After the Crash (24 page)

So, this was in 1986, and the reward for the bracelet had now
risen to sixty thousand francs. Still no takers. Obstinately, I kept
searching, suppressing the first signs of weariness in myself by
methodically planning out what I should do next. I went to Quebec
for a while, to meet Lyse-Rose’s maternal grandparents – the Bernier
family, in Chicoutimi – though it yielded me nothing.

One of the items on my planning list was to get closer to the
Vitrals. It was also my pleasure. Lylie was nearly six, Marc was
eight. I spent 21 June, 1986 in their company. It was a National
Music Day in France, and Lylie played two pieces on the piano
with the Dieppe Orchestra, on a specially constructed stage on the
seafront. Looking adorable in her pretty green dress, Lylie was by
far the youngest musician in the group. Afterwards, we ate chips at
Nicole’s van. There were a lot of people around that night. Nicole
was even more radiant than usual, so proud of her talented granddaughter. So beautiful too, and almost happy, for the duration of
a Chopin sonata. I could not help staring at her, though she didn’t
notice as her gaze was fixed on the stage. Not once was her stained
jacket pulled across to hide the magnificent plunge of her cleavage.

A short while later, we sat on the grass, while Lylie ate a crêpe
balanced on my knee. She asked me what my name was.
‘Crédule.’
‘
Crédule-la-Bascule
!’
That was how she named me, that night. Crédule the See-saw.
Does she still remember that? I was a private detective, an ex-mercenary, but for that little girl, I was just a playground ride.
As for Marc, he wanted to go home as soon as possible. It was the
quarter-final of the World Cup that evening: France v Brazil. There
was no need for Marc to say anything, though, as I didn’t want to
miss the match either, and the prospect of watching it with Marc
gave me great pleasure. Nicole agreed to let me take him home to
Pollet while she stayed on the beach with Lylie.
What a night . . .
Marc and I hugged, ecstatic, when Platini equalised, just before
half-time, after Stopyra had discreetly stamped on the Brazilian
goalkeeper; Marc grabbed my knee when Joël Bats saved Socrates’
penalty, fifteen minutes before the end; we both screamed at the
television set when that bastard referee did not whistle for a foul
on Bellone, in the penalty area, during extra time. And when Luis
Fernandez scored the last penalty in the shoot-out, we went out
together, onto Rue Pocholle, and partied with the neighbours for
hours.
1986.
Crédule-la-Bascule
.
France in the semis against the Germans!
I acknowledge that this does not really add anything to the
account of my investigation. But, to be honest, what else is there
to tell?
Certainly, in 1986, it didn’t seem likely that there would be anything else.

From her observation post, Ayla Ozan commanded a view of
the entire property. She was deep in the Coupvray Forest. From
Chemin des Chauds-Soleils, she had followed a path that wound
up between trees. Now, hidden behind a trunk, she was able to see
all the comings and goings at the Roseraie.

At that moment, there was no movement around the de Carville’s house. Even the old man, lying limp in his wheelchair in the
middle of the lawn, looked like some kind of modern sculpture.
The only thing that was missing, to complete this illusion, was ivy
crawling up his legs and lichen on the wheels of his chair. Ayla had
inspected the woods and paths all around: there was no sign of the
blue Xantia anywhere. She’d had no difficulty spotting Malvina de
Carville’s Rover Mini, however, as it was parked practically in front
of the Roseraie. The same car that had been seen in Rue de la Butteaux-Cailles a few hours earlier.

So, neither Crédule nor Nazim were here. Ayla was unsure what
to do next. Wait here, just in case? Ring the doorbell and pay a
visit to the de Carvilles? Find that Malvina girl and make her talk,
discover what she had been doing at Grand-Duc’s house? Find out,
more importantly, if she had seen Nazim?

Ayla could still feel the cold blade of her kitchen knife against
her leg. Oh yes, she would enjoy a little woman-to-woman
chat with Malvina. The dead leaves rustled quietly under her
shoes. She tried to think clearly. Getting in contact with the de
Carvilles was probably not such a great idea.

