TARASCON
The two men stood beside Bauer’s car outside the railway station in Tarascon. Laval’s motorbike was parked in the shadow of the trees a little further away. There were freight deliveries coming in and the station was busier than usual. No one noticed them.
Laval handed over the file on Marianne Vidal – with additional information on Lucie Ménard and Sandrine Vidal – then reported what had taken place since Bauer and Authié’s meeting at the cimetière Saint-Michel.
‘Pelletier has the key?’
Laval shrugged. ‘Sanchez had no idea.’
The German looked down at the file in his hand. ‘Herr Authié told me he thought the girl was not involved. He was lying?’
‘No, that was his opinion then. Subsequently he has reconsidered.’
‘You are certain she cannot identify you.’
‘Yes.’
Bauer stared at him. ‘Do you think Déjean said anything to her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You have spoken to this girl?’
‘No. As soon as we’d identified her, the house in Carcassonne was put under surveillance. She isn’t there, though her sister is. Authié’s trying to find her.’
‘And this Pelletier?’
‘We’re still looking for him.’
‘What about the Jew and his girlfriend?’
‘Blum is in Le Vernet. Lucie Ménard is in Carcassonne. She was the one who identified Sandrine Vidal for us.’
Bauer frowned. ‘In my absence, two of my men were arrested and taken there also. Do you know anything about this incident?’
‘I wasn’t in Tarascon when it happened, Herr Bauer.’
Bauer waved his hand impatiently. ‘You hear things, Laval.’
Laval shrugged. ‘As I heard it, they were indiscreet. Got into a fight in a bar over a girl. The local police, unaware of their privileged status, arrested them.’
‘I shall expect Authié to expedite their release.’
Laval nodded. ‘I will make sure he is appraised of the situation.’ He could see Bauer suspected some kind of sleight of hand, but was struggling to work out what it was.
‘Herr Authié has returned to Carcassonne?’
‘On Tuesday,’ Laval replied. ‘He’s suspicious.’
‘Of you?’
‘Of you, Bauer. He thinks you intended Déjean’s body to be found.’
‘That’s absurd.’ Bauer’s pupils dilated slightly. ‘Has he any reason for thinking so?’
Laval held his gaze. ‘Not from me. I can’t answer for your men.’
‘They know how to hold their tongues.’
‘The guards in Le Vernet can be persuasive.’
‘They will not talk.’
Laval paused, then said: ‘Did you intend Déjean to be found?’
‘Of course I did not,’ Bauer snapped. He dabbed again at his neck, which was glistening with sweat. ‘A poacher was using dynamite for setting traps. It caused the land to give way.’
‘It was a coincidence that you buried the body where the French team was working.’
Bauer didn’t answer.
‘It’s what Authié thinks.’
‘It is none of your concern, Laval,’ Bauer said, spittle forming in the corner of his mouth. ‘You are in the business of buying and selling information. That is the limit of your interest.’
He put his hand into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. ‘It is as agreed.’
Laval slit open the package with his bone-handled clasp knife and counted the notes. He was not unhappy with the situation. It was easy to fan Bauer’s suspicions about Authié’s reliability. The less they trusted one another, the better for him in the long run. He put the knife back on his belt and looked up to see Bauer staring at him.
‘I do not either like or trust Authié,’ Bauer said, ‘but I do understand him. You, Laval, your motivation is not clear to me.’
‘Nothing to understand, Herr Bauer,’ he said, rubbing his fingers together. ‘You claim to act out of duty to your masters in Berlin, that you’re following orders. Authié claims to act in the name of faith. You both make pretence of higher motives to justify what you are doing. You are both prepared to torture, to kill, to do anything to get what you want.’ Laval put the envelope in his pocket. ‘I, at least, am not a hypocrite.’
COUSTAUSSA
Sandrine and Audric Baillard looked up at the sound of the knocking at the door, both immediately alert. The evidence of their labours – paper, a dish filled with castor oil and hair dye, ink, old tallow wax candles and a box of matches – covered the table.
