The Nostradamus Prophecies (30 page)

Gavril started to weep. He hadn’t consciously wept since childhood and now it was as if all the misery and hurt that he had stored up in himself since that time had finally overflowed its borders. ‘Please let me go. Please.’

Bale hitched the gelding to the rope-end tied around Gavril’s feet. ‘I can’t do that. You’ve seen me. You’ve had a chance to mark me down. And you’ve got a grudge. I never let men go who hold grudges against me.’

‘But I don’t have any grudge.’

‘Your leg. I gouged your leg with my knife. Back in Gourdon.’

‘I’ve already forgotten that.’

‘So you forgive me? That’s kind. Why did you come after me then?’ Bale had untied Gavril’s horse from the hitching post and was leading it around in front of him. Now he unhitched the lose rope-end attaching Gavril’s hands and knotted it to the pommel of Gavril’s saddle.

‘What are you doing?’

Bale tested both knots. Gavril was arching his neck backwards to see what was happening behind him. Bale walked to the edge of the nearby marsh and cut himself a handful of dried reeds, about three feet in length. He cut another, single reed and looped it into a noose. Then he knotted the ends of the reeds together, until they took on the shape of a besom head. One of the horses began to snort.

‘Did you say something just then?’

‘I asked what you are doing?’ The words came out as a sob.

‘I’m making myself a whip. Out of these reeds. Do-it-yourself.’

‘My God. Are you going to whip me?’

‘Whip you? No. I’m going to whip the horses.’

Gavril started to howl. It was not a noise he had ever made before in his life. But it was a noise Bale was familiar with. He had heard it time and again when people felt themselves to be in extremis . It was as if they were trying to block off reality with sound.

‘An ancestor of mine was hung, drawn and quartered once. Way back in medieval times. Do you know what that involves, Gavril?’

Gavril was shrieking now.

‘It involves being put on a gibbet and having a noose placed around your neck. Then you are pulled up, sometimes as high as fifty feet and displayed to the crowd. Surprisingly, this rarely kills you.’

Gavril was hammering his head against the earth. The horses were becoming restless with the unexpected noise and one of them even walked a few paces, tightening the tension on Gavril’s rope.

‘Then you are let down and the noose is loosened. You are revived. The executioner now takes a hooked implement – a little like a corkscrew – and makes an incision in your stomach. Here.’ He bent down, turned Gavril partially over and prodded him just above the appendix. ‘By this time you are half strangled, but still able to appreciate what is happening. The hooked implement is then inserted in your stomach sack and your intestines are pulled out like a steaming string of sausages. The crowd is cheering by this time, grateful, no doubt, that it is not all happening to them.’

Gavril had fallen silent. His breath was coming in tubercular gulps, as if he had the whooping cough.

‘Then, just before you are dead, they attach you to four horses, placed in each quarter of the square like compass points. North, south, east and west. This is a symbolical punishment, as I’m sure you’ll understand.’

‘What do you want?’ Gavril’s voice came out unexpectedly clearly, as if he had come to a formal decision and intended to fulfil its contractual requirements in as serious a manner as possible.

‘Excellent. I knew you’d see reason. I’ll tell you what. I won’t hang you. And I won’t draw out your intestines. I’ve got nothing against you personally. You’ve doubtless led a hard life. A bit of a struggle. I don’t want to make your death an unnecessarily painful or a lingering one. And I won’t quarter you. I’m two horses short for that sort of flourish.’ Bale patted Gavril on the head. ‘So I shall halve you instead. Unless you talk, of course. I should tell you that these horses are tired. The halving may prove a bit of a strain for them. But it’s extraordinary what a little whipping can do to galvanise a weary animal.’

‘What is it? What do you want to know?’

‘Well, I’ll tell you. I want to know where Sabir and… Yola was it? Was that the name you said? I want to know where they are hiding.’

‘But I don’t know.’

‘Yes you do. They’ll be in a place Yola knows. A place she and her family may have used before, while they were visiting here. A place known to you gypsies but which no one else will think of. To encourage your creative juices, I am going to stir these horses up a little. Give them a taste of the lash.’

