11

‘HE IS NOT A WELL man,’ said the senior nurse as she led Jacquot down a lino-covered corridor at the Institut Briand. She talked as she walked, glancing back over her shoulder, the lino tiles, shiny and sticky, squeaking beneath her rubber-soled trainers. ‘Such a terrible thing to happen.’ Her voice was soft and caring still, but her expression was hard and grim and unsurprised. She had seen too much.

Jacquot nodded his agreement, taking it all in: a high corniced ceiling with neon strip lights, bars on the corridor windows, no pictures or furnishings, the doors on his right set with metal plates around the locks and sliding grilles at head-height. The air here was cool and still and smelt of polish.

‘Just through here,’ said the nurse, as they approached a set of double doors. She reached for the bunch of keys chained to her belt, rummaged through them and by the time they got to the doors, she had the right one in her hand and was fitting it into the lock. ‘He probably won’t look at you, and he may not say anything. Don’t be surprised. It’s the way he is, I’m afraid. Le pauvre.’ As far as the nurse was concerned, this had all the makings of a wasted journey for the policeman from Cavaillon.

The Institut Briand was between Carpentras and Courthézon, a thirty kilometre drive from Cavaillon, in flat farmland south of the Montmirail cliffs. Jacquot had taken the autoroute, keeping to the inside lane except when slower-moving lorries forced him to overtake. The morning was bright and sharp and there was no hurry, his speed calculated to keep the draft from his open windows to a minimum, the sound of passing traffic muffled by a tape of classic favourites that had started with Brazilian jazz as he left Cavaillon and settled into banjo-plucking bluegrass as he turned off the autoroute, flashed his badge at the Péage toll and followed the signs for the Institut.

It was the second week of May, the verges of the road were dry and dusty, and the cherry trees were in bloom – white, cream and pink squares scattered across the landscape. It was, Jacquot decided, a good time to be alive – a judgement hastily revised as he swung through the Institut Briand’s brick-pillared gates and, at the end of a cherry-lined drive, saw the Gothic brick façade: black bricks and red bricks, laid straight, herringboned, or patterned in square and diamond shapes. Put up at the end of the nineteenth century by a farmer who’d done well from his plums and apricots but had no eye for architecture, the building seemed narrower than it should be and its tall windows, corner turrets and steeply pitched slate roof gave it an odd perspective – as if it had been squeezed by giant hands. It was a brooding, unnerving structure. As Jacquot drew closer, a single cloud slid in front of the sun and a shadow raced down the drive towards him.

Since Aix General Hospital was not equipped for the long-term psychiatric care that his physician considered appropriate, Noël Gilbert had been transferred to the Briand a couple of weeks earlier and, according to the nurse who had greeted Jacquot at reception and was showing him the way, he wasn’t likely to be leaving the institute any time soon. As well as being deemed a continuing suicide risk, Gilbert had suffered a sudden and severe breakdown, literally shutting himself down for hours at a time – eyes wide, mouth open, hunched forward. There was no response, no apparent awareness of anything around him, the nurse told Jacquot. As she babbled on, he wondered about patient confidentiality, finally deciding that, as a flic, he was probably considered comparable to the staff and consequently in the loop.

‘There he is,’ said the nurse, pushing open the doors and pointing across a small courtyard, more a large lightwell than a garden, a square of gravel framed by concrete paths. Sitting on a bench directly opposite the door, with another nurse close by, was Noël Gilbert, legs out in front of him, head back, staring at the small patch of blue sky four floors above him. He wore what looked like loose, striped pyjamas and a pair of rope-soled espadrilles.

‘Thank you,’ said Jacquot. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

‘De rien – it’s nothing,’ said the nurse. ‘When you want to leave, my colleague will let you out.’ Stepping back she closed the doors and Jacquot heard the double click of the lock.

There were no other patients in the courtyard and he wondered whether Noël had been brought here for the meeting rather than have it conducted in his cell – for that was surely what all those locked doors had been that he had passed in the corridor. With a brief nod to the second nurse, answered with a quick glance and tight smile before she returned to her crossword puzzle, Jacquot headed for the bench and sat down beside Gilbert.

