Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

‘I was wondering if you might have thought of anything else.’

The girl smiled at him. She had a wide, attractive mouth. She leaned against the glass counter where the till had been. It was still dusted with fingerprint powder.

‘Are you always this diligent?’ she asked.

Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘Not always,’ he said.

They were only a matter of feet apart. He couldn’t think of anything else to say. Céline put a finger to her lips. It was still stained with the fingerprinter’s ink. Gorski took a step towards her. She clasped his neck and pulled his mouth towards hers.

Gorski’s only previous sexual experiences had occurred during the summer he spent labouring on a farm before his final year at school. One afternoon, he was creosoting the doors of an outbuilding. It was very hot and the fumes from the chemicals had made him feel nauseous. The daughter of one of the farmhands appeared at his side. She was an olive-skinned girl of fourteen or fifteen, with dark hair and brown eyes. Her name was Marthe. She might have been watching him for some time, but Gorski had not noticed her. Without saying anything, she pushed open the door Gorski was painting and went inside. Gorski followed. It was cool and dark in the barn. Yellow slats of sunlight stabbed through the gaps in the wooden walls. Marthe pulled up her chemise and placed Gorski’s hands on her large breasts. Gorski squeezed them then lowered his mouth over a brown nipple. Marthe undid his trousers, pushed him to the floor and squatted over him. She ground her groin mechanically against him, gasping melodramatically. Gorski found the experience quite painful. (Later, he learned to spit on his hand to lubricate his member.) He came almost immediately, the smell of creosote in his nostrils. Marthe finished and climbed off him. She fixed her clothing, then asked Gorski if he had a cigarette, which he did not. She shrugged and left the barn.

Similar encounters occurred regularly for the rest of the summer. Gorski was left with the impression that sex was easy to come by and not the great mystery that people made it out to be. Marthe was matter-of-fact after the act. There was never any need to get dressed afterwards since they never actually removed their clothes. Gorski started to buy cigarettes and sometimes they would lie next to each other for a few minutes and smoke.

When Gorski returned to school it was with a certain swagger. He felt a great superiority as he listened to his classmates’ comic accounts of their attempts to seduce girls. Around his female classmates, he adopted an off-hand, aloof manner, which did not produce the results he hoped. Towards the end of the year, after drinking a bottle of wine at a house party, he talked a girl into going upstairs with him. She was a tall, Germanic-looking girl called Jeanet Hassemer whom he had admired for months. They found a bedroom. Without preamble Gorski took the girl’s hand and pushed it down the front of his trousers. The girl pushed him away and ran from the room. When he went downstairs a few minutes later, another boy punched him in the face.

In the years that had passed since his experiences with Marthe, Gorski had not so much as kissed a girl. He found that women became guarded when he told them that he was a policeman and consequently he became awkward in their company.

Céline undid the buttons of her blouse and unclasped her brassiere. She had prominent dark nipples. She rucked her skirt up around her waist and pushed Gorski’s hand between her legs. Gorski slipped his index and middle fingers inside her and she pressed her groin against the heel of his hand. Gorski bit her neck and massaged her modest breasts. Céline ground her sex against his hand with increasing vigour. Her breathing quickened and then suddenly subsided. Gorski let his fingers slip out of her. Her face was flushed. Gorski was glad nothing more was required of him. He had spent himself almost as soon as he had touched her breasts. He hoped his emission would not seep through his trousers. Céline pulled down her skirt and fastened the buttons of her blouse. Gorski took out a packet of cigarettes and offered one to her.

‘We’re not supposed to smoke in here,’ said Céline. ‘Mme Bettine says it make the clothes smell.’ She seemed suddenly much younger. Her hair was disarrayed. They went outside and smoked.

Gorski knew from the outset that he was out of his depth. Céline’s father, Jean-Marie Keller, was a wealthy businessman and a bigwig on the town council. On their first date Gorski took Céline to what he imagined was the best restaurant in Saint-Louis. He felt uncomfortable in the place, with its starched white tablecloths and elaborate array of cutlery. Céline was twenty minutes late. Gorski tried to affect a nonchalant attitude as he waited, drinking a glass of beer. Only two other tables were occupied and Gorski felt that the waiters were mocking him. He had bought a new dark grey suit for the occasion and, remembering Céline’s dictum about white shirts, had chosen a mustard-coloured one.

‘What a funny place,’ said Céline on her arrival. She did not apologise for being late. Her family, she told him, only ever dined out in Strasbourg. A waiter took her coat and she ordered a gin and tonic. When her drink arrived, Gorski ordered one as well. The waiter bowed his head slightly. Céline barely touched her food. Gorski took this as a sign of sophistication, but he could not bring himself to leave anything on his own plate.

Céline talked a lot about her father. Perhaps, she said, he would be able to help Gorski in his career. She asked how long he planned to stay in the police.

‘I’ve only just made detective,’ said Gorski. He could not resist adding that he was the youngest detective ever appointed in Saint-Louis.

Céline asked what business Gorski’s family was in and he told her that his father was now retired. She talked amusingly about working in Mme Bettine’s shop, impersonating the customers and ridiculing the old-fashioned stock. She was only doing it to gain experience, she said, as she intended to go into business herself one day. After the meal, they stood awkwardly outside on the pavement.

‘Mummy’s picking me up at ten,’ she said.

Gorski was taken aback. Being picked up by her mother did not square with the precocious girl he had encountered in Mme Bettine’s shop. He wondered how old Céline actually was. They had fifteen minutes to kill. They walked slowly towards the park outside the shop where she had arranged to be collected. They sat down on the low wall.

‘Don’t you want to kiss me?’ Céline said.

‘What if your mother sees us?’

Céline laughed. ‘She won’t mind.’

They kissed, but mechanically, and Gorski broke it off. Céline smiled at him.

‘Next time, we should go out in Strasbourg,’ she said.

Gorski felt elated that there was going to be a next time. Céline’s mother pulled up in a bottle green Mercedes. She waved cheerfully at the couple. Gorski stood up and returned her greeting, feeling rather foolish. Céline gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to call her.

Gorski telephoned the shop a few days later. He asked Céline if she would like to get together again. They could go to Strasbourg, if she liked. Céline laughed and said she had only been joking. She said she was free on Sunday afternoon. Gorski agreed to pick her up at two o’clock. In the meantime, he took to walking past Mme Bettine’s shop at every opportunity, hoping to catch a glimpse of Céline smoking on the pavement outside.

That Sunday, Gorski pulled up outside the Keller house in his battered Fiat. There was a long gravel drive and two Mercedes were parked outside. To the side of the house was a series of outbuildings. Gorski got out and rang the doorbell. Céline’s mother opened the door. She was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt. Her hands were dirty from gardening.