A Devil in Every Grape
by Patrick Hilyer
Prologue
It’s just before dawn, and the lights are out in this wing of the hospital. Urged on by a devil, the young man gropes his way through the darkness, a room key clutched in one shaky hand, two syringes in the other. He pushes his devil away, unlocks the door and enters. In the dim light that filters through the window’s metal grill he can see her, asleep on the bed: his girl, his beautiful girl. The girl who murdered their child.
In her dream there are devils too; and there, amid a chorus of hellish cries, she hears his voice calling her.
‘Marguerite?’
She feels the touch of his cold hand on hers.
‘Is that you mon cheri?’
He has found her at last. He will save her, take her away from this place. She’s no longer scared, not even of death. She loves him, and he loves her.
‘It’s me cherie,’ he replies.
The drug is still with her, in her blood, in her brain. Her memories carry her back to the dirty backstreet where they first met, to the moment when their hands first touched. He was so gentle then, so kind. Does he remember?
‘We have to go now.’
She recalls the public gardens where they would meet every evening, smells the springtime blossom.
‘Come on!’
He tries to lift her, but she won’t move. She must be crazy. His devil steps into the silence and urges him to do it – quickly.
He switches on the bedside lamp.
Slowly she sits up in bed and opens her arms, palms up. ‘The devil!’ she gasps. ‘Can you see his burning eyes?’
The tourniquet tightens round her upper arm. Go on, save her, his devil says.
‘O God, help me, please,’ she cries as the needle slides into her soft flesh.
He turns away from her and injects his own arm with the second needle.
She’s delirious. ‘I can see the angels,’ she says.
He reaches out to embrace her.
‘Your hands!’ she cries, ‘So stained with blood!’
She’s finished, says the devil, leaving the room.
‘Saved,’ the young man says.
She falls back gently against the white pillow; he slips down onto the cold tiles.
The alarm bell rings. The lights come on.
1
The Dark Forest
I suppose I’m an old-fashioned kind of girl.
Okay, so I’m not a girl anymore. I may still feel twenty-two, but I only have to look in the mirror to remind myself that a quarter of a century has passed since I came to Saint-Emilion. Still, all those years spent turning grapes into wine haven’t been too unkind; like my 1995s, I think I’ve aged fairly well.
So, not old, but definitely old-fashioned; for me, the opera should be all gorgeous frocks, flamboyant scenery and men in tights. Not that I was complaining: I hadn’t paid for the tickets after all. But a modern adaptation of Gounod’s Faust set in the juvenile wing of a psychiatric hospital just wasn’t my cup of tea. Hospitals are among the few things I really dislike – along with snakes, guns, early morning confrontations, goodbyes, pruning my vines… Okay, so there are lots of things I dislike, but not many I dislike more than hospitals.
The music, however, was sublime, and by portraying Mephistopheles as a figment of Faust’s drug-addled mind, the scary-looking baritone had given a very convincing devil. I shuddered, recalling his dark, gaunt features, blood-red eyes and the spike of crimson hair that crowned his sallow shaven head.
I empathised with Faust; there was a time when I had my own demons to cope with. One in particular, whom I called my evil gremlin, would never leave me alone. But strangely, after being shot in the neck I haven’t heard from him since. Now I talk to my Jack Russell terrier instead. He doesn’t talk back.
Of course, I empathised most strongly with the poor girl, Marguerite. I never did have children of my own; and now, halfway down time’s one-way street, I’ve accepted that I never will. A couple of years ago I resolved to try to help the young people around me, knowing that there are more than enough children in the world. Knowing is one thing; feeling is quite another.
I was delighted with the venue for our après-concert dinner; my companion had brought me to Bordeaux’s best – well, second-best – restaurant. So far, I was enjoying my date with Police Captain Pierre Lefèvre.
The waiter served our drinks and we toasted each other’s health. Lefèvre took a sip of his kir royal then looked at me, smiling.
‘Thank you, Jeanne. And sorry for…you know.’
I understood the apology but he had no need to thank me. ‘No, thank you. You saved my life remember?’
