Murder is a Long Time Coming

by Anthony Masters

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘What else did Jean-Pierre talk to you about? You seemed to be having a very intense conversation. When I looked in he was sitting in a chair and you were holding his shoulders. Pressing him down.’

  ‘He got very emotional.’

  ‘What about?’ They were sparring now; instinctively Marius was convinced of it, although at the same time his reason told him that his imagination could be playing him false.

  ‘You. He regretted very much what he had done.’

  ‘Because he was in trouble with the police?’

  ‘Because of what he had done to you.’

  Marius looked at the brown arm, getting rigid now as it hung over the tractor. Suddenly he wanted to touch it again. To find out if it had gone cold.

  ‘Gabriel, I have to stay. I have to stay and talk to people.’

  ‘I warned you to keep out of this.’

  ‘You also asked me to make a few enquiries – unofficially.’

  ‘That’s over. I’ve decided I was wrong.’

  Gabriel looked towards his busy team, still attending to the dead man.

  ‘Do you need me here any longer?’ said Marius abruptly.

  ‘Where will you be?’

  ‘I’ll be at home for the rest of the morning,’ he replied sharply.

  ‘OK. I’ll keep you informed.’ Gabriel turned back to his team, briskly efficient. ‘And I shall need to know your movements last night.’

  ‘That’s easy,’ said Marius. ‘I got drunk and went to sleep. You can ask Estelle.’

  He walked slowly away, taking a last look at that brown arm. But it suddenly didn’t look like an arm any longer – just like the plastic limb of some outsize, broken, bloodied doll.

  ‘Welcome.’

  She stepped self-consciously into André Valier’s office. It was curiously stark and functional. Marie Leger had expected some kind of Hollywood news reporter sleaze; she had almost had him in eye-shade and pinned shirt-sleeves. Instead there was a large, clear desk, a fax machine, a sleek telephone, a book-case containing the complete works of Zola, and a deep-pile carpet. There were some Seurat prints on the walls and, on a glass table, an exquisite china shepherd boy playing a flute.

  André was dressed in a linen suit with a cream shirt and light blue tie. There was a coolness to him that was almost mocking and Marie, never confident, always defensive, felt instantly threatened. She was sure that some part of him was laughing at her.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  There was a metal chair covered in black leather on one side of the desk. It matched the other on which André was sitting. He smiled at her. Like a cat with cream, she thought.

  ‘There’s been a development.’

  ‘Yes?’ she asked, startled.

  ‘You haven’t heard? Jean-Pierre Claude – he’s been found with his throat cut. Sitting on his tractor.’

  ‘God-’

  ‘Looks like a serial killer.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Repeated murders. With more to come.’ His voice had an obscene relish to it.

  ‘This is terrible. It must be some dreadful maniac’

  ‘Or someone who’s anxious – very anxious indeed – to keep people quiet.’

  ‘Quiet about what?’ Marie was obviously deeply shocked.

  André shrugged. The little smile was still on his lips. Is he playing a game with me, she wondered. And, if so, what sort of game is it? ‘I’ve been wondering if the Larche killing wasn’t just revenge. Perhaps the old man knew something – about someone. And so did Claude. And maybe others.’

  ‘Then there could be more of these killings …’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘But what is it – what could they have known?’

  ‘Maybe Henri Larche didn’t preside over that – tribunal. Maybe it was someone else.’ His teasing smile broadened. ‘Maybe these killings have been done by someone trying to protect someone else – or someone trying to protect themselves.’

  ‘They must be mad,’ she replied expressionlessly.

  ‘Perhaps they are.’ He got up and went outside. ‘I’ll be back in a minute.’ Marie watched him walk down a long, grubby corridor. He opened a door and there was a bustle of sound – a sharp contrast to the quiet of his own neat eyrie. But in seconds he was back, holding the front page of a newspaper. Hold the front page. That’s what they said in the films – the old films she sometimes watched on Sunday afternoon television in winter. He strode towards her and slapped it down on his pristine desk. The banner headline ran: SERIAL KILLER AT WORK? And then in only slightly smaller black lettering: MURDERED LABOURER’S LINK TO LARCHE. Bemused she read on:

  The body of farm labourer Jean-Pierre Claude was found this morning slumped on a tractor. His throat had been cut. This is the second killing in the St Esprit area in days. Police Commissaire Gabriel Rodiet stated this morning: ‘I really can’t say whether these killings are linked or not.’ However both men had their throats cut and were killed in the same way.

