EIGHT

     ‘I’ve heard nothing more, so I still know nothing,’ said Richard, turning up the corners of a pile of forms to sign his name on them. ‘Routine demand for routine investigation, signed by the judge in Soulay. Makes a change from Paris – nasty dangerous place, that Paris. You can take young Lucciani.’

     ‘Haven’t you anyone else?’

     ‘No.’

     ‘What about technicians?’

     ‘The local people have done all that. What more do you want – sound effects man and a continuity girl? There’s nothing to it; I’m only sending you because of the coincidence. The judge doesn’t know, and I see no need to run and tell him, that this woman came here with tales of persecutions. No need to frighten him with false fire. See what it’s all about, that’s all. Your expenses will be okayed. The state got saved money by your bringing back that hooligan. A fine one, that. Don’t bother about him; he’ll keep. The judge is in no hurry for him, no hurry at all. Forty robberies! Whereas this bastard in Soulay is merely wanting to make a fuss. Sleepy hollow. If he were any good he wouldn’t be there.’

     With young Lucciani driving, Castang could ‘put his feet up’. Soulay was a sous-préfecture, and sub-prefects are small beer. A sub-prefect is a bland personage nicely dressed, like a hotel manager, with an agreeable smile for important guests, who does nothing much, and is really only there to terrorise pageboys. If there is a flood he is in charge; not that he will do much then, except send messages to the government asking to be declared a disaster-area. Noisy ones, to draw attention to his energy. And momentarily to increase his importance. A sub-prefecture is generally a town of perhaps ten thousand souls, where everybody knows everyone, and everything. Within this wooden O he is a strutting personage, and the local bigwigs compete for invitations to his bridge parties. Among these turkeycocks is the local judge of instruction, and between the career official and the career magistrate is a bond of sympathy: both would like to wipe the dust of Soulay off their feet. In order to bring this about they both dread and secretly hope for a scandal. To attract the attention of Paris is important, but to gain the good opinion of Paris may prove ticklish; hence the dread. It is an instance of the weakness of centralised bureaucracies.

     There was of course nothing even remotely political about the death of an ex-poetess. But Castang had needed no explanations to know that he was going to have trouble with this judge.

     Richard had been cunning. He made a point, as a rule, of taking charge of a homicide himself. He had dodged it, so that Castang would be caught between the judge and the local commissaire of the urban police. Dodged it, probably, because recently there had been a scandal in Soulay! In fact apart from the archaeological details supplied by Sabine, the scandal was all he knew about the place. A typically small-town scandal…

     Soulay was in fact a thriving little town, with plenty of light industry. But dull. To introduce some sparkle they’d been trying to attract tourists – especially since their fortifications, which they had never noticed, had been declared a monument. It was all very well to be dynamic about tourism, but there was a shortage of hotels. It happened that the mayor owned the biggest hotel. In the name of tourist infrastructure he had cornered municipal funds to get a car park built opposite his own establishment, and some local people thought this went a bit far. A complaint had been registered, and not with the sub-prefect, where the mayor was assiduous at bridge and mellifluous with the ladies, but with the Prefect – Up There in the City.

     So that local justice – dragging its feet ever so slightly – had been obliged to intervene. Charges, it appeared, would have to be preferred, and though it took time, for the mayor was strongly entrenched, charges were preferred. Traffic in influence: corruption of public functionaries: falsification of written records.

     The judge of instruction, and the prosecutor, had been lukewarm about all this. The latter was unworried, being a local notable from an old family, very happy where he was in possession of inherited wealth and a fine house. But the tergiversations of the judge vexed an authority in the city, who took a dim view anyway of ‘these little country combines’. The judge was asked tartly what was taking him so long.

     The ambitious hotel-keeper had finally been disbarred from further public office by a year in the jug, suspended. The judge had been anxious ever since to retrieve his position. Now that he had a homicide to give scope to his talents one could be sure that he would make himself insufferable to the police, his creatures.

     Castang knew all about this in the simplest way. The fraud specialists of the Police Judiciaire would have been called upon, normally, to investigate the mayor’s zeal for tourism, but had been called off by the judge, who had talked about excess of zeal, bulls in china-shops, sledgehammers and nuts, and suchlike metaphors. Richard hadn’t been pleased a bit.

