‘A girl?’ She laughed uneasily.
‘A man.’
‘Yes?’ The trepidation in her voice deepened now, or was he imagining it?
‘I’ve had – some encounters with him.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Sex.’
‘Oh.’
‘It’s over. It should never have started.’
‘Why did it?’ Her voice was gentle and he felt encouraged.
‘I don’t know. He’s the only man I’ve ever been with. It hasn’t happened for a long time. But before that – sporadically. Since I was a boy.’
‘Do you ever see him – feel him – when we are making love?’
‘No,’ he said eventually, vehemently. ‘Not ever. I promise you.’
‘You didn’t have to promise me. I believed you. I know you, Marius.’
‘You couldn’t know that,’ he said bluntly.
‘I’m not sure – obviously I didn’t know anything about this, but there was a reservation.’
‘When we made love?’
‘Just a reservation,’ she repeated.
‘God –’
‘Perhaps there won’t be now.’ She was wistful.
‘There won’t be.’
‘Marius …’
‘Yes?’
‘It’s not a dirty secret.’
‘I think it is.’
‘But it’s not.’
‘So – we live in an enlightened age?’ There was a hint of irony in his voice.
‘It’s nothing to do with that,’ she said emphatically. ‘Don’t you understand?’
‘Yes. I think I do.’
‘I must see you.’
‘No.’
‘But why?’ She sounded deeply hurt.
‘The police will be here a lot. They’re furious with me.’
‘But you know him. Rodiet, isn’t it?’
‘It doesn’t make any difference. I should have told them.’
‘Does it connect?’
‘They think it might.’
‘That he killed your father? But why – if he wanted to squeeze money out of you?’
‘That’s my point. But Rodiet thinks he could have killed him as some kind of warning – because I hadn’t paid up.’
‘Rubbish. I’ve never heard such a cock-eyed theory in my life.’ She paused and then said more tentatively, ‘Marius …’
‘Yes?’
‘Did you pay him anything?’
‘No.’
‘Will they arrest him?’
‘For blackmail. Maybe. But for murder – God knows.’
‘I must come. You can’t exclude me from this.’
But Marius was adamant. ‘I’ll come to you in Lyon. Soon. I don’t want you mixed up in this sordid mess.’
She continued to argue but he was ruthless; he had to be. Monique was the future, she was also another world. He didn’t want her colliding with this one. Perhaps when it was all over – if it was ever all over – and if he took up Alain’s offer, then her arrival was a possibility. But until then Marius wanted to see it through alone.
Marius wandered down into the overgrown garden. It was a particularly clear day and he could see the Alps. There was a pristine clarity to everything and he noticed that the unpruned, weed-choked flower-beds had managed to produce some perfect blooms. A lizard lay poised on one of the crumbling walls of the Château Letoric and the hard sunlight made the broken statues, the undergrowth-shrouded cherubs look benignly ancient. Sitting on the moss-and-lichen-covered steps, Marius watched ants scurry, somehow officiously, up and over the dislodged stonework. Then he reluctantly rose to his feet and went indoors to see what mood and what mental state his mother was in this morning.
He heard voices inside the little sitting-room and paused. Then Marius opened the door to find Alain and his mother drinking coffee round the circular antique polished table that his father had treasured so much. He remembered as a child being allowed to sit round it and then spilling blackcurrant cordial on its lustrous surface. His father had been furious, but Marius was undismayed. He partly resented this unexpected burst of anger from a man who was generally so distant but he was also pleased to have produced a spark of feeling in him at least.
Now Alain was half standing up and his mother was leaning forward, staring at him very intently. Marius was surprised to see such a sudden change in her.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Alain, limping towards Marius as he opened the door. He looked tired and his usually good physique for once seemed slouched. ‘Estelle let me in. Do you remember –’
‘Of course,’ replied Marius quickly. ‘I knew you were coming to see Mother. It’s I who should apologise for not being here to receive you.’
