? Monique would understand. The power in him swelled, and he smiled at Jean-Pierre who looked startled, despite his drunkenness. ‘I shall go to the police tomorrow morning.’
‘That would not be clever.’
‘I should never have let this pass for so long. I only kept quiet to protect my father.’ Marius knew he sounded absurdly pompous. I could have confided in Alain too, he thought. But a tremor filled him. Could he? Suppose Alain withdrew in disgust from the house offer? He would be plunging his mother into an institution.
Jean-Pierre looked at him blearily, unbelievingly. ‘You wouldn’t do it.’
‘But I will. I have nothing to lose now.’ The doubts consumed him but he was determined.
‘It’ll do you no good,’ spluttered Jean-Pierre. His heavy, swarthy, unshaven face contorted with fleeting panic and growing lack of resolve. ‘It’ll damn you.’
‘More likely you,’ said Marius calmly. ‘Blackmail is a criminal offence – in case you didn’t know.’
‘I’ll break you.’
‘Correction. I’ll break you.’ He advanced a few paces on him.
‘You want me, don’t you?’ Jean-Pierre smiled a little wildly.
‘Yes,’ Marius said flatly. ‘I want you on the grounds of sheer animal lust. That’s all.’
‘That’s all? You’ve been at it for years – at me for years.’
‘You’re right. I haven’t learnt to control it.’ Suddenly Marius began to tremble. He was centimetres from Jean-Pierre now and he could smell the alcohol on his breath and the sweat on his body. Both he found exciting. Could he control himself? ‘But I have to learn,’ he said quietly.
‘You’ve got a woman in Lyon.’ He made the word ‘woman’ sound unutterably obscene.
‘What if I’ve got one in Paris – and in Aix – and in Nice – as well as Lyon?’ Marius laughed humourlessly. ‘What is it to you?’
‘You won’t keep your whores if they know you fuck men.’
Marius stared at Jean-Pierre for a minute without speaking, and suddenly the desire left him. Instead he felt deeply depressed. ‘Go to hell,’ he said at last, backing away. Catching his mood, Jean-Pierre tried a different tack.
‘Come on – you can have me when you like. You know that. But you’ve got to pay.’
‘Backdated?’
‘If you put it like that. Maman and I –’
‘Damn your mother.’
‘Don’t speak about her like that.’
Marius turned away but Jean-Pierre grabbed his shoulder and spun him round. As always, Marius was surprised by the man’s strength, but this time he didn’t find it erotic. An image of Monique’s face swam into his mind. She was smiling her dry, funny smile.
‘Leave me alone.’ Marius pushed him away.
‘I could kill you.’ Jean-Pierre drunkenly lurched towards him.
‘You couldn’t kill a fly. Go home and sober up.’
‘To hell with you.’ He swung clumsily at Marius and missed.
‘Go home.’
‘You bastard.’
Marius knew that he had to walk away. Fast. He began to do so and he could hear Jean-Pierre shambling after him. Then he heard him fall and, still walking, turned round. Jean-Pierre had stumbled in one of the innumerable holes in the driveway and was lying on his back, cursing. He was a ludicrous, undignified sight.
‘Help me,’ he mumbled.
But Marius did not pause in his stride.
‘I’ll kill you,’ he yelled. ‘So help me God – I’ll kill you.’
Marius walked faster.
‘Mother?’
‘Mm?’
‘Has Estelle left you alone?’
‘Who’s Estelle? Is Henri in yet? He’s been a long time walking in the forest. Is he with Alain? They always get talking –’ She dozed off again, her big frowsty figure humped under the sheets.
Marius passed his hand over her forehead. She was very hot and he wondered if she was running a temperature. ‘Estelle?’
‘Yes, monsieur?’ She seemed to emerge out of the shadows of the room and he could smell cognac on her breath. She had probably been helping herself downstairs.
‘Where have you been?’
‘In Madame’s bathroom – clearing up.’ He could sense her pouting at him in the semi-darkness.
‘Clearing up what?’ he snapped.
‘I gave her a bath.’
‘She can manage herself, providing the door isn’t locked.’
‘Well, she couldn’t tonight. And I doubt if she will again. Her system can’t take the shock, you see.’
‘I –’ Marius bit back the angry words. He would have to get a nurse in. But he might be dependent on Estelle for a few more days. He would have to handle her carefully. ‘I’m grateful to you for staying on like this.’
‘Do you want me to stay the night?’
‘Er –’
‘She could be up and down.’
Could he trust her, he wondered, reluctant to let her stay.
‘I’m capable,’ she said, reading his thoughts. On top of the drink he could smell her sweat. It made him think of Jean-Pierre. ‘I could use the money – and you could use some sleep.’ Her voice was gentler than before and he looked at her sharply. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ she asked.
‘I’m fine. I’ve been out walking. I’m tired.’
‘Sure?’
‘Yes, but thank you.’ He paused looking down at his mother. ‘How’s she been?’
‘Wandering. She may sleep now. For a bit.’