     Castang sighed, being a sufficiently experienced policeman to know all about excess of zeal in country districts. He supposed that an obscure ex-poetess, the widow of a dusty functionary in the cultural-affairs sector, was not likely to be thought a ticklish problem.

     Approached from this side, Soulay was pleasant-looking, with bastions and salients and an impressive gateway. The streets of the old fortress, narrow and cobbled, led up to the citadel, where the trees in the moat made a pretty little park. On the far side, the walls had been knocked down in nineteenth-century exuberance, to build a faubourg leading to the railway station. The ‘new town’ with its industrial quarter and the flats of those who worked there lay across the river and Castang had no desire to push tourism that far. The ‘Palace of Justice’ was a heavy building in a dreary square dating from Louis Philippe, that bourgeois monarch who had such bad taste in art. He left Lucciani and the car outside, and prepared to scrape his shoe back and make a very low bow. Lucciani, not being an officer, would only have to tug his forelock.

     The judge was politer than expected; even quite conciliatory, despite a bilious, irritable appearance: he was a middle-aged, concave personage with an unhealthy colour and little bunches of dust-coloured hair dotted around a high bald forehead, like thorny scrub on some African veldt. Not much shade. No lions. A hyena or two, idly playing with a rather old bone.

     He had been told by Richard on the phone that an experienced officer was being sent. If the fellow was properly house-broken there should be no problem. Time enough to grind at the peppermill.

     ‘In a certain light, yes, it’s a trivial matter. Of course no homicide can ever be trivial.’ Castang quite agreed. ‘It is evident enough what took place. A sordid case of breaking and entering. Nothing to do with the neighbourhood: that stands to reason. The village is a short distance away, but part of the – what’s their word?’ twirling his forefinger in a circle.

     ‘Agglomeration.’

     ‘Quite. Comes under the town. The local police force is competent. Limited perhaps in manpower. But to handle an enquiry of this nature is perfectly within their scope.’

     Castang seemed to be wondering, with respect, what they wanted him for.

     ‘Young thugs,’ said the judge rather loudly, ‘roaming the countryside. Hippies. All the technical findings point that way. We’ve had too much of it. This band will be well away by now. I want it found. The mobile brigade and the gendarmerie have been alerted. I want some energy shown. A suggestion has been made too which seems worth pursuing – those bands which pillage country houses for antiques. I want you to co-ordinate all this. And no little dodges. I exact a scrupulous rectitude of procedure. Discretion, you understand me, and no chatterboxing with the press. And you’re accountable to me. I expect your verbal report tomorrow morning and on subsequent days.’ He paused, to look Castang up and down, seeming surprised at what he saw.

     Nothing odd, surely, thought Castang. Conventional appearance, ordinary clothes. Smallish for a cop, but well muscled. Dark hair, cut short. Well-polished shoes and clean fingernails – two items he was fussy about. Leathery kind of face, neatly shaved; boxer’s nose – he had been a fairish welterweight, too short to be more – and one crooked eyebrow where someone had split it. Tie, plain dark red – that couldn’t arouse disapproval. The judge was feeling a bit liverish; that was all. Would have liked a bigger audience for the lecture on discipline and discretion: a whole amphitheatre full of humble policemen with downcast eyes.

     ‘Very well, as long as that’s understood. Local newspapers are always excitable.’

     ‘Good, sir.’ This sobriety of language seemed to please the judge, who gave him leave to go, in quite a polite way.

     Lucciani was walking about, much bored and one couldn’t blame him.

     These small provincial towns… Upon a couple of benches sat a couple of old men joylessly contemplating municipal flowerbeds. Everything prim, anchylosed, arthritic. If the square had trees even, thought Castang. Or a fountain. Movement, glitter, silver music. Just brass music, say, as provided by municipal fire-brigades. Nothing here but dust; dried-out, sealed in and lamentable.

     The commissariat of police was another dreary barrack, shutters covered in the same peeling grey paint as all the houses. Even in rich, cool September sunshine there seemed nothing that grew and was glad anywhere, and the pettiness of a small town struck more huddled and joyless than ever. Dump, he thought disgustedly.

     He said as much to young Lucciani, who mysteriously seemed to know his way about.

     ‘The ramparts are nice. Grass, you know, and old trees.’ Yes, to be sure, where sheep might safely graze.

     He had to make a start somewhere, and felt no enthusiasm.

