‘Brace yourselves,’ said Marcus. ‘We’re front-page news.’
They gathered around the paper.
‘Shit,’ said Hannah.
‘This is dreadful!’ said Lizzie.
‘Hey, that’s me!’ said Jimmy.
Marcus had driven into St Julien de Vigny for breakfast supplies, and when he got back, he dumped a large bag of croissants onto the table, together with a copy of the local paper.
The headline read Les Anglais de la Piscine! A few lines of copy followed, together with several page numbers and a little arrow, suggesting more information could be found inside the paper. A large black-and-white photograph took up the lower half of the page. It showed Jimmy, emerging from the French doors, his eyes bulging, his hair pushed backwards by the speed at which he was moving. He was brandishing the leaf skimmer in front of him like a gun, and his mouth was wide open – clearly in mid-scream. Hannah had never seen him so angry: he looked like one of the boy savages in Lord of the Flies.
‘There’s more,’ said Marcus. ‘We’re also on pages 2, 3, 4 and 5 and there’s a double-page spread in the middle, with full colour photos.’
Nick flicked through the paper, the others peering over his shoulders. On the second page was a photograph of all of them, taken as they stood outside the French doors, clearly shocked at seeing the approaching mass of French journalists. Nick was walking towards the camera, brandishing a spatula, and Hannah was peering out from behind him – irritatingly, it looked as if she was hiding.
‘Maison de la Mort,’ read Lizzie. ‘Suspecte arrêté – does that mean arrested?’
‘Yup,’ said Marcus. ‘And the title means House of Death. You haven’t got to the worst bit yet.’ He leant across and flicked forward through the pages until he came to the middle of the paper. ‘There.’
‘Oh no!’ Lizzie put her hands up to her mouth. ‘This is appalling! How can they get away with it?’
The title running along the top of the spread was Familles Anglaises en Vacances a la Maison de l’Enfer. To one side was a small picture of Inspector Moreau, possibly talking to the press outside the local police station. Further down – twice as large – was a full colour photograph of Suzy, her yellow bikini dragging the reader’s eye away from everything else on the page. She was pouting at the camera, one leg bent up, the strap of her bikini top halfway down her left arm, her cleavage thrusting towards the camera.
‘What does that title say?’ asked Lizzie.
‘English families holidaying at the house of hell,’ translated Marcus grimly.
They looked at each other, aghast.
‘Poor Suzy, how awful!’ said Lizzie.
The girls weren’t awake yet, but Hannah had a feeling Suzy wouldn’t be too dismayed to have secured the majority of the coverage; in fact, she would probably be thrilled.
‘Have you read any of what they’ve written?’ asked Nick.
‘Just skimmed through it when I got back in the car, but I need to read it properly, to see what they’re saying about us.’
‘Are they allowed to print pictures of our children like this, without our permission?’ asked Hannah. ‘I’m sure they couldn’t get away with this back home.’
‘Well, there’s not much we can do about it now,’ said Nick.
Jimmy pushed forward and closed the paper again so the front cover was showing. ‘I’m famous,’ he said.
‘It’s only the local rag, Jimmy, don’t get too excited,’ said Nick.
‘Sky News was here too,’ Lizzie reminded him. ‘For all we know, we could be in the national papers and on the TV.’
‘Brilliant!’ Jimmy beamed.
‘But I don’t get why it’s such major news?’ said Hannah. ‘There must be dead bodies discovered every day across France, why would they be so interested in this one?’
‘It was in a swimming pool,’ Nick pointed out. ‘That makes it a bit different.’
‘And someone has been arrested,’ added Marcus. ‘Poor Madame Gerard features quite heavily as well, there’s a photo of her on page 3, where is it… here.’
It wasn’t Madame Gerard at her best. The close-up picture of her head had obviously been cropped from a group shot – it was possible to see someone else’s shoulder alongside hers. She looked several years younger, although no more cheerful than when they had first met her in this house, three days earlier.
