Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  Delphine believed him, and because she did, why had the receptionist accused him of assault?”

  “Mind you, she did herself no favours scarpering like that,” he added unexpectedly. “Seligman’s accusation of dereliction of duty could jeopardise her job, while Miko defending her to the hilt, could also affect his.” He glanced at Delphine. “Talk is, they’re an item.”

  “Not surprised,” she said, wishing that piece of gossip dispelled her doubt, determined to let nothing slip about her recent visit to Labradelle. “She is pretty. And as for your job, I couldn’t do it. Catering for six would be my limit, never mind sixty plus…”

  “I don’t cook, I just manage, remember? And if you’ve the right staff, like I have, it’s brilliant.”

  Delphine sensed a tinge of regret in his voice, as if this was a dream job about to fade. But there wasn’t time to speculate further on what the future might hold. They’d reached number 82, with that familiar black Mercedes parked outside. Both wing mirrors pinned against its sides, as if its owner had either planned to leave it there, or maybe someone else had tried to make it look that way.

  “Now what?” said Martin, removing his hand from hers, surveying the tall, beige-painted property whose new PVC shutters covered every window. “Doesn’t look as if anyone’s here.”

  “If she is, why are these shutters closed? The wind’s dropped, the snow’s fizzled out…” Yet as she spoke, she knew Martin was right. No way was her boss indoors, yet she must have gone somewhere without that Mercedes, just like she’d said. But where?

  LUCIUS

  11a.m.

  She’s singing my favourite song ‘My Year is a Day’ in that same low-pitched voice she’s had for as long as I can remember, and occasionally places her hand over my fly, but not even this or the Coke and chips reassures me.

  “Why am I locked in?” I ask her, seeing signs for Tours come and go and rain beginning to fall. “What’s your problem?”

  “I could ask the same of you.”

  Her strong hands grip the wheel as she drives, as if expecting me to grab it from her, but not yet. I’m cleverer than that, waiting till she’s off-guard.

  “There’s skiing, you know,” her voice softens. “And I’ve been learning, so we’ll have fun. At least you’ve got all the gear.”

  But why don’t I believe her?

  Although I’ve never been to her place before, I do know it’s out in the wilds somewhere in the Quercy, and that it’s a farm of some kind. But neither she nor Papa or Maman ever mentioned mountains high enough for snow. Poor Maman, who never had a good word to say about Aunt Estelle.

  Meanwhile, I must stay on alert until I can take my chance…

  12.

  12.20 hrs.

  While Martin kept checking his watch, clearly keen to be off, Delphine peered into Basma Arouar’s locked saloon car. She wondered about the identity of the man she’d treated to lunch at the Hôtel les Palmiers; how it was odd that Martin had remembered the guy’s speech but not his appearance. As for this sleek, luxury car, there was nothing to suggest it belonged to a woman. Even Pauline’s wheelchair hosted two pink ribbons tied to its handles, and in her own 2CV a box of rainbow-coloured tissues – always damp in winter – sat on her passenger seat, together with her black-spotted umbrella.

  However, one thing made Delphine start. Where a satnav had been, only its stand remained.

  “I used to take mine off even when I was parked outside a shop,” Martin said, unfazed. “They’re top of every petty criminal’s list.”

  “But supposing it was taken deliberately? To maybe check where she’d been planning to go?”

  He shrugged. Checked his watch again. This was getting boring. “The only way a stranger could have got in was by knowing her unique code. Pretty unlikely.”

  Delphine wasn’t so sure. Supposing the thief had already been in the car? Nevertheless, she accompanied Martin back to the main square, where a kiosk selling snacks had set up not far from where her car was parked. Here, he bought her a barquette of chips and a Coke, refusing any contribution. However, since leaving the Rue des Peupliers, his pace quickened away from that silent street as if something else had been preying on his mind.

  “I did sometimes wonder why she owned a car like that,” he said suddenly, having gulped down the last of his coffee, and checked his phone. “Perhaps being Algerian has something to do with it. I mean, France is like the UK was in the fifties and sixties.” He chucked his empty paper cup into a nearby bin. “So, what d’ you do to get respect? Big yourself up. It’s obvious.”

