Peter May - Freeze Frames

“Very little. The annex, and the house itself, had been searched. Not very carefully. The killer was clearly anxious and in a hurry. The place was a mess.”

“Do you know if anything was taken?”

“No. Killian lived on his own. His daughter-in-law went through the place for us, of course, but said she wasn’t aware of anything obvious that had gone.” The gendarme opened the door of his Renault. “We found prints everywhere. Killian’s. His son, the son’s wife, the femme de m e nage. Others that didn’t match anything on the database.”

“But not Kerjean’s?”

“Apart from those lifted from the gate, no. We recovered three shell casings from Killian’s study. No prints on those, of course. Even if there had been, they’d have been vaporised when the gun was fired. But ballistics was able to determine that the weapon used was a Walther P38. A very common semiautomatic handgun. Standard issue to German soldiers during the war. So it’s quite possible that a number of those weapons found their way into circulation on the island after the Occupation. You know, as trophies.”

Enzo nodded. He said, “Adjudant, I have a couple of very big favours to ask.”

Gueguen turned inquisitive eyes on the big Scotsman. Enzo had said very little during the gendarme’s exposition. Quietly listening, asking the occasional question. Whatever favours he wanted now, would surely provide some kind of indication of the way his thoughts were moving. “Go ahead.”

“I’d like, if possible, to get my hands on two items of evidence.”

“Which are?”

“The autopsy report. I take it there was an autopsy?”

“Of course. But that’s a tall order, Monsieur. That report would have been submitted as evidence and would be held with everything else at the greffe in Vannes.”

“It’s possible, isn’t it, that there is a copy on file at the hospital where it was carried out?”

Gueguen exhaled deeply. “It’s possible.” And he shook his head. “But I’m not at all sure how easy it would be to get ahold of it.” He paused. “And the other item?”

“I’d like one of those shell casings recovered from the crime scene.”

Gueguen looked at him in amazement. “Well, even if it was possible to lay hands on one, why? I told you there were no prints on them. What could you possibly learn from a shell casing?”

“Possibly everything,” Enzo said. “Indulge me.”

The gendarme frowned again. “I’d love to, Monsieur Macleod, I really would. But I’m not at all sure I can. The autopsy report, maybe. But a shell casing…” He blew air through pouting lips and gave an exaggerated Gallic shrug.

“Well, maybe you have a favour or two you can call in. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.”

Gueguen stood staring at him for a long moment before setting his jaw. “I’ll see what I can do.”

The Maison de la Presse was set back off the road, opposite the boulangerie. It was the biggest bookstore and newsagent in Le Bourg. Enzo found a parking place in the market square and wandered across the street. He wore Killian’s scarf around his neck, to keep out the chill of the morning. It was another stunning fall day, white sparkling frost still lying in the shadows where the sun had not yet fallen.

Enzo found the sharp, cold air clearing the fog from a head that was still fuzzy from too much wine the previous evening. Jane Killian had poured with a generous hand during the casseroled meal they had shared at the dining table in the main house. Gently tipsy and mellowed by the wine, she had been disappointed when he took his leave just after ten, pleading fatigue and the need of an early night.

And then he had stood in the dark of the chill bedroom above Killian’s study and watched her undress beyond the unshuttered window across the lawn, knowing that she knew he would be watching. And he had found that he was very nearly aroused by the thought.

All the newspapers and sports rags were lined up in two revolving racks opposite the counter. It took Enzo only a moment to find a copy of Ouest-France. He lifted it out and took it to the counter. A thin-faced, middle-aged woman with short, silvered curls cut close to her head smiled at him. “Seventy centimes, monsieur.” He handed her a five-euro bill, and she searched out his change in the till. “You’re even better-looking in the flesh.” She almost giggled. “So to speak.” And blushed.

Enzo looked at her blankly. “I’m sorry?”

“The photograph they had of you in the paper didn’t do you justice.”

“Oh, yes.” He forced a smile. “I’ve been known to crack a few lenses in my time.” It was her turn to look blank. But he pressed on. “Can you tell me, madame, where I might be able to find back copies of Ouest-France?”

She frowned. “Mmm. How far back do you want to go?”

“About twenty years.”

And her face uncreased as enlightenment dawned. “Ah. You want to look at coverage of the Killian murder.”

“The trial, actually.”

“Oh, well, that would be about eighteen years ago now. At Vannes.”

“Yes.”

She shook her head solemnly. “I’m not sure where you’d find editions that old. The biblioth e que in town here usually has the current edition for patrons of the library. But whether or not they keep back copies, I wouldn’t know.” She barely paused for breath. “I hear that man’s been threatening you already.”

Enzo raised his brows in surprise. “What man?”

“Thibaud Kerjean.” Even although there was no one else in the store, she lowered her voice and leaned confidentially toward Enzo. “He’s a bad lot. And done nothing but give this island a bad name. No one likes him, monsieur. They never have.”

“Except a whole procession of female admirers, apparently.”

She folded her arms beneath mean little breasts pressed flat by a blouse two sizes too small. “Tramps. Every last one of them.”

“Arzhela Montin, too?”

“Hah!” The woman tossed back her head in disdain. “Worst of the lot. Everyone knew what was going on between her and Kerjean.”

“Did they? I heard it was a pretty well-kept secret until Killian stumbled across them out at Fort de Grognon.”

“No, monsieur. It was the talk of the island.”

But Enzo was more inclined toward Gueguen’s version of events, that nobody had known about it before the incident at the fort. After all, it was almost twenty years ago now, and people’s memories of when they knew or didn’t know about something would inevitably be suspect. He had no doubt that it had, indeed, been the talk of the island once the story was out. “I don’t suppose you know what happened to her, after the divorce.”

“Oh, she’s married again now. Calls in here most mornings for the paper.”

Enzo was taken aback. “She’s still on the island?”

“Never left, monsieur. Found herself another incomer who didn’t know any better and went to live out at Quelhuit.” She grunted. “Almost within sight of the very place that poor Adam Killian found her having sexual relations with the cantonnier. And her married to the mayor’s adjoint, too! She had no shame, monsieur. Then or now.” She leaned forward again, in conspiratorial mode once more. “Personally, I can’t for the life of me understand what any of these women saw in the man. He’s creepy and rude. In here every afternoon for his racing paper and tobacco. I’ve always tried to be civil to him, but he’s done nothing but bite my nose off with every polite enquiry about his health or innocent comment about the weather.”

Enzo suspected there was probably nothing either innocent or polite that ever rolled off the tongue of the libraire. But as he lifted his paper he saw that she had suddenly flushed, and seemed flustered and self-conscious. He turned, following her eyeline, to see Kerjean entering the store. He was wearing the same donkey jacket as two nights previously. The same worn and oil-soiled jeans. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, his head pulled down into his collar. His face betrayed evidence of a rough evening the night before, deep shadows beneath bloodshot eyes, a complexion that was pasty pale and bloodless. He flicked a sullen glance in Enzo’s direction, then ignored him as he went to pick a couple of journals from the rack.