The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (23 page)

As always, the hat shop was open, with its wares of broad brims, felts and its panamas, but there were no customers. Outside the church, already repaired after Hugo, the women selling imported carnations as well as mountain flowers from Martinique—lobsterclaw and anthuriums—were doing a brisk weekend trade. Solange, an imposing woman who had whored in Paris for twenty years, accumulated a fortune and two very dissimilar sons, gave Anne Marie a friendly wave from under the wide parasol and blew her a kiss, accompanied by a manly laugh.

It was a bright, dry morning in Pointe-à-Pitre. The breeze was hot and car fumes made Anne Marie’s eyes prickle. The head cold had cleared up.

Anne Marie always enjoyed the jostling crowd in the rue Nozières, the Dominican women with their displays of Dettol, Morgan’s pomade and carbolic soap, the open shops, the Syrians standing on the sidewalk, trying to entice customers over crackling public address systems. Every other shop sold clothes, from dull emporia with stocks of pith helmets, blue overalls and rubber boots to the franchise boutiques of Cédixsept, Benetton and even Rodier.

This morning she scarcely noticed the activity about her. She needed another coffee. Strong coffee and a moment to gather her thoughts.

Anne Marie went into Chez Camille.

Thoughts about Lucette Salondy, about her son. About the Pointe des Châteaux. About her job, her life and the future.

Kémel Yacoub was from Beirut, a Christian who had opened a Middle Eastern restaurant and snack bar in the colonial center of Pointe-à-Pitre. The bar gave onto the rue Alsace Lorraine, a hundred meters from the
palais de justice
. Only two tables, spindly legs and a plastic surface that was occupied by skewered raw meat, piles of Duralex plates and cutlery in preparation for the next meal.

The Lebanese cedar tree and the red and white flag were ubiquitous. Levantine music came loud and unmelodious from an old cassette player, perched on the counter. Not an attractive place—even if you ignored the flies and the grime.

Anne Marie sat down at a table and ordered a coffee from the girl who nodded and turned away in silence, dragging her sandals across the floor.

Michel Siobud was right, of course: it was Anne Marie’s fault. Fabrice was turning into a problem—and she had not noticed a thing because she was spending too much time on the job.

Children need to be loved—and they need to know they’re loved. Love is time, Anne Marie
.

“Turkish coffee,
madame
?”

Anne Marie turned, surprised. “My head feels like putty. I took a sleeping pill last night.”

“I know just how you feel—and I’ve never taken a sleeping pill in my life.” He laughed; she could smell his breath of Bastos and rum.

“You were waiting for me, Monsieur Lafitte?”

He shook his head and she knew he was lying.

Anne Marie wiped her forehead with a paper napkin as Lafitte slid onto the spindly seat beside her. His discomfort in Chez Camille was almost palpable. “You’d care for some Turkish coffee? This is the only place in Pointe-à-Pitre you can get it.”

L’Escale was Lafitte’s kind of bar. There he could drink his rum at any time during the day and smoke his Bastos while keeping an eye on the entrance to the Commissariat. L’Escale was a bar frequented by policemen, more often white than black, and by their women, more often black than white. The sort of place where Lafitte would feel in his element.

He must have been waiting outside the
palais de justice
, hiding
behind the copy of the morning’s
France Antilles
that he now held in his hand. He had seen her get out of the Peugeot and followed her. He had watched her go into the open-fronted bar.

He grinned without looking at her. “I suppose it’s a bit early for an
apéritif
.”

“You can always have a beer.”

He looked at the rasping tape recorder. “I didn’t know Arabs drank beer.”

“Not all Arabs are Muslim and not all Muslims are practicing Muslims. The proprietor is a Christian. Like you and me.”

“Something very cold,” he said, and dabbed at his forehead. “You’ve seen this?” He grimaced as he threw the newspaper onto the table. On the front page was a photo of the murdered girl, her eyes closed in death. The headline announced,
THE IDENTITY OF MUTILATED WHITE WOMAN REMAINS A MYSTERY
.

“There was never any mutilation.”

“Mutilation sells papers.” He paused. “Isn’t that what Arabs do to their women? Mutilating them—cutting into their parts?”

Anne Marie quickly read the article. “Where did they get this photo from?”

“The
procureur
, I suppose.”

“I thought I was in charge of the enquiry.”

