After the Crash (37 page)

Marc had listened to this song hundreds of times. When he
was alone. When he was filled with doubts. Never with Lylie –
she couldn’t stand it. Once, when she was eight years old, Lylie
had smashed a radio at a friend’s house, just because this song was
playing.

Listen to the voice of the wind
That blows, blows under the door
Listen, we’re going to change the bed, change our love
Change our lives, change the day . . .

Oh, dragonfly,
Your wings are so fragile,
As for me, my body is broken . . .

The road continued to speed past, crossing through sad villages
where – in a vain attempt to convince the government to build a
bypass – signs displayed the number of deaths that had occurred
there and the number of heavy goods vehicles passing each day.
Twenty minutes later, they were approaching Compiègne. The
volume of traffic began to increase.

As they exited Compiègne, Marc turned to Malvina. ‘We’ll stop
at the next town, if we see a bakery open.’
Malvina looked behind her, towards the back of the van. ‘Oh, I
thought you’d let me drive while you whipped us up some crêpes
and waffles, just like your grandparents used to . . .’
Marc did not reply. There was no point: he’d made his decision.
After all, Malvina had brought the subject up herself, in a way.
They drove into the small village of Catenoy and Marc stopped
in a large car park. All the shops were closed, and so was the restaurant proudly displaying its 49 francs menu for truck drivers. He
checked that the Mauser was still in his pocket, took the car keys,
and got out of the van. The car park was bordered by a few birch
trees, their leaves blackened by the incessant diesel fumes. After
relieving himself behind a tree, Marc walked back to the van.
Malvina had not moved. Marc went to the passenger door and
opened it. He took the five pages he had torn from the notebook
from his back pocket, and handed them to Malvina.
‘Read this,’ he said. ‘It’s from Grand-Duc’s notebook. I think you
might find it interesting.’

Mathilde de Carville brought the lit match close to the jet of gas.
A circle of blue flames lapped around the edges of the pan of water.
She turned around and looked one last time at the copy of the
Est
Républicain
from 23 December, 1980. Then she tore off the front
page, scrunched it up into a ball and set fire to it. She did not let go
of it, dropping it into the sink, until the flames had blackened her
fingernails.

She had found the envelope containing the newspaper in the
entrance hall yesterday afternoon, and had read it immediately. It
had not taken her more than a few seconds to understand.

So, Grand-Duc had not been bluffing. He was right: the truth
jumped out at you the moment you looked at that newspaper . . .
as long as you looked at it eighteen years later.

How ironic!
They had been barking up the wrong tree from the very beginning.
Worse than that: her husband had been guilty of the most contemptible crimes. He had killed. For nothing. And she was hardly
any less guilty: she had looked the other way as he did those things.
For Lyse-Rose. They had hurt innocent people. The truth would
come out, eventually. She did not have the courage to face the
judgement of men. As for the judgement of God . . .

Mathilde de Carville put her finger in the water. It was lukewarm.
Linda was upstairs, in the spare bedroom. She was asleep. She had
fainted in the hallway, after discovering Léonce’s corpse. Mathilde
had given her a tranquillizer, and then a sleeping pill. She had laid
Linda out on the bed and called the woman’s husband to let him
know that Linda would be sleeping at the Roseraie that night. It
happened sometimes, when Léonce was unwell. The husband did
not ask any questions. Mathilde paid generous wages.

Mathilde opened a cupboard and took out a glass bottle wrapped
in newspaper. When Linda woke up, the first thing she would do
was run to the police. Mathilde had no intention of stopping her.
What else could she do? She was hardly going to murder the poor
girl. Perhaps it would have been better to have waited a few hours
yesterday, until Linda had gone home. She would have been alone
with Léonce then, as she was every evening. It would have been
much simpler. But she had not been able to wait – not after she
read that newspaper, and understood the truth. So many times,
throughout the years, she had believed that her cause was righteous,
just. And yet, in the end, the only just act she had performed was
to cut short the sufferings of an old man. God had already rendered
his justice.

Now it was her turn to show the weight of her own remorse. She
thought of the scandal it would bring, the police in the house . . .
but what did it matter? She wouldn’t have to face it.

Mathilde’s finger touched the water again. It was nearly boiling
now. She sighed with relief. Soon, it would all be over. She switched
off the gas, poured the water into a large terracotta bowl, put the
bowl on a silver tray alongside the bottle and a small spoon, and left
the kitchen.

After climbing the staircase, Mathilde opened the first door to
her right – the door to Lyse-Rose’s bedroom. She gazed at the large
room, filled with toys and presents. Irrespective of how much they
cost, each one – bought every year, for every birthday, every Christmas – had been a message of hope. Lyse-Rose was not forgotten.
Each fragile candle flame was a symbol of the slender possibility
that she was still alive. The spark. But that flame had been extinguished yesterday afternoon – for ever.