  “You said ‘owned’ not owns.”

  “Did I?”

  He turned to her. “Look, Delphine, if things were normal, we could go to the cinema in Le Mans. Kiss of the Damned’s showing there. Heard of it?”

  She nodded, conscious of another flush creeping up her neck, soon banished by disappointment. Someone had left a copy of Paris Match in room 52 on Saturday. Her mother was still reading its interviews with that film’s actors. “Thanks anyway,” she said, mentally logging the offer.

  “I’ve actually arranged to see someone,” he said, pulling up his black leather jacket’s collar, and just then resembling a young version of Alain Delon. One of Pauline Fillol’s all-time heroes. “It’s important.”

  “You mean that friend you mentioned?”

  He tapped the side of his perfect nose. So, she, Delphine Rougier wasn’t the only one with secrets.

  “Well, I’ve loads to do, as well,” she said, rather too brightly. “But can you please do us just one favour?”

  “Us?”

  “I mean me.” No-one must know she was helping the gendarmerie out with certain errands. “If you happen to see a five-door green Nissan 4X4 X-Trail with a 46 plate, could you call me straight away?” She then explained why.

  Silence, while two teenage girls who might or might not be truanting from school, queued by the kiosk, staring fixedly at the ingrained bloodstains on her coat.

  Martin touched her arm. A frown scarring his forehead.

  “Look, I think this whole business could get pretty weird. You take care.” And with that, he jogged away towards his machine, his black-clad figure mingling, yet still distinctive, amongst a growing number of pre-Christmas shoppers. She watched until he’d gone, aware that despite the contact, the friendliness, she didn’t know him at all.

  Something was up. Instead of dwelling on what it might have been like to sit in a darkened auditorium holding hands with the guy she fancied more than anyone else, she fed more coins into the nearby parking meter and replaced the almost overrun ticket in her car with one lasting for three hours. Just in case.

  *

  That bloody church bell was tolling again. This time for twelve thirty. Delphine made her way back to the Rue des Peupliers to check if that row of houses on the left which included Basma’s, had any rear access. She’d just discovered a tiny alleyway signed Impasse de l’Église and PRIVÉE, just wide enough for one person to negotiate, when the Ericsson rang out too loudly.

  She stood at the alleyway’s corner, trying to listen to Lieutenant Lise Confrère above the noise of traffic passing around the square. The gendarme sounded tense, and after Delphine’s potted update about the Moulin d’Espoir, even more so.

  “I’m not sure about this line,” she said eventually. “We’re supposed to be checking it just to make sure, but there’s only me and Captain Valon at the Hôtel les Palmiers. So, initials only from now on, OK?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ve done really well, by the way.”

  This brought a warm glow. A shy smile.

  “So, what now?” Delphine asked.

  A short pause followed.

  “As I’ve said earlier, it may be best to go home and talk to your father about his past. Your mother’s, regarding her losses at Oradour-sur-Glane, although terrible, at least seems straightforward. That’s Captain Valon’s advice too. Meanwhile, when we’ve spoken in depth to
MS later on, we’ll call about your second sortie. We’ve just discovered some data on FF which ties in with that unacceptable salute he gave you, and more. Why you won’t be going there again. I wasn’t happy about it in the first place.”

  An elderly passer-by stopped to check Delphine out, then smiled.

  “And JL?”

  “Try and get closer to her without her becoming suspicious. Her mother and sister are of interest, but maybe not regarding this particular crime.” She paused. “And by the way, we both told Roland Seligman that whatever happens to this hotel, he has a duty to try and keep you employed. That young people like yourself are gold dust, so we hope that helps.”

  Almost dizzy with embarrassment, there was no time for Delphine to thank the Lieutenant, because without warning, came rapid footsteps behind her. A man with greying, crinkly hair, a stern, tanned face and wearing an immaculate, camel-coloured overcoat, was trying to squeeze by. He must have emerged from further up the alleyway.

