There are a lot of photographs on the wall. Somewhat heartbreakingly, given that he clearly didn’t have much contact with them, they seem to be mainly of kids who I assume must be his grandchildren. Everything is neat, tidy and well-kept. I feel a pang of grief for this man I didn’t know very well, who helped me a lot and whom I could perhaps have made more time for. Somehow, coming to his house has made me see how lonely he must have been.
His three sons and the woman who I guess must be his ex-wife have prepared an extraordinary amount of sandwiches and are handing them round, along with glasses of wine. It’s not long before the noise level and the heat start to rise, and people drift out on to the pedestrianized square outside to escape the small, stuffy rooms.
After an hour or so I figure I should be getting back to the boys but remember I had promised myself I would go and speak to the sons before I left. With this in mind, I head outside into the cobbled street. The freshness of the air is a huge relief. I can see the son who made the speech talking to Tiggy, and head over to them.
‘Aura!’ she says. ‘Great timing. I was just telling Andrew here about you. How you were Frank’s latest … protégée? Not sure that’s quite the right word. I mean that he’d been helping you out since you arrived.’
‘Andrew, lovely to meet you,’ I say, sticking out my hand, which he takes with a soft smile. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss. We’re all terribly shocked by what happened – as you said at the crematorium, it’s inconceivable that anyone would want to hurt Frank. Have the police got any idea …’
He shakes his head and bites his lip. I wonder if he’s going to cry. I hope not, I don’t think I can bear it.
‘Frank was incredibly kind to me,’ I gush to fill the silence. ‘We’ve only recently arrived, and he was so obliging with helping me to set things up and find my way around. I don’t know what I’d have done without him.’
‘Did you come out alone, or do you have a family?’ he asks. I get the feeling he’s keen to steer the subject away from his father. I guess it’s all too raw, or he feels guilty about never reconciling after their falling out.
‘I came to France with my husband – he’s inside somewhere – and two small sons, Sorrel and Bay.’
He looks at me and frowns. ‘Sorrel, you say?’
‘Yes. I know it’s quite an unusual name but as soon as he was born it just seemed to fit.’ I get so bored of having to justify their names. Not everyone wants to call their kids Oliver or James, do they?
‘No, it’s not that. It’s a great name. It’s just … something weird we found on Dad’s phone.’
I feel a lurch of nausea. Oh God. That time when he babysat. Sorrel’s nightmares. Did Frank … did he …
‘What kind of thing?’ I squeak. ‘Pictures?’
His face drops. ‘Oh gosh, no, sorry, nothing like that.’ He touches my arm. ‘No, absolutely not. Dad had his faults but there’s no way he’d ever hurt a child. He loves kids. Loved. Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. Please don’t worry.’
I let out a long breath that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. ‘Thank Christ for that,’ I say. ‘So what was it you found on his phone?’
‘You said your son was Sorrel – is your email something like SorrelsMummy?’
‘Yes,’ I say, blushing. It seemed cute when I set it up as a second email for some of the mummy forums but over time it’s slowly become my main email and it’s started to feel a bit embarrassing to define myself by my child.
‘It’s an email account on his phone but we couldn’t work out whose, until now.’
I frown. ‘Why would he have my account on his phone?’ I am suddenly very aware of Seb filming over my shoulder. Why does he always manage to appear at the worst possible time?
‘Didn’t you say he helped you with your internet set up?’ Tiggy asks. ‘Could he have had it for that?’
‘Yes!’ I cry, relieved. ‘That will have been it. I probably gave it to him at some point. I’m never as careful with my passwords and the like as I should be. I think it was something to do with that Astrid gadget, he needed it for that.’
‘Rather you than me,’ Tiggy says. ‘I hate those things. Harvest your data. Frank loved them, though. He was always trying to persuade me to get one, but I said there was no way I was having one in my house.’
There is a pause. ‘Well, I’m glad we sorted that out,’ Andrew says.
