The Sea Garden by Deborah Lawrenson Page B

then?”
    â€œThe prosecutor at Toulon seems satisfied that it was.”
    Ellie peered at him, the narrowed eyes and bulky shoulders that made the room seem so small around him. “But you’re not satisfied.”
    He made an expressive sound with his mouth. “It probably is so.”
    â€œVery sad.”
    Just another sad story of a young man who found he could not deal with the world; he would not be the first or the last, the lieutenant seemed to imply. “You say that he was standing alone when he climbed over the rail.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œYou say that there was someone else who saw the same as you—but we cannot find this person.”
    Now he was closing in on his point.
    â€œI have seen him again—the man in the panama hat. I saw him today.”
    â€œWhere?”
    â€œHere, by the harbour.”
    â€œBut you did not call me.”
    She sighed. “I haven’t got my phone. I lost it. I gave him your name and told him that you wanted to speak to him. I’m sure he will call you.”
    Meunier appraised this information. “Do you know the name of this man?” He took out his notebook.
    â€œGabriel. He didn’t tell me his surname.”
    â€œYou did not ask?”
    â€œWell, no . . . he said he was attached to the university at Aix. I was going to Google him,” she admitted.
    He blew air out of his mouth, shaking his head.
    â€œYou could find him that way,” she pointed out.
    â€œAnd you don’t know where I can find him on the island?”
    â€œNo . . . I’m sorry, I—”
    â€œThis is a serious matter involving the death of a young man. In cases like this we have to be sure that all the witness statements support the conclusion. You do understand that?”
    She nodded. It seemed to be more about paperwork than anything else.
    Â 
    A gainst her better judgement, she went back to the Domaine de Fayols. What else could she do? Her mobile held so much information; it felt as if more and more of her life was filed on that phone. Jean-Luc offered to lend her a bicycle from the hotel.
    For once the exercise did not calm her mind. The warmth and colour of the landscape had faded. The atmosphere was changing; banks of dark cloud had massed on the horizon; trees whispered in the wind. Was it happening again? Why was it that any connection with the Domaine de Fayols provoked this anxiety?
    Dusk was falling early as she pedalled up the drive. The house grew more imposing, its grand facade streaked by the last rays of sunset permitted through the clotting sky. Most of the shutters were closed, and as she looked up, another was pulled shut by an unseen hand, as if the inhabitants were locking themselves in, or securing the house to leave.
    Ellie dismounted. She hadn’t any time to waste, should have been on the ferry hours ago. She would go in quickly and get out.
    The main door was slightly open. Even so, she rang the bell at the side and waited. When no one came after a few minutes, she pushed the door open and entered the hall.
    â€œHello? Laurent?”
    Dance music from the 1940s swelled from somewhere deep inside the house, then stopped. A ticking grew louder, then faded, replaced by a light scratching from one side of the hall, as if mice were invading the wall cavities.
    â€œHello?”
    A faint churchy smell, recent polish perhaps, hinted at order and respectability. She would do everything by the book. It would be foolish to provide the de Fayolses with any reason for finding fault with her professional services. She would not allow them the satisfaction. Returning to the portico, she pulled the door shut and rang the doorbell again, keeping her finger pressed down as she counted to five and released.
    The noise continued to ring inside her head, drowning out any other sound.
    After a few minutes, a familiar tapping on the flagstones approached the other side of the door, and then stopped.