The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (27 page)

“I thought you were thinking of leaving the tourist industry, Eric. What with a hurricane and people getting killed on the beaches of our archipelago.”

He looked at Anne Marie for a moment before giving a wide smile. “Best to keep several strings to your bow.”

“And politics?”

Eric André made no attempt to hide his irritation. “Certain things it’s best to be discreet about. I’ve told you that before.”

“Something to drink, Eric?”

“They do coffee?” He looked at his flat, gold watch. “I’m in a hurry.”

“Why did you want to see me, Eric?”

He smiled. “I didn’t even know you were here.”

“I was with Lucette Salondy last night. There’s nothing to worry about—just that she’s diabetic and overweight.” The server had brought Anne Marie a plate of conch. Eric André ordered a coffee and Anne Marie started to eat.

“You’re working today?”

“Lucette’s a relative of yours, too, Eric.”

“Only by marriage.”

“Like you and me. I’m sure Lucette Salondy’d appreciate a visit.”

Eric said nothing. Beside him, Trousseau ate noisily, sucking at the fish bones caught between his teeth.

“Getting anywhere, Anne Marie, with the murder of the Pointe des Châteaux?”

“There is reason to believe the rasta who died raped and killed the woman.”

It was Trousseau who spoke. “You were saying there was a connection between the dead girl and Monsieur Dugain,
madame le juge
?”

Trousseau was the soul of discretion and he knew the paramount importance of secrecy when the
juge d’instruction
was preparing a case.

“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Trousseau.”

“Not very tender. Yet it’s the specialty of the house.” Trousseau did not look at her. With his fork in his fist, he pulled at the salted fish. “You think there’s a connection,
madame le juge
?”

“Not the sort of thing I care to talk about, Monsieur Trousseau. There are certain things—”

“You know that Dugain was favorable to the Ilet Noir project?”

“What Ilet Noir project?” Anne Marie asked coldly.

“A couple of years ago there was a lot of talk about a refinery. Texaco or one of those American companies wanted to set up a refinery here, on the grounds it’d be cheaper to ship in crude oil from Venezuela than buying it already refined. But the idea of a refinery at Port Louis was not popular. You can understand—a threat to the tourist industry in an island where the future lies in tourism.” He raised his eyes, lowered his fork onto the plate and ran the paper napkin along the thin line of his moustache. “Your brother-in-law would know more about it than me.” He shrugged with humility. “I’m just an ignorant
greffier
.”

“Not necessarily a bad idea,” Eric André said. “I personally think it’s a good idea. It’d bring down the energy cost in the island. After all, we have to import all our energy.”

“I haven’t got any energy left—not with this conch.”

Eric André looked at her and gave a perfunctory smile. His glance went from her back to Trousseau. “I must be along.”

“And your coffee?”

“You drink it, Anne Marie.”

“You knew Dugain was involved in the Ilet Noir project, Eric?”

It was Trousseau who spoke. “He wasn’t involved,
madame le juge
. At least not in the sense that he supported it.”

She frowned.

Trousseau looked up at Eric, who was now standing. “Has there been a decision yet?”

Eric André observed an embarrassed silence.

“A bit of an outcry at the time, as I remember, Madame Laveaud. You don’t remember?”

“Must’ve been when I was in France.”

“Dugain was never more than a whore. He saw the way the wind was blowing, he saw people’d be hostile to a refinery off one of the prettiest
beaches.” Trousseau turned back to Eric André. “There should be a vote quite soon at the local assembly and I doubt if the refinery’ll go through. Thank goodness. Another one of those projects where the
békés
see their interest—and couldn’t give a damn about the island.”

Eric André said lamely, “It’d bring down the petrol prices, which would bring down costs in general.” He placed a hand on Trousseau’s shoulder. “Prices are our number one obstacle in the tourist industry. We can get the tourists in from Europe or North America because the airfares are cheap but where we lose out is on the high cost of living. Everything here’s some fifty percent over the French price.” He again glanced at the flat wristwatch. “I must be off.” He placed a ten-franc coin on the table.

