Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  “She knows how short-staffed we are,” Valon went on. “How impossible it’s becoming to deliver the service we’re paid for, especially with Le Mans’ policiers being cut back and the Public Prosecutor breathing down my neck. As is Examining Magistrate Georges Pertus, I might add.”

  “I’ve said I’m glad to help,” said Delphine. “But I’m afraid not today. Something’s cropped up at home.”

  The Lieutenant shot her another knowing glance.

  “Tomorrow morning, then,” said her boss. “First thing. I’ll explain to Madame Arouar and make sure that your pay isn’t affected. Also, that you can claim expenses.” He handed her two sheets of paper headed by two names, addresses and other contact details gleaned from the hotel. “And if you need to reach me quickly, here’s my card.”

  She slotted everything into her coat pocket.

  “Do you have a phone with any kind of web browser?” he enquired.

  “No. Like I said, I’m only a chambermaid.”

  “Here, have mine,” said Confrère, digging for it at the back of her navy fatigues. “A Sony Ericsson. I’ve just transferred my inbox and searches to a newer model, so it’s all clear. I’ll give you a new password now. Nicolas 88.”

  “Wow, thank you.”

  How smooth, cool and instantly covetable did this trendy device with its little stylus feel in Delphine’s hand. She then said, “I ought to know what exactly that threat to my parents said, because it might be connected to our lovely dog being… being run over.”

  Both gendarmes exchanged a look. One in the know, the other clearly not.

  “It may be best if they tell you,” said Confrère, finally sipping her coffee.

  “Was it sent by post?” Valon asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Hand-delivered and hand-written, like the others.”

  “Others?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Delphine’s skin seemed to crawl. She almost dropped the new phone but caught it just in time. “No wonder they never told me.” She looked at both in turn. Their faces tense, before Confrère nodded.

  “Been going on for some time, apparently, though not sure how long exactly. Your father wouldn’t say.”

  “It’s either a hoax or some local nutter,” said Valon. “And as I recall, we did make enquiries last year, and questioned an oddball at the Font des Rêves in St. Eustache.”

  “Suzette Chablon?” Delphine whispered, recalling the strange old woman who’d once driven an Alpha Romeo.

  “Impossible,” said the Lieutenant, nevertheless looking uneasy. “At least this time. She died four months ago.”

  *

  “Sir, to be honest, I’m not happy about Mademoiselle Rougier here running our errands tomorrow,” said Confrère after a strained silence. “I mean, what if she was your daughter?”

  Valon seemed uncomfortable. Fiddled with his watch.

  “Sorry, sir, I forgot,” said the blonde. “I didn’t mean to…”

  “My wife and I can’t have children,” he explained to Delphine. “But it’s OK. That’s life.”

  Delphine took little comfort from knowing she wasn’t the only one with family issues but did wonder what any daughter of his might be like. No other family photographs on show either. The same for the Lieutenant, which she thought unusual.

  “My father hasn’t long to live,” she said, feeling the time was right. “Did he mention that too?”

  “No,” came almost in unison.

  “And before he dies, wants me to help solve that baby boy’s murder. So, can I just get on with it tomorrow? I’m not stupid. I’ll be vigilant.”

  The Lieutenant let out a resigned sigh and went to collect her wet coat.

  “There’s something Mademoiselle Rougier should know before she leaves,” said Valon, checking the bad weather outside, then again, his watch.

  “About the dead baby?” Delphine wanted to be out there tomorrow, making a difference.

  Confrère nodded. “The forensics team have just finished, and their pathologist concluded that because of the lack of any deposits of vernix in the baby’s elbows, groin and armpits, he was delivered full-term. Maybe even a week overdue.”

  “Vernix?”

  “A white, greasy substance which protects the foetus’ skin while in the womb.”

  “I see.”

  It sounded horrible.

  “The team have also been examining blood samples and suggest a possible lead here. As there were no visible puncture marks on his skin to suggest any recent transfusion, they’re assuming it’s been passed from the mother.”

  “What? Jaundice? Cancer?”

