The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (33 page)

“You’re not a repressed homosexual?”

“I’ve come to terms with my sexual preferences,” the man answered simply. “Please don’t judge me,
madame
. Just because I do with other men precisely those things most men do with women doesn’t mean I’m any less a human being. You know about the evils of racism and of exclusion.” He made a delicate movement of his hand before raising the porcelain cup from the tray.

“I don’t want to hurry you, Monsieur Léonidas, but tomorrow is a busy day.”

“Desterres’s happy enough to take our money when we go to his restaurant—Mère Nature—but as a rule, we don’t go because the welcome isn’t friendly. He feels we lower the tone of his beach.” Again the disarming grin. “I suppose in a way we do.”

“Go on, Monsieur Léonidas.”

“Which presents the problem of bodily functions.”

Anne Marie frowned.

“Rather than visit Desterres’s restrooms, having our dignity and a toilet roll, we tend to go into the bushes to answer the call of Mother Nature.”

“You mean defecate?”

“I mean shit.” A bland smile. “Last Sunday, it was about three in the afternoon and I’d been swimming and the chill of the sea water must have triggered a form of colic—something I’d eaten for lunch.”

“How very interesting, Monsieur Léonidas.”

“I left my friend on the beach.”

“Your friend who is …?”

“That doesn’t concern you.” He licked the edge of the Limoges cup. “I went into the bushes. There’s a kind of isthmus behind the beach and on the far side there’s another, stone beach. You can’t bathe there because of the rocks and there’s not much shade. There, in the low bushes, I went to answer nature’s call and I overheard these people.”

“What people?”

“Desterres—he speaks with that Anglicized accent of his but I didn’t recognize the other voice.”

“You could see them?”

“I was squatting down,
madame le juge
.”

“I can understand that.”

“A woman’s voice.”

“What were they talking about?”

“They couldn’t hear me shitting and I couldn’t hear what they were saying.”

“That’s why you’ve come to see me?”

“It was the murdered girl Desterres was talking to.” Léonidas nodded slowly. “I recognized her photograph in the newspaper a few days later.”

A long pause; the television droned softly in the corner. The hum of the air conditioning from the children’s bedroom.

“You’re certain it was in the afternoon?”

“After lunch—I’d drunk some wine that went straight through me—”

“Murdered girl? Desterres says the woman left in the morning, before midday.”

“
Madame le juge
, it was the afternoon.”

“Which would suggest Desterres is a liar.”

“Desterres’s life is a lie. He is afraid to face up to the truth of his own sexuality.”

“You actually saw the girl?”

“Crouching’s not an observation position, but, yes, I saw her,
madame le juge
. No more than a peek—but it was her and I heard them shouting. The wind carried their voices in the wrong direction but I assure you they were quarreling. They’d left the beach to get away from the tall black fellow with the camera.”

“You know him?”

Léonidas shook his head. “If I’m here now, it’s because I realize what I witnessed may be important. I want to help. She may have been a bitch—but she didn’t deserve to be murdered.”

“A bitch?”

“They were quarreling and that’s when she laughed at him—or at least, that’s what I thought from where I was.”

“You didn’t hear what they said?”

The technician shook his head. “He shouted at her and she just laughed.” He added, “Desterres lost his temper.”

“He struck her?”

Léonidas shook his head again. “No.”

“What did you do?”

He drank the herbal tea in a ladylike sip. “I wiped my ass.”

Monday, May 21, 1990

The
France Antilles
was on Trousseau’s desk. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter, the illustrated Bible lay beside the newspaper, the window of the office was open and the curtains danced in the morning breeze.

Anne Marie felt serene. She had taken yesterday off to be with her children and it was a wise decision.

She placed the Texier bag in her drawer, picked up the
France Antilles
and sat down. The front page showed a grubby picture of the siege at the Collège Carnot. The headlines announced the death of the assassin of the Pointe des Châteaux.

“You’re late,
madame le juge
.”

She smiled at her
greffier
. Trousseau returned the smile and slipped something into his pocket before shaking her hand.

“I overslept but fortunately the neighbor was able to run the children into school for me.” She looked at her watch; it was not yet half past eight. “I stopped at the Prisunic on the way in.”

