After the Crash (34 page)

Jesus Christ! What would you have done, in my place? Learning
that, after eighteen years of investigation? What would you have
done, apart from shooting yourself in the head, I mean . . .

Forget the last eight months. Forget the last ten days, too, during
which time I’ve been writing this notebook. Today is 29 September,
1998. It is twenty minutes to midnight. Everything is ready. Lylie
is about to turn eighteen. I will put my pen back in the pot on my
desk. I will sit at this desk, unfold the 23 December 1980 edition of
the
Est Républicain
, and I will calmly shoot myself in the head. My
blood will stain this yellowed newspaper. I have failed.

All I leave behind me is this notebook. For Lylie. For whoever
wishes to read it.
In this notebook, I have reviewed all the clues, all the leads, all
the theories I have found in eighteen years of investigation. It is all
here, in these hundred or so pages. If you have read them carefully,
you will now know as much as I do. Perhaps you will be more perceptive than me? Perhaps you will find something I have missed?
The key to the mystery, if one exists. Perhaps . . .
For me, it’s over.
It would be an exaggeration to say that I have no regrets, but I
have done my best.

Slowly, reluctantly, Marc closed the notebook. He drank the
rest of his San Pellegrino. The train would arrive in Dieppe in five
minutes. As if by magic, the sleeping guy had woken up and the
teenager had removed his earphones.

Marc felt as if his brain was spinning uselessly, like the wheel of
a bicycle when the chain has come off. He needed time to think
about all this. Most of all, he needed to talk to his grandmother. She
had received the DNA test results three years ago; all that time, she
had known that Lylie was not her granddaughter. It was obvious,
really: she had given her Mathilde de Carvilles’ sapphire ring, after
all.

Lyse-Rose had survived, not Emilie. That was the only thing he
knew for sure. All the other questions remained unanswered . . .
Who had dug the grave on Mont Terri? Had the bracelet been
buried there? Or was it a dog? Or a baby? But which baby? Who had
killed Grand-Duc, and why? Who had killed Marc’s grandfather?
And where was Lyl . . .
A scream cut through the silence. The scream of a madwoman.
Malvina!
Marc rushed over and found Malvina curled up on her seat,
her skinny body convulsing. Her hand hung limp, like the hand
of someone who had just sliced their wrist open. Malvina’s eyes
seemed to be begging Marc for help, reaching out as if she were a
mountain climber about to fall. He looked down and saw a blue
envelope, torn open, and a white sheet of paper laid out on the seat.
Marc understood what had happened. The envelope must have
fallen from his pocket while he was struggling with Malvina. She
had opened it and read the results. But what would make her scream
like that?
Marc picked up the letter from the national police forensics laboratory in Rosny-sous-Bois. It was only a few lines long:

between
Emilie VITRAL
(sample 1, batch 95-233)
and
Léonce de CARVILLE
(sample 2, batch 95-235)
between
Emilie VITRAL
(sample 1, batch 95-233)
and
Malvina de CARVILLE
(sample 2, batch 95-236)

Results negative.
No family relationship possible.
Results 99.9687% reliable.

The sheet fell from Marc’s hands.
So, Lylie was not a blood relation of the de Carville family.
Lyse-Rose was dead. It was Emilie who had survived. She and

Marc had the same genes, the same parents, the same blood. Contrary to all his instincts, all his convictions, the desire he felt for his
sister was incestuous and wrong. They
were
monsters, after all.

Marc walked slowly along the port. The train station was only half
a mile from Pollet. The hideous face of a Chinese Dragon scowled
from the sky directly above him, as if the creature had ripped apart
the clouds just to taunt him. As if his life were not insane enough
already . . .

He increased his pace. He could not stop thinking about the
DNA test. He couldn’t believe it. How could a simple piece of
paper, a pseudo-scientific result, be trusted above his intuition, his
instinct?

