Peter May - Freeze Frames

“The only light I will be shining, Monsieur Kerjean, is on the truth. But if that’s something you want to keep in the dark, then maybe you have something to hide.”

Kerjean’s gaze was unwavering. “I could take you down with a single strike, you arrogant big bastard.”

Enzo didn’t doubt if for a moment. But the last thing he could afford to do was show that. “You could try,” he said, and detected the anticipation in the bar that came with an almost collective intake of breath.

Cold air brushed the side of his face and swirled around his legs, and he heard the outside door opening once more. But whoever had opened it wasn’t shutting it behind him. Enzo reluctantly tore his eyes away from Kerjean’s and turned his head to see Adjudant Richard Gueguen standing in the open doorway. The gendarme was out of uniform, wearing a brown leather airman’s jacket above jeans that contertinad over heavy brogues, the long peak of a baseball cap pulled low over his eyes. His hands pushed themselves into his pockets for warmth. It took no more than a glance for him to appraise the situation. “Go home, Kerjean,” he said.

Kerjean kept his eyes on Enzo. “I just ordered a drink.”

“You’ve had enough already, unless you’re angling to spend the night in one of our guest rooms.”

Enzo saw Kerjean’s jaw tightening. Clearly a night in one of Gueguen’s freezing police cells was less than appealing. Finally, reluctantly, he dragged his eyes away from Enzo to look at Gueguen. “You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not even on duty.”

“A gendarme’s always on duty.” Gueguen stepped aside to clear a path for Kerjean to make his exit. “Goodnight.”

Kerjean’s fury simmered silently inside him. He half turned his head toward Enzo, but this time didn’t meet his eye. “We’ll talk again.”

“I’m sure we will.”

Kerjean turned and walked briskly past the gendarme and out into the dark. Gueguen closed the door behind him and approached the bar.

“He never paid for that pint,” the barman said.

Gueguen dug into his pocket and pulled out a five-euro bill, dropping it on the counter.

Enzo said, “Can I get you a drink?”

The gendarme shook his head. “No, thank you. And I would suggest, monsieur, that you drink up and go home yourself.”

Enzo wasn’t about to argue. “Perhaps you’re right.” He drained his glass and settled up with the barman. “ Bonsoir.” He nodded at all the faces turned toward him and headed out into the night. At the foot of the steps he saw Kerjean disappearing in the direction of the harbourside bars, whose lights still reflected on the dark waters of the bay. He heard the door closing behind him and turned to see Gueguen following him out. He waited until the gendarme got down to the sidewalk. “It wouldn’t have hurt. One drink. Would it?”

“Monsieur, if I had accepted a drink from you, it would have been all over the island before morning.”

“So what were you doing in the bar, then? Out solo drinking or here to meet friends?”

“A gendarme has no friends. I was keeping an eye on you.”

“Oh?” Enzo raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Following me, were you?”

“I saw your rental Jeep up the road. A good thing I stopped by. Kerjean would have murdered you.”

“Like he murdered Killian?”

“I was speaking figuratively.”

Enzo grinned. “I know. And you’re right. He would have. But I have my own personal guardian angel.” He craned to peer over Gueguen’s shoulder. “How the hell do you get your wings tucked in there?”

“I had them clipped. I don’t work for the big man any more, you see. The pay was better downstairs.”

“I didn’t think gendarmes earned that much.”

“They don’t. The reward is that you get to be part of one of the most feared and hated institutions in France.” He laughed ruefully. “That’s why we have no friends, monsieur. Only colleagues.”

Enzo smiled. There was something likeable about this man. A fine, dry humour, and a sense of resolve and fair play that made you feel he was someone you could depend on in a crisis. “The other day, you said to me you would help me in any way you could. Unofficially.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I’d like to know a bit more about Thibaud Kerjean, adjudant. The circumstances surrounding his arrest, exactly why investigating officers at the time thought he was their man. You were here. Uniquely placed to see it all first-hand. I’d appreciate your insights.”

For the first time Gueguen seemed uneasy. He glanced up the road and then down toward the harbour. “Not here. I don’t really want to be seen talking to you, Monsieur Macleod. You can bet there are eyes on us right now.”

“Where, then?”

“I’ll meet you tomorrow. Two o’clock, at the Fort de Grognon. Do you know where that is?”

“I saw it signposted this afternoon when I was driving out to Pen Men.”

“You’ll find it on any of the tourist maps. We’re not likely to be disturbed there. And it’s a place with an important bearing on the telling of the story.” His breath billowed around his head like smoke in the light of the streetlamps. He flexed frozen cheeks to bare his teeth in a grin. “It’s an interesting tale.”

Lights fell out from the house across the dirt track leading along the coast to Les Grands Sables, and the gate squeaked on its hinges as Enzo pushed it open. He felt obliged to call in to say goodnight before heading across the lawn to the cold of the annex.

As he closed the gate again, he turned and looked out across the strait toward the mainland. An almost full moon hung low in a clear, black sky, reflecting in coruscating shards across the silvered surface of the ocean. The coastline between Lorient and Vannes was delineated by a line of lights like tiny glowing beads on a taut thread stretched along the horizon.

“Admiring the view?”

He turned, surprised, to see Jane Killian standing in the open doorway, light tumbling out around her and into the garden. He hadn’t heard her open the door.

“It’s a stunning night.”

“In the summer, on a night like this, you can light a fire on the beach and sit out with a bottle of wine, talking into the small hours. You can even go in bathing if you feel like it. We get the full benefit of the gulf stream here. The water’s always warm.”

“Not right now, I’ll bet.”

She laughed. “No.” Then her smile faded. “I was expecting you back earlier. I prepared a meal. But I guess you’ve probably eaten by now.”

“Oh.” Enzo felt suddenly guilty. And at the same time annoyed. He didn’t want to feel obliged to spend his evenings with her. He wasn’t a house guest, after all. But perhaps he should have called to say he was eating in town. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise.”

“It’s okay. It was a casserole. It’ll keep till tomorrow.”

Which trapped him into eating with her then. Enzo succumbed to a sudden sense of claustrophobia. For all that the Ile de Groix was a flat stretch of rock set in an open sea, he felt cornered by its insularity, by his ability to escape it only when the ferry timetable allowed, and by the social obligations to his hostess that it seemed were impossible to avoid.

“Come in and have a drink,” she said. And he didn’t see how he could politely refuse.

They went into the house, and she poured him a large whisky, and refilled a glass sitting on a small table beside her chair. Enzo wondered how many times she’d filled it already this evening. It was clear that she had been drinking. She was not drunk, or even mellow in the way that a few whiskies can sometimes affect you, but she held herself stiffly, with a kind of brittle self-control. She sat down, her legs folded up beneath her on the chair, and turned a penetrating gaze in Enzo’s direction. “You’d think,” she said, “that after twenty years you’d get used to being lonely.”