He eyed the fizzy, pink contents of his fluted glass. ‘Oh, not really. You made sure that everything worked out fine.’
‘But if you hadn’t turned up when you did––’
‘––then we wouldn’t have made the drugs haul, I wouldn’t have got a promotion, and we wouldn’t be here now enjoying these incredibly expensive aperitifs.’
Should I have offered to go Dutch? Oh please, I thought, don’t let him be a cheapskate.
‘Pride comes before a fall,’ I said, teasing.
His face darkened. ‘You know, in my line of work that’s not an expression we like to use.’
Thankfully I’d only been on the receiving end of a pistol barrel once in my life, but for Captain Lefèvre gun crime was frequent hazard.
‘No, sorry.’ I raised my glass. ‘Let’s drink to your success.’
The smile returned. ‘And to yours, too, Jeanne.’
Now how the hell did he know about that?
We were each given an enormous menu, and I’d barely begun to peruse the list of delicious-sounding hors d’oeuvres when Lefèvre’s phone buzzed.
‘Let me take this call, then you can tell me how terrible the opera was.’
He picked-up, gave his name. His expression said bad news.
‘Where? … In a what? … Okay, I’ll be there as soon as I–– … No, I’m in the city … What’s the ad––? … But that’s in the Dordogne, isn’t it? … No, of course not, I can be there within the hour … No, he’s still on vacation…’
He closed the flap of the phone and frowned. ‘I’m sorry, Jeanne.’
‘What is it?’
‘Something’s come up. I have to go.’
‘But you haven’t eaten—’
‘A body has been found, north of Libourne.’
Adrenalin replaced the empty feeling in my stomach.
‘Oh, I see. Well, of course. I understand.’
He’d already put on his jacket and waved a twenty euro note to signal for the bill. I stood up and picked up my handbag. Lefèvre flashed his police ID card at the waiter, mumbled his excuses and left the bank note on the man’s tray. As we made our way to the door, Lefèvre related some of the scant details he’d been given by his commandant.
‘A winemaker has been found dead in one of his vats, Jeanne. It doesn’t look like an accident.’
For a moment I thought: my goodness, how exciting – then told myself to calm down.
‘Oh, dear. Can you drop me at Fontloube on the way?’
He stopped on the pavement outside and turned to me.
‘Er, there’s not enough time. Perhaps you could come with me? I might need your expertise.’
Again, I felt my pulse quicken. Calm down, Jeanne, calm down.
‘Well, of course, if you think I could help – if I won’t be in the way…’
He was already striding towards the car with his phone tucked under his chin.
‘Wait for me,’ I called, running after him across the boulevard.
He stopped, put the phone to his chest. ‘Do you know a winery called Château Lacasse? In Les Eglisottes?’
‘Never heard of it.’
‘Good. Come on then, let’s go.’
In less than half an hour we had crossed the vast span of the Aquitaine Bridge and were cruising along the Transeuropéenne past Libourne. Lefèvre drove too fast. I risked a glance at the speedometer, but had to look away when the needle crept past two o’clock. He was a cautious driver though, and he didn’t scare me too much. If anything, I was disappointed by the lack of a blue flashing light to stick on the roof of the anonymous-looking Peugeot.
When we came off the autoroute at Saint-Médart the sun was behind us. Long shadows, cast by the road signs, stretched themselves across the tarmac of the exit road. Summer had passed so quickly.
After crossing the river Isle we left behind the vine-dominated landscape of the Libournais and turned onto a narrow wooded lane. The darkness of dusk replaced the sunshine and, once again, my mood darkened too.
I know what it is that I’ve got. There’s a name for it, of course. I just don’t like to talk about it, that’s all, and I refuse to let it define me. Here’s a clue: did you hear the one about the manic depressive penguin? He had the misfortune to bump into a bipolar bear…
Anyway, the lithium tablets didn’t agree with me and I stopped taking them years ago. Since then, as long as I keep a check on my manic flights of fancy and surround myself with those I love – especially when the black thoughts threaten to engulf me – I get along just fine. And after the fairly manic series of events that led to my getting shot, I’d managed to stay away from anything, well, too exciting. Until then, that is; until the phone call that put paid to my romantic evening with the captain. The grape harvest was almost upon me, I’d been elected to the hallowed Saint Emilion brotherhood called La Jurade and now I was racing towards the scene of a gruesome-sounding murder. Oh well, I said to myself, just remember two things Jeanne: remain calm and keep smiling.