  She looked up. ‘I don’t know anything about the tribunal,’ she said abruptly.

  ‘But you were in St Esprit during the occupation.’

  ‘As a young girl. Yes. But all we knew was what we read in the papers.’

  ‘Are you sure about that, madame?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  ‘And your sister?’

  ‘She knows nothing either. Ask her.’

  ‘I shall,’ said André crisply.

  ‘So you’ll not want me now.’ She half stood up but he waved her down again.

  ‘What makes you think that?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Well – there have been new developments –’

  ‘We’re still interested in running stories on Henri Larche.’

  ‘Stories?’ she asked hesitantly. ‘You mean you’ve got others – other people to write things?’

  He shifted in his chair slightly and she realised that this was the first time she had seen André Valier even slightly disconcerted. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘May I know who they are?’

  ‘Let’s talk about what I’d like you to write first.’

  ‘Very well.’ Marie cursed herself for giving in to him.

  ‘The question of the house – and your brother. How did this come about?’

  She was silent and he wondered if she was going to reply. ‘My father died without making a will,’ she said suddenly, ‘so it seemed logical that we should share the estate. Then Henri Larche produced some absurd document; they said it was a letter of intent my father had written him. Anyway, it was sufficient for my brother Alain to inherit – and for us to live in poverty.’

  ‘When did he produce this document?’

  ‘Just after the war. In 1947.’

  ‘And that was that?’

  ‘We disputed it, of course. Naturally.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And we lost. Then we lost the appeal. Then we moved out to that damn cottage and we’ve been there ever since. Living in quiet penury – eking out a small income with the shop.’

  ‘You’re still angry?’

  ‘Very. He obviously felt we were unfit to manage the estate’.

  ‘Do you speak to your brother?’

  ‘No. I suppose he imagined we’d sell for holiday homes.’

  ‘Does he try to speak to you?’

  ‘He makes overtures sometimes, but we don’t encourage them.’

  ‘Is your sister as bitter as you?’

  ‘No, she’s more philosophical.’ Marie sighed. He must know some – or all – of this.

  ‘Well now.’ He leant back in his chair. ‘Will you write all this down for me?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I can. And I don’t know the legal position.’

  He looked impatient. ‘You can tell the story to a reporter. And I’ll have a lawyer clear everything. We need to focus on your memories of Larche. As a man. Then as a manipulator. Did you know Claude?’

  ‘I know his m
other. He was – very uncouth, I think.’

  ‘Maybe he looked it.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘False impressions?’ There was a trace of contempt in Andre’s eyes.

  ‘If you really want to know – he was a drunk,’ she said sharply, pursing her lips and feeling ridiculous, knowing the conversation was being forced on her. Suddenly Marie felt not just confused but utterly wretched. Hadn’t this been a chance to publicly rebuke Alain – the much older brother who had been so distant when she was a child and then had swooped in like a vulture to take everything she and Mireille should have shared. The other object of her hatred was dead. And she had been pleased – knew she had been pleased. It was what he deserved.

  But she stood up abruptly. ‘I don’t know whether I should be doing this.’ Again she cursed herself; why didn’t she just walk out, telling him and his scurrilous article to go to bloody hell? But she was just too indecisive to do it. A wave of faintness swept over her as she swung between distaste for his methods and an unwelcome awareness that for far too long she herself had fed off the same scurrilousness that André Valier practised in his newspaper.