‘No. No. I do know of such a place.’

‘Really? That was quick.’

‘Yes. Yes it was. Yola’s father won it in a card game. They always used to stay there. But I forgot about it. I didn’t need to think about it.’

‘Where is this place?’

‘Will you let me go if I tell you?’

Bale gave the gelding a taste of the switch. The gelding jerked forward, tightening the rope. The second horse was tempted to follow in the same direction but Bale shushed it away.

‘Aiee. Stop it! Stop it!’

‘Where is this place?

‘It’s called the Maset de la Marais.’

‘What Marais?’

‘The Marais de la Sigoulette.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Please. Make them stop.’

Bale gentled the horses. ‘You were saying?’

‘Just off the D85. The one that runs beside the Departmental Park. I can’t remember what it’s called. It’s the small park, though. Before you get to the salt workings.’

‘Can you read a map?’

‘Yes. Yes.’

‘Then point it out for me.’ Bale crouched down beside Gavril. He opened a local map. ‘The scale on this is one centimetre for every 500 metres. That means that the house should be marked on it. It better be, for your sake.’

‘Can you untie me?’

‘No.’

Gavril started sobbing again.

‘Just a moment. I’ll fire up the horses.’

‘No. Please. I can see it. It’s marked. There.’ He indicated with his elbow.

‘Any other houses nearby?’

‘I’ve never been there. I only heard about it. Everybody heard about it. They say Yola’s father must have cheated to have won the right to use it off Dadul Gavriloff.’

Bale stood up. ‘I’m not interested in folk tales. Have you anything else to tell me?’

Gavril turned his head back towards the ground.

Bale strolled a few yards until he found a twenty-pound rock. He hefted it under his arm and returned to Gavril’s side. ‘This is how you died. You fell off your horse, with your foot twisted inside your stirrup and you smashed your face against this rock.’

Gavril half turned his head to see what Bale was doing.

Bale brought the rock down on Gavril’s face. He hesitated, wondering whether to do it a second time, but the cerebrospinal fluid was already leaking out through Gavril’s nose – if he wasn’t dead, he was certainly dying.

Pointless spoiling the set-up. He placed the rock carefully at the side of the track.

He unlooped the lariat and dragged Gavril by one foot towards his horse. Taking Gavril’s left foot in his hand, he twisted it around in the stirrup, until the foot was inextricably caught, leaving Gavril half trailing along the ground. Then he retied the lariat to the pommel.

The horse had begun grazing again by this time, calmed by the methodical pace with which Bale had conducted his chores. Bale rubbed its ears.

Then he mounted his own horse and rode away.

Calque looked around the Place de l’Eglise. He checked out the cafes and the shopfronts and the scattered benches. ‘So this is where it happened?’

‘Yes, Sir.’ The auxiliary motorcycle gendarme had just been made aware that he was being asked these questions as part of an ongoing murder inquiry. His face had instantly taken on a more serious cast, as though he were being quizzed about the likely shortcomings of his family’s health insurance cover.

‘And you were first on the scene?’

‘Yes, Sir. My colleague and I.’

‘And what did you see?’

‘Very little, Sir. The gypsies were impeding us on purpose.’

‘Typical.’ Macron glared around the square. ‘I’m surprised they get any tourists at all in this place. Look at the filth around here.’

Calque cleared his throat – it was a habit he had recently got into whenever Macron made one of his more offensive public observations. After all, he couldn’t actually tie the man’s bootlaces for him, could he? Couldn’t tell him what – or what not – to think? ‘What did you deduce, then, Officer? If you couldn’t see.’

‘That the perpetrator, La Roupie, had thrown his knife at the victim, Angelo, catching him in the eye.’

‘Alexi Angelo?’

‘No, Sir. Stefan Angelo. There was no Alexi involved, as far as I understand it.’

‘Is Monsieur Angelo pressing charges?’

‘No, Sir. These people never press charges against one of their own. They sort out their differences privately.’

‘And of course Monsieur Angelo was no longer carrying his own knife when you went to his assistance? Someone had divested him of it? Am I right?’

