Downfall

by Sally Spedding

  “I’m Jacqueline Moussac,” the older woman said, opening her car door and flinging her bag on to the passenger seat. “Too busy with my job and studying to follow everything in the media. You try doing a Doctorate.” She managed a quick smile, before leaving the woman staring after her before returning to the garage’s shop.

  *

  Having driven for several minutes, Delphine pulled into a derelict-looking farm’s gateway complete with a faded sign – ÉLEVAGE DES BISONS – to take a proper look at the newspaper. The headline was a con. Apart from a blurred full-figure image of Martin Dobbs that even she barely recognised, the account said little more than she’d already learnt. What did make her catch her breath was the unusual fact he’d been raised until aged eighteen in a children’s home in Derby with no traceable parents or siblings. Indeed, any other relations. He’d then trained at a nearby Catering College, worked in London hotels for a few years while studying French, before landing that job in the hotel. Despite all the odds, he must have been driven to succeed, but had that included being a partner-in-crime? Was he so desperate for money? And could his sad background explain why he’d stood by doing nothing when Roza was being hurt?

  Possibly.

  She eventually turned to page three, and there she was – a head and shoulders shot – looking paranoid, wearing the patterned jumper she’d worn on Tuesday. She then read the two paragraphs below which gave her personal and family details, including her father’s disappearance.

  Idiots!

  As there were no credits, she wondered if the ambitious Jean-Marie Longeau had sneakily snapped her, and passed it to some media hub? Was she now everywhere? In even greater danger? And her parents? If so, Labradelle gendarmerie should know. Particularly Captain Valon.

  *

  Delphine left him a brief message giving this information, also asking how the Côte d’Azur query was progressing, before phoning her mother. Relieved that she’d reached Bellevue safely, she suggested she call Patrick Gauffroi and ask him to call in whenever he passed, just to make sure.

  “I’ve got mon petit ami, remember?” Irène Rougier meant her Luger. “And by the way, where are you now?” For some inexplicable reason, Delphine had to lie. She’d be spending a second day in Tours, exploring its fabulous library.

  Pause.

  “You never mentioned Tours.”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “You’re not digging where you shouldn’t?”

  Yes, I am.

  “No, but I’ll tell you later.”

  “Why don’t I believe you?”

  “Because I’m like Papa. You said so yourself.”

  “Please don’t go to the Causses. It’s too wild. Too sauvage.”

  Her mother was no fool.

  “Look, I’ll call you tomorrow,” Delphine told her. “Don’t worry.”

  After that, she dialled Pauline, who couldn’t say a lot as her own mother was helping her with a late breakfast. At the name, status and crime of sous-lieutenant Noah Baudart, her friend whistled between her teeth. And again, when Delphine asked her to also search the names of any unaccounted-for Privates in the Waffen-SS Der Führer Regiment at Oradour-sur-Glane on 10th June 1944. “It’s a big ask,” she admitted finally, “and I’ll never be able to thank you enough. But I can pay you something.”

  “No, you can’t. I need something to think about instead of my crap body.”

  “You’re amazing,” Delphine said, and meant it. “And if you need someone reliable to help, there’s always Jérôme Meyer at Le Maine Express.”

  *

  She continued driving south under that same, almost invisible drizzle, until signs for Chaptelat and the second entry to that new A20 autoroute. Here she spotted a scattering of buildings, some for sale, others in disrepair, save one. The Café Celeste, plus a weather-beaten sign for FRITES, BOISSONS etcetera. With her eyes on alert, she chose the small parking area at the front rather than the larger but enclosed area at the rear. Just in case.

  She’d memorised those two sets of tyre tracks, but here on the wet, caramel-coloured soil, there seemed to be nothing that matched them. She could always try the bigger car park, if she had time. But she didn’t.

  At first glance, the café seemed shut and in darkness beyond the front door’s mean glass panel, but a closer look showed a dull light in the distance. This reminded her of the one photo of the Café des Lilas which her parents had run in Beaumont-sur-Sarthe. Where the plot surrounding her father had thickened in a way that was impossible to believe.