I was still trying to smile when I began to wonder if Lefèvre had taken a wrong turn. Once, when I was five or six years old, my mother and I got separated in the crowded market place in front of Marks & Spencer. She’d always told me to ask a policeman if ever I got lost, and – luckily for me – I found one. The friendly, blue-uniformed man reunited us, and I’ve trusted policemen ever since. But I was beginning to suspect that this one had no idea where the hell he was going.
‘Do you know this area,’ I asked, peering out at the dark forest.
My driver slowed to navigate a crossroads.
‘Er, yes, yes I do. My father used to fish here when I was a boy, and then when I was about fifteen or sixteen we would camp here near the lake, you know, with friends from school.’
I pictured the captain as a boy scout; it wasn’t difficult.
‘I never knew there was such a wilderness right on the doorstep.’
‘No, it’s pretty remote. These woods are part of the great forest of Le Double – hundreds of square kilometres of trees that go from here right across the Perigord. Good hunting, too – wild boar, roe deer, some muntjac.’
My thoughts turned to the captain dressed in huntin’, shootin’ and fishin’ gear – a not unpleasant mental image…
He took his phone from an inside pocket, flipped it open and pressed a couple of buttons.
‘Okay, Theroux, I’m in the woods a kilometre-or-so past the junction … On the left or the right? … Fine.’
Click.
He looked across at me. ‘But it’s not all trees; there is one huge vineyard in this section. Ah, and here it is.’
The car slowed. There, on a rough verge, was a small hand-painted sign:
Propriété Privée – Défense de Pénétrer
Keep out – not the usual advertisement that wineries put up to entice the passing trade.
We drove through the open gates, followed a winding, potholed drive, and there before us was the château, silhouetted against the orange glow of the western sky. With all its lights ablaze, the house resembled an enormous Halloween lantern. The windows in the tops of the two towers glowered at us threateningly; below them a row of stone mullions on the ground floor formed a malevolent grimace. If a house could speak, this one was saying, ‘turn round and go home’. Had I been on my own I’d have done just that because, although I was curious about the owner’s demise, I was far from prepared for what we were about to discover.
Lefèvre parked the car between a couple of Police Nationale vehicles: a Traffic and a 308. There were several other cars on the drive including a Libourne ambulance and an expensive-looking Mercedes. I could see that quite a crowd had assembled indoors. The lights were on in the winery too, but first we visited the house.
I followed the captain up a half flight of stone steps and went in. By the door a uniformed officer took notes from a seated man who appeared to be answering a series of tedious-sounding questions. Between the man’s muttered responses, he would shake his head slowly, take a deep breath and exhale a loud sigh.
In the centre of the room a huddle of people, their expressions mirroring one another’s concern, were talking in hushed, anxious tones. Lefèvre joined them, shook hands and nodded his assent to the information he received. The seated man was helped to his feet and escorted past me towards the front door. His face was deathly pale, and he looked oddly out of place. Oblivious to my presence, he exited the house unnoticed by the others.
I took in my surroundings. The room, which must once have been an impressive grand entrance hall, was now almost empty of furniture or ornament. The tiles were grimy, the windows uncleaned, the cobwebs in the high ceiling’s baroque mouldings unswept. Empty milk cartons and takeaway pizza boxes spilled from a collection of over-stuffed bin bags in one corner.
I wandered unchallenged though an open door and into a small study. On a leather-topped desk there sat a computer screen and a small stack of paperwork, in neat-and-tidy contrast to the grubby disarray outside. The room contrasted, too, with my own study where groaning filing cabinets, sagging shelves and all untrod areas of floor space were home to an ever increasing deluge of paperwork. Apart from the desk, the screen and a tall louvered cabinet that stood against the back wall, this office was bare.
