Майкл Ридпат - Fatal Error

We followed Tony into the living room. Ingrid, Mel, Owen, Miguel and a couple of maids were sitting there in silence, all looking stunned. Mel had been crying. Two gendarmes in uniform stood a few feet distant, watching us idly. It was a large room, with tile floors covered in chic rugs, abstract sculptures dotted about the place and large canvases with bright splashes of colour daubing the walls. It was a room for the elegant and the sophisticated to relax in, not for a bunch of eighteen-year-olds just out of school to wait for interrogation. Not for the first time I found myself thinking, what am I doing here?

‘The police will want to ask you questions individually,’ Tony said in a monotone. ‘It should be just a formality. Nothing to worry about.’ He looked exhausted, numb. I could still smell the alcohol of the previous night on him.

‘What happened, Dad?’ said Guy.

Tony turned to his son. ‘I found her an hour or so ago. She was in bed. There was a needle on her bedside table. Heroin.’

‘Are you sure?’

Tony nodded, all his vitality gone.

He knew she took heroin, I thought. In fact, that probably explained the strangeness in her eyes. And the make-up on the inside of her forearm hiding the injection marks.

I stared up at the ceiling, at the motionless fan. A drug addict. I had had sex with a drug addict. Who was now dead. The urgent question was, what should I tell the police?

My first instinct, of course, was to lie. Or at least not to mention what had happened that afternoon. But a moment’s thought persuaded me that was a bad idea. I had done nothing wrong; or rather nothing illegal. Once I started lying to the police I would be breaking the law. And there were all sorts of ways they might find out. The post-mortem, Tony, perhaps even Ingrid. Besides, I wasn’t a good liar at the best of times, and this was the worst of times. A competent policeman would find me out in no time.

The door opened and two detectives entered. One of them signalled to Tony. They spoke in heated whispers. Whatever it was the policeman said, it shocked Tony. He looked anxiously over towards us. The detective broke away from him and approached us.

He was a tall, burly man in a baggy double-breasted suit who managed to look both tired and alert at the same time.

‘My name is Sauville. Inspector Sauville,’ he said, in good but strongly accented English. We were listening. ‘I must inform you that we believe we are investigating a murder. In a few minutes I will begin questioning each of you in turn. It is imperative that you stay here at the house today. And keep well clear from the scene of the crime. Do you understand?’

We nodded. A murder. No wonder Tony looked so shocked. I glanced at Guy. He seemed stunned.

Sauville spoke to his detectives and disappeared into the dining room. In a moment he called in Tony. One of the other detectives began to interview Ingrid. They were splitting up the work.

The interviews took a long time, especially Tony’s. When he came out he looked dazed. He spoke to Guy quickly and then disappeared.

‘What did he say?’ I asked Guy.

‘They think Dominique was suffocated with a pillow. She had taken heroin, but the police have no reason to think it was an overdose. They’ll know for sure when they’ve done the post-mortem. Dad said they think he might have done it. He’s gone to call Patrick Hoyle.’

Guy looked stricken. Both by the idea that his stepmother had been murdered and that his father might be suspected of doing it.

More police were arriving. I could see them outside, picking their way methodically through the garden. We heard movement on the stairs and we went outside into the hallway to watch as Dominique’s body was carried down and out of the house. She was covered, of course, but we could easily make out her shape beneath the sheet. A chill ran through me. I glanced at Guy, whose face was drained of all colour. Ingrid let out a tiny gasp and Mel began to weep. I put my arm round her; of all of us, she had had a particularly hard couple of days.

Then Sauville called her into the dining room. She wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together. But she looked scared. I realized she must be agonizing over whether to tell them about Tony seducing her. Like me, she had no choice; I hoped she understood that. Meanwhile the other detective was cracking through the witnesses. I was anxious for my turn. I wanted it to be over. We talked little, but drank many cups of coffee. Ingrid stayed close to Mel, and took her up to her room after she had finished her interview. Guy looked agitated and anxious. Owen sat impassively, as if he were in a doctor’s surgery, waiting for a routine check-up. My turn came eventually, after Guy.

I got Inspector Sauville. He sat at the head of the table, a lackey by his side taking notes. He gestured for me to sit down.

‘Your name is David Lane?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Comment?’

‘Yes,’ I said more strongly. He had only asked my name, but already I could feel my palms sweating. This was not going to be fun.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And you are a friend of Guy Jourdan’s?’ He pronounced ‘Guy’ to rhyme with ‘key’, just as Dominique had.

‘That’s right. We go to the same school in England.’

‘When did you arrive here in France?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘I see.’ He paused and leaned back in the dining chair. It creaked. For a moment I was worried he would break it. ‘David?’

‘Yes?’

He swung forward. ‘What were you doing at about one o’clock yesterday afternoon?’

He knew. The bastard knew. I’d have to tell him now. My mouth was dry and I hesitated.

‘Hein?’ He was a big man, and leaning forward he seemed even bigger.

‘I was, er... with Mrs Jourdan.’

The policeman exchanged glances and a twitch of the lips with his sidekick. ‘And what were you doing with her, David?’

I was, that is, we were, well...’ I squirmed.

‘Yes?’

‘We were having sex.’

‘Ah.’ A smug smile of triumph crossed the policeman’s face. He thought this was funny. ‘Tell me more.’

So I told him the whole sordid story, and it did seem sordid that early in the morning when told to a policeman in slow English. I told him about overhearing Dominique shout at Tony the night before, and my suspicions about Tony and Mel, and Dominique’s motivation for seducing me.

‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’

‘No. I went to bed pretty early. About ten. It took me a while to get to sleep, maybe an hour or two. Then I slept until Mr Jourdan woke me up this morning.’

‘And Guy?’

‘He went to bed the same time as me.’

‘Did you hear him get up in the night?’

‘No.’

‘No other noises outside?’

‘Nothing woke me till this morning.’

‘I see.’ Sauville paused, studying me. He was probably just thinking of his next question, but I found the silence unnerving. At last he spoke. ‘When you were with Madame Jourdan yesterday, did she seem suicidal?’

I thought before answering. ‘No. Quite the contrary. She seemed animated, excited. I think she was enjoying her revenge on her husband.’

‘And you? How did you feel about being manipulated in that way?’

‘Actually, it made me quite angry,’ I said. Then I hesitated, worried I had put my foot in it. ‘Of course, not angry enough to murder her or anything.’

The inspector dismissed my comment with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘What about Guy Jourdan? What was his opinion of his stepmother?’

I paused. I was still a schoolboy. I didn’t want to get my friend into trouble with the authorities. I tried to think through the angles.