The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (16 page)

“He harassed you?”

For a moment she stood in the doorway, her back to Anne Marie, as she stared out into the small garden. Without turning, she said, “I can’t answer your question.”

“Why not?”

“Nothing’s free in this life.”

“That sounds to me like an answer.”

“Please.” Marie Pierre closed the door and pulled the wooden bar into place. It was now dark. She turned on the electric bulb, which gave a tungsten glow to the small room. Rain had fallen onto the bare skin of her shoulder. “I don’t want to talk about him.” A plaintive tone to her voice. “Please.”

“Were there many people who disliked him?”

She laughed. “He was fat and ugly and overbearing and he smelled of aftershave he picked up in Unimag. Or in the Prisunic. He was tightfisted and he bought whatever was cheapest. We worked hard, Agnès and I; we got on well together, we liked the job and we felt we were doing something useful. And he screwed us—he screwed us and he screwed the government.” A click of her tongue. “He used all these long words and he thought he was clever, teaching at the university, but he was just a jumped-up mulatto from Martinique who drove around in a big Mercedes Benz. And between his fat legs …”

Anne Marie frowned. “Jumped-up?”

“He thought we were little girls who could be used and abused.”

“Marie Pierre, why didn’t you leave?”

“I needed the money.” The young woman shrugged. “With thirty percent unemployment, you think I could walk out, just like that?”

“You could’ve complained to the ANPE.”

She gave a toothy grin. “I wanted to get even with the bastard.”

“For exploiting you?”

“All we’d done is ask for a raise. He found a pretext. Said we were not courteous, that we didn’t now how to deal with the public, and he gave us the sack. That’s when I went to the Inspectorate.”

“Where does Agnès work now?”

“I haven’t seen her in a long time.”

“Good friends?”

“We used to be. She’s got her life to lead—and so have I.”

“Her family name?”

“Loisel—Agnès Loisel.”

“Where can I find her?”

The question irritated her. “She was working in a hotel in Gosier but I haven’t seen her recently. Somebody told me she went to Paris.”

“And her boyfriend?”

“They’re not together.”

“I thought you said she wanted a baby.”

“She didn’t talk about anything else.”

“You know his name?”

“Olivier. Why do you want to know?” Marie Pierre’s face had hardened.

“Perhaps Monsieur Dugain was murdered.”

“Nobody liked Dugain.” She folded her arms. “I’m glad he’s dead.”

“Not a nice thing to say.”

“Dugain was not a nice man.”

“Did you sleep with him?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Nobody deserves to be murdered, Marie Pierre. Not even Dugain.”

“Perhaps you’d like to leave.”

“How did you meet him?”

Marie Pierre breathed deeply before answering. “Through a contact.”

“What contact?

“A friend.”

“Who, Marie Pierre?”

“A man who runs a restaurant near the Pointe des Châteaux.”

“Desterres?”

The African princess did not try to conceal her surprise. “You know him?”

“I’m very angry.”

“Of course you’re not, Arnaud.”

“Don’t tell me whether I’m angry or not.”

She held up her hand. “I don’t see how you can be angry with me.”

“For God’s sake, Anne Marie. I’m not going to come looking for you again. Don’t you realize?”

“I was about to call for a taxi.”

“My blasted phone hasn’t stopped ringing in the last four hours. I’ve just been speaking with the
préfet
’s secretary.”

“So?”

“The
préfet
is out for blood.”

“You look anemic enough.”

“I find you amazing.” He lit a cigarette, his hand trembling. “Where’ve you been all day?”

“I’ve just got back from the Grands Fonds.”

“Where?”

“Bouliqui.”

“What on earth were you doing there?”

“Arnaud, there’s not much I could’ve done in Pointe-à-Pitre.”

“I gave you the murder case—the
préfet
insisted—and you’re traipsing in the Grands Fonds. The wrong corpse, the wrong name and you go off into the boondocks. The island is in crisis, a collective neurosis about a murderer at large on our beaches, murdering the tourists,
and you go wandering off into the Grands Fonds.” He banged his hand against the steering wheel. “Bouliqui? Tell me I’m dreaming.”

“Wake up, Arnaud.”

“You’re in charge of the whole enquiry and you can stop being flippant. Your attitude’s far from helpful.”

