Reluctantly, Favier gave Molly directions. He seemed to disapprove of Thérèse as much as Duboit hated her Arab husband. Were they all racists around here? Molly wondered. In any event, it was none of the hotel manager’s business where she went or why. Anything she could do to aid the inspector with his investigation, she was eager to do. And the wife of Ali Sedak seemed a good place to start.
It was a short, pleasant drive, showy crape myrtle trees lining the road, their leaves shimmering gloriously in the sunlight. The old stone water mill she was looking for struck her as charming rather than what Favier called délabré, and, as she drove up and parked next to the dusty white VW, the butterflies fluttering across the shallow stream added to the quiet, picturesque scene.
When Thérèse came to the door, she stood there with her blouse open, nursing her baby, and sized up her visitor. Molly introduced herself, asked if she had a few minutes to talk. The name at first meant nothing to the young mother until Molly explained who she was. Thérèse’s eyes shifted about uncomfortably as if she couldn’t make up her mind.
She finally nodded and went back inside with the baby.
Molly reached into her shoulder bag, switched on her tape recorder, and followed her into the house. Sitting down opposite her at the table, she admired the mother’s cute, black-eyed child in his blue blanket. “Quel beau bébé!” Molly gushed, by way of warming her up, and asked his name, how old he was. She congratulated Thérèse on her baby’s beautiful disposition.
Sometimes, Thérèse told her. She asked for the diaper on the back of the chair next to Molly. Tossing it onto her shoulder, she placed the infant on top and patted him on the back. Her uncombed hair, which covered the side of her face, parted as she straightened up and Molly noticed the large purple bruise on her cheek. Her husband had left her a going-away present. In Molly’s job she’d seen too many women who had been turned into human punching bags by the creeps they loved. With a temper like that, maybe he was the murderer.
Thérèse wanted her to know she was sorry about Molly’s parents and their friends, but Ali was innocent. Completely innocent. He didn’t even know about the murders until she told him. And at the commissariat in Bergerac, they’d refused to let her see him, talk to him. She couldn’t even give him a comb, a toothbrush, anything. Thérèse had no idea how long he was going to be kept there or what to do next. They had hardly any money. She couldn’t afford a lawyer. Her eyes reddened, and with a corner of the diaper she wiped away the tears.
Molly, despite her carefully cultivated professional caution, was touched and she sympathized, but didn’t know how far she could trust Thérèse. Molly asked about the events of the night of the murders and Thérèse told her what she’d told the police. Ali came home late that night—around 9:30 or 10:00—with a bad back. He had a couple of beers, ate hardly anything, and went right to bed.
It wasn’t until later, when Molly asked if anything else had happened that night, that Thérèse remembered the telephone calls. Two of them maybe twenty-five minutes apart. The first about 1:00 a.m. She’d been sound asleep, and when the phone rang it was like an electric finger touching her heart. Each time she picked up the receiver no one was there. Some breathing, that was all. No, she’d no idea who it was or whether it was important. But Ali had heard nothing, never budged, and, going back to sleep, she forgot.
There was a vulnerability about Thérèse that Molly liked. They talked softly while the baby slept, and time slowly slipped away until they were interrupted by the sound of distant motors growing louder. The sleek machines roared up into the front yard amid swirling dust, and the riders, revving their thunderous engines, shut them off. Friends, Molly supposed. Time for her to go. Thanking Thérèse for her help, she opened the door.
Three motorcycles. Two Yamahas and a Scout. The three riders in black boots, faded jeans, helmets. The big, bearded one had a bull neck with a chain draped around it from which hung an Iron Cross. The two in black T-shirts were thin, wiry, and had tattoos all over their skinny arms. They might have been twins. All three helmets were stamped SHARK, as colorful as fireworks with flashy streaks of white, green, red, and yellow. France loved her athletic clubs, she thought, bicycle clubs, football clubs, sailing clubs. They were members of a motorcycle club—a bit oddball perhaps, like the Stanford marching band. What troubled her was that they didn’t take off their helmets, and because of the tinted visors she couldn’t see their faces.
Molly looked again. What at first glance had seemed amusing wasn’t funny at all. These guys were grief. And if Ali Sedak wasn’t there, they’d settle for the Arab son of a bitch’s French squeeze or anyone else on the premises.
Without actually running, street-smart Molly began to walk quickly to her rented car, fumbling for the car keys in her shoulder bag. The three of them shouted after her, calling her a melon lover and telling her to slow down, not so fast. They wanted to know if she still had something left between her legs for a Frenchman. Molly pulled the car door open and was about to jump in when she felt herself being grabbed from behind. It was one of the thin ones. His bony fingers clamped around her waist, he yanked her away from the door. Wheeling around, Molly raked his neck with her car keys and he began to bleed. His copains howled. As for him, he seemed surprised, then smacked her across the side of the head, slammed her against the car.
Thérèse screamed as she stood in the doorway clutching her howling baby. “Casse-toi, vous fils de merde!”
The three of them turned. “Look who’s there. The bitch herself.” They began walking toward her. “And that must be her boyfriend’s bastard. Willya look at that kisser on him? How can a kid with a mug like that be French? And living off us too on welfare. It’s disgusting!”
Before they could grab her, Thérèse slammed the door and bolted it closed. The bearded bruiser pounded on the wooden door. Its frame shivered. Hinges groaned. He picked up a rusty lead pipe and joined his buddies, who were smashing the headlights of Ali’s white VW. Hovering over the front trunk, he beat on it viciously, as if Ali were trapped inside.
Molly snatched up her fallen keys, threw herself into her car, and locked all the doors. Though the engine started up almost instantly, it seemed to take forever. The three bikers suddenly looked up, and Molly, wide-eyed and scared out of her wits, shoved the car into gear. Slamming the gas pedal to the floor, she held it there as she raced down the road, her eyes constantly checking the rearview mirror. Once after rounding a bend, she glanced back over her shoulder and thought she saw them coming after her, pitiless as Nevsky’s knights, their helmets glittering in the sun.
As soon as she was safely back in her hotel room, Molly dialed Mazarelle. The inspector was glad to hear from her. That is, until she told him where she’d been.