Stone Bruises (28 page)

Spy on them, in other words. It puts me in an awkward position, but I’m more distracted by something else Jean-Claude’s said:
he keeps them all buried away
. He was talking about Arnaud’s family, but it’s another image entirely that comes to my mind.

The crumbling patch of concrete in the barn.

I push my plate away, the food almost untouched. ‘If you’re so convinced he’s lying why don’t you go to the police?’

‘You think I haven’t? I tried the local gendarmerie and the National Police in Lyon, for all the good it did. Without proof, they don’t want to know. They said Louis is a grown man, he can do what he likes.’

It takes me a moment to realize what that implies. Rural areas of France like this come under the jurisdiction of the gendarmerie: the National Police only operate in cities. There’s only one reason I can think of why Jean-Claude would have approached both, and I seize on it.

‘Where did you say he was last seen?’

Jean-Claude hesitates. He lowers his eyes to his glass, turning it in both hands. ‘There was a sighting of him at a garage on the outskirts of Lyon, two days after he left here. He was caught on the security camera when he stopped for fuel. But that doesn’t prove anything.’

He’s wrong. It proves his brother only went missing after he left town. From the way Jean-Claude’s been talking I assumed Louis never actually made it to Lyon, that his disappearance must be directly linked to Arnaud and the farm. If the last sighting of him was in a city halfway across the country, that’s something else entirely.

It feels like a weight’s gone from my shoulders.

‘Have you thought that the police could be right? Maybe he had a good reason for running away.’ The irony of that only occurs to me as I’m saying it. It prompts a twinge of shame I deliberately ignore.

Jean-Claude stares at me, big arms resting on the table. I have the uncomfortable feeling that he’s weighing me up, reconsidering what to make of me.

‘My wife and I, we haven’t been blessed with children,’ he says. ‘Apart from her, Louis is my closest family. And I’m his. Whenever he fucks up, sooner or later he comes to me to sort it out. Because I’m his brother, that’s what I do. Except this time.’

‘Look—’

‘Louis is dead. I don’t need the police to tell me that. If he were still alive I’d have heard from him by now. And Arnaud’s got something to do with it. I don’t care where Louis was last seen, the old bastard’s hiding
something
. So what I want to know is if you’ll help me find out what happened to my brother?’

Despite his gruffness, the loss and frustration are plain. God knows I can sympathize with the need to find someone to blame, but it doesn’t change anything. ‘I still don’t see what I can do. I don’t even know how much longer I’ll be staying there. I’m sorry.’

It sounds like I’m making excuses, even to me. Jean-Claude stands up, taking out his wallet and dropping a note onto the table to cover lunch.

‘There’s no need to—’

‘I said it was on me. Thanks for your time.’

His broad shoulders briefly block the doorway as he turns his back and walks out.

The cabin of the van is like an oven, stifling with the smell of hot plastic and oil. It drives sluggishly, the bags of sand in the back weighing it down like an anchor. I keep my foot on the accelerator, trying to force the speed from it. It’s only when the van begins to rattle that I ease off, and then only slightly. The engine vibrates, complaining as I drive along the almost empty road.

I don’t know why I’m so angry, or who at. Myself probably: I should never have agreed to listen to Jean-Claude. Still, at least now I know the reason for the hostility towards Arnaud. The town’s been given a juicy scandal to chew on, and someone as antisocial and belligerent as him would make a convenient target.

But I can’t see how he can be held responsible for Louis going missing. From what I’ve heard, Michel’s father seemed more than capable of antagonizing any number of people himself. Either he crossed the wrong person or decided to cut his losses and start afresh.

Good luck with that, I think bleakly.

My mood doesn’t improve as I near the farm. The last time I ventured out I couldn’t wait to get back: now I find myself slowing down as the gate comes into view. I pull up onto the verge alongside, sitting with the engine running instead of getting out. The road carries on past it into the distance, heading in the direction I first came. For the first time since I arrived, I find myself seriously contemplating the prospect of going back.

But back to what?