‘He’s been dining with us,’ said Solange, and Marius’ heart sank. She seemed very excited and kept pushing her frowsy hair out of her eyes. ‘Is Henri in the lavatory?’ she asked.
‘I must go.’ Alain limped painfully back to Solange. He bent over and kissed her. ‘God bless you,’ he said.
Marius heard a slight noise from behind the hatch. Clearly Estelle had been listening attentively as usual.
‘Madame Claude?’
‘Well?’
‘I am Inspector Lebatre.’
‘What do you want?’
‘To see your son.’
‘He’s not well. He’s in bed.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’ said Lebatre sharply.
‘Flu.’ She stood on the steps of the low-raftered building, her arms folded over her apron, clearly prepared to defy him.
‘I’m sorry. But I have to see him.’
Her small dark eyes studied him, and then she stepped back, allowing Lebatre to plunge into the stale gloom.
‘Thank you.’
‘You mustn’t stay long.’
‘I won’t.’
She showed him into a small, stuffy room on the ground floor. The alcohol fumes hit Lebatre as he walked in. Jean-Pierre was lying in a sozzled heap, a dirty blanket half slung over him.
‘Monsieur Claude?’
He turned over, bleary and bloodshot of eye. ‘Who the hell are you?’
‘Inspector Lebatre of the Aix Securité. I want to talk to you. Now.’
*
He sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in an eiderdown that had been lying on the floor.
‘I’m not myself,’ he said.
‘No.’
The old lady stood by the door, immovable as a block of granite. Lebatre turned to her. ‘Will you leave us?’
‘He’s my son. What do you want with him?’
‘I asked you to leave us.’
Silently, and with many a backward glance, she shuffled away. It was only when Lebatre had reassured himself that she was safely out of earshot that he resumed his inquisition of the bleary-eyed Jean-Pierre.
‘I want to talk to you about Marius Larche.’
‘What about him?’
‘He’s the man you tried to blackmail.’
Jean-Pierre laughed in a gulping sort of way and his hand went to his eyes in an odd gesture, as if he was trying to brush something away.
‘I hardly know him.’
‘Larche has spoken to us.’
‘What about?’ The puzzled expression was crudely simulated.
‘You know what about.’ Lebatre didn’t feel patient. He was already in a bad mood. What was he supposed to be? Some kind of lackey? Larche had confided in Rodiet – and Rodiet had given him instructions to interview Claude. It was clearly going to be that kind of case. And now he was cooped up with this drunken peasant, who exuded both halitosis and body odour.
‘I’ve never blackmailed –’
Lebatre got up briskly and closed the door. He then walked back to the bed, grabbed Jean-Pierre round the throat and shook him. His eyes started out of his head until Lebatre released his grip and he came up spluttering.
‘You assaulted me.’
‘I’ve hardly started.’
/>
‘I shall make a complaint to your superiors –’
‘Do that.’
‘You can’t treat –’
‘I shall do it again. But next time my fingers will jam around your windpipe. It won’t be pleasant. Do we understand each other?’
Jean-Pierre started to protest and then changed his mind. He nodded unhappily instead.
‘When did you start blackmailing him?’
‘A couple of weeks ago.’
‘Why?’
‘He’s mistreated me.’
‘How?’
‘I – gave him what he wanted. I’ve been doing it for years. Did he tell you that?’
‘Yes.’
Jean-Pierre looked disconcerted. Then he stumbled on. ‘He left us in the lurch.’
‘What do you mean by that?’ Lebatre’s tone was contemptuous.
‘We’re poor people –’
‘You wanted payment for sex.’
‘It would have – it was only right.’
‘So you sent him threatening notes.’
‘I’ve waited for years.’
‘Does your mother know about this?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’m surprised.’ Lebatre was genuinely amazed. Mothers were sacred to him. They didn’t – shouldn’t – know about things like this. He looked angrily at Jean-Pierre. ‘Larche has told us everything.’
