Peter May - Freeze Frames

Enzo frowned. “The Kerjean trial?”

“Damned defence lawyer destroyed my reputation, monsieur. And those customers that gave evidence, claiming my work was substandard? Lying bastards! All with axes to grind. But it’s hard to keep a business going in a place this size when folk spread those kind of stories about you. It was in all the newspapers, and on the telly.”

And Enzo realised that this was Michel Locqueneux, the mechanic who had serviced Kerjean’s car the day before the murder. “So what did you really think, then, of Kerjean’s story about his car breaking down?”

Locqueneux shifted his focus away from the wheel nuts he was loosening to cast a withering look in Enzo’s direction. “He was a damned liar! There was nothing wrong with that car. If he’d really had a problem, why didn’t he call me? Kerjean’s not the sort to let something like that go.”

“He claimed to have fixed it himself.”

“Hah! Kerjean couldn’t change a wheel on a toy motor, monsieur, and I doubt if he’s ever lifted the hood of a car in his life. Except maybe to top up the wash-wipe. He might be good with words, but he doesn’t know the first thing about cars.” He pulled off the front nearside wheel, and it rolled away a couple of meters before toppling over.

“You didn’t say anything about that in court.”

“No one asked me, monsieur. The procureur was an idiot, and the defence lawyer was too busy trying to make me look like one.”

Enzo watched, then, in thoughtful silence as Michel Locqueneux changed all four wheels, stewing in his own bitter memories. When, at last, he was finished, Enzo said, “Kerjean still lives in Locmaria, doesn’t he?”

“More’s the pity. There’s not a soul on this island who wouldn’t have liked to see the back of him eighteen years ago.”

“Except for a certain number of ladies, I gather.”

Locqueneux curled his lips in distaste. “God knows why. Must be some kind of animal attraction he has. Because that’s what he is, monsieur. An animal.”

Locmaria was built around a sandy bay on the southeast corner of the island, a jumble of fishermen’s cottages tumbling down the hill to the beach and a handful of houses that looked out over the water toward the harbour wall and a rocky promontory beyond.

Enzo parked opposite Le Bateau Ivre, which translated literally as the drunken boat, a pub whose darkened windows were filled with strange papier m a che pantomime characters. Captain Hook. Puss’n’Boots. He peered through the glazed panels of the door and saw a young man moving around inside behind the bar. He pushed at the door and it scraped and rattled as it juddered open. A bell rang.

“Sorry, monsieur. We’re closed.” The young man was sweeping out.

“I’m looking for Thibaud Kerjean’s house.”

The man paused mid sweep and peered at Enzo. If he recognised him, he made no sign of it. “And what would you be wanting with a man like that?”

“A little chat.”

“Pfff.” The young man exhaled through lips pressed against his front teeth. “You’re more likely to get a mouthful.”

“I take it this is his local watering hole?”

“It would be, monsieur. Except that he’s barred. He does his drinking in Le Bourg.”

“So where will I find his house?”

“Take the road around the east side of the bay, monsieur. There’s a row of cottages facing the water. Kerjean’s is the stone-faced house with the well in the front garden.”

Numerous small sailing vessels and fishing boats were moored out in the still waters of the bay, whitewashed cottages on the rise above the rocks along the west side, the sea beyond glinting like cut crystal in the low-angled sunlight. Enzo walked past several cottages facing west across the bay, stopping finally at the dry stone wall that bounded the garden of a neat, stone-faced cottage with a cobbled courtyard and a circular stone well sunk in its centre. A battered green Citroen Jumper van sat out in the courtyard. White shutters were opened on the windows and two sets of portes-fenetres. The three dormers in the roof were all shuttered over.

Enzo walked to the front door where a black anchor hung on the wall. He breathed deeply, summoning resolve and determination, and pulled the rope on an old ship’s bell bolted to the stonework. The peal of it rang sharply out across the bay, startling a line of seagulls on the quayside. There was no sound, or sign of life from within. He rang the bell again. More vigourously this time. It was more than possible that Kerjean was still sleeping off whatever excesses he might have indulged in the night before.

Finally, he saw a movement behind the glass, and the door swung open. Kerjean looked bad in the cold light of day which revealed a sickly pallor and deep shadows beneath his eyes. Silvered stubble covered his face, and his hair was a bird’s nest of tangled, greasy curls. He wore a flannelette robe, and his bare feet drew the cold from a stone-flagged floor. He squinted at Enzo from behind puffy eyes.

“What the fuck do you want?”

“A word.” Enzo heard the tightness in his own voice.

Kerjean stared at Enzo for a long time, conducting some internal debate. At length he said, “You look like shit.”

“So do you.”

And for the first time, Enzo saw a smile light Kerjean’s face. The man whom everyone believed had murdered Killian let the door swing open and he turned away into the interior without a word. Enzo followed him into a large, square kitchen. Next to the door was a window that would flood the room with pink light at sunset. Opposite, a panelled glass door led out to an east-facing terrace. A long table sat in the centre of the room. A wood-burning Raeburn stove was set against the north wall, while cupboards and cabinets lined the others, shelves cluttered with jars and glasses and crockery. A little residual warmth emanated from the stove, and the table was littered with half a dozen empty beer bottles and the congealed debris of the previous night’s meal.

Enzo closed the door behind him. Kerjean found a pack of cigarettes on the table and lit one. He turned toward the Scotsman. “So what word do you want, exactly?”

Enzo glared at him, barely able to hide his anger. “You bastard!”

Kerjean stood his ground and smirked. “That’s two words. And I’ve heard them before.”

“You nearly killed me last night.”

“I saved your God-damned life, for what it’s worth.”

“You don’t deny it, then?”

“Why should I? It’s just you and me here and now. Your word against mine.”

“Why did you do it?”

“Why did I do what?”

“Save my life.”

“Contrary to popular opinion, monsieur, I am not a killer. But in spite of all my warnings, you’d been nosing around asking about me, poking your nose into the past. So I decided it was time to rough you up a bit, provide a little incentive to send you on your way.” He chuckled. “But I didn’t expect you to go throwing yourself into the Trou de l’enfer.”

Enzo’s anger rose up through him almost from his feet. A sudden, unstoppable surge of it, fuelled by a furious rush of adrenalin. Kerjean never saw the big fist that swung at him out of the gloom until it hit him square on the side of the head, sending him crashing across the kitchen table. His legs buckled and he toppled on to a chair, and then to the floor.

Enzo heard the sound of Kerjean’s head striking hard, unyielding stone, but in that moment he was more concerned with the pain in his hand. Sharp, stabbing, all-consuming. He called out involuntarily and clasped and unclasped his fist, waving it around, as if it might be possible to shake away the pain. For a moment, he feared he had broken bones, and was relieved to find that all his fingers could still move. He rubbed the palm of his left hand soothingly over knuckles that were already beginning to swell.