After the Crash
Page 19
‘Do you mind if I ask you something else? You seem to know the area very well. Did you happen to see anything new or suspicious recently, in the last few days ? A stranger, perhaps? Another car that didn’t belong here?’
The man stared at her, amazed by her insolence. Instinctively, he pulled at the dog’s leash, but he could not resist the temptation to show off.
‘Actually, there was something. A blue Rover Mini, fairly new. The owner was hanging around practically all morning: a young girl with the face of a middle-aged woman. She looked rather shifty to me. Is that who you had in mind?’
Ayla Ozan’s face suddenly went white. Of course, she knew who the man was talking about. Nazim had told her many times about Malvina de Carville: her unusual appearance, her capricious nature, that car – the Rover Mini – given to her by her wealthy grandmother. Nazim had also told her that the girl had gone utterly insane after the plane crash.
Insane and dangerous.
Ayla panicked.
‘Right. Yes. Well, thank you . . .’
What could she do now? Go to the police? Put out a missing persons report? They would ask her questions if she did and she would have to tell them everything she knew – about the case, about the de Carvilles, about Nazim. He had only been gone for two days. If she talked to the police, he would end up in jail. Nazim would never forgive her . . .
The man with the dog was walking away, although he kept glancing back at her. No, she would have to deal with this on her own. She knew a great deal about the de Carvilles. She had not forgotten any of Nazim’s post-coital confessions. Ayla felt a shiver of anxiety and excitement. She thought again of Nazim’s body, of his moustache tickling her skin. She wanted so desperately to be held by him now. To be kissed by him, greedily.
She had only one lead: Malvina de Carville. She touched the cold steel of the blade. Ayla was alone, but she wasn’t stupid. The de Carvilles lived near Marne-la-Vallée; it would be easy enough for her to find them. She had shared a bed with a private detective for twenty years. She could do this.
30
2 October, 1998, 1.17 p.m. Marc walked through the dark hallway. Mathilde de Carville had not accompanied him; she had merely opened the door for him, leaving him alone with his doubts. His agoraphobia was gradually diminishing, his breathing returning to normal. The burning effect of the herbal tea was fading too, as if his body’s pores were opening up to the outside air. Passing the large oval mirror, Marc caught a glimpse of his wild-eyed reflection. He hurried on.
Down three steps, past the heavy oak door. Get out of here, as quickly as possible.
Marc’s legs could hardly bear his weight and his thoughts were jumbled. Should he open the blue envelope and read the DNA test results? Or should he wait until he was in Dieppe? Perhaps Mathilde de Carville was trying to trap him . . .
The fresh air hit his face, and Marc took long deep breaths while he tried to order his thoughts. In front of him, not even a shadow moved in the Parc de la Roseraie. The suffocating atmosphere of the place reminded him of an old people’s home. Or a lunatic asylum.
Marc walked towards the gate. To his left, behind the red-leafed maple tree, he saw Léonce de Carville. He was asleep, alone, head to the side, abandoned by Malvina de Carville in the middle of the lawn.
Think, Marc told himself. Concentrate.
He had three urgent mysteries to solve, all of them linked, in one way or another, to a crime. First, the murder of Grand-Duc, a few hours earlier. Everything led him to believe that Malvina de Carville was the guilty party. Next, the murder of his grandfather – because it certainly was a murder – fifteen years ago. Marc had to try to discover an anomaly in Grand-Duc’s account, a lost memory that he felt sure he would find in his childhood bedroom in Dieppe. Lastly, there was Lylie. The ‘one-way trip’ she had talked about. Was she running away? Seeking vengeance? Planning to kill herself?
Were these three things connected? Without a doubt. If he solved one problem, the other two would be solved as well.
A crunching of gravel. Behind him.
‘Where are you going, Vitral?’
Malvina.
Marc turned around.
‘I’m off. Your grandmother kindly told me everything I wanted
to know . . .’
‘Bullshit! You didn’t learn a thing. Grandma may look impres
sive, but all she does is ramble on.’
