Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  “Equally pressing, is a coincidence, and Lieutenant Confrère here knows how I distrust them…”

  “What do you mean?” Delphine leaned forwards.

  “That mystery man you saw leaving room 45 and later in the hotel car park driving away in a green Nissan X-Trail…”

  “And twice since.”

  “We checked it on a Europol database.”

  “Europol?” Irène Rougier’s forehead wrinkled up as her eyes widened. “Why, if it’s a French vehicle?”

  “Not quite. You see, the Lot number plate’s been traced to a dealer who noticed the car it was meant for had come from the UK. He’s since stopped trading and moved to Spain.”

  “The UK?”

  “Please.” Valon raised a forefinger. “Not unusual because many ex-pats here bring their cars over, and yes, by law, they’re supposed to buy in France after eighteen months, but,” he shrugged. “Easier said than done.”

  “Where in the UK?” She pressed, not sure why. It surely wasn’t important. Meanwhile, the coffee machine made a series of strange noises, almost drowning his reply.

  “Derby.”

  *

  Both syllables were like two hits to the heart. He’d used the word ‘coincidence’ but this had to be the weirdest one. She gripped her mother’s nearest hand, but Irène Rougier, who understandably hadn’t grasped the significance of that name, stared at her as if she was a stranger.

  “That’s Martin Dobbs’s home city,” Delphine struggled to say. “You know, the restaurant manager at the Hôtel les Palmiers. And…”

  She became aware of Lise Confrère coming closer.

  “Go on, please,” urged the Lieutenant. “We’re listening.”

  “I’ve had the feeling he might have been tailing me. Keeping tabs. Nothing obvious, just little things he’s said and not said…” She didn’t mention he also might have been at the Auberge de l’Aube on Monday evening with Jean-Marie Longeau, because that could put the old girl there in danger. Meanwhile, Confrère’s hand lay on her shoulder. Firm, warm, like the kind of heat pads her father used for his aches and pains.

  “Delphine,” she began in a serious tone, “from the outset you’ve struck us both as a very grounded character. Not given to flights of fancy or malicious gossip. Which is why up to now, you’ve been included in our investigations, although at a peripheral level.”

  Up to now…

  Confrère removed her hand. Turned to her superior, while Delphine’s mother as if in a perpetual state of astonishment, tightened her grip. “Now that Michel Salerne and Josette Lecroix have put us more in the unwholesome picture, we might now turn our full attentions to this Anglais, whose Statement, by the way, aroused no suspicion.” To Delphine she added, “do you happen to have his mobile number?”

  Panic.

  “I can’t phone him,” she said. “It’s complicated.”

  Valon glanced up. A flicker of sympathy in his eyes. Nevertheless, feeling like Judas, she obliged, giving details of his lover’s commodious house in the Rue des Bergers in Cousteaux, and the maison de maître in Ballon. Her mother’s surprise had morphed into obvious distaste. The woman who’d never stopped believing in a secret betrayal that had torn her childhood apart.

  “It’s alright for you,” Delphine countered. “I’m actually trying to solve things.”

  *

  Beyond the one window, the early afternoon had become night. No more sleet, not yet, but a sustained rainfall that would leave treacherous, pond-like puddles in the lane by Bellevue.

  Just as Delphine was about to mention Roza and her recent ordeal, sous-lieutenant Baudart pushed his way into the room with dripping wet shoulders and four, filled demi-baguettes covered in clingfilm.

  Valon, distractedly thanked him as if his train of thought had been interrupted. “All chicken?”

  A nod, and once they’d been distributed, Lise Confrère addressed Irène Rougier. Her tone unfamiliar. “You’ve surely heard how my beloved Papa was killed after leading the hunt for Lucius Seghers’ attacker?”

  Delphine watched closely.

  “I have,” as those irregular, sixty-year-old teeth nibbled at the baguette’s crust. “Who could forget? It was a truly shocking way to die.”

  “So, unless we can actually see the threats you and your husband have been receiving, our chances of nailing this… this sociopath, remain low.”

  Irène Rougier abandoned her snack. Her bony fingers again burrowed deep inside the only handbag she’d used for years. Real leather; both brass clips almost rubbed bare. But it was Martin Dobbs and the name of his birthplace that wouldn’t leave Delphine alone.

