The Critic (26 page)
III.
The road curved up around the edge of the hill, the land falling away to the left, a dramatic sweep of empty vines straddling the slope. Beyond, the vast flood plains of the Tarn shimmered away into a distant haze, the river snaking lazily through it, towns and villages in red brick dotted along its banks.
Enzo’s 2CV strained against the gradient and then picked up speed as it reached the top of the hill. Suspension rocked and rolled through the narrow streets of a tiny stone village, before the road swooped down again towards the church on its distant promontory.
A chalk-white track left the road to curl around the hillside, past the towering apse of the twelfth century Église de Verdal, depositing Enzo finally in the shade of the oaks that clustered around its ancient forecourt. He got out of the car and felt the wind whip warm in his face. The three bells in the church tower swayed in gentle acknowledgement of its rising strength. Vines dropped away on all sides, and from here the view to the south was an unbroken panorama. You could almost believe that on a clear day you might see all the way to the Mediterranean.
He found himself looking down on the cluster of buildings that was Domaine de la Croix Blanche, perhaps a kilometre away, in the valley below. He could make out the
chai
, and the
salle de dégustation
, a group of red-roofed barns, and the Marre’s house on the far side of the yard.
He turned away to look at the old church. The stained glass in tiny arched windows high up on the wall had somehow survived intact. Windows at ground level were all boarded up, wooden shutters bleached and rotten. Concrete rendering was crumbling to reveal golden stone walls beneath it. A sign on the door told
randonneurs
that the
église
was a stop on an historic walk, and that Lisle sur Tarn was ten kilometres away.
Enzo had come here to escape from people, to breathe and to think, to try to focus on the myriad
morceaux d’informations
he had accumulated in the last two weeks. To see where they fit and how they related, to visualise in his mind’s eye the picture they might create if only he could make sense of them.
But he was finding it hard to get Michelle out of his mind. The pain she felt at her perceived rejection, the lies she had told, her seemingly endless capacity for self-deception. And always that tinge of regret that he had not, in the end, slept with her, even if it would have left him with a bitter aftertaste of guilt. For a fleeting moment, he wondered what it was she had been going to tell him at Château de Salettes before he confronted her about her lies. But he knew he would never know.
He walked down to the highest edge of the vineyard, closed his eyes and let the wind fill his mouth. It tugged at his shirt and his cargos, carrying to him the distant sound of a motor car. He opened his eyes and saw it following the road up from the river towards La Croix Blanche. Even from here he could tell that it was an old vehicle, a muted grey-green. One of those old French cars that just seem to go on forever. Like the Citröen 2CV, or the Renault 4L. And he felt a sudden stab of apprehension. He ran back to his car to retrieve a pair of binoculars from the parcel shelf, and returned to his vantage point on the edge of the hill. As he brought the vehicle into focus, it pulled up in the yard at La Croix Blanche and a familiar figure stepped out.
‘Shit!’ Enzo lowered his binoculars. What the hell was Nicole doing there?
IV.
Dust rose from the
castine
, quickly dispersing on the edge of the wind, as Enzo pulled his 2CV in behind Nicole’s 4L. Several vehicles sat around the yard. A tractor stood idling in the shade of a barn with a corrugated red tin roof. He could smell the fermenting juices of this year’s harvest coming from the
chai
. But there was no sign of life. Enzo started up the path towards the house, past an old stone bread oven. Apple trees were dropping ripe red apples in the grass. As he reached steps leading up to the front door, Fabien emerged from the
cave
below, dragging a coil of yellow plastic tubing.
He stopped when he saw Enzo. ‘What the hell do
you
want?’
‘To see Nicole.’
‘Maybe she doesn’t want to see you.’
‘Well, why don’t we ask her?’ Enzo’s eyes dropped to the coil of yellow tubing, and he saw that Fabien’s right hand was heavily bandaged. Fresh white gauze wrapped around the thumb and palm. Blood had seeped through lint from the fleshy area at the base of the thumb and dried a dark brown. ‘What did you do to your hand?’
Fabien seemed surprised by the question and looked down at the bandage. ‘I cut it.’
‘Doing what?’
‘None of your damn business!’ He dropped the tubing and pushed past Enzo to start up the steps. ‘If you want to talk to Nicole, you’d better do it. Then get off my land.’
