Downfall Read online

  “Damn.”

  It wouldn’t budge, while the de-icer lay tantalisingly on the passenger seat. She bent down and blew warm air on to the exposed lock. No joy, until she dug out her cigarette lighter from her pocket. Just as the small flame flickered into life, she was suddenly aware of being watched. She snapped the lighter’s lid shut and turned around. Never had that innocuous, grey car park seemed so full of menace, and the harder she stared at the scrubby, raised strip dividing both parking areas, the more she realised whoever had been lurking there, was suddenly on the move. Heading towards the dense plantation of trees at the hotel’s boundary. An oldish, black-clad figure, whom she half-recognised, pulling a small, wheeled suitcase behind him.

  “Remember what Monsieur Seligman said to us all,” came Basma Arouar’s voice accompanied by that same lavender scent growing stronger as she advanced. Car keys at the ready for the Mercedes. Naturally.

  “It was more like a threat,” Delphine said. “And he repeated it to me. One on one.”

  “We’re having our worst winter since the mid-nineties. Business is really slow.” The older woman’s breath clouded her wide, olive-skinned face. “It can only get worse.”

  “But keeping quiet could backfire,” Delphine countered, still wondering who that sly, departing customer had been. “If people find out what’s happened, then they won’t trust the Hôtel Les Palmiers ever again.”

  “Why do you keep glancing around?” said Basma. “There’s only us.”

  “I could swear I’ve just seen that same man again,” Delphine pointed towards the tree-lined boundary beyond which, loomed a silvery grey, galvanised lorry depot. But clearly her boss’s mind was elsewhere.

  “I’ve been looking into your family,” Basma said suddenly. Her large, brown eyes fixed not unkindly on hers. “It’s been tough, hasn’t it? For a long time?”

  Delphine nodded, hot tears again stinging her eyelids; invading her cold cheeks.

  “I’ve also been thinking,” the Algerian continued when Delphine had recovered. “And I’ve made a decision. Just between you and me, OK?”

  “What decision?” As several possibilities flashed into her mind.

  “I’m going to try and track down this cold-hearted killer.” Basma lightly touched Delphine’s arm. “But discreetly, you understand.”

  “Why? I mean, there was nothing you could have done to prevent the crime.”

  “I know that, but this is for personal reasons. And if you want to help me, fine. You’re bright and principled. Unlike, dare I say it, most of the others. So,” she dug around in her leather bag for her wallet and from an inner fold, produced a little card. “Here’s how to reach me if you need to. Are you coming in tomorrow?”

  “You mean for my appraisal session?”

  “That’s cancelled.”

  Delphine hid her relief. She didn’t have to add how her parents needed every measly euro of the money she earned. “I just wish I’d not written that stupid welcome note.”

  “I’m glad you did. It shows all was normal until, you know…”

  Delphine shivered through her thin, knee-length coat, wondering what those ‘personal reasons’ were, but she still had a question to ask. “Did you notice anyone running away from here as you arrived?” She pointed towards the bare, dividing bushes while describing him in as much detail as she could. “Because I’ve just spotted him again. A moment ago.”

  Basma Arouar shook her head and promptly crammed a woollen cap over her curls. “No, but I’ll certainly make a note of it, and meanwhile, keep your eyes wide open. He may be someone in a tight corner who may be frightened. Reckless.”

  “Could be the same man who came out of room 45.”

  “45? What do you mean?”

  Delphine told her what she’d seen on that corridor and also written on her Statement.

  “How strange.” The boss’s familiar frown returned. “Because the room had neither been booked, nor used.”

  Just then, the hotel’s manager, Michel Salerne appeared some distance away, legging it into the foyer. Almost unrecognisable by his pallor. His disarray.

  “He’s been summoned,” said Basma, pulling open her driver’s door, handing over her de-icer spray. “And whatever he says or doesn’t say, I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes.”

  Having thanked her and handed back her de-icer, Delphine watched her posh car glide away into the gloomy morning. She was just about to step into her tiny Citroën when the sudden, rough roar of another engine made her spin round. A large, green 4X4 was backing out of the furthest parking space and executing a tight circle, before speeding away towards the main car park and its exit.

