forget one thing, madame le juge.”
Anne Marie stopped, her hand on the door handle.
The procureur’s face had hardened. “You wanted this case. You’re an ambitious woman. You’re tired of dealing with petty thefts and juveniles. You wanted a murder because it means you’re moving up the ladder. A very ambitious woman, but you forget one thing.”
“What?”
“Clear an old convict who was going to die anyway—clear him and before you know it, the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat will be sending its own men—to take your job out of your hands. They’ll be stepping out of the next Boeing.”
Anne Marie hesitated.
“Rest assured that, as far as I’m concerned, your diet will be more juveniles, more petty crime and more cases of shoplifting. Until it’s time for you to leave the département and return to France.”
“Sounds very much like a threat, Monsieur le procureur.”
The handle moved in her hand.
The door was opened. The man with the long head and theshoulder holster entered. His face was drawn. He glanced hurriedly at Anne Marie and went straight to the procureur, placing something on the desk before him. A piece of crumpled paper. He whispered in the procureur’s ear.
The procureur nodded.
“Bad news for you, madame le juge.” The procureur pushed the crumpled piece of paper across the desk. “Just found in the old man’s overalls—a suicide note.”
24
Sainte Marthe
Anne Marie stared at the pool. The reeds swayed and frogs croaked.
Eight hundred meters to drag Calais’ inert corpse—from the hut down to the pond, crossing the road. Anne Marie rubbed the back of her hand. Hégésippe Bray could not have dragged the body that far. Too old and arthritic. If he had killed Raymond Calais, he must have done it near the pond.
Ripples ran across the surface. Anne Marie had taken off her moccasins and the mud was cool between her toes. She was lost in thought for a few moments, then she shrugged and returned to the Honda.
Hégésippe Bray and Raymond Calais must have met by chance. Bray hunting birds and suddenly the white man before him. After all those years—large, white, sweating and without a gun. Defenseless.
The report from the gendarmerie had been precise. They had dredged the pond, they had scoured the ground—but had found no other spent cartridges. As for footprints, the ground had been too wet to preserve anything. For three days it had not stopped raining. By the time the first gendarmes had arrived, the ground had been trampled over.
Anne Marie stopped.
She had seen something out of the corner of her eye. A moving man.
He was at the top of the hill, a thin silhouette a few meters from Bray’s hut. Caught against the reddening evening sky, walking between the cement hut and the Sainte Marthe villa, the silhouette carried a rifle, open at the breech.
Long legs that moved slowly.
Anne Marie ran back to the Honda, let out the clutch and the car jumped forward onto the road. And stalled.
She cursed.
A yellow post van came round the corner at speed and braked fast, almost going into a skid. Beneath his cap, the postman looked at Anne Marie in surprise. He just managed to avoid the Honda.
She put the Honda into first gear, crossed the road and went up the narrow cart track to the Calais villa. An old track—two lines almost lost beneath the grass and pitted with stones. The car bumped mercilessly on its springs, and twice the exhaust pipe hit the ground.
On either side of the track, there was hibiscus and oleander, forming a low hedge. She pulled on the steering wheel and came to a halt outside the deserted villa on the sloping lawn. The grass was short and had recently been mown. She banged noisily on the horn and then got out of the car.
The man was in a field that was staked off by a series of wooden posts and two strands of barbed wire. He was calling to the goats that seemed reluctant to give up their meal—grass that was less green than the lawn.
He wore large
Anne Marie stopped, her hand on the door handle.
The procureur’s face had hardened. “You wanted this case. You’re an ambitious woman. You’re tired of dealing with petty thefts and juveniles. You wanted a murder because it means you’re moving up the ladder. A very ambitious woman, but you forget one thing.”
“What?”
“Clear an old convict who was going to die anyway—clear him and before you know it, the Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat will be sending its own men—to take your job out of your hands. They’ll be stepping out of the next Boeing.”
Anne Marie hesitated.
“Rest assured that, as far as I’m concerned, your diet will be more juveniles, more petty crime and more cases of shoplifting. Until it’s time for you to leave the département and return to France.”
“Sounds very much like a threat, Monsieur le procureur.”
The handle moved in her hand.
The door was opened. The man with the long head and theshoulder holster entered. His face was drawn. He glanced hurriedly at Anne Marie and went straight to the procureur, placing something on the desk before him. A piece of crumpled paper. He whispered in the procureur’s ear.
The procureur nodded.
“Bad news for you, madame le juge.” The procureur pushed the crumpled piece of paper across the desk. “Just found in the old man’s overalls—a suicide note.”
24
Sainte Marthe
Anne Marie stared at the pool. The reeds swayed and frogs croaked.
Eight hundred meters to drag Calais’ inert corpse—from the hut down to the pond, crossing the road. Anne Marie rubbed the back of her hand. Hégésippe Bray could not have dragged the body that far. Too old and arthritic. If he had killed Raymond Calais, he must have done it near the pond.
Ripples ran across the surface. Anne Marie had taken off her moccasins and the mud was cool between her toes. She was lost in thought for a few moments, then she shrugged and returned to the Honda.
Hégésippe Bray and Raymond Calais must have met by chance. Bray hunting birds and suddenly the white man before him. After all those years—large, white, sweating and without a gun. Defenseless.
The report from the gendarmerie had been precise. They had dredged the pond, they had scoured the ground—but had found no other spent cartridges. As for footprints, the ground had been too wet to preserve anything. For three days it had not stopped raining. By the time the first gendarmes had arrived, the ground had been trampled over.
Anne Marie stopped.
She had seen something out of the corner of her eye. A moving man.
He was at the top of the hill, a thin silhouette a few meters from Bray’s hut. Caught against the reddening evening sky, walking between the cement hut and the Sainte Marthe villa, the silhouette carried a rifle, open at the breech.
Long legs that moved slowly.
Anne Marie ran back to the Honda, let out the clutch and the car jumped forward onto the road. And stalled.
She cursed.
A yellow post van came round the corner at speed and braked fast, almost going into a skid. Beneath his cap, the postman looked at Anne Marie in surprise. He just managed to avoid the Honda.
She put the Honda into first gear, crossed the road and went up the narrow cart track to the Calais villa. An old track—two lines almost lost beneath the grass and pitted with stones. The car bumped mercilessly on its springs, and twice the exhaust pipe hit the ground.
On either side of the track, there was hibiscus and oleander, forming a low hedge. She pulled on the steering wheel and came to a halt outside the deserted villa on the sloping lawn. The grass was short and had recently been mown. She banged noisily on the horn and then got out of the car.
The man was in a field that was staked off by a series of wooden posts and two strands of barbed wire. He was calling to the goats that seemed reluctant to give up their meal—grass that was less green than the lawn.
He wore large
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