“And what do I tell Lucette Salondy?”

“Tell her I’ll be along. It’s just that I’m very busy at the moment.”

“Politics, Eric?”

Eric André did not reply. He had already melted into the crowd hurrying along the boulevard sidewalk.

They got out of the car and walked up the hill to the main hospital building. Saturday afternoon was a popular time for visits, with children free from school.

She was still angry with Trousseau, but since he had not given any sign of wanting to take his Saturday afternoon off, she said nothing. She was glad to have him with her.

Trousseau meanwhile whistled tunelessly under his breath, occasionally breaking off the private melody to pick at his teeth.

Anne Marie bought a large bunch of red carnations from a woman sitting on a wooden stall.

The prison section was at the back of the new hospital, in old colonial buildings that bore the scars of time and several earthquakes. The walls had been painted a dark ochre that had lost its texture. A row of coconut trees bent in the wind, their fronds creaking noisily.

A couple of male nurses were smoking in the shade of a tree. Neither man seemed to notice Anne Marie as she hurried past. One, who was wearing a round white cap, called out to Trousseau, who laughed and replied in Creole.

They entered the low building and walked along a corridor, past a trolley with its load of kidney dishes and steel utensils. There was a smell of ether and sea breeze. As in many buildings in the tropics, the ground floor was open to the elements. There were no doors and instead of windows, there were regular gaps in the brick wall through
which Anne Marie caught sight of the Atlantic, silver and sullen at this time of the day. Although the hospital was some distance above sea level, and although it was exposed to the trade winds, Anne Marie felt hot and very sticky.

“He was embarrassed, wasn’t he?”

“Who, Trousseau?”

The
greffier
turned to look at her, surprised by the curtness in her words. “I did not know Eric André was a relative of yours.”

“Used to be.” Anne Marie spoke flatly. “He married one of my ex-husband’s sisters.”

“He quite likes you.”

“Just one of his problems.” She looked at him. “What do you know about Ilet Noir?”

Trousseau gave a small smile, ran his finger along his moustache and was about to say something when a man called out, “Madame Laveaud?”

They stopped.

The man held a microphone and there were earphones around his neck. Sitting on a bench behind him was another man, a television camera placed on the lap of his tennis shorts.

“I have nothing to say.”

“Why not?”

Anne Marie recognized him because he frequently presented the local news at 7:30. “I have nothing to say for the moment.”

“Is it true,
madame le juge
, that the murderer of the Pointe des Châteaux killing has been identified?”

“No comment.”

“If you have already identified the murderer, why are you here in the penal section of the hospital?”

“Why are you here, gentlemen?”

“Has the murderer been identified?” The man who held the microphone had a round face; the curly hair had started to move back from the high forehead. It was the first time that she had seen Jean Paul Grégory in the flesh. Without makeup and studio lighting, he appeared fatter than on the small screen. Fatter and even more complacent. His skin was damp with perspiration.

“No comment.”

“Is there is a connection between last night’s siege at the Collège Carnot and the murdered girl?”

“No comment.”

Trousseau was standing beside her. He held her flowers in one hand. He now placed himself between the journalist and Anne Marie.

“Is it true the slain Rastafarian had a criminal record?”

The lisping voice and self-satisfied tone made her angry. Anne Marie held up her hand. “You must be very careful.”

“Did the rasta have a criminal record of sexual violence?”

She tried to move forward. “You’re interfering with the course of justice.”

The reporter unexpectedly pushed hard against Trousseau, who was forced to step back. Trousseau said something in Creole—something vulgar that Anne Marie had heard in the mouths of irate detainees.

The cameraman in shorts with earphones around his neck switched on an overhead lamp that he held out at the end of a perch. The sudden light was blinding. Anne Marie brought her hand to her brow to protect her eyes.

“Do you intend to arrest Richard Ferly?”

“Please let me past.”

“Are you going to arrest Richard Ferly?”

“You must go.”

“Why do you intend to arrest Monsieur Richard Ferly if the murderer of the Pointe des Châteaux’s already been identified?”

“I’m an investigating judge involved in official business. Get out of my way.”