Sandrine didn’t expect trouble in Coustaussa, but her stomach lurched all the same.
‘Do you want me to go?’ called Liesl from the terrace. She had come back from visiting the Roussets in a cheerful mood.
‘Best if I do,’ Sandrine answered, standing up.
Without appearing to hurry, Baillard gathered up the things and carried them across the room. Sandrine opened the sideboard, moved a couple of boxes to one side to make space, then helped him put everything away out of sight.
‘I shall sit with Marieta,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it’s only a neighbour,’ said Sandrine, though she felt nervous as she walked along the corridor to the front door. In the old days, it always stood open. Now, they kept it closed.
Marieta’s Bible was still lying on the hall table. Sandrine’s hand hovered over it, suddenly tempted to look inside. She traced her fingers over the battered leather cover, rough beneath her skin, then jumped at three more heavy blows on the door.
‘All right, all right,’ she muttered under her breath.
Cross with herself for being so edgy, she covered the last few steps quickly and pulled open the door more forcefully than she intended.
‘Mademoiselle.’
Sandrine felt the air had been sucked from her lungs. For a split second she struggled to catch her breath, staring at the uniforms, the police car in the empty street behind. What did they want? Why were they here? She didn’t recognise either of the officials, though she supposed they came from Couiza.
She forced herself to smile, not to shake. ‘What can I do for you, officers?’
To her own ears her voice sounded unnaturally high, but they didn’t seem to notice.
‘We have reason to believe a fugitive is in the vicinity and heading for Coustaussa,’ the younger man said. ‘We’re here to warn residents.’
‘Have you seen any strangers in the village?’ the older man demanded. ‘It’s your duty to report anything suspicious.’
Sandrine had to stop herself from laughing out loud. They hadn’t come for Liesl or to question her about the false papers. Nothing to do with them.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I haven’t seen anyone.’
‘The man in question has dark hair and a beard, wearing a brown trilby hat.’
Sandrine gave a jolt as a thought scuttled across her mind, but it was gone before she could catch hold of it.
The older officer narrowed his eyes. ‘Have you seen anyone fitting that description, mademoiselle?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ Sandrine said. ‘It’s so hot, we’ve been inside all afternoon.’
‘We?’
Sandrine quickly tried to decide what to say. Should she mention Monsieur Baillard? Liesl? Marianne had counselled her to stick as close to the truth as possible, whilst at the same time saying nothing more than was needed.
‘Our housekeeper, Marieta, is here. She’s in her sixties and had a heart scare a few days ago. She’s under doctor’s orders to stay as quiet as possible. One of Marieta’s oldest friends is sitting with her, and my cousin, that’s it.’ She carried on talking, before they could ask to speak to the others in person. ‘It’s kind of you to warn us, but I wonder how you knew this man is heading for Coustaussa?’
‘He asked for directions in the tabac in Couiza. The owner was suspicious and informed us.’
‘I see,’ said Sandrine, making a mental note to avoid the tabac in the future. ‘How fortunate the owner was on his guard.’
‘Keep your doors locked, mademoiselle,’ the younger man advised.
‘And if you or anyone else in your household sees anything, contact us immediately. Do not approach him. Pelletier is dangerous.’
Sandrine felt the ground drop from under her. She swayed slightly on her feet, letting her shoulder lean against the solid door frame.
‘Are you all right, mademoiselle?’
She fanned herself with her hand. ‘Just the heat, it’s so . . . And of course, it’s frightening to think of someone so close by. We’re quite isolated here.’
She forced herself to stand still as he nodded and they walked down the steps and got back into the car. Forced herself to listen as they fired the engine and pulled away, heading on towards Cassaignes. Everything in slow motion as she slowly and carefully stepped back inside and closed the door.
Only then did her shaking legs give way. She leant back against the wall, her heart galloping, her skin flushed cold and hot at the same time. It was the worst news. The police were hunting Raoul. Someone had informed on him. He was heading for Coustaussa. Then, she couldn’t help it. She put her hand over her mouth. The worst of news, yes, but also the very best news. What she’d been desperate to know for the past three weeks. That Raoul was alive, that they hadn’t caught him yet. She started to smile.
