Speak Softly My Love (6 page)

Hubert
spoke up.

“
This is all very preliminary, Madame Godeffroy. Your husband
impresses me as a very ambitious man.”

All
those contradictions.

She
hadn’t even questioned as to why a couple of Paris detectives would
be involved, perhaps she really was in shock. It took people
different ways, some reacted differently. The real control freaks
were barking out orders and snapping out instructions to the last;
and the weak and the soft merely folded up like a wet cigar in the
hip pocket.

Even
through the tears, she remembered her manners. She sniffed and
gasped, nose already all stuffed up and needing a good blow. Like
almost anyone of her class, she had insisted on giving them tea,
not exactly unwelcome as it tended to settle the stomach and dull
the effects of a couple of tall mugs of cool lager.

It was his one regret, to arrive at this house of sadness,
smelling of alcohol. Hubert accepted the error calmly enough. Life
was a learning curve, and what was a welcome break from dull
routine for the pair of
them
was right in the midst of somebody else’s misery.
You couldn’t help but take it seriously sometimes.

“
Forgive us, Madame. These are all very dull, very routine
questions, and you have no doubt already heard them
before…”

She
nodded, sniffling, as Tailler whipped out his own handkerchief.
Taking it, she immediately made a mess of it and Tailler gave him
an unreadable look.

“
It’s just that we need to be really sure.” Tailler pulled out
more photos.

Lucinde
Godeffroy looked through them.

“
Take your time, Madame.”

They had
rather easily decided not to tell her about the body Gilles had
discovered. Lyon was over four hundred fifty kilometres from Paris.
They had their own blaring headlines, and the lady and those big,
beautiful blue eyes had hopefully not already been tainted by the
news coverage.

This far from Paris, there likely hadn’t been
much
if
anything.

“
Aw…” She broke down completely, upon seeing the gentleman as
a young man, standing at the side of the other Madame Godeffroy,
arm in arm at some seaside village. “Oh, God. Diddy…oh,
Diddy.”

“
So that is Didier?”

She
nodded through the torment.

“
For the record, Madame, we need to hear you say it
clearly.”

“
Yes—that is Didier.”

She
buried her face in her hands.

“
Any idea of who that other young lady is?”

She
shook her head, shuddering all over.

“
Did he ever talk about his old girlfriends?”

Nice!

That was
one way of putting it, thought Hubert.

She
shook her head, devastated.

“
Do you have any idea of who that other woman, ah, girl might
be?”

She
shook her head again.

“
No…no.” It was wracked out of her in a sob.

Didier must have been in his mid to late twenties when they
met. A few previous girlfriends might be a given. It was the sort
of thing you probably
wouldn’t
want to talk about too much.

He was sort of wondering why she didn’t ask about the other
person in the picture. How significant that might be was anyone’s
guess, and she was definitely a bit of a train-wreck. He wondered
if she
knew,
somehow.

She’d
already leapt to the conclusion. How could she not?

Tailler
got up, needing breath and movement and almost afraid to ask about
the children. Hubert made a point of doing so. Apparently they were
in boarding school. That would leave her alone, just her and one or
two part-time staff, a cook and a maid, which was sometimes not the
best solution. They were only here during daytime.

It would
be sheer hell to just sit and wait, thought Tailler.

He
wandered over to the mantelpiece, where there were yet more
pictures. There were Monique and Didier, him and her and the
children, a good looking boy and girl, and other family photos
which he presumed would be her parents. He was wondering who was
who. Didier was an orphan according to the first wife or whatever
she was.

“
Are these your parents?”

“
Yes. Didier had no one.”

“
Ah.”

For an orphan, a ward of the state, to go anywhere in life or
to make anything at all of themselves, was a real achievement. They
mostly grew up in the poor-house. His own middle-class upbringing
did nothing to dispel those notions. A few years in police work was
an awful dose of reality. Tailler really
had
been sheltered, accepting that
as the norm and sometimes wondering why anyone would be so errant
as to choose not to live a normal life.

That was
one way of putting it.

He had
learned not to judge too harshly.

After a
quick pause for thought, Hubert went on with the
questions.

“
And you two have been married about eight years, is that
correct?”

Her
response was muffled and indistinct, and Tailler turned away from
the pictures to listen.

“
Okay. How and where did you happen to meet?”

Chapter Six

By the
time they got out of there, it was late afternoon.

“
Whew. So that’s really our boy.”

Hubert
nodded.

“
Sure looks that way.” They still had to go back to the
hotel.

They
hadn’t had any dinner, and there was a quick stop at the Lyon
police station. Without a doubt no one, absolutely no one, would
have heard of them, and their benefactor, the redoubtable Sergeant
Roche, would have already gone off duty. It would all take too
long, eating into their valuable time off.

“
So.” Tailler had a way of cutting to the chase scene. “What
now?”

“
Dinner, a drink and a show—assuming there is such a thing in
this town.”

Lyon
wasn’t that bad, although being in a strange place had its
disadvantages. It might also have some advantages. They were young
and life was good. The thing to do was to accept it, let go, and
let the current take them.