     ‘Yes,’ said the local commissaire of police. One Peyrefitte by name. Perfid, very likely, by nature, but at present assuming a large air of tolerant indifference: no skin off his nose, all this. ‘Don’t know what he should want to call you for.’ But without hostility. ‘Pleased to help. Turn the whole thing over to you. Don’t see that there’s much to be done, but that’s your affair. Whoever it was is miles away by this time. Commonplace sneak-thief is likeliest. Only a bit of money pinched, but got scared off. Thought the place was empty; surprised by the old lady; lost his head and lashed out, like. Somebody gave his nibs the idea of a country-house removals crowd, but I don’t see much in that: they come with a truck.

     ‘Anyway, his nibs phoned me, and I have it all for you here; photos, sketch-plan, measurements – and the papers of course – doctor, witnesses, for what use they are in a thing like that.’

     He was a rough-cut, heavily-built man, who came on a bit strong with the local accent and the rustic behaviour: a suggestion of ‘I’m only a country hick’. Making a thing of how straightforward he was. Have confidence; rely on Joe. The local expert. ‘Born here: know everyone. Not like a foreigner – I know what’s said, and what’s left unsaid.’ This sometimes concealed plenty of dishonesty – the bluff greasiness of a grower swearing his Beaujolais is real, with a tanker-ful from Argentina standing at the back door. Peasant slyness. With the bourgeoisie, just servile and insinuating enough.

     Castang thought he could probably get along all right with the man, as long as he didn’t step on any toes.

     The technical dossier had been shoved across confidently, as though ‘what can’t speak, can’t lie’. He shuffled through it: it had been neatly done.

     ‘She was found in the kitchen, I see.’ Odd, surely?

     ‘Like what would a man be looking for in the kitchen? Right, a bit weird. But her bag with the purse in it was lying on the table. Emptied, sure. How much nobody knows: the son estimated she might have had a few hundred francs.’

     ‘She wasn’t moved?’

     ‘No, no; would have showed up. What clinches it anyhow is she was hit for sure with the iron. Stood there on the board in the kitchen. Hit on the back of the head, could have stolen up behind her like, wanting to keep her quiet. Or maybe some threat to make her turn round. Anyway he clonked her. Too hard, got a fright, and whizzed. Those shots show how the entry was forced. Common crowbar, so he came meaning to break in. Quite neat, it wouldn’t have made much noise. Bedroom at the back. But these old ladies sleep light.’

     ‘Took courage, to go into the kitchen after him.’ Sabine, he thought, did have that sort of courage.

     ‘She’d have to go a distance, to raise an alarm. You haven’t seen the place.’ Castang kept mum. ‘If it wasn’t for the crowbar I’d have thought it no more than some vagrant, a hippy looking for a place to sleep, and to lift anything handy. The gate wasn’t forced – not that it proves much. But the antiques gang would have brought a van in, and grandfather clocks and stuff, take at least two men. No footmarks, but ground was dry. The only thing that gives any weight to the idea is the son claims there was a man hanging about not long ago he didn’t like the look of; claimed to be a furniture dealer, and that is the way they work, sure enough. Somebody goes first, talks his way in, to have a look around to mark the good stuff down, like. Haven’t had much of that around here, but always time to start.’

     Castang didn’t have to hide a grin at the description of himself, because he didn’t have a grin. The man would find out sooner or later, but it had no importance.

     ‘You were satisfied with the son’s story, were you?’

     ‘Hard to see why not. He wasn’t on the best of terms with his ma – adopted, by the way. There was talk in the village about frequent quarrels, but raised voices to hitting Ma with the iron – no, that’s over-long a step to take without strong indications. Whereas what signs there are point another way. Like the time factor. No member of the family would be running around in the middle of the night. It had always been the boy’s home: he could stroll in any time. She was killed around two: she was in pyjamas and the bed had been slept in. Found next morning by the daughter-in-law, who was passing by, saw the shutter forced, thought it funny, went in being a cool young lady, found the old dame on the floor, and ran to call us together with the ambulance. I was there by nine. Now even if there was premeditation – why the middle of the night?’

     ‘Break-ins are easy to fake,’ said Castang loosely. Peyrefitte shrugged.

     ‘Maybe, but common sense is against it.’ His face said clearly that if one wanted a fancy story, the facts could always be stretched.

