The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (11 page)

“According to Bouton, there’s slight bruising around the genital regions, but again, the bruising most probably came about after death.”

“Excluding sexual violence as a motive?”

“There was no struggle. There are, however, several superficial cut marks on the lower abdomen possibly caused by a blunt knife or cutting edge. Bouton says the murderer may have been trying to make it look like a sex crime.” Lafitte looked at the typewritten notes. “No bruising, no irritation on the walls of the vagina or anus. Docteur Bouton finds no signs of forceful penetration, no saliva, no tooth bites.” Lafitte hesitated before adding, “The breasts are not bruised.”

“So?”

“When struggling with a woman, the rapist knows that the breasts are the most sensitive part of a woman’s body.”

“Are they?”

“It’s an erogenous zone.”

“For the rapist or for his victim?”

Lafitte began to blush.

“And sperm?”

A shrug.

“Well?”

Lafitte’s blush grew deeper. “Bouton took smears and is waiting for results.”

“Can sperm stay alive inside a dead body?”

“All depends on the time of death, but we can’t be very optimistic. Bacteria producing lactic acid prevent the growth of pathogens in the vagina. It has a low pH and is a cleaner orifice than the mouth.”

“It has to be,” Anne Marie remarked drily.

Parise smiled and Lafitte hesitated before adding, “Vaton was not a virgin—according to Docteur Bouton she was sexually active.”

“She was a nurse, not a nun, Lafitte.”

“Vaginal scarring which Bouton sees as evidence of genital herpes. He thinks we can dismiss rape,
madame le juge
.”

“So Desterres’s off the hook?”

“Let’s wait for the blood test results from Pasteur,” Lafitte said. “Until we get hold of the Indian, Desterres remains the last person to have seen her alive.”

Trousseau arrived with the coffee.

“And Desterres doesn’t have an alibi.”

Trousseau had gone to fetch Madame Vaton at the hotel in Gosier and Anne Marie found herself alone with Lafitte. In the sunlight outside the
palais de justice
, his skin had an unhealthy tinge. There were dark rings beneath his eyes and although he kept his hands in the pockets of his light cotton trousers, he could not relax. “We’ve got another forty minutes. Why not go for a drink,
madame
?”

“We’ve just had coffee.”

“Perhaps something stronger. I don’t enjoy the morgue.”

“Docteur Bouton will let you drink his firewater, no doubt.”

The sky was cloudless. After an early shower, the morning air was still cool, the surface of the sidewalk still wet. Anne Marie had wanted to walk to the hospital. It would take time and save her having to wait for Trousseau and Madame Vaton in the morgue.

“We’ve got to be at the hospital by nine.”

“Then take a taxi,
madame
.”

“Exercise will do me some good.” She was wearing Paraboot shoes today, inelegant but practical, with thick soles.

“Exercise?”

“Didn’t you use to cycle, Monsieur Lafitte?”

Lafitte shrugged and fell reluctantly into step beside her. He carried a leather case. He was peeved and Anne Marie smiled to herself.

“It’s the bikini that baffles me.” They went past the church, past the newly renovated flower market and onto the boulevard. The morning
rush hour—parents taking their children to school—was over, but there were still a lot of cars.

“Why,
madame le juge
?”

“A bikini top—the one thing she’s not wearing in the photograph. And it’s the only piece of evidence we have.”

A buxom woman, in the blue uniform of a traffic warden and with an umbrella under her arm, showed Anne Marie a golden-toothed smile.

Lafitte chose to dawdle as they went past a dark bar giving off the heady emanations of rum, molasses and freshly ground coffee. He took a cigarette from the packet in his shirt and stopped to light it.

Anne Marie, waiting for him, said, “On the other hand, I really can’t see much point in bringing Desterres in.”

Lafitte inhaled, then quickened his pace. “Desterres’s not telling everything he knows.”

“Unless he killed the girl, what else can he know?”

“He came to see you, don’t forget. And he had the bikini top he’d carefully washed.”

“Bouton’s evidence goes against it being a sex killing.”

“Perhaps it wasn’t a sex murder.”

“The only reason we’re interested in Desterres is precisely because he has a record of sexual aggression. If he didn’t rape her, what could possibly be Desterres’s motive?”