  ‘Please – don’t upset yourself.’ Valier also stood up, all instant ingenuous concern. ‘I think you’re –’

  ‘No I’m not.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  Finally she had the right words – the right feelings. Marie looked straight at him for the first time. And as the contempt for him welled up in her, the courage came too. It was an exhilarating release. If she could do this, she wondered, then why couldn’t she throw her other scheme up too? But, wearily, she knew she wouldn’t. It had been going on too long, she was so very implicated – and there was so much money at stake.

  ‘Monsieur Valier, you are a total bastard.’

  He gazed at her, mouth agape, the little smile wiped off his face. Marie almost laughed aloud with triumph and derision.

  ‘Of course I’m a foolish and embittered woman. Of course I am.’ She paused. ‘I wanted to see Alain squirm. But what are you trying to do? Boost circulation? Or does it give you pleasure to stir up these old quarrels again?’

  ‘You’re upset.’ His voice was soothing but she could see something in his eyes – a kind of recognition.

  ‘No. I’m seeing my own despicable actions clearly for the first time – and finding the guts to voice them. I’m not writing a word for your scurrilous little tabloid. I know what you’ll say – that this is investigative journalism. Rubbish. It’s pure shit. Yes, you can look surprised. An ageing spinster like me capable of thinking like this – talking like this. But at last I’ve found the – the spirit to say what I feel. And I’m grateful to you. There are plenty of people in this town who will write for you for money, monsieur. Plenty of scandal-mongers. But don’t count me amongst them.’ She gazed at him with contempt. ‘God damn you, Valier,’ she said quietly. ‘You don’t deserve the wife you have. I saw her looking away from you last night at dinner. She must loathe and despise your manipulations.’ Marie walked towards the door. She was amazed at herself – amazed at what she was saying. Marie opened the door and stood there inconclusively. ‘Go to hell,’ she said at last.

  *

  As Marie walked through the rather dingy foyer with its air conditioning humming and its dim light a protection against the heat outside, she suddenly paused. Sitting in the reception area were Estelle and Madame Claude. She was about to hurry on, but then she became aware that the old woman’s eyes were fixed on her. Reluctantly she went across.

  ‘Madame Claude, I am so terribly sorry.’

  But the old woman shook her head impatiently. ‘I’ve come to be interviewed.’ She made the statement with a kind of triumphant misery, as if some drama of her own had to be played out in contrast to the existing drama of her son’s slashed throat.

  ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’ Marie glanced at Estelle who returned the look with a hostile stare.

  ‘Yes. I want to give a statement.’

  ‘What about?’

  ‘His murder. You see – I know who did it.’ She began to shake and Estelle put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Don’t say any more,’ she whispered. But Madame Claude was determined not to miss her chance.

  ‘It was that little cunt of a nancy boy,’ she shouted, pleased at Marie’s shocked expression. ‘I’ve come to expose him. That bastard Larche.’

  ‘She’s beside herself. You should take her home.’

  ‘How can I? We were brought out here by car.’ Estelle for once looked genuinely frightened.

  ‘By car?’

  ‘Valier sent it for us.’

  ‘You should take her home. I’ll drive you.’

  ‘I’ll never shift her now,’ said Estelle.

  ‘I’m not moving,’ retorted the old woman loudly, causing everyone in the foyer to turn and stare at her curiously. ‘Not till I’ve said what I have to say. It was that poofter Larche. He killed my son. Like he killed his own father. He was making advances to my dearest –’ She began to cry in hoarse, dry sobs. ‘And Jean-Pierre – he wasn’t having any. So Larche cut his throat.’

  ‘But why should he cut his father’s throat?’

  ‘Jealousy. Money. I don’t know.’ The old woman was frantic now and her words were lost amid hysterical sobs.

  Marie glanced back at Estelle. ‘I thought you were meant to be looking after Madame Larche – that’s what I heard.’

  ‘You heard right. But her son’s with her now. I told him I had to have some time off.’

  ‘And this is how you’re spending it?’ demanded Marie censoriously.

  ‘It’s none of your business.’

  ‘And is he paying Madame Claude?’

  ‘He’ll pay,’ muttered the old woman. ‘That whore of a Larche will pay.’

