A Darkening Stain (34 page)

‘He wants that tattoo off your back. The one of the joker.'

Marnier roared.

‘And you?' he said to Bagado. ‘What's your problem?'

‘Tell the girl to come up here.'

Carole joined us. Bagado clicked the torch on to their faces.

‘Which of you killed the girl we found in the lagoon?'

Carole looked up into her head.

‘She did,' said Marnier, and she shot a look at him that should have left him pinned and wriggling on the deck.

‘You can go,' said Bagado, ‘but she stays with us.'

The French that came out of Carole was not the sort you'd pick up at the Alliance Française, it was the sort you found under whores' shoes on the Pigalle. Marnier smacked her brutally across the face with the back of his hand and she shut up. He pounded her with some thick dialect that could have come from Mount Igman and then lapsed back into French again, telling her she shouldn't have killed the fucking girl. She shrieked at him, a sound so terrible and piercing that he had to hit her again harder with a half-closed fist that dropped her to the floor. She curled up, foetal, and Marnier looked down at her with nothing in his face.

He opened the throttle and we moved off. He turned the searchlight on as the nose of the boat came out of the water.

Twenty minutes later we coasted up to a broken-down jetty which had a house at the end of it which the locals had probably
used for drying or smoking fish. Marnier nudged Carole with his feet, pulled her up.

‘She'll take you down there and unlock the door,' he said.

Bagado told Marnier to point the light down the jetty and asked him if it would work on batteries alone, then didn't wait for an answer and tore the keys out. The light stayed on. He gave me Daniel's revolver and got out of the boat with Carole in front of him while I tied up to the jetty. Carole set off down the warped wooden planking. Bagado let her get ahead. She reached the door of the house which was padlocked. She asked if she could get the keys. Bagado told her to move slowly.

He adjusted the gun in his hand. Carole's hand went up under the eaves of the house at the right-hand corner of the door frame. Bagado moved forward a pace, shrugged his shoulders in his mac. Carole's hand came back out from under the eaves, but quick, and she span on her heel, her hand coming up in front of her, her body in a crouch, something black and solid in her fingers. Bagado was the perfect silhouette, back lit by the searchlight from the boat. His gun arm was still down by his side when he saw her turning and realized his mistake. He was too square on but he got his gun up and the two guns cracked together in the cone of light.

The force of the bullet from the Browning slammed Carole backwards against the door frame and a noise came out of her throat like the sound of fresh offal hitting a butcher's tiled floor. The door jamb didn't give and seemed to kick her forward so she fell on her face. Bagado twisted and fell. The gun flew out of his hand and into the water. He was still close to the boat and I saw his eyes wide with surprise and the kind of pain El Greco could find in his saints. His mouth was open but no sound came out. He hit the jetty hard, his face bouncing on the wood, one hand reaching out to grab a rung of the nothing night. I wheeled round on Marnier and cracked him on the side of the head with the revolver and he dropped to the deck. Then I was out of the boat and on the jetty and over Bagado who was not moving, one
hand down by his side, the other still stretched out. I was panting, sobbing, sweat-drenched as I rolled him. His eyes were closed but his tongue was moving over his lips as if he was desperate to wet them. I reached for the lapels of his mac, felt the stab of horror and a strange compression of thought. Everything I loved about this man came to me then and a black chasm opened up should I lose him, should he be lost to these worthless bloody people. I wrenched open the mac and ran my hands over his chest, his abdomen, his flanks. Clean.

‘My shoulder,' he said.

I could have kissed him.

I eased the mac off his shoulder. There was a black hole through the muscle and out the other side.

‘Your mac's ruined,' I said. ‘The bullet's gone clean through.'

‘Stupid,' he said, screwing his face, ‘bloody stupid. I knew it was wrong. I was thinking about José-Marie. Took my eye off her.'

I got him up on his feet. His legs had gone and I humped him to the boat and set Sophia to work with the iodine and first-aid kit. Marnier was coming to on the floor. I picked up a baling bucket and sluiced him with lagoon water. Blood trickled over his missing ear. His eyes banged open and he sunk his teeth back into life and held on with jackal jaws. I knelt over him.