  Four pale blue envelopes emerged one by one. All crumpled, with neither name nor address on the front. Her mother passed them over to Captain Valon, but Delphine was aware of Confrère wanting a piece of the action.

  Ambitious, tough Confrère, keeping her nose clean at all costs.

  With awesome delicacy, Valon’s latex-gloved fingers pulled out each folded sheet of paper. “30th November 1978, the same for 1988 and 1998, and finally, 30th November 2003. All handwritten, in an almost identical style, using what could be the same fine fountain pen and dark blue ink.” He looked up. “These are nothing like what other neighbours in your hamlet had been receiving over the years. Nor what was said to Michel Salerne and Josette Lecroix. If I might put it this way, these are in a dangerously different league.”

  Meanwhile, Confrère, who’d been leaning over Valon’s shoulder throughout, stepped back. Colour leaving her face. “Sir, with no disrespect to your description,” she began. “They’re diabolical.” She then faced Irène Rougier. “You should have contacted my father immediately after the first two. Before he died.”

  “Really? My husband felt there’d already been too many road accidents, farmer suicides and domestic violence for him to bother, and I couldn’t act alone.”

  But he still made that shrine…

  Captain Valon passed his Lieutenant an unopened packet of latex gloves, then the letters and envelopes. “Madame Rougier,” he began. “I can understand why you and your husband have been living in such fear. Behaving perhaps irrationally, but my colleague here is right. However, please be reassured they’ll be examined in Le Mans first thing tomorrow. Failing an outcome there, it’ll be Paris.”

  Irène Rougier nodded her thanks, while Delphine watched the Lieutenant begin to redden.

  “Sir, may I ask what is the point? The case was closed after my father’s death. Too long ago. Finito, surely?”

  “Not officially. Besides, I have known of exceptions.”

  “And we have to hope,” said Delphine. “Otherwise, where’s the justice?”

  The baguettes were forgotten, but still the faintly sweet smell of chicken breast hung in the warm air as Lieutenant Confrère then addressed her mother. Delphine saw undisguised anger in the younger woman’s eyes. “I can’t believe, Madame, that these recurring November 30th dates and the foul messages didn’t appear to mean anything to you or your husband. At the time, the Seghers’ case was partout. Everywhere. I also can’t believe how little you both seemed to care not only for your security, but that of your daughter here. Your dog’s just been killed in a truly sadistic manner and,” she glanced at her boss, “as was my own, wonderful father who…”

  Unable to finish, she pushed the notes and their envelopes to one side, swivelled from her seat and ran from the room.

  “What about Antoine Gauffroi?” Irène Rougier called after her. “The man wasn’t perfect, but your beloved father should have been prosecuted for what happened to him…”

  ‘Not perfect.’ That was a good one…

  Valon for the first time didn’t seem to know what to do, except tell her to be quiet, giving Delphine the chance to read the topmost page of the almost feminine script.

  ‘I will hunt you until I’m ready, then twist your necks until they break. I will hang your innards from fence and hedge until what remains uneaten, shrivels and
dries like

  the black worms you are. That is my promise.’

  *

  The hatred, almost glowing from the page, made her dizzy, but when she’d recovered, said, “Ursula Villedin at the Auberge de l’Aube has had threats too, by phone. Again, female.”

  “It never ends,” said her mother, as Valon made a note and Delphine took a deep breath.

  “She also said to me – word for word – ‘the more I think about that night by the river, the more I’m convinced that boy started things off.’”

  “Really?” Valon kept writing.

  “Yes. So,” she then took a deep breath, “perhaps that 30th November date is a red herring, and the real reason for these shocking threats is something else entirely.”

  26.

  13.25 hrs.

  Although Delphine’s last comment had seemingly fallen on deaf ears, no way could she dismiss what had troubled her since her visit to the Auberge de l’Aube. Meanwhile, something else wouldn’t go away.

  Necks, plural. Why?

  “That baby had his neck twisted,” was almost a whisper. “Maybe Basma’s little daughter too, if she was hers, while her mother was hung by the neck. Oh my God.”

