The Critic (11 page)
I.
It had been a long night. And now Enzo needed coffee to keep him awake. He stood on the
terrasse
gazing out at the early morning shadows reaching towards him through the mist. The
pigeonnier
was wraithlike through its gauze, the sun a big, red orb rising above the line of the trees. But there was no warmth in it yet, no strength to burn off the tiny particles of moisture that filled the air and reflected its light.
Across the path, the
château
rose out of the
brume
, as if out of some timeless mediaeval mist, the east turret lifting above it to catch the light, white stone glowing pink.
The smell of the coffee reached him on the warm air from the house, and he turned back through the open door to watch Charlotte nursing the coffee maker. She wore a black, silk dressing gown embroidered with vividly coloured Chinese dragons. Her feet were bare, and he could see the curve of her calf narrowing to the ankle, and he had a brief recollection of the fragments of a dream. ‘Don’t go today,’ he said.
She made no attempt to turn around. ‘Okay.’ No argument, no rancour, and he felt a surge of pleasure in that single, simple word. She filled two cups and carried them to the table, setting them down beside the sugar bowl and a couple of spoons. ‘Come and get your coffee.’ She dropped two lumps into his cup, knowing he preferred it sweet in the mornings. And he liked that she knew that. He sat down opposite her and took a sip.
‘You know,’ he said, ‘the Chinese police look for everything else first. The who, the where, the when, and the how. Never the why. They believe that if you have accumulated enough evidence, the motive will become apparent.’ He sipped again at the strong, sweet, black coffee. ‘But it’s always the first question we ask. And it’s the question that’s been nagging at me all night. Not just why he did it, but why he went to such lengths to show us. To display his handiwork.’
Charlotte cradled her cup in her hands, as if to warm them, and contemplated the steam rising from it. ‘I think the Chinese are not without reason, Enzo. You need information to be able to answer the “why” question. Evidence. Although, by the same token, seeing a motive can help you look for that evidence in the right places.’ She paused. ‘But you’re asking two questions. Two “whys”. And they’re probably related.’
‘In what way?’
She took a first mouthful of coffee and closed her eyes. ‘If we take your second “why” first, and ask why he would want to display his handiwork, then I’d say he was probably showing off. He’s saying, “Look, I’ve committed two perfect murders, and you didn’t even know.” He wants us to know how clever he’s been.’ Another mouthful of coffee, and she opened her eyes and smiled.
Enzo was momentarily distracted. He loved her smile, the upturned corners of her lips, the creases around her eyes, the light emerging from their hidden darkness.
‘There are lots of theories about why people commit crimes. Environment, stress, impulse, anger, low self-esteem, high self-esteem. I’d say our killer was neither modest nor self-doubting. He has high, rather than low, self-esteem. But the nature of the killings, and the way he has displayed his victims, would make me think that his motivation is compulsive in some way. That it derives from a character disorder, or a fantasy obsession, rather than some more conventional motive.’
‘Because of his MO?’
‘Partially. Although you shouldn’t confuse his
modus operandi
with his signature. How he kills his victims is one thing—drowning them in wine, then preserving them in it for future disposal. There is a rationale and a logic to that. I would say that was his MO. And it is probably evolving as he perfects it. But the way he has subsequently revealed the bodies to us is his signature. Something that’s not necessary for the accomplishment of the crime, but that the killer feels compelled to do to reach emotional fulfilment. And it probably has more to do with why he committed the crimes in the first place.’
‘But the signature has changed, too, between the first and second murders.’
‘You mean the robes and the hat?’
Enzo nodded.
‘That probably only means that these things were available to him the first time, but not the second.’
And Enzo remembered the hot afternoon spent with Jean-Marc Josse in the shade of the old oaks at Mas Caussé. The robes and hat of the
l’ Ordre de la Dive Bouteille
would have been in limited supply. Passed into the possession of a family, only when one of the order’s members died.
