Deadly Slipper (11 page)
Authors: Michelle Wan
“Tertio
, it’s probable that our man lived or worked somewhere in the region, or traveled, for whatever reason, within Périgord-Quercy. And, finally, he must have had some form of transportation because the disappearances were widely distributed.”
Julian developed this train of thought. “So you have a body in Carennac and four others missing, last seen in Souillac, La Bique, Le Buisson—and Beynac, if we accept that Bedie was there. All of these places lie in an east-west line
exactly following the Dordogne.
Have you considered that the person you’re looking for might work on the river? A barge hand, for example. Or someone who works on those tourist
gabarres.”
“Hmm,” said Loulou. “Yes, we thought of that. Except my theory is, it’s not the river but the road.
Every one of those places is also on the D703, the major east-west artery, or the D25 where it joins the D703. Who knows, maybe he was a trucker with a delivery route along that stretch.”
Mara came in. “The dates of these incidents. Except for Bedie and the Dutch woman, which occurred in the same year, the others were—what?—roughly four or five years apart? You said the last one was Valérie Rules, in 1998. So nothing’s happened since then?”
“Not within the region. Not so far.” A hard glint came into Loulou’s eyes. “Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, it does.”
“But surely women have gone missing in other places,” Julian objected.
“Certainement.
Over the years there have been disappearances elsewhere—Limoges, Bordeaux, Biarritz.”
“Then maybe your man’s not from around here after all. And maybe the four-to-five-year gap doesn’t hold, either. In fact, as you pointed out, every one of these women could have gone off for their own reasons. You could be looking for a killer and a pattern that don’t exist.”
“Hanneke Tenhagen was most definitely and brutally murdered,” Loulou reminded him sharply.
“Of course,” Julian conceded, looking vaguely troubled. “I wasn’t referring to her.”
“And my sister,” said Mara. “She didn’t disappear
of her own volition. I’m sure of that. I think Loulou’s right. I don’t know about the women in other places, but for my money, Bedie, Hanneke Tenhagen, Julie Ménard, Mariette Charlebois, and Valérie Rules are connected somehow. I think there’s a killer loose in the Dordogne, Julian, and he’s probably looking for his next victim right now.”
They were all silent for a long moment.
Julian was the first to speak. “All of this is very interesting. But what are we supposed to do with it?”
“Do?” Loulou looked startled. “In my opinion, nothing. But of course, that’s up to you.” He peered closely at Mara and shook his head. “I fear, however, that Madame is very much the one for action.”
“I’m convinced the orchids are trying to tell us something, at least where my sister is concerned,” she said.
“
Eh bien
, what about you, Monsieur the Orchid Expert? Do these flowers also speak to you?”
Julian blinked. “Well,” he said after a moment, “it so happens the section of the Dordogne Valley between Souillac and Le Buisson is a part of the region I know well because of the mapping and field research I did for my book.” Not in his wildest dreams had he ever expected
Wildflowers of the Dordogne/Fleurs sauvages de la Dordogne
to be put to such a bizarre application. “Offhand, I’d say that most of the orchids in the photographs could be found there. Trouble is, they can also be found in other places, scattered pretty much throughout the
region.” He shook his head. “When all’s said and done, it’s precious little to go on.”
By the time Loulou saw them out, the day was coming to a spectacular end. A fierce sunset bathed the western face of the town, lingered redly in the windows of the houses. The vineyards in the valley below stood in shadow.
“Bonne chance!”
Loulou shook hands energetically with them. “I think you have much work ahead of you. Keep me informed. I’ll be very interested to know how you progress.” He added gravely, “But be careful. You realize, do you not, Mara, that you place yourself in great jeopardy?”
“Me?” Mara was startled.
“But of course. If our killer is still operating in the area, you could come as a nasty shock.” And since she still looked puzzled, he explained: “Your face, Mara. Your face. You will remind him unpleasantly of a woman he murdered nineteen years ago. Our man will not be happy finding you on his trail. Having killed before, how easy it will be for him to kill again.” Loulou regarded her searchingly. In a moment of genuine solicitousness, he took her hand once more.
“If you really want my advice, I say give it up. Take it from me. Some things are better left alone.”