Marc sighed.
‘I’m the only one who knows the truth,’ Malvina boasted. ‘I was
in Turkey. All the others died in the crash, but not me. I took an
earlier flight. Follow me, Vitral!’
Marc watched her, incredulous.
‘I said follow me! Look, I’m not even carrying a gun anymore.
You said earlier that Lyse-Rose is alive, that Emilie Vitral was the
one who died in the crash, didn’t you? So, follow me.’
Marc did not move.
‘Come on, Vitral. Come with me. I promise, you’ll find this
interesting.’
Oh well. Why not?
Giddy as a small child, Malvina raced back up the driveway,
opened the oak door, walked down the hallway, then climbed the
wide staircase. Intrigued, Marc followed her. When they reached
the first floor, Malvina turned to face him and placed a finger to
her mouth. Almost in a whisper, she said: ‘The room to the right is
mine. Don’t get your hopes up – I’m not taking you there. On the
left, though, that is Lyse-Rose’s room. Follow me . . .’
Malvina opened the door.
To his shock, Marc found himself in a little girl’s bedroom. It
was all there. The little pink bed, covered in cuddly toys; the curtains printed with giant giraffes; a terry towel laid out on an oak
baby-changing table; a wardrobe decorated with pastel-coloured
flowers. Arrayed on a shelf were a musical box, a night-light, and
more cuddly toys: a blue elephant, a tiger, a grey-and-white rabbit.
On the floor, there was a huge playmat, cluttered with rattles and
other toys.
‘Grandma decorated this bedroom eighteen years ago, for LyseRose’s return from Turkey. We have kept it like this ever since, in
case Lyse-Rose comes back to us. She could arrive at any moment,
you know!’
Malvina stepped nimbly over the toys and opened the door of the
wardrobe. Inside, the shelves were crammed with clothes: dresses of
every size, beautiful little shoes. A tiny, pink, fur-lined hat fell to
the floor.
Smiling impishly, Malvina turned to face Marc and kept talking,
like a little girl telling a grown-up about her doll’s house: ‘I look
after the room now. I’m sure Grandma would throw away all these
things if I let her. Could you believe it? All these beautiful toys and
clothes tossed in the bin? I know you understand. Of course, LyseRose is a big girl now, but it’ll really be something when she finally
comes back here and discovers this room, won’t it?’
Marc stepped back, overcome by a welter of contradictory
feelings.
‘Are you looking, Vitral? Come closer. You love Lyse-Rose, don’t
you?’
Almost against his will, Marc took a step forward.
‘Look. Even her presents are here!’
Marc felt even more ill at ease.
‘Can you see, Vitral? These are all Lyse-Rose’s Christmas and
birthday presents, since her first birthday.’
Malvina pointed to gift-wrapped parcels strewn in piles across
the room.
‘I could tell you what they all are. I know them by heart. The biggest parcel, there, on the bed, was the present for her first Christmas with us. Grandma and I went shopping for it together. I was six
<
br /> years old. I still remember the toys in the shop windows . . .’ She moved closer to Marc and whispered in his ear: ‘Can you
guess what it is?’
Marc shook his head, half moved, half horrified.
‘It’s a teddy bear. A huge teddy bear. Bigger than she would have
been. It’s orange and brown, and it’s called Banjo. I came up with
the name myself. Banjo is her friend, and he’s been waiting for her
all these years. Hang on, I’ll introduce you . . .’
Marc put his hand to his face. This weirdo was going to end
up making him cry with all her crazy fantasies. Malvina carefully
opened the large box and pulled out an enormous teddy bear with
a dreamy expression on its face. Malvina placed Banjo on the bed,
propped up by two pink cushions.
‘Hello, Banjo!’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m going to tell you a secret.
You won’t be alone much longer. You won’t believe this, but . . .
Lyse-Rose is coming home!’
This is like Sleeping Beauty’s room, Marc thought. Piles of toys;
clothes that have stiffened during the long wait for the dead child’s
return. Like a museum devoted to an absence.
