Delphine stared at it more than she’d ever done before, realising for the first time, how physically alike she and Emilie were….
“Supper’s ready!” Her mother’s voice rose through the farmhouse, breaking the spell.
She slapped the album shut, feeling strangely connected to that young woman barely older than herself. That look of mischief in her eyes. Her slender neck… No, ‘haunted’ would best describe her feelings while returning it to its burial place and re-locking the wardrobe doors.
*
Silence, save for the floorboards’ complaint as she made her way downstairs, still dwelling on the long-dead who still seemed so alive. And as for the living, she could be sitting with her parents building bridges, drawing them out about the threats they’d received, but there was someone she had to see. However, whether this person would want to see her, was another matter.
Having told her father she’d one more errand to run and wouldn’t be long, Delphine slipped outside, re-acquainting herself with the warm, black coat as she did so. At first, he’d seemed distracted, then gave an encouraging wave. “Nice to see you wearing that,” he observed. “Proust was correct.”
“What about?”
“How certain objects re-deliver the past.”
“Right.” She pecked his grizzled cheek, impressed by this burst of knowledge but unsettled by its meaning, and left him before her mother could re-appear.
*
At Labradelle, she pulled into a space alongside a line of shops all about to close. Normally, she’d have been tempted to buy her second snack of the day from the boulangerie, but not then.
She punched in Lise Confrère’s number, almost blinded by the headlights of oncoming juggernauts exceeding the speed limit. The Lieutenant confirmed the gendarmerie was open until 18.30 hours. but perhaps it wasn’t the best place to meet up. Captain Gayak in Cousteaux, had complained that civilians sticking their noses into possible crime scenes was not only undermining, but also downright dangerous.
“Where then?” Delphine shoved his complaint to the back of her mind. She couldn’t let Tuesday become Wednesday without seeing her new ally.
“Sounds important,” observed Confrère.
“It is. To do with Antoine Gauffroi.”
The gendarme paused, while more HGVs tore down the town’s inadequate main street, throwing up black spray. “I see.”
Bad move, Delphine scolded herself. Probably not ‘gold dust’ any more, as she sensed that earlier crack widening.
“Look,” said Confrère. Her voice noticeably tightening. “We are busy.”
“Please.”
“OK. He killed my Papa. Or rather, his aggressive attitude did. Papa got drunk one night and went out into his woods… I can’t tell you. The whole thing was a nightmare.”
“What happened to him?”
“Someone had planted a man-trap. I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Of course, I’m so sorry,” was barely more than a whisper. “But what was Antoine Gauffroi accused of?”
“Check out the Bois des Hermites case. 30th November 1968. Hang on, Captain Valon’s calling. Got to go…”
That was it. No more news of Basma or the mystery man’s suicide, or Michel Salerne who was clearly proving very useful. The once-friendly Lieutenant would probably never speak to her again and, sensing that all-too familiar sorrow creep up on her like those winter clouds which, suddenly steal the sky, Delphine re-started the Citroën’s engine.
However, she wasn’t one to be beaten. Pauline had a decent computer, and the local supermarket would be open for another two hours, so she’d buy her friend some of her favourite chocolate. The least she could do, given that her latest agenda was hardly a possible girls’ night out or a fun shopping trip in Le Mans.
LUCIUS
Sunday 2nd December 1968. 9 a.m.
“Brive,” is this runaway’s blurred reply when I ask where she was picked up. Immediately my aunt clips her ear.
“Nein! You crétine. Your provenance is verboten.”
Just like her brother, disobedience always brings violence and their native German tongue when angry. “Remember, my dogs are starving,” She pulls her supine prisoner’s nightdress up over her stomach. “So, watch it.” She then turns to me. “And if you ask even one more question, you’ll be their next meal. Ja?”
I nod, trying not to look this semi-naked girl in the eye, or the other two who are staring. She’s been crying and her dark blue eyeliner’s spread all over the place.