‘That woman has a face like a slapped arse,’ said Marcus.
‘That’s an awful thing to say!’ said Lizzie. ‘She’s just a bit severe, that’s all. Maybe she doesn’t like having her picture taken?’
‘She looks like a slapped arse because she’s a murderer,’ said Jimmy.
‘She may not have done anything,’ said Hannah. ‘We don’t know yet. And please don’t say “arse”, Jimmy.’
Marcus was leaning over, translating some of what had been written. ‘It says here they still haven’t identified the body. So, I don’t know how they can be sure she killed him if they don’t know who he is?’
‘I look scary, don’t I?’ said Jimmy, turning to Hannah. ‘I helped chase away those men with the cameras.’
‘Maybe they found some evidence to link her with the body?’ suggested Lizzie.
‘I wish my leaf picking-up thing hadn’t broken though.’
Alice wandered out onto the patio and opened the paper bag to fish out a croissant before slumping down in a chair.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked.
‘I’m in the newspaper scaring away the men with cameras,’ said Jimmy proudly. ‘And Suzy’s boobies are in there too.’
So far this morning there had been no sign of any of the reporters, but it felt like an uneasy truce, the calm before the storm. Hannah frequently caught herself glancing towards the side of the house, anticipating the crunch of gravel and the sound of agitated voices.
When a visitor did appear, it was Inspector Moreau and, as usual, he managed to arrive without anyone noticing, slipping unobserved through the hedge and standing at the far end of the pool, where Hannah was the first to notice him.
‘Oh, what now?’ she muttered. The man was like some weird magician, popping up all over the place with no warning. ‘Bonjour, inspector!’ she called out, mainly to warn the others he was there.
Nick and Jimmy were throwing a tennis ball at each other in the pool, Marcus and Lizzie were lying on sun loungers reading. The girls, both plugged into headphones, were the only ones who didn’t immediately turn to stare at the detective.
‘Mes amis,’ he said, his hands firmly planted in the pockets of his trench coat. ‘You have seen the newspaper?’
‘Yes, we have bloody well seen it,’ said Nick. ‘It’s outrageous.’
‘C’est scandaleux,’ translated Marcus.
‘Did you see my picture?’ asked Jimmy.
‘Doesn’t he ever take that coat off?’ whispered Lizzie. ‘He must be baking on a day like this.’
‘I must ask of you not to speak with the men and ladies of the newspapers,’ said Inspector Moreau, looking around at them one by one, as if the point needed making to each individual. ‘This is not good for my case.’
‘It’s not good for us either!’ said Lizzie defensively.
‘We didn’t speak to them – they came here and harassed us,’ said Nick. ‘What’s the word for harassment, Marcus? I think it’s about time he took our privacy seriously.’
‘Can’t remember,’ admitted Marcus. ‘C’est un nuisance? Un irritation? There’s definitely something stronger than that…’
The inspector suddenly looked exasperated and shrugged his shoulders.
‘Tant pis, monsieur,’ he said.
‘He said pee!’ noted Jimmy gleefully. ‘Did you see my picture though, Mr Inspector?’
‘Not that kind of pee,’ said Marcus. ‘He said tant pis, which basically means it’s too bad, and that we’re not helping their investigations. Inspector, nous n’avons pas parlé à la presse! We haven’t spoken to the journalists.’
‘Mes amis, no more,’ the detective repeated. ‘Please no more speaking with anyone. This is a most difficult matter, and we appreciate your aid with it.’
Hannah felt indignant. What gave this pompous man the right to stand beside their swimming pool, and tell them what they could and couldn’t do? He was treating them like children.
‘Have they found out anything yet?’ asked Nick.
‘Avez-vous trouvé comment il est mort?’ translated Marcus.
Clearly irritated at the question, the inspector rattled off an answer then turned on his heel and marched back towards the drive.
‘That was a bit rude,’ said Lizzie. ‘He didn’t even say goodbye.’
