The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau (18 page)

Instead Gorski headed north, away from Saint-Louis. Gorski was confident that the wall formed the rear boundary of the large villas on the outskirts of the town. After three or four hundred metres it ended, giving way to some vegetable plots, which might have belonged to the nearby houses, or were perhaps rented by townsfolk. Gorski cut through a pathway leading towards the
road and doubled back towards where he had first emerged from the woods. The houses on the northern edge of the town were large imposing buildings set back from the road, their privacy protected by stone walls and mature trees. Aside from the occasional burglary, he had not had occasion to visit these properties since the murder of Juliette Hurel.

Gorski recognised the name on the mailbox at the foot of the drive of one of the houses. He put on his jacket to hide the large sweat marks under his arms. His footsteps crunched conspicuously on the gravel as he approached the house. Certainly he had been here before, but he struggled to recall the details of his previous visit. Gorski felt ill at ease approaching the house. He half-expected the owner to come out and berate him for trespassing. Even now as a police inspector, he felt uneasy in the presence of the bourgeoisie who inhabited these grand houses. Since their marriage, Céline had been relentless in her intolerance of Gorski's lower class mannerisms, endlessly correcting his speech and reprimanding him for wiping his mouth with the back of his hand or holding his cutlery incorrectly. As a result, Gorski was, as Céline put it, just about able to pass in polite society, but in her absence, Gorski often reverted to his old ways, betraying his origins through a certain obsequiousness in the presence of his social superiors.

He rang the bell. It was a full minute before the door was opened by a uniformed maid. She looked enquiringly at him. Gorski resisted the temptation to apologise for the intrusion and handed her his card. He asked to speak to Monsieur or Madame Paliard. As soon as he stepped into the cool of the entrance hall and inhaled the musty aroma of the old house, his previous visit returned to him. The interview had been conducted in a reception room through the door to his left. It was a grand, high ceilinged room with elaborate cornicing, an old-fashioned brass candelabra and somewhat gaudy furniture. There was a bay window, hung with pale green velvet drapes and a large fireplace with an enormous gilt-framed mirror above it. Gorski recalled
catching a glimpse of his younger self in that mirror. The air had been still and cool. It was clear that the room was rarely used. Gorski had asked Monsieur Paliard and his wife a few rudimentary questions about the murder of Juliette Hurel. Paliard, he recalled, was a lawyer. Gorski had remarked that he had not encountered him in the criminal courts and Paliard had told him that he practised family law.

The maid left Gorski in the hall and returned a few moments later to show him into the reception room. It was exactly as he recalled. The air in the room was dead, as if it had not been disturbed since his last visit. The maid informed him that M. Paliard would join him in a few minutes and offered him a refreshment while he waited. Gorski asked for a glass of water.

‘It's very hot,' he said, immediately scolding himself for feeling the need to justify such a modest request. The maid disappeared and returned with a jug of iced water and two glasses on a silver tray. When she left, Gorski poured himself a glass and downed it. He was still sweating from his walk through the woods. He took out his handkerchief and mopped his brow. Céline maintained that sweating was a lower class habit. And it was true, in twenty-two years of marriage, Gorski had never seen his wife perspire.

The old man arrived. He gripped a walking stick in each hand and leant heavily on them. A plastic tube was attached to his nose with medical tape. His skin was a greyish yellow and hung loosely on his face. Nevertheless Gorski recognised him immediately. Despite his frailty, he retained an air of authority. He struggled to a sofa and dropped down into it with difficulty. He motioned with a crooked finger that Gorski should sit, which he did. Paliard's fragile state of health sharpened Gorski's feeling that his visit was an intrusion.

Paliard made no attempt to initiate proceedings. There was no
What can I do for you
? or
How can I help you, Inspector
? Only those cowed by the presence of a police officer began in such a manner. Old money, Gorski had long since learned, treated the police with disdain. They were received as, in the past, the
gamekeeper or the stableboy might have been.

‘You've risen in the ranks since our last meeting, Inspector.'

‘Yes,' said Gorski.

‘That probably says more about the mediocrity of our police force than any ability on your part.' A thin smile flickered across Paliard's lips. The effort of this prompted a wheezing cough from the back of the old man's throat. He indicated that Gorski should pour a glass of water from the jug on the table. Gorski did so and handed it to Paliard, who waited for the wheezing to subside before taking a sip. Gorski was reminded of the hours he spent sitting silently with his father in the latter days of his life. He waited for Paliard to catch his breath.

