Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  DOWNFALL

  SALLY SPEDDING

  Sharpe Books

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  © Sally Spedding 2019

  Sally Spedding has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2019 by Sharpe Books.

  In grateful memory of Jeffrey Spedding who helped me discover an intriguing, derelict

  farm among the flat, silent fields in the Sarthe. Thank you.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  LUCIUS

  1.

  LUCIUS

  2.

  LUCIUS

  3.

  LUCIUS

  4.

  LUCIUS

  5.

  LUCIUS

  6.

  LUCIUS

  7.

  LUCIUS

  8.

  LUCIUS

  9.

  LUCIUS

  10.

  LUCIUS

  11.

  LUCIUS

  12.

  LUCIUS

  13.

  LUCIUS

  14.

  LUCIUS

  15.

  LUCIUS

  16.

  LUCIUS

  17.

  LUCIUS

  18.

  LUCIUS

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  EPILOGUE

  PROLOGUE

  Near Beaumont-sur-Sarthe. Sunday 30th November 2003. 16.30 hrs.

  The biting cold has already numbed his fingers, even through his gloves, but the gloomy day’s light is almost dusk, and he must finish the task in hand before darkness becomes a black, open grave. Sparks from his arc welder scatter and die as he connects the thin, iron cross-bar to the slightly thicker shaft. All he can find in his mountainous junk heap, and as for a weatherproof figurine of the crucified Christ, that will have to wait. But the God he once believed in will understand such items are hard to come by. And costly.

  A stray spark lands on his woollen thumb, singeing a hole through to its chilled skin. He curses the electric rod, but now is neither the time nor the place for that. He is the one who is cursed.

  17.00 hours. Thirty-five years after Paris had throbbed with its rioting youth trampled into submission on its ancient cobblestones, and the very same day as another defiant teenager, en route to the Pyrenean ski slopes with his widowed father, had vanished.

  The weld has hardened in a haemorrhoidal frill around the join. The man tears off his gloves, sucks the burn on his thumb and casts around for where this mean memorial might stand. Somewhere visible, yet discreet. Safe from vandals’ hands and pissing dogs. His own bitch barks from the barn where she guards the winter’s wood. Half a forest, it seems, felled and sawn to a uniform size, stacked in a neat pyramid and still weeping sap.

  From high in the bare sycamore, a nightjar’s mournful call accompanies the dragging of a heavy terra cotta pot from that same junk heap. Still stuffed with obstinate earth from a long-ago planting, it tests his ailing frame to its limits, almost pulling him over.

  Voilà

  With enough hawthorn hedge between it and the narrow lane winding down towards other dwellings, it has found its place. He steps back, ignoring the drone of distant traffic in his ears to mutter a short prayer. Accompanied by his own disintegrating puffs of breath, he digs a deep hole in the soil, fills it with concrete then holds the frozen iron cross-bar steady until the crucial moment. But suddenly, from the doorway behind him comes a voice he’s known for too long.

  “Another letter,” she says. “For us both, as usual. It must have come while we were all out.”

  For a split second, his bloodless fingers release their grip. His handiwork tilts away from him. Sets fast.

  Merde.

  What hope is there if he can’t even get this right?

  “I’m coming,” he mutters to himself, gathering up his tools and an almost empty packet of Gitanes. With each weary step towards the farmhouse, he senses a growing danger. That tonight might just be his last.

  LUCIUS

  Paris. Wednesday 18th September 1968. 10 a.m.

  Since Maman died three years ago, Papa’s driving has deteriorated. Not in obvious ways, but enough to make the Capital’s roads too much of a danger. To me, especially, desperate to be driving myself around. Why? Because of the shaking hands on the steering wheel. The lack of peripheral vision, as he calls it, on roundabouts. The indecisions about overtaking. Which is why he’s reduced home visits to after-hours and at weekends after almost twenty years of devoted service. Yes, there have been letters and phone calls from his patients protesting that their beloved doctor is no longer at their beck and call for every little ailment. One – a crinkled old crone from Les Halles – had gone so far as to call him ‘callous,’ and that misjudgement makes me take a bus to her apartment and remind her that she wouldn’t even be able to answer her door or go shopping if Papa hadn’t found the best treatment for her double incontinence.

  “You’re a cheeky young fellow,” she says. “Like all the others who almost destroyed my city last spring. I’ll see your father gets to hear of this.”

  “Good luck with that,” I smile, and for good measure, while her back is turned because of a ringing telephone, I kick her stupid Pekingese on the nose. Hearing it yelp makes me feel better, but of course, only I will know. Another of my necessary little secrets.

  1.

  Near Le Mans. Monday 1st December. 2003. 09.45 hrs.

  HÔTEL LES PALMIERS

  Bonjour, I am Delphine, and I hope you like your room.

  I have cleaned it to the best of my ability.

  Bon Voyage.