  She pushed open the door and to her surprise, amid the woodburner and cigarette smoke, the thick smell of spirits. Three men, in their seventies or older, wearing heavy-duty winter gear, were perched by the bar. Full and half-full glasses to hand, while further on, a woman of similar age stood washing up.

  Immediately, four grey heads turned Delphine’s way without speaking.

  Fight or flight? She wondered, almost losing her nerve, before reminding herself why she was here.

  “Well, stone the crows,” exclaimed a grizzled guy with eyes as sharp as those of a bird in winter. “If it’s not young Delphine Rougier.” He swivelled round to face her, smiling bad teeth. “I’ve not seen you since you were so high.” His outstretched hand hovered level with the top of his bar stool. “Didier Minuel it is. I’ve lived near here since the Millennium when we gave up farming in St Eustache. Your Papa mended our machines. The best mechanic anyone could have.” He eyed her more closely. “How is he, and your Maman? A lovely-looking woman, as I recall. Just like you, if I might say so.”

  But before Delphine could apologise for not recognising him, the man sitting alongside had whispered something in his ear. Minuel nodded, surprised. “More aggro again, by the looks of things,” he tutted. “I remember when they’d not long been at Bellevue, before you were born. Someone had been seen hanging around after dark with a gun. That’s what happened to their first dog. Pwytch!” He mimed the shot. His own gun barrel stuck against his forehead. “An Alsatian, remember?”

  She could, but only from a small, sepia photograph she’d found by accident in the kitchen table drawer. A dog the size of a small pony. Papa had sometimes mentioned him, but never how he’d died. She felt sick. Yet another cover-up revealed by a stranger…

  “François Rougier’s just done a bunk,” she said, suddenly detached from it all. “But why I’m here is I believe a green Nissan X-Trail 4X4 with a new bull bar, was seen near this café yesterday afternoon.” She looked at the woman now drying the glasses. “If you saw it, Madame, can you please call the local gendarmerie immediately. You probably already know about the hunt for Lucius Seghers. A possible serial killer.”

  “Done,” she said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “A district nurse was passing by and told me to do the same. Five o’clock it was. But not heard nothing since.”

  “Any name?” Delphine asked.

  A shrug. “I was busy with lunches at the time.”

  “I heard it,” volunteered the most elderly drinker sitting in the middle. “Anne Jelinet.” He killed his dimp, finished his Cointreau and carefully lowered himself from his stool.

  “Had the Nissan’s driver called in here?”

  “For two minutes, wanting an espresso. Seemed in a hurry but very polite. More smartly dressed than any of us.”

  Don’t make me be sick…

  “What age, roughly?”

  “Now you’re asking. Bit younger than me and in much better nick.”

  She thanked him, aware of the furthest drinker, downing his Cognac and turning towards her.

  “If I was you, Mademoiselle, I’d go back home and keep your mother company. She won’t enjoy collecting you from some morgue in a body bag.” He too, having picked up his folded newspaper, vacated his stool, as if that late morning’s camaraderie had suddenly ended.

  *

  Delphine left that unsettling café, angry at that brazen stranger who’d been confident
enough to park his car so publicly and order a coffee…

  She watched the old boy turn his ancient Peugeot right at the nearby roundabout and disappear into the drizzle.

  “There was more than your dog being shot,” came Minuel’s voice from behind her, bringing with it the distinct whiff of anisette. “Talk was that Antoine Gauffroi began losing his mind after their first child – a boy – suddenly died. 1976 it was. Some folks suspected him, and of other attacks, but never said openly, so’s not to upset his wife.”

  “There must have been some evidence?”

  “None came to light. The poor kid could have been shaken. It happens. Angry with the world was Antoine, and everything in it. Your Papa told one of the priests in Beaumont-sur-Sarthe to visit, but whether he did, and Antoine confessed to anything, who knows?”

  ‘Bad blood there, I’m afraid…’

  “But he’d been hounded by the police over this same Lucius Seghers’ case. Perhaps that never went away.”

  “It didn’t. He turned a gun on himself years ago.”

