Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  “Bon appétit,” he said, helping himself first to two chicken wings and a leg bathed in what looked far more appetising that her mother’s bouillabaisse. “And by the way,” he added while chewing, “I did look round that station. Spoke to a few rubberneckers on the platform who were then herded away by the flics. One guy reckoned Carlos had been chased. Had kept looking round before he’d jumped.” He then eyed Delphine and Martin. “Mangez!” he ordered. “Or I’ll scoff the lot.”

  Delphine set to, but could only manage two mouthfuls aware of Martin holding back.

  “He’s got to step forward, surely? As a crucial witness.”

  “No way. He’s lying low. Been fingered too many times before, apparently. Made me promise not to push it.”

  “But you’re a reporter,” Delphine reminded him. “Why not say it was a young woman who accosted you?”

  “Thanks for that.” He kept chewing.

  “Sorry, but you could try finding out exactly where this brothel was in Saint-Denis. Where Carlos Serovia was hanging out.”

  Jean-Marie stopped chewing. “Who told you it was in Saint-Denis?”

  “I think Delphine would just like to eat at the moment,” Martin butted in, but she wasn’t finished. “Maybe he and Basma were also an item. After all,” she addressed him, his meal still untouched. “You said you’d seen them together at the hotel several times.”

  “News to me,” the reporter eyed his lover as if he’d let him down.

  “I’ve not had the chance to mention it.”

  That wasn’t true.

  “So, when was the last time?” Delphine covered her bruise with her free hand. Pathetic really, but then she was only human.

  Martin hesitated.

  “About three weeks ago. He hardly ate a thing, and Chloé complained to me about good food ending up as swill.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Only that they talked non-stop. Heads close together.”

  Delphine saw Jean-Marie Longeau clean his bowl with a chunk of bread. Just like her father had done, and she wondered why Martin hadn’t admitted seeing Carlos Serovia earlier, and what her parents were doing now.

  “To change the subject,” she began, staring at the glistening, red pepper slices left uneaten on her plate. “I wonder if either of you have heard of the Lucius Seghers’ case? It began on the 30th November 1968…”

  Jean-Marie nodded, then swallowed. “My father sometimes mentions it when he’s pissed.”

  “He used to work on Le Figaro,” explained Martin, finally picking at his meal. “Got in a few scrapes, didn’t he? With the beurs and …”

  “He wrote what people wanted to read. What Le Pen knows better than anyone.”

  He and Irène Rougier would go well together, thought Delphine, trying to catch Martin’s eye. She also wondered what Roza and her mother would be eating, stuck out there in Le Fin du Monde’s desolate field. “Is that it?” she pressed.

  “For now, because I’m zonked. But it was an interesting business.”

  However, Martin was paying attention, looking serious while she offered up a little prayer.

  ‘Dear God, this is the one man who please, please, must not be gay.’

  “Why interesting?” she then quizzed.

  “Because he never believed he died.”

  *

  At quarter past nine with that reporter’s words thrumming in her ear, Delphine hid her number and phoned home to say she’d met up with former friends from school and would be back sometime tomorrow.

  “We won’t mention earlier this evening,” she told her mother. “Because what’s the point?” Then left it at that, having given the woman who could have intervened during her husband’s attack, no space in which to react. She then sensed someone was behind her and twisted round to see Martin who’d turned up without making a sound. He stroked her hurting cheek yet again, with the lightest of touches. “I meant it when I said I wanted to punch your father in the nuts.”

  “He’s only got three months to live,” she said, removing his hand, aware that she’d turned an unflattering shade of plum. “So, perhaps thinks he’s got nothing to lose.”

  “That’s no excuse. Assault is assault, whoever’s responsible. Look,” he glanced in the direction of the kitchen where Jean-Marie was watching the news on a wall-mounted TV. “I’m going to be straight with you. OK?”

  Straight?

  Nevertheless, she nodded like a puppet, knowing what was coming.