  In room 56 on the third floor of the unprepossessing commercial hotel offering rooms at 40 euros per night, twenty-year-old Delphine Rougier placed her handwritten card between the telephone and two electric plugs on the lacquered veneer unit set beneath the wide window. Her first chore before attending to the bed and the bathroom, always saved for last, not simply because wet hairs, full toilets and stained towels invariably made her regret accepting the job of chambermaid, but for logistical reasons. It was nearest the door where the huge dirty linen cage, so hard to push along the carpeted corridor, lay waiting to be fed.

  She opened the orange, jungle-themed curtains on to a dismal morning and an even more dismal almost-empty car park. Saw too, a pale reflection of her face – almost ghost-like – supplanted over those few, modest vehicles stranded on the unswept tarmac. Normally, she’d check out their occupants’ number plates to see who’d come from where – especially those from the UK – Martin Dobbs the restaurant manager’s birthplace. A country he’d often said she should visit. But how? When? She was stuck here for 355 days a year, twenty-two kilometres from Le Mans city centre. Far from anywhere, in fact, together with other budget-priced hotels for those passing through to more interesting places. But today, with Adriana – her slightly older co-worker – still off sick, she was behind schedule.

  With three deft
movements, Delphine tipped the two pillows from their cases, peeled the duvet from its cotton cover and tore the undersheet free of the mattress. The creases and dents had shown one person had occupied it. Female too, judging by the faint whiff of cheap body spray that had met her nose when she’d first unlocked the door.

  This room was only the second on her list, and already her arm muscles had begun to ache. But the sooner she was done, the sooner she could be in the staff Rest Room, next to the kitchen, where she’d be reunited with her basic model Nokia phone; where the coffee was not only strong but also free, and where, most importantly, Martin, the slim-hipped, smiling guy from Derby could be seen.

  She looked around.

  Damn.

  She’d been so busy thinking of him that the hotel’s various fliers, menu cards and instructions still lay in a heap. Having tidied them up, she took a duster from her overall pocket and flicked it over the cold TV and a framed print of somewhere hot in Borneo, before hefting the white duvet cover out into the corridor. It was only then that she spotted a patch of dried blood on the rolled-up undersheet which must have been hidden by the turned-back duvet. Odd, she thought, realising that an attempt had been made to clean it. Had the occupant been injured? Or begun a period in the night?

  Whatever, seconds were ticking away.

  She was about to extract new toilet rolls and clean towels for the bathroom, when she heard a distinct squeak coming from further along the corridor. She glanced up to see a man who could have been anything from fifty to seventy, of slim build, with close-cropped, greying hair, wearing a smart black coat, emerge from room 45. He advanced towards her pulling a natty, wheeled suitcase, and Delphine was ready to call out ‘bonjour,’ when, at the moment of eye contact, he turned on his heels, making for the Sortie de Secours exit at the far end of the corridor. The heavy door banged shut behind him, making her jump. She didn’t look that bad, surely? But no time to dwell on it. Room 56 still wasn’t finished, and there was his and numbers 48 and 50 still to do.

  Without thinking, she turned over the ‘Ne pas déranger’ notice that hung from his room’s door handle and was about to return to room 56 when the lift doors sighed open.

  Ten on the dot meant one thing only. Her enemy coming to check up on her. Basma Arouar, who never smiled, and used silence as her weapon. Today was no different. Even the lavender-scented perfume that accompanied her. A glance at the unfinished room brought a frown that creased the whole of the Algerian’s face, followed by a tap on her watch. All she needed to do, and Delphine fell too eagerly into the trap of saying sorry.

  “It’s tough without Adriana here as well,” she added, feeling ashamed of herself. “When’s she due back?”

  “What matters is that our Chief Executive will be here in forty-five minutes.” The enormous woman waved a ringed hand from left to right. “He’ll expect to find this third floor immaculate. And remember, Miss Rougier, it’s your appraisal session tomorrow midday.” She stared at Delphine without blinking. “Remember too, no-one is safe.”

  With that, she squeezed herself back into the lift’s mean space, and pressed 4 – the next floor up.

  Delphine’s pulse throbbed in her neck as she re-made the bed. It took precisely three minutes. Afterwards, she flexed her arms, lifting them over her head several times, all the while dying for her second cigarette of the day.

  Next, the bathroom.

  *

  Seconds later, she was flying down the stairs two at a time to the Reception area as if escaping from Hell. Her hand barely touched the banister and when one of the kitchen staff called out from the still-room on the right, as did someone’s kid taking out rubbish bags to the left, she didn’t hear them.

  From the foyer, she saw that breakfast was over, the tables all cleared. From somewhere, the drone of a vacuum cleaner.

  The Reception desk was empty. She thumped its brass bell four times in succession. Acid burning her throat. Was Josette Lecroix away too?

  “Oui?”

  An immaculately-coiffed and made-up woman keeping her forties at bay, strutted through the door marked ‘Privé,’ and sat down at her computer. A new face. Her orange scarf tight against her chin, lent it a strange colour. Parisian, thought Delphine. New brooms already?

  “What’s up?” said the stranger, eyeing her keyboard. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

  Delphine took a deep breath.

