Murder is a Long Time Coming

by Anthony Masters

  ‘No,’ yelled Marius. ‘I’m on my own now. And to hell with you.’

  ‘Monsieur Valier will see you now.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Marius wished he had shaved – or had had some more of Mariola’s lemonade. He felt terrible, headachy and dehydrated. There was also a slow burning anger in him that Gabriel had not kept his side of the bargain. He should have realised he never would.

  The office was as bare and stylish as he would have expected. But André Valier did not match his surroundings. There were bags under his eyes and an over-lived expression to his face.

  ‘Isn’t Inspector Lebatre in charge of this case?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what do you think you’re doing – pulling rank?’

  ‘No. Shall I go?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Marius walked back to the door.

  ‘Wait.’

  He turned slowly.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ André Valier leant back, looking exhausted.

  ‘Some questions about Kummel – and essentially, of course, any clue you might have uncovered as to who he appointed to chair that tribunal.’

  ‘I can’t tell you anything about him – anything that’s not already been disclosed.’ He spoke quickly. ‘You can look at the archives if you like. But there’s no clue whatsoever about who presided over that court.’

  ‘You think it was my father, don’t you?’

  ‘Monsieur Larche, do you feel the killing of your father and Jean-Pierre Claude are connected?’ He was leaning forward now and looking more animated.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, I believe that my father was killed for the misguided purpose of revenge – and Jean-Pierre because he knew something about the killer.’

  ‘So why have you come to see me?’

  ‘Did you ever try to trace – as the local police are now – the families of the victims of that execution?’

  ‘Once or twice my predecessors tried to dig out stories about them. But there’s hardly anyone left. I honestly don’t think they’re of importance.’

  ‘Maybe what’s happening will bring it all to a head,’ said Marius softly.

  ‘Then what would the town live off? It’s been feasting off its own conscience too long.’ There was a pause, then André Valier said: ‘Do you think – there are more killings on the way?’ He spoke abruptly.

  ‘I don’t know. But there’s no time left.’

  ‘How do you make that out?’

  ‘Events. Somebody’s out of control.’ Marius stared round the room, suddenly aware of its arid modernism. He knew he was voicing this thought for the first time, as if André Valier’s pugnacious ferreting was crystallising his mind. For the first time since his father’s death, Marius’ brain was clear, despite his night with Gabriel.

  ‘Somebody near you? Near your family?’

  ‘Now you’re pumping me,’ said Marius. ‘I wanted to ask you about Suzanne Rodiet.’

  ‘The lady who intervened. It was Madame Claude who knew her best.’

  ‘I can’t get much out of her,’ said Marius guilelessly, hoping that he was leading him on a little.

  ‘Neither could I,’ said André Valier smoothly. ‘But she’s a confidante of one of the Leger sisters, isn’t she?’

  ‘Which one?’ said Marius, hoping to draw him out.

  ‘Marie. She’s been good to the old lady. And she’s a person one can confide in, don’t you think? Single, dumpy, unimaginative.’

  ‘You found this out when you – er – invited them to come to the office?’

  ‘An unsuccessful invitation. But yes.’

  ‘So you think Marie might know a little more than we do about Suzanne Rodiet?’

  ‘I think she might. All I’ve ever seen in Suzanne is some kind of stereotype.’

  ‘Domineering, impatient, possibly the lover of one of the executed young men. A bully to her doctor husband. Not much time for her son.’

  ‘I can’t add anything to that.’ André Valier stared at him – and Marius returned the stare. Then they both laughed spontaneously. Strangely, out of an unpromising encounter, a new respect had been born between them.

  ‘I’m sure you can’t. No one can. That’s the point.’

  ‘You mean she’s become something she wasn’t?’ asked André perceptively.

  ‘I just don’t know. But I can’t accept her as she was. It’s as if there was a set story – a personality concocted about her. But I do have a name that you might know.’

  ‘Who?’ He looked uneasy.

  ‘Someone called Didier.’

  André’s unease left him. ‘Yes. I know of him. He’s in the secure unit of the psychiatric hospital at Aix.’ He paused and then asked a little too innocently, ‘Who drew your attention to him?’

  ‘Mariola Claude,’ said Marius with a show of frankness. ‘That was something she did tell me.’

  ‘Something important possibly. I’ve already tried to get into the hospital, but there was no way they’d let me. You could use official clout.’

  Then how the hell did they get in, wondered Marius. ‘Risky when you’re not official,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Lebatre doesn’t know about this?’

  ‘He’s been to see you?’

  ‘Not yet. He’s still busy tracking down members of the families. Personally I think it’s closer to home. Don’t you?’

  ‘I couldn’t say.’

  ‘Meaning you won’t.’

  ‘What do you want in return for Didier?’

  ‘An interview with him. His surname’s Gaillard.’

  ‘I don’t know if I could swing that.’

  ‘You could try.’

  ‘Rodiet would be livid.’

  ‘It could be a private arrangement.’

  ‘I’ll have a go.’ Marius got up. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Better than squabbling,’ replied André Valier. He also rose to his feet. They shook hands, each experiencing an unexpected spark of liking for the other.

  ‘You are silly.’