  “Jean-Marie and I have been together for two years now. He’s so opposite to me in many ways, but it feels right. Very right. At least for now.” He regarded her with such unnerving focus, she turned away. “Can you understand?”

  “Of course.” She then took a deep breath. “So why would Josette Lecroix say you’d sexually assaulted her Sunday lunchtime at the hotel?”

  His whole body grew rigid.

  “What?”

  Delphine had to think quickly. He mustn’t know she’d been to her flat in Labradelle.

  “Basma told me,” she lied.

  “Shit.”

  “So, is it true?”

  “Don’t be bloody crazy.”

  Jean-Marie was staring their way, and Martin took a step back. His own cheeks burning bright. His voice brittle with anger. “I wouldn’t touch that if you paid me.”

  But despite this change in his tone and appearance, Delphine wasn’t quite convinced, and in that moment, standing between the newel post and the front door, sensed that Martin Dobbs from Derby, the hotel’s well-respected restaurant manager, with those beautiful eyes and beautiful everything else, might be little more than a construct of smoke and mirrors.

  21.

  Wednesday 3rd December. 07.00 hrs.

  Frost and mist everywhere, but the electric radiator in Delphine’s second floor room made it warm, churning out almost a tune as it did so. Having swiftly washed in the granite-lined ensuite bathroom, she spent an extra five minutes applying concealer to her bruise, only making it look worse.

  She suddenly hated herself, and all men on the planet. Then realised that was pathetic. Time to re-focus and move on. She was still involved in the baby boy’s murder investigation, and that was all that mattered. Upon reaching the stairs’ bottom step, she was tempted to leave a short note of thanks when she spotted a glazed and dishevelled, semi-naked Jean-Marie emerge from the kitchen. A mug of fresh coffee in one hand, his phone in the other. Le petit mort, she guessed, making her briefly look the other way.

  “You off?” he said with discernible relief, not having noticed.

  “I am,” then politely thanked him for his hospitality. “Good luck with your digging.” She added, passing him a small label bearing her details which he added to a pocket in his tracksuit pants.

  “Not sure how deep I can go, what with all the hostility,” he admitted. “But either me or Martin will keep you informed.”

  “Thanks.” Yet hearing him say the Englishman’s name like that, again threatened her new resolve. “By the way,” she took a chance. “Where’s your father living now? Is he local?”

  “Too bloody local sometimes. Pain-in-the-arse is his real name, if you must know. Some people should never retire.”

  “Cousteaux?”

  “Correct. In a fucking fortress called Baccarès, after where we went on holiday as kids.” A sudden smile showing large, white teeth, made her imagine what she shouldn’t. “If you’re thinking of calling in there, well don’t.”

  *

  With that, Delphine negotiated the frost-hard gravel towards her shrouded car, realising that yet again, she’d forgotten to bring any de-icer.

  She blew hot breath on her driver’s door lock, much to the amusement of a passing dog walker. She also suddenly realised she’d not shown either Martin or Jean-Marie the print-out of that Parisian teenager’s strange face. It was still in her bag, safe and sound, but like the unmarried Emilie Rosheim, oddly possessing her.

  The frosty, white haze concea
ling the other side of the street, seemed settled in for the day, with no hint of sun to shift it, while the icy air stung her bruise. At least the swelling had subsided during a night of fitful sleep trying to banish Martin from her mind, together with sights and sounds of a bustling whore house.

  “Come on!” She urged her car to start, but its small engine merely grunted then died. She tried again, this time, her heel on the floor causing a plume of black exhaust to hide her rear view. Only when this had cleared, was she aware that something green had passed her by. A 4X4 with annoyingly, a number plate too muddy to be readable.

  While maintaining the 2CV’s revs, she also reached a decision. She’d planned to call in at that ‘fortress’ wherever it was, but why not give chase to that car, to make sure?

  Besides, it was too early to be calling on someone retired and supposedly tricky who might not appreciate a stranger on the doorstep.

