Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  As for Julie, the cruel sleet had scoured the ragged tarmac clean, leaving nothing, and when Delphine turned into Bellevue’s front yard before positioning her 2CV to face the opening, she sensed a shut-down.

  Although her father’s Mitsubishi stood in its usual place, the farmhouse’s front shutters were drawn, and there were no lights shining from within.

  With a growing unease, thinking of joint suicides and other terrible scenarios, she made her way round to the rear, where, in the rarely-used back room, she could just about make out two figures shuffling together beneath a shadeless bulb.

  Were her parents dancing? Surely not. Yet an innate longing to re-bond with these strangers, made her pause. Feel her still-tender cheek.

  Don’t weaken…

  *

  While that same icy rain slithered down her neck, Delphine let herself in through the front door and in the gloomy light, almost tripped over something bulky blocking her way. A suitcase. And another. She could even smell them, unused for years.

  What on earth?

  She switched on the hall light and also noticed something that made her catch her breath. A rifle – but not the one her father had used on vermin for as long as she could remember, but one that seemed brand, shining new. Its mahogany butt glowing like nothing else had ever done in that miserable place.

  From the nearest, bigger suitcase, hung a homemade label attached with string. She bent down to read it and had just spotted the words GERONA. ESPAGNE when someone grabbed her hair and pulled her upright.

  “Got you, meddler!”

  François Rougier stank of beer. It filled her mouth, her empty stomach. “Now see what you’ve done. Happy, are you?”

  “Let go!”

  “We are, don’t worry.”

  We?

  She pulled free and faced him. His wild, once-black eyes. The now-fleshy jowls. “This is the coward’s way out, and you know it. All the way to bloody Spain just because…”

  “We can’t protect you anymore,” her mother said from behind him. “You’re twenty. We’re…”

  “Protect me from what?” Delphine interrupted, stepping back to press herself against the front door, fumbling for her phone in her pocket. “If you don’t tell me, I’m calling the police. In fact,” she added, “I’m doing it now.”

  “Go on, François,” urged her mother.” You tell her. Or I will.”

  He stood there, mouth half-open, making no eye contact. Thinking…

  “That cross I put up… It was for… For… because…”

  “Say it!” screamed Irène Rougier. “Julie’s dead because of you. Everything’s dead because of you. And,” she grabbed Delphine by the shoulders of her own coat. “Look what you did to your own daughter’s lovely face. So, come clean for the first time in your life.”

  At this, he lunged for the bigger suitcase, butted Delphine out of the way. Before anyone could stop him, he’d let himself out of the front door. Her mother ran after him but had to stop when that huge old car’s engine roared into life and he began turning towards her.

  “Move, wife!”

  “Stop!” Shrieked Delphine, pulling her clear, just in time. “You’d rather kill again, wouldn’t you, than tell the truth?”

  Why she’d said, ‘kill again,’ she didn’t know. Yet she’d seen that pure rage in his eyes. Heard that voice, colder that the punishing weather striking from the east.

  They watched him go. Him with ninety-two days left on this earth, when that unknown baby had only been given hours, and Basma’s likely daughter a few days. Out of the yard he roared, up the winding lane and away.

  When silence returned, her mother’s arms encircled her with their inner strength. An unspoken resolve, before two words emerged from Irene Rougier’s stifled sobs.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It’s OK.”

  “No, it’ll never be OK.”

  *

  12.40 hrs.

  Delphine was late for Labradelle, but they’d surely understand. Her father had just done a bunk and her mother had needed reassurance that once he’d made his pathetic gesture, he’d be on the way home and everything would be alright.

  The hard part had been to persuade her to come with her to the gendarmerie, and when told they were setting off together, Captain Valon admitted he was looking forward to meeting her. Someone whom he hoped would be more forthcoming than her errant husband. Yes, he’d reassured Delphine, there’d be contact with traffic police both in France and Spain, and it would help matters if material evidence of those mysterious threats the couple had been receiving, could also be brought along.