Just do it…
I can’t…
But then, in that airless, windowless room with heavy rain hitting the low roof above, my aunt spreads the girl’s legs apart. Then it’s my turn. Having checked the restraints around my wrists and ankles are secure, she moves upwards. “She’s the first of three this morning, and if you perform well, you get a beer with your lunch.”
My cock’s not responding.
“Come on,” she reaches towards it. “We want strong, healthy products.”
Products?
I feel sick. Then bold.
“Is this what Papa got up to at Saint-Denis?”
She makes a strange, growling noise and steers me towards the target. “Just think of how it was last summer, hein? Remember you and me in that garden in the Rue des Capucins? The heat, the scent of roses? How you surpassed yourself?”
I have no words. And so, my life sentence begins.
18.
18.00 hrs.
To Delphine’s relief, Pauline Fillol, just back from a session at the orthopaedic clinic in Le Mans to be measured up for a prosthetic lower leg, had sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her again. She’d agreed another meet- up would be the tonic she needed. But would she have said that knowing the purpose of her visit, involving her new computer?
Doubtful.
Fifteen minutes later, with a box of Lindt raspberry truffles next to her on the passenger seat, Delphine polished off a tiny pot of plain yoghurt and a packet of crisps before setting off for Bonlieu past luminous pockets of snow on a clear road. No way was she risking an icy skid by going there via her own hamlet and past Gauffroi’s place, but this alternative route was twenty minutes longer.
“So be it,” she muttered, then mentally prioritised her list of searches and reminded herself not to mention anything about Basma’s death. To stay focused.
*
Les Fleuries was a single-storey, pebble-dashed villa set in its own immaculate, level plot at the end of the village where yet more electricity pylons were under construction. A brand new, black peoplecarrier stood parked on the Fillol’s gravel drive, and as Delphine approached the property, batted away the familiar dart of envy at such an orderliness. Then reminded herself, would she want to be Pauline? And as for that spotless vehicle gleaming under the security light, its shape and colour resembled a hearse.
Her friend, wearing a bright pink tracksuit bearing several food and drink stains down its front, opened the door from her wheelchair. That same pinkness reflected on her round, open face which beamed even more when she spotted the chocolates. But before giving Delphine her customary hug, she undid the box and popped a truffle into her mouth.
“Sorry. That was so bloody rude,” she laughed afterwards, but Delphine could have cried at such a simple happiness. This was the talented young woman who’d once dreamt of becoming the first French female astronaut.
Pauline looked her up and down, as she invariably did whenever they met.
“Nice coat,” she added. “Retro chic, eh? But who the Hell cut your hair?”
“Me. OK? Not everyone can afford a hairdresser…” Delphine’s voice petered out, and Pauline held out a hand.
“Sorry again. But something’s up, isn’t it? I could tell when you phoned.” She then gestured towards a light, spacious lounge/diner whose warmth from underfloor heating was so different from what Bellevue’s temperamental woodburner gave off. “I’ve been dreaming about you.” Pauline m
anoeuvred herself towards a door leading off halfway down the room. Her arms and hands strong and determined.
“That’s odd.”
“And Julie, too. Yes, odd’s the word…”
Delphine shivered. But then wasn’t the time to elaborate. “Have you heard what’s happened at the hotel? And to my boss” She quizzed instead. “It’s been on the news.”
Pauline shook her head, and in that moment, her friend realised there was probably only so much she could deal with. She also noticed Thérèse Fillol hovering by the door. A little bird of a woman who since giving up work, had shrunk into her role as chief carer. Delphine knew she herself should do more to help get Pauline out of her cage, but how? Her 2CV couldn’t accommodate even the smallest wheelchair. She waved, reassuring her mother she’d only be ten minutes.
“Stop as long as you bloody like,” Pauline snapped, then whispered, “it’s not been too good here recently. I feel I’m a fucking burden. Have been for too long. Anyway,” she eyed her mother as she left the room. “I’m guessing you want to use my pc?”