‘What are your plans now?’ Tiggy asks. ‘Are you staying around for a while or heading straight back to the UK?’
‘The other three are heading back tomorrow. I’m the most flexible because I’m freelance, so I’m staying on for a week or so to sort out the house, get it on the market and take care of all the various formalities. I haven’t booked a flight back yet as I’m not sure how long it will all take.’
Tiggy reaches into her bag and pulls out a card which she hands to him. ‘Don’t hesitate to call if you need a hand with anything. Frank was so helpful to me over the years and I’m more than happy to repay the favour. If you’re not familiar with the French way of doing things, you may need some help finding your way around the paperwork, apart from anything else.’
He takes the card and I see his eyes fill with tears. ‘Thank you,’ he says hoarsely. ‘That’s so kind. I may well take you up on that.’
‘I’m happy to help too,’ I add, ‘though I barely know my way around myself yet! I don’t have a card but – actually – tell you what – why don’t you come for dinner while you’re here? I can’t help with anything practical, but at least I can feed you and offer some company. Here’ – I hand over my phone – ‘put your number in and I’ll give you a call. If you’d like to, of course,’ I add hastily.
He taps his number into my phone and hands it back. ‘Thank you. I would like that very much. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I should probably circulate.’
As Andrew leaves, I notice Seb switch off his camera. ‘You know, if Frank had your email account details on his phone, he could have operated your Astrid?’ he says.
‘What?’ I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine, not enough food and my head is already slightly fuzzy. ‘Why would he want to do that?’
He shrugs. ‘No idea. But you know those times when it sounded like someone dropped in to it? Or when that music went off in the middle of the night? That could have been him.’
‘He could do that remotely? I mean without even being in the house?’
‘Yup.’
I shake my head. ‘No. I don’t think so.’ I still think Seb set the music off himself to give them something else to film. ‘It doesn’t make sense,’ I continue. ‘I don’t see why he’d want to do that. He just had my account on his phone because he helped set up the internet and the Astrid thing for us – I remember now,’ I lie.
I don’t remember giving him my account details. But that must be it, surely?
64
November, Mozène
Aura
Back at home the boys have had a great afternoon with Helen making a fort in their bedroom by stringing old sheets up all over the place. Tiggy and Bertie come in for a cup of tea on their way home.
‘Well, that was a strange day,’ Tiggy says as we sit quietly at the table. Helen has taken the boys outside. ‘I can’t believe we just buried Frank. He was such a part of the furniture here. Hard to believe he’s gone.’
‘And terrible that they still don’t know who killed him,’ I say, shuddering. ‘Do they really think it was someone at the party? Doesn’t everyone know everyone else here? Why would anyone do a thing like that?’
The wine from earlier is wearing off and I feel a pang of alarm. It had never occurred to me until now that I was bringing my precious boys into a community where we don’t know a single soul. Who anyone is. Where they’ve come from. What they’re like. There could be hardened criminals here and I wouldn’t have the slightest idea. Or paedophiles. Do they have a sex offenders register in France?
‘They’ve no idea
why anyone would kill Frank, as far as I know,’ Tiggy says, interrupting my catastrophizing. ‘I suppose it could have been a random person who wandered into the party. But it seems unlikely, given the location, doesn’t it? Why would they?’
‘Failed robbery?’ I suggest helplessly. ‘Isn’t that what the police usually put it down to when there’s no clear motive? Perhaps they were after his wallet?’ I’d rather tell myself it was a stranger who did this than someone the boys or I might be mixing with.
‘Poor sod,’ Bertie booms. ‘No one deserves an end like that. But the police are looking into it and life must go on. Let’s talk about something else – take our minds off things. Any plans for the weekend?’
‘The usual – sorting, demolishing, painting, moving broken crap about,’ Nick replies with an air of resignation.
Bertie waves his hand as if swatting a fly. ‘That can all wait. Why don’t you join me on la chasse – the hunt? Great way of getting some fresh air and meeting a few of the locals.’