  “I’ve just discovered something truly terrible,” she began in a shaky voice, not caring she might appear deranged. “In the bathroom, room 56 on the third floor…”

  Two panda eyes flicked up at her label. Blank, bored eyes. “Delphine Rougier, hein?”

  Delphine nodded. Tried to shift that half-open pedal bin and its horrible contents from her mind and failed. The sick she’d suppressed, suddenly rose up inside her and fell on that glossy, mahogany counter and the keyboard beneath it

  *

  “Don’t worry.” Martin Dobbs who’d arrived at his usual time of ten to six, was standing next to her in the crowded Rest Room half an hour later. “You weren’t to know you’d find that. How could anyone?”

  “Even the phone line had been cut when I’d tried to call the police,” Delphine dabbed her eyes again, removing the last of her runaway mascara. Aware of her formidable boss, Basma Arouar staring at her. “Otherwise, I’d have used my mobile. But it was locked away in here, wasn’t it?”

  “Hotel policy. Same for everyone,” said the Algerian, nevertheless looking concerned.

  Delphine didn’t listen. She wasn’t finished. “He was a tiny, little baby. A boy,” she sniffed, aware too, how many people were now pressed around them, listening. Staff, workmen and a senior gendarme, all silent; all invisible to new guests and various salespeople needing attention. Meanwhile, the hotel Group’s CEO, Roland Seligman, looking terminally stressed and older than his fifty-five years, had seemed solely concerned that such an atrocity might harm future bookings.

  “And he was beautiful,” Delphine added in a voice that didn’t seem to be hers, still unable to shut out her grim discovery. Where that perfectly-shaped head had almost been deliberately positioned to hang free of the bin’s rim. As if whoever had strangled him, couldn’t bear to spoil it. “Dark hair, long eyelashes. The sweetest little mouth. Who could have done such a thing? Someone who must still be a real danger?” She then struggled to stand, to get out of that zoo, even though Martin’s arm was touching hers. “I’ve answered as many questions as I can. I don’t want to be sick again…”

  Staff members began to murmur amongst themselves. Michel Salerne, the hotel’s newest manager originally from Niort, still hadn’t showed up. Some said he’d been promoted above his ability, but that didn’t matter now. Where on earth was he?

  Suddenly, Seligman was bending over her, whispering in her ear. His breath sour laced with bitter coffee. “Be careful what you say from now on, Mademoiselle. Our footfall here could be severely compromised and many livelihoods – not least your own – depend on discretion. If the media approach you, inform the police immediately.”

  “Bastard,” hissed Martin, his hand on her shoulder. It felt nice. Comforting. And then, like a lightning bolt, she thought of her parents. Normally the first to hear her news. But would they want to hear this? Certainly not Maman, who’d confessed to depression since her own mother and father had been massacred at Oradour-sur-Glane on a sunny June morning almost seventy years ago. Nor Papa, who’d endured such a hard, unpredictable life, he now struggled to even pay his farming union’s dues.

  The SAMU ambulance parked discreetly at the hotel’s rear entrance, roared away, blue lights spinning on its roof. Delphine heard Seligman complain about the noise it had made before being supplanted by the lean, dark-haired Captain Serge Valon, sombre in his dark navy uniform with a conspicuous pistol strapped to his left thigh. He was asking all those on duty in the hotel from midday yesterday to 07.00 hours this morning, to remain behind, and everyone else to be available by telephone. “
The Public Prosecutor has just assigned Judge Georges Pertus and me to the case. It’s therefore vital that we at Labradelle and the forensics team here have your full co-operation, because this is now a murder enquiry.”

  A collective gasp added to the seriousness of the situation before the Captain continued. “I have been tasked to lead this investigation to its conclusion, and welcome any information you might have, however trifling it may seem.”

  That gasp had faded to individual mutterings then silence as Valon continued.

  “The naked, uncircumcised male infant weighing exactly three kilograms was already fully-delivered and dead when he’d been left in the bathroom pedal bin of room 56. The obvious cause of death, strangulation. ETD at around 06.00 hours this morning, with so far, no obvious fingerprints on the neck or anywhere else.”

  A moth fluttered around the single overhead light, while Martin squeezed Delphine’s shoulder. “Stay strong,” he said, before merging with the small group now gathered around the two officers who were distributing Statement sheets.

  On her way to the door, she glanced back at him. He’d only been friendly. A truly vile event had happened. Everything was heightened. Every speech, every smallest action loaded with significance. Instead of daydreaming about any possible relationship with him, she must focus on who, for whatever reason, had destroyed a new life, leaving it like so much rubbish. It had happened on her ‘patch’ as the police in fiction and TV dramas so often said. That cheap, floral body spray still lingering in the room had been commonplace.

  Most supermarkets stocked it. Everywhere did. But as Delphine passed the forensic team’s huge, black Toyota Landcruiser, she knew that finding justice for the innocent little victim, would be the good news so badly needed at home.

  Having rejoined her turquoise 2CV tucked away in the more private, still-frosty overspill car park next to her boss’s Mercedes, she turned the key in her car door’s lock.