  LUCIUS

  Thursday, 29th November 1968. 8 a.m.

  So when Papa suggested two months ago that we both take a leisurely trip down south to Les Angles – somewhere he’d once visited as a boy – my first concern was about his driving skills, but as they’ve improved because of his easier workload, I’m thinking this holiday might help us forget the past difficult three years since Maman eventually succumbed to bone cancer.

  I’ll also be skiing. Something I’ve longed to do since I joined the Lycée Bazille, and seen my fellow pupils return each New Year, bronzed and toned, regaling us lesser mortals with tales of late-night orgies. Of cheap, red wine spooling over the pinewood balconies on to the snow, turning it pink. But Maman had said “non,” every time I’d asked to go, even while at the École Primaire. “Too dangerous, and you’re our only child.” As if we were royalty and I the sole heir. I’d thought that kind of negativity was a bit rich coming from her so close to death’s door, but Papa – ever the peace-keeper – had backed her up.

  But now, our packing’s almost done. He with his various tomes on ageing. Me with very different kinds of reading matter. But then, what else is a red-blooded fifteen-year-old boy supposed to do?

  2.

  11.45 hrs.

  “… the room had neither been booked, nor used.”

  Basma’s final words spun round in Delphine’s mind as she drove out of the Mondiale Enterprise Zone towards Labradelle. She’d just re-positioned her bag on the passenger seat, when her basic model Nokia rang. Martin’s number flashed up, so she pulled over into a parking area designed for heavy goods vehicles, where two more holstered gendarmes stood surveying the traffic. One a blonde, the other, a stout, flush-faced guy, speaking into his radio. Its aerial bristled from behind his large, left ear.

  “Looks like we’ll be stuck in the hotel all day,” Martin said, having asked if she was OK. “Damage limitation on a big scale,” he added bleakly. “Already eight of our regular reps have left. They’re our bloody bread and butter.”

  “Is there any other news? I mean, about the baby,” Delphine ventured, unused to hearing him so downbeat. A conscientious restaurant manager who’d not long taken out a hefty mortgage on a nearby Maison de Mȃitre and was busy doing it up.

  “Nothing so far.”

  “Has the forensics team finished yet?” She’d learnt of crime investigation procedures from the TV and regularly reading ‘le nouveau DETECTIVE’ magazine. She was also an Inspector Maigret fan thanks to Beaumont-sur-Sarthe library.

  “No. They’re still busy taking everyone else’s finger prints, also swabs for DNA tests. To be honest, I wasn’t overjoyed about that, and I’m not the only one.”

  Where was the harm, she thought, if consciences were clear? Perhaps he resented the fact she’d been allowed home. But he’d not been in that bathroom…

  “They did mine first thing,” she said, aware of the blonde gendarme coming over. A woman possibly in her late thirties, her sturdy legs encased in waterproof trousers, quickening their pace. There was no time to tell Martin about room 45 because a black-gloved hand was tapping on her window. “Got to go,” she said to him, “but thanks for checking up on me.”

  “You sound odd.”

  “I’m fine, really.”

  “I’ll call again later. You take care.”r />
  “I will.” With that, she pressed END and reached for the handle to wind down her window, letting in the late morning’s cold, sharp air.

  “We’re just checking people coming and going,” the gendarme smiled a perfect set of teeth. Her impressive-looking badge showed the name LT. LISE CONFRÈRE. “There’s been a serious incident at the Hôtel les Palmiers in the Mondiale Enterprise Zone, so I need to check your ID.”

  Delphine obliged, all too aware of her growing need to pee. Meanwhile, the bad start to the day wasn’t getting any better, and Roland Seligman would be seething if he knew his potentially damaging ‘problem’ was being aired so close to home.

  “So, you work there?” The Lieutenant said, handing back the card, adding she and her colleague were from the nearby Labradelle gendarmerie. “I can see you’re upset.”

  Delphine nodded, praying this wouldn’t take long. She also needed a shower, a strong coffee and to think about everything that had happened so far.

