5:16 P.M.
Hello, Aja?”
Captain Purvi shuts herself away in the main room of the police station. As she passes in front of the beam from the projector, the town of Saint-Gilles is suddenly eclipsed by a black shadow as if Aja were an encroaching storm cloud.
“Yes?”
“Gildas, captain of the Saint-Benoît force. Do you remember? We’re the ones with the galoshes and the oilskins . . .”
Aja remembers him. Gildas Yacou has been the Saint-Benoît force’s captain for twenty-five years, and in that time he has requested and been denied innumerable transfers, so that he cultivates his bitterness the way others cultivate cannabis. In Saint-Benoît, it rains a hundred days a year, almost half the inhabitants are unemployed, and the town has the highest statistics for violent crime on the island.
“What do you want, Gildas? We’re a bit on edge here. If you’re offering help . . .”
Gildas coughs.
“I have some information on the Bellion case, Aja.”
Aja’s legs weaken. Martial Bellion has slipped through the net. He is already on the other side of the island. He is going to disappear in Mafate or Salazie.
“You . . . you haven’t seen Martial Bellion?”
“No. I wish I had, mind. It would have been nice to get five minutes of fame after decades of good and loyal service that no one gives a rat’s arse about. No, listen to this. My student officer, Flora, who’s on reception this week, well, she saw Liane Bellion.”
Aja collapses into the first chair she manages to grab.
“Alive?”
Gildas coughs into the phone again. Aja has a sudden vision of him wearing a woolly hat and scarf, as if it were winter.
“Very much so. But that was five days ago . . .”
Aja wishes she was standing next to Gildas so she could strangle him with her bare hands.
“Stop messing around, Gildas. I’m working here.”
The captain of the Saint-Benoît force ignores her remark.
“Liane Bellion came to the station on Tuesday the twenty-sixth.”
Aja calculates: that was three days before she disappeared.
“What did she want?” she asks feverishly.
“Hard to say. As far as I know, what she said was pretty surreal. But if you want details, you’ll have to ask Flora. She’s the one who took the statement.”
“O.K., Gildas. Can you come over here with Flora? We’ll be waiting for you.”
Gildas’s cough mutates into raucous laughter.
“You don’t change, Aja. A real little Napoleon! We have work to do here too, you know. If you want to meet Flora, get in your car and drive over. You’re lucky—there’s no storm forecast for the next hour or so.”
“There’s a killer on the loose here, Gildas.”
“Yeah, I think I heard something about that. But I’ve got murders to solve. We get about one a week. Not to mention all the rapes and assaults.”
“Give me a break, Gildas. The ComGend will come down on you like a tonne of bricks if you don’t co-operate.”
Gildas explodes, his humor gone.
“Don’t threaten me with that crap, Aja! What do I care about the Zoreilles in Saint-Denis? Let’s just say that my priorities are not the same as yours, O.K., and then we can stay friends. I suggest we meet halfway. I’ll drive to Tampon. Can you meet me at the Entre-Deux, opposite the Bras de Pontho cemetery?”
On the wall, Aja observes areas of the giant map slowly turning yellow, as patrols pass through each zone.
“I’ve got too much other shit on my plate, Gildas. They need me here.”
“You have to learn to delegate, Aja.”
5:21 P.M.
Christos asks the Jourdains to sit down while he installs himself in the luxurious leather armchair belonging to the manager of the Hotel Athena.
What a pleasure it was to throw Armand Zuttor out of his own office.
Sorry, big guy, you need to clear out! Needs must . . .
Christos enjoyed seeing the Gros Blanc’s appalled expression as he ejected him in order to use his office for interviewing his customers. And the second lieutenant’s rear end is happy too as it burrows into the comfortable chair, perfectly positioned so that the cool air from the ceiling fan tickles the back of his neck. He understands Zuttor, when it comes down to it. One quickly becomes accustomed to such pathetic emblems of power.
The couple opposite him do not seem very confident. The lawyer and his wife. Jacques and Margaux Jourdain.
Christos has placed the Maisons du Monde knife on the desk.
“Madame and Monsieur Jourdain, let me ask you again: is this Martial Bellion’s knife?”
“Well, um . . .”
Not very articulate, this lawyer.
But Christos is not fooled. Jacques Jourdain recognized the weapon immediately, of course; he is simply reluctant to say so. A question of honor, perhaps; class solidarity, an unspoken pact. After all, he ate dinner with Martial Bellion only the night before.
A lock of Christos’s hair is blown out of place by the fan. He rearranges it.
“Madame and Monsieur Jourdain, let me be frank. While the three of us take it easy here in the boss’s office, all the police on the island are out on a hunt. A pack of hounds in pursuit of its prey, and between the one and the other, there is the life of a six-year-old girl. So try to think quickly.”
Christos spins the knife.
