“I didn’t know Calais had a boat.”
“What?”
“I didn’t know Raymond Calais had a boat.”
“He didn’t.”
Anne Marie looked at Trousseau in surprise.
Trousseau had to pull hard on the steering to stop the car from going into the back of a municipal bus that had come to a halt at the edge of the marina. “Not Raymond Calais. The boat belongs to his brother. Jacques Calais.”
Anne Marie was sweating.
There was a white and red barrier across the road; painted on one of the cement posts was the word CAPITAINERIE and an arrow. A man in uniform—a round face and a holster attached to his belt—approached the FR3 van.
Anne Marie saw Gurion talking. He gestured with his thumb toward the Peugeot and grinned at them. The rims of his glasses caught the bright sunlight.
The man in the kepi shook his head and approached the Peugeot and Trousseau. He saluted. “The marina’s temporarily closed.” The palm of his hand was a pale brown.
Anne Marie leaned across and showed him her card. He took it and studied it carefully. He pushed the kepi back and scratched his damp forehead. The lips moved as he read. He ran a finger along the red and blue diagonals. “I suppose so,” he said, not addressing anybody in particular, his eyes still on the card. He returned to the pole and lifted it. The FR3 Renault went through, followed by Trousseau.
The man put the card through the window, and Anne Marie took it. He stepped back to salute. There was a small, red anchor on his kepi.
They parked near a police van.
The television team unpacked the equipment, their cameras, and their recording material. One technician carried a camera on his shoulder.
The wind was strong at sea level; it pulled at Anne Marie’s skirt—a pretty, tailored skirt that she had bought on impulse in the rue de Siam while on a course in Brest. She brushed the beige material down and, turning, noticed a smile on Gurion’s face. He looked away.
The tall masts rocked with the movement of the harbor waters. A regular tapping of wire against aluminum. The line of yachts and wooden jetties was deserted.
On the furthest jetty, a crowd had formed. Anne Marie could see the procureur.
The three men were with him and the gaunt West Indian had removed his raincoat and held it folded across his arm. Anne Marie pushed her way forward, with Trousseau just behind her.
“Over here.”
There were a few children who had moved forward to the water’s edge.
A couple of men in dungarees stood in an inflatable dinghy. One was shouting to the procureur. The other was looking at the yacht moored alongside.
No flames.
Smoke poured in black wisps from the cabin. It was a small yacht. Two outboard motors and a hull of scarred fiberglass. The roof of the cabin had caved in, and one side of the hull had been ripped away.
“Is the fire out?”
Pieces of wood floated in the water, knocking occasionally against the hull with muffled thuds.
“Make sure you extinguish the fire.” The procureur had his hands in his pockets and the same unlit cigar in his mouth. His large face looked worried.
Anne Marie moved forward until she was standing beside him. She held out her hand and he took it absent-mindedly.
“Bonjour,” he said, frowning.
“Anybody hurt?”
The procureur turned away without answering.
The three men looked at her, their eyes devoid of interest. The black man wore his dark hair parted and combed. The white suit was immaculate. He had a crimson tie and canvas shoes. There was the unmistakable glint of ambition in his eyes.
“Who’s hurt?”
The man with the raincoat shook his head and turned away. He said something to the procureur, who nodded.
Anne Marie bit her lip.
There were a few shopkeepers from the nearby shopping mall—French women with manicures and heels that were too high for their tanned legs and for the wooden slats of the jetty. A few men—Anne Marie recognized a couple of Syrians who sold prêt-à-porter. Most of the crowd was made up of boat hands—Europeans with wiry arms and torsos, the occasional tattoo. One or two held a beer can.
She heard the whir of the television camera.
Gurion held out the microphone as he edged forward toward the procureur. The cameraman was close behind.
“Who let you in here?” The plump face showed no anger, but the procureur bit at the end of his cigar and spat dark shreds to the ground.
“A deliberate attempt to destroy a privately owned boat.” Gurion nodded toward the name written in gold letters along the warped hull, La Belle Soeur. “As well as another boat belonging to the gendarmerie—which would appear to have escaped relatively undamaged.” Gurion extended the microphone. “In your opinion, monsieur le procureur, who would want to destroy these boats?”
The procureur looked at the microphone with diffidence. “As yet I’m afraid we have no information to work on.”
“This attack occurs within hours of a similar attack at the International Airport Pointe-à-Pitre/Le Raizet. This would indicate, would it not, a recrudescence in violence?”
The procureur looked directly toward the camera. “There’s never been political terrorism in Guadeloupe.”
“There’ve been bombs, monsieur le procureur. Several months ago an attack was made on the gendarmerie at Sainte-Anne. Attempts have been made on several important citizens—not least Raymond Calais, who was found murdered a few days ago.” Gurion paused and, before the procureur could answer, hurried on, “The number one suspect, an old man, an ex-convict who was helping with the enquiries—it would appear that he, too, is dead.”
The procureur took a deep breath. His small eyes glanced at Anne Marie. “If there is terrorism—which has yet to be proved—it’s most certainly the work of outsiders. Terrorism in Guadeloupe is an imported phenomenon. I know Guadeloupe.” He smiled toward the camera. “I was born on this island and this is where I grew up. I know my compatriots. They don’t resort to violence to solve their problems.”
“Monsieur le procureur, the present situation is tense. Thirty percent of the population’s out of work. Sugar factories are closing down. More and more people are being forced to emigrate to France. At the same time, the number of outside civil servants coming from the Métropole steadily increases.”
The procureur held up his hand. With the same hand, he took the cigar from his mouth. He looked at Michel Gurion. He had forgotten about the camera, which hummed softly. “Of course there are problems—no country is perfect. However, here we’re part of France where the laws of the Republic apply. Violence is no way to solve these problems.”
“Can you be sure no Frenchman of Guadeloupe is involved in these acts?” Gurion’s face betrayed no emotion but his eyes were bright. Beneath the glasses, his nose was hooked like a bird’s.
“Violence is never a solution.”
“If this,” Gurion said, gesturing toward the damaged yacht, “if all this is the last of a series of terrorist attacks upon the political stability of Guadeloupe, then isn’t it quite possible Raymond Calais was murdered for political motives?”
“I have no comment to make. The Raymond Calais affair is sub judice.”
“How can it be sub judice, monsieur le procureur, when the principal suspect has committed suicide?”
Again the procureur looked at Anne Marie before turning back toward the camera. “These are things I cannot discuss. However, I can assure you the entire dossier is being prepared. Being prepared with all the rigor and all the efficiency that the people of Guadeloupe have grown to expect from the judiciary.”
And without another word, without even a perfunctory smile, the procureur turned his back on the camera.