  Captain Valon shook his head. “One can make creative connections till the cows come home, but it’ll be hard evidence that brings justice.” He then fixed his gaze on Irène Rougier who seemed lost in thought. “What both the Judge and Public Prosecutor will be expecting.”

  After the silence, he spoke again.

  “What has puzzled me, Madame Rougier, is why there’s no name plaque at Bellevue, also, your landline phone’s been ex-directory since its installation, and neither your names nor address appear on the Electoral Roll at the Mairie. So how would this Lucius Seghers have known where to hand deliver the threats? The Trésor Publique perhaps?”

  Her mother shrugged.

  “Betrayers are everywhere. I should know.”

  Delphine wondered with a jolt, if any more secrecy was about to emerge, but Valon continued with his train of thought. “If evidence for these recent crimes and the ongoing threats point to Lucius Seghers, then Lieutenant Confrère may be too close to it all. She’s a fine colleague, however, I don’t want her compromised or…”

  “As you know, I was with her at Basma Arouar’s house,” Delphine interrupted. “It was shocking. We saw the poor, dead woman hanging upstairs like a piece of rubbish. And if your Lieutenant persists in saying it was suicide, I don’t. I agree with Cousteaux and want to help you find who killed her. After all, I doubt, as you’d hinted, that Josette Lecroix would have been so open with a gendarme calling at her apartment. Look, I’ll do anything,” she added, on a reckless roll. “And not just because Papa’s given me three months to find out who killed that baby.”

  “Shhh…” hissed her mother, while the Captain stopped dialling. “That’s our business.”

  “Just like him buggering off? The hot-head.”

  “He’s not.”

  “Then what’s this on my cheek? The result of normal behaviour?”

  Her pale mother instantly coloured while Valon, clearly embarrassed, didn’t even look. Not everyone wants to put their hand into a snake pit, Delphine reasoned to herself.

  “We’ll set wheels in motion with other departments,” he finally said. “But our priority is to grill the hotel manager, Josette and Adriana Facchietti. Not forgetting her missing brother. And,” he tapped his phone, “Martin Dobbs, who interestingly, was issued with a renewed British passport only two days ago.”

  So, he wasn’t stopping…

  Valon then focussed on picking up his phone and dialling. Another deep frown in place. Only the weather outside competed with the silence until a computerised answerphone kicked in. She’d noticed he’d not only withheld his number but also left no message. Martin with his secret, was probably still in Paris.

  Later, she’d reveal what Jean-Marie Longeau had discovered about Basma’s brothel. There was already enough going on, and besides, she wasn’t in the mood to share everything. Whether that was more to do with self-esteem than possessiveness, she didn’t care. She’d been discarded.

  “I’ll try him again when you’ve gone,” said Valon, “but first, more news which I’ve only just been permitted to pass on. I wonder what Roland Seligman’s reaction will be.”

  “To what?” Delphine barked without meaning to.

  “Apparently, the key cards for hotel rooms 45 and 56 were to be left in the First Aid box in the cleaning cupboard on the third floor. So Michel and Josette were informed, again by an untraceable message at 22.00 hours on Saturday evening. Giving them plenty of notice. They were convinced it was a woman’s voice.”

  Delphine clung to the sides of her chair, aware of Valon’s body language. He needed his space, but not before Lise Confrère whose face had the glow of a newly washed apple, rejoined them. “Well, Madame Rougier, we’re waiting.”

  “For what?”

  “Come on now.” She checked her watch. “What really happened in the Auberge de l’Aube on that frosty, winter’s evening? We don’t have all day, and remember, you were only supposed to be here for ten minutes.” She eyed Valon before switching on her pc. “Sir, you do realise there’ll be no closure until we hear it?”

  The Captain checked his own watch. Pulled a discreet tape recorder from his drawer. Gave her a nod.

  This was war...

  Delphine angled herself towards her bristling mother to simply whisper, “do it for me, hein?”

  “I don’t want her here.” She pointed at the Lieutenant.

  “She stays,” said Valon. “My orders.”

  “Please,” Delphine urged the woman beside her who just then looked capable of murder, and then the Confession began. Not with hesitant mumbling, but an outpouring of grief that had been bottled up for too long.

