Along the cobbled quay the Paris sunshine lay as lightly as a leaf. Colin stood on the wooden pontoon, listening to the gossipy sound of the boats as they fretted and strained against their moorings. He checked the Dragonfly’s ropes one last time, tightening and tying off the forward line. It was more of a fidget than a proper check, something to do to make him feel that he could, after all, be master of the situation. He set the line on the Dragonfly’s bow, wishing with all his might that he could tighten and tie off the terrible thread of events that had brought him here to the Arsenal marina in Paris; tighten and tie it off, then cut the cord.
He stood up, holding his fist against his mouth. The faint smell of the canal was on his skin: the vegetable / mineral smell of last year’s leaves and car tyres and diesel oil. The lapping of water against the hull failed to console him and he couldn’t stop himself from going over and over the crisis that had brought him here so urgently.
For a moment he was back at home in Bath that May morning, the first decent day of summer, wondering about the paint-drying potential that this whisper of warm weather might present. He had felt the stirrings of restlessness; he rattled the change in his pocket and thought about making another cup of tea.
He had learned down the years that the only remedy for this… sensation, was to do something practical like, for example, building a boat at the bottom of the garden. After Sally left him he went to the library and borrowed a book, then he extended the garage to make a workshop which covered the whole of the patio and half of the veg patch as well. There was no one to stop him anymore. That’s where he built the Dragonfly, diagram by diagram, plank by plank, a fourteen foot day boat for fishing. The resinous smell of a sheet of marine ply was still a tonic and the thought of it decided him. He’d pop down and do a little bit of sanding on the hull, prior to touching up her paint work. The new season had started already. No time like the present.
He had felt better in his workshop: surveying the sleek lines of the Dragonfly in the soft burlap light restored him to himself. He ran his hand along the flank of the boat as though it were a living creature. He liked to have the radio on in the farthest corner of the workbench because it gave him the illusion that someone else might be listening in another room. He’d wired up an extension from the house so that he could hear the doorbell because he often had to take deliveries. He’d ordered an impeller rebuild kit and it was due any day. He was sanding away, getting a rhythm going until the air was filled with particles of paint of a lustrous duck egg blue. If he wasn’t careful, he’d sand her right back to the wood and then he’d really have a job on his hands. Sure enough, at nine-thirty the doorbell rang. That would be the postman with his parcel. He made his way up the garden, dusting his hands off on his trousers, and opened the front door.
The postman handed him a package. “Everything alright? Nice spot of weather. These are for you as well,” and with that he was gone, back up the path.
Colin stood in the doorway riffling through a sheaf of pizza deals, estate agent flyers, an advert for a tree surgeon. Tucked in the back was an airmail letter. He peered at the postmark. After a moment or two he allowed himself to look at the handwriting. At the sight of Michael’s spiky lettering, he was conscious of an accelerating rush of blood to his heart. He held the envelope to his mouth, thinking. The travelled scent of the paper stalled him for a second. He inhaled with care then put the letter on the telephone table. He’d open it later. Not now. He sat down abruptly at the bottom of the stairs.
A letter from his boy. After all these years.
He leaned forward, picked up the flimsy envelope, tore it open and unfolded the single sheet of paper it contained. “Colin,” it began. Not “Dear Colin,” or “Dad,” or even, “Dear Dad.” He digested the hurt.
“This is to inform you that Charlotte has died, very suddenly. It was an accident. She fell down the stairs at home. Delphine is coping as well as possible, although both of us are very sad. I thought that you would want to know.
Michael.”
The letter was word perfect and he guessed that it had been copied out. He wondered how many drafts it had taken to reduce the news to its bare essentials. Charlotte, dead. A sound escaped from him and he swallowed. He would write straight back, offer to come to Paris – this was his moment, his chance to help. He’d write straight away. He read the message from his son again, faltering over the last line, alert to its layers of meaning. Not Dear Dad, just Colin. He held the impeller rebuild kit tightly to his chest.
~~~
More than a fortnight passed. He was in the kitchen cooking supper, humming along to the radio, when the doorbell rang. Standing on the doorstep were two police officers, a woman and a young constable with razor rash on his neck and large hands that he didn’t seem to have quite grown into.
“Are you Colin Aylesford?”
He was holding a dish cloth. He’d been chopping vegetables for a stew. “Yes?” He was conscious that he’d left the frying pan on the gas.
“Is Michael Aylesford your son?”
Colin stiffened. The young copper’s Adam’s apple rose and fell in his throat as he spoke. “May we come in for a moment?”
“Yes, of course. Come in–” he said, without moving.
“Just for a moment. Won’t keep you long.”
He remembered the whiteness of the policeman’s neck, the razor rash, the slow motion swallow, the words rising.
“We have some bad news, I’m afraid.”
With an independent and unauthorised action, Colin’s knees gave way and he slumped on the wooden chair in the hall, where he used to keep his briefcase before he took early retirement.
The policeman closed the front door and removed his hat.
“We’ve been contacted by the French police. Your son has been arrested in connection with the death of his partner Charlotte Duvoisin.”
He felt as if he was falling from a great height, as though the ground, or something far, far worse, was rushing up to meet him.
“Arrested?” he said, comprehension, in that instant, beyond him. “But… it was an accident, she fell down the stairs, his letter said.”
“The autopsy report indicates that Madame Duvoisin was pushed. That considerable force was used.”
“Force?” he said. “There must be some mistake.” He was getting the measure of it. There had been a terrible misunderstanding. “She fell. His letter said.” He had it in mind to find Michael’s letter and show it to them, to clear the matter up once and for all. He half rose to his feet. “It was an accident.”
The policeman pinched his upper lip between finger and thumb, pulling at it, taking his time. “The thing is,” he began, “according to the coroner’s report it certainly wasn’t an accident, and anyway,” he appeared to be searching for ways not to say what he had come to say, “your son has made a full confession to the French police.”
~~~
Colin hitched the trailer on to the back of his car figuring that he’d need a base in Paris that didn’t cost much if he was going to stay for any length of time. He drove to Portsmouth to catch the first available ferry.
He hadn’t seen his boy for nearly ten years, and now this.
Shaking his head, he groped in his pocket for the street map. He needed to orientate himself. He would fight for Michael’s freedom, no matter what it took.