After the Crash (20 page)

Marc and Lylie were adorable children. I got into the habit of visiting them quite frequently, at least once a year for Lylie’s birthday.
Sometimes I took Nazim with me to Dieppe, and he scared them
with his big moustache. But, most of all, I was fascinated by Nicole:
her energy, her sense of humour, her stubborn determination to
raise Marc and Lylie by herself. She had held firm to her promise and had not touched a single centime of Mathilde de Carville’s
money, which lay in Lylie’s bank account, steadily accumulating
zeroes.

Nicole was determined and true to her word. An incredible
woman. And just like that, the months, the years rolled by.

I too was faithful to my pilgrimage. This is more important than you
can possibly imagine. Every year, around 22 December, I returned
to Mont Terri. I slept in a nearby gîte, in Clairbief, on the banks of
the Doubs river, and I spent my time on the mountainside, at the
crash site. I stayed there for at least a few hours each time, thinking,
walking, reading over the notes I had taken. As if the place might
finally reveal its secret to me . . .

I always went alone, without Nazim. I came to know every path,
every stone, every pine tree. I felt I had to tame that wild mountainous area, that I should take the time to listen to it, to get to know
it beyond the immediate trauma of the crash. As I had done with
the Vitrals.

You probably won’t believe this, but . . . it worked! The mountain confided in me. It took exactly three years. On my fourth
pilgrimage there, in December 1986, it revealed its secret to me:
by far the most disturbing secret I discovered in eighteen years of
investigation.

That day – 22 December, 1986 – I was surprised, at the top of the
mountain, by a sudden, violent storm. To get back down, I would
have had to walk for at least two hours in the rain and lightning. So
I decided to look for shelter. I knew that the young trees, which had
been planted shortly after the crash, would offer me no protection.

I walked blindly for about half a mile. Finally, I found myself
staring at the most unbelievable sight. I was soaked through, and to
start with, I thought I must be hallucinating. I kept going, through
the mud, the vision before me growing clearer and more real.

I no longer noticed the driving rain. My heart was pounding. I
kept going until I reached the

Marc swore.
The torn-out page ended halfway through the sentence.
Irritated, he kicked at the gravel beneath his feet. The fishermen

looked up disapprovingly. The rest of the sentence would be on the
next page of the notebook, in the locker in the Gare de Lyon.

Marc shoved the pages into his pocket and stood up, furious
with himself and furious with Grand-Duc’s convoluted story. Why
couldn’t he just write things down instead of stretching them out as
if he were penning a thriller?

He crossed a bridge over the canal. The Chemin des ChaudsSoleils was the first street on the right as you entered the village
and, like everywhere else, it was quiet. More of a path than a street,
in fact, disappearing into darkness as it wound through the forest.
Marc walked on cautiously. Who were the de Carvilles, really? Victims of fate, like himself? Lylie’s true family, as he hoped? But also,
perhaps, the people who were responsible for the murder of his
grandfather.
Enemies or allies? Or both?
There were a few cars parked in the cul-de-sac, all of them

expensive-looking. Mercedes, Saabs, Audis. All of them large and
powerful – with one exception: a blue Rover Mini. Marc froze.
He had seen this car. Recently.
But where?
Marc had spent most of the day underground in the metro. The
only time he had been outdoors was here, in Coupvray. And . . .
At Grand-Duc’s house.

He felt a hand on his shoulder and something metallic digging into
his lower back. Possibly a gun.

 

A harsh voice demanded: ‘Looking for something, dickhead?’
26
2 October, 1998, 12.50 p.m.

Oddly, Marc did not feel an attack coming on. He had none of the
usual symptoms: no breathlessness or palpitations. All he noticed
was a slight acceleration in his pulse.

Don’t panic.
Turn around.
Chemin des Chauds-Soleils was utterly deserted. The shadows

of tall trees from the adjoining properties swayed over the pale grey
gravel. Marc turned around very slowly, raising his hands so that
his attacker would know he was not about to offer any resistance.

‘Don’t get smart with me, Vitral.’