  “I get the feeling you want to talk. Am I right?”

  Be careful.

  She thought of Martin; of Basma. Then the newborn whose brown eyes had been so horribly wide open. A no-brainer. “I’m one of the chambermaids there, on the third floor,” she began. “And I’ve already made a Statement for Captain Valon.”

  “I’d like to hear it.”

  Delphine skimmed the account of her cleaning routine, then said, “I saw a man coming out of room 45 just before I made the awful discovery…”

  “You?” Those blue eyes widened.

  “Yes. It was as if he had to avoid me at all costs. But the weirdest thing is, according to the hotel’s records, the room hadn’t been used.”

  “I see.”

  “In fact, neither 45 nor 56 had even been reserved.”

  The other gendarme ended his call and marched over to the juggernaut parked behind her. Her interviewer seemed momentarily distracted. “But before I collected my car, I’m convinced this same man had been hiding in the hotel car park.”

  “And?”

  “He then drove away like a bat out of Hell.”

  “What kind of car?”

  “A green Nissan 4x4 with five doors, a roof rack and muddy sills.”

  “Did you happen to notice its department number?” The cop’s neat eyebrows rose again, this time in anticipation.

  “46. That’s the Lot, isn’t it?”

  “Well spotted,” the other smiled. “Now, can you describe him in as much detail as possible? Even down to his shoes if you saw them.”

  “I’ll try.”

  *

  Afterwards, her interrogator stepped back, gesturing to her colleague to join them. “Sous-lieutenant Noah Baudart,” she said. “Also from Labradelle.”

  However, judging by his physique, he was probably more of a pen-pusher than the energetic Confrère. By now, a sly, icy drizzle had begun to fall. Almost sleet.

  “Valon’s just been in touch,” he muttered, then eyed Delphine with a vulpine look. “This mystery man’s the only guest unaccounted for. None of the other occupants on that 3rd floor heard him arrive. The missing hotel Manager’s just got back and confirms he covered Reception after Sunday lunch time until the agency receptionist took over after dinner. Neither saw any male visitor answering that description. The early breakfast staff the same. So, Mademoiselle Rougier, we have a mystery.”

  Mademoiselle Rougier?

  Captain Valon had been quick passing on her name.

  Baudart’s radio crackled into life and before answering it, gestured her to drive on, adding, “we know where you are and how to reach you. You’re our key witness. So take care what you say and what you do.”

  “Shall I ask Traffic to follow her?” The blonde asked.

  He shook his head.

  “St. Eustache isn’t far, but perhaps,” he began, while listening to his latest message at the same time, “no night driving for the time being, hein?”

  Delphine nodded and, with a shaking hand, wound up her window Although surrounded by other vehicles and the gendarmes’ purposeful activity, she felt suddenly alone. Suddenly afraid.

  LUCIUS

  Friday 30th November 1968. 10 a.m.

  As for being able to drive in case of an emergency, I’d finally taught myself in Maman’s Renault on the large driveway of our house in the Rue des Capucins, reversing around our centrally-placed rose bed, and three-point turns by the triple garage. I wasn’t stupid, and if for some reason, Papa couldn’t continue with the trip, I’d be able to take over. Illegally, of course, but the useless flics rarely stop a luxury car like ours. They’re only interested in the beurs and pieds-noirs who bring their filthy old crates and even filthier habits over from Algeria. Who for cash, help smuggle in too many sans papiers to taint our ‘patrimoine.’ Or so Papa had said and, judging by the growing numbers of these monkeys at school, he’s right.

  So, this Friday morning, with boring Christmas a distant problem, we’re loading up the Jaguar and packing a nice picnic in case garages and cafés are closed en route. Salami and rolls, a jar of anchovies and a bumper pack of Madeleines. Even though we’ve just finished breakfast, their smell from inside the picnic basket, makes me hungry all over again.

  3.

  11.55 hrs.