‘I’m sure I can tell you more.’
‘Perhaps you can. Where were you early yesterday morning?’
Jean-Pierre stared at him with dawning horror in his eyes.
‘You suspect me – of killing the old man?’ His voice was shrill.
‘Perhaps,’ said Lebatre nonchalantly.
‘But why should I? I would have everything to lose by his death.’ He sounded melodramatic now.
‘Would you?’ returned Lebatre coolly. ‘Marius Larche wasn’t paying, so maybe you killed the old man in revenge.’
‘Nonsense. Larche would have paid in the end.’
‘I doubt it. Get dressed.’
‘Where are you taking me?’
‘To the Gendarmerie. I want you to sign a statement.’
‘I didn’t touch the old man.’
‘You wrote blackmail notes. That’s a criminal offence.’
‘I didn’t kill him –’
‘We can discuss that. Get some clothes on.’
‘What about Maman?’
‘To hell with your mother.’ Lebatre advanced on him threateningly and Jean-Pierre hurriedly clambered out of bed.
Lebatre phoned Marius a couple of hours later from the Gendarmerie. The afternoon was intensely hot and Marius had been dozing on the terrace at the back of the house. Around his feet, nature had almost entirely taken back the terrace and through the cracks in the concrete protruded a variety of tiny, vigorous wild flowers.
When the telephone began to ring Marius hesitated. Why not let it ring? The old lady was sound asleep and it wouldn’t disturb her. Estelle had gone shopping. Then, reluctantly, he rose to his feet and went inside.
‘It’s Lebatre.’
‘Ah.’
‘I have Claude down here.’
‘Are you holding him?’
‘Well, he’s committed a criminal offence.’ Lebatre’s voice was challenging. ‘He’s made a statement, and if you’ll do the same I’ll charge him.’
‘What will he get?’
‘Sentence? Up to five years. Maybe more.’
Marius considered. ‘Is all this unavoidable?’
There was a harder edge to Lebatre’s voice as he replied. ‘You contacted us – I’ve questioned the wretched man – and he’s admitted the offence. If you back out now, you’ll be wasting police time. And you of all people should realise the importance of police time.’
‘Yes. But I’m also thinking of his mother. How could she support herself if he went into jail?’
‘The State will support her.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he told Lebatre. ‘I should know better. I’ll come down and make a statement.’
‘Then we’ll charge him.’ Lebatre was friendlier. ‘I would like to get this over with. I have a major investigation on my hands. As you know.’
‘Yes. I understand. I’ll come down right away.’
‘There is one thing –’
‘Well?’
‘There may be a bail application. From his mother. She would have to make it on the strength of her property. I believe they own the house.’
‘I believe they do.’
‘I have to remind you – I don’t need to remind you – that you mustn’t –’
‘See him? For what purpose?’ Suddenly he wanted to make Lebatre’s life harder than it already was.
‘Er – he’s only at the end of the road. He may approach you – ask for your help.’
‘I’ll be wary.’
‘I have to cover all the ground.’
‘Of course you do. I’ll be with you in half an hour.’
Marius put down the phone. His hands were shaking and there was sweat running down his forehead. It had nothing to do with the heat.
‘Estelle.’ Silence.
‘Estelle.’
The kitchen was in a dreadful state. The washing up had not been done for what looked like days and there was congealed food on the plates on the table. Flies buzzed over the debris. What the hell was he going to do? Clear it up himself? Force her to do it? Find someone else? But who? He looked at his watch. Almost four.
‘Estelle!’
But there was still no sign of her. Really, it was too bad. First thing tomorrow he would start organising. Get a nurse for his mother. A new domestic. And he would sack Estelle with the greatest of pleasure. Tomorrow. Wrenching his eyes away from the mess, Marius walked out of the house and down the drive. In his mind’s eye, the irritating image of Estelle was replaced by Monique. Yes, he would have given anything to have her with him now. But no – he must resist the temptation. She mustn’t be mixed up with the past. The past that was still his present.