  *

  Just as she’d turned into the D338, she noticed a familiar red tractor pulled up on an area where tree felling had taken place in October. The rough ground still pale with their chippings.

  She slowed to a crawl as the driver’s door was flung open and Patrick Gauffroi nimbly landed on both Wellington-booted feet to flag her down.

  “What on earth does he want?” said her mother.

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?”

  Delphine pulled over, leaning out of her window into the persistent, hard rain. His face inches from hers; his nice hazel eyes rimmed red. Something was wrong.

  “I was about to call in, once I’d finished clearing old Gardan’s field,” he said, either not registering or ignoring Irène Rougier sitting next to her. “It’s Roza. Remember how she gave you those pieces of twine?” He smacked his forehead with an earth-stained hand, “What an idiot I was. Poor kid.”

  “Why? What’s happened?” Delphine’s empty stomach shrank till it hurt. That little girl’s earnest face vivid in her mind. “Is she alright?”

  “Just about. She’s at St Xavier’s Hospital.”

  “Le Mans,” said her passenger, out of the blue.

  “Why?” Delphine said. “What’s wrong?”

  “She’d been outside feeding the chickens last night before going to bed, and someone sneaked up behind her and tried to strangle her with that same twine, if you please. Evil bastard… Christ, if I…” Here he stopped himself. Pulled away from the 2CV. “She’s slipping in and out of consciousness. Why I’m on my way there now.”

  “Please phone with any news, won’t you?” Delphine said, wondering traitorously if he wasn’t also keen on Karolina.

  “Course. And,” he glanced back, suddenly acknowledging her mother with embarrassing intensity. “You have a beautiful daughter, Madame Rougier. Please look after her. I say that, because I don’t much like the look of that bruise on her cheek.”

  Delphine blinked in surprise.

  “An accident,” lied her mother swiftly. “And it’s getting better.”

  “Good.”

  With that, he leapt back into his cab and within seconds had left his berth. A cloud of mud and wood chippings flung high in his wake.

  25.

  12.55 hrs.

  ‘You have a beautiful daughter, Madame Rougier. Please look after her…’

  That unexpected compliment refused to budge from Delphine’s mind as she engaged first gear and set her spindly wipers to max.

  “We’ve not got long,” she said. “So, I think, Maman, with everything that’s happened so far, you should be honest.”

  “Honest?” Her mother kept her focus out of her side window. “You must know by now.”

  “I just want you to tell me about the threats. And as for the past two horrible days, I don’t need to spell out what exactly has happened. You’ve heard the radio and seen the TV. You helped bury poor mangled-up Julie for God’s sake…” Here, her voice gave out. Irène Rougier turned from the window to stare down at her handbag. She then unclipped its clasp and fiddled within its depths before extracting a yellowed newspaper clipping from Le Maine Express, dated 30th November 1968. Delphine glimpsed the same tiny photo of Lucius Seghers that Jérôme Meyer had shown on his computer. The reporter’s name, Éric Longeau. “I think I know what went on the night before,”
said her mother. “But so much has happened since then.”

  “Go on.” As they passed through St. Armand’s pre-Christmas market, displaying local specialities set out on tables under festive awnings, dripping rain on those below.

  “Your father wasn’t to blame.”

  Big, strong hands…

  “The boy pestered him. Threatened him with public humiliation and loss of work. Your father had only been at a neighbouring farm doing repairs on their machinery and taken a short cut to where he’d parked his van. We were still running the café, but about to put it up for sale…”

  Delphine tried not to sound impatient. “And?”

  “The boy was depraved. Even for a fifteen-year-old. The things he made François do.” She covered her face, drawing in deep breaths to calm herself, while Delphine, having reached Labradelle, almost missed the turning for the gendarmerie. So busy was she, trying to imagine it. Comparing this lurid account with that of Ursula Villedin, until her parting shot.