  The Leger sisters were in the small stone-flagged kitchen, making a simple lunch. The atmosphere was charged with Marie’s anxiety.

  ‘They’re not going to take action against you. Commissaire Rodiet told you that. And you’ve made a statement now –’

  ‘But supposing he changes his mind? And they come and take me away?’

  ‘They won’t.’ Mireille was soothing. ‘It’s all over.’

  Marie Leger listlessly watched the two eggs boiling. She didn’t share her sister’s confidence and she felt not only great anxiety but a sense of foreboding. Despite her resolution, her statement had not included the full story. ‘I’m going out after this,’ she muttered.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I want to talk to Mariola.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s a good idea.’ Mireille’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

  ‘She’s my friend.’

  ‘She’s certainly not. Mariola Claude is a cunning old lady – a wicked old lady.’

  ‘How can you say that – with her son dead?’ shouted Marie. ‘Don’t you have any compassion?’

  ‘Not for her sort,’ replied Mireille prissily.

  ‘Then you’re a bitch.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘A miserable sanctimonious bitch.’

  ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’

  ‘No. I’m just regaining them.’ She grabbed the saucepan of eggs and threw it to the floor. Then, to her sister’s fury and amazement, she walked out.

  ‘Your credentials?’

  ‘Here.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The hospital was dramatically imposed on the Aix skyline: an old château, complete with turrets and moat. As he had driven nearer Marius had felt more and more oppressed by its weighty insignificance. Once in the bare and sandy grounds, he drove to reception and was eventually ushered in to the duty doctor. He was young but quiet
ly competent, with a large moustache and steel-rimmed glasses. There was an aura of reasonableness to him that Marius hoped boded well.

  ‘And you want to see Monsieur Gaillard – Didier Gaillard?’

  ‘I am pursuing an investigation. He could be central to my enquiries.’

  ‘We have already had a colleague of yours here – Commissaire Rodiet.’

  ‘Yes. I’m following up his visit with a few further questions.’ Marius wondered if he was coming across – and then decided he was.

  ‘You realise Monseiur Gaillard has been here since 1948 – over forty years?’

  ‘Yes. I am aware of that.’

  ‘You do realise he is in the secure wing?’

  ‘Commissaire Rodiet says it is possible to hold a conversation with him,’ Marius lied hopefully.

  ‘You would be unlikely to elicit much from him. I’m sure Commissaire Rodiet told you that.’

  ‘He did but I’d still like to try.’

  ‘Very well.’ The doctor reached for a key above him and stood up.

  Marius leapt to his feet – maybe a bit too quickly, he thought immediately. But it was too late now; anyway, it didn’t seem to matter. The young doctor was leading him out of the room and down a flight of stairs. The walls were painted green and blue – a hideous combination. Then they were outside, walking across a volley-ball court that was locked in heat shadow. It was time for the siesta and there was no one around. Their footsteps echoed sharply on the flinty ground.

  ‘Is he violent?’ asked Marius, risking a question now they were on the way.

  ‘Not when medicated.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘He is violent to himself.’

  ‘Was he always suicidal? Is that why he was admitted in the first place?’

  ‘He tried to kill his mother,’ said the doctor flatly.

  ‘Do you know if he was a member of the Resistance?’

  ‘Yes. I believe he was. He is not one of my own patients. I specialise in schizophrenia.’ The doctor paused. ‘Of course, if you weren’t here on official police business, there could be no question of your seeing him without the permission of his doctor.’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Marius hastily, and to his relief the doctor started walking again. ‘But does he have any visitors?’

  ‘Most of his family are dead now, I believe. Although there’s still a brother.’

  ‘Yes. But can you remember any recent visitors – not family? It could be very important to my enquiries.’

  ‘Over the last few years there have not been very many visits. But during the recent weeks there have been a few. There was a couple who came, for instance. I believe they had the permission of Didier’s brother.’

  ‘Do you know who they were?’

  ‘The visitors. Yes – I took them over there the first time. A Monsieur Claude and Mademoiselle Leger. They had a letter – and we are anxious to encourage visits.’

  ‘Can you describe them?’ said Marius sharply.

  Rather reluctantly the young doctor complied. There was no doubt at all. His description fitted Jean-Pierre and Marie exactly.

  ‘They came more than once?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They always came together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And how many times?’

  ‘Twice. Maybe more than twice. Your colleague has, however, asked the same question.’

  ‘I know,’ said Marius smoothly. He felt a sudden rush of elation. At least he was getting somewhere. He didn’t know where, of course. But at least it was somewhere. It was unfortunate, of course, that Gabriel had been there before him.

  ‘Mireille’s gone into the town.’ Marie Leger picked up the dirty coffee cups.

  ‘Don’t clear away.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like some more?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘A liqueur?’

  ‘Well –’

  ‘I was going to have one myself. Framboise?’

  ‘That would be nice.’

  She went into the dark interior and emerged seconds later with two cognac glasses brimming with the liquid.

  ‘That’s rather generous.’

  ‘I like to taste it,’ she said, subduing all thoughts of her weak digestion.

  ‘And have you seen Didier recently?’