  *

  Cousteaux’s morning traffic nudged along its main thoroughfares. Kids being taken to school and workers to their desks, building sites and the large orthopaedic hospital on its north-eastern outskirts. Even following another car was a job of sorts, she told herself, avoiding a sudden map of black ice on the tarmac. And should the worst come to the worst and the Hôtel les Palmiers be closed, she could always become a Private Eye. And if Josette’s apartment had been provided by Social Security, she’d apply for one too, until business took off. Surely a boost when pitching herself later to any École de la Gendarmerie Nationale.

  “Damn.”

  That 4X4 had stopped in the middle of the Avenue Charles de Gaulle, giving no signal and unleashing a raucous chorus of horns and obscene gestures. Then it began taking several manoeuvres to face the other way. In that moment, as it eventually came into full view on the opposite side of the wide road, she recognised who was driving. Never mind that a shiny, new bull bar had been added over its radiator, the front number plate ended in 46. It was that very same Nissan that she’d seen in the Hôtel les Palmiers’ car park on Monday.

  She’d forgotten to breathe, and when the driver’s even-featured profile with its prominent cheekbones and penetrating eyes turned towards her, she let out a gasp of shock and almost drove into a van in front.

  Repeating his trick would be impossible. She was in a sardine can, wedged too tight, likely to be bumped and shoved at both ends, whereas that 4X4 was impregnable, exuding hostility. Julie hadn’t stood a chance. And who or what might be next?

  She stared after it, knowing Julie’s killer had just driven by, and also, for the second time, had seen her.

  *

  At the next roundabout, still unnerved, she retraced her route. But by that time there was no sign of the enemy. He’d realised he was being followed. Why else do that five-point turn? But he’d had to see her. The most chilling aspect of all.

  She pulled her phone from her bag and let her car steer itself while she began making the overdue call. Lieutenant Confrère picked up, saying she was in an early meeting with Captain Valon and the sous-lieutenant recovering from flu. Delphine, therefore, kept her news short. Throughout, the Lieutenant sounded far away, the line poor.

  “Thanks for that,” she said finally, as if her caller was a stranger. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  At least she’d had the message and, as Delphine drove past Jean-Marie’s house, gave it a furtive glance, but all its blinds were still drawn. Martin so tenderly stroking her cheek just a dying memory.

  *

  Minutes later, she turned into the town’s main car park where that same snacks kiosk was opening up. Its colourful awning sliding downwards into position for the day ahead. A coffee and croissant calmed her nerves while the helpful vendor gave her straightforward directions for Baccarès just past the orthopaedic hospital. However, he’d not noticed any green Nissan 4X4 either parked or passing by.

  “Too busy setting up,” he explained. “But leave me your number, and I can let you know.”

  What was there to lose?

  Aware of police activity still around the entrance to the Rue des Peupliers, and its adjacent alleyway, she followed signs for the hospital. A plain, modern block surrounded by a spacious, but almost full area of ambulances and cars. Around this stood a high, wire fence poorly disguised by a plantation of spindly, winter-weary saplings. More like a prison, she thought, seeing several pale, old faces at the various windows.

  Adjoining this, was an unmarked, unmaintained lane, clogged with dead, black leaves pressed into two distinct icy grooves by what could only be heavy vehicles. Where this suddenly ended in front of a circular, equally uncleared parking area, she spotted a large post box, bearing no name. But what was even more curious was the house itself. Another fortress, it seemed, this time with a crenelated roof and dank, granite walls. No modern windows but mean, glazed arrow-slits surrounded by a lighter-coloured stone. This not only gave them prominence, but also of an air of menace.

  ‘If you’re thinking of going there, don’t.’

  Were there any lights on? Impossible to tell, and for a moment, Delphine had the urge to flee. Then she thought of those who’d perished since Monday morning.

  You’ve nothing to lose, she told herself. Longeau senior could only tell her to piss off. With that, she left her car, walked past an old Land Rover and new-looking horse box then lifted the heavy, brass knocker on the reinforced oak door. Once, twice, unsure who, if anyone might answer. If Éric Longeau, at least she had a name and an excuse for calling.