‘Oh no we don’t agree with—’ I start, but Bertie interrupts me before I can finish my sentence.
‘Don’t give me that bleeding heart rubbish!’ he barks. ‘You’re in rural France now! Hunting here isn’t just sport – it’s a necessity. It keeps the boar population down – if the numbers aren’t kept under control the buggers kill sheep and local farmers lose their livelihood, as well as the beasts writing off cars by running out in front of them. Everything that is killed during the hunt is eaten – and this being France, I mean literally everything: bollocks, brains, innards, the lot – nothing goes to waste. It’s very hard to have an ethical objection to it if you actually know what you’re talking about.’
‘But …’ I start, and then realize I don’t know what to say. I feel myself go red. I’m not going to argue as there is clearly no point, but really, could he be any more patronizing? Poor Tiggy. No wonder she gets her kicks with Celia whenever she gets the chance.
‘So what do you think, Nick?’ Bertie persists. ‘Fancy it?’
‘Yep, sounds great,’ Nick says, to my absolute horror. ‘It’d be good to meet some of the real locals – we don’t want to end up living in an expat bubble, do we, Aura?’ he adds, slyly parroting something I’d said repeatedly before we came out to France.
For fuck’s sake. He doesn’t have to kill innocent animals to meet locals, does he? But I’m not going to start a row, especially not now with everyone here and Seb filming.
‘You’re your own man, I can’t make your decisions for you,’ I say tightly. An embarrassed silence falls over the table.
Bertie pushes back his chair, stands up and claps his hand on Nick’s shoulder. ‘Great! That’s settled then. I’ll bring all the fluorescent gear you need to wear, and I’ll see you outside the boulangerie at 6 a.m. on Sunday.’
‘Six?’ Nick says incredulously.
‘Yup. Start early, a few pastis, all over by twelve, then time for a few more drinks and lunch. Great fun. You’ll love it!’ Bertie looks at his watch. ‘Right, we should be on our way now and leave you good people to it, but I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’
‘Any chance I could come?’ Seb asks. ‘I used to shoot at uni and I’ve got a licence – a UK one, but I’m pretty sure it’s valid here. Would love another go. It would be amazing if they’d let us film too – nice picture of local life and all that?’
‘Of course!’ Bertie cries. ‘The more the merrier. I’m sure they’ll be fine with the filming too. Send me a copy of your paperwork and I’ll get the stuff sorted at my end.’
I keep my face in a fixed smile as we do the bise and say our goodbyes, but as soon as they are out of the door, I turn to face my husband. I don’t even care that Seb is still there.
‘What the fuck, Nick?’ I shout. ‘Hunting? Really? You know how I feel about that!’
He looks at me coldly. ‘You heard what he said – it’s nothing like the fox hunts in the UK. If you think about it, it’s actually right up your street. Free-range meat, ethically sourced from animals living happy lives in their natural environment. And aside from anything else, you’re entitled to feel how you like about it, but so am I. And I am keen to go along, meet some new people who aren’t expats and get out of this fucking house for something other than going to a DIY shop. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to get on with stripping wallpaper. Again.’
65
November, Mozène
Aura
I invite Andrew for dinner the next day. He seems like a nice guy and I feel sorry for him, stuck in that house all on his own, knowing no one and probably dealing with the guilt of having fallen out with his father before he died. I also invite Tiggy to make up the numbers – Bertie has gone back to the UK until the weekend.
Andrew arrives with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers, and I serve the local crémant with crème de cassis as an aperitif – it’s like Kir Royale except less than half the price. Tiggy has brought free-range eggs and some flowers from her garden. I gave Helen most of the day off today and asked her instead to take charge of the boys if they wake up this evening – which they no doubt will. Even though I’m keeping things pretty informal tonight, this is the first kind-of dinner party I’ve hosted since we arrived in France and I don’t want to be running up and down the stairs all evening tending to the boys’ needs. They know Helen well now – they won’t mind her babysitting.
