Another Sun (33 page)

“Jacques Calais knew what happened?”

She nodded. There were traces down her powdered cheeks. Despite the nice clothes and the makeup, she looked a tired, old woman, and Anne Marie found herself feeling sorry for her. The sense of elation—and satisfaction—brought on by the woman’s confession had now evaporated.

“Raymond knew the only alternative to being blackmailed indefinitely was to kill the girl. And that’s probably what he did. He poisoned her.”

“And the vials? And the magic ointments that Hégésippe Bray admitted to having tampered with?”

Madame Calais shrugged. “A coincidence—which most certainly suited my husband. During those four years that he refused to touch me, I thought it was because of the girl. I was convinced she’d put a curse on our marriage because my husband had killed her. I knew he’d poisoned her—the way he acted guilty, the way he grew angry when I mentioned Eloise Deschamps’ name. And Jacques knew it, too—and instead of my husband, it was that poor, stupid black man that was sent to French Guyana.”

“You did nothing to save him.”

“I was nineteen years old, madame le juge, and I was in love with my husband.”

“Something could have been done.”

“What? What could Jacques do? He knew his brother was guilty—but if his father had known, it’d have killed him—and it would’ve been the end of the Sainte Marthe estate. A scandal—a terrible scandal with Raymond Calais denounced as a murderer. Jacques was ashamed of himself. Now I can see that’s why he ran away to America.”

“You don’t feel guilty about inventing false evidence? You don’t feel you’re responsible for sending Hégésippe Bray to jail for a second time?”

“How did I know he was going to hang himself?” Her face broke into an unexpected smile, as if she needed to escape from her memories. “More tea, madame le juge?”

Outside, beyond the blue-tinted window, beyond the hum of the air conditioner, there was a lull in the midday traffic along the Boulevard Légitimus.

“I will have to make out a warrant for your arrest.”

“Arrest?” Madame Calais lifted the cup to her lips.

“For the murder of Raymond Calais, your husband.”

Madame Calais shook her head. Then she drank.

“I have no choice.”

“I know you have no choice, but I shan’t be arrested.”

“You are mistaken.”

“It’s you who are mistaken.” Madame Calais set the cup down and poured more tea. Her eyes remained on Anne Marie. “You’re mistaken because you don’t understand Guadeloupe. You believe you’re still in France. This isn’t France, madame le juge, and I can tell you we don’t behave in the same way here.”

“Murder is murder.”

“What would happen to your husband?”

“My husband?”

Her shoulders no longer sagged. “This is a small island and information travels fast. Very fast—particularly when you belong to a powerful minority. Do you really understand the Békés?”

“My husband has no effect upon the way I do my job.”

“You won’t be able to do your job—it’s as simple as that. It is not you and it’s not France that controls Guadeloupe. Guadeloupe is ours. France sends the money, but it’s my people who decide how it’s spent. Do you really believe that the Calais family and all the other families—you think they’ll allow me to go to prison like a common criminal?”

“You’ve committed a crime.” Anne Marie’s voice was forced and unnatural.

“I’ve perhaps committed a crime according to your law—the law of France. Here in Guadeloupe, I’m in my own country and among my own people. Trust me—even if there were no solidarity among us whites, there’d still be no chance of my ever going to jail. Because the government—your government—needs us. Monsieur Giscard d’Estaing and Paul Dijoud and all the others—they need us because they need our vote. Without our active support, they know Guadeloupe will go to the Socialists. And that’s the last thing they want in Paris.”

“Party politics are not the concern of the judiciary.”

“You’re young and naive. Are you sure you wouldn’t care for another cup of tea?”

Anne Marie stood up. She picked up her bag.