  “Excuse me,” he muttered in a strongly-accented voice – Spanish her first guess – before turning to the right, away from Basma’s street. The smell left in his wake was all-too familiar…

  Lavender.

  “Delphine? Are you still there?”

  Lieutenant Confrère checking up.

  “Yes.” Then she confessed what she’d been doing, but not with Martin, and what she’d just seen.

  “Keep track of him if you can. But don’t put yourself at risk, understood? I’ll get someone from Traffic there to get moving.”

  Call ended, and Delphine having pocketed the phone, began to run, avoiding the stubborn remains of slush. ‘Like gold dust’ beating in her ears in time to every stride.

  *

  She hardly knew the town of Cousteaux, and from her map had only memorised the Place d’Automne and the railway station to the north. The direction in which the man was heading. He seemed fit, too, judging by his steady stride. The ease at which he dodged others along the pavement. She’d noticed the prominent creases in the backs of his black trousers. The beige soles beneath the obviously new black shoes.

  Just then, as Delphine circumnavigated an elderly woman using a walking frame, she sensed something in the road drawing up alongside. A grubby, silver Peugeot with a noticeable dent on its passenger side door. Two guys in dark coats up front.

  “When we stop, just hop in the back,” said the bigger, shaven-headed one, showing her both their IDs. “The less attention we draw, the better.”

  She hesitated but having also seen on TV how both the municipal police and gendarmes often ride in unmarked vehicles, this one certainly fitted the bill. Marc Caballo, the driver was an Aspirant. A novice. The other, Gilles Cornet, a sous-lieutenant, and twice his size. However, IDs weren’t hard to fake. She recalled The Bone Collector. The scariest film she’d ever seen. Nevertheless, instinct told her to calm down. Wasn’t she doing this for her boss who’d offered to help her, even though the picture might have changed?

  Delphine got in. The smell of stale food and body odour hung in the air. Having thanked them both, she said. “I hope this isn’t a waste of your time.”

  “You never know.”

  Then followed a brief exchange about what she did for a living, and her recent discovery at the hotel.

  “Fucking Eastern Europeans,” said the driver. “Got to be.”

  “Crime rate’s doubled since they’ve shown up,” added the other. Their sureness alarmed her. Made her decide to keep them at arm’s length. “There’s a Roma camp now, just south of St Eustache. Growing every second, according to the locals. Roll on le Pen, I say.”

  Hearing her hamlet’s name, had made Delphine start. She also doubted her mother would be jumping for joy at that piece of news about it.

  Both gendarmes also knew Lieutenant Confrère and Captain Valon, but not about her own so-far busy morning. Only that she’d been looking for her cleaning boss who’d not turned up for a pre-appraisal meeting. A small lie, but Martin had enough to worry about without having to become involved. However, he could still get into trouble over Josette’s allegation of sexual harassment, which still seemed bizarre.

  “Let’s go!” Barked Caballo. Our target’s speeding up.”

  He was right.

  “Seat belt on,” Cornet ordered her. “Hold tight.”

  They jumped the next set of lights to keep the quarry in view but, without warning, their target crossed the busy road, skipping around the traffic travelling both ways. For a split second, he glanced at their car and quickened again before disappearing into a subway.

  “Got to be St. Jacques,” the driver again.

  The station, thought Delphine, recalling her map, resisting a growing urge to tell them everything, because Lise Confrère and Serge Valon, whom she’d grown to like, might well end up in trouble.

  The Ericsson rang yet again. Both gendarmes glanced round.

  Lieutenant Confrère wanted Delphine to call her back around 13.00 hours. “Some news has come up,” was all she said, before the chase began in earnest. Towards that same subway.

  “Go through it!” shouted the bigger sous-lieutenant. “The only way we’ll stop him.”

