Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

Manfred could not help feeling a thrill when she used his name like this. He had a sudden vision of a future with Alice. They would become lovers. They would maintain their separate apartments, but at weekends they would spend time together, going for country walks or whatever it was that lovers did. Without it ever being mentioned, it would become known at the bank that he had a lover. The whispers about his sexual orientation would come to an end. He would no longer spend every evening drinking at the counter of the Restaurant de la Cloche, exchanging awkward remarks with Pasteur. Lemerre and his cronies would look at him with newfound respect. But he knew, of course, that none of that would happen.

Alice sat on the sofa. She took off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her thighs. Manfred poured out two measures of whisky and handed one to Alice. He sat down on the armchair.

‘How long have you been here?’ she asked.

‘Eighteen years,’ he said. ‘It was supposed to be a stopgap for me as well.’

She laughed. She rummaged in her bag for her cigarettes and lit one. Manfred got up and fetched an ashtray from the kitchen, relieved to be out of the room for a moment. Alice smiled a thank you when he placed the ashtray on the table in front of her.

‘This is nice,’ she said. She appeared to find Manfred’s discomfort amusing.

The building was completely silent. Alice put her elbow on the arm of the sofa and rested her chin on her hand.

‘So what about you, Manfred?’ Her dress was stretched tightly around her breasts.

‘What about me?’

‘Tell me about yourself.’

‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Come on,’ she said, as if cajoling a tongue-tied child.

Manfred sipped his whisky. He was beginning to feel nauseous. A car passed outside. He averted his eyes from Alice’s breasts. He was terrified that Alice was going to attempt to seduce him. He was not so naive as to be unaware of the events that were expected to ensue from a ‘nightcap’.

‘Have you ever been married?’ she asked.

Manfred shook his head. He wished Alice would stop asking questions.

‘There must have been someone,’ she said playfully. She took a slug of whisky.

Manfred topped up her glass. She smiled, a little apologetically, as if she realised he did not want to talk about himself, or perhaps as if she realised that the whole evening had been a mistake. Manfred suddenly had the impression that she was about to get up and leave.

‘I was in love once,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ said Alice. She suddenly perked up.

‘It was a long time ago,’ said Manfred. ‘She was very beautiful.’

‘What happened?’

Manfred looked at her.

‘She was murdered.’

Alice clasped her bottom lip in her teeth. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Manfred shook his head. He had a sudden urge to tell her the whole story, to spare her no detail about what had happened that summer. But he said nothing. He swilled the whisky round in his glass. Someone in an adjoining flat turned on a television.

They drank the rest of the whisky in silence. Alice’s toenails were painted red. Manfred imagined kneeling at her feet and kissing them. After a while, Alice said she should be going. She put on her shoes.

‘We should do this again sometime,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we do something on Sunday?’

Manfred was so relieved that she was leaving that he nodded agreement. At the door, she reached up and clasped the back of Manfred’s neck and kissed him. Manfred kept his hands by his sides and then placed them on her hips. He could feel the grain of the fine wool of her dress with his fingertips. When they parted, she put the back of her fingers to her lips and widened her eyes. Manfred did not know what to say. Alice said she had better go and Manfred watched her disappear along the corridor.

IT WAS THE EVENING OF Céline’s autumn show at the boutique. Gorski had been instructed to be at the shop by seven o’clock when the guests would start arriving. He stopped off at Le Pot on the way. He drank a glass of beer and then ordered a second. A succession of patrons drifted through the bar for a post-work nip, among them the corpulent hairdresser from the Restaurant de la Cloche who had been so venomous about Manfred Baumann. Thankfully he did not spot Gorski at his table in the corner. Gorski dreaded the twice-yearly ritual of Céline’s show, but there was no question of not attending. He was expected to mingle with the guests and display the fine manners Céline had taught him.

Céline insisted that Gorski kept his wardrobe up to date. On more than one occasion, he had overheard remarks being passed at the station about his ‘dandyish’ outfits. White shirts were banned. These were for clerical workers and waiters, groups even lower in Céline’s elaborate social hierarchy than policemen. ‘Just because you’re only a cop doesn’t mean that you can’t dress properly,’ she liked to tell him. ‘I can’t have the husband of the owner of Céline’s going around looking like a vagrant.’ She often used the phrase ‘only a cop’ and it never failed to rile him as, he assumed, was intended. When called upon to introduce him at one of her gatherings, Céline was in the habit of pulling an apologetic face when informing people of her husband’s profession. Gorski would pretend that he had not seen it, but inside he seethed. A couple of drinks were required to gird himself for the evening. Gorski imagined Céline’s face if she could see him now, sitting in this pleasingly grotty dive with the lowlife of the town. The thought gave him a moment’s grim amusement.

He arrived at half past seven. Céline was at the back of the shop talking to a woman he did not recognise. She shot him a poisonous look. Gorski smiled at her and waved as if nothing were amiss. Clémence was standing nearby with a tray of champagne. Gorski pulled a face: Am I in trouble ? She widened her eyes and nodded: You sure are! There were about thirty people in the shop, bunched in little knots. Gorski made his way over to Clémence. She was wearing a black skirt and pale yellow blouse, as were the two other girls Céline had requisitioned to act as waitresses — or hostesses, as she insisted on calling them. She looked nice. To Céline’s chagrin, she generally refused to wear anything other than jeans and T-shirts.

Gorski took a glass of champagne from her tray.

‘How bad is it?’ he asked.

‘You are in deep shit,’ said Clémence. ‘Deep, deep shit.’

Gorski clicked his tongue, then knocked back the champagne and took another glass.

‘This is good stuff,’ he said. ‘You tried it?’

‘Just one.’

‘You’ll need more than that if you’re going to get through tonight,’ he said.

Clémence laughed, then darted her eyes in the direction of her mother. Céline was making her way over. She smiled her most charming smile, took his glass from him and placed it back on Clémence’s tray. She took him by the elbow and steered him across the room. ‘Try not to embarrass me any more than you already have,’ she stage-whispered.

They reached a knot of two couples. The men looked as uncomfortable as Gorski. Céline introduced him: ‘My husband, the great detective.’

Gorski shook hands. He did not register the names of the guests.

‘Nice to meet you,’ he said to each in turn.

Céline abandoned him to attend to some new arrivals. One of the men seemed quite pleased to have Gorski to talk to. He was in the insurance business. He asked Gorski about the rate of burglaries in the town and went on to explain how this impacted on the premiums charged to clients. Gorski watched Céline go about her duties. She was wearing a flowing green silk suit with wide trousers. The chemise was open almost to her midriff, but owing to her flat chest there was nothing obscene about it. She looked elegant. She greeted each new arrival with a great fuss. She had a habit of laying her hand on the forearm of whoever she was talking to and arching her midriff towards them, before making some witty or saucy remark. People found her charming and flirtatious.