“Thanks. That would be brilliant,” Delphine patted her shoulder. “And I’m really sorry things are as they are, but perhaps once you’ve got your new leg…”
“Don’t talk crap, girl. It won’t happen. I’m doomed to sit on my arse till the ticker stops. By the way, you can have my computer if you want. I prefer reading.”
“But you need it for…”
“What?”
Delphine had been about to add ‘for connecting with the outside world,’ but Pauline had reached out and gripped her hand so tight, her fingers reached bone. “Come on. The bloody thing’s switched on in my room.”
*
Her double bed was unmade. The blinds, with their butterfly motif, weren’t quite closed, showing strips of darkness from outside between the slats, while an array of Coke cans and various beers mingled with pots and tubes of creams for this and that around the silver-clad pc.
“Excuse the tip,” Pauline said, shoving the more obstructive items away and clicking ON, which delivered Window’s jaunty little tune. “I don’t let ‘them’ in here anymore. I mean, a girl needs some privacy.” She set the box of chocolates alongside her and tapped in her password before accessing Orange France. “Now what?”
“30th November 1968. Le Bois des Hermites.”
“Why?”
“Tell you in a minute.” Delphine drew up a small chair next to her friend and stared at the results which at first seemed promising but turned out to be small fry. The theft of farm implements from a place long burnt down. The discovery of some Roman coins. A local female student injured in a street protest in Toulouse…
“Damn,” she sighed, wondering how on earth Irène Rougier managed whatever research she might be doing. There’d been no evidence of any at Bellevue.
“Don’t rush,” advised Pauline. “Keep looking. Sometimes the domain headings are rubbish.”
Seconds later, Delphine edged closer to the screen.
“What’s up?” Pauline had noticed.
“Antoine Gauffroi. Look!”
“Who the hell’s he?”
“Please just click on it.”
FARMER QUESTIONED OVER DISAPPEARANCE OF PARIS TEENAGER
Thirty-two-year-old Antoine Gauffroi, well-known breeder and competition judge of Charolais cattle and sheep from the hamlet of St. Eustache in the Sarthe, has been questioned at length in Labradelle over the disappearance of a Parisian schoolboy, Lucius Seghers who never returned to the log cabin in the l’Aube d’Or leisure park near the Bois des Hermites. The fifteen-year-old had shared it with his widowed father, Dr Henri Seghers, while travelling to Les Angles in the Pyrenees for a skiing holiday. Presse-Océan. 10/12/68.
There was more, reported in Le Maine Express, but not until the name of Lieutenant Colonel Nicolas Confrère came up, did Delphine almost hit her nose on the screen. He too, had come under scrutiny for supposedly fabricating evidence in his haste to solve the mystery.
“D’you have a spare beer?” she asked, her throat suddenly dry, and Pauline duly handed her a Stella Artois can and clicked back its ring. “May be a bit warm. Sorry.”
“I don’t care. Cheers.” But that upbeat word soon froze on Delphine’s lips when the next website triggering a DANGER! sign, showed a black and white image of the still-missing youth, whose widowed father had apparently sold his Paris home in 1990 and retired to the Côte d’Azur.
“I don’t want your computer buggered up,” she said. “Please, just get rid.”
“I’m printing it out. OK?” And while the printer got ready, Delphine studied the boy’s face. He certainly didn’t match your usual urban teenager, even in those days. His smooth, blond hair was divided by a neat, central parting, brushed each side of his symmetrically structured face. But something about him slowed her breathing as she peered closer. His smile showed the tips of perfect, predatory teeth. The smug expression and those pale, yet piercing eyes, making him, like Roza Adamski, seem older than his years.
“What now?” said Pauline, handing her the warm print. That face tilting upwards. The eyes even more extraordinary.
“Can you try Henri Seghers?” repeated Delphine. Just a thought…”
“Dutch?” muttered Pauline. “They seem to like France. God knows why.”
However, the only results were a one-liner about the same incident in a Le Monde of the time, and a young Physics professor in Columbia University.
Pauline glanced up. “Is that it?”