‘In the other parcels,’ Malvina continued, ‘there are dolls, of
course, and books, because I know she loves to read. For her tenth
birthday, in that box over there, there is a violin. I don’t know if that
was a good idea, but we already had a piano. There’s some jewellery
over there, for her thirteenth birthday, and a watch too. There are
some records, but they’re probably a bit old-fashioned now. Britney
Spears, Ricky Martin, that kind of thing. The big parcel over there
was for her sixteenth birthday: it’s a stereo. And then the last one,
for her eighteenth birthday, is in this envelope. Can you guess what
it is?’
Marc shook his head again.
‘It’s a trip. Do you think that’s a good idea? Do you think LyseRose will be brave enough to catch a plane again?’
A storm was raging inside Marc’s head. He could strangle this crazy bitch right now, suffocate her under her cuddly toys, just to make her shut up.
‘I have to admit, my favourite present is still the first one. Banjo, the teddy bear. Isn’t he beautiful? When we first got him, I was a bit jealous. I loved him so much, I wanted to keep him for myself. But Grandma wouldn’t let me. I’m sure Lyse-Rose will adore him too.
What do you think?’
Marc looked at Malvina, wondering how to respond. The child’s
bed with its pale pink sheets was the same shape and colour as a
granite gravestone. A child’s grave. This room was a burial chamber. These presents, piling up year after year, were offerings to a
martyr.
‘You’re very quiet, Vitral. You look like you’re in shock. I suppose
you’re realising just how much Lyse-Rose missed out on. I can’t
even imagine the kind of crap she must have received at Christmas
at your house!’
He should slap her, at least. Hurt her physically, and then get out
of here.
‘Come here, Vitral, there’s one last thing I want to show
you . . .’
Marc readied himself for the worst. Malvina walked over to the
wardrobe, opened a drawer and took out a book, bound in pink
cloth and decorated with flowers and pompoms.
‘It’s Lyse-Rose’s birth book,’ Malvina whispered. ‘Come on, I’ll
let you look at it. Just be careful.’
Reluctantly, Marc took the book in his hands, opened it and
turned the pages.
MY FIRST NAME: Lyse-Rose
MY OTHER NAMES: Véronique, Mathilde, Malvina MY DADDY: Alexandre
MY MUMMY: Véronique
I WAS BORN ON: 27 September, 1980, in Istanbul, Turkey
More details followed, increasingly haunting . . . MY HOME: A photograph of the Roseraie MY BEDROOM: A drawing of the room in which Marc stood – a child’s drawing, probably done by Malvina when she was younger
MY FAVOURITE CUDDLY TOY IS CALLED: Banjo
MY BEST FRIEND IS: My sister, Malvina
Marc turned the pages in a trance. He was face to face with the phantom of an imagined life. MY HAND: A painted imprint of a baby’s hand. But whose? MY FAVOURITE COLOUR: Blue
MY FAVOURITE ACTIVITY: Listening to music
MY FIRST BIRTHDAY: A photograph of Lylie cut from a magazine –
Paris Match or something similar – had been clumsily glued in the middle of a de Carville family photograph. They were eating at a table on which sat a picture of a cake covered in candles, also taken from a magazine.
MY FIRST HOLIDAY: The same photograph of Lylie had been stuck in a field filled with gentians, with mountains in the background. Malvina was posing next to her sister, looking radiant. She was eight years old, and the flower stems came up to her waist.
Marc closed the pages. He couldn’t take anymore. Malvina grabbed the book from his hands.
‘Seen enough, have you? I’m going to put this away.’
From the living-room window, Mathilde de Carville watched Marc stride down the driveway. He was practically running away. Malvina could not resist, of course: she had to show him the bedroom. She had forgotten about her grandfather, abandoned him in the middle of the lawn as if he were a cheap toy. Serves him right, thought Mathilde.