Hubert
wanted to call home, as the lady friend would be expecting to hear
from him. Tailler had endured the fellow lying flat on his back, on
Tailler’s bed no less, and engaging in one of the mushiest, and
most endearing conversations he’d ever shamelessly eavesdropped
on.

And now
this.

Every
coin had two sides, in his observation.

As for
Tailler, other than his frail and elderly mother, there really
wasn’t much going on in his life at all. Before leaving, he’d made
a quick call and his sister had promised to check on mother around
bedtime. In his mother’s case, that meant seven o’clock in the
evening these days.

It
really was good to get away.

“
All right. One thing at a time. I’m hungry. And we really
ought to go see Roche. It can’t take more than five minutes. It’s
the least we could do for the guy.”

Hubert
grinned.

“
Yes, it is.”

Tailler
was nothing if not a growing boy and that impressive frame must be
fed.

They
finally got into their waiting taxi, the meter still ticking
inexorably over.

“
Driver.”

***

“
Oh, my God.” Emile Tailler couldn’t tear his eyes
away.

“
What?”

Etienne,
otherwise known as Detective Hubert, belched softly and eyed up the
tall but rapidly diminishing pitcher of the house draft.

“
Holy.”

Holy was
right, thought Hubert. It was like the guy had never seen a naked
girl before, and for all he knew that might be true. His head was
showing signs of stiffness, perhaps tightness in behind the eyes
was a better description. There was a very good chance that Hubert
would have a headache if not an outright hangover in the
morning.

He was
prepared to take that risk.

Grinning
at his thoughts, he eyed his friend. Surely he could call him that.
Tailler was working out pretty well and there was every indication
that he would be there in another six months or so.

Each
having drawn a couple of hundred francs in expense money, it was
like suddenly they were flush with cash, and in between paydays and
everything.

It was
about time the guy loosened up. It was a co-conspiracy after
all.

The club
was small, intimate, and minimalist. The floors were bare boards
painted dark brown, and the narrow black cracks hinted at damp
cellars and dirt floors down below. The interior walls were a warm
sort of ruddy multi-toned brick. They had been sandblasted back
into a kind of glowing cleanliness which nevertheless revealed the
history of the building. There were skylights three floors up. It
was a tall, vast and narrow space, really quite beautiful, and one
had to wonder what the neighbouring buildings looked like inside.
Probably nothing like this.

“
I have to admit, I’m impressed.”

Hubert
burst out laughing.

“
That’s what I like about you.”

Mona,
a lithe and acrobatic young
dancer with strong Gypsy features, had finally gotten down on all
fours. She went into her act on a tiger skin that must have been
three metres long. Hubert assumed it was real. He’d read one or two
stories where tigers figured prominently.

Hubert
looked away and sipped at his brew. He was hoping that Tailler
could take a hint, but the boy was apparently away from home for
the very first time, and overnight in a strange city at that. He
didn’t seem all that good at holding his liquor. Tailler probably
thought he’d had enough, but if so he was wrong.

The girl looked impishly at them, first over one shoulder and
then the other. She was down on hands and knees and presenting a
pretty fine
cul
in their general direction. The show would take in all
available points of the compass. Tables surrounded the small stage
on three sides. There was what would be called Perv’s Row, bench
seating right up against the stage. Based on past experience,
Hubert must assume that the boys down there could literally smell
her in all her glory. Tailler, having come in the door ahead of
him, had grabbed the first table he’d seen in a kind of defense
mechanism.

They
were at a table more or less in the darkest corner.

Emile
engaged him with a look and a nod, eyes slightly glazed as if he
couldn’t quite believe his luck. There was something of the look of
a three or four year-old child on Christmas morning—just when they
come to that age when they can truly comprehend. They become aware
of the larger world around them. They can finally detect something
other than their own stomach, their own bowels, their own little
world of toys and play and crying all the time. They could almost
hold their own shit in at that point.

There
was just the hint of white around Tailler’s eyes.

He’s
walked into a candy store and the owner has died of a heart
attack—you’re nine years old and you can see all the infinite
possibilities inherent in the situation.

“
An invoice is another name for the conscience.”

“
What?”

Tailler’s head bobbed and a serious look crossed that
pleasantly-ugly mug.

“
What about…?” Tailler was wondering what
she
might think of all
this…

“
Emmanuelle?” Hubert shrugged.

Tailler
looked away. The girl was staring deeply into his eyes as she
rolled around, going from side to side on her back, lifting her
legs wide open in a V and sliding her hands up and down her inner
thighs.

Emile
licked his lips, totally unconscious of the picture
presented.

“
Oh, boy.” Hubert heaved a sigh. “You know how it is. What she
doesn’t know can’t hurt me.”

Tailler
chuckled dutifully. On balance, Hubert could have done without the
reminder, but in his opinion no real harm would come of it. As for
the drinking, it would be interesting to see how that progressed.
He and Emmanuelle were engaged, and he was saving up for a really
good ring.

Until then, there were mutual intentions and promises made.
That didn’t necessarily mean he was enslaved to the girl. He
certainly hadn’t gone
blind
or anything like that.

For
crying out loud.

He
raised his glass in salute.

“
Normally, I drink alone.”

“
Huh?”

“
It’s just that I can’t stand alcoholics.”