No, he truly believed what his heart told him: Lylie was not his
sister.
Opposite the modest yachts in Dieppe’s port, each politely turning their back to the sea, the streets and bars were packed with
people. The kite festival was always accompanied by an orgy of
mussels and chips, the famous
moules-frites
– that could easily rival
a Flemish free-for-all. Marc slowed down as he neared the ferry
bridge that connected the islet of Pollet to the rest of the town.
After pocketing the forensics results, Marc had left Malvina in the
train carriage, curled up in the foetal position, apparently in a state
of shock.
Long lines of noisy customers were waiting to be seated in the
restaurants, but Marc was oblivious to his surroundings. He was
too busy trying to suppress the blind rage that was mounting inside
him.
No! Lylie was
not
his sister!
It must be a mistake. Grand-Duc must have got the blood samples mixed up. Either that, or he was lying. Or Mathilde de Carville
was attempting to manipulate them by giving them a false set of
results. Or perhaps no one was lying, and Lyse-Rose really didn’t
share the de Carville blood. Perhaps she was adopted, or her father
was not Alexandre de Carville. Even the detective had had his
doubts about that. Marc remembered the blue-eyed German who
rented out pedalos . . .
He crossed the bridge and walked into Rue Pocholle. He had
been coming to Dieppe less frequently – no more than once a
month – since Lylie moved to Paris. He reached his grandmother’s
house: a façade of brick and flint, just like the other fifteen houses
on the street. The front garden was dominated by the Citroën van,
as usual, as if the garden had been planted around it. Marc noticed
the rust on its front and back wings, the dent in one door. How
long was it since anyone had driven that van, if only to move it
out of the yard? Although there was no one left to play in the tiny
garden anymore.
He rang the bell, and Nicole opened the door immediately. Marc
was enveloped by the generous warmth of his grandmother’s body.
She hugged him for a long time. Any other day, and he might have
been embarrassed; but not today. Finally, Nicole let go.
‘How are you, Marc?’
‘I’m OK.’
His voice said otherwise. Marc looked at the little living room.
It seemed to shrink and grow darker each time he came back. The
Hartmann-Milonga piano was still in its place, gathering dust
between the sofa and the television set, a stack of papers piled up
on the keyboard lid. Well, it wasn’t as if anyone played it anymore.
The table was already set: two plates, two linen napkins, and
one bottle of cider. Marc sat down. Nicole came and went between
the kitchen and the living room, bringing sole fillets cooked in a
sauce of mussels and prawns. A good cook, Nicole also knew how
to manage a conversation, asking Marc about his studies, telling
him about Dieppe, the leaflets she had to distribute, the state of
her lungs, a broken gutter (‘Could you take a look at it, Marc?’).
Nicole was as enthusiastic and chatty as any other grandmother
who missed her loved ones, but Marc replied in monosyllables. His
eyes kept wandering around the room, but always returned to the
same spot: in the pile of papers resting on the piano, he could see a
blue envelope, identical to the one he had brought with him from
Coupvray. So, Nicole must have dug out that envelope, the one she
had kept hidden from him and Lylie for the past three years.
Who would dare bring the subject up first?
Nicole was telling him about some neighbour who had been
hospitalised recently. Marc stopped listening and retreated into his
thoughts. So, his grandmother had known the truth for the past
three years. She had won her personal battle against the de Carville
family. Perhaps she had given Lylie the sapphire ring out of pity for
Mathilde de Carville, the way she always gave a few coins to beggars
in the street . . .
Marc had mixed feelings about this idea of the de Carville family
being reduced to the state of beggars. He was still haunted by the
image of Malvina, curled up in shock on the train.
Nicole served the cheese. As usual, she had passed on dessert, but
had proudly given Marc a Salammbô. Marc had stopped liking the
weird green cakes when he was eleven, but had never dared tell his
grandmother. It was the cheapest item in the bakery. So, he ate it
all up like a good boy while Nicole went on about the town council
and the future of the port. Marc gazed at the framed photograph
of his parents, Pascal and Stéphanie, above the fireplace. They were
standing, in wedding dress and suit, in front of the Notre-Damede-Bon-Secours chapel, under a blizzard of confetti. All his life,
this framed picture had hung in the same place, on the same nail.
Bittersweet memories.

