Murder is a Long Time Coming

by Anthony Masters

  That night André and Annette Valier dined together at Le Clozel at a far table on the terrace by the river. The atmosphere between them was charged with recrimination and Annette could hardly wait for the aperitifs before attacking.

  ‘It’s all over the town.’ She sat back in her chair and swallowed a large portion of her gin and tonic.

  ‘I wouldn’t have agreed to dine with you here if I’d known you were going to chastise me.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake …’ She drank more gin in contempt. He hadn’t used his little boy lost expression in years. It nauseated her. All day she had been bubbling with anger, finding the anger a catharsis. Annette no longer cared what she said to him and despite his withdrawal, she no longer cared what happened. She had spent too long being careful. The news had filtered through to her via Andre’s secretary – a confidante of hers rather than his. Originally she had been suspicious of Janine’s friendliness, her desire to ‘tell’ on her husband. Then, some months ago, Annette had realised that Janine seemed to have a fixed dislike of André; despite this, she stayed working for him – and running him down to Annette. At first she had coldly discouraged Janine’s confidences, but since André had become more distant, she had begun to encourage them. One thing she was sure about – Janine was not Andre’s mistress. Maybe she would like to be but she wasn’t, for Janine was domineering, managing, unflattering – all the things André most hated in a woman.

  ‘Look.’ He changed from little boy lost to hard-edged journalist in seconds. Annette grinned. He was going to talk to her like a grown-up, as if they were both grown-ups who knew the wicked ways of the world – who shared them. ‘We’re an investigative newspaper; we’ve got that reputation to uphold. So I tried with Leger. And Claude. It didn’t work.’

  ‘You blew it.’

  ‘No. I took a risk and it didn’t pay off. And as for being all over the town –’ He paused suspiciously. ‘You haven’t been speaking to Janine, have you?’

  ‘Why should I? She’s the soul of discretion.’

  ‘I sometimes wonder.’

  ‘Then don’t. She gives me messages about you. About when you’re coming home – which is always late.’

  ‘Then it’s that bitch – that little slut Estelle.’

  ‘Perhaps. But I heard it all here. The waiters knew. I’ve never felt so humiliated.’

  ‘Oh come on –’

  ‘But they do, André. Don’t be a damn fool.’ She drank some more of the gin and began to feel heady with power and decision. Annette rarely drank and even more rarely felt confident; the combination was almost euphoric. At the same time she was conscious that Charles, the head waiter, was looking at her and André with undisguised curiosity. She saw him nudge another waiter and she leant forward and whispered to André: ‘You’ve behaved despicably.’

  ‘Look –’

  ‘Persecuted old ladies. Tried to exploit them.’

  ‘You just don’t know what you’re talking about.’ There was a calculated sneer in his voice and suddenly Annette was afraid. André was recovering. He looked around him, leaning back, truculently stretching and grinning.

  ‘Of course I know what I’m talking about. You’re nothing more than a gutter journalist.’

  That seemed to sting him immediately. ‘If you knew anything about –’

  ‘Don’t keep saying that. It’s so damned arrogant. You exploited three women in the most calculated way: Marie Leger in her hatred, Mariola Claude in her grief – and Estelle in her greed. It was easy, wasn’t it? But most editors worth anything wouldn’t have touched it. And don’t tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘So you disapprove. What of it?’

  Again the fear returned to her; she was doing immense damage. She must stop. But Annette knew she couldn’t.

  ‘André, don’t you care what you do?’

  ‘You sound like a petulant child.’

  ‘Why are you so cruel?’

  ‘I’m trying to find out the truth.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I care about Henri Larche.’

  ‘That’s the first I’ve ever heard of it. You care more about the circulation of the newspaper.’

  ‘The police have got nowhere.’

  ‘They’ll get somewhere soon. Particularly after what happened today.’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Whoever killed the two men is clever. And they’ll stay clever. There’s too much at stake, I’m sure. Larche wasn’t killed just for revenge. Neither was Claude. They knew something. That’s why I had those women in. I thought I could pump them. And I’ll tell you something else –’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘Something personal. Something between us. Something I resent.’

  ‘What are you trying to say, André?’

  ‘We’ve drifted apart.’

  ‘Madame.’ Charles had come up without either of them noticing him. He stood there, head bowed in the gathering darkness, somehow a rebuke to both of them. Perhaps he’s frightened too, thought Annette. Maybe he thinks we’re breaking up – that the restaurant will suffer.

  ‘We don’t want to order yet,’ said André. ‘Let’s have some more drinks. Madame will have a gin and tonic and I’ll have a Pernod.’

  ‘Very well, monsieur.’ He withdrew and she felt a rush of compassion for him. He’d been at Le Clozel for many years. He didn’t like change, and change was in the air. She knew it as she looked across at André. For the first time in months there was a frankness in his eyes. Was there the same in hers? An air of finality overtook her, and the creeping sense of loss churned in her stomach. Please, André, no. Let’s get up. Go. Run. Never talk any more.

  ‘Is there someone else?’

  He frowned slightly. ‘No.’

  ‘Do you promise me?’

  ‘You have my word on it.’