I climb out to unlock the gate, repeating the process again once I’ve driven through. I guide the van down the rutted track and park in the courtyard. Opening the back, I start transferring the bags of sand one at a time into the storeroom. There are a lot of them: I bought as many as I could fit in, not wanting to run out again.

It feels now that I’ve bought too many.

A sense of impatience begins to build up in me as I unload the van. At first I don’t know its cause, but then some sand spills out onto the floor and I make the connection. There’s no reason for the conversation with Jean-Claude to bother me, not now I know Louis got as far as Lyon.

But I can’t stop thinking about the patch of concrete in the barn. And whatever it was I saw caught in it.

Mathilde comes from the house as I’ve almost finished emptying the van. She’s carrying Michel astride her hip.

‘Was there a problem?’

‘No.’ I slide the last bag of sand towards me across the van floor.

‘You were a long time.’

‘I stopped off for lunch.’

She watches me lift the sand, as though waiting for me to continue. ‘My father says you can eat dinner in the house with us again tonight,’ she says when I don’t.

‘OK.’

I walk past her, the heavy sack hugged to my body. Going into the cool storeroom, I drop it to the floor with the others, already regretting being abrupt. I’m not looking forward to spending another evening with Arnaud, but there’s no use taking my bad mood out on Mathilde. If there’s one victim in all of this, it’s her.

I go back out, intending to apologize, but the courtyard’s empty.

I close the van’s doors and look up at the scaffold. But I already know I’m not going up it just yet. There’s something I have to do first.

I set off across the courtyard to the barn.

The cavernous interior is cool and dark. I go inside and look down at the cracked scab of concrete. I’ve walked over it every day for weeks without really noticing it. It’s rectangular, about five or six feet long and half that wide. Big enough to hold a body. I think again about what Jean-Claude said.

He keeps them all buried away
.

An awful feeling is starting to form. I tell myself I’m being stupid, but I have to know. I glance around to make sure I’m alone, then crouch down. I can just make out the small scrap that’s protruding from the crack. It could be anything. A sweet wrapper, a dirty rag. Anything at all.

So why don’t you find out?

I squeeze my thumb and forefinger into the gap. The object is stiff but pliable, and held fast. Pinching hold, I work it backwards and forwards, skinning my fingers and causing more concrete to crumble away. Whatever’s caught in there resists for a few more seconds, and then breaks free with a scatter of grit.

I climb to my feet and take my prize into the sunlight. It’s a torn strip of cloth, the same dusty colour as the concrete. I examine it, turning it in the light, and then give a laugh as I realize what I’m holding. It isn’t cloth, it’s paper. Thick paper.

A piece of cement bag.

Chalk one up for an over-active imagination, I think, brushing sand off my scraped fingers.

I work later than usual that afternoon, making up for lost time and trying to exorcise some of the tension that still lingers. The sun is only just above the trees when I finally call it a day. My shoulders ache and my arms and legs are heavy as I lower myself down the ladder. I trudge back to the barn to wash under the freezing tap. Stripping off the overalls, I remember something else Jean-Claude said and pause to sniff them. Dirt and sweat, but if there’s a smell of pig I can’t detect it.

Maybe I don’t notice any more.

I change into my own clothes and then head up to the house for dinner. The door is open so I go straight into the kitchen. The table has already been set for four. I take the same seat as last time. My seat. Arnaud sits at his usual place at the head. He opens a bottle of wine and silently pushes it towards me. Gretchen gives me a smile as she helps Mathilde serve the food, as if she’s emerging from whatever distant place she’s been. They join us and we begin to eat.

Just like a normal family.

I ONLY GO
on the date as a favour to Callum.

‘Come on, why not? I’ve been trying to get Ilse out for a drink for ages, but she wants to bring her friend. You’ll like her, Nikki’s a great girl.’

‘So you’ve met her?’ We’re standing at the bar in Callum’s local, a packed pub with large-screen TV showing different sports. It’s his idea of a quiet drink.

‘Well, no, but Ilse says she is,’ he admits. ‘And she’s Australian. Come on, Sean, it’s like falling off a horse. If you don’t get your feet back in the stirrups soon you’re going to forget how to ride. Then when you finally do get in the saddle again you’ll fall off, and we don’t want that, do we?’