“No need to shout, Arnaud. Sign of moral weakness—and I’m not deaf.”

“I’m not shouting.”

“You’re shouting, Arnaud.”

“I’m very angry.”

“You have no right to be angry. Parise and Lafitte—”

“Anne Marie, you’re responsible. You shouldn’t have allowed any autopsy before identification.”

She turned away, looking out of the car window. “Madame Vaton lives in France—there wasn’t time and the body had started to decompose. There could have been sperm, for heaven’s sake.”

“Was there?”

Anne Marie shook her head. “It was lucky Bouton was back from France …”

The
procureur
placed his hand against his forehead. “Are you serious?”

Anne Marie turned to look at him. “Melodramatic gestures don’t become you, Arnaud.”

The
procureur
was a tall man, with sandy hair and stooped shoulders. There were beads of perspiration on the freckled forehead. He said, “I thought I could count on you.” He put a cigarette to his mouth while the other hand remained on the steering wheel. “Why are you wasting your time and mine in the Grands Fonds?”

“I’ve got a cold coming and the morgue …” Anne Marie let her head drop back onto the upholstered rest. “I took Madame Vaton back to her hotel. And then went to Tarare beach.”

“In the Grands Fonds, working no doubt on the Dugain dossier.”

“You gave me the Dugain dossier, Arnaud.” A smile she could not hold back.

Very slowly he inhaled on the cigarette. “It’s not a joke. We’re talking about your career—and mine.”

“What do you expect me to do? The only thing we can do now is go back to the beginning.”

Smoke came from his nostrils. “Bouliqui,” he muttered under his breath.

“I’m not at my best in the morgue, Arnaud … Twice in less than a day.”

“Three times.” The
procureur
grimaced. “We’re going to the hospital now, Anne Marie.”

“Jesus Christ,” Anne Marie said under her breath.

He frowned. “I thought you were Jewish.”

“Not the first time you’d be way off base. Send Parise or Lafitte.”

“You’re coming with me, Anne Marie.”

“No.”

“I need an arrest, Anne Marie.”

“I don’t see how we can arrest anybody without knowing who the victim is.”

“Arrest Desterres, for heaven’s sake.” He nodded and the reflected afternoon sunlight of a passing car illuminated the angular face. “We’ve got to be seen to be doing something.”

“Did you know that Desterres and Dugain were friends?”

“Don’t talk to me about Dugain.”

Anne Marie used her schoolteacher voice. “There’s no way I can connect Desterres with the death of the unidentified girl who’s now in the morgue.”

“There’s the bikini—follow it up.”

“Ninety francs in any Prisunic.” She went on, “We were assuming the victim was Vaton. We were wrong.”

“Where is this damned Vaton girl if she’s supposed to be alive?”

Anne Marie shrugged. “She hired a car, left it at the Pointe des Châteaux last Sunday and hasn’t been seen since. Because the victim’s more or less of the same age, I assumed the dead girl was Vaton. I also assumed the dead girl was white.”

“She’s what?”

“You’re just as much to blame as I am.”

“The corpse isn’t white?”

“Next time, Arnaud, I’d like you to come to the autopsy.”

“What color, Anne Marie?”

“Mixed blood, probably a local woman—pale skin, but she’s not European. Docteur Bouton thought she might be from North Africa.”

“That’s your fault, Anne Marie.”

“There are times, Arnaud, when you are truly pathetic. When you sent the helicopter for me, you told me the girl had been identified as Vaton.”

“That is absurd.”

Anne Marie caught her breath. “Arnaud, there’s no point in arguing. We’re checking with Air France, Air Guadeloupe and the other airlines to see if a Vaton has left the
département
over the last four days.”

“Good.”

“By the way, we found Richard, the Indian.”

“Congratulations.”

“I hope you’re not being sarcastic. Richard was probably the last person to see the dead woman alive—that is, if it is the dead woman in the picture and not Evelyn Vaton. According to Desterres, the woman in the photo left Tarare beach with him.”

“Where was your Richard?”

“At Tarare, at the Pointe des Châteaux. He was wandering around in a bit of daze.”

“I thought you were in the Grands Fonds.”

“Your worst problem is you never listen, Arnaud. I don’t think Richard’s slept for several days. Or washed. He came up to me and I recognized him from the photograph. He was completely naked.”