Léonce had killed for nothing.
Mathilde put the silver tray on the bedside table. To get to the
bed, she had to move a sky-blue, lace-trimmed pram and step over
a miniature Chinese tea set. Pushing aside the large teddy bear that
was sleeping on Lyse-Rose’s bed, she lay down in its place; in this
bed where Lyse-Rose should have been sleeping all these years, and
where, now, she would never sleep. She uncorked the bottle and
poured all the yellow liquid into the bowl of hot water.

It was her favourite. Her secret. The celandine she had kept for
an important occasion.
Mathilde stirred the mixture with the silver spoon, creating a
herbal tea that she knew to be lethal.
She had learned that it was impossible to murder someone with
celandine. Even her husband had refused to drink it, because the
taste was unbearable. That was why accidents with greater celandine
were so rare – just one death, in Germany, according to what she
had read.
Mathilde placed the spoon carefully on the silver tray and
unhooked the cross from around her neck.
Even for suicide, celandine was not recommended. At least not for
people without extremely strong willpower. She smiled. Mathilde
was not the type of person to kill herself by swallowing a bottle of
tranquillizers or injecting herself with painkillers . . . An easy, comfortable suicide. To her, nothing could be more hypocritical.
Mathilde de Carville grimaced at the first sip of her concoction.
But then she drank the entire contents of the bowl, down to the
last drop.
It was disgusting, but she wasn’t going to complain.
In other ages, to atone for her sins, she would have demanded
that they scourge her until she died, or drive a stake through her
heart, or burn her alive.

Mathilde stretched out on Lyse-Rose’s bed. The bed of a dead child.
She held the cross tightly in her hand.
It would not be long now . . .

Marc walked around the car park while Malvina read the five pages
in the van. He took a packet of biscuits and a carton of orange juice
from his bag and began to eat and drink. A lorry had parked about
fifty yards away, and the driver was drinking from a thermos flask.
Coffee, probably. Marc thought about asking him for a sip.