And that he was here. Heading for Coustaussa.
Raoul stopped. The heat hung heavy over the fields, the sun blazed down brutal and remorseless. The wind shimmered through the fields of wheat at the top of the hill, making the dry stalks whisper. He pulled a bottle of water from his rucksack and drank enough to take the edge off his thirst, then splashed the rest of the water into his hands and on to his face and neck.
He cleared the brow of the hill and saw the stone shepherds’ huts from the photographs on the stairs at the rue du Palais. He stopped. In the distance he could hear the engine of a car, somewhere across the valley. The police coming back? He stepped into the shade of one of the capitelles, listening and waiting until the sound died away, going in the opposite direction. He looked back the way he’d come, down to the main road. No one, nothing, for as far as the eye could see.
Raoul stepped back on to the road, then heard an older, more timeless sound. He held back until a young man leading a donkey and cart came into view at the brow of the hill. Dark-haired, with an open shirt and corduroy trousers and a red handkerchief tied at his neck, he didn’t look the type to cause trouble. Not police.
Raoul hesitated, then decided to risk it. He’d attract more attention ambling around the village looking for the house. Better to take a chance.
He nodded a greeting. ‘I’m looking for the Vidal house. Do you know it?’
‘Who wants to know?’
‘A friend,’ Raoul said lightly. ‘Can you tell me where it is?’
The young man continued to stare at him, sizing him up. Raoul waited, keeping his expression neutral, letting him come to his own decision in his own time.
‘Carry on down into the village,’ the young man said eventually, ‘right into rue de la Condamine, then straight on. Set back on its own.’
‘Thanks,’ Raoul started to say, but he’d already walked on.
He found the house easily enough. The incongruous gargoyle door knocker, the yellow-painted woodwork. A riot of geraniums ran wild in the window boxes, red and white, their heads rather battered by the wind. Raoul tucked himself into the shadow of a barn across the road from the house and waited. He saw no signs of life, no indication that anyone was keeping watch, but he had to be sure.
He was also building up his courage. At this moment, there was still hope. Hope that Sandrine was here in Coustaussa, hope that she would be pleased to see him. As soon as he lifted his hand and knocked on the door, he’d know for certain one way or the other.
He took a deep breath. Then, keeping his head down, he walked quickly out of the cover of the barn and up the steps to Sandrine’s house.
Sandrine, Liesl, Marieta and Baillard heard the knock from the back terrace.
‘Is it them?’ Liesl said with panic in her voice. ‘Have they come back?’
‘No,’ Sandrine said quickly. ‘Why would they be back so soon? In any case, even if it is the police, there’s nothing for you to worry about. They’re not looking for you, Liesl, I promise.’
‘I’m going upstairs,’ said Liesl, slipping out of her chair and running into the house.
‘Liesl, really, it’s not necessary . . .’ Sandrine began to say, but the girl had already gone.
‘Let her go,’ Monsieur Baillard said. ‘There is nothing you will be able to say to reassure her. Better she should feel safe.’
‘Yes. Of course,’ Sandrine replied, trying not to let Liesl’s fears get into her bones too.
For the second time in an hour, Sandrine walked back through the house, queasy with nerves, and opened the door.
She stopped. Her heart stopped. Everything stopped. Like the shutter on a camera imprinting one precise, unique, moment.
His skin was darker, a beard, and his hair was longer, but it was him.
‘Raoul,’ she said, her face breaking into a smile. ‘Raoul.’
Nothing more needed to be said. Sandrine saw the anxiety vanish from his face, like the sun coming out from behind the clouds, and he smiled. The same crooked smile she’d carried as a keepsake next to her heart every day since he’d left.
‘If I was stuck, you said to come.’ He raised his arms, then let them fall back by his sides. ‘So, here I am.’