  “The boy told François he had a gun,” she then mimed pointing an imaginary one. “And that if he didn’t – you know – pleasure him in the special way he wanted, he’d blow his brains out. So, what choice did he have?” She looked around, but no-one spoke. “How could I tell my daughter that? But she knows he’d been over at Les Chênes finishing off an important job and had our café to get back to. He’d only been passing by…”

  “What else took place?” Asked Confrère, touch-typing with ease, while Valon placed the threatening letters in an evidence bag, labelled it and sealed it tight. “We’re all adults. We need to know.”

  “I can’t.”

  “OK. I’ll wheel the Judge over, and you can tell him. If we’re to begin a fresh search for this Lucius Seghers, or whatever name he’s hiding behind now, we need facts.”

  Dread and fear tightened her mother’s once lovely features. Delphine gave her hand a squeeze. “He had to commit sodomy, but first was made to…to suck the boy’s penis until...” She paused. “Can you imagine it? Can you? A man who’s always considered homosexuality a sin? Who’d stopped attending church because too many of its priests had debased their faith?”

  “Where was his father during all this?” Delphine asked her, in case that elderly widow had either got things wrong or lied. “Or perhaps Lieutenant Confrère might know. She’s paid the place a few visits, after all.”

  A dead silence followed, in which even the rain seemed muffled.

  “You’ve been there too?” Quizzed the blonde.

  Damn…

  “It’s a free country.”

  “For some more than others, it seems.”

  Confrère’s pretty mouth became a stern line. “What happened next, Madame?”

  But she was the wrong target. Delphine spoke out again.

  “I think my mother would help you more readily, if the atmosphere here was less hostile.”

  Valon coughed. Re-started the tape recorder as Irène Rougier finally obliged. “In disgust and self-loathing, my husband dragged the méchant down to the river and left him there.”

  “Did Lucius Seghers struggle?”

&
nbsp; “Yes. Like a wild thing, till he passed out.”

  Her thin shoulders began to heave. Her sobs kept at bay as she described how her husband of just two years, had staggered back to his van, and immediately after that, there’d been the most terrible storm, not only washing away all traces of the struggle, but possibly taking the boy downstream, even drowning him, because when those threats came, François really thought they meant the boy had died.”

  “When did he tell you all this?”

  “On Monday, following his death sentence.”

  “And you believe him?”

  She nodded.

  “So that’s why there’s a shrine outside your home?”

  Irène Rougier reached for Delphine’s hand. Valon, having switched off the tape recorder, stood up to check Confrère’s screen. His jaw immediately clenched. The veins in his neck pulsed in and out. “Delete!” he snapped at her. “Now!”

  “No, sir,” she retorted. An angry blotch reddened each cheek. “I want this on record. My record, OK? My father died in the most terrible way, remember? If he’d known the truth… If that literally fucking husband of hers over there had come clean in the first place…”

  “Excuse us,” the Captain turned to Delphine and her mother before guiding his resisting colleague through the far doorway which slammed shut behind them.

  Raised voices followed. His and hers, while Delphine sneaked over to the screen.

  DON’T COME LOOKING was all that remained.

  Seconds later, a silent yet greedy chasm seemed to swallow up even the bad weather still pummelling the window and the din of an occasional transporter sloshing along Labradelle’s main street.

  Delphine followed the shouting.

  “Come back here!” Snapped her mother. “It’s none of your business.”

  “Oh yes, it is.”

  “Nicolas Confrère destroyed Antoine Gauffroi, and he wasn’t the first…”

  But her daughter had turned deaf. Irène Rougier had lost too much, and no way would she be ending up like her. Then the shouting faded to whispers.

  *

  By 14.30 hours, long past the originally allotted fifteen minutes, and with Delphine back in her chair making no eye contact, Captain Valon had set in motion a co-ordinated search for Martin Dobbs and François Rougier. The restaurant manager’s motorbike had, like him, vanished, and both that and her father’s Mitsubishi’s details had been logged by Europol, all French and Spanish autoroutes, ferries and airports. Also, Nice gendarmerie in the Rue Roquebilière were on alert for any information on a Dr Henri Seghers, probably deceased.