Charlotte drained her cup. ‘The thing is, Enzo, I’d say that you were dealing with someone suffering from a serious personality disorder. Which means it won’t be a simple matter to find reason in his motive.’ She wagged a finger at him. ‘So be careful. Nietzsche once warned about the dangers of duelling with devils. I read it years ago, in his work
Beyond Good and Evil
, and I’ve never forgotten it.’ She took a breath and fixed Enzo with a look that told him she was serious. ‘Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. When you look into the abyss, the abyss also looks into you.’ It’s a professional hazard of the forensic psychologist. And the cop. I’ve seen good men, and women, destroyed by it.’
The sound of a car door slamming made her turn to glance from the window. When she looked back at Enzo there was an unsettling smile on her face. ‘Your girlfriend’s here.’
His heart sank. However much Michelle might have inflamed his passions the night before, in the cold light of day he was glad it had come to nothing. For had there been any other outcome, the morning after would have cast cold light on their age difference and brought only regret. As it was, he was still embarrassed by what had passed between them. He left Charlotte at the table and went to open the door as Michelle arrived on the
terrasse
. ‘Hi,’ he said.
‘Hey.’ She looked pale and tired. ‘I came to get my father’s things.’
He nodded. ‘I repacked the suitcase for you.’
She stepped into the room and cast a look of cool assessment in Charlotte’s direction, lingering on the silk dressing gown and the bare feet. Almost involuntarily, she glanced then at the clic-clac, and saw that it had been slept on. Enzo thought he detected a small look of triumph in her eyes, and when she looked back towards Charlotte, it was clear that Charlotte had seen it too, and her unerring confidence seemed to waver just a little.
‘They found another body last night,’ he said, and Michelle whipped around, her face filled with consternation.
‘Where?’
‘Same vineyard where they found your father. It looks like he suffered the same fate. There’ll probably be an autopsy today.’
‘Who is he?’
‘I don’t know much about him yet. Except that he’d been missing for a year, and there doesn’t appear to be any obvious connection with your dad.’
A knock at the door made them all turn to find Nicole standing there, flushed and apprehensive. But her initial anxiety was quickly replaced by bewilderment as she took in Charlotte and Michelle and Enzo still in his towelling robe. She made a hasty reassessment of an earlier conclusion that all his problems stemmed from the lack of a woman. She said, ‘There are too many women in your life, Monsieur Macleod.’
Enzo looked around the three women in his
gîte
. ‘Tell me about it, Nicole.’
Nicole looked over at the table and saw Petty’s computer next to hers. ‘Whose is the computer?’
‘It was Gil Petty’s. Michelle retrieved it along with his personal belongings. We’ve been through all the files looking for his Gaillac tasting notes, but we couldn’t find them.’
Nicole’s interest was piqued. She crossed the room, acknowledging Charlotte with the briefest, ‘
Bonjour
,’ and sat down at the computer. ‘It’s an old one.’ She pushed the power button to start it up and turned towards Michelle. ‘Did he have a French server for internet connection and e-mail?’
‘I don’t know. I guess he must have. He was certainly sending and receiving e-mails while he was here.’
‘Then it’s possible he worked online and stored his notes on the server for security.’
The idea caught Enzo’s imagination. ‘You mean, they could still be out there in the ether somewhere? Even after all this time?’
‘Sure,’ Nicole said. ‘It’s just a matter of knowing where to look.’
Michelle had wandered across the room and was staring up at Enzo’s whiteboard. ‘Why have you written
Petit
under my father’s name?’
Enzo had all but forgotten yesterday’s revelation about Petty’s ancestry. ‘Because that was his family’s name when they lived here on the castle estate.’ She frowned. ‘In this very cottage. Petty was probably what the immigration official wrote on their papers when they queued up to become American citizens at the end of the eighteenth century.’ He watched her for a moment as she stared thoughtfully at the board. ‘You didn’t know?’
She shook her head. ‘I had no idea. I knew my mom’s family was German in origin, but I never knew anything about my dad’s side.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘Maybe that’s why he wanted me to have a French name.’ It was like a revelation to her. ‘Michelle.’ She spoke her own name as if hearing it for the first time. It had taken on a whole new meaning to her, and it seemed to bring back some of the emotions that going through her father’s things had provoked the previous day.
