Citadel (42 page)
‘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.’
T
hey stood in silence for a moment, each hardly able to trust the evidence of their eyes. Then Sandrine reached out and took his hand, felt the flesh-and-blood reality of his fingers in hers.
‘Here you are,’ she said, finally remembering how to talk. ‘Yes.’
Raoul nodded. ‘All the way, I kept telling myself there was no reason you would be here. Yet, somehow . . .’
Sandrine stared at him, seeing her delight mirrored back in his face. Smiling, reminding each other and themselves of how they looked and sounded, until Sandrine realised how stupid they were being.
Quickly she pulled him inside and closed the door. ‘The police have been here. They’re looking for you.’
‘Why here? Why did they come here?’
‘They were going to every house, not just us. Someone in Couiza saw you.’
‘I heard the siren an hour back, but hoped . . .’ Raoul put his hand to his face and rubbed his stubble. ‘I hoped this would be enough.’
She smiled. ‘I rather like it.’ Still holding his hand, she took a step back. ‘How did you know I was here? Did Marianne tell you?’
‘No, I just thought I’d try my luck.’
‘What would you have done if I hadn’t been here?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Though I shouldn’t have come—’
‘Where have you been all this time?’ she interrupted, the words coming out in a rush. ‘What’s been happening?’
‘In a moment,’ he said, pulling her to him.
Raoul put his hand around her waist, the other around her neck. She felt the touch of his lips on hers and the salt of his skin, and the memory of the time spent without him faded away into the haze of the day.
‘Come on,’ she said quietly, finally slipping out of his arms. ‘Let’s join the others.’
‘Others? Who else is here?’
‘Marieta, of course. Also Max’s sister Liesl, as well as an old friend of Marieta’s.’ She caught her breath. ‘Marieta’s not been at all well.’
Quickly she explained what had happened.
‘But she’s going to be all right?’ he said. ‘She’ll make a full recovery?’
She nodded. ‘The doctor says she’ll be fine, provided she rests and doesn’t overdo things.’
‘And how’s Liesl holding up?’
‘Given what’s she’s been through, well.’ Sandrine glanced up the stairs to the girl’s closed door, then back to Raoul. ‘I’ll go and bring her down in a moment. Suzanne tried to find out where Max has been taken, but hit a brick wall. There’s been no news about César Sanchez. He’s gone to ground somewhere too.’ She paused. ‘Unless you know where he is?’
Raoul frowned. ‘César was arrested after the demonstration.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘When Suzanne went to the police, then the Palais de Justice, they denied all knowledge of him.’
‘But I saw them take him.’
‘I remember you saying that, but there’s no record of him being arrested.’ She paused, then carried on. ‘There is one thing. Antoine’s been found dead, outside Tarascon,’ she said, watching his face. ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you.’
Raoul nodded. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘I already know.’ He pulled the copy of
La Dépêche
out of his rucksack. ‘It’s what tipped the balance and made me decide to come to find you. I wanted to warn you.’
‘Monsieur Baillard thinks it will set things moving too.’
‘Monsieur Baillard?’
‘He was with Inspector Pujol when Antoine’s body was found. So far as I know, no one’s been trying to find me, though.’
‘Who’s Monsieur Baillard?’ he asked again.
Sandrine smiled. ‘Come and meet him. He’ll be able to explain better than I can.’
She pushed open the wire mesh screen and went out on to the terrace. Baillard was sitting in the shade, looking out over the garrigue.
‘Monsieur Baillard,’ Sandrine said, ‘this is Raoul. He saw the report of Antoine’s death in
La Dépêche
.’
Baillard stood up. ‘Do you usually act on what you read in
La Dépêche
?’
‘Not usually, sir.’
As the two men shook hands, Sandrine noticed how closely Monsieur Baillard was scrutinising Raoul’s face. As if searching for something, some sense of recognition or familiarity. ‘It is an honourable local name you have,’ Baillard said.
