The news of Michel’s death had upset Brigitte Millet considerably. That Michel Genet’s house was now a crime scene and the police believed that his death was anything but natural only made matters more frightening. This much she had gleaned from talking to Louis. Although she didn’t know him well, Brigitte refused to believe that Michel was the sort of man to get himself into such serious strife that someone would intentionally want to get rid of him. He must have been killed by an intruder, hardly a comforting thought for a woman who lived alone with her young son in an isolated cottage.
She had met Michel at a gallery in early autumn last year, a few months after moving to Piégon. They spoke about painting and he appeared interested, if not in her work, then certainly in her. The following week she had visited him at home with three rolled canvases tucked under her arm. They walked through the lounge room, where a few of his paintings hung. Hugo stared at the paintings intensely. Brigitte imagined that he was recognising patterns corresponding to the paintings he had seen at the exhibition. She and Michel talked on the back terrace while Hugo drew with crayons and a jotter Brigitte kept in her bag for such occasions. After taking a look at her canvases, Michel said she had a good technique, but Brigitte wasn’t convinced that he was in earnest. Nor had he taken her hint that she wouldn’t mind taking a look at his studio. After their coffee, she excused herself, feeling that perhaps she was imposing on him. The next week, he had declined her invitation to dinner and the relationship hadn’t developed any further.
A pity, she thought now. Perhaps in some strange way she might have saved him. She suspected that below his outwardly down-to-earth manner, there was a hard soul that women must have always been attracted to. He had been the very opposite of a rough diamond.
She could hear Hugo at the computer in the lounge room, playing chess. He was describing the moves he was making and thinking aloud at the computer’s responses. From the sound of his voice, he was winning. He was seven now; an exceptional boy with a gentle nature, but a high level of anxiety and a terrible scream when he perceived any disorder. He had been diagnosed with a mild form of Asperger’s Syndrome a year earlier, about the time Brigitte had decided to move into her aunt’s cottage. She had always suspected as much – he had been different to other children from the moment he was born. His father certainly hadn’t had the patience to deal with him and life in Marseille had been impossible under the circumstances. After some early difficulties in adjusting, Hugo had come to love the quiet village, and they had been fortunate to get him into a special education program in a school in Vaison-la-Romaine, where Brigitte also worked as a teacher’s aide, preparing art and craft materials.
She was lost in thought when the knock came. Indeed she might not have heard it at all, had it not been for the sudden quietness in the lounge room. Hugo was sitting very still on his chair.
Through the screen door, she saw a middle-aged man in a blue business shirt and a younger man dressed like a real estate agent. The older man produced a badge and said simply: ‘Inspecteur Sauveur and Agent Flague, Vaison Police. We phoned this morning. Do you mind if we ask you a few questions? It will only take a couple of minutes.’
Something about his manner made Brigitte relax, and she led them through to the kitchen, stroking Hugo’s hair as she passed to reassure him that everything was all right. ‘It’s okay, Hugo,’ she said quietly. ‘These are nice policemen.’
‘I did see a car, parked on the hill near Michel’s house. It must have been a week or so back. I noticed because it was parked awkwardly, with its rear sticking out onto the road. I was driving home from a concert at the church in Mirabel, about ten in the evening. I couldn’t be sure, but through the headlights I got the impression that there was someone sitting behind the wheel. I have to drive past Michel’s place to get home.’
‘Do you remember the type of car, Madame Millet?’ Inspecteur Sauveur asked.
She was never very good at these sorts of things. ‘No,’ she sighed. ‘An older car I should think, squarish in shape. It was quite dark.’
‘A Citroën BX perhaps?’ asked the younger policeman.
‘Yes, it might have been.’
‘And can you tell us the date of your outing?’
‘I can check my diary. Thursday, 14 June. I remember because Birna was babysitting for me. She’s a lovely girl, Hugo adores her.’
‘Does she do that often for you?’
‘Once a month,’ she replied, lighting a cigarette. ‘I don’t get out very often. You know how it is.’
‘And you paint yourself, Madame Millet?
She nodded in the direction of a small easel that stood against the window of the sunroom adjoining the kitchen, next to a battered guitar and a pile of yellowing sheet music. ‘Not very professional, I’m afraid. Sorry, this room’s a real mess,’ she laughed. ‘Hugo hates it.’
When they left, Brigitte pondered over their questions about her visit to Michel’s house. The younger detective had eyed her in a strange sort of way – perhaps her appearance with the striped headscarf and loose T-shirt without a bra unsettled him. Maybe all of their questions were designed to see how much she knew Michel, as if she herself were a suspect. She had managed to describe one or two of the paintings hanging on the walls in Michel’s living room but couldn’t recall the one at the entrance they seemed particularly interested in. She stated that she had only been to the house once and that was last October. Her memory was generally very good, but a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then.
Hugo might be able to tell them about it though, she realised. She would talk about it with him over lunch. For the moment he was immersed once again in a computer game, and nothing would break his concentration. She could hear the sound of lasers blasting and missiles exploding as they attacked their targets, echoed by Hugo’s own repertoire of shrill battle noises. She really preferred it when he played chess.