“The fact she wasn’t raped doesn’t mean the murderer didn’t want to rape her,
madame le juge
.”

“Trousseau thinks Desterres could have lost his head over a sexy girl?”

“Desterres or any other West Indian male.” He pulled the cigarette from his mouth. “Though Vaton doesn’t appear particularly sexy.”

“A nice body, Monsieur Lafitte.”

“More important, she’s white.”

“She wasn’t white.” Anne Marie resumed her walking.

“Nobody’d notice the difference. Light-skinned enough to pass for white—and that’s all that matters. Let’s hang onto Desterres,
madame le juge
, until we’ve got other leads. Desterres’s alibi for Sunday evening is far from watertight—he claims he was at his restaurant, but it’d already closed and there’s nobody to corroborate his whereabouts. We don’t know where Richard is so let’s make do with the lead we’ve got. At least we can be seen to be doing something.”

“Not the prime goal of my job,” Anne Marie remarked tartly.

Lafitte snorted tobacco smoke. “You know what Trousseau’s like.”

“Trousseau?”

“He’s got a thing about white women.”

“Everybody on this island has a thing about white women.”

“Trousseau’s an Indian, and Indians don’t like blacks. There’s always been rivalry between the two races, ever since the landowners brought coolies in from India after slavery was abolished. Indians tend to marry among themselves—or with a white, if they get the chance. That’s why Trousseau married his French woman.”

“Not because he loved her?”

Lafitte smiled mirthlessly. “That’s why he’s now divorced.”

“Divorced? Monsieur Trousseau never told me that.”

Lafitte took a long, deep breath on the Bastos cigarette before throwing the stub away. “Trousseau keeps his cards close to his chest.”

“Most men do.”

Lafitte raised an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth simultaneously. “You don’t have many illusions,
madame le juge
.”

“I was married for twelve years.”

“Judging from the photo, Vaton wasn’t sexy—despite what Trousseau might say. White, black or brown—Desterres can pick and choose. He’s got money. He can find better than Vaton any day.”

“You can’t know what she was like in bed.”

“Once you put the lights out,
madame le juge
, all women are the same in bed.”

“You don’t have many illusions either.”

“When you get to my age …”

They crossed the road. A Polo coupé went past and hooted. Beside the middle aged driver sat a black girl, straightened hair blowing in the wind. Bright lipstick, bright teeth. Lafitte put one hand to his shield his eyes and with the other, he waved. “The sly old bastard.”

“Who?”

“Jean Claude Pichon gets them all,” Lafitte said admiringly. “Pichon used to be with Renseignements.”

“You don’t think Desterres’s guilty?”

“He’s got enough money and enough power to get what he wants.”

Anne Marie glanced at him. “You don’t have a great deal of esteem for women.”

“Because I say women are attracted by money and power?” They had come to the rue Vatable and had to step past a couple of women who were selling bananas and mangoes from their curbside stall. Their huge chests battled with stretching, grubby T-shirts. The women shared an ancient weighing machine and jabbered in a falling English patois.
“Nice Dominica lime, darlin’.”

“I am a realist and I have unlimited esteem for the power of money.”

Anne Marie said, “Desterres’s twice been accused of rape.”

For a fleeting moment, Lafitte looked her in the eye. “I wouldn’t take those rape things too seriously. Could’ve been a girl trying to get even, trying to get her own back for promises Desterres had reneged on. To get a girl into your bed, you’ve got to promise her a white wedding—even if she’s already got a kid.”

“A misogynist.”

“Misogynist? Desterres is a fornicator. He can afford to be—he’s got money and he’s not married. I’d love to be a misogynist like him.”

“You really do sound like a misogynist, Monsieur Lafitte. You don’t much like women, do you?”

“Why do you say that? I’ve always respected you. I’ve always admired you,
madame le juge
.”

“You don’t like women, you don’t like blacks, you don’t like Indians. It’s hard to see just who does meet with the Lafitte seal of approval.” He did not reply as he walked along beside her. With his hands in his pockets, the case tucked beneath his arm, he stared at the sidewalk that had begun to give off steam in the morning heat.

“Is there anybody you actually like, Monsieur Lafitte?”

Silence.

“Well?”

“Are you interrogating me,
madame le juge
?”

“Anybody who meets with your approval?”

