Barbara Cleverly - Strange Images of Death

He looked around him to spot the remains. And there she was as Padraic had described her. A pile of largish pieces placed in a careful pyramid in the corner between the north and west walls. Joe walked over to take a closer look. Two small slippered feet poked out from the bottom of the heap and from the top there extended vertically one slender white arm, its clenched, beringed hand appearing to offer a pathetic gesture of defiance.

He approached, eyes scanning the thick layer of dust on the floor. He grunted in disappointment to see two or three different shoe patterns, all so scuffed as to be indistinguishable from each other. He paused on the fringe of the disturbed area and scanned the remains.

On a red silk kneeling cushion carefully placed centrally at the bottom of the small cairn was Aliénore’s head. The luxuriant gilded hair shorn by hammer blows, the nose smashed, the famous lips pounded into a gaping hole, none of her features remained intact. For a giddy moment Joe wrestled with a thought that had, he did believe, been seeded deliberately in him by the studied distribution of the remains. Celtic. The symbolism was connecting him with the head-hunting, head-worshipping Celts. But that was to do the Celts an injustice. The lopping off and triumphant display of an enemy’s head, if distasteful to a civilized man, was at least comprehensible. This vaunting, unreasoning destruction was beyond the realms of human understanding.

Joe felt his limbs begin to twitch with disgust and rage. He could contemplate and draw evidence from the bodies of the recently dead and remain stolidly calm, so why this overreaction to a piece of old stone?

He was being manipulated and had felt the pull on his strings, the pressure on his back, the opening of a path from the moment he arrived in this frightful place. The thought that pushed all others aside was that here, amongst a group of people who would all declare themselves dedicated to the creation of beauty, was concealed a soul who could take an obscene pleasure in destroying something more lovely than anything their hands were capable of producing. Surely such a soul would stand out like a block of black iron amongst these tinkling, golden, ephemeral but well-meaning daubers? A hornet amongst the butterflies?

Unsettled, Joe breathed in cautiously and wondered. The stink here was strong. And he wasn’t detecting lilies. Had the steward not been so firmly in control of his stomach as the experienced Joe and vomited in some dark corner? No. The man had survived four years of war. He would have recognized rotting flesh as easily as Joe and not been physically perturbed by it. But perhaps the flesh, wherever it was, had not yet begun to rot at the time de Pacy visited?

Joe followed his nose back to the tomb. His eye ran along the Latin engraving that encircled the three sides of the monument exposed to view. Hic iacet Hugus Silmontis , it read, under a swag of twining ivy, along the short west end facing the door, followed by armiger honoratus Provinciae along the long side. Four words completed the statement and acknowledged his wife: et Alienora, uxor sua was engraved across the short east end.

Dangling from a projecting curl of ivy was the source of the stench.

Marseille, Monday lunchtime

Commissaire Francis Jacquemin of the Paris Police Judiciaire, lean, attractive and gallantly moustached, was enjoying a rare moment of unbuttoned ease. Two buttons to be precise. It was as far as decorum would allow. He had released his waistcoat to this extent under cover of the voluminous table napkin that defended his white shirt from the unctuous saffron-coloured sauce of the dish he was just finishing.

He ran a finger round his starched collar to release a surge of body heat created by the spices and sighed. ‘Bliss! Utter bliss, my friend! Damned good idea to take ourselves off the hook and come out and celebrate. This is my first taste of bouillabaisse and-I’m sure you’re right-the best in Marseille. Nothing like this to be had in Paris!’ He took another sip of his chilled champagne.

‘All the same, I think you’re glad to be going back to the capital?’ his companion said carefully.

The men grinned. Each was quite aware that the Parisian’s departure was welcome on both sides. Inspector Audibert had been accommodating and polite when presented with the unrequested assistance of the big noise from the Paris PJ. Many would have objected. It was a fact that the authority of the Paris Brigade Criminelle ended with their geographical boundaries and technically Jacquemin had no jurisdiction whatsoever down here in the south. Only the local force had the authority to slip on the handcuffs and haul the miscreants off to court.

The criminal fraternity knew this too.

In his clean-up of the Paris underworld, the Commissaire had torn through the gangs formed with the release of men after the war. Modelling themselves on the vicious ‘Bande à Bonnot’ they’d rampaged through the streets, robbing and murdering with a callousness and skill acquired in four years of killing.

In the end, virtually wiped out by Jacquemin’s tenacity and his ruthless methods, they had succumbed. But one gang, more astute than the rest, had survived and moved on. Had moved south in fact. Had learned to steal fast motor cars and use them effectively to get away from the crime scene. And get to the next. They’d discovered that there were richer and easier pickings on the Riviera coast. After centuries of peace, the roving plunderers were back in business and based in Marseille.

Jacquemin the pitiless had pursued them.

Working under the aegis of the Marseille police, he had located, lured into a trap and confronted the gang in double quick time. He’d shot three of them dead and the rest had been scooped up by the Inspector’s force. Neither officer spoiled the occasion by mentioning the assistance they’d had from a local underworld boss who’d infiltrated the newcomers’ set-up and served them up on a plate.

The Commissaire and the Inspector were taking all the credit that was going and treating themselves to a celebratory lunch to close the case. The morning had been spent very agreeably dictating their experiences to a reporter from Le Petit Journal and offering their better profiles to his artist. A considerable triumph for both forces.

‘So, what now, sir?’ Inspector Audibert asked dutifully.

He received the answer he was hoping for from this smarty-pants intruder with his well-barbered hair, neat moustache, hand-made shoes and unfathomable grey stare: ‘An earlier than expected departure! The train to Paris tomorrow morning and two weeks’ leave.’ And then, with unexpected camaraderie, Jacquemin leaned across the table and confided: ‘To be spent in Brittany with my wife’s mother.’

‘Ah? I find the northern seaside most uncongenial,’ said the Inspector tactfully.

‘I find my northern mother-in-law most uncongenial.’

They exchanged rueful smiles. Jacquemin’s faded as he remembered that his current mistress also had plans for him-and Rachel’s plans threatened to pull him in a different direction. He sighed. Rachel was beginning to behave more like a wife these days. Always a disappointment. And then there was that promising girl he’d taken to tea at the Ritz … That little vendeuse from the tie counter at the Printemps. Adèle? That was it! Adèle would be expecting a follow-up. And he wouldn’t be averse to making a further move.

‘Nothing much happening in Paris in August,’ Jacquemin summarized lugubriously. ‘Lost pugs, defaulting gigolos, false insurance claims … The silly season, you know. And you?’

The man from Marseille shrugged. ‘I only wish I could say the same. You’ve seen my schedule. Up to my ears. I blame you! You’ve made it too tough for the villains up north. All your riff-raff comes down here to get into trouble. Our serious problems come from Parisians and wealthy foreigners-not so much home-grown crime around these days. Foreigners! Huh! I was feeling so elated at getting that gang of yours behind bars I did something really regrettable the other day …’