5:33 P.M.
Sitting on the chair, Martial hides his face behind the Saint-Gilles newsletter, a small four-page leaflet printed on glossy paper, just in case the girl behind reception should lift her eyes up from her iPhone. It doesn’t seem likely though: she is tapping away at her phone as if she were some kind of piano prodigy performing Mozart at the Royal Albert Hall.
Martial’s attention is caught by the headline on the front page of the newsletter:
The end of ITR. Property market holds its breath in Saint-Gilles-les-Bains.
From these simple words, the outline of a strategy begins to take shape in Martial’s mind, but he needs to know more. Like everyone else on the island, he has heard about the ITR pension benefit, but he can’t take any risks; he must gather as much information as possible.
He lowers the newsletter for a second to check that Sopha is still in the Garden of Eden. She has left the chameleon on its stem and is now concentrating on the butterflies. Her eyes attempt to follow the orange and black wings of a monarch as it flies between two orchids.
Reassured, Martial goes back to reading the article. Since 1952, any French government employee taking retirement on Réunion Island—on the sole condition that they do not leave the island for more than forty days per year—has received a thirty-five per cent increase on their pension. More than thirty thousand people have benefited from this measure, including a few hundred who never, or almost never, actually live on the island. The Jégo reform of 2008 proposed to end this privilege, but only after twenty years. No way were they going to suddenly cut off the supply of golden eggs: retired people injected hundreds of millions of euros into the island’s economy, especially in the property market in Saint-Gilles.
Martial glances over at Sopha. She is fine, and has gone back to tormenting the chameleon once more, placing one of her arms behind it to see if it will turn pink.
He focuses on the article. In truth, he doesn’t care about the details, or the future of pensioners on the island. Only one aspect matters to him: the fact that there are lots of empty apartments in Saint-Gilles, theoretically occupied more than three hundred days per year by French people who, in reality, rarely set foot there. Martial suspects that a number of them are trying to have their cake and eat it. Not only do they receive an increased pension by claiming residence in an apartment they never (or hardly ever) live in, but they can also rent out that apartment. Who could resist the temptation? An abode in the tropics with a view over the lagoon.
Martial drops the newsletter. The receptionist’s fingers continue to skate over the screen at Olympic speed. Even if the police do come to interrogate her, he doubts she will be able to offer much in the way of a description.
Back under the pergola and into the Garden of Eden. Sopha stares at him imploringly.
“Papa, can I go back and see the sensitive plants again?” “Yes, Sopha. But be quick. We need to leave soon.”
Just for a second, he wonders if he shouldn’t leave Sopha here and escape on his own. Does he have any idea what will happen over the coming hours? Can he even imagine how he will react? Liane would never have let him go out on his own with Sopha. Ever since their daughter was born, she was always against the idea, for one simple reason.
Fear.
But Liane is no longer here.
Drops of sweat roll down Martial’s forehead. He mustn’t panic. His hesitation is ridiculous. He has no choice: Sopha must stay with him. His daughter is his hostage. An accommodating hostage, docile and willing.
Currency, when the moment arrives.
Martial takes his mobile phone from his pocket, a BlackBerry Curve 9300. He bought it under the counter from a Chinese guy, three days ago in Saint-Denis, on Rue de l’Abattoir. He didn’t even have to provide his name, so there’s no chance the police will be able to use it to locate him. The internet connection is good. He clicks on www.papvacances.fr.
The site is an open door to over fifty thousand private rental ads.
A drop-down menu offers to scour the entire world.
Region or city?
His thumb moves quickly over the keyboard.
SAINT-GILLES-LES-BAINS
After barely four seconds, Martial is looking at a list of forty-seven ads. He quickly scans them. Most are for apartments. He sighs. Too risky. He returns to the drop-down menu.
Type of accommodation?
Martial adds a criterion.
HOUSE OR VILLA
Three seconds later, the list has been reduced to eighteen.
Feverishly, Martial clicks on the See details icon. Using Google Earth, he is able to check the location of each house, then concentrate on the owners’ addresses. This takes him less than a minute. With the twelfth ad, he finds what he is looking for. The building is situated less than three hundred meters from the Garden of Eden, on Rue des Maldives. The four photographs in the gallery give a more precise idea of the property: a discreet little garden protected by a concrete wall, and a varangue32 with a large bay window.
Perfect.
Contact: Chantal95@yahoo.fr
There’s even an address in France.
Chantal Letellier
13 Rue de Clairvaux
Montmorency
Martial checks the house’s availability again. It seems to be available for five weeks a year—the next five weeks. It almost seems too good to be true. Martial can’t risk taking any chances, so he clicks on Google Images and types in the woman’s name and city, checking his spelling as he goes.
Chantal Letellier Montmorency
In the second that follows, fifteen thumbnail photographs of a smiling, blue-haired woman in her sixties appear on his screen.
Martial clicks on the first one.
www.copainsdavant.liternaute.com
Martial finds Chantal Letellier’s biography. It is brief. A nurse for thirty-eight years in the Bichat hospital. He clicks on the second picture and finds himself on a Facebook wall. Blue-eyed Chantal has covered her profile with photographs of her grandchildren. No husband, apparently.
Martial can hardly contain his excitement. It’s ideal! Chantal Letellier rents her Réunion villa for five weeks per year. If the nurse is honest, this constitutes the legal period during which she can return to France to see her grandchildren. If she’s defrauding the government, she never sets foot in the tropics and rents her house for five weeks a year that are, on the website, always the following five weeks.
In either case, the house is empty, close by, and isolated.
Perfect.
He memorises the address—3 Rue des Maldives—then finally looks up.
Sopha? Where is Sopha?
There is no sign of her anywhere.
Sopha?
Martial panics. It is too risky to ask a visitor, never mind shout out his daughter’s name. He puts his phone in his pocket and starts to run.
One path, two paths. He knocks over plants. He should never have left her unsupervised. Liane was right. He is careless. There’s a pond at the far end of the Garden of Eden. A natural pool filled with eels, guppies and other fish of all colors. What if she’s . . .
Sopha is there.
Staring curiously at the Zen garden.
The impressive silence of the place contrasts with the deafening birdsong heard elsewhere in Eden. Ochre soil. Raked grey gravel. White stone paths snaking between small hills of black sand. Martial puts his hand gently on Sopha’s shoulder.
The girl looks up at him imploringly.
“Papa, can we stay a bit longer?”
“No, Sopha, we have to go.”
She smiles at him. Just for a moment, she seems to have forgotten the frightening reality. The police sirens. The car chase.
Her maman.
Just for a moment.
32 A type of veranda typical of Creole architecture.