“Are you aware that Monsieur Ferly has already undergone psychiatric treatment?”

She could feel her heart thumping against her chest. “Take your microphone out of my face and turn off that light.”

“Is it true, Madame Laveaud, that Mr. Ludovic Desterres, a well-known ecologist and also a politician … is it not true, Madame …”

From somewhere a man in white had appeared.

“Is it not true, Madame Laveaud, that Ludovic Desterres’s lodged a complaint against you and against the
parquet
for unlawful arrest?”

He had tortoiseshell glasses and he was gesticulating. A stethoscope danced on his chest. He was accompanied by the two nurses who had been smoking beneath the tree.

“Has Monsieur Desterres brought a complaint of harassment and false arrest against the
parquet
?”

The doctor cursed noisily.

“Why don’t you answer the question,
madame le juge
?”

The bright light went out as suddenly as it had come on, and Anne
Marie found herself being bundled into a small office, her arms pinned to her sides by the man in white.

Anne Marie saw that the frayed black tie had worked its way round to the left, under Trousseau’s stiff collar. With illogical relief, she also noticed that Trousseau was still holding the carnations.

“I never arrested him.”

Trousseau was sweating profusely in his dark suit. He now straightened his tie.

“I really don’t see how Desterres can accuse me of wrongful arrest.”

“I’m sorry about that,
madame le juge
. The journalist is a bastard from Martinique and next time I’ll use my stethoscope.” The doctor held out his hand. “I’m Lavigne, and if I’d known you were coming, I’d’ve been waiting with a machete.” He added, “Didn’t know the television people could be so aggressive.”

Her heart was still thumping. “First time it’s ever happened to me.”

“I thought the journalists at RFO were civil servants like everybody else. Why the need to behave like paparazzi? You know what people from Martinique are like—they like to think they are more gentlemanly and more French than us honest folk of Guadeloupe.”

“The Pointe des Châteaux killing,” Anne Marie said simply. “Bad for business and bad for the island—white girl killed on a black island.”

“And perfect for the decentralized media,” Trousseau remarked. He wiped his forehead with a grubby handkerchief.

Anne Marie smiled at the doctor. “Thanks for rescuing me.”

“As for your visit …” Lavigne folded his arms against his chest; a pack of cigarettes peeked from the chest pocket. “I don’t think Monsieur Ferly’s going to be of much use to you. At least, not for now.”

She presented Trousseau and the two men shook hands. Lavigne
nodded. “Monsieur Trousseau and I’ve already spoken over the phone.”

“Apart from Trousseau, nobody knew it was my intention to come here,” Anne Marie said thoughtfully. “I mentioned to Lafitte I hoped to speak with Richard but I didn’t know I’d be coming until Monsieur Trousseau told me we could.”

“
Madame le juge
, it will not do much good trying to speak to him.”

Anne Marie took a deep breath. She looked at the doctor, who was still standing with his back against the door, as if afraid the journalists would attempt to break through with their microphone and overhead lighting. Like monsters in a science fiction film. Anne Marie ran a hand through her hair and smiled gratefully at the doctor.

Then she looked about her. The room smelled of ether. The louvered blinds were made of glass, high in the wall. It could have been any small ward in a tropical hospital—the beds, the cotton blankets, the white cabinet, the chipped paintwork—if it were not for the bars against the high windows.

The beds were all empty.

“Richard Ferly may hold the key to the killing at the Pointe des Châteaux.”

The doctor turned and gestured for her and Trousseau to follow. They went down the ward and into a small corridor. Lavigne put a finger to his lips, bent forward and quietly unlocked a second door that opened into a small room.

The air was very cold. A conditioner buzzed high in the wall. The blinds had been drawn. The room was dark except for narrow slants of thin afternoon light squeezing through the closed louvers.

“Ferly?”

“
Madame le juge
, your star witness’s sleeping.”

“There’s nothing wrong with him?”

“Nothing that sleep can’t repair. Lots and lots of sleep.”

“I need to talk to him, doctor.”

“I don’t want him woken up.”