‘What the hell are you talking about?’ I say, but I’m laughing.

‘I’m talking about going out and having a good time. What have you got to lose? God forbid, you might even enjoy yourself.’

‘I don’t know …’

He grins. ‘That’s settled then. I’ll fix it up.’

We meet in a bar near Leicester Square. The plan is to have a drink before taking in an early screening of the latest Tarantino. It’s Callum’s suggestion, but I’m not a fan of Tarantino’s newer work and I’m not sure blood and violence is the right sort of film for a first date. As we wait in the bar I’m nervous, already regretting agreeing to this. When the two girls arrive I’m even more convinced I’ve made a mistake. Nikki is a copywriter for an advertising agency, and it’s soon obvious that she’s as reluctant to be there as I am. Strangely, that makes things easier, and once we’ve established that neither of us expects anything from the other we’re both able to relax.

One drink slides into two, and then three, so that we have to hurry to make the film. Callum’s already bought the tickets, and as we cross the foyer I take my phone out to switch it off. I’ve no sooner got it in my hand than it rings.

The caller ID says it’s Chloe.

I stare at the screen. I’ve not seen or heard anything from her since the night Jules brought her into the Zed. I’ve no idea why she might be calling now.

‘We need to go in, Sean,’ Callum says, giving me a look.

My thumb hovers above the
Answer
and
Ignore
keys. Before I can press either the ringing abruptly stops.
Chloe
glows up at me from the screen for a moment longer, then winks out.

I feel a stir of guilt as I turn the phone off and put it away. But the others are waiting for me, and Chloe made her choice. If it’s anything important she’ll leave a message or call back.

She doesn’t.

MY STITCHES COME
out late one morning. The scabs from the trap’s metal teeth have hardened and healed since I’ve left off the bandage, and the stitches perform no function any more except to irritate me. They could probably have come out sooner, yet Mathilde hasn’t suggested it and I haven’t pressed. For some reason I’m reluctant to have the unsightly black whiskers removed.

But this particular morning they’re itching more than ever. When I find myself furiously scratching at them, then tugging at a loosening thread myself, I realize I can’t ignore it any longer.

It’s time.

I ask Mathilde when I collect my breakfast from the house. Brushing back a strand of hair, she simply nods.

‘I can do it later, if you like.’

I thank her and retreat back to the barn. Yet after breakfast I still put it off. I mix a batch of mortar to take up the scaffold. I’ve lost track of days, but I’m pretty certain this is a Sunday. Not even Arnaud has suggested I should work seven days a week, but I’ve fallen into the habit all the same. It keeps the time from lying too heavily on my hands, something it seems to do more and more lately.

I feel unsettled and out of sorts as I start trowelling the mortar into the gaps. It isn’t only the thought of having the stitches taken out. I’ve been sleeping better than I have in years. Physical exertion, good food and sun have been an effective counter to insomnia, or at least they were. Since Gretchen’s nocturnal visit I’ve taken to sliding the chest of drawers on top of the trapdoor again, but I can’t blame her for my broken sleep.

The dreams about washing my hands in the copse have started again.

I ease another stone into place, scraping off and then smoothing the wet mortar until it’s indistinguishable from its neighbours. The upper section of the house is almost done. A few more days and it’ll be time to drop the scaffolding boards to a lower level and begin the cycle all over again. There’s plenty of the big farmhouse left to hack out and repoint, enough work to keep me occupied for months.

If that’s what I want.

Wiping a trickle of sweat from my forehead, I glance at my watch to check the time. But of course it’s still in my rucksack, where it’s been ever since I started working on the house. I haven’t missed it, but now I’m nagged by an irrational feeling that I’m late for something.

I’m out of mortar, which makes this as good a time as any for a break. Carrying my empty bucket down the ladder, I leave it at the foot of the scaffold and go to the kitchen. The door is open, but when I knock it’s Gretchen who answers.

‘Is Mathilde around?’ I ask.

Her smile vanishes. ‘Why?’

‘She said she’d take my stitches out this morning. But if she’s not here it doesn’t matter.’