‘Are you with me?'

‘I'm with you.'

‘If you'd killed him, Jean-Luc...'

‘Yeah?' he jeered.

‘That would have been enough.'

‘Even you could see he wasn't going to let me go. It was in his face. He's not the forgiving type. I had to get that gun out of his hand.'

‘Where's the girl?'

‘Look ... you can have the tattoo. Cut the damn thing off my back. It's no bigger than a cigarette pack. I can handle it. But I can't go to prison. Not here.'

‘We'll talk about that ... where's the girl?'

‘Back at my house, the one on the lagoon.'

I cast off, took the keys out of Bagado's mac, stuck them in the ignition and hauled Marnier to his feet.

‘Now drive.'

Marnier looked back at the body lying face down in front of the house. The light swung slowly away from it and pointed out over the lagoon.

‘Is she dead?' he asked.

‘I'm surprised you care.'

He answered by opening the throttle and we pulled away.

Within an hour the glow of Cotonou appeared and we came off Lac Nokoué and into the Lagune. Marnier pointed the nose of the boat towards the house, I lifted the outboards and we coasted in up to the gate to the yard at the back of Marnier's house.

I left Sophia and Bagado in the boat, took the hold-all and pointed Marnier up to the house with the revolver. I was quaking inside again and the heat coming off me was not the sort you get from a chill. I was sweating crazily and my vision spasmed.

We walked up to the balcony and into the house. Marnier took me through to the bedroom where José-Marie was cuffed to the bed, her mouth taped, sleeping. I stripped the tape off, uncuffed her and she balled up in the middle of the bed.

‘What are they drugged with?'

‘I don't know. Carole bought the stuff. Some kind of barbiturate. They'll come out of it. Ten to twelve hours.'

I backed him out of the room.

‘You don't look too good,' he said.

‘You knew you'd be all right with me, didn't you?'

‘I knew you wouldn't shoot me. I thought you were more likely to let me run. We've been through things ... it joins you.'

‘Take your shirt off, lie face down on the table.'

I went into the bathroom and found towels and flannels. Marnier stripped and got on the table. The harlequin tattoo was
clear of the weals left by Gio's machete job. It was a rough piece of work, like Franconelli said—prison artisan, nail and ink. The harlequin's face, rather than a trickster's smile, sported a sinister leer, the eyes slit, the mouth a blue-green upward gash in a round face, the tattooist not up to the delicate task of facial features. The diamond-coloured suit was what made it a harlequin and the colours, green, blue, red and flesh, gave it the right effect. Like Marnier had said, it was the size of a pack of cigarettes and was positioned just below the left scapula.

‘Where's the whisky?'

‘There's a half case in the cabinet.'

I took a full bottle from the case and a half-empty one off the sideboard. I took a few pulls and gave Marnier the rest. I soaked a flannel with whisky and rubbed down the harlequin then rolled it into a cigar and handed it to him.

‘You might want to bite on that,' I said.

I took the scalpels out and the bottle of formaldehyde and laid them on the table.

‘You came prepared,' said Marnier.

‘You wouldn't want me to do this with a fish filleter.'

I washed my hands in the kitchen, wrapped a towel around my head to keep the sweat out of my eyes and put on Marnier's ridiculous lingeried girly apron. I caught sight of myself in a mirror in the living room and it nearly stopped me from going through with this madness. How could it have come to this?

I chose a pointed blade and connected it to the scalpel handle. I recleaned the harlequin with more whisky and a flannel which I left in the small of Marnier's back. I poured a few fingers into a glass and took a gulp. I looked down at Marnier.

‘This woman you and Franconelli were arguing about...'

‘How do you know it was about a woman?'

‘Carole told me.'

‘She liked you, you know.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘Not in the end, but before...'

‘She seemed to have one thing on her mind and I wasn't interested in it.'

‘She's French. That's what she thinks men want. She made a mistake with you. You're English. Who knows what you want? Takeaway curry, probably.'

‘Tell me about this woman,' I said, axeing through it.

‘You know her.'

‘I do?'

‘Gale Strudwick. Remember your old friend Gale?'