  ‘No.’ She was beginning to tremble and some of the liquid slopped over the edge of the glass and ran stickily down her fingers.

  ‘Come on, Marie. I’ve seen you. It was an accident that I caught sight of you the first time – a very lucky accident.’

  ‘Seen me?’

  ‘You’ve been to visit him with Jean-Pierre – twice. I watched you the second time. You shouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘What did you find out?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Did he tell you about me?’

  ‘Why should he?’ Suddenly Marie realised everything. ‘It was you who killed Jean-Pierre.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Henri?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And now you’ve come for me.’

  ‘That’s right – you took the wrong initiative.’

  ‘I was going to the police.’

  Marie’s visitor laughed. ‘You should have been more decisive. I’m in time. Aren’t I?’

  ‘Will you stop after this?’ She began to shake uncontrollably. Yet she still didn’t believe that it was happening.

  There was no reply.

  The room was bare but painted in soft pastel colours. There was a bed, wardrobe, table, television set and cassette deck, a couple of shelves of books, mainly to do with natural history, and an easy chair by the window. Marius caught a glimpse of a magnificent view of the mountains through the thick iron bars.

  ‘Didier.’

  He didn’t look up.

  ‘I have a visitor for you. An Inspector Larche. He wants to ask you a few questions about the war.’

  Still he didn’t look up.

  ‘I’ll leave you with him,’ said the young doctor. ‘If you want me, ring the bell. Just by the door here.’ It was discreet but reassuring. The doctor went, softly closing the door behind him.

  ‘It is good of you to see me, Monsieur Gaillard.’

  The man turned to him and Marius saw with a shock that he looked curiously young, as if all emotion and worry-lines had been cleansed from his face for years. He was completely bald and smelt of baby powder. There was something in this combination of baby looks and smell that Marius found quite terrifying.

  ‘I don’t mind seeing you.’ His voice was institutionalised, slightly sing-song. On his lap was a collection of Maupassant stories, dog-eared and clearly much read. ‘Although I don’t know if I can be of any use to you.’

  The only other chair was a hard one, wedged in under the table. Marius pulled it out with difficulty and then dragged it over to sit beside Didier.

  ‘I gather some friends of mine visit you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Jean-Pierre Claude and Marie Leger.’

  ‘But Jean-Pierre is dead.’

  ‘Yes.’ Marius felt foolish for assuming he wouldn’t know about the murder.

  ‘I heard it on the TV.’

  ‘A great tragedy.’

  ‘He was murdered. Like the old man.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Did you come to talk to me about them?’

  How old is he, wondered Marius. He could be any age. His father’s age? Suzanne Rodiet’s age – if she had lived? Or was he much younger? It was impossible to tell.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s funny them coming. I’ve been here a long time.’

  ‘Did they ask you questions?’

  ‘Many questions.’ He didn’t make eye contact with Marius at all. Instead his eyes roved round the room, the little black pupils never still. The flesh on his face was pudgy, pale, with clear spots of red on either cheek. Marius wondered whether Didier ever went o
ut in the sun.

  ‘About the war?’

  ‘Yes.’ His voice was bright, obedient.

  ‘Were they surprised by what you said?’

  ‘Oh yes. They didn’t know I was here.’

  ‘Where did they think you were?’

  ‘Everyone thinks I’m dead.’ He gave a clear bell-like childish laugh. ‘But I’m not. I’ve been here. Hiding.’

  ‘Hiding?’

  ‘I know things.’ His voice was gleeful. ‘People never thought I knew things. Good old Didier. Stupid old Didier. They wrote me off. They did.’

  ‘But not Jean-Pierre. Not Marie.’

  ‘Not them.’

  ‘Will you tell me what you told them?’

  ‘I told them a lot,’ said Didier triumphantly.

  ‘Where did you start?’

  He paused and his fat fingers went to a bag he was clasping in his lap. ‘Would you like a bon-bon?’

  ‘No – you have one.’

  ‘Then – I won’t tell you.’

  ‘OK – perhaps I will have a bon-bon.’

  ‘Everyone has to have a bon-bon with Didier.’

  ‘OK.’

  Marius flinched as the soft fingers touched his with a piece of confectionery. They were hot and dry, as if Didier had a permanent fever.

  ‘Now tell me.’

  ‘Where shall I start?’

  ‘Where you think you should start.’

  ‘With Suzanne Rodiet.’

  ‘You knew her?’

  ‘Oh yes. I had relations with her,’ he said baldly.

  What do I believe, wondered Marius. The old-young face was completely expressionless.

  ‘You had sex with her?’

  ‘You’re not to use that word.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Mother said.’ Of course, thought Marius. Better leave it alone. Mother fixation. Either that or – appalling thought – Didier was enjoying lying. Enjoying sending him up.

  ‘So you had relations with Suzanne Rodiet?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘In the war. I was in the Resistance.’ Well, I can corroborate that with Alain, thought Marius. Aloud he said:

  ‘I gather she was a domineering woman?’

  ‘She was scared,’ said Didier surprisingly.

  ‘What of?’

  ‘What he was doing.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Kummel – and her husband.’

  Marius felt as if someone had suddenly punched him in the stomach.