“Perhaps my husband was not educated—but he was cunning and he knew how to protect himself. And he always knew something could happen to him. That’s why he told me all about the SODECA affair. I have most of the documents. Very compromising documents. Of course, the Chamber of Commerce and the bankers and even my dear friend the procureur—such a nice man—of course they’re a little bit worried. The SODECA business could be most embarrassing for them. But they know that as long as Giscard’s in power, there’s nothing for them to be afraid of. A debt of fifty-three million francs?” She made an amused, dismissive gesture. “A mere bagatelle. The taxpayer can foot the bill, and within a year, it’ll all be forgotten. Perhaps one or two discreet resignations—but nothing a quick whitewash can’t cover up. But if you.…” Madame Calais smiled. “But if you decide to put me in
jail—the wife of Raymond Calais—all my good friends know I possess a lot of information. Let the cat out of the bag—and in the process ruin several powerful families? You see, they’re going to be annoyed. Not just annoyed … they’re going to get angry. Very angry indeed.” She paused and again she laughed, as if recalling an old joke. “Perhaps I’ve underestimated you, madame le juge. Perhaps you really do believe in justice. And perhaps you aren’t afraid. But be warned.”

“It’s not for you to warn me.”

The woman held up her hand. “Fifty-three million francs is a lot of money. And for a lot of people in Guadeloupe, your life—and the life of your son—aren’t worth fifty-three million francs.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“Advising you, madame le juge. And my advice to you is to be very careful as you cross the road. There are a lot of bad drivers in Guadeloupe.”

She climbed the stairs. Sweat ran down her back; even on the top floor of the Cité Mortenol there was no breeze. The white walls reflected the harsh sunlight.

Anne Marie unlocked the front door and let herself into the apartment. She picked up the telephone before she kicked off her moccasins and slumped down onto the divan. She had to dial three times—a flurry of electronic pips—before she got through.

“Gendarmerie, Terre de Haut.”

“Le Bras?”

“Speaking.”

“Le juge Laveaud here.”

“Madame le juge, I rang about half an hour ago.”

“I have just got home.” She paused. “Well?”

Le Bras did not reply.

“My husband—where is he now?”

“Your husband’s still taking lunch at the Hôtel Fontainebleau. I have a man there who is in direct radio contact.”

“And my son?”

“The little boy’s with his father.”

“I don’t want Fabrice—I don’t want my son scared. Things are going to be hard enough for him as it is.”

“Nothing to be scared about, madame le juge. It’s best the boy
stay with his father. There’s nowhere that Monsieur Laveaud can go, and tomorrow I’ll bring your son back to Pointe-à-Pitre.”

“It’s very good of you.”

“Merely doing my duty.”

“I worry about my son.”

“I’ll accompany him personally to the Palais de Justice. I am quite sure he’ll enjoy the flight in our helicopter.”

“You’re very considerate.”

“Part of the job, madame le juge. Au revoir.”

“
Kenavo
.” Anne Marie hung up and waited a few minutes before getting to her feet. She went to the kitchen, drank a glass of chilled water and took two more antihistamine pills.

They had a soporific effect.

She went upstairs. The wooden stairs creaked in the empty apartment. Anne Marie took a shower, and then, still damp and with just a towel across her body, she lay down on the big bed. Within a few minutes, she fell into a dreamless sleep.

Outside, Pointe-à-Pitre returned to work after the midday hiatus.

The streets filled with fast, angry traffic. Cars honked and the Brazilian buses gave off fumes. The sun moved across the blue sky. The shadow of the flame trees, of the breadfruit trees, of the coconut palms, and the flamboyants inched slowly across the sidewalk.

Anne Marie was woken by the telephone.

“Ah.”

She picked up the bedroom extension.

“Madame Laveaud? I’ve been trying to get through to you for the last half-hour.”

“I was sleeping. Who’s that speaking?”

“It’s nearly half past five.”

“Who’s that?”

“Lafitte here. Glad I’ve got hold of you.”

Outside the sky had begun to darken. A distant cloud was tinged with red.

“Madame le juge, I shouldn’t really be phoning like this. I’m
calling from the bar opposite the Palais de Justice. I could be getting myself into trouble. Serious trouble.”

With one hand, she rubbed her eyes. “What’s the matter?”

“Azaïs. He’s got a search warrant, and he wants me to come round.”

“A search warrant?”

“For your apartment, madame le juge. Cité Mortenol, 903. He wanted me to come round this evening with him—but I told him you wouldn’t be at home and I managed to persuade him to put it off until tomorrow. Azaïs—I don’t know, this is only my opinion—I get the impression he wants to incriminate you in the airport killing.”

Anne Marie stared at her naked thighs.

“Are you still there, madame le juge?”

Her voice was weary. “Yes.”

“I thought I’d better warn you.”