“I hate to think what you recognized.”

“Name’s Ferly and he works in a bank. I can’t get a straight answer out of him.”

“Now you know how I feel, Anne Marie.”

“He seems to be amnesiac. Trousseau ran him back to the hospital.”

The
procureur
clicked his tongue. “It’s not the Vaton girl I’m concerned about. It’s the dead woman.”

“For all you know, I’ve found the murderer,” Anne Marie replied hotly. “I needed to talk to the woman who has a snack bar at the Pointe des Châteaux.” Anne Marie added, “The murder and the disappearance of the Vaton girl are connected. If we can get hold of Vaton, then we’ll have an answer.”

“Find her, Anne Marie.”

“What do you think we’re trying to do?”

“A little less than nothing.”

“I never asked for this job.” Anne Marie could feel the blood rising to her face. “We’ll be a lot closer to closing this case once I’ve spoken to this Richard.”

“Don’t go prancing off into the Grands Fonds again.”

“You don’t know what I was doing in the Grands Fonds, Arnaud.”

“I know you weren’t looking for the murderer.”

“Perhaps Richard’s the murderer. What more do you want?”

“I want the
préfet
off my back, Anne Marie. There’s a dead tourist whose name I don’t know lying in the morgue.”

“You want a miracle?”

“The
préfet
wants a miracle, the public wants one. I want a miracle and beatification.”

They had reached the edge of the city. “You want my resignation too, Arnaud?”

“No need to overreact.”

Anne Marie folded her hands on the Texier bag. “I’m beginning to get fed up.”

“You’re the only one who’s fed up?”

“Fed up with you.”

“Stop acting the temperamental female.”

“Fed up with you, fed up with the SRPJ, with the
gendarmerie
. I’m fed up with the honest folk of Guadeloupe and if you want me to resign, you only have to say the word.”

There was a long silence.

“Say the word, Arnaud.”

The Volkswagen slowed and the
procureur
clumsily changed gear. It was not until after the sharp curve near the university that he glanced at her. His face had softened. The line of his eyebrows was raised in sympathy. “I need you, Anne Marie.”

“I can do without your bullying me.”

He touched her knee. “Anne Marie, I must have an arrest.”

“That’s not my job.”

“When are you going to interrogate this Richard?”

“That depends on the doctors, Arnaud.”

“Then haul Desterres in again. That’s not much to ask you, is it? Haul Desterres in again but without his lawyers. With a bit of luck, perhaps you can get a confession out of him.”

Yet again Anne Marie was impressed by Trousseau’s courtesy. He was polite and thoughtful. He did everything to help the old gentleman. Trousseau proffered his arm for Monsieur Lecurieux to lean an unsteady hand on.

The woman smiled and shook her small head. “In his own time.”

Madame Lecurieux had a thin face, grey hair hidden beneath a madras scarf and bright hazel eyes. She must have been over seventy years old, but she walked erect. She moved slowly, her shoulders held back. She gave the impression of dignity, a retired schoolteacher who had lost none of her authority or her desire to set a good example.

(Anne Marie was reminded of her husband’s grandmother, who had been so kind to Anne Marie in the early years of their marriage, who had gone out of her way to help the young outsider feel at home in a West Indian family. M’man Jeanne herself had given birth to five children but had never been married; Gaston, the man she had shared her bed with, the man who was Jean Michel’s grandfather, had gone on to marry Ondine, a light-skinned mulatto from Martinique.

M’man Jeanne had died the day after Hurricane Hugo at the age of ninety-two. Anne Marie had not been invited to the funeral—Jean Michel’s family still held Anne Marie responsible for the divorce. When Anne Marie had belatedly heard M’man Jeanne’s obituary over the radio, she had sent a wreath, lit a candle and cried.)

“This way,
madame
.”

Madame Lecurieux was followed by her husband.

The man wore a suit and in the same hand that held a walking stick, grasped a cream colored panama hat. It looked new, with its longitudinal crease and its broad black band. A necktie and a stiff wing collar, the formal wear of his youth. A pair of rimless glasses were perched on the ridge of his nose. With the passage of time, the unforgiving steel had carved a niche into the golden flesh. His skin was now creased by age and freckled with cancer. His head was ringed by a crescent of white hair. The dome of his head was bald.