He was going to his grandmother’s house, in Dieppe, in too much of a hurry to open the envelope, too frightened to disobey her orders. Poor little Marc . . . he wouldn’t be disappointed when he read the DNA test results.
Marc opened the gate and disappeared from sight, swallowed up by the trees of Coupvray Forest.
*
Mathilde paced thoughtfully around the silent room. She had not told Marc Vitral everything. She had not told him about GrandDuc’s phone call, the night of Lylie’s birthday – his final discovery, the one that would change everything. Grand-Duc claimed to have finally uncovered the truth. A different truth. And all he had done was look at an old newspaper.
Mathilde de Carville’s fingers brushed against the white keys of the piano.
Had Grand-Duc been bluffing?
She would soon find out. She had asked one of the secretaries at the company’s headquarters to send her a photocopy of the Est Républicain dated 23 December, 1980. She would receive it that evening, in all likelihood, unless the secretary was an imbecile. She had asked for it to be hand-delivered. All she had to do now was wait a few hours, and then she would know if Grand-Duc had lied, or if the mystery was solved at last.
Mathilde de Carville sat down on the piano stool, her hands flat in front of her. She had not played for years. The piano had grown mute, useless, like everything else in this house.
Yes, it would all be over in a few hours.
The silence was broken by three sharp notes. Do. Fa. Sol.
It would all be over, except for Malvina.
No matter what that notebook contained, no matter what Grand-Duc had discovered, no matter what Marc Vitral read in that blue envelope, Lyse-Rose would continue to live forever, in the sick imagination of her sister. She would live like a doll lives in the mind of a little girl. Except that this particular little girl was carrying a Mauser L110, and she was capable of killing anyone who told her that the baby in her pushchair was merely a lifeless toy, a corpse.
31
2 October, 1998, 1.29 p.m. Marc walked quickly down Chemin des Chauds-Soleils. It crossed his mind that the path must have been named before the trees in Coupvray Forest grew so high that they cut out the sunlight. The ‘Path of Hot Sunlight’ might have been better renamed as ‘The Path of Cold Shadows’. It was with relief that Marc left the forest and entered th
e village of Coupvray, with its grey church tower, its triangular sign warning drivers to slow down for schoolchildren, and the shy ray of sunlight that pierced the cloudy sky above.
He slowed down and checked his mobile phone. Still no messages. Without breaking stride, he called Lylie. He cursed as the answering machine clicked into life.
‘Lylie, it’s Marc. We have to talk. As soon as possible. Call me back. I’ve just left the de Carvilles’ house. That’s right, you heard me. This is important, Lylie. Don’t do anything rash until you’ve talked to me. I love you.’
Marc arrived at the canal. The fishermen were still there. The river flowed idly by. Marc scrolled down the list of numbers on his phone.
Nicole.
The phone rang twice, then a familiar, croaky voice answered: ‘Hello?’
Marc sighed with relief. ‘Nicole, it’s Marc. Did you get my message?’ ‘Yes, I did. I’ve just got back from the cemetery. I was going to call you, and answer your questions, although I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t already know. You must have seen Emilie more recently than I have. You see, I . . .’
‘Nicole, I’m in Coupvray. I’ve just left the de Carvilles.’ Silence. Orpheus returning from the underworld. Without Eurydice.
‘Nicole . . . Mathilde de Carville gave me an envelope for you.
It’s a DNA test, done in 1995. Grand-Duc stole Lylie’s blood.’ Nicole’s broken voice echoed in his ears, imploringly: ‘Marc, you
can’t believe a word they say. Not after . . .’
Marc interrupted her: ‘It’s for you to open, Nicole. That’s what
she told me.’
Another long silence. All Marc could hear was Nicole’s husky
breathing.
‘Marc, do you have the envelope on you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Describe it to me.’
Though he had no idea why his grandmother was asking this,
Marc obeyed: ‘It’s a normal-sized envelope. Pale blue. Like the kind
of letter you’d get from a hospital, or laboratory . . .’
‘Have you opened it?’
‘No. I promise, I haven’t . . .’