“Thank you, Monsieur Lafitte.” She rubbed her eyes again. “That’s very good of you. I appreciate your help—and your consideration. Very much indeed.”

“The least I could do.” Perhaps he shrugged. Or perhaps the symmetrical features broke into a boyish smile. “You’ve always been very kind to me—better than a friend.”

“Thank you,” Anne Marie said softly and lowered the receiver onto the cradle.

She was tempted to go back to bed. She still felt sleepy, but instead she got up and showered, letting the cold water wash away the sweat and the sleep from her eyes. For a long moment she stared at her belly and she held her hand against the damp skin. Then she put on a cotton gown and went downstairs.

She found the phone number in her address book and she dialed. No answer.

Anne Marie sat on the divan and stared through the window as evening came to the city of Pointe-à-Pitre. The apartment was silent. From time to time, she looked at the photograph of Fabrice.

She dialed every five minutes and did not get through until nearly seven o’clock. By then the sky was quite dark.

“Hello?”

“Le procureur de la République?”

“Ah.” A gentle laugh. “Do I recognize the charming voice of our young juge d’instruction?”

“Yesterday afternoon—at the supermarket—you suggested that you may be able to help my husband.”

“He’s in trouble?”

“You know perfectly well he’s in trouble.”

A long pause.

“You realize, don’t you, madame le juge, you’ve not made life easy for me?”

“It was you, monsieur le procureur, who placed me in charge of the Calais dossier. You’ve only yourself to blame. You were hoping with a woman in charge you’d be able to control events more satisfactorily. Perhaps I’ve been unnecessarily stubborn, but I’ve tried to do my duty, and I’m now in a position to show Hégésippe Bray was innocent. Monsieur le procureur, Madame Calais has confessed to me. She admits to having shot her husband.”

“Ah.”

“She was jealous,” Anne Marie said simply. “You see, it really was not necessary to kill Hégésippe Bray.”

He laughed and over the line, his voice was harsh. “You still believe the old man was murdered in his cell?”

“I don’t believe Bray hanged himself.”

Another pause.

“Madame le juge, I can help you and … I think I can help your husband. The Cour de Sûreté de l’Etat—and particularly this man Azaïs—are kicking up a bit of a fuss. But don’t worry. I still wield a certain amount of clout in the département of Guadeloupe.” He stopped.

“Monsieur le procureur, could I take you up on your invitation?”

“Invitation? What invitation?”

“I could come round, and we could discuss these things. On
the veranda, over a planter’s punch, enjoying the evening breeze as we watch the cargo ships sail out into the night.”

“Sounds like a very good idea. Of course I can help you. You have my address?”

“I’ll be around in forty minutes, monsieur le procureur—just the time to get ready.”

“Excellent.” He laughed contentedly and hung up.

Anne Marie put the telephone down.

The photograph of Fabrice stared at her.

“Eight years, two months and ten days. If you had to walk to the moon. You remember, don’t you?”

It took her ten minutes to get dressed, to put on her makeup and brush her hair. More wrinkles—it was the sun that was drying out her skin. And a few more white hairs.

A drop of Van Cleef and Arpels to each wrist. She put on the new shoes; she also transferred her purse, her identity card and her keys to the new handbag. It was nearly eight o’clock by the time she was ready to leave. Just as she was about to go, she remembered the cigar tin.

She ran up the stairs—the new leather soles were slippery—and opened the drawer of the dressing table. She took out the tin.

Now that her finger was no longer swollen, the wedding ring slid comfortably back into its natural place.

Continue reading for a sneak preview of the next Judge Anne Marie Laveaud novel

The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe

Wednesday, May 16, 1990

“Y
OU
’
RE LOOKING
for me?” The woman was attractive, but her face appeared tired, the eyelids dark. There were wrinkles about the soft brown eyes. She placed a pile of exercise books on the table, beside her handbag.

“Madame Dugain?”

“Yes, I am Madame Dugain. Your child is in which class?”

Anne Marie moved toward the table. “It’s about your husband.”

For a moment the expression went blank while the eyes searched Anne Marie’s face. “I have already made a statement to the
police judiciaire
.” Madame Dugain drew a chair—a school chair with a steel frame and a plyboard seat—towards her. “Several statements.” She leaned against the backrest.