  Just then, the man’s phone began to ring. His wife agitating for him to get home, and while he was busy with that, Delphine checked no-one else was around and adjusted her rear-view mirror. She was also wondering how much Patrick Gauffroi knew of those troubled, distant days, when Didier Minuel reached her car as she was about to drive off. His call obviously ended.

  “By the way,” he added. “I’ve always been interested in names. Even as a kid. And thinking of that surname Seghers, it’s got to be Dutch.” He rested an elbow on her window ledge before continuing. “Many in France originated in Germany. Even fighting for them in the Guerre de Quatorze and the Second World War. I know because there’s a couple living in our hamlet. Nice people, the Cortlevers. Their great-grandparents came from Hamburg, but soon changed their surname. Felt they had to.”

  “That’s interesting. But Seghers’ first name Henri is French.”

  “Best of both worlds, then.”

  “Indeed.” And before her mind dwelt on it too long, added, “I’ll tell my parents I’ve seen you.”

  With that, she watched him limp away, then pushed her gear stick into first, trying to concentrate on not missing the exit road to the A20.

  *

  Reluctant to pester Labradelle’s gendarmerie with that district nurse’s name, Delphine also saved it to her memory, unable to brush a niggling association aside. A midwife somewhere had most probably delivered that baby, unless there’d been a Caesarean section in a clinic or hospital, or the mother had given birth unaided. Why hadn’t she thought of that before? That’s what she’d needed to know. And so far, so mention had been made, even by the media. Perhaps Monday’s post-mortem would solve the mystery.

  *

  The newly-finished section of the péage from Limoges took her through the kind of countryside she imagined was similar to most of southern England. Humpy, hedged fields and woodland, mostly bare, with occasional clusters of brown Limousin cattle clustered in open sheds, feeding from their troughs. However, Martin, the orphan, had described the Peak District of Derbyshire as being like ‘another world’ with its watery, limestone caverns below and gaunt, inhospitable peaks above. Not dissimilar, she guessed, from parts of the Causses she’d learnt about in school geography lessons.

  And Captain Valon had been right. According to her map, the midi-Pyrenees, was vast. An ancient land of gorges, rivers and high places, home to pre-historic dolmens, birds of prey and often little else. She switched on her not-always-reliable radio for the news, and once a rowdy chat show had ended, she crawled along on the inside lane to listen. Perhaps Martin’s or her father’s names might come up. Perhaps there’d been a sighting, but no. The bulletin was headed by more fallout from the recent Istanbul terrorist attacks and the Franco-British Summit. However, just as a sign for Uzerche came and went, a name took her by surprise.

  “Roland Seligman, Chief Executive of the Les Palmiers group of hotels, died an hour ago in a hospital near Tours, with his wife by his side. He’d been rushed there yesterday afternoon following an overdose of sleeping pills. There is no suspicion of foul play. Apparently, the family dog had raised the alarm. His deputy, Lance Perrotto will take over his duties until the Board of Directors and shareholders elect a replacement. Monsieur Perrotto will continue liaising with the authorities over the ill-fated hotel near Le Mans.”

  My God…

  So, could Seligman’s fear of bad publicity led to such a final step? Delphine had never forgotten the panic in his eyes on Monday morning, like a swimmer who’s lost sight of land. She picked up speed thinking the sooner chief suspect Lucius Seghers was reeled in, the better.

  *

  She stopped again to fill up at a large service station just beyond Brive, still dwelling on the tragic fallout from what she’d discovered in room 56. A world away from the happily noisy Boutique where she finally decided to buy a half-price dark green anorak with a warm lining and a hood. Also, a pair of black jeans and fur-lined boots reduced to clear for spring stock. A spring that just then, seemed a lifetime away. She changed in the wc. and emerged feeling far more the walker to blend with rugged surroundings than her mother’s stylish coat and her own boots with their kitten heels. After a swift coffee, she stood beneath the shelter of the boutique’s outer door and checked the parking area for any green 4X4. Not a sign, and then because Captain Valon hadn’t yet got back to her, she punched in Lieutenant Confrère’s personal number.

  32.

  11.45 hrs.