‘I'm investigating the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau,' Gorski said by way of justifying his reappearance, despite the fact that the current investigation had no bearing on his visit or at least not one that he could easily have explained. In any case, Paliard ignored him.

‘I remember your last visit. I was as unimpressed with you as I was with the conclusion of the case you were investigating. What was the name of the girl?'

‘Hurel, Juliette Hurel.'

‘Yes,' said Paliard. ‘It was a vagrant that got done for it, was it not? Malou, if I recollect?'

‘That's right,' said Gorski. He was embarrassed that the old man recalled the details of the case.

‘Not a shred of evidence, if I remember correctly. A real stitch-up.'

‘There was an eyewitness that placed him in the vicinity,' said Gorski without conviction.

Paliard tutted slowly and shook his head.

‘I'm quite sure even a man of your limited intelligence would not place too much credence on the evidence of an attention-seeking old woman.'

‘Malou was tried and found guilty,' said Gorski.

‘And thus you absolve yourself of responsibility. Splendid!'
said the old man.

Gorski said nothing. He was beginning to regret calling upon Paliard, especially given the ill-defined grounds for his visit. At the end of the day, the conviction of Malou was not his responsibility. He had been obliged to follow up a lead and likewise he was obliged to divulge the testimony of the widow. It had not been his decision to prosecute Malou, nor had it been he who had found him guilty. There was, however, little to be gained from putting this to Paliard.

‘As I said,' he began again, ‘I'm investigating the disappearance of Adèle Bedeau.'

Paliard shook his head again. ‘I find it hard to believe that even a man such as yourself could think that I might be able to furnish you with any information in that connection. Rather, I imagine you are here because you believe there is a connection between the two cases. And, as such, it stands to reason that you think that Malou was falsely convicted.'

Gorski could see no way of progressing the interview without conceding the point.

‘Yes,' he said. He was not sure he had ever admitted this to anyone other than Céline. In a way it was a relief to do so.

Paliard showed no sign of satisfaction at his small victory. ‘So, given that you are, as I gather from the newspapers, getting nowhere in your current investigation, you think that the case you failed to solve twenty years ago might shine a light on the present one.'

Hearing Paliard articulate his thoughts made it sound every bit as ridiculous as Gorski feared it would.

‘You're clutching at straws then?'

‘Yes, I am,' said Gorski.

‘A man who doesn't clutch at straws drowns,' said Paliard. He looked at Gorski. He had narrow pale blue eyes. Gorski wondered if he detected a hint of encouragement in Paliard's words.

‘Inspector Gorski, in a matter of minutes my nurse is going
to appear at the door there and tell you that your time with me is up. I suggest that if you've got something on your mind, you come to the point.'

Gorski felt he had nothing to lose. It did not seem likely that Paliard could have a lower opinion of him than he already did.

‘Ever since the trial, I've gone back to the clearing where the murder took place. It's ridiculous, of course, but I thought there might be something that had been overlooked. I suppose I was hoping for a moment of inspiration.' He paused, expecting Paliard to inject some sarcastic remark, but he said nothing.

‘After a while, I just went up there out of habit. Often I didn't think about the case at all, or I just thought about whatever case I was working on at the time. It's quiet up there. You couldn't pick a better spot for a murder.'

Gorski felt that he was beginning to ramble. To his surprise, however, Paliard was listening attentively. ‘Since this girl disappeared I've been thinking about the Hurel case again. One thing's for sure, if Malou was not the culprit then the real killer is still at large. I always believed at the time that the perpetrator must have been local, which was one of the reasons I never believed that Malou was the guilty party. So it stands to reason that he may still be in the area, assuming he's still alive, of course. So when Adèle Bedeau disappeared I couldn't help wondering if the same killer was at work.' He shrugged. ‘As you said, I'm clutching at straws.'

Paliard said nothing.

‘I was in the woods a short while ago. For no particular reason, I left the clearing in a different direction than usual and found myself at the gate in the wall to the back of this property.'

The door opened. A young woman in a blue medical smock entered.

‘I'm afraid you'll have to leave now. Monsieur Paliard is not able to receive visitors for long. It exhausts him.'

Paliard jerked his thumb towards the nurse. ‘She likes to talk
about me as if I'm not here.'