‘Where will you –’
‘I can make up the divan in here.’
‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘It’s good of you – at this short notice.’
‘You need a drink.’ Her voice was soft.
Would there be anything left, he wondered ironically. ‘I’ll get a nightcap. And thanks again.’
He left the room quietly.
Strangely, Marius slept deeply. He awoke with a feeling of refreshed clarity and looked at his watch. It was just after seven-thirty. Marius knew what he had to do – ring Gabriel and Monique. In that order. He felt confident about his confession and as he opened the shutters and looked out over the ravaged garden, he wondered again about Alain’s offer. To have all this restored to its original – well, not exactly glory but mellowness. Was it really a possibility? Just suppose he didn’t sell, and brought in a nurse while Letoric was miraculously restored around him? He thought of Monique. Would they live here together one day? Dream or possibility, the conjecturing gave him an inner warmth – a bastion against the possibility of these two vital conversations going wrong.
Suddenly he could bear the delay no longer. He could ring Gabriel at home. Maybe that would be better anyway.
Isobelle Rodiet brought coffee to her husband’s bedside. She had been up for hours, unable to sleep while he had tossed and turned throughout the night. Once he had half woken and she had heard him mutter his mother’s name. Isobelle had thought of waking him, but then dismissed the idea. He had never talked about it, and this was perhaps not the right moment. She often thought she should broach the subject after
they had lunched at Annette Valier’s restaurant. They both looked forward to this regular Sunday treat – a treat that had become a tradition, only broken for a vacation or an illness. After the excellent meal they would often walk home, usually alone. That would be the time – but for many years she had been too frightened to raise the subject for she knew that it was something he had banished. The restaurant was called Le Clozel. Originally a fortified farmhouse with a bell tower, it stood beside a sandy-beached river that in summer was little more than a trickling stream. Inside the tables were widely spaced in a cool, dark, high-ceilinged room. Outside they were crowded on to a small stone terrace that looked across to the pine-clad rocky foothills of the Alps. Le Clozel was sun-bleached and its weathered stone was worn and smooth to the touch. Annette had bought the restaurant from Madame Mercier who had run it for forty years. She had made no changes, and the same chef – Madame Mercier’s withered younger sister – presided over the kitchen at sixty and would no doubt do so for many years to come. She and Gabriel had been to Le Clozel under both regimes and would lunch with a group of friends which would sometimes include André Valier, if he was home, and more often Alain Leger. Henri had once been a regular at their table, but since the Lyon trial he had not appeared. The meals began at midday and would not end till four. In the winter they would sit longer but in the spring, summer and autumn, they would stroll along the river’s sandy shores, taking a bottle of Calvados down to the stone tables and benches that were scattered along the beach – the third level of Le Clozel. They would talk, up to a dozen of them, sometimes more. Later, wearied by conversation, by ideas, by standpoints, they would silently watch the clear stream flow in its gutted bed. But last Sunday he had not gone, pleading paperwork – a previously unheard-of occupation at lunchtime on a Sunday. The thought of missing one of the Mercier lunches would once have been a sacrilege to him.
Gabriel finally rolled over and opened his eyes. Gratefully he sat up and sipped at his coffee.
Isobelle loved him distractedly. She always had. He had been a wonderful father, was – could still be – a wonderful lover. He was also a good companion. Often surrounded by other people, she had longed to be with him on her own. Yet there had always been this barrier about his mother.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he had told her in the very early years of their marriage. ‘Ever.’ And he never had. Yet there was something happening now. Clearly the Larche affair had brought the past back into the present. He was suffering – and she felt completely shut out.
‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.
‘Work.’
‘Nothing to do with Henri Larche?’
‘I’m sad. He was a good man. It proves there are darker feelings here than I thought.’
‘Perhaps it was an outsider.’
‘I doubt it.’
‘And Marius? How has he taken it all?’ Strangely, they had hardly discussed what had happened. Gabriel had been back too late the night before and, in the end, she had not sat up waiting for him. She had left bread and pâté and cheese and red wine, but not much of it had been touched.
‘He’s very shaken.’
Isobelle barely knew Marius Larche. For most of his home visits he had kept to the house; the rest of the time he travelled or lived in Lyon. She knew him as a high-ranking policeman – but in a completely different sphere to Gabriel.
‘Lebatre’s in charge,’ he said, drinking more coffee and yawning. ‘He’s a sound man.’
The telephone rang by the bedside and Gabriel checked her move to pick it up.
‘Let me have it,’ he said wearily. ‘It’ll probably be Lebatre.’
‘Gabriel?’
‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to ring you at home. It’s Marius Larche.’
‘That’s all right. Have there been any – developments?’
‘I have something to tell you.’
‘Oh?’
Marius paused. In a few seconds it would be over, whatever the consequences. His new-found confidence had largely deserted him. ‘I should have told you this before.’
‘Do you want me to come over?’
‘I’d rather talk about it on the phone.’