Raoul nodded. ‘The steward to Raymond-Roger Trencavel was called Bertrand Pelletier, I know. My brother used to tell me stories about him. Viscount Trencavel, Guilhem du Mas and Sajhë de Servian, others. The great heroes of the Midi, he called them.’
For a moment, something flickered in Baillard’s amber eyes, a window to another story, an older story, but then it was gone.
‘My father was always pointing out street signs to me when I was little,’ Sandrine said. ‘It was something of a crusade of his to have local men remembered in practical, visible ways. Not just Viscount Trencavel, but also Courtejaire, Cros-Mayreveille, Riquet, Jean-Jaurès. He thought it was the best way to keep the past alive in our memories.’
Raoul nodded. ‘My brother thought the same, though it is confusing when streets are forever being renamed.’
‘You won’t say that when it’s your name up on the wall for some heroic act of bravery,’ Sandrine teased. ‘You’ll be all for it then.’
They both laughed. Baillard did not.
‘Your father was right,’ he said. ‘We should remember the dead, those who gave their lives for others. These lands have suffered more than their fair share of occupation and violence. If we do not remember those who have gone before us, we are destined to repeat the same mistakes. We walk blind through time.’
His voice sobered them, brought a different atmosphere to their conversation. Sandrine frowned.
‘Surely it’s better to look forward?’
‘Sometimes,
filha
, yes. But history is perspective. Those who come after us will – may – look back on these times we are living through now and see the situation clearly. It is possible to see the span and the duration of things – a war of two weeks, two months, two years, two hundred years even. It will seem obvious to them which of the decisions we are making today are right and which are not. In the heat of the battle, it can be difficult for good people to act for the best.’
‘Only if you have no sense of right and wrong, she said.’
Baillard gave the slightest of smiles. ‘Some are fortunate enough to see the world in black and white. Others might perceive the situation the same way, yet feel their actions must be guided by different considerations.’ He glanced at Raoul. ‘So some view the partisans as freedom fighters, for example. Brave and honourable men and women, refusing to collude with an occupying force. Others think it is the partisans who are the terrorists, preventing France from enjoying peace.’
‘But that’s ridiculous. Nobody could possibly believe that.’
‘Ah, but you know there are some who do.’
Sandrine shook her head. ‘I don’t accept that there are always two sides to every story. I won’t. What happened to Liesl, the way the prisoners were forced on to the train, that was wrong. What’s happening in Paris – everywhere – it’s wrong. You have to choose.’
Baillard tilted his head to one side. ‘Do you think things are so simple, madomaisèla?’
Sandrine raised her chin. ‘Yes.’
Baillard smiled, then turned to Raoul. ‘And you, Sénher Pelletier?’
He hesitated. ‘Most of the time, yes.’
Baillard’s eyes rested on Raoul for a moment longer, then he nodded. ‘Good. It is good to be steadfast. It is to be hoped your certainty will serve you – serve us all – well.’
F
or a moment, Baillard’s words hung in the air between them. Then he nodded and, when he spoke again, his voice was practical. The reverie of moments before had gone.
‘Sénher Pelletier, I am glad to see you are safe. As, I am sure, is Madomaisèla Sandrine.’
She smiled. ‘But where have you been?’
‘When I left you, I decided that Coursan would assume I’d head immediately south. So I stayed close to Carcassonne instead. Roullens first, then Montclar, down to Cépie, then Limoux.’
‘So close,’ she sighed. ‘I pictured you in the mountains, on the coast.’
He nodded. ‘It was so hard not to turn round and come back,’ he said quietly. ‘Hardest thing of all.’
‘Is there any reason to believe the police are aware of your connection with this house, Monsieur Pelletier?’
‘Not from me, sir, no.’ He paused, then said: ‘Sandrine told me you were there when Antoine was found.’
Baillard nodded. ‘He died bravely.’
Raoul briefly bowed his head, but said nothing.
‘Did she also tell you that Antoine was working for me?’
‘I haven’t had a chance.’ She turned to Raoul. ‘He was supposed to be delivering something to Monsieur Baillard.’ She saw his expression change. ‘What?’ she said quickly. ‘Do you know what it was?’