‘Come on, Jeanne, we need you in the vat house.’
The captain appeared in the doorway, glanced at the sparse contents of the little room and disappeared again. I hurried after him and we went outside, watched by the nervous delegation of officials in the hallway.
‘Madame Coleville, the mayor,’ he explained as we wove our way through the parked cars towards the winery buildings, ‘and her deputies, her secretary, a journalist from The Southwest, the deceased’s doctor and a few other hangers-on. Luckily not too many of them have––’
He stopped himself as we arrived at the open door of the winery. As a winemaker I couldn’t help feeling a pang of jealousy as we stood there gazing at the rows of shiny stainless steel wine vats, heat exchangers and other pristine items of expensive equipment – couldn’t help it, that is, until I looked up at the rim of the furthest vat. A red liquid appeared to have burst forth from the vat’s top hatch, spilled down its polished steel sides and congealed there in long, russet-coloured rivulets; not wine, but blood.
‘God, I wish Lieutenant Dauzac was here,’ Lefèvre said.
We walked to the far end of the winery and were greeted be two men wearing white body suits, and another man – younger than the captain but dressed, like him, for an evening out. He was introduced to me as Docteur Francois Wissant, the medical examiner.
‘Got yourself a new lieutenant then Lefèvre?’ the man said, turning his smile on me.
‘You know full-well that he’s on vacation, Wissant. This is Madame Valeix – she has offered to advise us on the… retrieval.’
I had no idea what he meant.
‘Ah, yes. You’ve been briefed by the locals then? It’s full to the brim, you know.’
‘Yes, Francois. Two questions: how and how long ago?’
‘A single clean cut to the throat. It looks as though he was still alive when he was taken up there. There’s not much blood on the outside of the tank, so we assume that he bled to death inside. As for the time of death, I can’t tell you yet. More than a week, that’s for sure.’
‘May I?’ the captain said, pointing at the high walkway that ran the length of the winery, just above the level of the tops of the vats. The white-suited men, who were collecting fibres from the steps that led up to this metal scaffold, moved aside to let him pass.
Wissant tossed him a pair of latex gloves. ‘Be my guest, Pierre, but put these on and try not to touch anything you shouldn’t.’ He turned to me and added, ‘Perhaps you should move back a little, Madame, in case anything…falls.’
I took two steps back and watched as the captain climbed the scaffold and opened the metal lid of the vat. His expression barely changed, but he recoiled at the sight of whatever floated on the surface of the vat’s contents. He lowered the lid again carefully and a putrid aroma, the like of which I’ve never smelled in any winery, preceded him as he descended the stairway.
‘Not a bad job, eh?’ Wissant said, stony-faced.
‘Poor bastard.’
The men stood there silently, staring up at the lid of the vat, as though waiting for the stench to go away.
‘Why you, anyway Pierre?’
‘What, you mean apart from the fact that it’s still the holidays and half the boys are away?’ He released his grip on the metal banister and folded his arms. ‘No, they think that there might be a drugs connection. It’s such a… professional job.’
‘And is it?’
‘Do you mean is it drugs related or a professional hit?’
The man shrugged. ‘Either.’
‘I don’t know,’ Lefevre said quietly, ‘I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s so… medieval.’
Wissant sighed. ‘Murder’s murder, my friend. Murder is murder.’
Not for the first time that evening, I wondered why I was there; Lefevre had the answer.
‘Ah, yes, Jeanne. It seems that the mayor would like Monsieur Rougeard – the dead man in this tank – to be tucked up safely in the morgue before bedtime. But – and here I agree with my colleague – we can’t just pluck him out like a goldfish from a bowl. It would be the devil of a job, and these men would get their lovely white clothes dirty. And I don’t want any accidents. What we’d like to do is drain the vat, collect a sample of the… liquid, and then retrieve Monsieur via this little door here.’ He finished by indicating the small portal at the base of the vat.
‘How… big is he?’ I asked.
