After the Crash (22 page)

Ayla Ozan stood in front of number 21, Rue de la Butte-aux-Cailles.
Standing on tiptoes, she tried to see as far as she could into the
garden. Nothing moved. The pale green shutters were all tightly
shut. Ayla rang the bell several times, but nobody answered.

Finally, she turned around and walked down the street, desperately
searching for some kind of clue. She had often been to Grand-Duc’s
house; she would make dinner while Crédule and Nazim worked
on the case, talking late into the night. She would listen to them
sometimes, but she always ended up falling asleep before they did,
on the sofa, warmed by the fire in the hearth, watching the dragonflies in the vivarium, lulled by the sound of her men’s voices: the
love of her life and his best friend. Where could they have gone?
With no one answering the door at Crédule’s house, and no news
from Nazim, she knew that something was very wrong.

Ayla passed a bar, Le Temps des Cerises. She thought about
going in, to ask for information. Crédule sometimes came here
for a coffee. She stopped, aware that the way she was walking did
not look very natural. Before leaving her kebab shop on Boulevard
Raspail, Ayla had taken a large kitchen knife, the sharpest she could
find, and wrapped it in a plastic bag before sliding it down her leg,
under her wide trousers. It was too long to fit in her backpack. She
felt she needed a weapon, just in case . . . She could not rid herself
of the feeling that Nazim was in danger.

Suddenly, she froze. Her heart thudded beneath her long winter
coat.
Crédule’s black BMW X3 was parked on the street, a short
distance from his house. She could find no trace of Nazim’s blue
Xantia, though. Nazim had gone to Crédule’s house; if they had left
the house together, why the hell would they have taken the filthy,
dented old banger rather than the BMW? Especially Crédule, who
was so fastidious.
Ayla walked slowly around the area. She took Rue Samson,
Passage Boiton, Rue Jean-Marie-Jégo, and Rue Alphand, her leg
unnaturally straight due to the knife secreted in her trousers. She
thought about the possibility of the plastic bag giving way at any
moment, the sharp steel slicing open her leg . . .
‘Are you looking for something?’
A man with a dog was staring at her, the type of nosey do-gooder
who didn’t like strangers hanging around the place. Particularly a
Turkish woman who kept gazing at parked cars.
‘I . . . I’m a friend of Crédule Grand-Duc. He lives at 21, Rue
de la Butte-aux-Cailles. That little house, just before Le Temps des
Cerises. He isn’t home, but his car is parked nearby. A black BMW.
You . . . Have you by any chance seen another car, a blue Xantia?’
The man looked at her as though he belonged to the immigration department. He consulted his dog.
‘Rusted bumpers? Dried flowers attached to the rear-view mirror?
A Turkish flag hanging in the back window? Is that the one?’
The man seemed pleased with himself. Ayla nodded and gave
him her most dazzling smile, even though he seemed more interested in his dog than in her Ottoman charms. The mongrel was
clinging affectionately to Ayla’s legs.
‘The Xantia was parked here for a few days,’ the man said finally,
‘but it hasn’t been here since yesterday.’
The knife was digging into Ayla’s leg painfully. If that stupid dog
kept pressing against her, he would soon end up with his head cloven
in two, like a kebab. She bent down to free herself from the dog’s
affections, while simultaneously attempting to adjust the position
of the knife. The man watched her even more mistrustfully. He was
slimy, but he could prove useful. Ayla smiled and caressed the dog,
so that neither of them would feel jealous.
‘Do you mind if I ask you something else? You seem to know the
area very well. Did you happen to see anything new or suspicious
recently, in the last few days ? A stranger, perhaps? Another car that
didn’t belong here?’
The man stared at her, amazed by her insolence. Instinctively, he
pulled at the dog’s leash, but he could not resist the temptation to
show off.
‘Actually, there was something. A blue Rover Mini, fairly new.
The owner was hanging around practically all morning: a young girl
with the face of a middle-aged woman. She looked rather shifty to
me. Is that who you had in mind?’
Ayla Ozan’s face suddenly went white. Of course, she knew
who the man was talking about. Nazim had told her many times
about Malvina de Carville: her unusual appearance, her capricious
nature, that car – the Rover Mini – given to her by her wealthy
grandmother. Nazim had also told her that the girl had gone utterly
insane after the plane crash.
Insane and dangerous.
Ayla panicked.
‘Right. Yes. Well, thank you . . .’
What could she do now? Go to the police? Put out a missing
persons report? They would ask her questions if she did and she
would have to tell them everything she knew – about the case,
about the de Carvilles, about Nazim. He had only been gone for
two days. If she talked to the police, he would end up in jail. Nazim
would never forgive her . . .
The man with the dog was walking away, although he kept glancing back at her. No, she would have to deal with this on her own.
She knew a great deal about the de Carvilles. She had not forgotten
any of Nazim’s post-coital confessions. Ayla felt a shiver of anxiety
and excitement. She thought again of Nazim’s body, of his moustache tickling her skin. She wanted so desperately to be held by him
now. To be kissed by him, greedily.
She had only one lead: Malvina de Carville. She touched the
cold steel of the blade. Ayla was alone, but she wasn’t stupid. The
de Carvilles lived near Marne-la-Vallée; it would be easy enough for
her to find them. She had shared a bed with a private detective for
twenty years. She could do this.