*
‘They’ve taken him.’ Mariola was beside herself, wringing her hands at her battered front door while Estelle, still mounted on her bicycle, listened aghast. When the old woman had finished the story, she got off, leant the bicycle against the wall and held Mariola in her arms. It would wait, what she had to tell her. But it wouldn’t wait long.
7
Gabriel was there to meet him in the Gendarmerie at Aix. Marius was surprised, having expected the taciturn Lebatre. He took Marius into a comfortable room, with sofas and chairs and reproductions of Impressionist paintings on the walls.
‘I haven’t been in here before.’
‘It’s my conference room.’
‘Do people usually make statements in here?’
‘No. But you will.’
‘Why?’
‘I want you to be comfortable.’
‘Is that why Lebatre isn’t here?’ asked Marius, amused.
‘He has a lot of work on. The investigation into your father’s murder for instance.’
‘And so you are taking my statement.’
‘I thought it would be easier for everybody.’
‘Thank you.’ Marius sat down on the sofa, suddenly feeling exhausted. ‘Where is Claude?’
‘You won’t have to see him.’
‘That’s good. But is he going to get bail?’
‘Probably. He won’t come to court for months. He won’t bother you.’ Gabriel sat down at a small desk in the corner of the room and fidgeted with a paperweight. ‘I admire you, Marius,’ he said.
‘For what?’
‘Owning up. Not letting yourself be brow-beaten by that slob of a peasant.’
‘He’s never had a chance.’
‘He’s never given himself one. Make your statement and don’t give him another thought.’
‘I shall have to come to court.’
‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ said Gabri
el firmly.
‘You mean you can keep me out of it?’
‘I can try. I’m sorry about it all.’
‘I’m sorry for Claude. I used him.’
‘He had no right to blackmail you.’
‘It was predictable. They haven’t got any money.’
‘Lebatre said you were concerned about the old woman. But don’t worry. She’ll be looked after. You have to remember that –’
‘Shall we get on with the statement,’ interrupted Marius abruptly.
‘Of course. But I thought you would – like a drink first.’
Need, thought Marius hopelessly. Need a drink first – that’s what he means. But of course I do need one. He smiled. ‘I’d like that.’
‘I’ll join you.’ Gabriel rose and went to a cupboard. ‘I have some pastis – I thought that would be right for both of us.’
‘Aren’t you rather going over Lebatre’s head?’ asked Marius.
‘Absolutely,’ replied Gabriel, pouring the drinks.
‘Mariola?’
‘Madame Claude to you.’
She was in the small kitchen garden that was at the rear of the cottage. Lebatre looked round appreciatively, inhaling the rich, aromatic smell. ‘You’ve got quite a herb garden here.’
‘Where is my son?’
‘At Aix – in the Gendarmerie. As you know.’
‘When will he be home?’
‘When bail is arranged. They will need your title deeds as I told you on the phone.’
‘They are inside.’
It was just after five and the heat was intense. But the sharp, hazy, bitter-sweet smell of the herbs detained him. Lebatre was a man who liked his food and his wife was an excellent cook, but he was wondering what culinary skills old Madame Claude had. He imagined she would be good with poultry, with hare or rabbit, adding the musky essence of the herbs to roasted animal flesh.
‘Quite a herb garden here.’
‘It belongs to Jean-Pierre. He tends it with love …’ Her voice shook. ‘He was wrong to write those notes. What will he get?’
‘Perhaps not long. After all, no money changed hands. I gather you knew what was going on.’
‘Yes.’
‘And you approved?’
‘It was between my son and Marius Larche.’
‘That’s no answer. Do you realise how lucky you are I’m not arresting you too?’
She turned away from him, shrugging. Then she whispered: ‘Will they let him off?’
Murder is a Long Time Coming Page 9