Nicole brought coffee, warmed up in a pan, and poured it into two
cups. She made the first move, albeit a tentative one.
‘So have you heard from Emilie recently?’
‘No. Well, not directly.’ Marc hesitated. ‘I think she’s in a hospital or a clinic or something . . .’
Nicole looked down. ‘Don’t worry, Marc. She’s a big girl now.
She knows what she’s doing.’
She stood up to clear away the cups.
Marc thought about what Nicole had just said: ‘
She knows what
she’s doing
.’ Were these just hollow words of reassurance, or was
Nicole hiding something?
Marc got up to help Nicole tidy away the dinner things. On his
second trip to the kitchen, he stopped in front of a framed photograph on a shelf, sitting between a wooden Oware game and a
barometer in the shape of a lighthouse. The picture showed Pierre
and Nicole Vitral, walking side by side in front of the Dieppe town
hall, beneath a huge banner. The picture was taken in May 1968,
when France was in revolt. Nicole and Pierre had both been under
thirty. Nicolas, their eldest son, was holding Nicole’s hand, while
Pascal was carried on Pierre’s shoulders. Pascal could have been no
more than six years old. He was waving a small red flag. Marc looked
closely at the faces of his grandfather, his father and his uncle, all of
them dead now. He had no real memories of any of them. He tried
to keep his voice casual:
‘I’m going to my room for a few minutes, Nicole. I need to take
a look at my course notes.’
His grandmother, busy doing the washing-up, did not reply.
Marc’s bedroom was perfectly clean and tidy. Nicole continued
to wear herself out, tidying a room in which Marc slept less than
once a month. Marc felt as if he were rediscovering his childhood
here. His plastic recorder was still on the desk: the one he had lent
to Lylie and on which she had played Goldman, Cabrel and Balavoine. The bunk beds were still in the corner. The top bunk had not
been slept in for eight years now, since the day Lylie had moved into
Nicole’s room. Marc remembered the nights he and Lylie had spent
together, how she used to like making up interminable stories. Marc,
lying in the bottom bunk, would listen to Lylie’s voice. Sometimes,
when she was scared, her arm would reach down to him, and he
would sit up in bed and hold her hand until her grip relaxed and
he knew she had fallen asleep. Other times, Lylie would stay up late
reading. The light would prevent Marc from falling asleep, but he
never complained. You can’t ask the sun to stop shining.
Their house was tiny and their family life had been crowded,
but Marc felt certain that Lylie would never have swapped it for all
the de Carvilles’ presents and luxury. Dragonflies, after all, are like
butterflies: they need a cocoon when they are young. At least until
they enter the chrysalis stage . . .
Marc shook himself free of his memories and walked over to the
wardrobe. He did not have many clothes left here. Nicole had given
away everything that was too small for him, apart from his rugby
jerseys . . . and . . . and a football shirt, red and yellow, with the
name Dündar Siz on the back. Age: 12.
Marc crouched down and began searching through the boxes
containing his course notes. What he was looking for ought to
be near the top of the pile: notes from the previous year’s course
in European Law. It had mostly consisted of learning a series of
dates: when the various member states had joined the European
Union, treaties, directives, elections, and so on. Marc found the
binder he was looking for, and then the page. He had never been a
brilliant student, but at least he was well organised. The notes were
about Turkey. He remembered paying more attention to the lecture
because of that. He re-read what he had scribbled down: the military regime, the coup d’état, the return to democracy . . .
He spent several minutes checking the details. When he had finished, he closed the binder, his hands clammy, his arms covered in
gooseflesh. Now he understood what had rung false about GrandDuc’s narrative.
It all fitted.
His grandfather had not died in an accident. He had been murdered. And now Marc had proof. But if that one detail was false,
then the whole direction of the investigation collapsed . . .
‘Marc?’
Nicole’s voice rang through the thin walls of the bedroom.
‘Marc? Is everything all right?’
Her question was punctuated by a fit of coughing. Marc forced
himself to stop thinking, for now. He put the binder in his backpack and tidied up the other course files. Then, for a few long
minutes, he stood leaning against the bunk bed, trying to control
his breathing.
Nicole, her voice shaky, asked again: ‘Marc? Are you OK?’
‘I’ll be there in a minute, Nicole.’