Blood Counts

‘It’s been weeks,’ she said, as she settled at the table that Jacquot had laid on the terrace. The sun had slipped behind the hillside at the back of the millhouse, but the evening shadows creeping down from the woods that surrounded the property were still warm and smelled of resin. Salad was tossed, wine poured, and the carré d’agneau he had grilled on the fire-pit divided between them.

‘I just can’t believe that nothing’s happened,’ she continued. ‘I know you’re doing everything you can, but it’s just so . . . unfair. That no one has been brought to book for it.’

Jacquot glanced across at her as she sliced through her cutlet, took a small mouthful then sat back from the table. She looked drawn and tired, and he could see how the investigation’s lack of progress, lack of leads, lack of everything, had started to wear her down. She was too close to it, he realised. She knew the victim, knew the family, their farm just a few kilometres away. And the killing of a young woman, on her wedding night, with a new husband in her bed and the future all ahead of them, had been particularly cruel.

‘Think of a car,’ said Jacquot. ‘With a full tank and an empty road ahead of it. That’s what a police investigation is like. At first it’s full speed ahead, but then the tank starts to empty and other things get in the way. Diversions, distractions, wrong turnings. What’s needed is more fuel, something to keep that car rolling along. And right now, it seems, we’re a long way from any filling station.’

Claudine reached for her wine, swirling it in the glass, staring into its depths.

‘You need another murder, don’t you? That’s the filling station, isn’t it?’

‘I’m afraid it is. Another scene-of-crime. That’s what we need. Wherever it happens. Just so long as we hear about it, make the right connections.’ He picked up a curved bone with his fingers and stripped away the remaining meat with his teeth.

‘You don’t think this is local then, someone living around here?’

He shook his head, swallowed, wiped his lips with a napkin.

‘I don’t think so,’ he began. ‘The silencer . . . leaving the scene so clean. It’s just too professional. Too carefully thought out. What really worries me is that, for some reason we don’t yet know, the murder really was a case of mistaken identity. If that’s what it was, then we’re pretty much wasting our time, and I’m sorry to say that I doubt we’ll ever get to the bottom of it.’

‘That poor, poor girl. Everything to live for.’ Claudine pushed away her meat, barely touched, and turned instead to her salad, scooping up some leaves.

‘And her poor, poor husband, Noël.’

‘Is it true what I heard?’ she asked.

‘Madame Tapis?’

Claudine nodded.

‘Apparently . . .’ she began.

‘. . . He’s been transferred to a psychiatric unit? Once again your Madame Tapis is correct. The Institut Briand near Courthézon. He recovered from the first suicide attempt, but there’s real fear that he might try again.’ Jacquot fell silent, remembered his visit. The pleading, the desperation, the biting grip of his fingers, the tears, and, most disturbing, that haunting belief that Izzy was still alive, that she hadn’t been shot, that she would help him, she would look after him, care for him.

Somewhere in the woods, an owl hooted. For a while they sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the night – the slowing buzz of insects, a crackle and tumble of burnt logs in the fire-pit.

With a long sigh, Claudine pushed herself away from the table.

‘I’m off to bed. You coming?’

‘Maybe a last glass . . .’

She made to gather up the dishes.

‘Leave them. I’ll do it,’ said Jacquot.

She nodded, smiled, came over to kiss him. He could smell a light flowery scent he didn’t recognise.

‘Nice perfume.’

‘Eau de toilette. Not so expensive. I’ve been wearing it a week. Some flic you are.’

She stood up and turned to go. If he had hoped to ease her sadness over supper, he knew he hadn’t quite managed it. She still looked tired, he thought, and she seemed somehow relieved that the perfume had not sparked too much interest, that she would have the bed to herself for a little while yet.

‘You okay?’ he asked, letting her fingers trail through his.

‘Gloria Gaynor . . .’ she replied. It was a game of theirs. The name of a singer, and the title of a song.

‘“I will survive . . .”’

‘You got it.’

Later, the table cleared, the fire-pit left to glow in the dark and die, Jacquot went through to the salon, poured himself a small cognac and turned on the television.

Let her rest, he thought, plumping up the sofa cushions. A good night’s sleep would do her the world of good.