  Delphine saw the camel-coated figure running as if for his life some twenty metres from the Peugeot, then leaping up a scrubby embankment edged by spiked railings. These didn’t stop him. He was up and over in seconds, and as he did so, the high-pitched warning from an approaching train eked into the car. Then the terrible scream of brakes.

  *

  Caballo pulled up and both he and Cornet baled out, leaving her strapped in the back seat, forgotten. The din suddenly stopped. Delphine unclicked her seatbelt and pushed open her passenger door to the sound of whistles, and seconds later, an emergency siren. The kind used by ambulances and police cars on urgent journeys, while those few people in the subway also began running towards the commotion.

  Still keeping the cop car in sight, Delphine took care to avoid the route taken by that running stranger, as she too reached the railings and stared along the track. Snow fragments still survived amongst the weeds on either side but recognising pieces of his camel coat among the carnage on the rails, made her hands almost lose their grip on the iron posts; her boots to slide around on the treacherously wet slope.

  Yesterday morning all over again, and as she turned away from the bloody scene, her recent snack crept up her throat.

  LUCIUS

  3 p.m.

  The smooth motion of Aunt Estelle’s huge Citroën must have sent me off to sleep. For how long I can’t tell, because my birthday watch from Papa isn’t on my wrist.

  “Where is it?” I challenge her.

  “Where’s what?”

  “My Swatch. It’s gone.”

  She shrugs, steering the saloon into a side road which I’ve never seen before in my life. The few low-slung houses and dingy-looking farms have strange, sloping roofs, and the cows out in the rain in their drab pasture are all toffee-coloured. I know nothing about livestock, and don’t want to. Only why I’m being treated like this. I’m her nephew for Christ’s sake. Someone she’s fucked twice and the rest, for which I could get her banged up.

  “I never saw it.” She doesn’t even glance at me, just stares straight ahead like a soldier about to join battle. “You must have lost it while you were busy back at the Auberge…”

  That’s a lie.

  “I need a slash,” I tell her, a sudden panic burning my bladder. “Now, before I spoil your nice, clean car.”

  “I’ve got a bottle.”

  A bottle?

  “So, you won’t stop by the verge to let me out?”

  With one hand, she ferrets beneath her seat then passes over what hospitals use for bedridden old men.

  “I can’t. We’re already late.”

  13.

  13.45 hrs.

  Both Aspirant Caballo and sous-lieutenant Cornet had re-appeared half an hour later, considerably paler than before. Their two-way radios still bus
y after calling for the Police Surgeon and forensics team from Le Mans to examine what remained of the suicide. Before the so-far unknown man was scraped from the railway track.

  The almost empty train, travelling north from Tours, was holed up in the sidings, its passengers having to continue their journeys by coach. Only the train driver and his co-driver had seen anything which might help the investigation and were being counselled prior to being interviewed.

  “Best you get home,” Caballo advised Delphine, who’d rejoined their smelly car. “You’ve had a shock. We all have.” His sharp, green eyes rested on her as he punched in yet another number. “Are you OK to drive?”

  She nodded, dreading where this latest death might lead; praying she’d not misled these two into a chase that had ultimately made the hunted man jump from life to death, screaming some kind of prayer in Spanish. Or so a waiting passenger near the end of the platform had said. A guilt-ridden middle-aged woman who’d had no time in which to save him.

  “Madame Arouar’s house will be searched, won’t it?” said Delphine, extricating herself from the back seat. “Because the more I think about it, the more it’s possible that man might have come from there.”

  “It will,” said Cornet. “And next time la Lieutenant blonde gets in touch with you on police business, please remind her the Gendarmerie Nationale have protocols to follow.”

  That didn’t stop Delphine from hovering by her still-open door to drop a tasty morsel on their bird table. “Apparently, a dark-skinned, dark-haired man had occasionally been seen lunching with Madame Arouar.”

  Cornet was pecking.

  “Lunching where?”

  She paused, letting him sweat for a moment

  “At the Hôtel les Palmiers in the Mondiale Enterprise Zone. She’s my boss, there. And I can back up what that rail passenger said. He spoke to me with a definite Spanish accent.”