Enzo followed him into the cool of the shuttered house, past the disapproving glare of Madame Marre, and up creaking stairs to the landing. Nicole turned in surprise as Fabien moved aside to let Enzo step into her bedroom doorway. The large suitcase that accompanied her everywhere lay open on the bed, the wardrobe doors stood ajar, and clothes were strewn over chairs and pillows. ‘What are you doing here, Monsieur Macleod?’
‘That’s just what I was going to ask you.’ He turned towards Fabien. ‘In private.’
Fabien gave him a long, surly look, then headed back along the landing. Enzo heard him on the stairs, and closed the bedroom door behind him.
‘For heaven’s sake, Monsieur Macleod! What’s all the drama about? When I got the call about my mother, I never even stopped to pack. I’m just back to collect my things.’
‘And to see Fabien?’
She bristled. ‘That’s my business.’
‘Mine, too, Nicole.’
She thrust defiant breasts at him. ‘I don’t see how.’
‘I’m responsible for you being here at all. And Fabien Marre’s still very much in the frame for these killings.’
‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Someone tried again to kill me last night.’
Which took the wind out of her sails. Her voice shrank in size. ‘What happened?’
So he told her, and it seemed to him that she was almost more upset about Braucol than about the attempt on his life.
‘It couldn’t have been Fabien.’ She was filled with self-righteous certainty.
‘Why not?’
Her conviction crumbled just a little. ‘Because…because he’s not like that.’
‘And you know him so well.’ Enzo couldn’t hide his skepticism.
‘I’ve known him nearly two weeks, Monsieur Macleod!’ And after a moment, ‘And in ways you couldn’t possibly.’
Enzo looked at her, shocked, uncertain what she meant, and afraid to ask. ‘Nicole, whoever it was that attacked me last night, I slashed him in the dark with my knife. Fabien’s got a badly cut hand. You must have seen the bandage.’
Nicole wavered now towards reluctant uncertainty, but remained defiant. ‘That doesn’t prove anything.’
And Enzo cursed inwardly. A simple DNA test on the bloodied piece of torn pocket would prove it one way or another. But for that to happen he would have to admit to the investigating
gendarmes
that he had withheld evidence from them. ‘Go home,’ he said. ‘Now. Please, Nicole. Until we know for sure who’s responsible for these killings, we’re all in danger.’ He flicked his head towards the bed and sighed at the sight of her enormous suitcase. He knew how heavy it would be. He had carried it often enough. ‘Finish packing, and I’ll take your case down to the car.’
‘I don’t need your help, thank you, Monsieur Macleod. I have someone else who’ll carry my suitcase these days.’ She returned to the packing of it, making it clear in tone and body language that their discussion was at an end.
Enzo contained his frustration. She was a stubborn girl, filled with the certainty of ignorance. Her experience of the world was naïve and second-hand, selectively assembled from surfing the internet and watching TV. The things he knew, the things he had seen in his life, would be incomprehensible to her, shocking beyond belief. And yet, she would always know better.
Fabien was waiting for him at the foot of the stairs. Through the kitchen door, Enzo could see his mother hovering by the sink. He lowered his voice. ‘Anything happens to that girl…’
‘And what, old man?’
Enzo squared up to him and saw Fabien almost wince in the face of his intensity. ‘They’ll need DNA to identify your remains.’
***
Nicole stood silent, listening at the top of the stairs. Something in Enzo’s tone scared her more than any argument he could ever have made. Mr. Macleod was such a gentle big soul, she was both touched and shocked by his threat to Fabien. She drew back into the shadows as Enzo pushed past the young man and out of the front door. Fabien didn’t move. He remained standing in the downstairs hall for a long time after Enzo had gone. Perhaps he had been as shaken by Enzo’s words as Nicole. She moved forward now to try to catch a glimpse of him through banister uprights, and the floorboards creaked beneath her feet. Fabien turned a pale face towards her and caught her watching. There was nothing for it but to carry on down.
As she reached the downstairs hall, Madame Marre appeared in the kitchen door behind her son. Fabien and Nicole looked at each other for several long moments. Then her eyes fell to his bandaged hand. ‘What did you do to your hand, Fabien?’