The girl brought the bronze pot of black coffee on a tray. She set it down on the table, along with a dish of lumpy brown sugar and a glass of water. “And a Kroenenburg for my friend,” Anne Marie said.

“She doesn’t look like an Arab.” Lafitte watched the girl disappear.

“She’s from Pointe-à-Pitre.”

“Thank goodness for that.”

“Lots of black Muslims, Monsieur Lafitte. Just as there are a lot of black Christians and Jews.” She gave him a tight smile. “I thought you’d worked in Africa.”

“Five years in New Caledonia but that was years ago,” he said. “And to tell you the truth, I prefer the West Indies.”

“You surprise me.”

“The people are more civilized,” Lafitte replied. “You saw the
procureur
?”

“He didn’t mention anything about distributing her photo to the
press.” Anne Marie shook her head. “I was at Baimbridge and haven’t seen anyone other than Trousseau.”

“Trousseau didn’t tell you then that Parise has found the murderer?”

A car went past in the street, between the dense rows of parked vehicles, hooting irritably at pedestrians.

Anne Marie poured coffee from the small pot. Her hand did not tremble.

“
Madame le juge
.” Lafitte watched her carefully. “Parise’s found the murderer.”

She returned his glance. “Sure you don’t care for coffee?”

“You don’t look terribly excited,
madame le juge
.”

“Over the moon.”

For a moment his eyes held hers. “The heat’s off us,
madame le juge
. You, me, the
gendarmerie
.”

“You mean this Pointe des Châteaux dossier is out of my hands?” Anne Marie said flatly, “Now that is good news.”

“The
procureur
says the murderer’s identified—and now dead.”

“I can get back to family and to living my life?” Not without malice, she added, “I can take up the Dugain dossier without everybody frightening me off?”

He squinted at her from behind a cigarette. Today he was smoking filterless cigarettes. “The Dominican killed the girl … the dead Rasta.”

“William Williamson?” A spoonful of sugar.

“He was living in Boissard, sharing a shack with a couple of Dominicans like him.” Lafitte nodded. “Small time dealers. Ganja and occasionally cocaine from South America via St. Martin. Petty thieves. The
gendarmerie
searched the place early this morning.”

“William Williamson tried to kill Lucette Salondy. I was at Lycée Carnot last night and I stayed with her until past midnight at the hospital.”

“Since the riots of eighty-five, Boissard is
gendarme
territory.” Lafitte gave a charitable smile. “Better equipped than us.”

“What did they find?”

“Parise did one of his dawn raids. Flak jackets and tear gas—and of course, the TV journalists from RFO. You know how they love to dress up. It comes from seeing too many American films. Can’t help
feeling our friend Parise believes he’s Mel Gibson. You’ll see him on the local news this evening.” He added, “Mel Gibson, or perhaps Danny Glover.”

“On the
procureur
’s orders?”

“An arsenal of weapons. Knives and a couple of guns.”

“I don’t see the connection with the Pointe des Châteaux.”

“They also found pieces of women’s clothing,
madame le juge
, which is proof enough for the
procureur
. The dawn raid was his idea—and he got what he wanted.”

“Proof of absolutely nothing.” Anne Marie shook her head. “Guns and clothing by themselves do not constitute proof. Arnaud must be out of his mind. We don’t know the cause of death at the Pointe des Châteaux. We don’t even know who the victim is.”

“The Dominican’s an escaped convict.” Lafitte raised a finger, the nail yellow with nicotine. “Serving five years in Roseau, Dominica.” He paused as the girl brought him a chill can of beer on a tin tray. He paid for Anne Marie’s coffee.

“Five years for what?”

“Rape of white American tourists in Dominica.” Lafitte shrugged philosophically. “Getting himself killed was probably a good idea. For us all. Particularly for your friend.”

“Friend?”

“Your very good friend Arnaud.”

“There was no rape or even attempted rape. Discoloring on the inner thighs and round the vaginal area. Bouton insists bruising occurred after the time of death—bruising that was probably intended to look like rape. You were there at the autopsy, Monsieur Lafitte. You know there were no signs of penetration.”

Lafitte pulled back the ring on the can of beer. “There were traces of sperm.”

Anne Marie shook her head. “There’s no definite proof of sexual activity prior to death. At least, not until we’ve heard from Pasteur.”