‘We are told that Monsieur Rougeard was a slight man, and what I have just seen would confirm that.’
‘Then I’m sure he’ll fit through the hatch.’
‘Good, good,’ Lefèvre said, gently leading me back towards the door. ‘And you can drain the tank so that we can open it? You won’t have to… see anything, believe me.’
I nodded.
‘Okay, let’s get a breath of fresh air first.’
Leaning against the side panel of the Renault Traffic were two uniformed officers. They whispered to each other like naughty schoolboys, their private conversation punctuated by suppressed laughter as they puffed on their cigarettes. As we approached I caught a few words and understood the source of their mirth.
‘…oh, my God, yes. It’ll have lots of body, that’s for sure.’
‘Yes, imagine the health warning on the label: this product may contain traces of the winemaker…’
They noticed us and both stood to attention.
‘Bonsoir, Capitaine,’ they said in unison, almost poker-faced.
Lefevre introduced me. ‘Messieurs, this is Madame Valeix, our expert witness.’ The younger man was still desperately trying not to laugh. ‘In order to remove the body we need to empty the wine into the drain; she will show you how.’
The older of the two policemen furrowed his brow. ‘But chief, that’s such a waste. Couldn’t we save it for the brigade Christmas banquet?’
The young guard looked as though he was going to burst.
Lefevre turned to me and asked, ‘Madame Valeix, how much wine is in that vat?’
I didn’t need to think about it. ‘Sixty-three hectos – about eight thousand bottles.’
Lefevre made a calculation in his head, silently mouthing the sum, before addressing his subordinates. ‘A coffee spoon, messieurs,’ he said.
‘What?’ the older man asked.
‘Monsieur Rougeard bled to death in that vat of wine. In his final moments he endured a most terrifying experience. So, that “wine”, boys, contains at least six litres of blood plus several other bodily fluids and waste products. Now, speaking as a detective, I would say that for every bottle of wine in there there’s about a coffee spoon full of blood, piss and faeces mixed in. Would you really want to drink that?’
The men nodded; point taken. The younger man grimaced.
‘Sorry about that Jeanne. L’humour macabre. It’s what keeps us sane.’
We went back inside, and I asked the guards to fetch a wide-bore hose from the opposite end of the vat house. They ambled off, still talking with voices lowered. ‘I think I’ve tasted wine like that,’ said one. ‘Yeah, they serve it in the station canteen,’ said the other.
‘Quickly!’ Lefevre called to them, ‘we don’t have all night.’ He sighed as we watched them fumbling with the tubing. ‘Nearly fifteen years of service and only three stripes between them. Good men though…’
‘I’m impressed with your mental arithmetic, Capitaine.’
‘What? Oh that. I just made it up. Go on, show them what to do, then we’ll go and have a quick chat with the neighbour before I take you home.’
After emptying the vat I was invited to go and wait in the house. I don’t know why but I’d asked if I could stay. It’s not that I wanted to see the body, particularly; I just wanted to remain connected with the events. Or perhaps I was simply drawn to the captain, reluctant to leave him.
Apart from the time when I glimpsed my own mortality at the wrong end of a gun, I’ve witnessed death three times in my life. I’ve buried three men. Three men whom I loved, in different ways, and still mourn: my young husband, Olivier, who was killed in a road accident delivering his Saint Emilion wine; his father, Henri, who died of a broken heart; and my late-in-life lover, Andrew, whose extended stay at my vineyard changed my life forever and marked the final chapter of his. I’m no stranger to death, you see, and the blood-stained vat in Rougeard’s winery held no fears for my toughened sensibilities.
Or so I thought…
Monsieur Rougeard – his hands tied in front, a black, gaping gash across his neck that went from one ear to the other – lay in a pool of blood and wasted wine on the tiled floor. The most striking thing about the body wasn’t the slashed throat, nor the puffy, decomposing features, nor the eyes which protruded like those of a poached fish. No, the most obvious thing about Monsieur Rougeard’s corpse was its colour. Every square inch of exposed skin, from his bald head to his bare forearms, bound wrists and hands, was stained a dark shade of crimson. After marinating for God-knows how long in a vat of Bordeaux wine, Monsieur Rougeard had turned red.