Marc squinted. A girl, less than five foot tall and weighing no
more than seven stone, stood in front of him. She was dressed as
if she had just come home from boarding school, but her face was
that of a thirty-year-old woman.

Malvina de Carville.
Marc had never met her, never even seen a photograph of her,
but he knew it had to be her. She was aiming a revolver at him, a
strange fury in her eyes. Marc’s brain struggled to make sense of all
this new information. So, the blue Rover Mini, parked a few yards
away, had, one hour earlier, been parked in Rue de la Butte-auxCailles, and it belonged to Malvina de Carville. Which meant she
had been at Grand-Duc’s house a few hours earlier . . . carrying a
revolver . . .
Had she killed Crédule Grand-Duc? And would Marc be next?
Malvina stared at him, examining him from head to toe.
‘What the fuck are you doing here, Vitral?’
There was something almost comical in Malvina’s tone, like the
high-pitched yelp of a tiny poodle warning visitors away from its
master’s house. But Marc knew he should not allow himself to be
lulled into a false sense of security. This girl was capable of anything.
She could easily laugh as she put a bullet between your eyes. But
even knowing this, Marc couldn’t quite manage to take her seriously. And bizarrely, considering the situation, he felt no symptoms
whatsoever: no fear, no panic.
‘Don’t move, Vitral. I said, don’t move!’
Smiling, Marc walked a couple of feet towards her, his hands still
raised.
‘Stop looking at me like that!’ Malvina yelled, as she retreated.
‘You don’t fool me with your bravado. I know everything about
you. I even know that you’re sleeping with your sister. Don’t you
think that’s disgusting, fucking your own sister?’
Marc smiled again. He couldn’t help it. The insults sounded false
coming from Malvina’s mouth. She was like those eight-year-old
boys at the leisure centre in Dieppe, who swore to cover up their
shyness.
‘Surely, from your point of view, it’s
your
sister I’m sleeping with?’
Malvina appeared to be surprised by this reply. After a few seconds, she came up with a response: ‘That’s right. It’s my sister you’re
fucking, because she’s too beautiful to be a filthy Vitral pig. But
Lyse-Rose won’t need you anymore, not now she’s eighteen . . .’
Malvina’s insults had no effect on Marc. They seemed unreal.
He did not even feel the need to defend himself, to deny that he
was fucking Lylie. Instead he continued along the path, not allowing himself to betray the slightest hesitation. The girl pointed the
Mauser at him more aggressively.
‘I told you not to move.’
Marc kept walking, without turning around.
‘Sorry, but I didn’t come here to speak to you. I want to see your
grandmother. This is the right house, isn’t it? The Roseraie?’
‘Keep moving and I’ll kill you, cocksucker.’
Marc pretended not to hear. Was he right to trust his instinct, to
assume the absence of agoraphobia meant this girl was not really
dangerous? Or would he end up like Grand-Duc, shot through the
heart? Sweat ran down his back. He stopped in front of the huge
gate to the Roseraie.
‘What are you doing, you prick? I told you already: I’ll kill
you!’
Malvina scampered after Marc, like an excited child, then stood
in front of him, the Mauser still aimed at his chest. Again, she
looked him carefully up and down.
‘Looking for something?’ Marc asked ironically.
‘You didn’t bring your bag. Are you hiding something? Under
your shirt, perhaps?’
‘Oh, you want me to strip, do you?’
‘Keep your hands in the air, dickbreath!’
‘Ah, I see . . . You want to undress me yourself. Rub your little
hands all over my body . . .’
Malvina hesitated. Marc wondered whether he might have gone
too far. Malvina’s finger was tightening on the Mauser’s trigger. On
that finger, Marc saw a silver ring set with a beautiful translucent
brown stone, like the colour of her eyes, but more luminous. Malvina continued to examine him. She was undoubtedly looking for
Grand-Duc’s notebook: he had been right to take precautions.
He forced himself to be cruel: ‘Sorry, Malvina, I prefer your
sister.’
Ignoring Malvina’s reaction, he walked forward and pressed the
intercom button. He now had no way of seeing what the mad girl
was doing behind his back.
‘You little shit, I’m going to . . .’
A woman’s voice crackled over the intercom, interrupting
Malvina:
‘Yes?’
‘It’s Marc Vitral. I’ve come to speak to Mathilde de Carville.’
‘Enter.’
The gate opened. Malvina hesitated, as if embarrassed now to be
found pointing a gun at Marc. Then her eyes flared and she barked
at him: ‘Didn’t you hear her? She told you to go in. What are you
waiting for?’