  And she knew she had. But somehow it didn’t make it any better.

  ‘Then why?’

  ‘I could ask you that too.’

  ‘Is it because of the baby?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s something. Chemistry.’

  For the first time in ages they were talking honestly. But she wished to God they weren’t.

  ‘André …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can’t we try?’

  ‘With your contempt?’

  ‘No. That’s only – related to one issue.’

  ‘Mm.’

  ‘Don’t you believe me?’

  ‘Here comes Charles.’

  He was like an old bird, pecking at them. She noticed that his hand shook slightly as he put the glass in front of her.

  ‘Madame.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Curiously his hand was quite steady as he put Andre’s glass down.

  ‘Thank you, Charles.’ André’s voice was dismissive. ‘We’ll call you in a few minutes for the menu.’

  ‘Very well, Monsieur Valier.’

  He walked away, his stoop pronounced.

  ‘Well, Annette?’ He lifted his drink to her. ‘What shall we do?’

  The words came into her mouth before she could stop them. ‘Do you want to separate?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘God – André.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I didn’t think –’

  ‘But I think we should.’ He was very emphatic. ‘Just for a while. Until things sort themselves out.’

  ‘How will they?’

  ‘Just give me some thinking time. And yourself.’

  ‘There is someone else.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Please don’t.’

  ‘Then what?’ He sounded slightly impatient, as if she was interfering with a prearranged plan. Prearranged? Could it be? Was this what he had been leading up to?

  ‘You stay at the house. I couldn’t bear it on my own.’

  ‘Then where …’

  ‘Here.’ She l
ooked at the river. ‘I want to stay here.’

  ‘Will you have some lemon tea, Mireille?’

  ‘I’d rather have a drink.’

  ‘Then have one.’

  ‘Good gracious, Marie, no lectures for once?’

  They were sitting in the dim and cluttered formal sitting-room as a protection against the heat that still smouldered in the early evening.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Will you have one?’

  ‘No. I really do prefer tea.’

  Mireille got up, poured herself a Scotch and then returned to her chair.

  ‘Listen – you are withholding evidence. Someone out there has killed twice. They may kill again. You have to tell the police everything. Now.’

  Marie turned away from her. ‘I could be arrested. Charged.’

  ‘They can’t charge you for something you might have done.’

  Mireille went over and picked up the portable phone. She placed it in her sister’s lap. Then she went to the phone book and looked up the number. ‘Phone Rodiet,’ she said. ‘Shall I dial?’

  Slowly Marie nodded. Suddenly she made up her mind. She was going to tell him everything. She looked at her sister, holding the receiver like some kind of weapon. Mireille was going to get a shock, she thought. A devastating shock.

  11

  Marius spent the afternoon talking to his mother, having dismissed Estelle with difficulty. Eventually she had gone, mouthing noises of discontent.

  ‘Mother, Alain is going to restore Letoric.’

  ‘What?’ She turned over and looked up at him warily. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’ll be a joint enterprise, but he’s providing the funding. It’ll grow again, Mother – the lawns, the drive, the fountains. Isn’t it wonderful?’

  It was even more wonderful that she was so suddenly rational. She sat up in bed, eyeing him curiously and intelligently. But when she spoke she sounded like a child.

  ‘What about me?’

  ‘You’ll live here.’

  ‘With it all new?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What about the builders?’

  Marius smiled. ‘I expect they can work round you.’

  ‘Now –’ She started to turn.

  ‘Just one other thing.’

  ‘Well?’ Amazingly she was still rational – the longest in days.

  For an appalling second Marius wondered if it was genuine – if she was really taking in what he was saying or if it was just superficial, another form of her dementia.

  ‘Well?’ She emphasised a little more brusquely and Marius hurried not to miss the opportunity.

  ‘Did you know Suzanne Rodiet?’

  ‘Her?’ His mother’s tone was disdainful.

  ‘Yes. Her.’

  ‘Awful woman. She was a hard bitch.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Your father and I disliked her – she was vile to her quiet little husband.’

  ‘But she was a heroine.’

  ‘That’s what they say.’

  ‘Wasn’t she?’

  ‘I want to have my siesta.’ The smell of lavender blew into the room and the curtain swung in the breeze.

  ‘Give me a few more minutes, Mother.’

  ‘Why?’ She turned a staring, beady eye towards him.

  ‘I’m trying to find out who killed Father.’

  ‘Killed him? He’s not dead. How dare you say your father’s dead?’

  ‘Stop acting!’ he yelled and sat back and waited for Estelle to come running in. That was it – he’d lost control. But she didn’t come – and his mother was still staring at him.

  ‘Who’s acting?’

  ‘You are.’ But his voice was unsteady.

  She blinked up at him, her blurred features creased into sulky misunderstanding. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s a lot of rubbish,’ she said truculently.

  But Marius shook his head and plunged on relentlessly. ‘You must have summed up Suzanne. You probably knew her very well. And I want to know what you thought of her.’

  ‘I’ve just told you.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘She took the German army on – and got shot for her pains. That’s what they say.’ Her voice had gone sing-song again.

  ‘Yes, that’s what everyone thinks,’ said Marius grimly. ‘The point is – is it true?’

