NINETEEN

Peyrefitte, still up to his neck in the four brothers, was cross at being led up the garden path. When, early that morning, Castang had grunted that all this was a feather in the cap of the constabulary, but nothing to do with Sabine, he’d been unwilling to admit it. Now he did admit it, and was angry with the judge, who’d let himself get persuaded by wishful thinking and an anonymous denunciation. He’d said as much – more tactfully – to the magistrate, who wasn’t having that, naturally.

     ‘Very well, Commissaire, you will direct your enquiries towards finding out, won’t you. Who is sending phoney denunciations? Some disgruntled accomplice, no doubt.’

     Renewed police work on these-damned-Spaniards was beginning to point to a butcher, a shady person, suspected of having trafficked in carcasses that had been condemned by the Health Department. Another fellow who had too many gold coins. Wouldn’t be sorry to pin something on that whore, said Monsieur Peyrefitte, if it can be managed.

     ‘Your phone been ringing?’ asked Castang.

     ‘Who, the judge?’

     ‘Madame Wilhems.’

     ‘Oh, the Granny down from Paris, I’ve heard about her. No, thank God.’

     ‘Doesn’t want to appear too eager. Agitated about her rights. Wants to clean up that shutter and door; says the house is wide open. Wanted me to change all that. I said I’d love to, naturally, but that it was your decision.’

     ‘Why, when it’s the judge’s ruling, anyhow?’

     ‘Judge wished her on me, and a damned tiresome morning she’s given me. I wish her on you, but warn you first.’

     ‘I’ll send her back to the bloody judge.’

     ‘Of course, but stall her a bit. An old cow: I don’t want her upsetting him. If she blows in, perhaps you’d say you’d be delighted, of course, but it just needs his assent and you’ll be seeing him by and by.’

     ‘All right. Why so much fuss?’

     ‘I’ve really no idea. I don’t see that there can be anything odd about that shutter.’

     ‘You’re not thinking there was some kind of fiddle?’

     ‘No evidence whatever. Probably just a question of property at stake. Isn’t it always? She’s bothered too about the house agent. I’ve seen Thonon, by the way. His story’s reasonable enough. Didn’t want to come out with having been there that night because he’s still got hopes of swinging a property deal.’

     ‘So you don’t think it was him?’

     ‘Of course not, unless the judge starts getting ideas.’

     ‘Is there anything queer, about the property?’

     ‘I don’t suppose so. Sheer coincidence, and of course when money’s involved they all start prevaricating… All terrified that something might interfere with their making a profit, and all cursing Sabine for getting herself killed. Nothing fishy about Thonon in your eyes, is there?’

     ‘More honest than most, I’d have thought.’

     ‘I had dinner last night in a place called the Bay Tree.’

     ‘Place has been a brothel since Vauban’s day.’

     ‘I’m all for ancient traditions, too.’

     ‘See no reason why it shouldn’t stay that way,’ said Peyrefitte comfortably. ‘That young woman is sensible about it.’

     ‘I ran into Thonon’s daughter there. Student in Paris, as I gather. Friendly with the woman Sophie.’

     ‘No drugs or stuff, if that’s what you’re thinking. Sophie’s no fool; she’d tell me… I have her in to see me now and again. Thonon’s okay as far as we’re concerned. So far, that is. Never can tell, much, with these property dealers but hell, infringement of building legislation… one has more to worry about. I’m going to light a fire under this butcher,’ contentedly.

A small town, where everybody gossiped. A place where nothing ever happened, where the scandal of the year was the mayor’s trafficking in influence to get his parking-lot built! Where anonymous denunciations flew, where nobody could really live in peace. Poor old Barde couldn’t even enjoy his maids in peace, an estate agent had to slip about furtively at night, and even Sabine, quiet, respectable widow of a cultural-affairs civil servant, spun strange webs and dark suspicions. Nothing happened but it could be blamed on the brothers. And Sabine had been frightened, frightened enough to come all the way to the city and tell the Police Judiciaire about her worries, frowning nervously and polishing her glasses. And then she had been found dead. Violence. And violence belonged to the youth, to bored frustrated boys hanging about with nothing to do but go to a sex film, like Lucciani, or go fishing, like Gérard. While the elderly amused themselves with bridge parties. Or emotional religious outbursts. The only person he’d met so far who seemed to lead a normal existence was Sophie, who ran a little café-restaurant, with a little bit of quiet provincial prostitution on the side.

     Had it really been no more than some wandering juvenile delinquent in search of excitement? Perfectly possible. Stay content with that, Castang told himself. The more you go poking at gossip and rumour the less you’ll find out.

     But you’d like to do something with your first independent homicide investigation. Find a dramatic development.

     There’d never be anything of the sort. Nothing would ever happen, here.

     But he had a little time. The judicial authorities were in a good mood: they would be pleasurably busy with the brothers for the next forty-eight hours. Like the youth, they wanted a little excitement, something exotic. Basque villains provided it. He himself would just like to poke a bit further. This snug little town, tight and secure in its fortifications, prosperous and bland with its modern suburbs and industrial development, microcosm of provincial existence in today’s Europe, bored him stiff, but Sabine didn’t.

     He wanted to find out more about Sabine, to get to know her, to understand her. She was the most interesting of all these people. But she was dead.