“I admire you.”

“Apart from me.”

“My wife is West Indian.”

“Your wife?”

He nodded, still not looking at her.

Anne Marie smiled, visibly softening. “We’ve worked together on and off for nearly ten years, Monsieur Lafitte—and I always thought you were a bachelor. You’ve not once mentioned your wife.”

“I keep my private life and my job separate.”

“You must introduce us.”

“A girl from Sainte-Anne.”

“Black?”

He grinned. “After a while, you don’t notice.”

“Even if you don’t turn out the lights?” She touched his arm. “You must have beautiful children.”

“No children,
madame le juge
.”

They had reached the end of the Chemin des Petites Abymes and were within sight of the hospital.

“If Desterres was motivated by sexual desires, why do you want me to hang on to him?”

“Desterres’s a politician. Politicians are all congenital liars—otherwise they wouldn’t be politicians. When somebody like Desterres comes to see you at seven in the morning and volunteers information, you know he’s protecting himself.”

They laughed. As Anne Marie stepped from the sidewalk, Lafitte held out his arm to give her support. The policeman’s gentleness surprised her.

“I see no reason for the SRPJ to be hostile.” She screwed the top back onto the spray and slipped it into her bag.

“I like your perfume,
madame le juge
.”

They were sitting on a bench outside the hospital. The concrete slab was cold beneath her Cacharel skirt. Lafitte had placed the attaché case between his feet. One hand was in his pocket, the other held a packet of cigarettes.

They watched the arrival of taxis in front of the main entrance. Although it was still too early for visiting hours, several people, well-dressed and unsmiling, arrived carrying flowers.

“Anything’s better than Vicks vapor rub.” She clicked her tongue in irritation. “Why the hostility?”

Lafitte had taken out a cigarette. “
Madame le juge
, I don’t know anybody at the SRPJ who’s hostile. I don’t know anybody, either, who sees the need for your enquiry.”

“Dugain committed suicide at a time that three SRPJ officers were searching his offices.”

“So what?”

“No witness to his death. There are people who question the truth of the police allegations.”

Lafitte squinted, his head to one side as the cigarette smoke rose. “People believe what they want to believe. That’s something that you learn about Guadeloupe.”

“My job’s to get to the truth.”

“You question the honesty of the SRPJ?”

She allowed herself a smile. “I’ve never questioned your honesty, Monsieur Lafitte, if that’s what you mean.”

“Once you’ve got the Vaton killing cleared up …”

“Cleared up?”

“Once you’ve got it sorted out to your satisfaction, you intend to resume your enquiries into Dugain’s death?”

“Not a question of resuming—it’s a question of priorities.” She looked at him quizzically. “Why d’you ask?”

Here, on the top of the hill, the wind was stronger; the palm trees creaked in the humid morning breeze. Pleasant weather at a pleasant time of the day. She dreaded returning to the hospital basement. Her sensible shoes felt damp although they were quite dry.

“Why do you ask, Monsieur Lafitte? Are you worried?”

He played nervously with the packet of cigarettes in his hand. “Dugain was a bastard. Better that he’s dead.”

“There’s something bothering you?”

He threw the stub away and ground it out against the tarmac with the heel of his shoe. “You.”

“I bother you?”

Lafitte grinned, but the squinting eyes remained small and cold. “Worried for you,
madame le juge
, because over and above the professional relationship between us, I’ve always considered you a friend.”

“You’re very kind.”

“A friend with whom I’ve been able to work over many years.”

“You worry about me?”

“You’re not aware who Dugain was.”

“You knew him, Monsieur Lafitte?”

“You can only make enemies here. Enemies and a lot of trouble for yourself.”

“I think you’re trying to frighten me.”

“Dugain was a shit of the first order.”

“Answer my question—did you know him?”

“Never met him.”

“Then what’s the problem? I really don’t understand.”

“Lose a lot of friends by making unnecessary enquiries into his
death.” Lafitte set the crumpled cigarette packet on the bench.
“Madame le juge …”

“My friends are of my own choosing.” Anne Marie stood up and took a couple of steps forward. She could feel herself trembling. She stopped just short of the flowerbeds and a row of bedraggled poinsettia. A couple of empty cans of Sunkist lay on the fissured earth.