I.
A glob of spittle transferred itself between upper and lower lip. His face was pale and angry. ‘I’m sorry, but I want you out of here, Monsieur Macleod. ASAP.’
Paulette Lefèvre stood behind her husband pink-faced with embarrassment. But she said nothing. Lefèvre himself was puffed up with anger and indignation. He had just removed the bloodied swing from beneath the
pigeonnier
and put down sawdust to soak up any remaining blood from the damp earth below. They stood in a knot of confrontation outside the estate office.
‘There have been nothing but women coming and going at all hours of the day and night since you got here. You’ve vandalised the interior of my
gîte
by drilling holes in the wall for your precious whiteboard. And now this! Break-ins, the ritual slaughter of animals.
Gendarmes
crawling all over the estate.
Enzo regarded him thoughtfully. ‘Who else knew you wouldn’t be at home last night?’
Lefèvre was pulled up short. He glared at Enzo. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Whoever was waiting for me here knew that the place would be empty.’
‘Well,
you
knew. You should be asking yourself who
you
told. After all, it was
you
they were waiting for. Not us.’
Enzo ran his mind back over the past few days. Who might he have told? But, then, he dismissed the thought. ‘It doesn’t matter who I told. Certainly not anyone who might want to kill me. You’re the only ones who knew for certain the place would be empty. And you knew when I’d be coming back, because I told you.’
The globs of spittle on each lip had grown in size and seemed permanently connected as Lefèvre exploded in indignation. ‘Are you suggesting I broke into my own home and lured you in to attack you?’
‘No, I’m just speculating about who knew what, and when.’ Enzo glanced towards the
chai
. ‘How come Petty never tasted your wines, Monsieur Lefèvre?’
‘Who says he didn’t?’
‘He didn’t review them.’
Paulette said, ‘We always leave a bottle in the
gîte
for our
locataires
. We left one for you, if you’ll recall.’
Enzo did. And recalled, too, that it wasn’t bad. ‘So why didn’t Petty review it? You’d have thought it might have had some resonance for him, since this is where his family originated.’
‘You’d have to ask him that.’ Lefèvre finally got rid of the spittle, flicking it away on the tip of a lizard-like tongue. And Enzo tried to remember who it was who’d suggested exactly the same thing. Fabien Marre. That’s who. He had used almost exactly the same words, too. The day they confronted each other in the rainstorm at La Croix Blanche.
‘I would,’ Enzo said, echoing his own response from that day. ‘Only someone murdered him.’
‘I want you out of the
gîte
by the end of today.’
‘Monsieur Macleod has paid until the end of the week, Pierric.’ Paulette Lefèvre was trying very hard to soften the blunt edge of her husband’s ire.
‘Midday Saturday, then. And you can take your whiteboard with you!’ Pierric Lefèvre stormed off into the estate office. His wife hovered for an apologetic moment, an appeal for forgiveness in her eyes.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, and hurried after her husband.
II.
The voices of men rang out across the cut green grass, the smack of hands on leather, the thunder of studs in turf. Enzo sat high up in the empty stand watching the first team regulars battling it out with the reserve team in a training match. One or two diehard fans leaned on the white painted rail around the pitch watching their heroes sweep towards the far posts, the oval ball switching from one set of hands to the next, to be carried across the line in a diving try. On match day, it would have brought a roar from fanatical crowds jamming this tiny stadium. Today it brought a shouted reprimand from the trainer. Where the bloody hell was the full-back?
Gaillac was, after all, in the heart of rugby country. Catholicism came a poor third to the twin religions of wine and rugby.
Enzo had stayed away from the
gîte
for the rest of the day. It would, in any case, have been depressingly empty without Sophie and Bertrand, and Nicole and Michelle. And Braucol. Braucol was dead. The others he had sent away. His isolation was self-inflicted. He was treading treacherous water on his own until MacConchie e-mailed him the results of his sample analysis. He was pretty sure he would not sleep tonight.
A large banner flapped in the wind at the far side of the stadium,
Allez GAILLAC tes Supporters sont là
, distracting him from his thoughts. He became aware of the players trooping off the field, to dressing rooms beneath the stand, steam issuing from hot showers, young men’s voices rising in laughter to ring around the tiles. The sun was beginning to dip, and the first golden pink was discernible on the far horizon.
