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It is 7.20 a.m., Monday 4th August, France is on holiday, and Captain Cyril Eveno, newly promoted, stands at the kitchen sink drinking a cup of coffee. Everything shuts down in August, except beaches, campsites, jazz festivals and swimming pools. And Cyril. No holiday for him, nor for the tens of thousands of other gendarmes who ensure the safety of the nation. Today, at the request of General Pico, Cyril will investigate an international scam. Perpetrated by international scum. He puts his cup in the sink and whistles joyfully as he returns to the bedroom to dress.
His wife is still in bed, half asleep. He looks at her tenderly, savouring the moment. Gabrielle. Never did he think he would find a woman to love him as she does. Life has rewarded him after all this time – does he truly deserve it? Yes. He has been an agent for all that is good and proper; he is conscientious, rigorous, and diligent; his prospects are promising. He has achieved much, and will achieve much more.
The path for Cyril has been long and arduous, but he has kept at it, tenacious and steadfast, and now he deserves everything he’s got, including a wife like this.
‘Are you off?’ Gabrielle squirms and stretches – like a kitten, he thinks. He is aware that in some circles, comparing a woman to a kitten – indeed to any feline – may not be considered appropriate, but in dealing with the opposite sex, Cyril is not well-versed in matters of appropriateness. And kittens, after all, are lovable. ‘A kiss and a hug...’
‘My love...’ He lies next to her, holding her tight, murmurs in her ear. ‘I’ll try to get back early.’
‘Our last evening together.’
‘For three weeks, my sweet. You make it sound like forever.’
‘It is forever. Feels like.’
‘For me too. But once you’re there, you’ll have so much to do, people to see. It’ll be over in a flash.’
Gabrielle snuggles closer. ‘Another cuddle,’ she purrs.
Cyril and Gabrielle have been married for two months. Tomorrow she leaves for Douala, Cameroun, to prepare the wedding, the much bigger one which will take place in October. The one in France made it official in the eyes of both Lord and law, but only her parents attended, and for her relatives, the second ceremony is the one that really counts. Cyril doesn’t know how many relatives she has, but there are a lot.
The French wedding was beautiful in its way, but the church felt very empty. She had a number of friends from the business school in Naubelair, where she studies luxury marketing, and on his side, just one sister, Audrey, and a couple of colleagues from work. Gabrielle was surprised, a little shocked, that he didn’t have more friends.
Cyril goes back to his desk and checks his email. As expected, there is one from Lieutenant Valentin Bondy, whom he is on his way to see. Bondy is investigating a suspected insurance scam in which a restaurant, L’Ophrys, was destroyed when a fire ravaged a swathe of land near the Sainte Victoire.
Cyril’s concern is different, much bigger, with ramifications spreading to several countries. Cyril himself isn’t fully aware of the details – that’s a matter for General Pico, whose expertise lies in investigating fraud. Actually, Pico’s expertise is even more vast, extending into areas that Cyril barely knows of, but one of the countries concerned by this particular mission is Cameroun, and Pico has entrusted Cyril, as someone with intimate knowledge of the place, with finding out as much as he can about a certain Eddy Ferrucci, who spends a lot of time there. Ferrucci’s name is one of many to feature in Pico’s file, but the extent of his involvement is unclear; what has transpired, though, is that the name appears also in Valentin Bondy’s file. Two different scam operations, Ferrucci involved in both. Cyril’s task today is to find out more. Could Ferrucci be the big fish they are after?
Cyril loves this work. Not so long ago, he was a bored lieutenant in an insignificant gendarmerie way out in the sticks; not long before that, a mere trainee, overawed and clumsy, struggling to adapt to the expectations of the gendarmerie school in Châteaulin; and before that again... well, he’d rather not even go there, rather forget – if he could – the life he had till December 28th, 2002.
Bondy’s email fills him in a bit more. L’Ophrys was owned by a businessman, Gino Escarola, who has his finger in a number of pies, but nothing yet proven to be illegal. Every so often local artists exhibited at the restaurant; the last to do so was Eddy Ferrucci’s wife, Maya, whose paintings were lost in the fire. Ferrucci had insured them for eighty thousand euros, a claim that was of course separate from the far bigger one Escarola put in for the restaurant itself. The two insurance companies are holding out against payment, pending the result of the investigation, but so far Bondy has come up with nothing that points to arson. Both Escarola and Ferrucci are complaining about the delay, and as far as Bondy is concerned, the case is all but closed.