  Another shared look.

  Confrère remained inscrutable while Valon began to speak.

  “According to their expert haematologist, the victim possesses a rare blood group. Extremely rare in fact, belonging to only 0.0012 percent of the world’s population. This gives the baby an interesting lineage. Some might say a hazardous one.”

  Delphine swallowed.

  “Hazardous? Why?”

  She thought of the squashed-up shape too big for the pedal bin. The beautiful, soft, almost black hair. Ten perfect little fingernails that would never need cutting…

  “There are currently two prisoners on Death Row in the USA who share this same feature. As have others who’ve been executed. Also, dangerous detainees in Moscow and Beijing.”

  Outside, the falling snow had thickened and quickened. Valon pulled down the only blind, letting the cord’s metal tag ping against the wall. “Of those living, twelve inmates are male, two female and there’s more. Either the baby’s mother or father has to have been on heroin.”

  Never had that word sounded so deadly. So full of unthinkable possibilities.

  Confrère indicated that perhaps enough had already been said. Valon agreed, and suggested Delphine go home before the roads became tricky. “Remember,” he added, “right now there’s a media blackout in place, which means total confidentiality on your part. Understood?”

  “Of course.”

  Both gendarmes thanked her for her co-operation, and she pushed open the main door on to a world although prettily lit by the settled snow, seemed infinitely and unnervingly darker.

  LUCIUS

  Friday 30th November 1968. 6.40 p.m.

  Something really weird’s going on, and it’s not just that huge, hideous moon hanging too close to the earth as if microscopically examining everyone on it. Me especially, after dinner, thinking thoughts I shouldn’t, recalling Bruno Lepage at school, showing me photos of men on men. Naked, half-clothed or in smart suits, their dicks like fallen masts until…

  Ever since, these and my adventurous aunt have changed me into someone even I don’t recognise, so that when, after dinner I glimpse this sexy guy striding past the Auberge, swinging a toolbox back and forth as he goes towards his van, I can’t help but stare. Athletic, still in his twenties, with a full dark head of hair and a tight-fitting bleu de travail leaving nothing to my already inflamed imagination.

  “Hi,” I say, safe in the knowledge that Papa, full of his steak tartare’s blood and muscle, had sloped off to our Panther chalet. “D’you fancy a Gauloises?”

  He stalls. His dark eyes look me up and down as if I’m too young to be smoking, then while he’s off guard, I touch him down there. Just one threat is all it takes and, as I undo those four obstructive buttons, realise that prying moon has slipped behind the very tallest pines…

  8.

  Tuesday 2nd December. 2003. 0.700 hrs.

  While Delphine had been in Labradelle gendarmerie, both her parents had searched ‘La Gorge’ for any remaining clues about Julie’s death, but some public-spirited neighbour, probably from Les Bourrels had already made it passable, enabling her to reach home.

  For most of that night, while at least a further ten centimetres of snow had silently settled over everything, she stayed awake thinking of that baby’s rare blood group and its shocking associations. Of Julie�
��s simple burial behind the farmhouse. Her teeth bared in an uncharacteristic grimace. Blind eyes staring up at the stars.

  “This is a nice spot,” Irène Rougier murmured once Delphine’s spade had smoothed the hard earth by the rose bush, bought after their move from the inherited Café des Lilas in Beaumont-sur-Sarthe. “At least she’s got a grave.”

  Delphine knew she’d been thinking of her dead parents, but when she nevertheless whispered to her own father if he could weld another, smaller cross for Julie, he’d clammed up. During the whole sad procedure, no-one mentioned her earlier outburst in front of Patrick Gauffroi. However, that didn’t mean the subject of secrets and specifically the threats wouldn’t be brought up again. And soon.

  Whether or not Julie’s death had been a chilling warning meant for her alone, Delphine had to find her killer. She’d start with the hamlet of St Eustache on Wednesday after work. She also planned to find any medical documentation confirming her father’s alarming prognosis. To be told he had an inoperable brain tumour was one thing. To see it in black and white, another.