     ‘Sure. Just looking from that angle for a moment. I agree; it doesn’t fit the facts.’

     ‘Homicides aren’t exactly our bread-and-butter,’ there was no use in being touchy with the PJ, ‘but I hope we know how to be thorough.’ Since the PJ had been wished on him, that was.

     ‘A stranger might have expected a dog.’

     ‘Took a chance. The house could as easily have been empty. It has that neglected look. Rubbish everywhere – you’ll see. The odd thing there is I advised her to get a dog.’

     ‘You did?’ said Castang, who’d been wondering whether this episode would be suppressed.

     ‘I thought it meaningless then,’ said the commissaire, ‘and do now. She came to me a month or so back with a tale of neurotic fears. Had a row with the son, got worked up. Felt abandoned I dare say – sense of loneliness. You know how old women can be. And typically obstinate; living alone in a house too big for her, just because she always had.’

     Yes, it was the voice of common sense.

     ‘I suggested a dog: company, like; no need of a guard dog. Something to get attached to, you take my meaning, fill the gap. She’d have none of it. What could I do? Told the patrol to keep an eye open. But it’s a quiet corner, bar the local drunks.’

     Sensible if unimaginative; Sabine was not the person to get attached to dogs or canaries. She had rejected the well-meant piece of advice a bit too brusquely, and lost his sympathy. ‘The woman didn’t want to be helped.’ Sabine’s tactlessness put people off. She had no idea how irritating she could be.

     ‘What about this bickering in the family?’ asked Castang lazily. ‘D’you know them at all?’

     ‘Nothing to know. I checked up, in view of this talk of being bullied and terrorised. No family bar this son, who’s adopted like I say, but that’s ancient, twenty years ago. Boy’s nervous, maybe, shouts at people, easily irritated. Nothing criminal about that. More to the point – regular job, doesn’t drink, doesn’t gamble.’

     You know your job, thought Castang.

     ‘Likes fishing. Got a young wife, two kids. Loan from finance company on the car – payments regular. No housing trouble – had a free cottage from the old lady. You know how it is – one looks for something odd in the pattern. Nothing. Had words with his ma – and who doesn’t? She was over-prone, maybe, to well-meant advice about bringing up the children and such: lived too close by.’

     He agreed with every word, and if he himself had not met Sabine… But that was a straw, a dead leaf down his shirt. Castang had the feeling that Peyrefitte had everything right, and that the best thing he could do was make a show to keep the judge happy.

     ‘Great,’ he said. ‘These are copies? – can I hang on to them for our file? So I’ll look at the ground; maybe do a few interviews. Show zeal for the judge.’

     ‘Interfering old bastard,’ said Peyrefitte comfortably: He had no worries, or he’d never have said that openly.

     ‘He blocked us off from looking up the mayor, as you no doubt know, and now he wants to show Paris how thorough his investigations are.’

     ‘Your bad luck,’ said the commissaire, much like Richard before him.

     ‘My boy can talk to the villagers – something for him to do. And we might turn something up on the antiques-gang angle: we’ve a file on it at home, but I’m placing no reliance on it. The house under seal or anything?’

     ‘No – the judge saw no need. Just locked – here, keys. I told the boy not to roam about without permission, but it’s scarcely a felony if he does. It’s all his now. Judge phoned the notary to see if there was a will. Another old bugger. Gives you a long answer and you’ve still got no idea at the end was it yes or no he said.’

     ‘I’ll keep everybody happy,’ said Castang.

     Starting with you. Fair words, to keep local police commissaires from thinking we might go interfering, or making a report, which would lead a judge or a Proc to make sarcastic comments about police administration. He left Monsieur Peyrefitte sitting comfortable and greased, with no hot little frictions under the collar.

     And the commissaire thought much the same. The PJ, in his experience and he’d had some, was rarely tiresome unless it thought it was being got at. Or suspected that things had been concealed.

     A muddle there might be. Anything tricky or troublesome – no. Those tales of family grievances originated if you asked him in old mother Lipschitz’s tiresome little ways. Vague. And she liked rows. She’d made a row with him, not that he’d been provoked. Artists! They were a pest: they didn’t know what they wanted. As long as they stuck to art they were all right, he supposed. Beyond that… Like grit, for a hen’s digestion.