Cyril presses his lips together, sceptical. He doesn’t know Maya’s paintings, but eighty thousand is a lot, and Ferrucci would appear to be no stranger to scams. One must beware of prejudice, but Escarola? With a name like that, no doubt of Corsican origin. Reading on, he learns that Ferrucci was in Cameroun when the fire occurred, so direct involvement has to be ruled out. (A dismissive shrug at this point: maybe he wasn’t the man who lit the match, but a fraudster like that has any number of minions at his disposal.) He and his wife are now staying a few miles away at Venturi View, attending a course for writers and artists. Bondy concludes with a confirmation of his 8.30 appointment with Cyril to discuss how he wishes to proceed. In the event that he plans to interview Ferrucci, Bondy has included an attachment with details of the course.
Cyril thinks that at this point an interview is premature. He’d like to get the full story from Bondy first and then report back to General Pico. It’s a complex affair and he must tread carefully when it comes to dealing with Pico, whose support is vital for the next step up in Cyril’s career, a post in the Research Unit headquarters in Marseille. Despite the competition, Cyril has the highest hopes of getting it. His progress, after all, has been little short of spectacular – you might even say meteoric – and surely there’s no reason for it to stop now. He’s never put a foot wrong. Pico thinks highly of him, fully aware he possesses all the qualities required. But above all Cyril has a secret, invisible, but irresistible asset: Auguste.
Much of his rise, Cyril attributes to Auguste. Without Auguste, he dreads to think where he would be. Knee-deep in slurry perhaps, like his father. Or a drug addict sleeping rough. Or a criminal. Who can say? And there’s no point speculating anyway. What matters is the here and now.
Auguste has been good to his word, accompanying Cyril all these years, advising and encouraging, pulling arcane strings behind the scene. Exactly how it works, Cyril has no idea – the realm of spirits is by definition mysterious, inaccessible to mortals, but that doesn’t matter. It matters only that somehow or other, it does work, and today’s mission, though little more than routine, will be one more point in his favour, one more opportunity, thanks to Auguste, to impress General Pico.
Humming softly, Cyril brings up the attachment Bondy has sent, clicks to print, curses when the printer doesn’t respond – the damned thing has a mind of its own – goes off for his shower. Wouldn’t it be nice, he thinks, if Auguste could intervene to put the Wi-Fi gremlins in their place! But you can’t reproach him for that – he comes from a different age, and all this new-fangled stuff is gobbledygook to him. No, Auguste’s value lies elsewhere – guidance, moral support, and even more priceless, the influence he brings to bear from wherever he is on events here below. Obliquely, cunningly, not always perceptibly at first – you start to wonder at times what he’s playing at – but in the end he makes sure that everything turns out right. What’s a malfunctioning printer to Auguste? His concern is of far greater importance. He oversees the onward march of Cyril’s progress through life. And as he shaves, Cyril reflects that his beloved ancestor does an excellent job. Romantically, professionally, Captain Cyril Eveno is on a roll.
Gabrielle is at the kitchen table now, making notes, as she eats her breakfast, of the things she still has to pack. Cyril is a little worried that he’ll have to pay excess baggage. Her family is quite well off, it isn’t as if they’re in need, but if she listened to them all, she’d be filling a whole container. ‘Perhaps you could leave the Nespresso machine behind,’ he suggests. ‘It takes up a lot of room. Can you even get the capsules in Douala?’ He thinks of the baggage fee. ‘And it’s heavy.’
‘It’s for Aunt Ursula, her old one broke. I saved thirty euros on the one I got, there’s no point leaving it here. Now let’s see... Francky’s shoes, I’m not even sure if I’ve got the right model...’
Cyril goes back to his desk. Ah, it’s decided to print after all. Venturi View, Writers’ and Artists’ retreat, 3rd to 9th of August. Lieutenant Bondy has been conscientious, even provided a list of the current guests. He casts a glance – his heart leaps – the page swims before his eyes – can this be right? Sophie Kiesser!
Hurriedly, Cyril folds the paper and puts it into his briefcase. Phew! Thank heaven Gabrielle didn’t see that!
Distracted, pondering the implications, Cyril finishes getting ready. One thing is certain – this is Auguste’s doing. What exactly he’s up to, Cyril has no idea, but the old fellow clearly has a plan.