  Half-dreaming, she’d imagined herself as her parents’ Inquisitor. Why that strange cross? And why had those threats been delivered by hand and by whom and why? How come neither parent had trusted her enough to confide in her? That was not only hurtful, but also the next biggest question.

  And then, at 3 a.m. she realised she’d not mentioned to anyone that mysterious vehicle that had suddenly turned up at Bellevue and left. Perhaps because deep-down, it had been of huge significance. For her ears only…

  *

  Not until later had she snatched a few hours’ sleep, only to wake again at 5 a.m. fretting about everything including not seeing Martin Dobbs.

  Get a grip, she’d told herself, aware that her father’s three months’ time limit had already shrunk. Using Lieutenant Confrère’s phone, she’d begun searching rare blood groups. The result was limited, but enough to show the least common was ABRh-NS. But symbolising evil? Captain Valon’s mention of Death Row had then triggered a check on those penitentiaries still using the ultimate punishment. Just thirty-two. However, in eighteen states even where the death penalty had been abolished, some sixteen prisoners still faced the lethal injection.

  All had, without exception, been found guilty of committing the most heinous crimes.

  *

  While her parents’ conjoined snores filtered through their bedroom’s wood-panelled walls, Delphine washed and dressed for the day ahead. Clean jeans and a jacquard-patterned ‘pull.’ Thick socks, too, and her usual brown boots with a gold buckle at either side. Expensive looks at a knock-down price, courtesy of a recent Carrefour sale. But what about her favourite and only coat? It would just have to do. Her very own Turin Shroud.

  Bellevue wouldn’t be the same without Julie, she thought, rubbing diluted salt on to its wool-mix fabric, making the stains worse not better.

  She then took two stale chocolate biscuits from the tin and let herself out into the searing, white morning where the moon still hovered over the farmhouse and its rotting blockade of earth-altering machinery. Having sent Lise Confrère a brief text to say she was now on her way to see Josette Lecroix, she defrosted her car door’s lock, turned the heater to max and skidded out into the lane.

  As she drove past the cleared spot where Julie had been hit, she realised that from then on, she must be extra vigilant. Extra cunning. The hunt for the baby boy’s murderer could now involve a heroin addict and who on earth else?

  *

  Her thin-skinned 2CV wasn’t a normal car. What in summer was a fun drive with its soft top scrolled right back, became a nightmare in the winter. For a start, its heater took so long to warm up, you could quietly freeze to death. Hardly the right vehicle for a private detective. But like her ruined coat, this turquoise schizophrenic would have to do.

  As for François Rougier, he’d have to keep to his side of the bargain too. Beginning with that unsettling shrine and the latest, nasty, hand-delivered message.

  *

  Forty minutes later, she arrived at the Rue des Marchands on the eastern side of Labradelle, some two kilometres from the gendarmerie, and where the monthly market – always in competition with that in neighbouring St Armand – was held. On the way, she’d kept a constant look-out for that green Nissan with the 46 plate, but no joy. Now, she had to find the least obvious place to park, yet at the same time, giving her a view of the hotel receptionist’s apartment.

  She turned into an even more narrow street and stopped just before a large, ochre-coloured block of social housing situated behind a public lavabo. Despite its icy water, several women wearing niqabs were busy washing clothes and blankets by hand, giving Delphine the chance to look around unobserved.

  No sign of Josette’s car. A small, white Peugeot with a permanent dent in its boot, and at first glance, the Maison Jacques Molay seemed unoccupied. Gradually, however, the shutters on several ground floor windows were pushed open from inside. Whether from suspicion or mere curiosity, how could she tell?

  Josette lived on the third floor, facing the street. A rather better view, she’d once told Delphine, than the mountainous, used-tyre dump at the back.

  Normally, she’d be at the hotel dealing with sales reps and other businessmen who’d vacated their rooms early. A smiley, helpful character not long moved here from, as she’d called it, ‘the pits of Chateauroux’ with her divorced mother who worked nights at the local double-glazing factory, and a jealous older sister.

