Peter May: Cast Iron

Martin shrugged. ‘Possible, I suppose.’ But he didn’t seem engaged by the idea. Perhaps, Enzo thought, he had been through every possibility so many times over the years that anything and everything seemed likely, or unlikely. When you are not in possession of the facts, speculation is both endless and pointless. Martin said, ‘We should go before it gets dark.’

Enzo followed him along a dry animal-track made treacherous by knotted roots. It wound up through the trees before emerging on to a wide, open slope that climbed back up the hill to the château. This, Enzo imagined, was the way that Lucie must have come, if she had gone straight down the hill from her father’s study. He would have been able to see her all the way to the treeline, had he stood and watched. But Enzo didn’t ask.

A nearly full moon had risen over the far horizon, washing the hillside in its bright, colourless light and throwing long shadows of the two men towards the west. Despite his age, Guillaume Martin was fit and took long strides up the hill, which Enzo found hard work to match.

A little breathlessly he said, ‘When did you first become concerned about her?’

Martin stopped. ‘It was March, monsieur. Just before the clocks went forward. So it was still dark quite early. I suppose it must have been about seven when I realised that she hadn’t come back. I was in the kitchen preparing dinner, as I always do when Mireille has been at her sister’s. I hadn’t been aware of Lucie returning, so I called up to her room, but there was no response. Couldn’t find her anywhere and started to get worried.’

‘Did you go looking for her?’

‘Yes, I did. Pulled on my wellington boots and set off down the hill. But it was pretty hopeless — almost completely dark by the time I got down to the lake. I called out her name. Several times. And I could hear it echoing away across the open water. In the end I gave up and went back to the house — and checked again, just to be sure she hadn’t returned while I was gone. Mireille got home about half an hour after that. By then I was pretty much beside myself with worry. I had the most dreadful sense that something awful had happened.’

‘But you didn’t call the police?’

He shook his head vigorously. ‘Mireille wanted me to. But I knew they wouldn’t do anything. Lucie had only been gone a few hours, and we had no reason to suppose anything had happened to her. It wasn’t until we went to search her room, later that night, and found the letter from Blanc that I thought we should report it to the police.’

‘What was it about the letter that convinced you, finally, to do that?’

‘Because it was obviously from one of the criminals she’d been dealing with at the charity, and from the tone of his letter he was clearly obsessed by her.’ He ran both hands back through his hair and sighed in exasperation. ‘Little did we know then exactly what kind of a man he was.’

‘You think he killed her, then?’

The old man swivelled to face Enzo, eyes blazing. ‘I know he did, monsieur.’

‘How can you know it?’

‘You’ve read the letter. The man was deranged. Somehow he persuaded Lucie to meet him. She was such a damned innocent. And he strangled her, just as he had already killed those three prostitutes before her. And then he dumped her body in the lake.’

‘But he had what police described as a cast-iron alibi for that afternoon.’

Martin’s mouth tightened. ‘I didn’t spend all those years sitting on the bench, monsieur, without coming to the realisation that alibis can be fabricated. People vouch for family and friends all the time, for any number of reasons. Love, fear, money. Régis Blanc killed my Lucie, Monsieur Macleod, and I would very much like you to prove it.’

Lights around the outside of the château came on with a timer, sending warm yellow light cascading down the slope towards them, and they walked the rest of the way up the hill in silence. When they reached his 2CV, Enzo took out his keys. ‘Please thank your wife for the coffee, Monsieur Martin. I’ll need to do some thinking about all of this. Go and speak to some of Blanc’s associates.’

Martin shook his head in consternation. ‘Well, where are you going?’

‘I have a hotel room booked in Duras.’

‘I won’t hear of it. You’ll stay here, of course. I’ll phone and cancel.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t possibly—’

‘Nonsense, man,’ Martin cut him off. ‘Mireille has prepared dinner. And besides, there are some folk I want you to meet.’ He glanced down the hill to see the beams of headlights raking the dark as they climbed towards the château. ‘In fact, that looks like the first of them arriving now.’

Several of the beachfront restaurants had already shut down for the season, but there were still plenty to choose from, and the good weather had brought a late rush of holidaymakers, so they were all crowded.

Sophie and Bertrand sat beneath the canopy of one that served barbecued meat and fish on hanging skewers. Their table was right down on the promenade, just feet away from the soft, golden sand that sloped away to the gentle wash of the Mediterranean. You could almost hear it breathing in the night, the lights of Argelès riding the black swell of the incoming waves in fractured shards.

It was getting dark faster now, and the couple had eaten earlier than usual. Their first-floor apartment above a bicycle-hire shop was just a hundred metres further along the beach, and they were looking forward to a night of undisturbed pleasure, windows left wide, net curtains billowing in the sea breeze, the sound of the sea itself accompaniment to their lovemaking.

It was unusual for them to have time alone together like this. Bertrand still lived with his mother. She was elderly and frail now, and he was reluctant to leave her on her own. Sophie still stayed in her father’s apartment, which seemed always to play host to a procession of visitors and rarely offered privacy. So they had jumped at the chance of this late-season booking to escape to the coast and indulge themselves a little in each other.

Bertrand poured the last of the wine into their glasses from a bottle of Collioure Puig Oriol from Domaine La Tour Vieille. It was a heady local wine, a rich blend of Syrah and Grenache noir, 14.5 per cent alcohol that slipped only too easily over the tongue. The two young people were mellow and easy in each other’s company. Laughing at silly things and revelling in their freedom. This, they thought, is how it would be when they were finally together, free of family responsibilities, free to live life exactly as they wanted.

They paid up and left the restaurant to walk hand-in-hand along the promenade, the chatter of diners receding behind them, the air filled with the sound of the sea breaking on the slope of the beach. Bertrand untangled his hand from hers and put his arm around her shoulders, drawing her towards him. She slipped her arm around his waist and rested her head on his shoulder, the faintest streak of white running back through her long dark hair, just visible in the moonlight. She sighed her contentment. This was heaven.

Bertrand said, ‘Will you marry me?’

Sophie stopped dead in her tracks, and he had taken two further steps before he could stop himself and turn back. She was staring at him, open-mouthed, eyes wide with excitement. ‘You’re kidding?’

‘You want me to get down on one knee?’

She laughed. ‘Don’t be silly.’ Then composed herself. ‘You’ll have to ask my papa, though.’

Bertrand turned his head away, towards the sea, expelling air. ‘You’re not serious?’

She raised a coquettish eyebrow. ‘I am. What? Are you scared of him? He didn’t like you much at first.’