“This weapon was found in the stomach of some poor guy, with Bellion’s fingerprints on the handle. I’m not asking you to denounce anyone, just to confirm the facts.”
Jacques Jourdain assumes a dignified, responsible expression.
“It’s difficult to say . . .”
Go ahead, treat me like I’m stupid.
Christos sighs, exasperated. He looks up and examines the room. The walls are covered with black and white engravings, obviously intended to make an impression on the hotel staff when they came into the manager’s office; lithographs detailing the island’s history, but a history that ended in 1946, when Réunion became a French département. Creoles lined up like convicts in sugar cane fields; ladies in crinoline dresses standing in front of colonial villas with carved lambrequins; bare-chested Creoles with white teeth and ebony skin; portraits of forgotten Gros Blancs, looking proud and arrogant under their sad moustaches.
The good old days . . .
Christos decides to take off the gloves.
“I understand you. Solidarity, eh? When things get tough, you have to stick together.”
The lawyer reacts as if he’s just sat on a sea urchin, jumping straight into the air.
“Why do you say that?”
To get a reaction out of you, dickhead.
“Because there’s a killer at large on the island. Because he’s already committed one murder, because he may kill again, because we need facts. You can’t hide behind your professional discretion, Monsieur Jourdain. You’re not Bellion’s lawyer. You don’t owe him a thing. This is not some foreign police force asking you to denounce one of your countrymen. Réunion Island is part of France.”
Christos wonders if he has over-egged things a bit.
“It is his,” Margaux Jourdain mutters.
“Are you certain?”
“Yes. We went up to Cilaos, three days ago. A traditional Creole picnic. We used one of those barbecues you find by the side of the road. We all used that knife.”
Margaux takes a closer look at it, examining each imperfection on the blade and the handle, then nods: “It’s his.”
Jacques looks angrily at his wife. Just for show. He’s actually quite pleased that his wife got landed with this. Christos puts the knife in a transparent plastic bag.
“Thank you. Now we’re getting somewhere. So, what about the other afternoon? You were splashing around with the Bellions in the pool, I believe?”
A professional hypocrite, Jacques now takes the lead.
“That’s right. Martial asked us to watch Sopha while he went up to his room to see Liane.”
Christos pushes the clock across the desk, a clock that must date back to a time before the abolition of slavery. Around the dial, four little naked Creoles are carrying a basket overflowing with exotic fruit.
“I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to be more precise. Liane Bellion went up to her room at 3:01 P.M. Naivo Randrianasoloarimino opened room 38 for Martial Bellion at 4:06 P.M., but the room was empty. The question could not be simpler: did Martial Bellion leave the hotel garden at any time between 3 and 4 P.M.?”
Jacques Jourdain replies a little too quickly.
“It’s hard to say. You know how it is. Siesta time, reading, lazing around. We don’t spy on each other. And we hardly ever look at our watches.”
Well, well, well . . .
“Monsieur and Madame Jourdain, I don’t want to give you the whole spiel again—the killer on the loose, little Sopha, the importance of your testimony.”
Undaunted, Jacques attempts to open an emergency exit in the conversation.
“Lieutenant, I imagine Martial Bellion himself must have confirmed this particular point. I’ve also heard that you’ve had statements from the hotel’s employees, and three children who were playing in the street. Isn’t that enough for you?”
Christos glances up at the colonial lithographs, then looks back down at Jacques Jourdain.
“For me, sure. For others . . . To be honest with you, Martial Bellion’s version changed quite substantially over time.”
Again, it is Margaux who cracks.
“Martial left the garden fifteen minutes after Liane went up. Discreetly. Everyone was sleeping in their deckchairs. I was alone in the pool, doing lengths. He probably thought no one saw him go. He came back half an hour later, and stayed with us for about twenty minutes before going up again, openly this time. He asked us to look after Sopha.”
“Are you sure?”
“Certain. At first, I thought he was meeting his wife for a . . . debauched siesta, let’s say . . . and I thought to myself how lucky she was.”
Take that, lawyer! A solid blow from the right.
“Then, as time went on, I thought, gosh, she really is lucky.”
A good left hook.
Christos grins. Scratch the surface, and the shy-seeming Margaux Jourdain is not lacking in sex appeal. Jacques Jourdain keeps on smiling his courtroom smile.
“But you see, my darling, in reality she wasn’t very lucky, was she?”
The lawyer ducks and dives, then unleashes an uppercut.
His wife’s eyes cloud over suddenly. Almost sincere, she asks: “Lieutenant, do you really think Martial killed his wife and that . . . um . . . native?”
Be careful, my lovely, you’re skating on thin ice there. Never, ever use that word on the island. Your lawyer husband can explain it better than I can. Maybe you’re getting what you deserve in bed, after all.
“It’s possible, Madame Jourdain. I just hope he doesn’t kill anyone else.”