11:41 A.M.
Encouraged by the heat from the sun at its zenith, Liane moves her pretty white breasts above Martial’s stubbly chin. She straddles her husband, the muscles of her long legs so taut that her red G-string bikini looks like it might burst. Lucky Martial, lying beneath her, seems unsure where to put his hands. On that flat stomach? On that back, glistening with oil and sweat? On those round buttocks? Or should he use his mouth to suck those proffered nipples, or to kiss those lips surrounded by a cascade of blonde hair?
Martial has a hard-on: the enlarged A3 photograph leaves no doubt about that.
Little Sopha is playing in the sand, six feet away, in the shade of a palm tree. The Bellions are alone on a beach of black sand. It’s L’Etang-Salé: Imelda recognized the spot immediately.
A picture of happiness.
Who could have taken this photograph?
Imelda takes a step back and repeats this simple question in her head.
Who could have taken this picture, this one and the dozens of other photographs of the Bellion family that are pinned to the walls of this filthy house?
Imelda has counted thirty-seven in all, printed in A3 and A4. The strange display makes it look as if a paparazzo has been following the Bellions around ever since they first set foot on the island. The photographs have clearly been taken with a powerful telephoto lens, without Martial and Liane being aware of it. On the terrace of a restaurant, in Saint-Gilles, in the marketplace; outside the Hindu temple of Colosse in Saint-André; in front of a rack of postcards on the main street of Hell-Bourg. But most often it is the stills of little Sopha that seem to have interested the anonymous photographer. Disturbing close-ups of her blue doll’s eyes, her freckles, her little dimples. Like any other kid who is the consenting victim of the digital camera, thinks Imelda. Except that the person who took these pictures didn’t bother asking Sopha first.
Why?
While she is considering this puzzle, Imelda continually peers through the window to check that nothing has changed on the street outside. Next, she takes a tour of the house. The lair of the Malbar in the black 4x4 looks as if it has been requisitioned at the last moment. The two main rooms—the living room and the bedroom—contain barely any furniture at all: two folding chairs and a Formica table, a mattress on the floor, supplies piled up on the shelf of a cupboard hidden behind a dirty curtain: tinned food, packets of pasta and rice. A gas camping stove has been placed by the side of the sink. The bins are overflowing with pizza boxes and empty cans. Against the wall, there is a row of ten jerrycans of petrol. For what? Imelda wonders. A helicopter? Or a 4x4 that was intending to lose itself for weeks in Les Hauts?
This was the hideout of a criminal on the run, surely. Unexceptional . . . except for those photographs.
All the evidence suggests that the paparazzo was the Malbar himself. She was right: it was not by chance that his Chevrolet Captiva was in the car park of the Hotel Athena the day Liane Bellion disappeared. Imelda feels her excitement growing: she loves such moments, when she begins to see a pattern in the information she’s discovered. All she needs is a little bit of time and some concentration and she will be able to solve the puzzle.
Damn it!
A brief, sharp beep indicates that she has just received a message on her mobile phone.
She curses, then reads it.
All fine mum. Got Dori and Jol to cook. Take yr time????
Imelda smiles, almost disappointed that her kids are able to manage without her. She types a brief reply, but continues to think about the Bellions.
Is the Malbar acting on his own account? Or is he being paid to spy on the Bellions? A private detective, perhaps? Not that it really matters; the crucial question is why? Why spy on the Bellions? Blackmail? A question of revenge? Jealousy? The possibilities are infinite. And what about the identity of the person who paid for such a service—a family friend? Some lunatic they happened to meet? Or perhaps it was even Liane Bellion herself? There are a multitude of reasons why a woman might pay for someone to spy on her husband, particularly when he has a troubled past and a reputation.
Imelda looks at a picture of Liane Bellion sitting on the terrace of a bar, probably in the port at Saint-Gilles. A short madras skirt, bare back, her blonde hair tied in a bun, revealing the nape of her neck. Attractive . . .
Unless it’s the other way round, Imelda thinks. Unless it’s Martial Bellion who is questioning his wife’s fidelity. But, in that case, why ask the photographer to concentrate on pictures of the family? And why ask a Malbar? A Malbar who lives in this miserable kartié?
Imelda thinks again about the file she read in the police station, about the way all of the witness statements given by the Hotel Athena’s employees put the blame on Bellion. The Hotel Athena was founded by Malbars—the Purvis, a dynasty whose sole heir is now the captain in charge of this investigation.
Another coincidence?
Before going into the windowless bedroom, Imelda again looks out into the street. Everything seems normal. The dog is still trotting around, sniffing at things and adding its urine to the ambient filth. The kids playing football have just begun their thirteenth half-time at the end of the street.
