After the Crash

by Michel Bussi

  First question: was Véronique de Carville aware of her husband’s escapades?

  Answer: How could she not have been?

  Second question (the most important): Did she pay him back in kind?

  I never found any proof of that. Everything seemed to suggest that Véronique was fairly depressed, living almost alone with her daughters, Malvina and then Lyse-Rose. She did not, as I have already mentioned, have many visitors. I interrogated her entourage in an attempt to identify any possible lovers, potential fathers for Lyse-Rose. There was the gardener’s son, a kind-hearted Adonis who would work topless in the garden under Véronique’s window. He was the type who would certainly have appealed to a depressed Westerner, a sexually frustrated woman reading Lady Chatterley’s Lover beneath the covers, but he never confessed anything of the sort to me, and besides, he had extremely dark eyes, which would not have been particularly helpful from a genetic point of view.

  I concentrated my search on blue-eyed men living in the vicinity of the de Carvilles’ villa in Ceyhan. There were not many of them. I found three altogether, one of them reasonably credible: a handsome ponytailed German who rented out pedalos nearby. I took pictures of him, and over the years I would compare those photos to Lylie’s face, looking for any resemblance. Thankfully nothing stood out. It would have been hard to explain to Mathilde de Carville that she had paid me a fortune, only to learn that Lyse-Rose had survived the crash, but that she was not their granddaughter – not even a de Carville – but the daughter of a German who made a living renting out pedalos.

  Meanwhile, in France, the reward offered for information about the bracelet had gone up to forty-five thousand francs, and still no one had taken the bait, not even a hoaxer such as Unal Serkan. Then again, it was not particularly easy to replicate a solid gold bracelet with a Tournaire hallmark.

  Still, leaving no stone unturned, I continued to offer my harebrained theories to Nazim, over tea and a hookah.

  ‘Nazim, what if the crash wasn’t an accident?’

  It was lunchtime, and the Dez Anj café was crammed with

  tie-wearing Turks sipping their raki during the hour of prayer. Nazim was so startled, he almost knocked the tray out of the waiter’s hands.

  ‘What are you suggesting, Crédule?’

  ‘Well, if you think about it, the actual cause of the accident has never been ascertained. The snowstorm, pilot error . . . it’s easy to blame those things, don’t you think? But what if there was another cause?’

  ‘Go on. Like what?’

  ‘A terrorist attack, for instance.’

  Nazim’s moustache trembled.

  ‘Against who? The de Carvilles?’

  ‘Why not? An attack aimed at their family, and Alexandre, the sole heir. It’s not such an absurd idea really. Alexandre was working on a high-risk project, the Baku–Tbilisi–Ceyhan pipeline, which goes straight through Kurdistan. Alexandre was negotiating directly with the Turkish government while the PKK was carrying out attacks all over the region . . .’

  Nazim burst out laughing.

  ‘The Kurds! Oh come on . . . You in the West see terrorists everywhere. The Kurds! A bunch of peasants . . .’

  ‘Nazim, I’m serious. The Kurdistan Workers Party was not at all happy at the prospect of seeing all that black gold flowing straight past them without any of it ending up in their territory. They must have been even less happy at the thought of the de Carvilles’ bulldozers invading Kurdistan, surrounded by Turkish army tanks . . .’

  ‘OK, Crédule, I can buy that. But it’s a long way from being angry about the pipeline to deliberately crashing an Airbus with Alexandre de Carville on board. And anyway, how would that change things, if there’d been a terrorist attack against the de Carvilles?’

  ‘It might be more complicated than that. What if Lyse-Rose was kidnapped before the Airbus took off? Or what if the de Carvilles knew about the attack beforehand and sent doubles to take their place . . .’

  Nazim laughed again, even louder, then gave me a hearty slap on the back and ordered two more rakis. We spent the night watching boats in the Golden Horn and talking endlessly about the case. Thinking back, these were easily the most enjoyable moments of the investigation. Those first months, in Turkey. My happiest memories. After that summer in 1982, my stays in Turkey became fewer and farther between.