  ‘The more I think about that night by the river, the more I’m convinced that Lucius Seghers started things off…”

  *

  Neither spoke as they turned into the gendarmerie’s half-filled car park. Two black Peugeots with all the trappings. Two Citroëns without.

  “But did Papa eventually attack him, and leave him for dead?” Delphine was tempted to add, ‘after all, look what he did to me,’ but couldn’t.

  “No. The pervert was only pretending to be hurt. It was your Papa who suffered. And still does, but who believed him? Certainly not Lieutenant Colonel Confrère in his hunt for a conviction, whom I hope is rotting in Hell.”

  Why Delphine also decided not to mention Éric Longeau.

  “Antoine Gauffroi killed himself,” she said instead.

  “I would, too, if I’d beaten my wife and child the way he did. Bad blood there, I’m afraid.”

  Feeling faintly sick, Delphine found a parking space and pulled up the handbrake. For lots of reasons, she changed her tone simply to keep Irène Rougier on board. “We’ll press for a serious search for Papa,” she said. “If this man I’ve now seen four times, really is this same teenager, then…”

  Her mother let out a gasp. Stiffened in her seat. “You’ve seen him?” She finally managed to say, then crossed herself, even though she’d long abandoned her faith after losing her own parents. “He’s been presumed dead for thirty-five years.”

  “So, who did you think has been threatening you both? And why? Could it be because of what Papa really did, or something completely different?”

  No reply. Just the slightest tightening of her lips.

  Delphine filled the dead gap, almost losing the battle to stay calm. “It’s possible Lucius Seghers is still alive and may also have killed that baby boy at the hotel. The police haven’t yet found out why the victim had been left in one of my rooms. Come on,” she urged, getting out and helping her mother towards the shelter of the gendarmerie’s side entrance. “It’ll be alright.”

  But words were all too easy, and she knew the orphaned woman in front, didn’t believe her. She just prayed she’d brought at least one of the four threats with her. Something at least to be analysed, just in case…

  Her phone rang, sounding even more out of place.

  Martin. Merde.

  “You’ve been on my mind since you left,” he began. “How’s things?”

  A pause, during which her mother tutted impatience.

  “Jean-Marie’s located that brothel in Saint-Denis,” he added. “He’s just phoned from there.”

  “That’s quick.” She should have sounded more grateful, but something didn’t feel right. He was speaking again.

  “A group of Poles are running it now, and there’s more than a whiff of drugs and people trafficking. They told him to piss off, or else…”

  She noticed her mother shivering. “Look, I’ll call you back in half an hour. OK?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Shopping.”

  It was obvious he didn’t believe her. All shops shut for lunch, except the biggest Carrefour branches. Her watch showed 13.10 hours.

  “Online,” she added quickly. “And I’m in the middle of paying.”

  “Speak soon, then.” He said. “And take care, won’t you?”

  “I’ll try.”

  Call ended. And then she realised he surely knew that neither Bellevue nor her basic model phone had internet access.

  “Who was that?” asked her mother, turned away from her, pressing the gendarmerie’s intercom button.

  “Just someone I know.” Except that she didn’t. “The hotel’s restaurant manager,”

  “He seems nosy.”

  Too right.

  Then Patrick Gauffroi’s eager smile came to mind.

  *

  They were greeted by a short, middle-aged cop whom Delphine immediately recognised as sous-lieutenant Noah Baudart, still with a ruddy complexion and searching eyes, who shouted out their presence to Captain Valon before disappearing through another nearby door.

  Valon himself looked far more pre-occupied than on Monday morning, as he led Delphine and her mother into an office which smelt of new paint.

  “Lieutenant Confrère’s still on the phone,” he said, indicating two new, smart chairs then asked if they wanted coffee. They did. Meanwhile, something was clearly bothering him, and working the coffee machine seemed to provide a welcome distraction. But not for long. He then addressed Delphine.

  “Mademoiselle, Cousteaux gendarmerie are complaining that you risked compromising a possible crime scene in the Rue des Peupliers yesterday afternoon.”