When the smell – and the rising feeling of sickening horror in my stomach – became unbearable I fled from the vat-house, thankful that I hadn’t eaten anything that evening.
Reaching Rougeard’s neighbour’s house entailed a five-minute drive back to the road then an immediate left turn onto a newly laid gravel drive. Unlike Rougeard’s place, this property welcomed visitors with a colourful sign that advertised – in French, German and English – the property’s award-winning wines.
The door was answered by the quiet man whom I’d seen being questioned earlier that evening. Lefèvre spoke English to him when he introduced himself, and the man invited us into the hallway.
‘This is Madame Valeix,’ Lefèvre said. ‘She is assisting us because, like Monsieur Rougeard, she is a winemaker.’
‘As I am too, Monsieur,’ the man said.
‘Yes, of course. And, like you, she is also English.’
‘John Clare,’ the other man said to me.
We shook hands.
‘Jeanne. Jeanne Valeix.’
‘Would you like some tea?’
I wanted to ask for something stronger but accepted his offer politely. We followed him into a large kitchen which, like the entrance hall, was decorated with impeccable taste and flamboyant style: an expensive renovation, no doubt.
Lefèvre was clearly impressed. ‘You have a beautiful home, Monsieur Clare.’
‘Thank you, Captain. Yes, it was hard work to get it like this, though. The kitchen was being used as a piggery when we bought the place.’
The policeman ran his hand along the zinc counter top. ‘We?’
‘Yes. My partner and I. But I live alone now – please do sit down.’
We sat at a solid oak refectory table while Clare busied himself with making the tea, silently.
After passing us our cups he said, ‘I still just can’t believe it.’
‘Can’t believe what, Monsieur?’
Clare sat down. He stared at the captain, taking shallow breaths, then took a sip of tea. ‘I’m not – was not – a friend of Rougeard’s. Everyone knows that. Even before we came here, before we’d signed the papers, divided the vineyard, I knew he was going to be trouble. But Nicky was struck on this place––’
‘Your partner,’ Lefèvre interrupted.
‘Yes. Anyway, from day one he was trouble. We never got on, and I can’t think of a single person round here who liked him any more than I did. But I can’t imagine anyone doing that.’
He nodded in the vague direction of his neighbour’s property, raised his teacup with a trembling hand, then put it back down again.
‘Monsieur Clare, could you to tell me exactly how you discovered Monsieur Rougeard’s body.’
‘I…’ he began, then turned to me. ‘Look, I’m sorry, but why are you here? I mean, he speaks English, so––’
‘As I said, Madame Valeix is a winemaker like you. She is helping us with the technical details. If you’d rather she waited outside…’
‘No, of course not. I’m sorry, my nerves are a bit frayed.’
‘I know what you mean,’ I said, gently touching the man’s sleeve. I wasn’t lying.
‘No, honestly, you have no idea…’ He sipped his tea, shifted in his chair. ‘So, where are your vines then, Madame…?’
‘Jeanne. Please, call me Jeanne.’
He smiled.
‘Jeanne.’
‘I have a vineyard in Saint Emilion.’
‘Wow, I’m impressed. Have you got a vat house like Rougeard’s, then?’
‘No,’ I said, and drained my cup. ‘My winery is far more modest, I’m afraid.’
‘Mine too. I was amazed when I saw all the kit he’d got. I’d heard about it, but until this afternoon I hadn’t been into the winery since we moved here.’
Lefèvre cut in. ‘So why the visit today, Monsieur?’
‘We start the harvest next week. I imagine that you’re busy preparing too aren’t you, Jeanne? Got your team lined up?’
‘I’m trying to organise everything,’ I said, ‘looks like we’ll start around the 10th.’
‘Me too.’ He turned to Lefèvre. ‘In previous years the same team of grape pickers has harvested my crop as well as Rougeard’s. This year no-one has heard from him, and as his vines cover about six hectares and I only have two, there is a chance that my pickers might let me down – you know, take on a bigger contract. So I drove over there this afternoon—’
‘At what time?’ Lefèvre cut in.
