Murder is a Long Time Coming

by Anthony Masters

  ‘I’m thinking of running a piece on Larche. I wonder if you would care to come into the office tomorrow and talk about him – for an editorial fee, of course.’

  There was a long silence during which Annette had the wild hope Marie might turn him down. She also wondered if Mireille was thinking the same thing.

  ‘But I don’t know anything about what happened in the war.’ She spoke gruffly, defensively. ‘Beyond what other people have said, of course.’

  ‘I was thinking of another angle.’

  ‘The estate?’

  ‘You couldn’t possibly,’ said Mireille. ‘Alain would be involved.’

  ‘To hell with him.’ Marie took another defiant sip of wine. To hell with my digestion too, she thought triumphantly.

  ‘There would be legal trouble –’

  André turned his charm on Mireille. He’s approaching her differently, thought Annette, with a kind of awful boyish honesty. She shivered again. ‘Of course we’d have our lawyer check it out.’

  ‘Monsieur Valier,’ began Mireille, ‘what is the purpose of this – interview with my sister?’

  ‘You’re very welcome to come along yourself,’ he hastened to assure her. ‘We’d be glad to –’

  ‘No. I don’t want to get involved. And you haven’t answered my question.’ She sounded quite sharp and Annette smiled, hastily wiping it from her face before André saw. But she needn’t have bothered, she told herself. He hadn’t looked at her all the evening.

  ‘I’m going to run a series called “Henri Larche – Judge on the Edge” – or something like that.’ André paused. ‘This might be your sister’s view, one of his victims –’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Annette suddenly, determined not to finish the evening as some kind of gracious cipher. ‘Nothing’s proven against him.’

  He smiled rather patronisingly. ‘In my view it’s an open and shut case. But I shall be fair. We’ll interview one of his supporters.’ He looked straight into the eyes of Marie Leger. ‘Your brother, Alain, for instance.’

  ‘I’ll come. Tomorrow.’ She was suddenly brisk, businesslike. ‘I don’t want to be paid anything though.’ Marie turned to her sister. ‘Do you approve?’ There was a genuine warmth in her voice.

  ‘I don’t know what to say –’ Mireille was disappointingly compromising, Annette thought.

  ‘I think if I do take up the offer,’ Marie said with the same briskness, ‘it’ll take some of the edge off my dislike for Alain.’ She turned to Annette. ‘I’m sure you’ll understand; it’s very hard to live in poverty when you know it’s unjust. My sister is far more long-suffering and tolerant than I am. It’s been years now, but I can’t forget. And I can’t forgive.’ She paused and looked almost skittishly back at André. ‘Of course, everything will very much depend on how much Monsieur Valier’s lawyer lets me say, but I am grateful for the opportunity.’

  André made a gallant little bow and the rest of the evening drained into innocuous small talk. After they had dropped the Leger sisters off and were driving back into St Esprit, Annette provoked the row that had been brooding for so long.

  ‘You really are a bastard, aren’t you?’ she said. Quite suddenly she no longer cared about protecting their marriage.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I had no idea you could behave that way.’

  ‘You knew exactly what I wanted – and why the evening had been set up.’ His voice was crisp and efficient, as if he realised the undercurrents of the past few months were now coming to a head.

  ‘I just never realised how you’d manipulate her.’

  But didn’t she, Annette asked herself. Didn’t she?

  ‘I asked her straight out.’

  ‘But why do you want to rake it all up?’ Her words tumbled over each other.

  ‘I’m not raking anything up. Surely you know what my responsibilities are – you’ve been married to them for long enough. A controversial man has been murdered. I need to reflect this. In as many words as I can. If this series is successful, then we can sell it to the nationals – overseas as well.’

  But his logic finally pushed her over the top and she flashed out, ‘You as good as killed Henri Larche anyway.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘It was you who pursued this story, André, like you’ve never pursued anything before. It’s been an obsession.’

  ‘A campaign,’ he corrected gently, reasonably.

  ‘No, André. It’s been an obsession. Why?’