  “Anne Jelinet’s already been in touch with the Bellac gendarmerie,” Lise Confrère replied after what seemed like an eternity, sounding somewhat harassed. “A useful contact, certainly, but not keen to become any more involved.”

  “I got the impression she was very much involved,” countered Delphine. “Did she offer any thoughts on how that baby might have been delivered? How old he actually was?”

  Pause.

  “No.”

  Then, having exchanged reactions to Roland Seligman’s unexpected death, and the strains of being an ambitious CEO, the Lieutenant added, “we’ve been checking out Alain Salerne in Fresnes. Seems he’s been dealing in crack, stolen mobiles and more besides.”

  “I’m listening.” But Delphine then became aware of a troupe of trendily-dressed young women about her age, passing close by her into the service station’s Boutique. All seemed well-heeled. Their company cars parked nearby, new and expensive, and she couldn’t help feeling envious because, judging by their impressive-looking name tags, they were obviously en route to a classy venue somewhere, while she was about to venture into a hazardous no-man’s land.

  “He’s the one who’s been feeding the media, using a pseudonym. Outgoing calls have been traced to his prison cell. My guess is, he’s jealous of his brother. Maybe hoping the hotel will soon go bust and lose him his job. So far, he’s admitted nothing.”

  “Charming.”

  So, Jean-Marie Longeau’s not the only busy bee…

  Delphine almost added she was glad not to have had siblings, but two important questions were ready. “That male hair found under the pillow in room 56,” she reminded her. “Has it been matched up yet?”

  Pause.

  “Not so far. Could take a while.”

  “And sous-lieutenant Noah Baudart? The cop who made sure me and my mother were trapped in that field…”

  The air between them seemed to freeze.

  “Sorry, Delphine, I really must go. And you know what I’m going to say…”

  “I do.”

  ‘Be careful… ‘

  “Oh, and by the way, good news. added the Lieutenant unexpectedly. “Your Papa’s just called home. Madame Rougier let us know half an hour ago. He’s somewhere near Montaubon…”

  Montaubon?

  Baccalauréate Art and Geography came surging back. That city wasn’t only Ingres’ birthplace, but lay at the southern end of the Causses in the Midi-Pyrenees…

  Any
relief was tinged by the strangeness of the conversation. Lise Confrère had almost casually informed her about her father but shied away from answering vital questions relating to the investigation. Why? Was that yet another way of keeping her out of the loop? If so, it only made her more determined.

  “By the way, are you still near Bellac?” Came out of the blue.

  Damn. Be quick…

  “No. Tours.” Her mother could back that up if necessary.

  Call ended, leaving Delphine more than pissed off. Meanwhile, those smart young women were leaving, smoothing down their tight skirts after visiting the toilettes. They smelt of perfume and recent handwash. She felt tears begin to prick her eyes and blinked them away. Wasn’t her elderly 2CV too near their vehicles, a symbol of her failure in life? But this sudden depression faded when she realised what was at stake. What had been allowed to happen. And also, out there somewhere, her complicated father was at least alive.

  *

  Despite successive depletions from her bank account, Delphine stayed on the Péage. Not only was it quicker but also, she didn’t have to stress about overtaking ever more ginormous juggernauts and being too slow whenever she tried. She also knew there were regular SOS telephones on the bandes d’urgences, should she need one, because calls from mobiles were sometimes treated as hoaxes.

  When exit 54 to Figeac came up, she took a chance, knowing this would at least take her into the heart of the Causses de Quercy. The D840 led her towards that town, but her map had shown the Causses extended from the west of it, so perhaps she should begin her search there. Maréval would do just fine, especially as the drizzle hadn’t become anything worse, in fact, was easing.

  She pulled into a small commercial centre on its outskirts, awash with advertisements for the town’s tourist attractions, and parked by an almost-deserted Suzuki dealership. She then asked a young, grey-suited guy in Reception, whose ID badge with the name JULES CHARBON, if he’d heard of anywhere called ‘Les Cigales’ in the Causses de Quercy. “It could either be the name of a property or a hamlet,” she added, “because there’s nothing of that name on my map.”