Marc had known it would be a luxurious property, one of the
most lavish in this wealthy enclave, but even so he was impressed
by the vastness of the tree-filled park, the flower beds, the climbing roses. How big was this place? Three acres? Four? He walked
along the pink gravel path, his armed guard stalking him five feet
behind.

‘Can’t believe it, can you, Vitral? How big and beautiful the Roseraie is. The biggest park in Coupvray. From the second floor, you
can see the entire bend of the Marne. Now do you realise what
Lyse-Rose missed out on all these years?’

Marc suppressed the urge to slap her. Malvina had shot so many
poison darts at him that, inevitably, one or two had found their
mark. Marc could not help comparing the Parc de la Roseraie to
his grandmother’s garden in Rue Pocholle. Ten by fifteen feet. With
the Citroën parked there, they had not even had a garden at all.
Farther off, close to the greenhouse, a squirrel flashed past, glancing
nervously at the visitors.

‘Now you can see what you deprived her of, I hope you feel some
remorse.’
Remorse?
Marc could still hear Lylie’s laughter in his ears. The happy shouting of children when Nicole drove off in her Citroën to work on the
seafront, leaving Lylie and Marc to play hopscotch or tennis in the
little garden.
Three steps. Malvina overtook him, the Mauser still aimed at his
chest, and opened the thick wooden door.
Marc followed her inside.
Was he mad, going in like this, of his own free will? He had come
here alone, and no one else knew where he was going. Malvina
pointed him down a wide hallway. They climbed three more steps.
Paintings of bucolic landscapes adorned the walls. Fur coats hung
from forged iron hooks. An oval mirror at the end of the hallway
gave the illusion that it went on forever.
Malvina gestured with the Mauser to the first door on the right:
a heavy door with red mouldings. They went in.
Marc found himself standing in a large living room. Most of the
furniture was covered with white sheets, presumably intended to
protect it when it was not in use. Directly across from him was a
wall entirely covered by bookshelves. In the opposite corner was a
white grand piano, a Petrof, one of the most expensive models on
the market. Marc knew how much it must have cost.
Mathilde de Carville stood in front of him, tall and straightbacked, her only adornments being the cross that hung around her
neck and a few incongruous mud stains on the lower part of her
dress. Next to her, her husband slept in his wheelchair. Indifferent.
A tartan rug was spread across his lap, covered by a few yellow leaves.
The black widow and the paralytic . . . it was like being trapped in
a bad horror movie.
Mathilde de Carville did not move. She merely smiled at him
strangely.
‘Marc Vitral. What a surprise. I never thought for a minute that
you would come here one day . . .’
‘Neither did I.’
The smile grew slightly wider. Malvina moved away and stationed herself next to the piano.
‘Put down your gun, Malvina.’
‘But Grandma . . .’
Mathilde de Carville gave her granddaughter a stern look. Pointedly, Malvina laid down her weapon on the piano. It was obvious
that she was desperate to pick it up again.
Marc could not help staring at the piano. Of course the de Carville family would have a piano. He could have guessed that, even
without having set foot inside their house. No member of the Vitral
family was musical. Neither his parents nor his grandparents had
ever played a musical instrument. There were not even many records
in the house on Rue Pocholle. And yet, from her very first months
in Dieppe, Lylie had always been spellbound by sound, all kinds of
sounds . . . in nursery school, she had been fascinated by musical
instruments, and it had seemed logical when, at the age of four,
she joined the local music school. It was practically free. Her music
teacher had been full of praise for her, Marc remembered proudly.
‘A nice model, isn’t it?’ said Mathilde de Carville. ‘It’s genuine.
Ordered by my father in 1934. You surprise me, Marc. Are you