  He drew the car up outside their tall, unshuttered house. The windows looked bare, uninviting, almost threatening.

  ‘Do shut up, Annette.’

  ‘Just tell me –’

  ‘I tell you – you’re overtired, imagining things.’

  ‘Why are you treating me like this?’ She paused, almost breathless. ‘Why are you so distant now?’

  ‘It’s all in the mind,’ he said dismissively.

  ‘Is it to do with no babies – no solutions to no babies?’

  ‘I must get to bed. It’s almost midnight,’ André protested. He tried to put his arm round her but she pushed it away.

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Why were you after him? With such ferocity.’

  André turned away. ‘You’re confused.’

  ‘For God’s sake –’

  ‘I mean it. Somehow you’re confusing us and him. If I’d known you were so worried about our marriage –’

  ‘I’m worried about Henri Larche,’ she protested vigorously, but she already felt a child in his hands and knew he was manipulating her.

  ‘No. We must talk about us.’

  ‘When?’ she said eagerly and immediately felt angry. Now it looked as if she was clinging to some straw.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘When we’ve slept on it?’ She laughed mockingly and wildly. ‘Let’s talk now.’

  ‘I’ve got a newspaper to run in the morning.’ He was edgy now and she felt a little surge of triumph.

  ‘You never stop running the damn thing.’

  He began to unlock the front door. As he did so someone emerged from the shadows somewhere further up the quiet, tree-lined road. He was walking slowly, absently. Annette and André turned to watch the night walker’s progress.

  ‘That’s Marius Larche,’ said André.

  Marius was walking back to the house. Sleep had been an impossibility – probably still was, but he had had to try and tire himself somehow. Gabriel’s words still resounded in his ears – father consorting with a top German officer. Why? And was it true? Or simply the understandable spite of a vicious old woman? But Gabriel seemed to have taken it seriously enough. He had tried to ring Alain but there had been no reply and eventually he had given up, walking the streets of St Esprit for hours. And as he had done so, the image of his father had disappeared to be replaced by another constant image – that of Natasha. He kept trying to see Monique – and failing. So Marius had gone on walking, almost twice round the town, and now, footsore, he was turning back.

  Now he was walking uphill, and his pace quickened. Tomorrow. He would talk to his mother, sack Estelle, hire a cook, hire a nurse. Think about Alain’s offer. Go and see Alain. Tonight – this morning – he would load himself with enough cognac to sleep.

  So preoccupied were Marius’ thoughts that he failed to register the Claude dwelling as he drew near it, and he only paused because there was a light in the window and a car outside the house. He looked at his watch. Just after twelve-thirty. Perhaps Jean-Pierre was home, bailed and temporarily reprieved. Marius felt a pang of physical desire for him which quickly changed to guilt. He quickened his pace. Now he wanted to deaden feeling. The cognac would do that and the sooner he had it the better. His mind switched to his mother. He wondered how she was. Did he really trust that slut with her? He decided that he did. He must get up early tomorrow. Mother was at her best in the first hour of the morning. Later she would plunge almost totally into he
r own foggy world.

  As he passed the small stone house, Marius stopped dead. The car. It was Gabriel’s. Marius hesitated. So what if he’s there, he thought. Probably he wanted to question him again. And Gabriel did not keep office hours. He made as if to walk on, but hesitated. Then he turned abruptly and cautiously walked back to peer in at the open window. The sound of the cicadas seemed to roar in his ears. Jean-Pierre was sitting down on a low, sagging chair. Gabriel had his hands on his shoulders. Marius doubled over in shock, his heart pounding, sweat pouring into his eyes.