  On 7 November 1982, however, I was in Turkey once again. I had been there for two weeks. I heard the news three days later from Nazim. Mathilde de Carville had not even thought to warn me. Pierre and Nicole Vitral had been the victims of an accident, in Le Tréport, just before dawn on Sunday morning. Pierre never woke up. Nicole was still hovering between life and death.

  From our perspective in Istanbul, the story of an accident was hard to believe. Was it just my profession warping my judgement, or was there more to it than that? In my room at the Hotel Askoc, I suddenly felt afraid. For the first time, I realised that continuing to work on this case for the de Carvilles, for eighteen years of my life, meant effectively losing those years . . . and possibly losing the years that would remain to me afterwards.

  But still I continued.

  2 October, 1998, 11.52 a.m. Nation.

  Marc looked up. Sweat was running down his back. This was where he had to change trains.

  He found himself on the platform, notebook in hand, hyperventilating. He walked over to the nearest bench, closed the notebook and opened his backpack. He was in shock.

  The seventh of November, 1982.

  That date was stamped on his memory. He had read it so often in the years since, engraved on his grandfather’s gravestone, because he’d had nothing else to do while his grandmother stood there weeping. She went to the cemetery every day. When he didn’t have school, Marc would go with her, pushing the pram in which Lylie slept. It was a long way, and they had to walk up a steep hill, with Nicole coughing constantly . . .

  The seventh of November, 1982.

  Marc walked in a daze through the corridors of the metro, searching for directions to Line A. Gradually, his breathing returned to normal and he was able to think. The map of the RER network unfurled inside his head. He would go to Vincennes, Noisy-leGrand, Bussy-Saint-Georges . . .

  He slowed down. It was not a good idea to go too fast, to allow himself to be sucked into the spiral of events: Grand-Duc’s notebook and its revelations; the detective’s murder; Lylie’s disappearance. His grandparents’ accident.

  He was not stupid. He could not simply walk into the lion’s den like this. Not without taking some precautions, at least. He examined his mental map of the metro. Yes, it would make much more sense to go the other way, towards La Défense. It was only one station more and would take only a few minutes longer. That way he would have time to safeguard what he had learned.

  Less than two minutes later, Marc found himself in the crush of people at the Gare de Lyon. He let himself be carried along by the human whirlwind, past posters advertising the latest films: The Horse Whisperer, Saving Private Ryan . . .

  The latest books and concerts.

  Marc barely turned his head.

  A poster for Charlelie Couture, in concert at the Bataclan.

  He thought about Lylie.

  Oh, dragonfly,

  Your wings are so fragile,

  As for me, my body is broken . . .

  Marc took out his telephone. Finally, he had coverage. He dialled Lylie’s number.

  It rang seven times, as usual.

  Answering machine.

  ‘Lylie, wait. Wait for me. Don’t do anything stupid! Call me

  back. I’m on this. I’m going to find . . .’

  Find what?

  No hesitation. Just keep going.

  Marc reached the mainline departures area. The orange TGV

  trains were lined up like sprinters. The left-luggage office was

  located to the right, behind the newspaper kiosk. Marc opened a

  heavy steel door and shoved his backpack inside the grey
locker. He

  was not going to turn up at the Roseraie, the de Carvilles’ lair, with

  Grand-Duc’s notebook in his possession. The detective had given it

  to Lylie, not to the de Carvilles, and there must have been a reason

  for that. Marc would meet the de Carvilles, talk to them, negotiate.

  After that, he would make a decision.

  He had to enter a code. Five numbers. Without thinking, Marc

  typed: 7 11 82.

  The locker door swung shut with a thud. Marc exhaled. He went

  to a stall selling sandwiches and bought a ham sandwich and a

  bottle of water.