Marc walked through the dark hallway. Mathilde de Carville had
not accompanied him; she had merely opened the door for him,
leaving him alone with his doubts. His agoraphobia was gradually
diminishing, his breathing returning to normal. The burning effect
of the herbal tea was fading too, as if his body’s pores were opening
up to the outside air. Passing the large oval mirror, Marc caught a
glimpse of his wild-eyed reflection. He hurried on.

Down three steps, past the heavy oak door. Get out of here, as
quickly as possible.
Marc’s legs could hardly bear his weight and his thoughts were
jumbled. Should he open the blue envelope and read the DNA
test results? Or should he wait until he was in Dieppe? Perhaps
Mathilde de Carville was trying to trap him . . .
The fresh air hit his face, and Marc took long deep breaths while
he tried to order his thoughts. In front of him, not even a shadow
moved in the Parc de la Roseraie. The suffocating atmosphere of the
place reminded him of an old people’s home. Or a lunatic asylum.
Marc walked towards the gate. To his left, behind the red-leafed
maple tree, he saw Léonce de Carville. He was asleep, alone, head
to the side, abandoned by Malvina de Carville in the middle of the
lawn.
Think, Marc told himself. Concentrate.
He had three urgent mysteries to solve, all of them linked, in
one way or another, to a crime. First, the murder of Grand-Duc,
a few hours earlier. Everything led him to believe that Malvina de
Carville was the guilty party. Next, the murder of his grandfather –
because it certainly was a murder – fifteen years ago. Marc had to
try to discover an anomaly in Grand-Duc’s account, a lost memory
that he felt sure he would find in his childhood bedroom in Dieppe.
Lastly, there was Lylie. The ‘one-way trip’ she had talked about. Was
she running away? Seeking vengeance? Planning to kill herself?
Were these three things connected? Without a doubt. If he solved
one problem, the other two would be solved as well.

A crunching of gravel. Behind him.
‘Where are you going, Vitral?’
Malvina.
Marc turned around.
‘I’m off. Your grandmother kindly told me everything I wanted