  8

  Marius sat drinking his cognac, trying to clarify his thoughts. There seemed a strange intensity to the scene he had just witnessed. Why did Gabriel have his hands on Jean-Pierre’s shoulders? Why was he there so late? Did he have some lead that he had not confided in Marius? Surely that was the most likely explanation? As he got drunker it all seemed to matter less. He was sitting in his father’s study, surrounded by the dusty clutter, the accumulation of civic honour and small-town camaraderie. Marius could see him now, the tall emaciated figure at the desk. He remembered how he would turn to embrace him, those early mornings before school, the radiant Provençal light turning his dark hair and pink complexion to gold. His father had been like an old warrior, greeting his offspring, ruffling his hair and mouthing platitudes. But Marius had not wanted any of it, and he would soon fly to the warmth of his mother’s embrace. Then, so quickly, his father had become an old man, turning the Château Letoric into his fortress where he had hidden, trapped and apprehensive.

  Lured by the cognac, the tears came freely and he must have wept for a long time before he staggered up to bed. On the first landing there was the soft swish of what he muzzily thought was his father’s dressing gown. But looking up he saw Estelle instead, wearing a filthy housecoat and hastily concealing a half-drunk bottle of his own whisky in one of the pockets.

  ‘Monsieur.’

  ‘Goodnight, Estelle.’ He tried to stumble past her but she blocked his way.

  ‘I must speak with you.’ Her voice was as slurred as his and he almost laughed aloud. Two drunks and a mad old lady – the fall of the house of Larche.

  ‘Can’t it wait?’

  ‘I must know where I stand.’ She swayed slightly.

  Marius sighed. ‘Well?’

  ‘How long will you be wanting me to stay in the house, monsieur?’

  ‘I shall be hiring a nurse tomorrow,’ Marius replied, trying to speak as clearly as possible. ‘So if you could stay –’

  ‘You’ll never get one. Not to come here.’

  ‘I’m going to an agency.’

  ‘You’ll still never get one. Not to come to this dump. Not after what happened.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’

  ‘I bloody mean it.’ She swayed slightly and he tried to push past her. Unfortunately Marius tripped and Estelle gave a great raucous laugh as he cannoned into her. ‘Want a bit then?’

  ‘Get out of the way.’ He was mortified but panic overtook the mortification.

  ‘Come on,’ Estelle encouraged him. ‘You need a break.’

  ‘You’re sacked,’ he muttered.

  ‘And then who’s going to look after the old lady?’ she said witheringly. ‘We’ve had a nice quiet day – her and me. After that Alain Leger left. And by the way – when are you going to settle up?’

  ‘Tomorrow morning.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  ‘And I’ll give you another day’s pay.’

  ‘Might as well make it a week’s – you won’t get anyone. Besides, no one understands the old lady the way I do.’

  ‘They can learn.’ Marius succeeded in getting past her this time. She had obviously just had a bath. He could smell the expensive bath soap his father had liked. Suddenly he felt a wave of explosive hatred for her.

  ‘Don’t use my father’s bathroom, his soap or –’ he looked meaningfully at the pocket of her housecoat –’his drink.’

  ‘In lieu of payment,’ she replied truculently.

  ‘You’re being paid tomorrow – paid off.’

  ‘I told you – you’ll be lucky.’

  ‘Go to hell.’

  ‘What the hell do you want?’

  ‘Something’s come up.’

  Jean-Pierre Claude pulled the window a little further up. He blinked in the early morning sunlight. The lavender field stretched out hazily blue in front of him.

  ‘It’s barely six.’

  ‘It won’t wait. You’ll regret it if you don’t hear what I have to say.’

  ‘My mother –’

  ‘Come out of the window. Then you won’t wake her up.’

  ‘I’ll get dressed.’

  ‘Hurry.’

  He dragged on a pair of filthy jeans, socks, boots and a sweater. Then, wheezing slightly, Jean-Pierre Claude clambered over the window sill.

  The phone rang at Marius’ bedside just after six a.m. And he woke with a considerable start, confusing the sound with his alarm clock and reaching out to switch it off. When this proved ineffective he sat up, realising that the unwelcome sound was someone trying to reach him.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Who?’ He yawned blearily.

  ‘It’s Monique.’

  Marius looked at his watch. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No. I realise it’s early – I just couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘So there is something wrong.’

  ‘Well –’ She paused unhappily. ‘I was very understanding when you phoned. I meant to be.’ Monique paused again. ‘I mean to be.’