The moment was broken by Beethoven’s Ninth. Enzo fumbled in the leg pockets of his cargos to find his cellphone. He recognised Roussel’s voice immediately and was aware of the others watching him as he listened to the
gendarme
. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Ten o’clock.’ He hung up and thrust the phone deep into his pocket and glowered off into the middle distance.
‘Well?’ It was Charlotte who asked.
‘Well, what?’
‘What’s at ten o’clock?’
‘I’ve been summoned to the office of the
juge d’instruction
in Albi.’
Michelle looked puzzled. ‘What’s a
juge d’instruction
?’
‘He’s the judge who directs the inquiry.’
‘I thought Roussel was the investigating officer.’
‘He is. But he takes his instructions from the judge, and reports to him on all aspects of the investigation.’
Michelle made a snorting sound. ‘So much for the impartiality of the judiciary.’
Enzo shrugged. ‘It’s the French system.’ He sighed. ‘And I think the system is about to give my knuckles a severe rapping.’
II.
The Tribunal de Grande Instance at Albi occupied an impressive building of brick and stone which had once belonged to the Church. Enzo wondered if it had been requisitioned by the State during the French Revolution for the more secular activity of administering justice. In any event, as he approached it across the Place du Palais, it inspired in him a sense of awe, befitting a building of such solemn purpose. It also filled him with a sense of apprehension.
He walked down the Rue du Sel and climbed steps to a side entrance where shady-looking characters hovered by barred windows awaiting summons to criminal hearings. Enzo loitered with them while his presence was conveyed to the judge somewhere within.
It was a full five minutes before a young woman emerged from a semi-glazed doorway, the click of her heels echoing off red tiles. She had shoulder-length auburn hair that fell to the collar of a conservative grey tweed suit, the hem of her skirt tailored exactly to the knee. Enzo couldn’t help noticing the curve of her full calves tapering to narrow ankles. She was, perhaps, in her mid thirties.
She smiled. ‘Monsieur Macleod?’
He gave her his most charming smile. ‘Yes.’
She held out her hand. ‘I’m Madame Durand.’
Her hand felt warm and smooth in his. ‘
Enchanté
, Madame.’
‘Would you like to follow me?’
‘With pleasure.’
She led him down a corridor, past the Salle Pierre de Larboust, named after a former
procureur
of the
République
and through a doorway into the vaulted arches of an ancient cloister. ‘The cloisters are open to the public during certain hours,’ she said. ‘But for the moment we have them all to ourselves.’
Enzo frowned his confusion. ‘Aren’t you taking me to see the
juge d’instruction
?’
She smiled. ‘Monsieur, I
am
the
juge d’instruction
.’ She allowed a moment for his surprise to sink in. ‘Is that so hard to believe?’
‘With all due respect, madame, there is a belief abroad that Frenchmen are inveterate chauvinists. And I have noticed myself at times a certain patronising attitude to women.’
‘Let me assure you, monsieur, it is a long time since anyone has patronised me.’ There was a steel in her tone that left Enzo in no doubt that this was probably true. She eyed him appraisingly, something almost mischievous in her smile. ‘You’re not what I was expecting.’
Enzo grinned. ‘Nor me you. Perhaps we should start again.’ He held out his hand. ‘I’m Enzo Macleod.’
She smiled and shook his hand warmly. ‘Monique Durand.’
They set off at a sedate pace through arches that formed a square around a rose garden, their voices whispering back at them from the timeless red brick.
‘You know why you’re here?’
‘To get my wrists slapped?’
She laughed. ‘I’m sure there are places in town where men pay to have women slap them around.’
‘But not here.’
‘Not here, monsieur.’
‘Just as well, or you’d have queues at the door.’
She turned towards him, her face creased by genuine amusement, and looked with curiosity into his eyes. ‘You have very unusual eyes, monsieur. Have you ever been told how disarming they are?’
‘Never by a judge.’
Her smile widened before slowly fading, and she turned away to draw and expel a deep breath that Enzo took to be something like a sigh of regret. They passed double doors leading to the Salle d’Audiences No.1. ‘You know, I received an official complaint first thing this morning from the
Police Scientifique
at the STIC. Interference with a crime scene.’