“You’re going on with the enquiry?”

“I haven’t yet been informed the
parquet
considers the case closed.” She frowned. She could smell the pungent odor of fish. “Even if it were, I’d still come into work.”

“Take a few days off.”

“I’ve got bags under my eyes?” She leaned back in the chair,
stretched and yawned simultaneously, without putting her hand over her mouth. “Do you have any news for me, Monsieur Trousseau?”

“You’re really continuing the enquiry?”

“That’s what was asked of me.” Anne Marie ran a finger along her upper lip. “I was given the case and I won’t close it until it’s solved.”

“Like the Dugain dossier?”

“Monsieur Lafitte was supposed to be here at seven thirty. I told him I’d be wanting to see Marie Pierre’s boyfriend. No reason why Lafitte shouldn’t be here on time.” Anne Marie clicked her tongue in irritation, just like her children. “Unless he’s privy to the
procureur
.”

“There’s this,
madame
.” Trousseau held up a typewritten sheet of paper. “A report from Pasteur concerning the bikini.”

Her face brightened. “And what does it say?”

“Nothing.”

“Two pages of typescript to say nothing?”

“Government scientists are paid by the syllable.” He held the typescript at arm’s length to get it into focus. “A size M bikini, of a type easily available in several supermarkets for a price ranging from eighty to two hundred francs. Trademark Silhouette, made in Turkey, cotton and synthetic mixture. Matching top and bottom. Analysis of the fiber suggests that top and bottom were bought together, although the top has been washed with a powerful detergent.”

She took the report from his hands and ran her finger down the text. “Matching top and bottom, probably bought together,” she read aloud.

“Which is what I said, if my memory serves me right,” Trousseau said. He sat down behind the typewriter and took a half-eaten sandwich from his pocket.

“What you said, admittedly, Monsieur Trousseau, but that doesn’t mean it makes sense.”

“If you feel what I say’s senseless, I should perhaps be quiet.” Trousseau bit into the sandwich.

“What you say is always full of sense,” Anne Marie acknowledged. “The bikini doesn’t make sense. A West Indian woman’s not likely to buy a bikini—I told you that on Saturday. A French girl coming on holiday wouldn’t’ve waited until she came out to the Caribbean before buying a bikini.”

“Then why sell bikinis in the supermarket?”

“I stopped at Prisunic on the way in just as they were opening. There are very few bikinis and when I asked the girl at the counter, she said they didn’t sell very well at all.”

“Who buys them?”

“Mainly Europeans.”

“You see, Madame, it could’ve been a woman from the mainland who bought it. And,” Trousseau said through a mouthful of half-masticated mackerel, “it’s quite possible the bikini was bought in France. There’s no big difference in stock between here and France—just we don’t have their seasons.”

Anne Marie opened the drawer and pulled out the copy of the Polaroid. Agnès Loisel on the beach, between Desterres and the Indian. “You’re overlooking one thing, Monsieur Trousseau.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“According the Institut Pasteur, it’s a matching top and bottom.” She tapped the photograph. “Look at the girl. What do you notice, Monsieur Trousseau?”

“Nice pair of breasts.”

“You like big breasts?”

“You know,
madame le juge
, that I see more in a woman than her body.”

“Precisely what Olga the van lady said at the Pointe des Châteaux, I believe.”

Before he could allow himself to be offended, Anne Marie continued in a hurry, “Her breasts are firm but they’re also large. Now look at her hips. What do you notice?”

He took the photograph and held at the end of his outstretched arm. “Boyish.”

“Big breasts and narrow hips. Don’t you understand, Monsieur Trousseau? A girl with that kind of anatomy—she’d never think of buying a bikini off the peg. And most certainly never in a supermarket; the bottom would be too big—or the top too small.”

There was a knock at the door and a pretty girl came into the office. She wore the laboratory coat of a pharmacist, flat shoes, and surprisingly, stockings. She addressed Trousseau. “Are you
le juge
Laveaud?” She had jet-black hair that was short, straightened and brushed back.

“I am,” Anne Marie said.

The girl turned and smiled sheepishly. “Your friend sends you these prescriptions.” She held out a thick manila envelope that Anne Marie took. “He asks you to phone him as soon as you can.”