  Marius’ voice was sharper now. He was somehow convinced that she was acting, that for some reason she was hiding behind a false screen of dementia. Then Marius mentally shook himself – he was being absurd. His mother had had a stroke and dementia had resulted, particularly misconceptions of time and place.

  ‘Mother, please – please try and concentrate.’ He felt as if his frustration would boil over at any minute.

  ‘Estelle!’

  ‘Please, Mother.’

  ‘Estelle!’

  ‘Yes, madame?’

  Marius turned abruptly as she came into the room in a tight-fitting housecoat.

  ‘I’m late for my pills.’

  ‘But you were with monsieur. I didn’t like to –’

  Marius rose, defeated. ‘I’ll go.’

  ‘Monsieur …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Were you – questioning your mother?’ She was hesitant.

  ‘It’s no business of yours.’

  ‘That’s true, monsieur.’

  ‘Then don’t ask.’

  ‘It’s just that I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

  ‘And how would you do that?’ he asked, his attempted sarcasm coming out more bluntly than he had intended.

  ‘I’m being interviewed tomorrow by Inspector Lebatre. I know he was talking to your mother too.’

  ‘So what?’ said Marius childishly. He wanted to be a little boy again and stick two fingers up to her arse. Come to think of it, it wouldn’t be a bad thing to do now. He’d suddenly noticed that she had quite a nice arse. Strange – only a short while ago he had been revolted by her.

  ‘I thought the Inspector would be angry. He’s already angry because Gabriel Rodiet is on the case.’

  ‘On the case? That phrase sounds like a B movie.’

  ‘Monsieur, I am only trying –’

  ‘Listen, Estelle. Rodiet is Lebatre’s boss and can question who he likes. And no one can stop me talking to my mother.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’

  ‘And Mother –’

  ‘Estelle, my pills. They’re late.’

  ‘Stop acting.’

  ‘Monsieur –’ Estelle was reproving.

  ‘If you know something about Suzanne Rodiet you must tell me,’ he continued. ‘And Lebatre.’ He turned to Estelle. ‘And if you’re trying to get her to hold anything back – don’t. Don’t collude with my mother. Don’t collude with anyone. And that’s official. I want the truth.’

  *

  Marius had slept in his father’s study for a while and Suzanne Rodiet had danced mockingly through his dreams. He woke, his mouth dry and his head muzzy. Grabbing a bottle of Mâcon and a glass, he fled to the overgrown terrace. It was nine and the sun was beginning to set. Uncorking the bottle and looking down he saw Estelle gazing up at him.

  ‘Monsieur?’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ve left your dinner on the table.’

  ‘Listen, Estelle. I wouldn’t wish to have a paid spy in the house.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. For half the town. The whole town probably. And of course, for Lebatre. Maybe even Valier.’

  ‘I could go,’ she said indignantly. ‘I could leave tonight.’

  ‘You could. But then I’m paying you quite well. Am I not?’

  ‘I am well pleased, monsieur.’

  ‘So bear my observation in mind.’

  ‘Yes, monsieur.’ She looked down. Suddenly Marius knew what it was about her that made him so uneasy. He wanted to go to bed with her.

  He stood on the terrace, unable to come to terms with this new and unwelcome sensation
. Estelle suddenly represented the same kind of sensuality as Jean-Pierre. He wanted her all right, rolling and thrashing over one of the mothball-scented counterpanes in the guest room. Getting into each other and the sweat running down them both. His erection swelling, Marius went to the balcony and looked out, taking a large draught of the Mâcon, trying to recreate her image in the hot air below.

  I mustn’t, he thought. I mustn’t. She’s my spy, he thought wildly, my gaoler. I want her like that. I want to grind into her, my wild-cat suppression. I’m going to come now, he thought, anxiety for his new light blue cotton trousers rudely interrupting his sexual fantasy. I’m going to come now and I’ll never get the stain out. He laughed aloud. Little man syndrome, a colleague had once said. Well, that was him all right. He took another long draught of wine and felt his erection weaken. Thank God for alcohol, he mused, the great deflater.

  ‘Marius?’

  ‘Gabriel.’

  He was taking the call in his father’s study.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Gabriel’s voice was cold.

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘You are doing what we agreed you wouldn’t.’ Gabriel’s voice was heavy with anger.

  ‘I’m not with you –’

  ‘You most certainly are. Leave the questioning of your mother to us.’

  ‘So she is a spy,’ said Marius quietly.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  ‘Estelle.’

  ‘Yes, well, she told Lebatre when he phoned to fix the time of her interview tomorrow. And your mother’s.’

  ‘He pays her to inform on me.’ Marius’ voice was dull and steady.

  ‘She does it naturally.’

  ‘Lebatre is a fool.’

  ‘He has more brains than we both give him credit for.’

  ‘I’ve been talking to my mother. As you yourself originally suggested. I have that right. Even Estelle mentioned that.’

  Gabriel sighed. ‘I am in charge of this investigation, Marius – not you. You should have kept in touch with me.’

  ‘What has Estelle told you?’

  ‘That you were questioning her about my mother.’