Peter May - The Critic

A large banner flapped in the wind at the far side of the stadium, Allez GAILLAC tes Supporters sont la, distracting him from his thoughts. He became aware of the players trooping off the field, to dressing rooms beneath the stand, steam issuing from hot showers, young men’s voices rising in laughter to ring around the tiles. The sun was beginning to dip, and the first golden pink was discernible on the far horizon.

Enzo walked among the handful of cars in the huge parking lot to find his 2CV. Kids were playing basketball on the asphalt, voices shrieking in the late afternoon. Murders were being committed. Men dying, others gone missing. And still the world turned. As if none of it mattered. And in the context of time, and space, and history, Enzo thought, perhaps it really didn’t. All he knew was that it mattered to him.

The southerly wind had died away again, and swung around to blow down from the northwest. Although the sky was still clear, Enzo could feel a chill in the air. The first breath of coming winter. The temperature would fall tonight. There might even be frost.

Nicole’s car was parked opposite the chai at Chateau des Fleurs, and she was sitting waiting for him at the table on the terrasse of the gite. Another coming and going for Lefevre to complain about. ‘Monsieur Macleod, where on earth have you been?’

‘Nicole, I told you to go home.’

She ignored him. ‘I’ve been waiting for you for ages.’

He brought out his keys and unlocked the door. ‘You should have been back at the farm by now.’

She followed him in. ‘Don’t you want to know why I’m not?’

‘No. I just want you to go.’

‘Monsieur Macleod, you’re a stubborn man!’

‘ I’m stubborn?’ He sat down at the computer and hit the space bar to waken it from sleep. ‘Nicole, whatever it is you’ve got to say, I don’t want to know. I want you to get into your car and drive.’

‘I’m not leaving till you know the truth about Fabien.’

Which drew his eyes briefly from the computer screen. But a ting announcing that he had mail drew them back again. He opened up his mailer and saw that there was an e-mail in the box from MacConchie. He felt his heart-rate quicken and clicked on it.

‘It wasn’t Fabien who attacked you last night. He was at home with his mother. And that cut? He did it in the chai, on a broken bottle. His mother was there when it happened. It was her that dressed it.’ She glowered at him. His attention seemed fixed on the screen. ‘Are you listening to me?’

He looked up. ‘It doesn’t matter how he cut himself, Nicole. It was Fabien Marre who killed Petty and Coste.’

She shook her head in anger and frustration. ‘You’ve just got it in for him, haven’t you? Right from the very start.’ But there was a still centre to Enzo as he sat behind his computer looking steadfastly back at her. It scared her, and her voice tailed away. With less conviction she said, ‘How can you know that?’

‘Because the multi-elemental profile of the soil we took from La Croix Blanche is the same as the sample of wine taken from Serge Coste’s stomach. It’s like a matching fingerprint, Nicole. There’s no doubt. The grapes that wine came from were grown on Fabien Marre’s vineyard.’

For once there was no retort, no protest of innocence on Fabien’s behalf, no petted lip or metaphorical stamping of the foot. The blood drained from her face, and she was shocked to silence. And in that moment, he felt a sudden surge of pity for her. Whatever she felt she knew about Fabien, whatever she thought she had found in him, had been dashed on the rocks of science. All certainty shattered.

His phone rang. It was still on the charger, and he saw that there had been several calls, all from the same number. The caller was ringing him again.

‘Enzo Macleod.’

Her voice was taut with barely controlled tension. ‘Monsieur Macleod, I need your help.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Katy Roussel. David’s wife. I’m so scared for him, monsieur. They won’t believe me at the gendarmerie. They think we’ve had a row, and that he’s left me.’

‘How do you know that he hasn’t?’

‘Because I know. David’s the most loving man. Even if we had fallen out, he’d never leave his kids. He adores them…’ Her voice cracked, and he could tell that she was having trouble controlling it. ‘I know he thought highly of you, monsieur. He thought he’d failed in his investigation. That’s why he took time off. To bring his missing persons file home. He was spending nearly all his waking hours on it.’

‘And did he get anywhere with it?’

‘He thought he’d found something. A connection between Gil Petty and the others.’

‘What is it?’

‘He wouldn’t tell me. He was really secretive.’ He heard her breath trembling at the other end of the line. ‘Something’s happened to him. He wouldn’t go off like this, he just wouldn’t. Please, monsieur, please help me.’

‘Give me your address, Katy.’ He wrote it down as she gave him directions. ‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

He hung up and looked over the computer to see big tears rolling silently down Nicole’s face. He stood up and took her in his arms, and felt her shaking as he held her.

‘I’m so sorry, Nicole. I really am.’ He disengaged and took her face in his hands, turning it up towards his. ‘Please. Go home.’

From the roundabout on the west side of Lisle sur Tarn, the single track road meandered through acres of flat farmland, tall cornstalks rattling in the cool northwesterly, red-turning leaves fluttering along row after row of vines. Everywhere you looked there were chateaux and chais. So much wine and not enough people to drink it. Even in France. Enzo had read somewhere that there was a worldwide glut, production increasing by fifteen percent a year. Everyone was overproducing, and not everyone would survive. He passed an a Vendre sign. Someone, perhaps, had got the message, and was selling up before the going got worse. Wine was a tough business to be in these days.

The road divided, and he took the left fork, heading towards the distant hills and the dusky sky beyond it. The Roussel’s family home was a single-storey Roman-style brick villa hidden behind high hedges and a copse of protective trees. Pins parasols and tall, blue-green conifers. He drove through the gate into an overgrown yard and parked in front of a terraced veranda. Weeds poked up through the castine. There were swings and a children’s paddling pool. A punctured football nestled, squashed and useless, amongst the growth at the foot of the steps. Shredded netting hung from a basketball hoop above the garage doors. There was a seedy air to the place, of peeling paint and neglect. A husband too occupied with his job, a wife too busy with their children. Eyes that stop seeing.

The interior, by contrast, was clean and tidy, almost spartan. The children were not anywhere in evidence. Staying with friends, perhaps. Katy Roussel offered no explanation. She was too distressed. An attractive woman gone to seed, like the house. It was the same neglect. She was overweight, but not fat. A once carefully styled haircut had been allowed to grow out, and was clumpy and unkempt. The roots were showing grey. She wore a voluminous shirt over black leggings, and Enzo wondered whether she might be disguising another pregnancy. But he was frightened to ask in case he was wrong. There was no trace of make-up, and her eyes were red from the shedding of tears.

She shook his hand, and he noticed that the skin of hers was rough and dishwater red. ‘Thank you for coming, Monsieur Macleod. I think I’d have lost my mind if you hadn’t. I’ve no one else to turn to.’

‘When did he go missing?’