“Thank you,
mademoiselle
.”

The girl walked out of the office, leaving a faint odor of castor hair oil and formaldehyde that was then lost to the stronger smell of mackerel and peppers.

Anne Marie opened the envelope.

THIS IS WHAT YOU
’
RE LOOKING FOR
? The note, pinned to a wad of grey photocopies, was not signed.

“Good news,
madame le juge
?”

There were no prescriptions.

Her finger ran down the pages. The date was at the top of each page, next to the heading
LABORATOIRES ESPIÈGLE
.

“Good news,
madame le juge
?” Trousseau asked and again Anne Marie ignored him.

It was on the third page, dated July 1988, that Anne Marie found what she was looking for. The typed entry had been encircled by
a ring of yellow marker on the photocopy, with an arrow in the margin.

“You’re an angel, Luc,” Anne Marie said under her breath and slapped the desktop.

Trousseau looked at her in surprise.

Anne Marie winked at him and picked up the phone. She dialed the number from memory and, after a few moments’ wait, said to Trousseau, who was now concentrating as he slowly typed at the Japy, “Monday morning and in the People’s Republic of the Tourist Office, it’s an English weekend—they still haven’t come in for work.”

Trousseau ignored her.

Somebody lifted the receiver.

“I should like to speak with Monsieur Eric André.”

“Monsieur André is in a meeting.”

“Then you’d better call him.”

“That won’t be possible.”

“I’m calling you from the
palais de justice
. I am
le juge
Laveaud. Kindly bring Monsieur André to the phone immediately.”

There was a clunking noise as the telephone was set down and then Anne Marie heard the sound of the woman’s high heels. Thin legs, high heels and fair skin—Anne Marie intuitively knew the type of girl Eric André would employ as a receptionist.

“Is that you, Anne Marie? You’re calling at a very inconvenient time. I’ve got a couple of mayors here with me—”

“You told me you were going to New York at the end of the week for a conference.”

“So what?”

“Might be a good idea, Eric, if you sent someone else in your place.”

“What are you talking about, Anne Marie?”

“I don’t suppose you went to see Lucette Salondy.”

“I’ve got better things to do than to traipse off to the hospital just to see an overweight sister-in-law. Now, Anne Marie—”

“You’ve got time to take another sister-in-law out to the restaurant? Or perhaps I’m not overweight?”

“I’m very busy this morning, Anne Marie,” he said tersely. “You’re playing games.”

“I’d prefer it if you didn’t leave the
département
. Not for now.”

“A threat, Anne Marie?”

“I don’t need to make threats.”

“You’re withdrawing my passport? Is that what you’re saying?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“I’m your brother-in-law.” Worry was sapping the self-assurance. “You don’t mean what you’re saying.”

“Precisely because you’re my ex-brother-in-law I’m contacting you, Eric. I’m trying to save you embarrassment. You’re in a delicate situation.”

“You’re threatening me?”

“For your own sake, it’s best you don’t leave Guadeloupe. I’m not asking you to hand in your passport—not yet.”

“Anne Marie, you’re not acting rationally.”

“You knew Rodolphe Dugain was suffering from a viral infection, didn’t you, Eric?” She ran her finger down the photocopied sheet that lay on her desk. “Ever since the month of July, 1988. You knew it was a secret he had to keep quiet at all costs.”

There was no answer, just the click as her ex-brother-in-law hung up.

It was nearly nine o’clock when Lafitte came into the small room. He was out of breath and he looked tired, as if he had not slept. “I’m sorry I’m late.”

“Have you located the boyfriend?”

There was no reaction on his sallow face.

“The dead girl’s boyfriend—I asked you to bring him in.”

“His name is Olivier Rullé and he works in a bank.” Lafitte took the chair opposite Anne Marie. “He wondered whether it would be possible for you to go over to his office at the Crédit des Outremers.”

“Crédit des Outremers? Then he knows Richard Ferly?”

“Possibly,
madame le juge
. I’m not sure they work in the same branch. I managed to get hold of him only a few minutes ago, and he’d like you to see him in the rue Gambetta—if you don’t mind. Otherwise,” Lafitte went on, “to ring him on this number and he’ll come over.” He added lamely, “He works on the computers.”