‘So, how are things going over at Frank’s house?’ I ask, as we start with home-made butternut squash velouté with a swirl of crème fraiche and black pepper. I am quite proud of it – it looks like something I’d be happy to be served in a restaurant.
Andrew sighs. ‘OK-ish. Slowly. It’s a small house and Dad kept things pretty tidy, but there’s still loads of stuff to sort out. Deciding what needs to be kept, what needs to be junked, what should go to the charity shop, as well as getting his house and the rental ones put on the market, and dealing with the notaire about probate and all that. It’s all taking ages.’
I wonder who Frank has left everything to, given that the family had fallen out, but obviously I don’t ask.
‘It would be easier if I’d known more about him, I think. There are some things which are … a little strange – I don’t really understand why he has them, and so I don’t know what I should do with them.’
‘Like what?’ I ask, as I clear away the plates and bring the slow-cooked shoulder of lamb with garlic and rosemary to the table, with a warmed bowl of sweet potato mash and some buttered winter greens from the market. Even if I say so myself, dinner looks fantastic.
‘Well, there’s a box of things which look like keepsakes, perhaps from women he’s had relationships with since he and Mum split up, but I don’t know who they belonged to or what they represent. I feel bad throwing them away, but also don’t know what to do with them. For example, there are a number of women’s scarves, but some more personal items – little boxes and trinkets, books, even a couple of, um, I don’t know if I should say this, but even a couple of pairs of knickers.’
I see Nick stifle a chuckle.
‘So I feel weird going through this stuff,’ he continues, ‘like I’m prying, but at the same time, someone has to do it.’ He turns to Tiggy. ‘You’ve been here some time, haven’t you, Tiggy? Do you know of any women he’s been involved with? I feel that whoever these things belonged to, perhaps I should offer them back?’
Tiggy shakes her head. ‘No. To my knowledge he hasn’t been in a relationship here at all, or at least not one he’s let anyone know about. He has a lot of female friends – had, sorry – he always seemed more drawn to women than to men. I’d be happy to come over and help you though, as I said before. Maybe as I’m not … family it might feel less intrusive? Going through his things?’
Andrew visibly relaxes. ‘That would be a huge help, thank you,’ he says.
‘Not a problem,’ Tiggy replies. ‘Shall I come over tomorrow afternoon?’
‘I’ll help too if yo
u like,’ I say. ‘I could do with getting out of the house. And what about the investigation? Have you heard from the police?’
He sighs. ‘Yes, they’ve been round to see me a few times. And if what I hear on the grapevine is true, Thea is not at all happy about them swarming around her chateau. All they seem to know so far is that he was stabbed in the back, probably going out to use the loos at the front of the chateau while the fireworks were on. The knife was a brand-new standard-issue one that could have been bought anywhere. No prints on it, so the killer must have worn gloves. And with so many people at the house that night, there’s little hope of anything useful to be found DNA-wise. They’re questioning everyone who was at the party, but so far, no one has seen anything relevant. I imagine you’ll hear from them eventually too.’
I’m not sure I want to be questioned by the police, but I guess I don’t get a say in it. I don’t want to be treated like a criminal and it might be unsettling for the boys. And my French isn’t very good either – what if I say something I don’t actually mean and it makes me look guilty? Or Nick does?
I hope they don’t come here.
That night the music goes off again. The boys scream, Nick runs downstairs and unplugs the Astrid and Seb, as before, appears on the landing, showing off his musical knowledge uninvited like the last time.
‘O Fortuna,’ he announces smugly as he points the camera at me, no doubt revelling in my dishevelled look. ‘A great piece of music, if a little over-played these days. You might recognize it from The X Factor.’
‘I don’t watch the bloody X Factor!’ I snap. ‘Get out of my way.’ This time, despite the dramatic nature of the music, it is annoying rather than scary. I’m almost sure Seb is behind this. I now totally see why the production company insist the camera crew stay with us in the house while they are filming; eventually, that way, they are bound to see us at our worst.
The Chateau Page 20