46

THE FIRST CONFIRMATION CAME THROUGH the following morning, from the owners of a pension on the Manosque–Forcalquier road, no more than a dozen or so kilometres from the woods where Léo and Marie-Ange had been murdered.

‘They stayed two nights,’ said Madame Archant when Jacquot called at her house later that morning, at the end of a dusty track on the slopes above Manosque. At some point in its past it had been a small farmhouse, now much extended to provide four guest rooms on the first floor, all en suite Madame Archant was at pains to point out, as though Jacquot were planning to stay or writing a report for a tourist guide. There was a small dining room, with a terrace, across the hallway for guests, but the kitchen, she told him, showing him to a chair beside an empty blackened fireplace, was the family’s room. She was a pretty woman in her early forties, Jacquot guessed, with brown hair caught in a bun and a stout little body bound by an apron, her wide hips pressing against the kitchen table as she worked on a parcel of dough, glancing through the window at her husband and son sawing wood over a trestle.

There was something pointed about her show of exertion, Jacquot thought to himself, the way she set into the dough, as though she was angry about something, something to do with the two women who had come here to stay. It was clear she hadn’t taken much of a liking to them, but Jacquot decided to approach the subject slowly.

‘Last month, you said?’

‘That’s right. In the old stable. Two bedrooms. Self-contained. Like a gîte.’ The words came out staccato as she vigorously folded and worked the dough.

‘And did they say what they were doing here?’

‘Just passing through. Lovely country. A driving holiday, they said.’

‘And they paid cash?’

‘Had to. No cards here.’

‘And how did they spend their days?’

‘Out first thing. Back in the evening. Didn’t see much of them.’

‘They had a car?’

‘Black it was. Or maybe dark blue. German, I think. One of those Beetles.’ The dough was dealt with, floured in her hands, its top criss-crossed with a kitchen knife and then laid on a tray. The first of a batch. Madame hauled out another fistful from a bowl and slammed it down on the table, sprinkled flour over it and set to work, pushing in the heels of her hands, grinding down with her knuckles.

‘Registration?’ he asked, hopefully.

‘Didn’t look. No reason,’ she replied.

‘Old or new?’

‘Not new. Looked like it had done some travelling.’

‘Any dents, scratches, stickers?’

Madame Archant shook her head.

‘They have much baggage?’

‘One case. Between them. There was probably more. In the car,’ said Madame, huffing and puffing over her dough.

‘What makes you think there was more in the car?’

‘I saw it, didn’t I? In the back seat. Bags. Like carrier-bags. Stuffed down behind the front seats. Messy, it was. Maps for their driving holiday, food wrappers. Blankets too, and a couple of pillows. Like they might have camped in it.’

Jacquot nodded to himself; camping out certainly seemed an option.

Madame glanced across the table at him.

‘So? What have they done? Bank robbers? Murderers? What are you after them for?’

‘To help with an investigation,’ replied Jacquot.

Madame grunted, laid a second boule on the tray, sliced its top and reached for more dough. There was, Jacquot felt, a sense of disappointment in that grunt, either because she wasn’t likely to get more information, or because her two lady guests weren’t in the kind of trouble she felt they deserved.

‘Dites-moi. Did you know they were sisters?’

‘Sisters?’ Madame said the word as though it didn’t come anywhere close to describing the two women who’d stayed in her house. ‘If you say so, but . . .’

‘But?’

‘They were so different. The way they looked, the way they behaved . . .’

Jacquot took this in, seemed to consider it. Then, getting up from his chair, he gave a small stretch, as though working his back, and leant against the mantle. ‘If you don’t mind my saying, Madame Archant, I get the feeling you didn’t much care for them, the two ladies.’

Madame let her breath hiss through her teeth, as much from her rolling and pounding as from obvious disapproval. Jacquot was right; he’d touched a nerve. He looked out of the window. Her husband was bent over his trestle, sawing steadily, elbow and shoulder powering up and down. His shirt was off and he was clearly a tough, well-built man a little younger than Jacquot. The branch he was sawing was quickly despatched and another reached for. The son, eighteen or nineteen, a good-looking lad with a tanned face, equally strong frame and mop of brown hair, helped him position the new wood on the trestle, then set about stacking what had already been sawed.

Had the husband done something he shouldn’t have? wondered Jacquot.

But he was wrong. It wasn’t the husband, it was the son.

‘She should have known better,’ began Madame Archant, stiff with indignation. ‘The younger one, that is. It’s just not the way to behave. Took advantage, she did. My age, too, or thereabouts. Old enough to be his mother.’

‘She was . . . friendly with your son?’

‘Friendly! I’ll say. Jean caught them at it. In the barn. The second night! They were booked for three nights. But that was it. Gave them notice at breakfast.’

‘How did they react?’

‘The younger one, she couldn’t give a damn. Just gave a simpering little smile.’

‘And her sister?’

‘Not amused. Face set like stone.’

‘And you don’t know where they were heading?’

‘No idea. And good riddance.’

‘Would you mind if I spoke to your son?’

‘Not much point,’ said Madame, wiping her hands after the last boule, picking up the tray and heading for the oven. ‘Deaf and dumb, he is. Now you know. Just took advantage, she did.’

Back on the road, heading back to Cavaillon, Jacquot felt a strange elation, and knew that it had not been an entirely wasted trip. He might not have acquired much hard information – really nothing more than confirmation of what they’d already established – but he knew there was more to it than that. The sudden proximity to the killers that Madame Archant had provided him with was cause for excitement. He had met someone who knew them, who had seen them, who had had them staying in their house. And through Madame’s unguarded, possibly pointed, comments he had also established a sense of their characters, the kind of women they were. He felt he was beginning to get to know these Manichella sisters – Marita, the elder, and Marina. The way they looked. The way they behaved. So much more than he’d got from the photos. And the differences between them:

The elder – cool, sensible, focused. Probably the one in charge.

And the younger one – flighty, nervy, ruled by her emotions, careless of the impression she made.

They were polar opposites – two competely different characters.

And he was getting closer to them now. He was on their trail. And that pleased him.

But it wasn’t over.

When he got back to headquarters, there was Brunet fresh from his cycling holiday in Corsica, tanned and glowing, with a look on his face that Jacquot recognised.

‘Another confirmation,’ he said, when Jacquot strode into the squad room.

‘When? Where?’

‘April.’

‘And . . . ?’

‘Le Mas Bleu.’