‘Hello, Noël. Remember me? Daniel Jacquot. From Cavaillon.’

He hadn’t expected any response and he didn’t get any.

Gilbert didn’t move. Not a blink, not a murmur. No sign even of breath being drawn. Not a single movement. He could have been a shop-window dummy propped beside Jacquot on the bench. He was pale and gaunt and looked several kilos lighter than the last time Jacquot had seen him, back in that empty guest room at Le Mas Bleu.

Noting the bandaged forearms, Jacquot crossed his legs and made himself comfortable, in no hurry, playing much the same game as he’d played that Sunday morning at the hotel. He looked up at the tiny square of sky, just like Gilbert, and let his gaze wander down the brick walls, counting the windows, the diamond patterns, catching every now and then a passing shape or shadow beyond the glass. A pigeon clattered into the lightwell, circled the courtyard looking for a perch, then thought better of it and made a hasty retreat.

‘Pigeon breasts. Delicious,’ said Jacquot, softly. ‘Cold. From the fridge. With hot mashed potatoes.’ He didn’t expect an answer; he didn’t get one. More minutes passed in a strange, almost companionable, silence.

Finally, Jacquot reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He held them up for the nurse to see. She nodded; he could smoke if he wished. He lit up, left the packet and lighter between him and Gilbert, and started to smoke.

He was half way through his cigarette when Gilbert shifted on the bench, worked his neck as though it was stiff from looking at the sky, and drew in his legs.

‘Can I have one?’ he asked. His voice sounded cracked, dry.

‘Help yourself.’

Over on her chair, the nurse heard Gilbert’s voice and looked up from her crossword.

Jacquot didn’t turn, kept his eyes fixed on the far wall, but he knew that the other man was looking at him. He was right.

‘I know you, don’t I?’

Jacquot nodded. He heard the cigarette packet being shaken and the rasp of his lighter. There was an indrawing of smoke and a low, halting exhalation.

‘I remember now. You were kind. Thank you.’

Jacquot said nothing, tapped some ash from his cigarette.

They smoked on in silence for a few minutes more.

‘They think I’m going to kill myself.’

‘You try it once, that’s what they do. Reckon you’re going to do it again.’

‘Sometimes I want to. Early in the morning is the worst, when I wake up. And remember.’

Jacquot nodded, dropped his cigarette onto the path and ground it out with his shoe.

‘Early morning’s always bad. That’s what happens when you lose someone.’

‘Other people feel like this?’

‘Sometimes not as bad. Sometimes worse. It depends.’

Gilbert took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked the stub on to the gravel where it let off a coil of smoke, then died.

‘Why are you here? Why do you want to see me?’

‘I want you to look at some photos.’

‘Identify someone?’

‘Well, that would be very useful. If you can.’

‘Show me,’ said Gilbert, sitting straighter, turning towards him.

Jacquot straightened up too, reached into his pocket. As he did so he noticed that the nurse had put down her newspaper and was watching them.

‘Just three pictures,’ he said, sliding the photos from an envelope. Before he could offer them, Gilbert had taken them from him. They were the photos taken at the church, in the street and going through the gates to the Blanchards’ farm, but without the red circles.

Gilbert shuffled through them, held them together like a hand of cards. Then, one by one, he lifted them up, turned them to the light, and scrutinised them.

‘See anyone in particular?’ asked Jacquot.

Gilbert nodded. ‘These two,’ he said, holding the cards together again, pointing with a finger.

Jacquot smiled. ‘Those two, okay. And two, you say? Not three?’

Gilbert looked at the images a little longer.

‘I think it was just the two of them.’

‘So, can you identify them? Do you know them?’

Gilbert shook his head.

‘Men or women?’

Another shake of the head.

And then, ‘Are they the ones?’ Gilbert didn’t have to add – who killed Izzy.

‘Right now, all we want to know is who they are,’ replied Jacquot. ‘If anyone recognises them. So we can cross them off our list.’

‘I don’t know who they are, but I do remember them. Seeing them there.’

‘Any reason?’

Gilbert nodded, sighed.

‘They were the only people I saw that day who didn’t smile.’