The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (20 page)

Manfred nodded. ‘What did he say?'

‘Not much. He gave me his card and left.'

‘He came to your apartment?'

‘Yes.'

‘How did he find out where you lived?'

Alice shrugged. ‘I don't know. I didn't ask. He gave me the creeps.'

Manfred stood up. Had she cooked up this story to explain why he had seen Gorski leave the apartment building two days before? Sunlight glinted on the ripples of the water. His head hurt. He could not make sense of things. Perhaps Gorski had put her up to this little outing. Perhaps she was recording their conversation and the woods were crawling with cops waiting to spring out when he said something incriminating. Manfred scanned the trees around them. Alice was staring at him.

‘Manfred?' she said.

Then it hit him:
He gave me the creeps
. It was the same expression Gorski said Adèle had used about him. His head swam. He closed his eyes tight, then opened them and looked at Alice. He was having trouble focussing.

‘I don't believe you,' he said.

Alice's eyes widened. ‘I'm sorry?' she said.

She stood up and took a couple of steps away from him.

‘You're lying,' he said. The sunlight on the lake was dazzling.
Manfred closed his eyes for a moment. He felt dizzy. He turned and faced the trees. He imagined the men in the woods, waiting for a sign from Gorski to move in. His eyes darted around the undergrowth. Nothing stirred. His breathing subsided a little.

Alice took a step towards him. ‘Is there something wrong with you?' There was a hint of fear in her eyes.

Manfred shook his head as if to rouse himself from sleep. He was aware that he might, at this moment, appear quite insane. He must try to seem reasonable.

‘I just want you to tell me the truth about you and Gorski,' he said, keeping his voice as even as possible. Alice tucked her chin to her chest and looked at him, open-mouthed.

‘There is no me and Gorski,' she replied.

‘He put you up to this whole thing,' Manfred blundered on. He took a step towards her.

Alice stood her ground. Her face had hardened.

‘I just wanted to know why the police are asking questions about you. If you've done something wrong, you can tell me.'

‘Of course, I can.' Manfred laughed through his nose and shook his head. ‘I actually thought you liked me.'

‘I thought I liked you too,' said Alice. She looked at him as if she had never seen him before. Then she turned and started back towards the path. Manfred watched her. They appeared to be quite alone. He could hear the distant honking of the geese. The water lapped gently on the rocks. It was a pleasant spot.

Manfred called her name. She did not turn round. He felt a strong desire to run after and tell her everything: how he had lied to Gorski, what had occurred between he and Adèle, even how he had killed Juliette. He suddenly felt that it would all seem quite reasonable – that he would seem reasonable. He called her name again. She strode on, making a dismissive gesture with her hand over her shoulder. She vanished into the woods. Manfred stood staring dumbly at the spot where she had disappeared for a few minutes, then followed her.

M
ANFRED HAD GROWN ACCUSTOMED
to the feeling of being watched. It was stronger than ever as he sat on the front pew of the chapel. His grandmother was on his right, twisting an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers. Manfred had felt no emotion on hearing that his grandfather was dead. He had no fondness for the old man and could not see his death as anything other than a release for his grandmother. The turnout was unexpectedly large. Manfred had never known his grandfather to have any friends and whenever his grandparents had to attend a social engagement, he grumbled about it. Twenty or thirty bent old worthies, some wearing military honours on their lapels, filled two or three rows of the chapel. There was also substantial representation from the law firm. Manfred imagined that each of them had their eyes trained on the back of his head, hoping to discern some sign of emotion. He bowed his head a little as if in contemplation.

The priest described in a matter-of-fact tone how Bertrand Paliard had now been accepted into the kingdom of God. Manfred tried not to smile at the thought of how his grandfather, a confirmed atheist, would rankle at such a sentiment. Manfred had not been in a church for many years. He found it oddly agreeable. The air was cool and heavy with incense, and the priest's monotonous drone had a soothing, narcotic effect.
The flagstones were rounded like pebbles by centuries of footfall. Likewise the oak pews were worn and faded. The circular stained-glass window high on the wall behind the priest produced a pleasantly subdued light. Manfred paid little attention to the service. At some point he noticed that his grandmother had taken his hand and was gripping it with surprising tenacity. The time came for the coffin to be carried to the grave. Under the direction of the undertaker Manfred and the five other pallbearers, only one of whom Manfred recognised, arranged themselves around the box. Manfred was half a head taller than the rest of them and as the box was raised onto their shoulders he had to bend at the knee to shoulder his part of the burden. The others gave every impression of being old hands at this business.