‘He said they don’t know who the man is,’ said Marcus. ‘So, they probably can’t be sure how he died or who killed him. Looks like they know nothing more than they did on Saturday, when we reported it. This investigation isn’t going very well.’
Although they hadn’t heard a vehicle arrive, they now heard an engine start up, and tyres crackle against gravel as a car turned around and accelerated out of the gate and up the lane.
‘Fancy blaming us for speaking to the press!’ said Hannah. ‘Bloody cheek.’
‘He didn’t even say thank you to me for scaring them away!’ said Jimmy sadly, from the deep end.
‘Let’s just forget about him,’ said Lizzie. ‘At last, it feels like we’re properly on holiday.’
She was right, and it was a glorious afternoon. As she lay back on the lounger, Hannah stared at the sky, imagining herself soaring up into it for mile after mile, the earth growing smaller beneath her, the pale blue around her becoming deeper and darker.
Hard to believe it was Wednesday already, and this was the first time since they’d arrived that she was starting to relax and enjoy being here. For days, the place had been buzzing with policemen, property owners and pool men, then the press had descended. But, at last, they were alone in their beautiful house in its splendid isolation, and they could put the awful start behind them and enjoy what was left of the holiday. They had a swimming pool full of water, and the sweltering sun was arcing over them.
‘Mummy, did you know black beetles can swim, but little brown ones can’t?’
‘No, Jimmy, I didn’t know that.’
‘It’s true. The black ones don’t just float, they swim.’
Hannah sat up and looked at the pool, shading her eyes from the sun. ‘How do you know that? Jimmy, have you put beetles into the pool?’
‘I’m doing an experiment with the black beetles to see how far they can go, so I’ve put some brown ones in as well. They’re a gazebo.’
‘A what…?’
‘A gazebo. Mrs Williams says it’s something you put into an experiment to see if what you’re doing is working.’
Hannah had no idea what he was talking about, but could see dozens of black dots in the pool. ‘Jimmy, get them out, we don’t want them in the water.’
‘I think he means “placebo”,’ said Nick sleepily.
‘Well, whatever it’s called, he needs to get those beetles out of the water.’
There was a sudden high-pitched trilling, like an electronic alarm.
‘What on earth is that?’
‘It’s my phone,’ said Lizzie, rummaging around in the pile of towels, books and bottles of suntan lotion beside her lounger. ‘Who the hell can that be?’
‘Don’t answer if it’s a strange number,’ said Marcus. ‘It will be someone trying to sell you something.’
Lizzie found the handset and fumbled with the keypad. ‘It’s Ben… Hello, darling! How lovely to hear from you! How are you?’
Hannah had lain back and closed her eyes, but realised the silence was going on too long. She turned to look at Lizzie. Her sister’s mouth had dropped open and she was sitting up, listening to whatever was being said on the phone.
‘How big?’ she asked eventually, her hand running through her hair.
Hannah could just make out the tinny sound of a voice at the other end of the phone.
‘No, Ben, just answer the question. How big a fire?’
Marcus shot up from his lounger and flung his legs over the edge, putting his feet on the ground and staring at Lizzie. ‘What fire?’
‘That’s not what I asked, Ben. How much damage did it cause?’
‘What the hell is going on?’
‘Ben, just tell me the truth. I don’t care what Sheila has said…’
‘Who’s Sheila?’ whispered Nick.
‘What, and the utility room, too?’
‘Next-door neighbour, I think,’ Hannah whispered back.
‘What about the utility room?’ barked Marcus.
Lizzie waved her hand at them. ‘Shh, I can’t hear what he’s saying. Go on, Ben, of course I’m listening. No, don’t be ridiculous, I’m just trying to understand what you’re telling me…’
Nick raised his eyebrows at Hannah.
‘So, it’s the garage as well?’
‘Jesus!’ exploded Marcus. ‘What has that little shit done now?’