‘I don’t know that for certain, Sir. But yes. In all probability he’d palmed it off on to someone else.’

‘I told you.’ Macron stabbed his finger in the air. ‘I told you this wouldn’t get us anywhere.’

Calque glanced across at the church. ‘Anything else of note?’

‘What do you mean, Sir?’

‘I mean did anyone notice anything else happening at the same time? Thefts? A chase? Another attack? Could it have been a diversion, in other words?’

‘No, Sir. Nothing of that sort was brought to my attention.’

‘Very well. You can go.’

The gendarme saluted and returned to his motorcycle.

‘Shall we go and interview Angelo? He’ll still be in hospital.’

‘No. No need. It would be an irrelevance.’

Macron made a face. ‘How do you work that one out?’ He seemed disappointed that his initiative over La Roupie had led them to a dead end.

But Calque’s attention was elsewhere. ‘What is actually going on here?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir?’

‘Why are all these gypsies here? Now? This minute? What is happening? Why have they come? It’s not another wedding, is it?’

Macron looked in amazement at his chief. Well. The man was a Parisian. But still. ‘It’s the annual festival of Sainte Sara, Sir. It takes place tomorrow. The gypsies follow the statue of their patron saint down to the sea, where it is immersed in the water. It’s been going on for decades.’

‘The statue? What statue?’

‘It’s in the church, Sir. It’s…’ Macron hesitated.

‘Is it black, Macron? Is the statue black?’

Macron breathed deeply through his nose. Here we go again, he thought. He’s going to scold me for being an idiot. Why can’t I think laterally, like him? Why do I always go everywhere in straight lines? ‘I was going to mention it, Sir. I was going to make that suggestion. That we look at the statue. See if it has any connection with what Sabir is after.’

Calque was already striding towards the church. ‘Good thinking, Macron. I’m so glad that I can count on you. Two minds are always better than one, are they not?’

The crypt was packed with acolytes. Candle smoke and incense were thick in the air and there was the continual murmur of people at prayer.

Calque made a quick appraisal. ‘Over there. Security. Yes? The one in plain clothes? With the name tag?’

‘I should think so, Sir. I’ll go and check.’

Calque moved to the side of the crypt, while Macron picked his way forwards through the crowd. In the dim, flickering light, Sainte Sara seemed almost disembodied beneath her many layers of clothing. It was next to impossible that anyone could get to her under these conditions. A hundred pairs of eyes were fixed on her at all times. The security guard was a massive irrelevance. If someone had the temerity to run across and molest her, they would probably be lynched.

Macron was returning with the security guard. Calque exchanged identity details and then motioned the man up the stairs towards the main body of the church.

‘I can’t leave. We’ll have to stay in here.’

‘Don’t you ever leave?’

‘Not during the festival. We take four-hour shifts. Pari passu .’

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Two, Sir. One on, one off. With a standby in case of illness.’

‘Were you in here when the knifing occurred?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘What did you see?’

‘I didn’t see anything at all. I was down here in the crypt.’

‘What? Nothing at all? You didn’t go out in the square?’

‘More than my job’s worth, Sir. I stayed in here.’

‘And what about the congregation? Did they all stay?’

The security guard hesitated.

‘You’re not trying to tell me that with a near riot going on outside in the square, everybody simply stayed in here and kept on praying?’

‘No, Sir. Most of them went out.’

‘Most of them?’

‘Well. All of them.’

‘And you followed, of course?’

Silence.

Calque sighed. ‘Look here, Monsieur…’

‘Alberti.’

‘…Monsieur Alberti. I’m not criticising you. And I’m not here on behalf of your employers at the Town Council. What you say to me will not go any further.’

Alberti hesitated. Then he shrugged. ‘Okay. When the crypt emptied, I did go up for a short look-see. I stood right outside the church door so that no one could come past me, though. I thought it might be a matter for Security. I thought I ought to look.’

‘And you were right. It might very well have been a matter for Security. I would have done the same.’

Alberti didn’t seem convinced.

‘And when you came back. Still empty?’

Alberti blew out his cheeks.