“Nearly. How about Antoine Gauffroi? Why he was the chief suspect at the time.” Delphine folded the boy’s image and slotted it inside her bag while Pauline, popped another truffle into her mouth.
“Here goes.”
No photograph of the man, but plenty on Le Fin du Monde and its sixty hectares of pasture just inside the Commune’s southern boundary.
“Keep going,” urged Delphine, and was soon rewarded. There was a history of violence at the farm, and in 1975, Gauffroi père had been convicted of attacking a nearby gypsy camp, injuring one of the pregnant women. He was described as a man given to drink who’d even beaten his wife and son.
Son? Meaning Patrick?
So, Lise Confrère hadn’t been so wide of the mark after all. And where did that leave the young man who’d invited the vilified Roma on land that had passed automatically to him? This father of his would be spinning in his grave.
Where too, did all this leave her? With ever-stronger desire to stop being a chambermaid, and if she’d been older at the time, would have helped Pauline get compensation from the owner of that faulty theme park ride. However, her own parents had forbidden her from getting involved. “We don’t need any more trouble,” they’d said, making her wonder what they’d meant, and why.
LUCIUS
Spring 1969.
So they lied, that cunning witch and my father, but once a Kraut, always a Kraut, and is this their Final Solution for me? A sixteen-year-old brought here to replace two guys who’d apparently escaped abroad last month? What chance for me, with more nameless brood mares coming in every day from wherever? Some have vanished without trace, especially the older ones who can’t breed any more. Perhaps that’s why those guard dogs have put on so much weight. Maybe they ate those guys too. I try not to think of it, or how many of my kids I’ll never see, but pray every night in my own little cell that someone will come to this Hell and hear my story.
Set me free…
19.
19.45 hrs.
With the chocolate box empty, and Pauline noticeably happier for having been able to help, Delphine gave her friend a second hug and suggested they meet up at the Balle de la Chasse in Beaumont-sur-Sarthe after Christmas. “I can help you scrub up as well,” she added, “then collect you in Papa’s big car, and deliver you back. Even ask Martin to come along. What do you think?” But Pauline was busy clicking her way through medical sites of questions and answers. “How is he, by the way?” she asked, without
looking up, as if that was easier than dealing with Delphine’s suggestions.
“So-so, given what’s going on.”
“Well, good luck there, and as for the ball, I’ll let you know. Meanwhile,” she turned her wheelchair round. “For God’s sake don’t do anything reckless like me.”
“You weren’t to know that ride wasn’t safe.”
“And you don’t know what lies in people’s hearts.”
Despite the cosy room Delphine sensed a chill and didn’t return Pauline’s goodbye wave. Instead, watched her focus on her screen, where a page of indifferent kinds of artificial legs stood to attention like some weird army.
*
That earlier wind had dropped during the wet, dark drive back to Bellevue, while Delphine struggled to make even the most tenuous connections between everything that she’d witnessed, heard and read so far. Perhaps there were no connections, and she’d drive herself nuts imagining any. Meanwhile, uppermost in her mind was the man who’d asked Roza for that particular binder twine, and why. Then there was Basma Arouar, and how it was impossible to believe that larger-than-life presence wouldn’t ever again be patrolling the Hôtel les Palmiers’ corridors.
As she pulled up her handbrake in Bellevue’s crowded, snow-patched yard, came the troubling implications of Lieutenant Lise Confrère knowing she’d entered her boss’s house, also seen the dead body and Camel Coat acting strangely before his own terrible death. Perhaps because her own father had fallen foul of his peers by overstepping the mark, she’d be at pains to follow rules to a fault. Meaning that she, Delphine, could be fully exposed not only as a possible witness, but even a suspect. And therein lay more danger. Like being a fish in a sea of sharks.
*
“You’re late,” grumbled François Rougier as she hung up her mother’s coat in the hallway, clear of his own damp and battered gear. A paper napkin from last Christmas tucked under his chin. “We’ve been waiting.”
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