As they began the ponderous waltz up the aisle Manfred spotted Gorski standing at the back of the church. He was indeed being watched. Manfred felt a flush of anger at the intrusion. Gorski was not to know that he did not feel any sadness at his grandfather's demise. Manfred adopted a mournful expression for the cop's benefit. He turned his mouth down at the edges and kept his eyes fixed on the stone floor. He glanced up only as he passed Gorski at the door. Gorski acknowledged him with a curt, unapologetic nod. The congregation filed out behind the coffin. It was early in the afternoon and after the dim atmosphere of the chapel, the sunlight was quite dazzling. There was an incline towards the Paliard plot and Manfred had to stoop even lower to keep hold of his corner of the coffin. One of the old men had to pause, wheezing to wipe his brow. The undertaker, no doubt accustomed to such occurrences, relieved him of his place and they made swifter progress towards the plot. Manfred's mother's grave was to the right. It was surprisingly well maintained. There were fresh flowers in a pot at the foot of the headstone. Manfred never visited it and he wondered if his grandparents had looked after it or if such things fell under the remit of the municipality.

The box was lowered onto some planks that had been placed across the grave and then, with the use of canvas straps, lowered into the hole. Manfred admired the efficiency with which this potentially awkward task was carried out. He took his place at the graveside next to his grandmother, who now tearlessly clutched his hand. The old man had always despised displays of emotion and over the years Manfred's grandmother had absorbed the lesson. As the priest read the benediction Manfred could not resist the temptation to look over his shoulder. Gorski was leaning against the wall by the wrought iron gates to the churchyard, smoking a cigarette. He felt a hand at his elbow and realised he was being directed to add his handful of soil to the grave. The hollow sound of earth on wood was quite agreeable. The mourners filed past, offering their condolences to Manfred and his grandmother, before making their way to the vehicles assembled on the road. There was to be a reception at the family home. As Manfred accompanied his grandmother towards the gate, Gorski approached.

‘My condolences, Madame Paliard,' he said.

‘What are you doing here?' Manfred said, his customary meekness cast off.

Gorski reiterated his condolences to Manfred. ‘I thought we might take a little drive together,' he said.

‘That's out of the question,' he said.

They reached the limousine that was to take them back to the house and Madame Paliard was helped in. Gorski subtly blocked Manfred's entrance to the vehicle and in a single motion, bent inside the car showing his ID.

‘Madame, my apologies, but I have some pressing business with your grandson. Could you spare him for an hour?'

The old woman appeared confused, but nodded her assent and Gorski led Manfred towards his car. Gorski waited patiently as Manfred was accosted by one of the decorated old men. ‘I was with your grandfather in Algeria,' he told Manfred, shaking him vigorously by the hand. ‘I could tell you a few tales.'

Manfred had no idea his grandfather had ever been in Algeria. ‘I have a piece of business to take care of first,' he said. ‘I'll be back in an hour. Look after my grandmother for me.' The old man gave a little salute, comic in effect if not intention, and Manfred followed Gorski to his car.

Gorski's Peugeot smelt strongly of smoke. Manfred did not say anything, embarrassed that his determination of a few moments before had crumbled so easily. He knew he should behave as if he was outraged at Gorski's intrusion, but it seemed pointless after so meek a surrender. In reality he was relieved not to have to attend the reception.

Gorski made a U-turn and headed north. He lit a cigarette and wound down the driver's side window. ‘You weren't close to your grandfather?' he said.

‘Not especially,' Manfred replied.

‘Not especially?' said Gorski, ‘My impression is that Monsieur Paliard had very little regard for his grandson.'

Manfred felt his forehead prickle. ‘Your impression?' he repeated dumbly, fully aware that this was exactly the response Gorski wished to elicit.

‘Yes,' said Gorski, ‘I spoke with M. Paliard a couple of times shortly before his death. We talked a little about you.'

Manfred said nothing. He was trying to absorb the implications of what Gorski had just told him. He could not imagine his grandfather having anything positive to say about him. Gorski turned the car into a minor road that ran north, parallel to the Rhine. They drove along in silence for a few minutes.

‘Where are we going?' Manfred asked eventually, although it was becoming increasingly clear.

‘You'll see,' said Gorski. ‘Somewhere quiet.'

‘If you have more questions for me, I'd like to be interviewed in the presence of a lawyer.'

Gorski nodded slowly. ‘Let's not worry about that for the time being.'

They drove for a few more minutes before pulling up in a lay-by. There was a white painted gate leading to a footpath into the woods. Gorski turned off the engine and got out. He took off his jacket and hung it on the hook above the window in the back seat. Manfred got out. Gorski asked if he would like to leave his jacket in the car. Manfred was perspiring, but he declined and instead loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt.

Gorski led the way through the gate. The air was cooler in the forest. The path was too narrow for them to walk two abreast and Gorski indicated that Manfred should lead the way.

‘I've been coming up here for years,' Gorski began, his tone conversational. ‘Almost exactly twenty years, in fact. You know, there aren't too many murders around here, but two decades ago a young girl was strangled in these woods. I was just a young cop then. The case fell in my lap through circumstance. I was out of my depth.'

Manfred was relieved that the detective could not see his face. He recalled the sight of the younger Gorski standing with his back to the mantelpiece in the chilly reception room where the funeral-goers would now be gathering. He had not changed so much. His hair was grey and he was perhaps a little thicker around the midriff, but his face retained some of its youthfulness. They came to a fork on the path.