  Without warning, the door opened on to a trim, athletic-looking man in possibly his late sixties, wearing breeches and a waxed jacket. A curious look in his bright eyes.

  “I may have the wrong address…” she began unimpressively, realising he might live on his own.

  “This is Baccarès, and I’m Éric Longeau, minding my own business. What do you want?”

  She half-turned away from this oddly-defensive man, and pointed at the huge, cream vehicle with horses’ heads painted along its sides. “That’s a really nice horsebox.”

  “Only the best for my girls,” he said, letting the door open a little further on to the smell of freshly-ground coffee. “I breed showjumpers from my three Hanoverian mares. Better than burning out behind a newsdesk any day.”

  “I’m Delphine Rougier,” she said finally. “From St. Eustache. And I’ve just met your son, Jean-Marie…”

  Éric Longeau looked at her with what could only be construed as renewed interest. A spark of possibilities?

  “Come in,” he said, registering her bruise. “You’ll have to take me as you find me. By the way, and I have to ask, have you by any chance, walked into a wall?”

  “Something like that.” She wasn’t here to talk about her blemish, but this guy was full of surprises.

  “There’s a special cream I use on my mares. Very effective it is, too. Shall I fetch it?”

  She thanked him but declined his offer as he led the way into the first room on the right. A huge, cold affair, dark at the farthest end from that narrow window through which she spotted her car. Way too colourful, even on a gloomy winter’s morning.

  She glanced around. The space was barely furnished as if he hadn’t quite decided what to do with it. Clearly a male domain with a Templar tapestry here, several unmatching, leather armchairs there. Instead of that welcome coffee smell, was the chill of age and decay emanating from an empty cave of a grate. She also noticed there wasn’t one family portrait or photograph to be seen.

  “Rougier? François Rougier?” he repeated as he moved towards that sliver of light. “Yes. A devious fucker...”

  Unsteady, Delphine pulled her coat tighter around herself.

  “What do you mean?”

  He didn’t turn around.

  “Whenever one of our reporters called round, he was out in the fields. Out somewhere, anywhere than where we could pin him down.”

  “Pin him down? About what?”

  “Your ID if you don’t mind.”

 
; She obliged and, after a cursory glance, Longeau handed it back.

  “Poor girl.”

  His sharp gaze seemed to soften to genuine concern, while beyond the narrow window, Delphine saw sleety rain begin to fall. Standing next to this tall, wiry stranger suddenly made her mother’s woollen coat seem thinner than skin.

  “Your son mentioned a Lucius Seghers,” she persevered. “And a date. 30th November 1968. Also, that you thought he might still be alive.”

  “Jean-Marie should find himself a full-time proper job like I had to do,” he sneered. “Too much time on his hands in the house his mother left to him. Property that should have passed to me if only we’d made a donation entre nous. And what is he? A poof…”

  Keep calm…

  “Who with?”

  “Who do you think? That Anglais nonce from your hotel.”

  “Martin Dobbs, restaurant manager?” Four words like stones in her throat. But she had to say them.

  An imperceptible nod.

  “Another tosser up to his eyeballs in debt. Hanging on by his fingernails. Hoping no doubt to bag a legal union at some point. Then be quids in. My definition of a parasite.”

  Stop it…

  About Lucius Seghers,” she reminded him, nevertheless fighting a sudden and overpowering sense of loss. “I’ve spoken to certain people in our Commune who remember the case.”

  “No-one remembers like me,” he said, standing even closer to the window. “And no-one is more fearful.”

  “I don’t understand.” She wished he’d turn around so she could see his expression.

  “Is this why neither you nor Jean-Marie followed it up?”

  “Mademoiselle, every three years my best mares are put with stallions who’ve won at least three Group 1 races apiece. And they’re about to give birth to creatures of great beauty like themselves, who bring joy. This is my life now, away from the shadows of those who mean harm.” He finally faced her, before moving towards the door. “And despite your background, which isn’t your fault, you should do the same.”