•
“I’m not sure how useful that was,” Julian grumbled as they left Loulou’s house. “All we know now is that four other women, apart from Bedie, have gone
missing, and the police haven’t been able to find them. And I’m not including Hanneke Tenhagen.”
“But there’s the possibility that one person might be behind the disappearances,” said Mara. “It puts everything in a different light.”
“Humph,” said Julian.
As Mara drove out of the town, she reflected that Julian had played it rather cagey about Bedie and Valérie Rules. He clearly remembered the cases well enough but for some reason had been reluctant to admit his knowledge. Was he just one of those people who didn’t like talking about unpleasant things? Or was there something more behind his reticence?
“Are you going to take his advice about giving it up?” Julian asked, noting that she had gone quiet.
“Of course not,” said Mara, downshifting into a turn.
Far away, against a fiery sky, a buzzard circled lazily, on the hunt.
Mara e-mailed Patsy:
> Look, Patsy, I know you don’t do criminal psychiatry, but do you have any thoughts on what the profile of a serial killer might look like? <
In her Manhattan office, housed on the third floor of a dignified if dingy brownstone, Patsy frowned as she read Mara’s message. She rubbed her nose, made a noise that sounded like “Sheew!,” and tapped out a response.
> Not until you tell me what’s behind this, kiddo. <
> Loulou La Pouge, the ex-flic I told you about, thinks we may be dealing with a serial killer. He’s collected information on other women who have gone missing from the area. Bedie and Hanneke Tenhagen, whom you know about, both date from 1984, but after that there was someone named Julie Ménard from Souillac who disappeared in 1989, then a Mariette Charlebois from Le Buisson in 1993, and a schoolgirl from La Bique in 1998. The problem is, except for Hanneke Tenhagen, there was no evidence of a crime in any of the cases,
they’re all simply missing persons. Nevertheless, Loulou thinks they were all the victims of foul play by a single perpetrator. <
> Okay, I get you. Look, like you said, I’m no forensic shrink. There’s a range of psychiatric disorders that can turn nasty, given the right push. But what you’re talking about is a whole different twist. However, at a guess, I’d say your subject would probably present as someone with a lot of unresolved anger, obsessive, a loner, socially inept. Although not necessarily a geek. In fact, this person might have to be capable of projecting a lot of charm in order to get near his victims. Don’t forget, some of the most horrific mass murderers have behaved like thoroughly nice people. At least at first. <
> Right. My next question is, what would drive this person to seek a victim at regular intervals? The dates of all these incidents are roughly four to five years apart. <
> Hoo boy. You don’t want much, do you? At a guess, and this is no more than a guess, I’d say any situation that causes the demons to rise, say an adverse life change or some sort of personal crisis. On the other hand, it might be as simple as noncompliance with medications. Say we’re dealing with a severely paranoid individual on antipsychotic drugs who quits taking his Thorazine every
so often and starts hearing voices. It could also be something that moves this person periodically out of circulation. Say a series of prison sentences or a history of repeat psychiatric hospital stays. Then again, maybe he simply goes by an inner clock. However, the real question for me, Mara, is not the timing, but what makes a serial killer in the first place. Is it simply hard-wiring? Some kind of significant precipitating conditions? A combination of both? Answer that question, kid, and you could make psychiatric history. <
It was something to go on, Mara reflected as she read Patsy’s reply. Except how did she set about commandeering the incarceration and release records of every person who’d served time in a French jail since 1984, or the admission-discharge information of psychiatric patients? She doubted Loulou would be willing or even able to twist arms to help her. And what about Patsy’s question. Was the killer she sought triggered by cyclical events? Or was he driven by an inner impulse, like a spring wound tighter and tighter until it caused the mechanism it governed to burst apart?
•
Paul gave out the photocopies
of the pigeonnier.
Like Gaston, he did not mention Mara’s money incentive. He did not see his father until the following week, when he and Mado went to the family farm outside Issigeac for Sunday lunch. His uncle Emile and Sylvie, Emile’s wife, were also there.