  “Crime scene?”

  “That’s what they say.”

  “Not suicide?”

  He turned to face her, ignoring her question. “Let’s just hope they don’t haul you up.” He handed her and her mother a full cup each and poured one for himself. “They don’t need much of an excuse to stab us in the back.”

  “That won’t stop me helping,” she said, having got over the shock, smarting at the boiling coffee on her lips. “I only went to see my boss and find out what was in my file, which by the way, was missing. Adriana Facchietti’s too. And I’m sorry if it’s causing hassle, but don’t forget I not only found her dead but also that poor baby.”

  “You never said you went to Cousteau.” Her mother sounding peeved.

  “Well I did, and then Lieutenant Confrère arrived at Basma’s house. Was it she who dumped me in it?”

  Silence.

  She glanced again at her mother before adding, “as you’re aware, Captain, my father’s just driven off to God knows where – though his suitcase label said Gerona, and I think I know why.”

  Valon raised a hand, at the same time eyeing her mother. “I’m sincerely glad you’re here, Madame, but I must give our news first.”

  He moved towards the door in the far corner and gestured for his younger colleague to join him. Lise Confrère looked awful. Hardly the radiant young woman Delphine had first met on the D338 on Monday morning. As if defeated and battle-weary, she shook Irène Rougier’s hand and gave Delphine a polite, stiff smile. Best if the traitor hadn’t tried at all, Delphine told herself, fighting a sudden hurt.

  “Tell them, Lieutenant,” Valon addressed her. “Better coming from you.”

  “OK.” As if glad to have been let off that particular hook.” Michel Salerne and Josette Lecroix had both received death threats via voicemail on their mobile phones on Sunday morning. A female, apparently.”

  “Can these be traced?”

  “Not so far.”

  “And Adriana? Where’s she?”

  “We don’t yet know. Neither she nor her brother seem to be at home.”

  “I didn’t like the look of him at all,” said Delphine suddenly unable to drink any more coffee. “And she seemed really scared of him. At least, that’s what I thought at the time.”

  Her mother looked puzzled, then seemed ready to speak.


  “We’ve put out feelers,” Valon broke in first. “And Judge Georges Pertus who’s finally woken up, wants to see them. It may be that as the hotel’s closed, she’s gone to stay with relatives in Italy somewhere. We do know they’ve none left in France, so it must be their future inheritance keeping them at the Mill.”

  Delphine wasn’t so sure and took a deep breath.

  “As you and the Lieutenant here know, her Assessment file and mine were missing from Basma Arouar’s office in her house. I couldn’t believe it, and then,” she stared at Confrère. “You arrived. Why? Then you went upstairs and found her dead. I naturally followed.”

  Another taut silence in which Confrère suddenly turned towards a display board showing the latest traffic regulations for commercial vehicles, as if unable to face either of them or answer that pointed question. “Most likely those files are in another location, say in her office at the hotel?”

  I don’t think so.

  Having given Delphine a mini-death stare, she continued her preferred story.

  “When Captain Gayak accompanied me back to her house, everything except her office where drawers still lay open, still seemed in order. As for Arouar’s bedroom, well…” She then addressed Valon. “Everything’s logged on my Record sheet, Captain. To the nth degree, including my belief that she took her own life.”

  It wasn’t her mother’s stare, but a growing sense of exclusion that made Delphine curl up inside. With a possible promotion on the horizon, the Lieutenant was obviously determined to keep her nose clean. Cousteaux had given her grief, but whatever her reasons for denying the existence of those two files, now wasn’t the time to challenge it.

  She noticed Valon frowning as he tapped something into his computer, before speaking again. “I’ll inform Captain Gayak about them, then take it from there. And,” his preoccupied gaze met hers, “I’m suggesting that from now on, Delphine, you devote your not inconsiderable talents to looking after your mother here and encourage your father to make contact.”

  Silence.

  That insistent rain again, this time from a different direction.