“Without wishing to contradict you,
madame le juge
, at the autopsy Docteur Bouton seemed to think there was sperm.”

Talking about death in the brightness of Pointe-à-Pitre, Anne Marie repressed a shiver. “Possibly—but that’s not what he wrote in the preliminary report.” She paused. “I left early. I didn’t get round to signing the
procès verbal
.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. The electric saw is never much fun.”

“I do worry about it. When we get this thing to court, I don’t want to have my case thrown out for a flaw in procedure.”

“If we get this thing to court.” Lafitte pulled on his beer, putting his head back. His eyes lingered on the serving girl who was back behind the counter. Then he turned to Anne Marie. “You were right about Desterres. With the timely death of the Dominican, the pressure is off you to arrest Desterres.”

“It was you who wanted me to arrest him.”

“An arrogant bastard.”

“Because he’s educated?”

“A long time ago I learned not to trust politicians.”

Anne Marie remarked, “There was no way I could arrest Desterres. Even without William Williamson, Richard’s going to corroborate Desterres’s story.” She hesitated. “In a way I agree with you …”

“With me,
madame le juge
?”

“Desterres is hiding something.”

“You’re getting to be like a policeman.” Lafitte grinned. “You believe in gut feelings?”

“You mean female intuition?”

“Call it what you want.”

“Just one thing I believe in, Monsieur Lafitte: justice. I don’t believe in intuition, whether it’s masculine or feminine. Intuition can send the wrong person to the guillotine.”

Lafitte said regretfully, “No more guillotine,
madame le juge
.”

She set the cup down. “You saw Parise this morning?”

“For a few fleeting seconds. Flushed with his success in Boissard—he dropped in just to show that he hadn’t forgotten us little people.” Lafitte nodded. “At the
palais de justice
where your
greffier
told me you wouldn’t be there.”

“And the Institut Pasteur?”

Lafitte wiped his damp lips with the back of his hand. “I beg your pardon?” Pearls of sweat were forming along his forehead.

“Anything from the Insitut Pasteur? We still need a cause of death.”

“Parise didn’t say anything because he was too busy basking in the glory of arresting six dealers—all Dominicans. Our
procureur
is over the moon.”

Anne Marie clicked her tongue. “All very well for the
procureur
to find rapists. No shortage of them, I’m quite sure. The computer came up with more than sixty for the last two years. But that’s not why this woman died.”

Their eyes met. “Why did she die?”

“I wish I knew, Monsieur Lafitte. I really wish I knew—because if I did, then I could get back to living my life—without having the
préfet
, the Tourist Office, Arnaud and everybody else breathing down my neck.”

“They all seem happy enough with the Dominican.”

Anne Marie said, “I can only guess why the girl was murdered, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t for sex. If I knew who she was, I might be able to find out who killed her.”

The intelligent eyes looked at her. “You have an opinion,
madame le juge
?”

“What woman would want to pass herself off as Evelyne Vaton? The dead woman used Vaton’s driving license and her credit card. She stole her money—and then impersonated her. Impersonated Vaton for over a week—even stayed in Basse-Terre with the parents of Vaton’s friend in Paris.” Anne Marie shook her head. “Monsieur and Madame Lecurieux came to the morgue to identify the corpse.”

“And?”

“Nice people—old fashioned. They had no difficulty in recognizing the girl staying with them. The girl they thought was Evelyne Vaton. The girl they thought was a friend of their daughter’s.”

“You want me to contact their daughter?”

“Geneviève Lecurieux—their adopted daughter—is in Réunion for some medical conference. I got Trousseau to send a fax to Saint-Denis in Réunion.” Anne Marie glanced at her watch. “Eight hours between here and there. As yet, she’s not made contact.”

“What can she tell you?”

“Seems strange Vaton and Lecurieux should be friends but she should send the girl to stay with her parents rather than coming on holiday with her.” Anne Marie paused for a moment. “Vaton’s here somewhere in Guadeloupe.”

Lafitte’s self-assurance had returned. He grinned from behind the can of beer. “Unless …” A cigarette smoldered in the same hand that held the beer. Moisture had beaded the sides of the can, making fine tracks of condensation and running onto his yellow fingers. His eyes were red and the smile patronizing. He continued to appraise the girl behind the counter.