8:49 A.M.
Christos parks the Mazda pickup under the archway of the brand new building in Terrasses de Roquefeuil. The recently constructed development in Saint-Gilles lies very close to the lagoon and is a perfect example of sustainable urban planning; a clever mix of houses with swimming pools for the rich, surrounded by walls and gates, and apartments for people of more modest means built over several storeys, with all these people supposed to send their kids to the same schools, to shop in the same stores, to walk in the same parks.
Hmm, thinks Christos, not really convinced by the apparent diversity. His personal belief is that there is only one place on the island where all the races truly mix: the beach! Everyone naked, everyone equal. Curiously, the more out in the open the color of one’s skin, the more people tend to forget about it.
The second lieutenant climbs three steps, enters the building’s lobby, and checks the names engraved on the small copper plaques.
Charline Tai-Leung. Stairway B. Second floor. Number 11.
Fewer than one per cent of the island’s inhabitants have agreed to give up their houses or villas in order to live in apartment buildings, so they’re being dolled up to make them more attractive. High-rise buildings are the only solution to the problem of housing the ten thousand or so extra people who come here each year, or are born here; it is the only way of stopping the anarchic urbanisation that is devouring the island’s natural spaces as surely as a fire devours forest.
A silent lift. A pink doormat. A red door. A golden doorbell.
Classy!
After ringing the bell, Christos indulges in his fantasy about an Asian air hostess, roused from her bed . . .
At last, the door opens, revealing a small bombshell of a woman, five foot three at most, who stares at the policeman with round, sleepy eyes. Her plump face is flanked by straight, black hair, a bit like Dora the Explorer’s. Christos forces himself not to look down too far. The T-shirt she is wearing covers so little of her thighs that he has the impression that, with every breath the girl takes, there is a chance of it revealing her pubic hair.
He shows her his card. She rubs her eyes and racks her foggy brain.
“Oh yes, that’s right, the guy from the airport. Come in.”
This sexy Dora first offers him a place to sit on the couch, and then a coffee.
Christos is happy. He appreciates the beautiful panoramic view of the Indian Ocean or, if he turns his head a little, of Charline’s tanned, voluptuous buttocks as she bends over to reach the breakfast tray. Coffee, biscuits and honey.
“I didn’t know you policemen were such early risers!”
Christos adopts a serious expression.
“This is an urgent matter, miss. There’s a murderer at large. I’m sure you understand. Every second counts.”
She understands. She sits down next to him and crosses her legs. The T-shirt lifts up to the very top of her thighs. Dora playing Sharon Stone. Christos purses his lips to stop his tongue lolling into his hot coffee. The girl smiles, seeming unembarrassed, and perhaps a little amused by his reaction.
“Maybe you could give me a couple of seconds, though? I’ll put something on.”
What a shame.
She disappears into the bedroom. Christos’s erection has barely had time to soften before she returns. She has put on a pink poplin summer dress that covers a good half-inch more of her thighs than the T-shirt did.
This, apparently, is Dora’s version of modesty.
In compensation, the round neck of the T-shirt has been replaced by the dress’s acrobatic décolletage: two slender straps that fight against her breasts’ desire to see the light of day.
Christos turns his face towards the sea. A surfboard takes up all the space on the balcony.
So she’s sporty, too.
The police officer coughs.
“So, you met Martial Bellion at Roland-Garros airport? Five days ago.”
Charline giggles.
“Yes. Public enemy number one. Quite a handsome man. If he wasn’t a murderer, I might have thought about it.”
She jumps back on the couch, three feet away from Christos, and adopts a Lolita pose. Knees drawn up to her chest.
God, this minx is turning him on! Is she really one of those girls who fantasise about the heroic forces of law and order? He’s not sure, but settles for crossing his hands over his crotch to mask his revived hard-on.
“What did Martial Bellion want?”
“Nothing extraordinary. He just wanted to change the date of his return ticket.”
“Did he say why?”
“The first article in our charter is about respecting our customers’ right to privacy.”
Christos scowls.
“And did he manage to change his ticket?”
“No, it was impossible. He wanted to go back to Paris as soon as possible, but all the flights were full. He’d have had to wait at least a week to get a seat on a direct flight, which was almost the day of his return anyway, April 7.”
“How did he react?”
“He panicked, to start with. He wouldn’t take no for an answer. We tried everything we could. It was complicated, he didn’t have a passport. The only possibility involved a stopover, either in Sydney or Delhi, and was three times as expensive.”
“And?”
“Eventually he said no. But he did hesitate.”
“Ah.”
Christos forces himself to concentrate on the shadowy zones in the investigation rather than those situated between Charline Tai-Leung’s dress and her skin. So Martial Bellion was secretly trying to get away. At almost any price, apparently. For a prosecutor, that could imply that the murder of his wife was not simply an accident, but premeditated. On the other hand, why go back to France? Because it’s easier to hide in a large country than on an island? Hmm, maybe . . .
“So Martial Bellion didn’t say anything else to you?”
“No. He seemed like a nice guy, really. Annoyed, but nice.”
The girl smiles as she leans over acrobatically to grab a biscuit. The dress pulls up over her bum, while her little breasts dance under the second lieutenant’s nose. Remaining impassive, not even making a pass, would be the worst kind of rudeness. Christos reaches out his hand to the breakfast tray, brushing against her breast.
“Was there something else you wanted, Detective?”
The girl has not moved an inch. Skin against skin. Christos stammers.
“Some . . . some honey . . .”
God, what a stupid reply!
While he hesitates between making a more obviously flirtatious allusion and simply placing his palm on that dangling breast, Christos’s lewd thoughts are drowned out by the sound of a toilet flushing. Then the sound of tap water running. The creak of a door.
A guy in red Turkish trousers enters the living room. Barechested and muscular, with tousled long blond hair like the Little Prince. The kind of guy who could fuck all night. And surf all day.
“Honey, Detective?” asks Dora the minx.
“Thank you.”
The taste of sugar takes away some of his bitterness.
The surfer is not exactly a chatterbox. He flops down on a chair and drinks a litre of water.
“Miss Tai-Leung,” stammers Christos, “did Martial Bellion seem like he was trying to escape?”
“What exactly do you mean by ‘escape,’ Detective?”
“Well, did he seem desperate to leave the island? Did you have the impression that he was afraid of something?”
The surfer stands up and scratches his balls through the fabric of his trousers. Charline glances up at him lovingly, then turns her doll-like eyes back towards Christos.
“Yes, Detective, that’s it exactly. He looked like he was afraid.”