  ‘Good morning.’ A young secretary, bright and brisk in a crisp suit, stood beside them. ‘Madame Claude?’

  ‘Yes, this is Madame Claude,’ said Estelle, relieved.

  ‘Thank you for coming. Monsieur Valier will see you both now.’

  ‘Just a minute,’ said Marie.

  All their eyes turned on her questioningly.

  ‘Yes?’ asked the secretary, a little less brightly.

  ‘Will you give a message to Monsieur Valier for me?’

  ‘And you are?’ She looked puzzled now.

  ‘Madame Leger. I’ve just been with him.’

  ‘Oh yes –’

  ‘Tell him – tell him that he’s an absolute, unmitigated swine.’

  ‘I beg your –’ The secretary flushed scarlet.

  ‘Yes,’ chimed in Madame Claude in her blurred voice. ‘That’s what he is – that Larche. But swine’s too good for him. He’s a –’

  She was led away muttering by Estelle and the flustered secretary amidst the outright curiosity and fascination of everyone in the foyer of the Journal Discours.

  Marie watched them go and then turned miserably towards the swing doors and the torpid heat. Despite everything that had happened to her, Marie Leger felt she had never fully realised what a wicked place the world was. But she knew that she couldn’t give up now. She had too much at stake. As she walked out into the glare of the harsh sunlight, a radical thought crossed her mind. Why not give up? Why not go straight to Rodiet and tell him what she and Jean-Pierre had really been doing? It was a sudden, wonderful, seductive temptation. But quite hopeless. And besides – there was the money she was owed. Marie realised that what she was doing was far worse than Valier could ever do. But that didn’t make her any less contemptuous of him.

  ‘Alain?’ Marius’ voice was hesitant on the telephone.

  ‘Yes, Marius?’

  ‘Can we talk?’

  ‘Come to lunch.’ He sounded wonderfully calm and reassuring.

  ‘Have you heard what’s happened?’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing. I don’t think I want to hear anything else.’

  ‘Jean-Pierre’s been murd
ered.’

  ‘No –’

  ‘Throat cut. Just like Father.’

  There was a long pause. Then Alain said slowly, ‘Do they know who did it?’

  ‘No. Lebatre’s technically in charge with Rodiet interfering.’

  ‘Why the hell has this happened?’

  ‘That’s what they would like to know. Meanwhile I’m one of their principal suspects.’

  Alain laughed emptily. ‘Absurd.’

  ‘Gabriel seems to share that view. But Lebatre –’

  ‘I can have lunch ready by twelve thirty.’

  ‘I’ll be there then. But – before I ring off – did you ever meet Kummel?’

  ‘No. Why should I?’

  ‘My father was seen lunching with him.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘Mariola Claude.’

  ‘She’s not a reliable witness,’ he replied quietly, abruptly.

  ‘Supposing she’s right?’

  ‘There’s nothing sinister about the old woman being right. Henri probably lunched with him to pump for information.’

  ‘That’s what my mother said. But wouldn’t you have known that my father lunched with Kummel? You were both so close.’

  ‘I just can’t remember the actual episode. But if he did lunch with him, maybe he gave whatever information he got to your mother. And maybe she thought if too many people knew …’ He stopped impatiently. ‘Anyway, it’s all conjecture.’

  There was another long pause. Then Marius said, ‘She is unreliable. Isn’t she?’

  ‘Mariola Claude? She’s a very embittered woman who was knocked around by her husband – just like her son was. She’s never had a penny to her name, and she’s addicted to gossip.’ He broke off. ‘Now look – come up here and we’ll talk.’

  ‘Estelle, are you back?’

  ‘Yes.’ She was standing in the hallway, looking beaten.

  ‘I’m going out to – what’s the matter? Where’s Madame Claude?’

  ‘She’s with the police now – with Lebatre.’

  ‘Still there? I thought that by now …’ Marius looked at her in bewilderment. ‘You’ve been gone for ages,’ he accused.

  ‘I took her into Aix.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Valier phoned. He wanted to interview her.’

  ‘But you told me you had to help Madame Claude while she was with the police.’