Ever since they met, Cyril’s life and Sophie’s have been inextricably linked. At first it was unsettling, even scary: there he was, having just met the woman of his dreams, when along comes another, totally different but equally, damnably alluring. What was going on? Was it some kind of test? A way of making sure that he really was committed to Gabrielle? If Sophie hadn’t been married – and she lost no opportunity to remind him of that – he would have been sorely tempted. In fact, no denying it, he was tempted. Initially there was longing – why, you might even call it lust. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. And that dreadful feeling of guilt that just by thinking of Sophie, he was cheating on Gabrielle. But then, quite casually, as if Cyril’s confusion and suffering was a lot of fuss about nothing, Auguste revealed the glorious, liberating truth: Sophie, it transpired was his soulmate, and that didn’t have to be – wasn’t in fact – sexual. The word means precisely what it says: this was a meeting of souls, not bodies; the role of a soulmate is to help you grow, challenge you to become the best possible version of yourself. This is what he has striven to do with Sophie. A little warily at first, he allowed her to work in her own clumsy way on the first murder case of his career; through a combination of charm and obstinacy, a good measure of luck no doubt, and aided by the sort of gift you could only ascribe to feminine intuition, she actually managed very well, in some respects better even than he did himself. He consulted her with increasing trust and enthusiasm, gave her advice, clued her in on the whys and wherefores of criminal investigation, and finally, with some apprehension, introduced her to Pico. Who was in turn impressed. ‘She’s got something, that woman,’ he’d confided to Cyril. ‘An artlessness that’s refreshing. Stands her in good stead. Make sure you don’t train it out of her.’
All that was down to Auguste. Well before anyone else, he spotted Sophie’s qualities and arranged for them to forge a relationship beneficial to both. Cyril does the groundwork, sets a course of action, gets her accepted on the case, and vouches for her with colleagues – does everything, in fact, apart from solve it. Because that’s where Sophie comes in. You might think he’d be annoyed, and the first time he was – so annoyed, in fact, that he wrote a bogus report and took all the credit himself. But now he’s come round to the idea: if this is how the partnership works, so be it. And crucially, Pico himself is on board with it. ‘Unorthodox, perhaps,’ was his observation last time, ‘but whatever gets a result.’ Though naturally, he doesn’t know what lies at the heart of it, doesn’t know they are soulmates. For obvious reasons, Cyril can never mention Auguste at work.
The only person who understands him, accepts it fully, is Gabrielle. She may not be in touch with spirits herself, but they don’t faze her one bit. Until he breached the topic with her, Cyril was frankly ashamed, even a little scared, because this, he knew, was inadmissible – what if it meant he wasn’t right in the head? But Gabrielle set him at ease – on the contrary, she said, Auguste was proof that he had a better head than anyone else, one not bound by the shackles of reason, one that was blessed with a gift to be nurtured and cherished.
‘Have a good day, my sweet.’ He smells the exhilarating scent of her body, feels her breasts against him as they hug. ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’
But even as he leaves the flat, his mind returns to Sophie, and the thrill of anticipation at whatever intrigue Auguste is setting up.
As ever, there’s a twinge of guilt, but he nips it in the bud. Gabrielle knows about her after all; it isn’t as if he’s hiding anything. He even invited Sophie to his wedding, thinking it would be good if they actually met. But Sophie had just given birth and regretfully declined, sending instead the most beautiful gift imaginable: a charming little figurine of him and Auguste. Cyril had been surprised at that, because spiritual bonds weren’t Sophie’s thing at all, she dismissed the whole notion as a load of hooey. Perhaps, he thought, she’s changed her mind – is that what the statue means? But it probably wasn’t wise to read too much into it. She simply knew that Auguste was important to him, and thought it would make a nice present. Which it did – even Gabrielle thought so, though he couldn’t tell if she was pleased or not that Sophie couldn’t attend. On the one hand, she was curious: who was this woman she’d heard so much about? On the other hand, unfortunately, she was jealous. There’d been no arguments, she’d never said anything explicit, but Cyril knew from the questions she asked, probing, wanting to know exactly what they’d done together, how the collaboration worked, and then the way she frowned, fell silent, mulling over his answers. Cyril has never mentioned the soulmate thing – she’s amenable to Auguste’s ideas, yes, but not that amenable. ‘Colleagues’ is the word he’s always used, clothing it in the matter-of-fact jargon of witnesses, suspects, forensic evidence and search warrants. Sophie, he led her to believe, was nothing more than a competent, though somewhat erratic, assistant. He wishes he could be surer that Gabrielle is convinced.
And now, in whatever drama is in the making, the curtain is about to be raised on another act. Because one thing is clear: Sophie’s presence in the same house as Eddy Ferrucci is not a coincidence. It’s a continuation of their journey, their partnership, their destiny. Cyril doesn’t know what the day holds in store but when he describes it this evening to Gabrielle, he will have to choose his words carefully. For the kitten, he thinks ruefully, has claws.
At 8.29 precisely, he arrives at the gendarmerie in Moudiret (punctuality is another of his virtues), but there, to his surprise, ‘Lieutenant Bondy?’ says the adjutant at reception. ‘He’s just left. Gone to Saint Abel down the road.’
‘Left?’ The sheer inefficiency infuriates him. ‘But we fixed an appointment.’
‘An emergency, I’m afraid. There’s been a murder at Venturi.’