The more she thought about it, the more certain she became that
she ought to go to the police. Just tell them that she had not heard
from her husband, Nazim Ozan, in two days. The police could send
out a missing persons report. Perhaps it wasn’t too late. Perhaps they
wouldn’t ask her too many questions. And if they did ask, and if she
believed that it would help them find Nazim, then yes, she would
tell the police everything she knew. Without a second’s hesitation.

Her testimony would help Nazim, when it came down to it. He
was not the only guilty party. She would tell the police that. They
would understand. Nazim would understand too. All that mattered, right now, was finding him.

Ayla looked over at the Roseraie again. What she wanted was
for Malvina to come out. She would trap her, put the knife to her
throat, and tell her that if she did not talk, she would kebab her.
The girl would blab; she might be crazy, but she wasn’t suicidal.

But Ayla still hadn’t seen any sign of her, apart from the car. She
had already been waiting here for an hour.
That was it. She had to go. She had to inform the police.
Ayla stood up.

Instinctively, Ayla dived to the ground. She landed on a thick
bed of leaves. She breathed out. She wasn’t hurt. She estimated that
the shot must have been fired less than fifty yards away.

Had someone really tried to shoot her, or was she just panicking?
Hunters? There must be plenty of them in a posh place like this.
She could shout out: ‘Hey, I’m here!’
That way, the hunters would know not to shoot in her direction.
Or the killer would know exactly where to shoot.
Or she could crawl down to the path, a few hundred yards away.
Down there, she would be safe, as there were houses all around.
Ayla didn’t move. She waited, listening out for any noises. The
adrenalin pumping around her body reminded her of the time she
had fled Turkey with her father, hidden for hours under the false
floor of a van. She could still remember the sound of boots on
the boards above her, when they stopped at the border, her father’s
hand covering her mouth.
The forest was silent, except for the leaves blowing in the wind.
She waited for ten, twenty minutes, all of her senses alert.
There was nothing. The forest was calm. All was peaceful.
Quietly she stood up, scanning the shadows near the trees.
There was nobody around.
She had probably just heard a random shot. The trees might have
made it echo, so that it sounded louder and closer than it had really
been. Yes, she was definitely too nervous. She needed to go to the
police now, as quickly as possible.
She took a step, slowly, still unable to shake her suspicions. She
put her hand out to the nearest tree.
The bullet was lodged in its trunk.
Ayla’s hand went tense on the rough bark. She suddenly felt cold.
Whoever it was had been aiming at her.
Ayla heard the next shot barely one-tenth of a second before she
felt the bullet tear into her shoulder. She collapsed to the ground,
banging her clavicle and sending another howl of pain through her
body. Involuntarily, Ayla screamed. She rolled around on her stomach, incapable of turning over. Her whole upper body was rigid,
paralysed by the pain. In vain, Ayla tried to stand up, using her one
good arm. Like a three-month-old baby.
She scrabbled with her legs, trying to find a foothold so she
could crawl away. But all she found was a pile of dry leaves that slid
beneath her flailing feet.
Pain pinned her to the ground, but she knew she had to get away.
She heard footsteps moving closer. The sinister crackle of broken
leaves.
And then nothing.

Ayla was no longer in pain. The only sensation she could feel
was the gentle caress of the dead leaves cushioning her face, her
neck, her arms. She wanted to die with this feeling, this caress.
Now it was no longer the leaves tickling her bare skin, but Nazim’s
moustache. His big moustache, so tender and soft. She thought
about the house in Antakya, the one she wanted to buy with Nazim
. . . their house, in their country, the country she had fled from with
her father, so long ago . . .

The silence was broken by the sound of a revolver being loaded.
Ayla made one last effort to turn over, to see him. Her murderer.
She pushed with her good arm.
But her last wish was not granted.
In the very next instant, she was shot in the back of the neck.

Marc put the notebook back in his bag. The smiling girl with the
guitar on her back was getting off here too. They walked side by side
through the passageway, almost touching, embarrassed, as people
are when they find themselves standing close to a stranger.

Curled up on the cold floor of the corridor, a woman appeared
to be praying to some god of the underworld. There was no child or
animal with her, she was not playing music or displaying a cardboard
sign; all Marc could see was a face hidden between her knees and an
empty plate. Everyone walked past her or stepped over her. Without thinking, Marc dropped a coin from his pocket into her saucer.
Guitar Girl gave him a surprised look, the sort of look that meant
Marc had, in her eyes, just gone from ‘dickhead-too-busy-to-smileat-someone-in-the-metro’ to ‘more-interesting-than-I-thought’.

