Peter May - Freeze Frames

“Your reputation goes before you, Monsieur Macleod.”

Enzo looked up to see a tall, solemn-faced gendarme regarding him with speculative interest. He wore a peaked kepi and a waterproof cape over his uniform, which looked a great deal dryer than Enzo felt. His arms were folded across his chest.

“And I see you have already met Monsieur Kerjean. I think he’s afraid that someone is finally going to prove that he did it.”

Enzo cocked an eyebrow. “And did he?” There seemed no point now in hurrying for cover.

“That’s for him to know, and you to find out.” The gendarme extended a warm, dry hand to shake Enzo’s cold, wet one. “I’m Adjudant Richard Gueguen. Top cop around here. Big fish in a very small pool. And I’d like a word, if you can spare me a few minutes.” But it sounded more like an order than a request.

Enzo glanced anxiously toward Coconut’s. He had no idea what time they closed. “I’ve got to pick up my rental car.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that. It won’t be going anywhere without you. Besides, they’ve been told to expect you’ll be a little late.” The hint of a smile flitted across full lips.

The gendarmerie stood in a commanding position on the hill above the customs offices overlooking the port, a yellow-painted three-story villa with a steeply pitched slate roof. Gueguen took Enzo in through a side entrance. He called into to a small general office, where three gendarmes sat idling behind desks. He didn’t want to be disturbed, he said, and led Enzo through to his own office at the rear of the house. Enzo felt eyes on his back as he followed the adjudant down the hall.

Gueguen indicated a chair facing his desk. “Coffee?”

“I’d love one.”

“Two coffees in here please.” The adjudant called his order back down the hall and pointedly left the door open, apparently so that they could be overheard. He hung up his cape and cap and sat down behind his desk, then leaned forward, his forearms flat in front of him, interlocking his fingers as if in prayer. “You’re an interesting character, Monsieur Macleod.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“But I have to confess I’d never heard of you before I was instructed by brigade headquarters to lend you absolutely no assistance whatsoever.”

“And why would they instruct you to do that?”

“You mean apart from the fact that cops never like outsiders showing them how to do their job?”

Enzo grinned. “Yes, apart from that.”

“Well, Monsieur Macleod, you have to realise that the economy of this little island of ours is almost entirely dependent upon tourism these days. The era of the tuna fleets and the fish processing are long gone. And to be perfectly frank, murder is not a great tourist attraction.”

“Even one that’s twenty years old?”

“It’s the only one in living memory, Monsieur Macleod. However, the fact that it was never solved makes it a little like a wound that has never healed. And we really don’t want folk coming picking at the scabs.”

“Even if a resolution of the case would finally heal the scar?”

Gueguen sat back in his chair and chuckled, turning a pencil over and over again between his fingers. “And what makes you think you can succeed where no one else has?”

“I’ve got a pretty good track record.”

“That you have, Monsieur Macleod. I was amazed at just how much there was about you on the Internet when I looked. This would be the… fourth in Raffin’s catalogue of cold cases, yes?” He opened a folder in front of him. “And I see that before you came to France you specialised in crime scene analysis. No doubt Madame Killian will have high expectations.”

“I never make any promises.”

“Very wise. You know, a succession of people have come to study this case over the years, and none of them has exactly enhanced his reputation.”

“And I’m not here to enhance mine, Adjudant Gueguen. The publicity these cases attracts helps us raise funds for the Forensic Science Department at my university. So it’s only the French police scientifique that’ll be enhanced.”

Gueguen inclined his head and smiled in acquiescence. “True, but nonetheless, I have to tell you that should you feel inclined to bend the law in any way during the course of your investigation, you can expect no quarter from me or any of my officers. And you will have no access to official records, or evidence.”

Enzo nodded. “I take it you don’t keep any of that kind of stuff here in any case.”

“No. All documentation and evidence is held at Vannes, a few kilometers along the coast from Lorient.”

“Which is where the trial was held, right?”

“Right.”

A young gendarme coughed and entered, a polystyrene cup of coffee in each hand. He placed them on the desk, along with sachets of sugar and plastic stirrers, and left. Enzo stirred in his sugar and cradled the cup in his hands to warm them, sipping on the strong, hot, black liquid. “Thank you,” he said. “I needed this.” He looked up and saw what looked like amusement in the younger man’s eyes. Gueguen, he reckoned could only be in his early forties. Dark hair cut short, with some brushed steel showing now around the temples. He had dark eyebrows, and friendly liquid brown eyes. A good-looking man who seemed not at all to fit the stereotype of the humourless, intimidating gendarme. “And thank you, too, for warning me off so gently.”

The adjudant grinned. “All part of the service, Monsieur Macleod.” He lifted the phone. “I’ll give Coconut’s a call and ask them to drop your car off here. Save you walking back down the hill in the rain.”

When he finished the call Enzo said, “Thank you. Again.” He glanced back along the hall. “How many of you are there here?”

“Six. Myself, a chef, two gendarmes, and two trainees. During the summer months when the population of the island literally explodes, the brigade sends us another six.”

“And I guess any serious crimes, like murder, would be handled by investigators from the mainland?”

Gueguen laughed heartily. “Monsieur Macleod, if you want to know how the investigation into Killian’s murder was conducted, you only have to ask.”

“I thought you’d been instructed not to cooperate.”

“Not to give you access to official police records or evidence,” Gueguen corrected him. “No one said we couldn’t discuss things that were a matter of public record.” And there was a hint of wickedness in the smile that creased his eyes.

“So what happened?”

“Well, in theory, we were supposed to secure the crime scene until senior investigators arrived from Lorient. In fact, we made a complete mess of it. No one had the least idea what securing a crime scene entailed, so I’m afraid we trampled all over it, touched things we shouldn’t, and failed to protect things we should.”

“You were here then?” Enzo was incredulous. “Twenty years ago?”

Gueguen grinned. “I was one of the trainees at that time. I have spent most of my career since serving with other brigades in various parts of Brittany. I returned just last year for the first time in nearly seventeen.”

“As the boss.”

“Yes. As the boss.” Gueguen’s eyes crinkled again in amusement. “A lot older and much wiser. If there were any serious crime committed on the island today, Monsieur Macleod, every one of my officers is trained in the treatment of a crime scene. There is a rota of island doctors who would be called out to determine whether or not a death was suspicious, although of course any autopsy would be carried out by the pathologist at the hospital in Lorient. We’ve had a few suicides and serious accidents to practise on.”

“So it was a local doctor who determined that Killian’s death was suspicious?”