Blood Wedding (26 page)

A few minutes later, Google has led her to an American electronics website, to the page for the AH68 which it lists as a “G.P.S. Tracker”.

“Where were you?” Frantz asks her, panicked. “Four hours! Can you believe it?” He says it over and over as though he himself does not believe it.

Four hours.

Just enough time for Sophie to leave the house, take the bus the eighteen kilometres to Villefranche, order a coffee in a café, hide her mobile in the toilets before leaving and going upstairs to the restaurant above the Marché Villiers, which offers panoramic views of the city, of the street, and of the café past which, less than an hour later, a cautious but plainly anxious Frantz rides slowly on his motorbike.

*

Of everything Sophie told Valérie last night, this is what she remembers most: the man she married in order to escape her
nightmare is her torturer. This man she sleeps next to every night, who climbs on top of her. This time, Valérie’s tears encounter no barrier, they trickle silently down her face and fall into Sophie’s hair.

*

M. Auverney, wearing blue overalls and work gloves, is stripping the paint off his gate. For two days, Frantz has been watching his every move, monitoring his comings and goings, but he has nothing to compare them to, he cannot tell whether there has been any change in the man’s routine. He has kept a close watch on the house for any sign of life when the man is away. Nothing stirs. The man seems to be alone. On a number of occasions Frantz followed him when he went out. Auverney drives a large, metallic grey Volkswagen. Yesterday he went to the supermarket, then filled up with petrol. This morning, he went to the post office and then spent about an hour at the
préfecture
before heading home via the garden centre, where he bought bags of compost which he has still not unloaded. The car is parked in front of a shed that serves as a garage. It has two very wide doors, one of which would offer more than enough space for the car to drive in. Frantz forces himself to ward off his nagging doubts: after two days, it seems pointless to carry on waiting and more than once he has considered changing tactics. But whichever way he looks at the problem, this is the only place where Sophie can be. At about 6.00 p.m., Auverney seals the tin of paint stripper and goes to wash his hands at the outside tap. He opens the boot of his car to unload the compost but, remembering their weight, he changes his mind and drives the car into the shed to unload them.

Frantz scans the sky. It is clear for the moment, and his hiding place is safe.

*

Once he had reversed into the shed and opened the car boot for the second time, Patrick Auverney looked at his daughter, who had been curled up behind the bags for the past five hours, and he came within a whisker of speaking to her. But Sophie has already raised her hand in warning and is staring at him authoritatively: he said nothing. When she crawled out, she did a few stretches to ease her aching limbs, but already she was scanning the shed. Then she turned to her father. She has always thought him handsome. He cannot bring himself to admit that she is scarcely recognisable. Haggard, drawn. There are purple rings around her glittering, feverish eyes. Her skin is the colour of parchment. He is upset, and she understands this. She pressed herself against him, closing her eyes and sobbing in silence. They stood like this for a moment. Then Sophie took a step back and, smiling through her tears, fumbled for a handkerchief. He offered her his. She has always thought he was strong. She took a sheet of paper from the back pocket of her jeans. Her father took his reading glasses from his shirt pocket and began to read attentively. From time to time, he pauses and looks up at her, shocked. He looks at the bandages on her wrists: it makes him feel ill. He shakes his head as if to say, “It’s not possible.” When he has finished reading, he makes the thumbs up sign mentioned in the document. They smile at each other. He puts away his glasses, straightens his clothes, takes a deep breath and leaves the shed to work in the garden.

*

When Auverney emerged from the shed, he moved the garden seat and the table into the shade, then he went into the house. Through the binoculars, Frantz saw him walking through the
kitchen and into the living room. He re-emerged a few minutes later with his laptop and two cardboard folders stuffed with files, and settled himself at the garden table to work. He rarely consults his notes. He types quickly. From his vantage point, Frantz can see only his back. From time to time Auverney takes out a map, unfolds it, checks a figure, scribbles rapid calculations on the cover of the folder. Patrick Auverney is a serious man.

The scene is excruciatingly static. Any other sentry would be caught off guard, but not Frantz. No matter the time, he will not leave his post until long after the last light in the house has been turned off.

*

Frantz slept in the rental car. Four hours in the supermarket car park the first night, four hours in the bus station car park the second. A thousand times he has regretted his strategy, a thousand times he has thought of turning back, but each time he has stuck it out. He needs to keep a cool head, that is all. Sophie has nowhere else to go. She is bound to come here. She is a wanted criminal, she cannot go to the police, she will go home or she will come here, she has no choice. But still. Sitting here watching a house where nothing happens can sap your morale, doubts make their way in. It takes four years of planning and conviction to keep them at bay.

At the end of the third day, Frantz does a round trip to his
apartment. He takes a shower, changes his clothes, sleeps for four hours. While he is there, he picks up various things he needs (flask, camera, fleece jacket, Swiss army knife). By dawn, he is back at his post.

*

Auverney’s house is a long, single-storey building like so many in the area. To the right is the laundry room and the shed in which he probably stores his garden furniture in winter. To the left, directly facing Frantz, is the large barn where he parks the car and keeps his impressive array of tools. It is a large building that could easily accommodate two more vehicles. When he is at home and intends to take the car out at some point, he leaves the right-hand door open.

This morning he appeared wearing a suit. He must have a meeting. He opened the doors to the hangar and brought out a tractor mower, the sort they use to cut grass on golf courses. It must be broken because he has to push it, and it looks as though it weighs a ton. He tucks an envelope under the seat. Someone is probably coming to pick it up during the day. Making use of the fact that both doors are open, Frantz studies the hangar – and takes several photographs. Half of it is taken up with piles of boxes, sacks of compost, battered suitcases sealed with packing tape. Auverney left the house at about 9.00 a.m. He has not come back since. It is now almost 2.00 in the afternoon. Nothing is stirring.