‘At six o’clock – the traffic news had just come on the radio.’
I looked at Clare; he seemed reluctant to relate the rest of the tale.
‘And when you arrived at the Rougeard place…’ Lefèvre prompted.
‘When I got to the château his Mercedes was there on the drive and the door to the winery was open. I expected him to appear as soon as I pulled up; he didn’t, so I went inside. I noticed the blood… climbed up to the top of the vat… opened the hatch…’
He stood up and took his cup over to the sink. When he turned round his face was ashen.
‘He… bobbed up – that’s the only way I can describe it. You know, not floated up, he bobbed up out of the wine. His head and shoulders came up out of the hatch for Christ’s sake! I slammed the lid down and felt it bump the top of his head. Jesus the smell…’
He looked down at his hands which, though linked together, were still trembling.
‘…and the colour, the colour!’
‘Thank you, Monsieur,’ Lefèvre said, standing up. ‘You get some rest now. I may return tomorrow, if that would not inconvenience you?’
‘No, not at all. I have no plans. I’ll be here all day.’
‘Goodnight then, Monsieur Clare.’
I said goodnight too, adding, ‘John, if your pickers do let you down then my team might be interested. They usually go up to Chinon after picking my vines, but they might be available to help you before going north.’
‘Thank you, Jeanne. Yes, that would be good to know. I don’t know what I’m going to do otherwise.’
‘I’ll telephone tomorrow – they’re a motley bunch but they do a good job.’
‘Thank you,’ he said again.
*
We didn’t talk much on the way back to my place. Lefèvre seemed preoccupied with his thoughts. Once we were out of the woods he selected a CD and slipped the disk into the car’s stereo. Joni Mitchell’s lilting soprano drifted though the dark space inside the car.
You’re in my blood, you’re like holy wine,
You taste so bitter, taste so sweet,
Oh, I could drink a case of you,
And still be on my feet.
I’d read somewhere – but never fully understood – that murder is an aphrodisiac. It hadn’t been a romantic evening, but might it be romantic goodnight? I listened to the song’s lyrics and, despite the horrors that I’d encountered at Lacasse, began to fantasise about how the evening might end – the tentative kiss, the invitation to stay, the adrenal rush of excitement… I looked at the man’s rugged features and thought: I could drink a case of you, Lefèvre. But I’m not sure I’d still be on my feet. On my back, perhaps…
Well, one day, maybe. Not tonight though.
We arrived at the gates of Château Fontloube, my home. Lefèvre stopped the car and yanked the handbrake.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘What for – the evening or the other thing?’
‘Both. Look Jeanne, we did everything we could back in March you know.’
‘Yes, I know. And at least he’s in prison. But only ten years, Pierre?’
‘The murder charge was never going to stick, not with the lack of evidence. Don’t worry, he’s locked away in La Santé, and when he gets out we should be able to get him deported. Anyway, you’ll never have to be involved in all that stuff again.’
Bad memories, like murderers, are best kept locked away. But sometimes they escape. Six months had gone by since the trial, but suddenly I was there again, in the courtroom, fascinated and horrified by the cold indifference of the man in the dock, the man I know killed Aimée Loroux.
A tear settled on my lower eyelid and I tried desperately to blink it away, not wanting the captain to see me cry. He opened the door an inch and the car filled with a yellow light. The tear trickled down my cheek and soaked into the seatbelt. When he looked at me I embraced him, resting my head on the padded shoulder of his jacket.
‘How is it that a man like that can get away with murder?’ I sobbed.
We sat there for a moment, staring through the windscreen at the wisteria-clad stonework of the house.
‘I’m not an expert on the justice system, Jeanne; I’m just a cop. You win some, you loose some. You just have to try to make sure that the next one doesn’t get away with it.’
I dried my face with my handkerchief. ‘You think you can catch whoever murdered Rougeard, then?’
‘Yes, I believe we can. And when we do catch him he’ll wish that he’d sold his soul to the devil.’
