4:23 P.M.
The man from the ITC Tropicar agency looks like a wedding guest who has been summoned to work in an emergency. Crumpled shirt, floppy tie, and sweat stains under his armpits.
“Good thing the customer called me about his air conditioning . . .”
Christos isn’t listening. This guy is a word machine, a businessman who thinks he’s on some kind of social bonding mission. Christos moves towards the grey Clio without any idea of what he is supposed to find in this car that Bellion abandoned. There is a ball of acid stuck in his throat. Some guy stabbed three innocent people, and that guy is not Martial Bellion. He is sure of it now.
“And it’s also a good thing that I know how to count to seven,” continues Monsieur Tropicar. “It’s not something you see every day, you know, a car coming home on its own. Particularly when the car’s been driven by a killer.”
He almost chokes in a fit of coarse laughter.
The sun has modestly hidden itself behind the only cloud above the lagoon and the murky darkness makes the place look even more squalid: the washed-out mauve building, the sliding metal gate, the rows of identical cars.
Monsieur Tropicar won’t shut up. He analyses the tyres of the station’s Mazda pickup, which is parked diagonally across the untarmacked car park. The ochre earth still bears the skid marks of sudden braking.
“It’s also a good thing that your brakes worked on the descent here, Captain. You could have killed yourself. I once knew a guy who rented a Laguna to drive up to Salazie, and after the fiftieth bend, he—’
Christos grabs the agency man by his tie.
“Will you just shut up! Got it? Open the Clio for me and give me the rental contracts, everything you have on Bellion. But, most importantly, keep your big fat mouth shut.”
“O.K., O.K.,” stammers Monsieur Tropicar, his mouth gaping open like a grouper fish.
Finally, he trots away towards the mauve building.
4:27 P.M.
Christos searches in the glove compartment, between the seats, under the carpet.
Nothing. No clues at all. Only an assortment of Réunion’s finest sand in every shade, from white to black.
Well, what was he expecting? He could come back, or someone else could, equipped with a Polilight and some test tubes, but what could the analysts possibly reveal except for the fact that Martial Bellion and his daughter had left their fingerprints here, that they had sand on their flip-flops, and that this could be used to reconstruct a detailed map of their peregrinations on the island. But how would that help the investigation?
Monsieur Tropicar returns holding a bundle of green and blue papers. He watches Christos examine the car, intrigued and admiring.
“Don’t touch anything,” the second lieutenant tells him as he gets out of the Clio. “My colleagues will come by later to take care of the sand and the fingerprints.”
“Good thing, too. It’s in the contract. It has to be in tip-top condition when it’s returned to us!”
More loud laughter.
Although he knows that it would be a stupid gesture that would not further the investigation one iota, Christos would like to smash his fist in the rental guy’s face. Instead he just lets his arms hang by his sides. There’s a killer on the loose. There are no clues. He has to tell five kids that their mother is dead. And none of the gods of any of the religions practised on the island could even give a shit. They . . .
Suddenly the sun appears, making the constellation of cars sparkle and gleam. Monsieur Tropicar swells with pride beside his polished galaxy of vehicles. The only blot on this pristine picture is Bellion’s Clio. Drab. Dusty. Especially the doors and the windows. The rays of sunlight illuminate the traces of hands, fingers.
Christos stands motionless, paralysed with shock.
It’s as if one of those gods, stung into action high above them, has suddenly made the truth burst forth from his index finger, just to convince the miserable louse below who insulted him.
On the window of the passenger door, words appear in letters of fire.
Fantastical, almost unreal.
Anse dé Cascade
Tomoro
4 P.M.
Be ther
Bring the gurl