I Kill (43 page)

‘There aren’t any photos on the graves because they were all destroyed during the fire.’

‘Why are the birth dates missing on two of them?’

‘The two that have the birth dates are the mother and child. I think we didn’t get the other two birth dates in time. And then later . . .’ He waved his hand to indicate that
afterwards nobody had cared about adding them.

‘How did it happen?’ asked the inspector, without raising his eyes from the marble slabs.

‘Ugly business, and not just the story itself. Legrand was a strange character, a loner. He came here after buying La Patience, with his pregnant wife and another woman who must have been
some kind of housekeeper. He moved in and it was clear immediately that he didn’t want anything to do with anyone. His wife gave birth at home, alone. He and the housekeeper probably
helped.’

He gestured towards the gravestone.

‘The woman died a few months after having the baby. It might not have happened if she had delivered in the hospital. At least that’s what the doctor who wrote the death certificate
said. But that’s the way the man was. He seemed to hate people. No one ever saw the son. He wasn’t baptized, didn’t go to school. Probably had private tutors, maybe his father,
because he took all the exams at the end of the school year.’

‘Did you ever see him?’

The caretaker nodded. ‘Once in a while, very rarely, he came with his father and put flowers on his mother’s grave. Otherwise the housekeeper did it. One time something peculiar
happened.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing big, but it really showed what things were like between father and son. I was inside.’ He pointed to the small toolshed. ‘When I came out, I saw him, the father I
mean, standing at the grave. His back was to me. The boy was standing over there, near the railing, watching the children playing soccer down below. When he heard me come out, he turned his head in
my direction. He was a normal child, rather good-looking I’d say, but he had strange eyes. I guess
sad
would be the best description. The saddest eyes I’ve ever seen. His father
was distracted for a moment and he had snuck over there, attracted by voices of the other kids. I went to speak to him, but the father ran up to us, furious. He called the boy by name. And can I
tell you something?’

The caretaker stopped, probably to wipe the last bit of dust off that memory. He stared, not at Hulot but as if he were reliving the moment.

‘When he said “Daniel”, it was like a man saying “fire” to a firing squad. The boy turned to his father and started shaking like a leaf. Legrand said nothing. He
just looked at his son with those big crazy eyes. I don’t know what normally went on in that house, but I can tell you that right then
the boy had pissed himself
The caretaker looked
down at the ground. ‘So when I heard what happened years later, it didn’t surprise me that Legrand had done all that. Know what I mean?’

‘I heard he committed suicide after killing the housekeeper and the boy and setting fire to the house.’

‘That’s right. Or at least, that’s what the inquest said. There was no reason to suspect anything else and the man’s behaviour justified the hypothesis. But those eyes
–’ he looked off into the distance again, shaking his head – ‘I’ll never forget those eyes, the eyes of a madman.’

‘Is there anything else you can tell me? Any other details?’

‘Oh, yes. There were other strange things. Lots, I’d say.’

‘Such as?’

‘Oh, the theft of the body, for example. Then the business with the flowers.’

‘What body?’ For a moment, Hulot thought he had misunderstood.

‘His.’

The man nodded towards the grave of Daniel Legrand. ‘One night, after about a year, the grave was vandalized. When I got here in the morning, I found the gate open, the headstone moved
aside, and the coffin open. There was no trace of the boy’s corpse. The police thought it might have been some crazy necrophiliac.’

‘You mentioned something about flowers,’ said the inspector.

‘Yeah, there was that, too. A couple of months after the funeral, the cemetery received a typewritten letter. They gave it to me because it was addressed to the caretaker of the Cassis
cemetery. There was money inside the envelope. Not a cheque, mind you, but notes, wrapped in a letter.’

‘What did it say?’

‘That the money was to take care of the graves of Daniel Legrand and his mother. Not one word about the father or the housekeeper. Whoever had written the letter asked me to keep the
graves tidy and make sure there were always fresh flowers. The money continued to arrive even after the body was stolen.’

‘Even now?’

‘I got one last month. If there isn’t any change, I should be getting the next one sometime soon.’

‘Did you keep the letter? Any of the envelopes?’

The caretaker shrugged and shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I got the letter several years ago. I could look at home, but I don’t think I kept it. I don’t know about
the envelopes. Maybe I still have a couple. In any case, I can give you the next one if I get it.’

‘I’d appreciate that. And I’d also appreciate your not mentioning our conversation to anyone.’

‘Sure.’ The caretaker shrugged as if that went without saying.

While they were talking, a black-clad woman in a headscarf came along the path holding a bouquet of flowers. With tiny steps she walked to a grave in the same row as the Legrands’, bent
down and lovingly brushed off a marble gravestone. She spoke to the grave in a soft voice. ‘Sorry I’m late, but I had problems with the house today. I’ll go and get some water and
then I’ll explain.’

She lay the fresh flowers on the headstone and took the dead ones from the vase. As she shuffled off to fill it with water, the caretaker followed Nicolas’s gaze and guessed his thoughts.
There was pity on his face.

‘Poor woman. Just before the business at La Patience, she had a tragedy as well, an accident. It wasn’t anything unusual, if you can say that about a death. A diving accident. Her
son used to go fishing for sea urchins, which he sold to tourists from a stall at the harbour. One day, he never came back. They found his boat just outside one of the
calanques,
abandoned
with his clothes piled in it. When the body floated in with the sea, the autopsy found that he had drowned; something had probably gone wrong while he was diving. After the boy’s death . .
.’

The caretaker stopped and circled a forefinger at his temple. ‘Her brain went with him.’

Hulot stood watching the woman throw the old flowers she had removed from the grave into the bin. He thought about his wife. The same thing had happened to Céline after the death of their
son. The caretaker had said it perfectly.
Her brain went with him.