‘To the left here,' Gorski said from behind his shoulder. ‘In the end, we secured a conviction – your grandfather remembered all this – a tramp named Malou, but I was never convinced. It stays with you, a thing like that. That's why I kept coming back. Your grandfather told me you were very fond of these woods back then. Never out of them in fact.'

He paused and tapped Manfred on the arm, indicated with his finger that they should leave the path. They scrambled down a slope, their trousers snagging in the thorny undergrowth. The forest floor was tinder dry. A woodpigeon cooed incessantly. Then they were there, in the clearing.

Manfred swallowed audibly. The back of his eyes stung. When he closed them, he saw Juliette's body lying broken in the middle of his grandparents' rug. He felt his knees weaken and for a moment thought he was going to faint. Gorski pointed to a fallen tree on the far side of the clearing and suggested they sit down. The tree trunk had not been there previously, but otherwise the place was as Manfred remembered it. The two men made their way across the clearing and sat down. Manfred took off his jacket and laid it carefully next to him. Gorski lit a cigarette. Manfred could smell the dryness of the forest floor. It had not rained for weeks.

‘So,' Gorski said, ‘here we are.'

Manfred did not say anything. He understood that his silence was tantamount to an admission of guilt. But Gorski could not expect him just to come out with it – to blurt out that he killed Juliette, that he had choked her to death and calmly packed up his belongings before running off into the woods. Nevertheless, like twenty years before, he had no intention of denying anything. If Gorski had done his job the first time around, Manfred would have served his time by now and been done with the matter.

Gorski got up from the trunk and walked to the middle of the clearing. He was still smoking. Manfred imagined the ash from his cigarette igniting the tinder and engulfing the forest in flames.

‘It was just here that the girl was found. The body was in a peculiar position, as if she had been dumped here. Of course, we considered the possibility that she had been killed elsewhere and then brought here, but it didn't add up. Why carry a body this far into the forest and then make no attempt to conceal it? Why not weigh it down and throw it in the Rhine? Of course, I considered the idea that the killer actually wanted to be caught, to take credit for his crime, but I didn't place much credence in that kind of theory. Still don't.'

He said all this as if he was reliving his thought processes for his own benefit. He paused and looked at Manfred.

‘My mistake was that I was looking for the wrong kind of person. I'd never investigated a murder before and all I had to go on was what I'd read in books.' He stopped and looked at Manfred. ‘What the books don't tell you is that sometimes murder is just a matter of chance. And you can't investigate chance. Two people meet and something bad happens. Maybe even by accident.' He carefully stubbed out his cigarette with the toe of his shoe and resumed his place next to Manfred. The two men sat in silence for a few moments staring ahead at the spot where Juliette had died. Manfred bore Gorski no ill will. It had never occurred to him before that if he had taken the opportunity to confess all those years before, he would by now have been free of the thing. Perhaps due to his age and the circumstances, he would have been shown leniency and would have spent only a few years in jail. He might have been out by his mid-twenties. Instead, every moment of his life since had been determined by what happened here in the clearing.

‘So,' Gorski prompted, ‘do you want to tell me what happened?'

Manfred told him the story from the beginning. Gorski listened impassively, his gaze fixed on the trees on the opposite side of the clearing. Now and again he lit a cigarette. Manfred felt quite calm as he described what had happened. He even enjoyed recalling some of the details of his meetings with Juliette, of his feelings as he had returned from the woods each evening. He faltered only when it came to the killing itself. He turned his head away from Gorski as he described pulling the rug from beneath Juliette's body and carefully gathering up their belongings. From the corner of his eye he could see Gorski nodding his head slightly, as if what he said made perfect sense. When Manfred had finished, he said nothing. The woodpigeon continued to coo in the trees.

Eventually Gorski stood up. ‘Let's go,' he said. He stretched out his hand as if to shepherd Manfred in the direction of the car.

Manfred followed him back through the clearing to the path.
He felt quite calm. They drove back to Saint-Louis in silence. At certain points the Rhine loomed into view, its brown water as slow-moving and sluggish as mud. Manfred expected Gorski to take him directly to the police station, but he drove past it and pulled up further along Rue de Mulhouse outside his apartment. There was nobody about. Manfred looked at him.

‘Aren't you getting out?' said Gorski.

Manfred was confused. ‘Am I not to be arrested?'

Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘We'll talk again tomorrow. I'd like you to tell me the truth about Adèle Bedeau.'

He leaned over and pushed open the passenger door. The hair on the back of his neck was neatly trimmed. Manfred got out.

‘Don't go anywhere,' said Gorski.

Manfred stood on the pavement and watched as he made a slow turn and headed back towards the police station. He stood there on the pavement for some time. The man from the laundry room passed with his terrier, pausing for a few moments on the verge as the dog snuffled in some leaves. He did not appear to recognise Manfred.