Gorski smiled thinly.

‘I'm afraid I've wasted your time. I came on a whim. I'm sorry for disturbing you.'

Paliard waved away his apology. ‘Not at all. I've found our talk quite stimulating. Feel free to call again. Only…' He was interrupted by another fit of wheezing.

The nurse walked across the room and stood proprietarily behind her charge.

‘Inspector,' she said firmly.

Gorski nodded and stood up. He bid the spluttering Paliard good day and saw himself out. Despite Paliard's derision, he was glad he had paid the visit. Although nothing concrete had come of it, he was at least engaging with the investigation. And there was something in the atmosphere of that tomb-like room which he felt he was missing. He thought of Ribéry's dictum to look for what was not there. His footsteps crunched down the gravel exactly as they had twenty years before. There was a heavy aroma of laburnum. Then he remembered there had been a boy, a teenager. He turned and half-ran back up the driveway. The front door was not locked. The maid appeared in the passage at the rear of the hall.

‘Inspector, you can't…'

Gorski ignored her. The drawing room door was open. Paliard was still on the sofa, an oxygen mask now attached to his face. He was struggling even to catch the shallowest breath, one craggy hand gripping the arm of the sofa, the other over his chest. The nurse was fussing around him. She saw Gorski in the doorway and ordered him out.

M
ANFRED HAD ALWAYS HATED
S
ATURDAYS
. During the week, even if one hated one's job, one went to work because one had to, because there was no choice in the matter. People congregated in their work places with a sense of communal resignation. It was relatively easy to give the appearance of being a normal member of society. Weekends were different. One was expected to enjoy oneself, to take part in healthy outdoor pursuits, family or social events. Manfred had never enjoyed such activities. If he read books or went to the cinema, it was not so much because he enjoyed doing so, but because it filled the hours. He dreaded Monday mornings when the staff at the bank would regale each other with tales of how packed with activity their weekends had been. Each seemed determined to be the one who had eked the most pleasure out of their hours of liberty. Without fail, when she brought in his coffee, Carolyn would ask her boss if he had had a pleasant weekend. Manfred always assured her that he had. If pressed, he sometimes said that he had been to the cinema in Strasbourg. This seemed to satisfy the girl's curiosity and she would then recount her weekend's activities for as long as Manfred would tolerate. He barely listened and often sat imagining what she would say if he told her in a matter of fact way that he had visited a disreputable club where he had committed a sexual act with a girl of about her age whose name he did not even trouble to ask.

On this particular Saturday, however, there was no question of Manfred visiting Simone's. The prospect of that part of his routine coming to Gorksi's attention was not appealing. On top of that, since his evening with Alice, the seedy allure of Simone's had dissipated and Manfred felt a sort of shame in ever having visited the place. His weekend required some thorough reorganisation.

He began by telephoning his grandmother to tell her he would not be coming for lunch on Sunday. She made no attempt to conceal her disappointment. Manfred explained that he was meeting a friend.

‘A friend?' Mme Paliard repeated. ‘What kind of friend?'

Manfred had expected her to be pleased to hear this news. Instead her tone was one of incredulity.

‘A woman who lives in my building,' he explained.

‘I see,' she said, as if the phrase was some kind of euphemism. ‘Couldn't you meet this friend some other time? Your grandfather will be upset. He hasn't been well. You know how your visits cheer him up.'

‘I'm sure he'll get over it,' Manfred said, immediately regretting his harsh tone. He knew, of course, that it was his grandmother who was disappointed not to see him. ‘Perhaps I could come during the week. Thursday, perhaps?' If he visited on that evening, he could avoid a repeat of his exclusion from the card game.

‘It doesn't matter,' she said. ‘We'll see you next Sunday.'

Manfred put the phone down feeling angry towards his grandmother, but he was glad she had not accepted his offer to visit during the week. His routine was disordered enough as it was. He decided to do his laundry this afternoon. Even Gorski could hardly interpret anything untoward in an alteration to the time at which Manfred carried out this task. Alice had agreed to call for him at two o'clock the following afternoon to ‘do something together'. Manfred had little idea what doing something together might entail, but certainly it was at least possible that it would carry on into the evening, when he would normally do his
washing. Manfred did not expect this to be the case. Nevertheless it was prudent to be prepared for such an eventuality. He felt uneasy as he took the back stairs down to the scullery with his sack of washing. He did his washing on Sunday evenings precisely because the laundry room was always empty at that time. Perhaps on a Saturday morning it would be teeming with residents with whom he would be obliged to exchange pleasantries. The room was empty. The other residents of the building were most likely busy eking pleasure out of their Saturdays.