Enzo walked among the handful of cars in the huge parking lot to find his 2CV. Kids were playing basketball on the asphalt, voices shrieking in the late afternoon. Murders were being committed. Men dying, others gone missing. And still the world turned. As if none of it mattered. And in the context of time, and space, and history, Enzo thought, perhaps it really didn’t. All he knew was that it mattered to him.
The southerly wind had died away again, and swung around to blow down from the northwest. Although the sky was still clear, Enzo could feel a chill in the air. The first breath of coming winter. The temperature would fall tonight. There might even be frost.
***
Nicole’s car was parked opposite the
chai
at Château des Fleurs, and she was sitting waiting for him at the table on the
terrasse
of the
gîte
. Another coming and going for Lefèvre to complain about. ‘Monsieur Macleod, where on earth have you been?’
‘Nicole, I told you to go home.’
She ignored him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for ages.’
He brought out his keys and unlocked the door. ‘You should have been back at the farm by now.’
She followed him in. ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m not?’
‘No. I just want you to go.’
‘Monsieur Macleod, you’re a stubborn man!’
‘
I’m
stubborn?’ He sat down at the computer and hit the space bar to waken it from sleep. ‘Nicole, whatever it is you’ve got to say, I don’t want to know. I want you to get into your car and drive.’
‘I’m not leaving till you know the truth about Fabien.’
Which drew his eyes briefly from the computer screen. But a
ting
announcing that he had mail drew them back again. He opened up his mailer and saw that there was an e-mail in the box from MacConchie. He felt his heart-rate quicken and clicked on it.
‘It wasn’t Fabien who attacked you last night. He was at home with his mother. And that cut? He did it in the
chai
, on a broken bottle. His mother was there when it happened. It was her that dressed it.’ She glowered at him. His attention seemed fixed on the screen. ‘Are you listening to me?’
He looked up. ‘It doesn’t matter how he cut himself, Nicole. It was Fabien Marre who killed Petty and Coste.’
She shook her head in anger and frustration. ‘You’ve just got it in for him, haven’t you? Right from the very start.’ But there was a still centre to Enzo as he sat behind his computer looking steadfastly back at her. It scared her, and her voice tailed away. With less conviction she said, ‘How can you know that?’
‘Because the multi-elemental profile of the soil we took from La Croix Blanche is the same as the sample of wine taken from Serge Coste’s stomach. It’s like a matching fingerprint, Nicole. There’s no doubt. The grapes that wine came from were grown on Fabien Marre’s vineyard.’
For once there was no retort, no protest of innocence on Fabien’s behalf, no petted lip or metaphorical stamping of the foot. The blood drained from her face, and she was shocked to silence. And in that moment, he felt a sudden surge of pity for her. Whatever she felt she knew about Fabien, whatever she thought she had found in him, had been dashed on the rocks of science. All certainty shattered.
His phone rang. It was still on the charger, and he saw that there had been several calls, all from the same number. The caller was ringing him again.
‘Enzo Macleod.’
Her voice was taut with barely controlled tension. ‘Monsieur Macleod, I need your help.’
‘Who is this?’
‘Katy Roussel. David’s wife. I’m so scared for him, monsieur. They won’t believe me at the
gendarmerie
. They think we’ve had a row, and that he’s left me.’
‘How do you know that he hasn’t?’
‘Because I
know
. David’s the most loving man. Even if we had fallen out, he’d never leave his kids. He adores them….’ Her voice cracked, and he could tell that she was having trouble controlling it. ‘I know he thought highly of you, monsieur. He thought he’d failed in his investigation. That’s why he took time off. To bring his missing persons file home. He was spending nearly all his waking hours on it.’
‘And did he get anywhere with it?’
‘He thought he’d found something. A connection between Gil Petty and the others.’
‘What is it?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. He was really secretive.’ He heard her breath trembling at the other end of the line. ‘Something’s happened to him. He wouldn’t go off like this, he just wouldn’t. Please, monsieur, please help me.’
‘Give me your address, Katy.’ He wrote it down as she gave him directions. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
He hung up and looked over the computer to see big tears rolling silently down Nicole’s face. He stood up and took her in his arms, and felt her shaking as he held her.