‘That's how you knew I worked in shipping.'

‘C'est ça.'

‘And what happened?'

‘She was another one like Carole.'

‘She liked bad guys?'

‘They gave her a kick. Take a look at her husbands. They went from bad to worse.'

‘The one before Graydon was a banker.'

‘A banker who's doing time.'

‘Graydon used to be a lawyer,' I said. ‘Did she like turning these guys?'

‘She thought it improved their performance.'

‘Then she met the real thing. You and Franconelli.'

‘We were both fucking her after her husband died.'

‘I didn't think Franconelli was her type and vice versa.'

‘As a matter of fact, she and Franconelli had been fucking for over a year,' he said, and I had a flash of Gale dancing in front of Franconelli at a party and trying to get him to join her—‘Come on, Roberto,' she'd said, and there was some intimacy in that, in the way she'd said it.

‘And you?' I asked. ‘How long had you been sleeping with her?'

‘Since a few weeks after Graydon went down. His death shook her up. She resented Franconelli pretty badly for letting him die like that. Not letting him have his drugs ... Graydon's system collapsed ... it wasn't a nice way to go.'

‘Which is why she took up with you, and Franconelli had her killed.'

‘It didn't quite happen like that.'

‘I missed out on Gio's machete fest.'

‘Yes, Gale made a bad mistake. You know she liked her drink. She was hitting it hard after Graydon died and she went a bit crazy. She had the knife out for Roberto and one day she stuck it in.'

‘And she used you to do it?'

‘Franconelli and I are the same kind of people.'

‘Not macho, by any chance?'

‘First of all she told him about me, which was bad enough, and then she laid it on. Said I was better in bed, had a bigger dick ... all those things you shouldn't say to a guy like Franconelli.'

‘So he sent Gio out to punish you.'

‘And to punish her,' he said. ‘I would not be acceptable in this condition.'

‘So why did he kill her if he'd already punished her?'

‘He didn't kill her,' said Marnier. ‘I did.'

Silence—silence of the postmortem-fridge-drawer variety.

‘And why did you do a thing like that?' I said.

‘She ruined my life because she liked to get drunk and talk too much.'

‘She must have had a shock when you turned up.'

‘Franconelli didn't tell her what he'd had done to me. He didn't want to cut himself off from the best fucking he'd ever had in his life. She thought I'd moved on. I tell you, if she hadn't been drunk the day I came back just the sight of me would have killed her. As it was I talked her through a few things. She wept, Bruce, like you've never seen a woman like that weep. Tears, snot, her soul, everything. Not because of me ... but because she knew why I'd come back. I was nice. I drowned her. I could have done a lot worse. The only thing I'm not proud of, the only thing I regret was afterwards—I realized I'd killed her to get
back at Franconelli. I didn't like that. I should have been braver ... but that fucking guy never comes out of his house. Yes, I regret that a lot.'

‘There must be a lot of stuff you regret in your life, Jean-Luc,' I said, and I stuck the scalpel blade into his back and made four fast cuts in a diamond shape around the tattoo. Marnier gasped and jammed the flannel between his teeth. He waggled his feet as if he was swimming.

I removed the pointed blade and replaced it with the round-edged one. I wiped the four cuts I'd made with the whisky-soaked flannel and concentrated on one of the corners. I parted the cut with a thumb and forefinger and slid the blade into the gap and eased it horizontally under the epidermis, taking no more than a millimetre off the top. I sliced from one corner of the diamond to the other, creating a flap of skin about a centimetre wide. I swabbed again with whisky. Marnier bit hard and straightened his legs.

‘Keep still or I'll cut you deeper.'

The air hissed into his mouth around the flannel bit. I'd forgotten he couldn't breathe through his destroyed nose. I held the flap of skin back with my thumb and worked the blade underneath another centimetre of skin and slid the blade along the width of the tattoo once more. It was like skinning a tough piece of raw fish, except with the scalpel blades it was a lot easier. It took about fifteen minutes. In the end Marnier had a shape like a seamstress's dart on his back. I asked him if he wanted iodine on it and he spat the flannel out and screamed no.