‘You appreciate I put Lebatre in charge of the case?’ His voice held gentle, reluctant admonishment.
‘Yes. But I need to talk to you. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be sorry. I’m listening.’
‘I’ve been – someone is blackmailing me.’
‘I see.’ There was no expression in Gabriel’s voice, instead a comforting neutrality.
‘It’s been going on since I got back – say, a couple of weeks.’ Marius was speaking more crisply now, as if he was giving professional evidence. ‘There were three notes, demanding money with menaces. I didn’t pay anything.’
‘Do you know who was making the demands?’
‘Jean-Pierre Claude.’
‘Ah.’ For once, Gabriel seemed hesitant. ‘Wouldn’t it be better if we talked this over face to face?’
‘I’d rather give you the details now. They’re not very – pleasant. We could talk – later. When I’ve …’ His voice tailed away.
‘Go on.’ Gabriel sounded inviting and more positive. ‘What was the content of the notes?’
‘Asking for money. A considerable sum. The notes were left in the conservatory.’
‘Where your father was murdered?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you keep the notes?’
‘Yes.’
‘It would have been better if you had told me this yesterday.’
‘I realise that.’ Marius’s voice was sharp.
‘What did he know?’
‘He knew that – over a period of years, I had – had – relations with him. I had homosexual relations with him.’
‘I see.’ Gabriel sounded very matter of fact and for a moment Marius was reassured. Then his reassurance was shattered. ‘You do realise this could have a bearing on your father’s death?’
‘Yes.’
‘These notes – they were spaced out over a period of – two weeks?’
‘Yes. Two last week. Tuesday and Thursday. And the other, the day before yesterday.
‘Have you seen Claude since the notes arrived?’
‘Last night. For the first time. He accosted me. I’d been for a walk with Alain Leger. On the way back, he was waiting for me, very drunk. I told him I wasn’t paying – and was going to the police.’
‘Pity you didn’t do that much earlier – you’ve been very foolish, Marius.’
‘I was bloody terrified.’ Marius felt the blood pounding in his temples. ‘And I hoped he’d go away.’
‘Unlikely.’ The mocking note was gone.
‘I realise that …’ Marius’ voice faltered for the first time.
‘You’re prepared to go through the courts?’
‘If I have to.’
‘Do you think Claude had anything to do with your father’s murder?’
‘My father hardly knows Claude – and he would never be raised from his bed by him, and follow him outside. The idea is ludicrous.’
‘But not impossible. I’ll get Lebatre to see Claude today.’
‘Very well. And again – I’m sorry not to have brought this up earlier.’
‘It’s not easy for you. Do you want to see me again today?’
‘I think the question is – do you want to see me?’
‘I’ve no doubt Lebatre will. By the way, Marius, are you staying at the house for the next few days?’
‘What do you think? But wasn’t it you and Lebatre who would have preferred me in Lyon?’
‘Things change,’ said Gabriel as he prepared to wind up the conversation.
When he had put the phone down, Isobelle said: ‘What was all that?’
‘Marius Larche. Confessing to blackmail. He’s been having a homosexual affair with some yokel. Does that surprise you?’
‘Not particularly.’
‘Why not?’ His remoteness had temporarily disappeared and he seemed anxious to hear what she had to say.
‘He’s that kind of man. You can’t feel his sensuality. Women know,’ she said abruptly.
‘So you could have told me he was gay.’
‘Not gay necessarily. Perhaps he’s bisexual. Doesn’t he have someone in Lyon? A girl-friend?’
Gabriel got out of bed and put on a dressing gown. ‘This case …’ he began.
‘Well?’
‘It frightens me.’
‘It’s very close to home,’ she replied. ‘For all of us,’ she added. He was silent and she didn’t press him. She would await her opportunity.
*
‘Monique.’ Marius was sweating, despite the fact that it was still early. Somewhere he could hear his mother shuffling around and Estelle banging downstairs. He was deeply conscious of the fact that he should have called her before – that he should not have allowed her to read it in the press. But he hadn’t wanted to call – hadn’t wanted to set a chain of events rolling that perhaps he couldn’t control – to admit that Letoric and the blackmail notes and now the butchering of his father had spun a cocoon around him.
‘Marius, I’ve been trying to call you. I had to go out of town and didn’t see the press until late last night and –’ Her stumbling explanation seemed to go on forever.
‘It’s all right. I should have called you yesterday – it’s just been so terrible. Such a terrible shock.’
‘God. Why?’ Despite her agitation, her voice was rich and controlled. He had always found her voice quite wonderful. ‘I must have tried to phone a dozen times last night but the phone seemed permanently engaged. Then I overslept this –’
‘That was probably Estelle, informing all and sundry.’
‘I’m so terribly sorry. To think it happened – after all.’
‘After all?’
‘I just thought – all those rumours and press speculation. That would be the end of it. I want to come out. This morning.’
‘I’d rather you didn’t.’
‘But why?’ She sounded very hurt.
‘I want to tell you something.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ve been blackmailed – by a local peasant.’
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