  He had made the right decision. It was better to keep the

  notebook elsewhere, for the moment, even if he was desperate

  to read the next part: Grand-Duc’s version of his grandparents’

  accident.

  Marc had been four at the time and had only vague memories of it. Grand-Duc’s words were far from ambiguous, however:

  ‘. . . the story of an accident was hard to believe. Was this just my

  profession warping my judgement, or was there more to it than

  that?’

  Marc had to know. He did a sudden U-turn, walked back to the

  locker, and typed in the code.

  7 11 82.

  His hands trembling, Marc rummaged through the bag and took

  out the notebook. He skimmed the pages, glancing at the words:

  ‘. . . meant effectively losing those years . . . possibly the years that

  remained . . . But still I continued.’

  This was where he had stopped reading.

  Marc grabbed the next five pages between his fingers and ripped them from the notebook. His grandparents’ accident, as narrated by Grand-Duc. Then, shutting the locker door, he rushed back into the maze of the Gare de Lyon.

  23

  2 October, 1998, 11.55 a.m. Nicole Vitral walked slowly along the Rue de la Barre. When she reached the crossroads near the Sévigné school, she stopped and coughed. A nasty, hacking cough. She still had to climb the whole of Rue de Montigny before she reached the Janval cemetery. More than half a mile. Never mind – she would take her time. Now that she was retired, this was practically all she had to do each day: visit her husband’s grave, then buy bread at Ghislaine’s on her way back, plus some meat every other day. Her legs were not as strong as they used to be.

  Nicole braved the first part of Rue de Montigny: this was the steepest section. She had just passed the swimming pool when a van overtook her, then parked in front of her, with two wheels on the pavement.

  The cheerful face of Sébastien, one of the town councillors, appeared at the window.

  ‘We’re going up to the gymnasium, Mrs Vitral. Do you want us to drop you off at the cemetery on the way?’

  Sébastien was one of the youngsters at the town hall. Well, he was in his forties. But he was a Communist, and proud of it. Nicole Vitral had watched him grow up. He was a good guy: an activist, and stubborn as a mule, but also mature and likeable. With men like him in it, the Party still had a bright future, she thought, no matter what people said on television. They would win the next local election, she was sure of it.

  Nicole did not need to be asked twice and got into the front seat of the van. Sébastien was accompanied by Titi, who was employed by the council as a gardener. Nicole had watched him grow up too. He may not have been the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was very adept at looking after the flower-beds, and he contributed greatly to the prosperity of the local bars.

  ‘You’re still fighting fit, by the looks of it, Mrs Vitral!’

  ‘Not really . . . You should make the bus go past the cemetery, Sébastien, for all the old widows like me . . .’

  The town councillor smiled. ‘That’s not a bad idea. I’ll add it to the agenda. So, how’s Marc doing in Paris?’

  ‘Fine, fine . . .’

  Nicole’s thoughts went back to the message Marc had left on her answering machine that morning. What could she say to him? Of course she knew where Emilie was; she had guessed the irrevocable act she was about to perform. She had prayed so often, through the years, that this would not happen. Life could be cruel sometimes.

  Titi’s loud voice woke Nicole from her thoughts. His breath already stank of booze.

  ‘That Marco . . . Is he still following Emilie around? He never even comes back to play rugby on Sundays with the team anymore. Mind you, it’s no great loss – I know he’s your son and all, Nicole, but seriously, the guy has butterfingers . . .’

  Titi laughed loudly.

  ‘Shut your face, Titi,’ said Sébastien.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Nicole smiled.

  She looked behind her. In the back of the van were boxes containing hundreds of leaflets.

  ‘Still fighting the good fight, Sébastien?’

  ‘Always! Chirac may have dissolved the Right in the Assembly, but we’re still waiting for things to change, aren’t we? Even with our comrades in government!’

  ‘What are the leaflets about?’

