Майкл Ридпат - Fatal Error

‘Just answer the question honestly,’ Sauville commanded.

I did as I was told. ‘I don’t think he had ever met Dominique before this week. I think he didn’t like the idea of her. He called her a bimbo and a tart.’

‘I see. Not nice things to say about your stepmother?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But as I said, it wasn’t her he didn’t like. It was the idea of her.’

‘Very philosophical. And the younger brother? Owen?’

‘I have no idea what Owen thinks about anything. I doubt if anyone has.’

The large policeman raised his eyebrows. Then he leaned back once again in his chair. ‘ Bon . Thank you for your cooperation, David. But I must ask you to remain here until we have concluded our investigation.’

My heart sank. I wanted to get out. Quick. I was looking forward to the family crisis Tony had ordered me to invent, now more than ever. ‘Do you have any idea how long that will be?’

‘A few days,’ replied the inspector. ‘Perhaps more.’

‘You won’t tell Mr Jourdan what I said about his wife, will you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we will have to. But I think you’ll find he knows already.’ Sauville winked and smiled gratuitously. ‘ Au revoir .’

I left the room to be met by Patrick Hoyle, who was demanding to see the inspector urgently in fluent French. He pushed past me, almost crushing me against the door-frame with his great stomach, and began to harangue Sauville. I left them to it and went to look for Guy.

I found him in the garden, sitting against the trunk of the olive tree beside the old watchtower. He was looking down between his knees, ignoring the morning sun throwing golden sparkles across the sea in front of him. Bees were murmuring in the lavender behind. I winced as I remembered this was the spot where his father had seduced Mel.

‘Guy!’ He ignored me. I ran over to the watchtower. ‘Guy!’

He turned to face me. I had never before seen Guy as he looked then. The muscles in his face were clenched tight, his blue eyes were cold and hard and his skin pale.

‘Yes, Lane?’

‘Look, I’m er, sorry...’

‘Sorry? Sorry! For what?’

‘Well, about Dominique.’

‘What about Dominique? About shagging her? Do you want to apologize for screwing my father’s wife? Is that it? Because if it is, then your apology isn’t accepted.’

‘Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I wish I’d never done it.’

‘Bullshit. You loved every second of it. You probably thought you were a real stud, didn’t you? I bet it beat fondling some slag’s tits at the school disco. If you could find one desperate enough to let you, which I sincerely doubt.’

I tried to ignore the venom in his voice. ‘Who told you? The police?’

‘They asked me about it. But I’ve just spoken to my father. He told me a lot of things. About you and her. And about him and Mel.’ He watched my face for a reaction. ‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’

‘I guessed.’

‘You guessed! What the fuck is going on here? My father screws my girlfriend, my friend screws my stepmother, and I don’t have a fucking clue. And you know where my faithful father was when his wife was being smothered with a pillow?’

‘No.’

‘In some club in Nice. And for club read bordello, by the way. That’s why he didn’t discover her till three o’clock this morning.’

‘Guy, I am sorry. If there’s anything I can do...’

‘There is. I should never have asked you out here. This isn’t your world, Lane. You’re way out of your depth. Go back to the sad little semi-detached stone that you crawled out from under and leave me alone. OK?’

He was glaring at me with something close to hatred in his eyes.

‘OK,’ I said. I left him alone.

I hid in my room and tried to make sense of the previous couple of days. I couldn’t. I had never known anyone who had been murdered before. And I wasn’t sure I had ever really known Dominique. The body I had thrilled to touch was now lifeless, the skin cold, the muscles stiff and rigid. But the person? Who was she? The very proximity of death made me shiver, the callous nature of my relationship with the victim made me cringe with guilt. Then there was my friendship with Guy ruined, probably permanently. He had shown me the kind of anger that would take years to die away, if it ever did. He hated me now, and I had so badly wanted him to like and respect me. I even felt guilty about Guy’s father, although I knew his sins were greater than mine. I had done something very wrong, and someone had died, and I would have to live with it.

I picked up my book. For the first time since I had started to read it, War and Peace came into its own. I wanted to lose myself in Napoleonic Russia, which seemed at that moment much less threatening than twentieth-century France.

But after two or three hours, hunger began to gnaw at my stomach. I hadn’t eaten anything since a croissant very early that morning and the anxiety was releasing its own juices. I was eighteen. Eighteen-year-old boys get hungry regularly. I decided to brave the possibility of bumping into Guy or Tony for the chance of food.

I walked through the garden. It was another bright, cloudless day outside. It was hot, but the edge was taken off the heat by the sea breeze. There was no one on the terrace, but I could detect movement and plates of food inside.

I walked into the main house, and through the dining-room door I spied a table laden with bread, cold meats, cheese and salad. Mel was standing outside the room, listening. I stopped just behind her. I could hear Guy talking to Patrick Hoyle in an urgent whisper. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I heard Hoyle’s response.

‘Abdulatif? The man’s name is Abdulatif?’

Guy murmured in confirmation. Then Mel suddenly became aware of me standing at her shoulder. She reddened and walked into the room. I followed her. Guy turned and glowered. Hoyle coughed and nodded at me. I made straight for the lunch, to be joined a moment later by Mel.

In the awkward silence, the two of us helped ourselves, a large pile of food for me, a couple of spoonfuls for Mel. As Guy and Hoyle left the room I turned to her. ‘What was that about?’

She glanced at me quickly and just shook her head. She clearly didn’t want to talk. I knew she must be feeling fragile, and I didn’t want to intrude. So I sat down and began to eat.

Ingrid appeared at the door. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘Help yourself.’

Ingrid did just that.

‘Are the police still here?’ I asked her, glad to have someone to talk to. ‘I didn’t see any in the garden.’

‘They’ve been combing it all morning,’ she said. ‘Perhaps they’ve finished, or maybe it’s just a lunch break.’

‘Have you seen Tony?’

‘He’s with some French guy in a suit. I think Patrick Hoyle got him a lawyer.’

‘I thought Hoyle was a lawyer.’

‘He may be. But this guy’s probably a criminal lawyer. I imagine they’re different.’

‘Do you think Tony killed her?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. The French cops seem to think he did, though. Hang on, here comes one of them.’

I looked up. Sauville was marching towards us. My heart sank as I realized his eyes were focused on me. ‘Monsieur Lane. When you have finished your lunch, I would like you to assist us, please.’

‘What do you want me to do?’ I asked doubtfully.

‘We need to search your room. And we would like to take samples from the clothes you were wearing yesterday afternoon. Also we need your fingerprints. And afterwards I invite you to the police station.’

‘The police station?’ I didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Why do you want me to go to the police station?’