interested in the piano?’
Marc, lost in his thoughts, did not reply. When Lylie turned
eight, her music teachers became more insistent. She was one of
their best and most passionate students. She happily played every
instrument that was handed to her, but her favourite was the piano.
She ought to practise more regularly, her teachers said; she ought
to be playing her scales every day, at home. The teachers quickly
dismissed the Vitrals’ first objection to this, that they didn’t have
enough space for a piano: there were some excellent models available, designed specifically for small apartments. And then there was
the question of cost. A decent piano, even a second-hand one,
would have cost Nicole several months of her salary. It was unthinkable. Lylie had not protested when Nicole explained to her that it
was beyond their means . . .
A squeaking noise made Marc jump. Behind him, Malvina was
sliding the Mauser across the lacquered wood of the Petrof.
‘Leave that gun where it is, please, Malvina,’ Mathilde de Carville commanded calmly. ‘I played too, Marc, when I was younger.
Not well, however. My son Alexandre was much more talented than
me. But I don’t suppose you came here to talk about music . . .’
‘You’re right,’ Marc said. ‘I’ll get to the point. I came here to talk
to you about Grand-Duc’s investigation. I am not going to hide
anything from you. He gave me his notebook. Well, in fact, he gave
it to . . .’ He hesitated, then went on: ‘He gave it to Lylie, who gave
it to me this morning and insisted I read it.’
‘But you came here without it?’ Mathilde de Carville interrupted.
‘Very prudent, Marc. You do not trust us. But you need not have
worried. As far as the notebook is concerned, I never asked Crédule
Grand-Duc for any sort of exclusivity. It is a good thing that Lylie
now knows the truth. Doubt is better than false certainty. Anyway,
I think I have a good idea what that notebook contains. Grand-Duc
was a faithful employee.’
Marc watched Malvina’s distorted reflection in the polished
wood of the Petrof, then feigned surprise: ‘
Was
?’
Mathilde did not hide the irony in her reply: ‘Yes,
was
. GrandDuc was under contract to me for eighteen years. But that contract
ended two days ago.’
Marc cursed inwardly. Mathilde de Carville was trying to manipulate him. Of course she knew about Grand-Duc’s death. He had
been killed by her granddaughter. Possibly on her orders . . . Marc’s
hands were shaking. What was he doing here, with this bitter old
witch and her mad, murderous offspring? Not to mention the
ancient vegetable in his wheelchair. What good could possibly
come from this situation?
Marc stepped forward, to give himself confidence. He had
nothing to lose . . . he may as well say what he had come here to
say.
‘All right, I’m going to be honest with you. For eighteen years,
our families have held tightly to their convictions. The de Carvilles
claim that Lyse-Rose survived, the Vitrals say it was Emilie. And the
judge said that too.’
Marc exhaled, searching for the right words.
‘Mrs de Carville, I have grown up with Lylie over the past eighteen years, and I have become certain of one thing.’ Marc hesitated
again, then went on: ‘Mrs de Carville, Lylie is not my sister! Do you
understand? We do not share the same blood. I believe it is LyseRose who survived the crash.’
The Mauser made a sharp snapping noise as it fell onto the piano.
Malvina’s eyes shone with surprise and happiness, as if Marc had
suddenly become their ally. A spy who had taken off his mask and
revealed his true identity.
He was one of them!
Mathilde de Carville, on the other hand, did not move a muscle.
For a long time she was silent, then she said simply: ‘Malvina, take
grandpa outside.’
‘But Grandma . . .’
There were tears in her eyes.
‘Do as I tell you, Malvina. Take Léonce for a walk in the park.’
‘But . . .’
This time, Malvina could not hold back her tears. She left, pushing the wheelchair in front of her, while her grandfather continued
his long sleep.