  ‘We’re trying to save the commercial port. They want to take away our trade with West Africa, which is pretty much all we have left. Bananas, pineapples, that sort of stuff. If we lose that, the town will die. There’s a protest march in Rouen on Saturday.’

  Titi elbowed Nicole in the ribs. ‘But even if we lose the bananas and pineapples, we’ll still have your peaches, won’t we? Eh, Nicole?’

  Sébastien sighed. Nicole gave him an understanding look.

  ‘Well, I can’t promise anything about the march,’ said Nicole, ‘but if you bring me a box of those leaflets, I’ll go door-to-door for you in Pollet. There are still a few people in Dieppe who know me and may listen to me . . .’

  Titi almost jumped out of his seat. ‘That is totally true, Nicole! I used to love watching you on TV back in the old days. I was fifteen. I used to get so turned on watching you try to hide your big titties!’

  ‘Jesus, Titi, shut the fuck up!’ shouted Sébastien.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Titi asked, taken aback. ‘I was just saying. Nicole’s hardly going to think I’m trying to pull her at her age. I was just paying her a compliment.’

  Nicole gently touched Titi’s arm. ‘It’s all right, Titi. I wasn’t offended. In fact, I liked hearing you say that.’

  During the brief silence that followed, Nicole could not help thinking about Emilie. She wished she could be with her now. Not so she could try to change her mind, just to be there for her. Nicole knew that this would be the end of Emilie’s innocence. The taste of death would remain with her for ever, the memory. The remorse.

  The van came to a halt.

  ‘Here we are,’ said Sébastien. ‘The cemetery. Shall I bring you the box of pamphlets tonight?’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  ‘You’ll really be helping us out, Nicole. You should stand for election, you know . . .’

  ‘No, that was Pierre’s thing, not me. That was his plan. He wanted to stand in 1983.’

  Embarrassed, Sébastien said nothing for a moment. Then: ‘I remember. It was a terrible loss. Jesus, what a waste! Actually . . .’ He hesitated. ‘The . . . the van, the Citroën, did you keep it?’

  Nicole smiled resignedly. ‘Yes. I still had to work. And there were Emilie and Marc to look after.’

  ‘The best chips on the Côte d’Albâtre!’ said Titi. ‘Believe me, Nicole, I didn’t go to your van just because of your tits!’

  Sébastien laughed, and Nicole smiled nostalgically. Her blue eyes still retained their sparkle.

  ‘That van is still in our garden. And now there’s no one there to ask me to move it so they can play. It’s just gathering rust . . .’

  Nicole opened the door.

  ‘Well, I’d better let you lads get back to work!’

  Titi helped her get down. They watched her as she crossed the empty car park.

  Nicole pushed open
the iron gate.

  Marc would call back. Soon, probably. Maybe he would even come to Dieppe. What would she tell him? Should she give their impossible love affair a chance?

  She had to decide. To speak or to say nothing. This was urgent, she knew: she had to make a decision today.

  Nicole closed the cemetery gate behind her.

  She would ask Pierre for his advice. He always made the right choices.

  24

  2 October, 1998, 12.32 p.m. A delicate ray of sunlight greeted Marc when he got off the RER train at Val-d’Europe. It was the first time he had set foot in the new town, which had opened a few months earlier. He was amazed by the vast circular square of Place d’Ariane. He had been expecting to find a modern, high-tech city, along the lines of Cergy or Évry. Instead he found himself in the centre of a Haussmannian square, just like those in Paris’s established arrondissements, except that the square was not a hundred years old. It was not even a hundred days old. New imitating old, and quite convincingly too.

  Cranes towered above him, above the gutters and fake gargoyles. A sign announced: Arlington Business Park. The unfinished glass towers in the business district already towered over the fake ‘old’ square by a hundred feet or so. Far away, beyond the bypass, Marc could see the peaks of Disneyland: the highest tower of Sleeping Beauty’s castle; the red rocks of the miners’ ride; the dome of Space Mountain . . . The effect was surreal.