Manfred hurriedly pushed his shirts and undershorts into one machine and his socks and other garments into a second. He sat down as he always did on the plastic chair by the door and opened his book, but he could not concentrate. He was concerned that Alice might come in. He had no wish to witness the spectacle of her sifting through her underwear, but he could hardly withdraw if she arrived. They would be forced to engage in conversation for the hour or so it took the machines to do their work, exhausting topics of conversation that might be required the following afternoon. Alice would in all likelihood take such a situation in her stride, but the scenario alarmed Manfred. He decided to go upstairs to his apartment and return when the cycle was over. It was not uncommon for people in the building to leave their washing unattended. Machines were often running when he came down and clothes sometimes seemed to have been left in them for hours. Manfred disapproved of this practice, and had on occasion left anonymous notes to this effect, but the circumstances were exceptional. He would return as soon as the cycle was over and remove his washing from the machine. He spent an hour pacing restlessly around his flat. He decided that he would, after all, spend the evening in Strasbourg. Since he often told Carolyn he went to the cinema, that was what he should do. He took it as read that Gorski was fully appraised of his movements and he would place some negative interpretation on any deviation from his routine. In any case, he had no desire to spend the evening cooped up in his apartment.

Manfred returned to the laundry room just as the machine was ending his cycle. A man was loading his washing into one of the free machines. He was in his sixties and Manfred had often seen him walking his little terrier around the play park behind the building. He suspected that his dog might be responsible for the faeces that had recently been found in the stairwell, but, as he had no real evidence to back up his suspicions, he did not mention it. The space was too cramped for them both to move around, so he was obliged to loiter in the doorway while the man finished loading his machine. Neither of them said anything. The man turned on his machine and, to Manfred's relief, left the room. Contrary to his normal practice, Manfred bundled his wet clothes into his laundry sack and took them back to his apartment. There was an old clothes horse on the balcony. Manfred unfolded it and pegged up his shirts. In an hour or so the sun would reach the balcony and they would be dry in no time. Manfred leant for a moment on the metal balustrade. Alice's car was parked below. Manfred was tempted to wait there on the balcony just for the opportunity of seeing her come out and get into her vehicle. It would be quite normal to wave and call out a greeting to her. Of course, he would do no such thing. He would press his back to the wall of the balcony for fear of being spotted spying on her. Children were playing noisily in the park. A group of Arab women sat gossiping on a bench. One of them turned and looked up towards the balcony. Manfred retreated into the kitchen.

When Manfred went to the station to catch the 17.35, Alice's car had gone. He wondered what she might be doing. Perhaps she was seeing her repellent ex-husband. Manfred purchased his ticket and arrived at the platform a little earlier than usual in order to ascertain whether he was being followed. It was a pleasant evening. To the east, the sky above Basel was already taking on a pinkish hue. A smartly dressed man in his mid-thirties was standing on the platform holding a folded newspaper in his right hand. Manfred was not sure if he had already been
on the platform when he arrived. He walked across his eye line and continued to the end of the platform. There were few other people around, but the man appeared to be consciously avoiding looking in Manfred's direction. As he approached the man for a second time, he turned and raised his eyes to the departure board. The Strasbourg train was due in two minutes.

Manfred positioned himself behind the man, in the doorway of the little brick waiting room. He had no doubt that the man was aware that Manfred was now watching him. He enjoyed the idea that he had turned the tables. He was quite sure his actions would be noted and reported back to Gorski: that he had not been at all cowed by the fact that he was being watched; indeed, that he had behaved like a man who had nothing on his conscience. When the train pulled in to the platform, the man had no choice but to get on first, clear evidence that he already knew where Manfred was heading. Manfred was tempted for a moment to stand on the platform and watch the train pull away with the detective aboard. He imagined the cop leaping to his feet and banging on the door to be let out and then having to shame-facedly inform Gorski that he had lost his quarry. Amusing though the idea was, it would ruin the carefully constructed illusion that Manfred was behaving exactly as he normally would. Besides, would it not seem peculiar if, having bought a ticket only a few minutes before, he failed to board the train?