Paul’s mother had prepared a haunch of Quercy lamb, lightly rubbed with garlic and so tender it made one sigh. They had, in addition, fennel in cream sauce with pan-roasted potatoes, a compote of prunes, a plate of local cheeses, and a Savoy cake, light and moist as only Tante Sylvie, a Savoyarde from Bonneville, could make it. The wine was a robust red from the family’s own vineyard. Fresh figs finished off the meal. Paul’s mother believed, for reasons of her own, that figs would help Mado to conceive.
“By the way,” Paul said as the women cleared the table for coffee and Armagnac. He pulled out a crumpled copy of the dovecote photo and handed it across to his father and uncle. “Does this look familiar?”
His father adjusted his glasses, smoothed out the paper, and peered at it. “It’s a pigeon house,” he said finally, handing it on to Emile.
“Right,” said his brother, who suffered from a left-veering amblyopia.
“I mean,” said Paul, “do you know it?”
Uncle Emile, bad eye wandering up the chimney, reached for a toothpick. “Sure.”
“You do?” Paul sat forward. “This very one?”
“Well, maybe not this very one.
Zut!
You can stand on a hilltop and see half a dozen like it any day.”
“Not so much around here, though,” said Paul’s father.
“What’s wrong with around here?” asked Paul.
“Well, they didn’t go in for pigeons as much. Pigeons eat too much grain.”
“And the roof of this one is different,” offered Uncle Emile.
“How so?”
“It’s made with
lauzes.
Around here it’s mostly tile.”
“What’s so special about this one, anyway?” Paul’s father tapped the photocopy.
“Nothing,” said his son, “but if you can locate it, there’s money in it.”
Father and uncle looked interested for the first time. “How much?” they asked together.
“One thousand euros. Split two ways, five hundred for me, five hundred for whoever can tell me where to find it.”
“One thousand euros.” Uncle Emile screwed up his face in the effort of converting currencies. He still thought in francs, would never get used to euros.
“Bigre!
That’s almost seven thousand francs.”
Both older men looked more carefully at the photocopy.
“Where do you come in?” asked the father after a while.
“Brokerage fee,” grinned the son, leaning back in his chair, content for the moment to digest his excellent meal.
•
Slowly breasting the hill, the ancient wood-paneled truck came to a groaning, fumy halt at the summit. The young German hitchhiker ran forward gladly, swinging his rucksack onto his back.
“Sarlat?” he inquired with a broad smile, naming his destination to the driver.
The driver, a farmer in a shapeless, broad-brimmed hat, barely glanced at the hitchhiker, gave a grunt and a nod, and signaled with a thumb for the young man to climb onto the bed of the truck.
“Danke! Merci!”
the youth shouted. He trotted back and hoisted himself lightly up over the tailgate.
The vehicle revved up with a shuddering jerk, moved forward, and gathered speed on the downhill run. The German, whose name was Hans, slipped off his pack and lowered himself beside it, squeezing down onto the floor of the truck bed between a stack of empty crates and an assortment of muddy tires and dented milk cans. On the other side of the crates was a heap of dirty sacking. A thin, good-looking youth traveling
auto-stop
through France for the first time, Hans had been lucky. From Carcassonne, two rides in swift succession had brought him this far. He calculated that this lift would bring him to Sarlat within the hour. He leaned back against the wooden slats of the side frame, stretching his long legs out before him, and congratulated himself on his good fortune. With the heel of his boot he shoved one of the crates aside to make more space. The sacking next to it moved. Hans was startled to see that he was not alone. A hand flapped in the air, as if driving away flies. Then the sacking sat up. Hans saw a flat, misshapen face perched neckless on a massive pair of shoulders. One eye was obscured by a dark lens. The
other glared at him balefully.
“Bitte,”
said Hans faintly, forgetting momentarily what little French he knew. The uncovered eye continued to fix him unpleasantly.
“I go to Sarlat.” Hans struggled. “You go also to Sarlat?”
The face gave no indication of intelligent reception.
Hans smiled weakly. Nervously, he dug into his rucksack for his guidebook and made a great display of poring through it. Sarlat-la-Canéda, the German text informed him, boasted some of the finest examples of medieval secular architecture in the Dordogne. The town had grown up around a ninth-century Benedictine abbey. The thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries were the golden age for Sarlat, which waxed in importance as a market town. But the Hundred Years’ War left it weakened and depopulated.