Suddenly, Imelda jumps.
Another message on her mobile.
No worrys. Shd even be sum cury left for tonite. Hope yr imprest! Have a grayt time.
Imelda shivers as she reads the text. Nazir is a good boy really. All he needs is a father to give him a kick up the arse now and then.
Cautiously, she lifts the dirty sheets and then the mattress.
A feeling of triumph explodes inside her: there is a handbag hidden between the bed and the corner of the wall! It seems unlikely that it belongs to the Malbar.
Excitedly, Imelda opens it. Her fingers and her eyes compile a quick inventory. A crimson lipstick, a tube of lip gloss, a Lancel wallet . . . its contents have fallen out into the bag and Imelda rummages around, picking out objects at random: an identity card, a credit card, a Navigo transport pass.
All in the name of Liane Bellion.
The neurons connect inside Imelda’s brain. Drawers open in which she can file hypotheses. Did Martial Bellion hide his wife’s body here? Did he entrust that vile task to the Malbar? Or has everyone been barking up the wrong tree right from the very beginning? What if Liane Bellion was not murdered in the hotel, but made her elopement look like a murder and then took refuge here, in this house, while all the police on the island were searching for her body?
But why? Was she waiting for someone? Did she want to disappear again? Where would she have gone?
Imelda’s fingers suddenly stop rifling through the bag. Out in the street, the dog is barking.
In the next moment, she hears the purr of a car as it slows down outside the house. She instantly recognizes the sound of a powerful engine equipped with a twin exhaust pipe.
A 4x4.
No need to look out of the window to see that it is black and is being driven by a Malbar wearing a baseball cap. She hastily puts the handbag back in its hiding place and rushes back into the main room. She quickly looks around, to check that she has not disturbed anything, then searches for a place to hide.
There is only one, and it’s not ideal.
The cupboard.
She yanks the curtain open and assesses the tall, straight compartment where the broom is kept. Imelda is twice as wide as the space, but she pushes in anyway, without even thinking. Her bulging body squeezes between the walls, gets stuck. On the verge of tears, she grabs a hook and pulls with all her might. Her skin is scraped by splinters of wood, her dress is torn, but inch by inch, she manages to squash herself between the cold planks, like thick dough overflowing a tin that is too shallow.
Despairingly, she closes the curtain and, in terror, watches as it sways to and fro for several long seconds.
Imelda holds her breath.
The front door opens.
Through the curtain, she can just about make out the stocky shadow that ambles into the room. The sounds are more explicit. A bag thrown onto the table, the closing of the toilet door, the sound of the flush, of water running into the sink, a few last drops, and then silence once more.
Still Imelda doesn’t breathe.
The footsteps prowl around the room, passing the curtain without slowing down, then move off towards the bedroom.
After nearly a minute without breathing, Imelda sucks in some air. Her armpits and her nether regions are damp with sweat. She listens carefully and thinks she can recognize the sound of fabric against skin, the soft thud of clothes hitting the floor, the sharp, brief noise of a zipper, perhaps the zipper of a suitcase.
As if the Malbar is changing his clothes.
The seconds pass slowly, endlessly.
Footsteps approach again. The sound of breathing. The curtain trembles, caresses Imelda’s belly.
The sound of water in the sink again, the sound of glass against stainless steel, a bag sliding on a tabletop, and then footsteps fading.
A door bangs shut.
Nothing more.
Imelda waits, all her senses alert.
She waits for a long time. An eternity. The house is silent. She thinks she can almost hear the shouting of the kids, far off, in the street.
But still the Cafrine doesn’t move. She has not heard the soft roar of an engine in the street. The Malbar is still there, somewhere close by; she must remain hidden behind the curtain. With infinite caution, she takes the mobile phone from her pocket. She has made her decision: she must get in touch with Christos. She is not taking a risk. Her phone does not make any sound when she sends a text.
Only when she rec—
The ringtone suddenly explodes in the room.
Imelda’s eyes look down, terrified, as if hypnotised by the small screen.
All dun all cleand up. Proud of us mum? Do U no wher dish towls r? and the hous keys? and the zamal that Derrik hid?
The message brings a strange smile to Imelda’s face.
She was wrong: her kids can’t manage without her.
Her final thought.
Suddenly the curtain is wrenched open. The shadow stands before her, a kitchen knife in its hand. Imelda tries to escape. In vain.
She has forced her body into a coffin that is too small for her. She has buried herself alive.
First, she feels the pain in her heart, intense and brief. Her hands try to grasp the curtain, but close on nothing. They tense, paralysed for a few seconds, before falling eventually to her sides, like two weary leaves at the end of two dead branches.