He wondered with a stab in his heart if people made the same gesture when they spoke of Céline. But the caretaker’s voice brought him back to the small-town cemetery of Cassis,
where he stood before the graves of a ruined family.

‘If that’s all you need . . .’

‘Oh, yes, you’re right. I’m sorry, Monsieur . . .?’

‘Norbert. Luc Norbert.’

‘I apologize for taking up so much of your time. You’re probably about to close for the night.’

‘No, the cemetery stays open late in the summer. I’ll come and close the gate later on, when it’s dark.’

‘Then I’ll stay here another minute, if you don’t mind.’

‘As you wish. If you need anything, I’ll be here. Or just ask anyone in town. Everybody knows me and they can show you where I live. Good evening, Monsieur . . .’

Hulot smiled and decided to give him something in exchange.

‘Hulot. Inspector Nicolas Hulot.’

The man accepted the confirmation of his guess without any particular expression. He simply nodded as though it could not have been otherwise.

‘Ah, Inspector Hulot. Well, good evening, inspector.’

‘Good evening to you, and thank you very much.’

The caretaker turned and Nicolas watched him go. The woman dressed in black was filling her vase with water from a tap near the chapel. A pigeon roosted on the roof of the toolshed while a
seagull soared high above in the sky. Beggars of the earth and the sea who shared the refuse left by man.

He looked back at the gravestones, staring at them as if wishing they could talk, while an avalanche of thoughts went through his mind. What had happened at that house? Who had stolen Daniel
Legrand’s disfigured body? What was the connection between a crime from ten years ago and a ferocious killer who destroyed his victims in exactly the same way?

He headed towards the exit. As he went down the walkway, he passed the grave of the boy who had drowned. He stopped for a moment in front of the grave and looked at the boy’s photo. A dead
boy with a lively face, smiling in the black-and-white image, which had probably been retouched for the occasion. He bent down and read the dead boy’s name. His eyes took in the words and
Nicolas Hulot suddenly could not breathe. He heard the rumbling of thunder and the words swelled to fill the entire surface of the gravestone. In one very long instant, he understood everything.
And he knew the identity of No One.

Without really noticing, he heard the echo of steps approaching on the concrete. He thought it might be the woman dressed in black, returning to her son’s grave.

Immersed in his thoughts, possessed by the excitement of his discovery, his heart was beating as heavily as a drum. So he never noticed the lighter beat of the step that came up behind him. He
did not notice until he heard the voice.

‘Congratulations, inspector. I never thought you would make it here.’

Inspector Nicolas Hulot turned around slowly. When he saw the gun pointed at him, he realized that, as the shadows of evening were lengthening, his good luck for the day had run out.

When Frank awoke it was still dark outside. He opened his eyes, and for the millionth time he was in an unknown bed, in an unknown room, in an unknown house. This time,
however, it was different. His return to reality didn’t mean that he had to spend another day with the same thoughts as the day before. He turned his head to the left and in the bluish light
from the lampshade, he saw Helena asleep beside him. The sheet only partly covered her and Frank admired the form of her muscles under her skin, the chiselled shoulders that ended in the smooth
line of her arms. He turned on his side and moved closer to her, like a stray dog cautiously approaching food offered by a stranger, until he could smell the natural perfume of her skin. It was
their second night together.

The night before, they had returned to the villa and climbed out of Frank’s car almost fearful that abandoning that small space might change something, that what had been created inside
the car might evaporate when exposed to air. They had gone inside the house furtively, without making a sound, as if what they were about to do was not within their rights but achieved by force and
falsehood.

Frank had cursed that uneasy feeling and the person who was the cause of it. There had not been any food or wine, as Helena had promised. It was just the two of them. Their clothing fell to the
floor with the certainty of a promise kept. There was another hunger and another thirst to satisfy, ignored for far too long. There was an emptiness to fill, and only then did they realize how
immense it was. Frank lay back on the pillow, closed his eyes, and let the images run free.

The door.

The stairs.

The bed.

Helena’s skin, unlike any other, touching his, finally speaking a familiar language.

Her beautiful eyes veiled in shadow.

Her frightened look when Frank had taken her in his arms. Her voice, a sigh on her lips brushing his.

Please don’t hurt me, she begged.

Frank’s eyes were wet with emotion. Words hadn’t helped him. Helena couldn’t find the right ones either. There was only the sweetness and fury with which they sought each
other, needed each other. He had taken possession of her body as gently as he possibly could, wishing with all his might that he could go back in time and change the course of things. And, as he
lost himself in her, he realized she had given him the power to do exactly that, and she could do the same for him. They would erase the suffering, if not the memory.

The memory . . .

He had not been with a woman since Harriet. Part of him had gone into suspended animation, leaving only his primary vital functions, the ones that allowed him to eat, drink, breathe and roam the
world like a robot made of flesh and blood. Harriet’s death had taught him that love cannot be reproduced on command. One can’t just decide to love again. Nor can one just decide never
to love again. It takes more than simple willpower, however strong. One needs the blessing of chance, that unique conjunction of elements that thousands of years of experience and discussion and
poetry have not been able to explain. Only try to describe.

Helena was an unexpected gift of fate. A surprise. Like the amazing discovery of a single blade of grass growing amid scorched rocks and barren earth. It did not yet mean a return to life, but
it was a small, softly murmured promise. A possibility to be cultivated in the throes of hope and trepidation, not happiness.

‘Are you asleep?’

Helena’s voice surprised him as he was sifting through their recent memories, vivid as freshly printed photographs. He turned and saw her outlined against the light of the bedside lamp.
She was watching him, leaning on her elbow with her head in her hand.