A few yards further on, the passage divided in two. Marc, still
lost in his thoughts, turned to the right, following the signs for Line
12, direction Porte de la Chapelle. Guitar Girl went left, towards
Line 7, direction La Courneuve, slowing down a little to watch the
tall, sad-looking boy disappear into the distance.

They were entering one of the busiest stations in Paris. It was
not quite rush hour, but it was getting close. The crowds on the
platforms and in the carriages suddenly became more dense. It
was impossible to read with so many people packed tightly around
him.

The carriage emptied with dizzying speed. Marc watched,
amazed, as people raced through the corridors of the station: some
even sprinted, pushing past their slower neighbours, running up the
empty staircases two steps at a time rather than taking the packed
escalators, moving into top gear whenever a long, straight corridor
gave them the chance. Were these people running so fast because
they were late for something important, or did they do this every
day, simply out of habit, the way other people might jog around a
park?

Marc had once read about a man, one of the greatest violinists – a Russian name that he couldn’t recall – who, one day, had
played down in the metro for several hours. No posters, no official announcements; he just sat there anonymously and took out
his violin. And whilst his concerts all over the world were always
sold out, with people paying hundreds of francs for the privilege of
hearing him play, that day in the metro, almost nobody stopped to
listen to him. All those men in suits did not even slow down as they
ran past on the way to their train, and yet – that weekend, perhaps,
or even that evening – they would run to make sure they arrived on
time at the concert of a famous musician they would not want to
miss at any price.

For the first time that day, Marc gave himself a break. He walked
calmly to the main concourse, where thousands of people stood
waiting, motionless, staring upwards, like a crowd at a concert waiting for a rock star to appear. Except that their eyes were not drawn
to spotlights on a stage, but to words on a screen indicating which
platforms the trains would depart from.

The Paris–Rouen train was one of those whose platform had not
yet been announced. Marc crossed the entire concourse, slaloming through the masses, and sat down in the station bar, where he
ordered an orange juice. The waiter took his money straight away,
as if he were afraid Marc might run away with the glass in his hand.
Marc picked up his phone, and swore when he looked at the screen.
Lylie had called.

The call had come when he was underground, of course, as if
Lylie were tracking his progress on a screen, waiting until he was
out of reach.

Marc listened to her message. It was barely audible.
‘Marc, this is Emilie. What on earth were you doing at the de
Carvilles’ place? Listen, you have to trust me. Tomorrow, it will all
be over, and I’ll explain everything to you then. If you love me as
much as you say you do, you will forgive me.’
For a moment, Marc did not move, the telephone still clamped
to his ear.
‘
Trust me . . . Forgive me . . .
’
Wait until tomorrow?
No way. Lylie was hiding something from him: the ‘one-way trip’
that only he could prevent her from taking. Marc tapped at the keys
on his phone and listened to her message again. There was something about it that intrigued him.
‘Marc, this is Emilie . . .’ He pressed the phone to his right ear
and blocked his left ear with a finger. He needed to hear the message clearly, which wasn’t easy in this noisy station.
He listened to the message for a third time. He was no longer
paying any attention to Lylie’s words, but to what he could hear
in the background. The sound was quite distant and muffled, but
this time he was almost certain that he was right. Nevertheless, he
listened to it one last time, just to be sure. And there it was again:
behind Lylie’s voice, he could distinctly hear the sound of ambulance sirens.
Marc put the telephone back in his pocket and tried to think
as he drank his orange juice. He could find only two possible
explanations. Either Lylie was standing close to an accident, or she
was near a hospital. It was a clue, in any case. The first he had
found.
There was no point trying to find the location of a recent accident in Paris; Lylie would not stay there, and it would be impossible
to locate. But, if the second theory were true, there was a chance.
Doubtless, he would be faced with a score of addresses in Paris. But
it was worth trying.
He was haunted by another question: why a hospital? What had
Lylie done? The first image that came to mind was of her being
injured, carried on a stretcher to the emergency department, a
swarm of nurses buzzing around her . . .
The one-way trip. Lylie had attempted suicide. She had not
waited until tomorrow.