Malvina jumped down from the van, the pages in her hand.
‘All right, I’ve read them. Happy now? I was eight years old when
your granddad died. What was the point of showing me these
pages? To warn me not to sleep in this deathtrap? Don’t worry, I
have no intention of spending the night with you.’
Marc did not reply. Maybe he was getting used to Malvina’s dark
irony. It seemed to be her only mode of communicating; she probably found it therapeutic. And maybe he did too, after all these
years of silence and taboos. Marc went back to the van, rummaged
around in his bag, and then took out the binder containing his
course work.
‘Now read this,’ he told her.
‘What, all of it?’
‘No, not all of it. Just the notes for 12 February, about Turkey.’
Malvina sighed. ‘Give me some orange juice and a few biscuits
first.’
Marc handed her the remains of his breakfast and watched her
devour it. If she was anorexic, she hid it well.
‘All right, so what is all this crap?’
She grabbed the binder, opened it at the page Marc had indicated, and pulled a face. ‘Sorry, I can’t read your scrawl. I bet they
think you’re a real dope at the university, don’t they? Especially
compared to Lylie . . .’
‘And what qualifications do you have, Malvina?’
‘The world record for the highest number of private tutors,’ Malvina replied. ‘Thirty-seven in fifteen years. The last one didn’t stay
more than two days.’
‘So you’re hardly in a position to have a go at me, are you?’
Malvina began to laugh. She dropped the empty juice carton on
the ground.
‘It’s not my fault. I’m just too special for all those teachers. I don’t
fit into any of their neat little boxes . . . Jesus Christ, I can’t make
head nor tail of your notes!’
‘Just read the dates. Or are you too special to do that?’
‘God, you’re a prick . . .’
‘Just read it!’
‘OK. “October 1923: Atatürk’s Turkey becomes a republic; 17
September, 1961: the prime minister Adnan Menderes is executed
for violating the Constitution.” What exactly is the point of this?’
‘Keep going!’
‘For God’s sake . . . “Twelfth of September, 1980: coup d’état and
return of military to power; seventh of November, 1982: national
referendum on the return to democracy . . .”’
‘Right,’ said Marc. ‘Now take another look at those pages from
Grand-Duc’s notebook. The very first lines.’
‘Fucking hell, you’re unbelievable!’ Malvina threw the pages to
the ground. ‘Let’s just get out of here. Otherwise it’ll be Christmas
before we make it to Mont Terri . . .’
Ignoring her, Marc calmly picked up the pages and began to
read: ‘ “I spent that Sunday – 7 November, 1982 – in Antalya, on the
Mediterranean coast, a place where the sun shone three hundred
days of the year. I was at the residence of a high-ranking official
from the Turkish Home Office . . .” I’ll skip the next bit. Listen to
this: “The official thought I was crazy, of course. After weeks spent
chasing him, he had finally given in and consented to see me at his
beach house one weekend when all the bigwigs of Turkish national
security would be there. Nazim was not with me, for once: Ayla had
insisted he go home. He had fallen ill, if I remember correctly . . .
This was extremely inconvenient for me, as I needed an interpreter
to explain what it was that I wanted, and it was especially difficult
as the others were there to relax in the sun with their wives and were
not remotely convinced by the urgency of my requests. Then again,
neither was I.” ’
Fiddling nervously with her ring, Malvina stared at the lorry at
the far end of the car park.
‘What now?’ she shouted, loud enough for the truck driver to
hear her. ‘Shall we open up your shitty van and start making waffles
for all these lard-arse lorry drivers?
The truck driver heard this. He looked at Malvina as if she were
some curious beast, then shrugged and turned around, no more
annoyed than he would have been by a poodle barking at his heels.
Marc stared at Malvina. Once again, the girl’s anger seemed false.
This was clearly just a pathetic attempt at a diversionary tactic.
‘I’ll spell it out for you, Malvina. The point is that the dates
clash. In his notebook, Crédule Grand-Duc says that he was with
all the bigwigs in Turkish national security, partying at the seaside
with their wives and children, on 7 November, 1982. But that was
the day of the national referendum. A vote on Turkey’s return to
democracy. The end of military rule. Don’t you think the politicians
would have had better things to do that day?’
Malvina shrugged. ‘So Grand-Duc got his dates wrong . . .
What’s the big deal?’
‘Bullshit!’ Marc shouted.
The truck driver with the flask of coffee was leaning against his
vehicle, watching the scene as if Marc and Malvina were actors in
a sitcom.
‘Do you want a hearing aid?’ Malvina yelled at the driver, who
didn’t even raise an eyebrow.
Marc continued. ‘The truth is, Malvina, that Grand-Duc wasn’t
in Turkey on 7 November, 1982. Certainly not in a villa in Antalya.
So why did he lie about it? Why use such a crappy alibi? Because he
was somewhere else, of course. But, where? Where could he have
been that weekend? Somewhere he shouldn’t have been . . . Why go
to such lengths to make clear that he was in Turkey and Nazim was
in France? Because he wanted to throw suspicion on his partner!’
‘You’re crazy,’ Malvina said. ‘You make me look completely sane.’
Marc grabbed her by the sweater. She did not fight back. She no
longer had a gun in her pocket. Not even a pebble.
‘So let’s just consider the possibility that our honest, kind friend,
Crédule-la-Bascule, who was so in love with my grandmother . . .
loyal, pure-hearted Crédule Grand-Duc . . . was actually just a mercenary bastard. A piece of shit who was asked by your grandfather
to get rid of my grandparents . . . and who agreed!’
Marc’s fingers tightened around Malvina’s sweater. In the car
park, the truck driver got back into his truck. They could hear the
static from his radio.
On the verge of tears, Marc went on: ‘He lied about this. Was
everything else a lie too? His love for our family, for my grandmother? Maybe not. Maybe those things were true. It’s a classic
scenario, after all: the murderer overcome by guilt, trying to atone
for his sins . . . And to think we invited this bastard into our home!
My grandfather’s killer. To think that my grandmother even . . .
ugh!’
Marc suddenly let go of Malvina and stalked off into the car park
to pick up the packet of biscuits and the carton of orange juice that
Malvina had dropped. He took them to the closest bin.
‘I don’t care what you say,’ he said, returning. ‘I know what
happened that day. I know who killed my grandfather. It was
Grand-Duc! As soon as you understand that, all the stuff in his
notebook is exposed for what it is – hypocritical bullshit. He was a
mercenary, he even said so . . .’
‘It was my grandfather,’ said Malvina.
Marc had never heard her speak so gently.
‘It was my grandfather,’ she repeated. ‘Him, no one else. After
his first heart attack. He was too impatient to wait for the outcome
of the investigation that my grandmother was paying for, so he got
hold of Grand-Duc shortly afterwards. He paid him a lot of money:
enough to buy a house on Butte-aux-Cailles, let’s say. It had to look
like an accident. His lawyers had told him that if the Vitrals died,
there was a good chance that Judge Weber would give the baby to
us. Grand-Duc was no choirboy; my grandfather had checked out
his past. That weekend, in November 1982, he made a quick trip
from Turkey to France. No one ever knew. The rest was pretty easy
for him.’
‘How did you find out?’
‘I was eight years old. I didn’t understand everything at the time,
but I was already spying on people. Like a naughty little mouse, I
found holes to hide in. My grandmother didn’t realise until later
either, not until Pierre Vitral was dead. You can’t even imagine what
that must have done to her conscience. Such a crime! How could
she confess that when she prayed to the Father, the Son and the
Holy Spirit? My grandfather suffered his second heart attack soon
afterwards. His plan had failed. My grandmother considered the
attack to be divine justice, and she never breathed a word about
what she knew.’
‘And what about you, Malvina? What did you think?’
After a second’s hesitation, she replied: ‘I thought my grandfather was right, of course! It could have worked: if your grandparents
had both died, then Lyse-Rose – the baby sister you had stolen from
me – would have come home to her beautiful bedroom at last. And
you would have been sent to an orphanage. It would have been
perfect! That’s what I thought.’
‘And now? What do you think about it now?’
This time there was no hesitation. ‘Same thing!’