to know . . .’
‘Bullshit! You didn’t learn a thing. Grandma may look impres
sive, but all she does is ramble on.’
Marc sighed.
‘I’m the only one who knows the truth,’ Malvina boasted. ‘I was
in Turkey. All the others died in the crash, but not me. I took an
earlier flight. Follow me, Vitral!’
Marc watched her, incredulous.
‘I said follow me! Look, I’m not even carrying a gun anymore.
You said earlier that Lyse-Rose is alive, that Emilie Vitral was the
one who died in the crash, didn’t you? So, follow me.’
Marc did not move.
‘Come on, Vitral. Come with me. I promise, you’ll find this
interesting.’
Oh well. Why not?
Giddy as a small child, Malvina raced back up the driveway,
opened the oak door, walked down the hallway, then climbed the
wide staircase. Intrigued, Marc followed her. When they reached
the first floor, Malvina turned to face him and placed a finger to
her mouth. Almost in a whisper, she said: ‘The room to the right is
mine. Don’t get your hopes up – I’m not taking you there. On the
left, though, that is Lyse-Rose’s room. Follow me . . .’
Malvina opened the door.
To his shock, Marc found himself in a little girl’s bedroom. It
was all there. The little pink bed, covered in cuddly toys; the curtains printed with giant giraffes; a terry towel laid out on an oak
baby-changing table; a wardrobe decorated with pastel-coloured
flowers. Arrayed on a shelf were a musical box, a night-light, and
more cuddly toys: a blue elephant, a tiger, a grey-and-white rabbit.
On the floor, there was a huge playmat, cluttered with rattles and
other toys.
‘Grandma decorated this bedroom eighteen years ago, for LyseRose’s return from Turkey. We have kept it like this ever since, in
case Lyse-Rose comes back to us. She could arrive at any moment,
you know!’
Malvina stepped nimbly over the toys and opened the door of the
wardrobe. Inside, the shelves were crammed with clothes: dresses of
every size, beautiful little shoes. A tiny, pink, fur-lined hat fell to
the floor.
Smiling impishly, Malvina turned to face Marc and kept talking,
like a little girl telling a grown-up about her doll’s house: ‘I look
after the room now. I’m sure Grandma would throw away all these
things if I let her. Could you believe it? All these beautiful toys and
clothes tossed in the bin? I know you understand. Of course, LyseRose is a big girl now, but it’ll really be something when she finally
comes back here and discovers this room, won’t it?’
Marc stepped back, overcome by a welter of contradictory
feelings.
‘Are you looking, Vitral? Come closer. You love Lyse-Rose, don’t
you?’
Almost against his will, Marc took a step forward.
‘Look. Even her presents are here!’
Marc felt even more ill at ease.
‘Can you see, Vitral? These are all Lyse-Rose’s Christmas and
birthday presents, since her first birthday.’
Malvina pointed to gift-wrapped parcels strewn in piles across
the room.
‘I could tell you what they all are. I know them by heart. The biggest parcel, there, on the bed, was the present for her first Christmas
with us. Grandma and I went shopping for it together. I was six
years old. I still remember the toys in the shop windows . . .’
She moved closer to Marc and whispered in his ear: ‘Can you
guess what it is?’
Marc shook his head, half moved, half horrified.
‘It’s a teddy bear. A huge teddy bear. Bigger than she would have
been. It’s orange and brown, and it’s called Banjo. I came up with
the name myself. Banjo is her friend, and he’s been waiting for her
all these years. Hang on, I’ll introduce you . . .’
Marc put his hand to his face. This weirdo was going to end
up making him cry with all her crazy fantasies. Malvina carefully
opened the large box and pulled out an enormous teddy bear with
a dreamy expression on its face. Malvina placed Banjo on the bed,
propped up by two pink cushions.
‘Hello, Banjo!’ she said cheerfully. ‘I’m going to tell you a secret.
You won’t be alone much longer. You won’t believe this, but . . .
Lyse-Rose is coming home!’
This is like Sleeping Beauty’s room, Marc thought. Piles of toys;
clothes that have stiffened during the long wait for the dead child’s
return. Like a museum devoted to an absence.
‘In the other parcels,’ Malvina continued, ‘there are dolls, of
course, and books, because I know she loves to read. For her tenth
birthday, in that box over there, there is a violin. I don’t know if that
was a good idea, but we already had a piano. There’s some jewellery
over there, for her thirteenth birthday, and a watch too. There are
some records, but they’re probably a bit old-fashioned now. Britney
Spears, Ricky Martin, that kind of thing. The big parcel over there
was for her sixteenth birthday: it’s a stereo. And then the last one,
for her eighteenth birthday, is in this envelope. Can you guess what
it is?’
Marc shook his head again.
‘It’s a trip. Do you think that’s a good idea? Do you think LyseRose will be brave enough to catch a plane again?’
A storm was raging inside Marc’s head. He could strangle this
crazy bitch right now, suffocate her under her cuddly toys, just to
make her shut up.
‘I have to admit, my favourite present is still the first one. Banjo,
the teddy bear. Isn’t he beautiful? When we first got him, I was a bit
jealous. I loved him so much, I wanted to keep him for myself. But
Grandma wouldn’t let me. I’m sure Lyse-Rose will adore him too.
What do you think?’
Marc looked at Malvina, wondering how to respond. The child’s
bed with its pale pink sheets was the same shape and colour as a
granite gravestone. A child’s grave. This room was a burial chamber. These presents, piling up year after year, were offerings to a
martyr.
‘You’re very quiet, Vitral. You look like you’re in shock. I suppose
you’re realising just how much Lyse-Rose missed out on. I can’t
even imagine the kind of crap she must have received at Christmas
at your house!’
He should slap her, at least. Hurt her physically, and then get out
of here.
‘Come here, Vitral, there’s one last thing I want to show
you . . .’
Marc readied himself for the worst. Malvina walked over to the
wardrobe, opened a drawer and took out a book, bound in pink
cloth and decorated with flowers and pompoms.
‘It’s Lyse-Rose’s birth book,’ Malvina whispered. ‘Come on, I’ll
let you look at it. Just be careful.’
Reluctantly, Marc took the book in his hands, opened it and
turned the pages.