‘I’m so sorry, Nicole. I really am.’ He disengaged and took her face in his hands, turning it up towards his. ‘Please. Go home.’
III.
From the roundabout on the west side of Lisle sur Tarn, the single track road meandered through acres of flat farmland, tall cornstalks rattling in the cool northwesterly, red-turning leaves fluttering along row after row of vines. Everywhere you looked there were
châteaux
and
chais
. So much wine and not enough people to drink it. Even in France. Enzo had read somewhere that there was a worldwide glut, production increasing by fifteen percent a year. Everyone was overproducing, and not everyone would survive. He passed an
a Vendre
sign. Someone, perhaps, had got the message, and was selling up before the going got worse. Wine was a tough business to be in these days.
The road divided, and he took the left fork, heading towards the distant hills and the dusky sky beyond it. The Roussel’s family home was a single-storey Roman-style brick villa hidden behind high hedges and a copse of protective trees.
Pins parasols
and tall, blue-green conifers. He drove through the gate into an overgrown yard and parked in front of a terraced veranda. Weeds poked up through the
castine
. There were swings and a children’s paddling pool. A punctured football nestled, squashed and useless, amongst the growth at the foot of the steps. Shredded netting hung from a basketball hoop above the garage doors. There was a seedy air to the place, of peeling paint and neglect. A husband too occupied with his job, a wife too busy with their children. Eyes that stop seeing.
The interior, by contrast, was clean and tidy, almost spartan. The children were not anywhere in evidence. Staying with friends, perhaps. Katy Roussel offered no explanation. She was too distressed. An attractive woman gone to seed, like the house. It was the same neglect. She was overweight, but not fat. A once carefully styled haircut had been allowed to grow out, and was clumpy and unkempt. The roots were showing grey. She wore a voluminous shirt over black leggings, and Enzo wondered whether she might be disguising another pregnancy. But he was frightened to ask in case he was wrong. There was no trace of make-up, and her eyes were red from the shedding of tears.
She shook his hand, and he noticed that the skin of hers was rough and dishwater red. ‘Thank you for coming, Monsieur Macleod. I think I’d have lost my mind if you hadn’t. I’ve no one else to turn to.’
‘When did he go missing?’
‘Three days ago. He’d brought those damned files home with him. He wasn’t supposed to. Nobody at the station knew what he was up to. He just shut himself in his study. Well, it’s a spare room, really. But it’s where we keep the computer. He was on the internet for hours, sitting up into the small hours every night. The day before he disappeared he told me he was going to the library in town. But not why.’
‘What happened?’
‘Well, nothing. The next morning he said he was going out to the vineyards. That there was somebody he needed to talk to.’
‘He didn’t say who, or where?’
She shook her head. ‘He said he would be back for lunch.’ She bit her lower lip so hard, Enzo saw blood oozing through her teeth. ‘He never appeared. I haven’t seen him since.’
‘You went to the
gendarmerie.
’
‘The next day, yes. I was beside myself by then. But he was still officially on leave, so when I showed up looking for him, they jumped to all the wrong conclusions. His
friends
. I could see it in their faces. David takes leave for personal reasons, then his wife shows up looking for him. Of course, there’s been some kind of bust up, and he’s taken off. Maybe with another woman. They didn’t say as much, but that’s what they thought.’
Enzo hesitated. ‘At the risk of repeating myself, you’re absolutely certain he hasn’t?’
‘I’d stake my life on it.’ And then, to underline her conviction. ‘I’d stake my children’s lives on it.’
‘Those files he was working on. Are they still here?’
She nodded. ‘I’ve had a look through the stuff, but I can’t make any sense of it.’
‘May I see?’
‘Of course.’
And he followed her down a shadowed hallway.
IV.
It was almost dark when Nicole drove into the yard at La Croix Blanche. She was dry-eyed and determined. But behind that determination, there was a disconcerting sense of apprehension. Her mouth was dry, and her heart-rate increased as she stepped out of the 4L. There wasn’t a light anywhere. Not in the
chai
nor in any of the sheds. Nor at the house. Security lamps that would normally have responded to the arrival of a vehicle remained stubbornly dark.