The man had taken a seat at the end of the carriage. He gave every appearance of being engrossed in his newspaper. Manfred sat at the opposite end of the carriage and took his book from the pocket of his raincoat. The man did not once raise his eyes from his newspaper. But why should he? He already knew Manfred was on the train.

As the train sped through the countryside, Manfred realised there was a flaw in his plan for the evening. He would be observed going to the cinema. That in itself was not a problem. It would be easy enough to recount, if required, the actors and narrative of the film he went to see. But, as his trip was intended to give
the impression that he was in the habit of going to the cinema in Strasbourg, he might be asked what other films he had seen on other occasions, at what time, in which cinema and so on. Such information could easily be checked. On top of that, there was a cinema in Saint-Louis not five hundred metres from Manfred's apartment. Why would he travel eighty minutes by train to go to the cinema when he could do the same thing on his own doorstep? Manfred resolved to buy a newspaper in the station to ensure he did not see a film that was showing in Saint-Louis.

Manfred imagined the questioning that would ensue:

You bought a newspaper when you reached the station?

Yes. I wanted to check which films were showing.

So you didn't know which film you were going to see before you took the train to Strasbourg?

No.

Why not go to the cinema in Saint-Louis?

I didn't want to see any of the films that were showing there.

What films were showing?

And, thus, he would be found out. Instead, he should make directly for a cinema – the little one on Rue du 22 Novembre that showed obscure foreign films – and buy a ticket for the first film that was on. If there was time to kill, he would have a glass of wine or something to eat in a nearby café. What could be more normal than that?

By the time the train pulled into Strasbourg, Manfred was feeling quite pleased with himself. The man with the newspaper was first to leave the carriage. Manfred followed him off the train. The man walked rapidly along the platform onto the concourse, not once looking over his shoulder. He appeared to be in a hurry. He dropped his folded newspaper into a litter bin without breaking his stride. It seemed a strange thing to do. Why, if he had finished with the newspaper, had he not left it on the seat of the train? Perhaps, knowing that he had been spotted, it was a pre-arranged signal to another operative waiting at the station. Quite spontaneously, Manfred decided to follow the first
man. He almost broke into a run so as not to lose him as he strode across the concrete expanse of Place de la Gare. For a moment, Manfred felt quite exhilarated. He was in control of events. The man crossed into Rue de Maire Kuss and continued to walk briskly. At no point did he look over his shoulder.

Manfred kept about twenty metres back. The man was not difficult to follow. He was taller than average and was wearing a light linen suit. He was, in fact, rather conspicuous. After a few minutes he entered a brasserie. An attractive woman sitting at a table in the window stood up. There was a glass of wine on the table in front of her. They greeted each other with a kiss on the lips before the man sat down at the table and summoned the waiter. Manfred stood dumbly observing this vignette from the pavement outside. The waiter arrived and the man ordered a drink. Then he glanced out of the window and saw Manfred on the pavement outside. A puzzled expression flitted across his face as if he was trying to place him, but his gaze did not stay on him for more than a second and he quickly returned his attention to his companion. Manfred suddenly felt ridiculous. He could hardly remain there spying on them. And to what end? He turned away abruptly and bumped into a woman walking in the opposite direction. She muttered a derogatory comment under her breath.

Manfred felt a sudden and vicious desire for alcohol. Not for his usual glass of wine, but for something that would provide swifter inebriation. He turned into an alley where he was sure he could find a suitable watering hole. He almost burst through the door of the first suitable establishment, a dimly lit place where alcohol was consumed in the candid pursuit of intoxication. Such was his relief at reaching the counter, he could not for a moment decide what to order. The barman looked at him impassively.

‘Monsieur?' he said.

‘A whisky, please,' Manfred said. The barman indicated with a gesture of his arm the array of bottles behind the bar.

‘It doesn't matter,' he said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Anything.'

The barman nodded, selected a bottle and poured the drink at a leisurely pace. Manfred fidgeted at the counter. His hands were shaking. He wanted to yell at the barman to hurry up. The barman placed the drink in front of him and, without any thought for decorum, Manfred downed it in one swig. He breathed out slowly, eyes closed. The whisky warmed the back of his throat and worked its way down to his stomach. When he opened his eyes, the barman was watching him impassively.