  “We know where you are and how to reach you…”

  Delphine shivered yet again as she joined the D338, the famous ‘Road to the South,’ yet travelling north into worsening weather. Half of her wanted to be back amongst the ongoing investigation in that jungle-themed hotel. The other half to be as far away from it as possible. Somewhere lovely, overlooking a blue sea, with a glass of chilled Sancerre to hand…

  She almost missed the turning for St. Eustache, a missable hamlet of only ‘twelve hearths,’ as the Cadastre – Land Registry – had so quaintly put it, and executed a swift, tight swerve to enter the narrow lane that some locals called ‘La Gorge.’ A name she hated.

  With her bladder almost at bursting point, she then bore round to the right from where, despite the gloomy day, all six pylons erected on Bellevue’s land twenty years ago, glowed silver like so many aliens against the weirdly dark sky.

  Another shiver as she manoeuvred her little car up the concrete slope and into Bellevue’s former farmyard where an array of decrepit tractors lay ranged along its bare, overgrown hedge. Their faded À VENDRE stickers still proclaiming less then rock-bottom prices.

  Having pulled up the handbrake, she left the car and ran towards the barn for that urgent pee before it was too late. Julie, their border collie who never barked whenever she arrived, then crept from her den of old straw bales and kept a discreet distance before nuzzling her leg then raising both cute, tan eyebrows for the usual tit-bit. Insanely loyal and optimistic, given her role of guarding the woodpile in all weathers, she was out of luck today.

  “Next time, okay?” Delphine tidied herself up and stroked Julie’s damp ears, wondering why there was no smoke coming from the farmhouse chimney, before spotting the lighter oblong on the yard where her parents’ rusted, grey Mitsubishi Shogun normally stood. Then her eyes alighted on the primitive-looking cross that had mysteriously sprung up in the front hedge while she’d been out visiting her best friend, twenty-two-year-old Pauline Fillol. Black against the wintry sky, it seemed not so much a memorial shrine than a bad omen.

  *

  The woodburner in Bellevue’s kitchen was cold, which was odd, given that it was past midday when Maman would usually be preparing lunch. Delphine dropped her bag on the table covered by a waxed cloth depicting all France’s departments. She pulled out her pile of the Hôtel les Palmiers’ blank cards awaiting her stupid ‘Bonjour’ message, then the sunglasses she wouldn’t be needing until the spring; her crap phone, a pink lipstick, and finally her purse.

  She stared at Basma Arouar’s card and slipped it inside her bra.

  “Hello!” she then called out. “Anyone home?”

  She could have heard a pin drop. Ever since she was
a kid, she’d hated silence, and today was no different. Especially today. “Maman? Papa?”

  Just then she spotted a small, torn piece of paper lying near the phone. Part of a recent receipt for engine oil from the local garage.

  Back soon. Something’s cropped up.

  What on earth could that mean? They’d not mentioned anything earlier on. Best get lunch going, she told herself. Wherever her parents were, to have a meal ready for their return would surely be appreciated. But just then, the very thought of food – any food – brought acid back to her throat. Her movements grew leaden, as if she was suddenly old. As if having been unable to prevent such new life from being snatched away, had taken some of hers. But she must stay strong, as Martin had said. And focussed.

  She switched on the nearby radio that Papa had kept for as long as she could remember. Nothing like the sleek mini-sized digital ones at the hotel. This resembled a small house. Its mahogany casing, like most things from the woodburner’s fumes, almost black, but it still worked, and the latest, regional news filtered out into that cold, dead room.

  “…severe timetable disruptions to the rail service to Tours, are expected to continue until the spring, and motorists especially on untreated roads in rural areas are being warned to take adequate precautions against expected bad weather. And now, more news just in, of an infanticide at the Hôtel Les Palmiers, Mondiale Enterprise Zone near Le Mans…”

  Delphine froze inside her coat, cradling three logs in her arms as the voice continued. “The public are being asked to report any sightings of a white male aged between fifty and seventy seen leaving the Hôtel Les Palmiers by a third floor Emergency exit into the car park at approximately eleven hundred hours this morning. He was seen driving away in a green, five door Nissan X-Trail with a number plate from the Lot. The police are urging the public to avoid making any contact with him at this stage…”