  That was pretty much all Delphine knew. But should she really be here? This wasn’t spying, because Josette hadn’t – or so she believed – done anything wrong. She’d just jumped ship, probably for a good reason, while someone had helped themselves to room 56’s card key and that mystery man to the one for room 45.

  Unless… No, she reasoned. Him taking both room cards was stepping into fantasy. As for any advanced bookings, zilch. Nothing via TripAdvisor or the hotel itself, or the group’s HQ in Tours.

  Delphine dug out her battered pack of Gauloises and lit up, taking a long, throat-filling first drag. She powered the smoke upwards. A moment of respite before another dart-like idea hit her brain. What a fool she’d been...

  This made her stub out the barely-lit cigarette and grab her own phone.

  After one ring, Basma Arouar answered, as if she’d been expecting her.

  “Where are you?” she said. “At home?”

  “Yes,” the easiest answer, then, “how about this?”

  Delphine took a deep, still-smoky breath. “I’m not mad, but that dead baby may have been put there to… to…”

  “I’m listening.”

  “To incriminate me. Think about it. Room 56 is my room. Has been since I started working there. Everyone in the hotel knows that. And the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.”

  “Sense?” Her boss snorted. “That’s crazy. You’ve been watching too many TV dramas.”

  Delphine let it go.

  “What about that guy I spotted sneaking out of room 45?” she said instead of protesting. “We both saw how he drove away like a lunatic…”

  “I have to admit, something about all this feels extremely odd.”

  “Me too.”

  And just then, her boss’s doubtful yet unthreatening tone was a key opening a stiff lock. Within the next minute, Basma Arouar was privy to the mess of her youngest chambermaid’s life, both at home and away. Also, to the fact that she, Delphine Rougier, was albeit ex-officio, helping the local flics.

  *

  “I can’t help thinking this all sounds like some trashy novel,” Basma said finally. “No way is Josette or Adriana involved in anything dodgy, and they’d certainly showed no signs of pregnancy. I notice things like that.”

  But Delphine recalled yesterday morning’s conversation in the hotel car park and was tempted to remind her of it. “Is that why you mentioned having personal reasons for solving the case?”

  Basma took her tim
e to reply.

  “Yes. I suffered a tragedy some years ago. It cost me my marriage. I should have tried harder to mend things but couldn’t. Not with a broken heart.”

  Background noises made Delphine strain to listen.

  “We’d had a daughter and she died at only five days old. Her little kidneys failed. Then everything else… too quickly… far too quickly…”

  “I’m so sorry,” Delphine’s own eyes were beginning to fill up. “How terrible for you.”

  Her boss sniffed, then seemed to recover. “You be very careful.”

  “I will.”

  “And I’m coming with you to see Adriana. I know where she lives, but I won’t be in the Merc.” A tiny laugh followed, that must have taken an effort. “Definitely not the Merc.”

  “What then?”

  “Leave it to me.”

  “By the way,” Delphine ventured, “what did you mean when you said, ‘I’ve been looking into your family?’”

  Another silence.

  “Hello? Are you there?”

  But the call ended just as Josette appeared on her narrow, metal balcony, wrapped in a fluffy, pink dressing gown, pulling on a what looked like a brown cigarette. Her normally neat auburn hair tousled around her face. To Delphine just then, she looked spaced out. Totally different. While this receptionist was turned the other way, she got out, making sure she didn’t let the wind bang her driver’s door shut, or draw attention to herself with those chattering washerwomen.

  Basma Arouar’s strange, sudden silence still haunted her as she crept along to the front entrance, where alongside the main door’s two panels of opaque, reinforced glass, was a thin strip of illuminated doorbells. Thirteen in all. Josette’s at the top.

  Unlucky for some? She really hoped not.

  LUCIUS

  7.10 p.m.

  The brute with no name had gone, having kicked me in the head and all over, calling me things I can’t repeat here. Leaving me too close by some river that’s already come over its banks further along, roaring past me in the storm that suddenly arrived from nowhere.