  ‘But you find it hard,’ said Marius gently but wearily. He should have realised that she had taken it all too well.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Too hard?’

  ‘No – Marius – when are we going to get married?’

  ‘When this is over.’

  ‘It could drag on for months,’ she said with conviction. ‘We must have a deadline.’

  ‘For the end of this investigation?’ He attempted to joke, knowing that he was wrong to try from the moment he opened his mouth.

  ‘Don’t be a fool – I want us to marry now. In a fortnight.’

  ‘Monique –’

  ‘Or not at all.’

  ‘What are you frightened of?’ he asked almost irritably.

  ‘I want us together. Making a fresh start.’

  ‘Do you think I could have AIDS?’ Marius spoke softly and she asked him to repeat what he had said, although he was sure she had heard the first time.

  ‘I pray you haven’t. But –’

  ‘I haven’t. I’ve had – checks.’

  There was a long silence.

  ‘Do you trust me?’ he asked.

  More silence.

  ‘Do you trust me?’

  ‘It’s not trust. You can’t help your own inclinations.’ Her voice was steady, unwavering.

  ‘If I marry you –’

  ‘If?’

  ‘When I marry you, I assure you there’ll be no more Jean-Pierre Claudes.’

  ‘I know you mean that.’

  ‘But you don’t believe me,’ Marius said sadly.

  ‘I just want us to be married – not to put you under lock and key – but so I can love you – really mean something to you. Day by day. So I must hold you to this deadline.’

  ‘You mean fourteen days is unnegotiable?’ asked Marius.

  ‘It shouldn’t have to be.’

  ‘I don’t want it to be,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Monique was hesitant.

  ‘Of course I’m damn well sure.’

  ‘You won’t let me come down?’

  ‘How can you? The house is in chaos.’ He was very firm. ‘But I’ll ring you, my darling. And I’ll marry you in fourteen days.’

  There was no more to be said and after their goodbyes, Marius put the phone down and then sat for a long time with his head in his hands. He wanted to do as she said, but her world seeme
d to be in another dimension from his own.

  Marius made coffee at seven and took a cup up to his mother. It was another depressingly perfect morning and the roses on the terrace gave off a heady perfume. He had a slight hangover – one that he could cope with – and even the thought of last night’s encounter with Estelle did not entirely make him despair, despite the fact that he knew she was probably right. And then, of course, there was his recent conversation with Monique. His head buzzed with trepidation and a sense of unreality gripped him. Officially he only had another ten days’ vacation in which to think. Perhaps he should seriously consider putting his mother into a nursing home, but it would take time to select one and again what about the cost? He still favoured the nurse – as long as it wasn’t too expensive and essentially it wasn’t Estelle.

  ‘Mother.’

  He heard the slight moaning noise she made in the early morning and opened the door. Solange lay on her back, her eyes blankly open, her large moon face devoid of expression. As always, Marius felt part tender pity, part wonderment that his mysterious and glamorous and alluring mother could be reduced to this. Her hands were about the only part of her body that had not changed. They were long, tapering – still the hands of a young woman, unmarked by the brown age spots that raddled her face. Suddenly, Marius remembered those hands stroking his face as a child when they had visited the Anne Frank house in Amsterdam. His mother had been deeply moved in the house, particularly by the faded scrap-book cuttings that were still lovingly preserved under perspex on the equally faded wall – the icons of Anne’s imprisonment, fantasy filmstar glimpses of an exotic outside world.

  ‘Mother.’

  ‘Mm.’ Was she mentally coherent, or not?

  ‘How did you sleep?’

  ‘I don’t think I did.’

  ‘What have you been doing all night?’ His voice was very gentle.

  ‘Thinking of Henri.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘How happy we were.’

  ‘All those rumours …’ He felt bad now, trying to grill her at the most likely time.

  ‘What rumours?’

  ‘Nothing. What – were you thinking of the happy times?’

  ‘They were all happy times.’

  ‘Even the war?’