The Three Evangelists (14 page)

‘Yes, I know, you don’t have to tell me,’ Alexandra interrupted.

‘They’ll examine the boot, the seats and so on,’ Vandoosler went on. ‘You must have heard of the kind of thing. You’ll get it back when they’ve finished with it. There we are, that’s all,’ he said, patting the young woman’s shoulder.

Alexandra sat quite still, with the vacant look of one who is surveying a scene of total disaster. Marc was wondering whether he should kick his bloody godfather out of the house once and for all, take him by the shoulders of his impeccable grey jacket, punch him in his beautiful face, and push him out of the window.

Vandoosler looked up and met his eyes, ‘I know what you’re thinking, Marc. It would make you feel better, I’m sure. But save your breath and leave me alone. I can be useful, whatever happens, and whatever they pin on her.’

Marc remembered the murderer whom Vandoosler had allowed to get away, against all the rules of justice. He was trying not to panic, but the scenario that his godfather had outlined was perfectly plausible. Very plausible even. He suddenly heard once more Kyril’s little voice saying that he wanted to have supper with them because he’d had enough of the car. Had Alexandra taken him with her the previous night? The night she had gone to fetch the body? No, surely not, it was too awful to contemplate. The child must have been thinking of some other journey. Alexandra had been driving round at night for eleven months.

Marc looked at the others. Mathias was crumbling a piece of bread. Lucien was dusting a shelf with the dirty tea towel. And he was waiting for Alexandra to react, to explain, to start shouting.

‘It makes a lot of sense,’ she said at last.

‘Yes, it makes sense,’ Vandoosler agreed.

‘You’re crazy, say something else!’ Marc beseeched Alexandra.

‘She’s not crazy at all,’ said Vandoosler. ‘She’s very intelligent.’

‘But what about the others?’ said Marc. ‘She’s not the only one who would inherit Sophia’s money. There’s her mother …’

Alexandra clenched the handkerchief in her fist.

‘Her mother’s out of it,’ said Vandoosler. ‘She hasn’t budged from Lyon. She’s been to her office every day, Saturdays included. She works
part time and fetches Kyril from school every afternoon. Cast-iron and checked.’

‘Thank you,’ breathed Alexandra.

‘Well, what about Relivaux?’ asked Marc. ‘He must surely be the one who stands to get the most, isn’t he? And, what’s more, he has a mistress.’

‘Relivaux’s not looking too good, that’s true. Quite a few night-time disappearances since his wife vanished. But he didn’t do anything to try and find her, remember. No body, no inheritance.’

‘Oh, come on. He knew she’d be found sooner or later.’

‘It’s possible,’ conceded Vandoosler. ‘Leguennec isn’t letting him off the hook, don’t worry.’

‘And what about the rest of the family?’ asked Marc. ‘Lex. Who else is there in the family?’

‘Ask your uncle. He seems to know everything before anyone else does.’

‘Eat some bread,’ Mathias said to Marc. ‘It’ll relax your jaw.’

‘D’you think so?’

Mathias nodded and passed him a slice, which Marc munched idiotically, as he listened to Vandoosler communicating more information.

‘The third inheritor is Sophia’s father, who lives in Dourdan,’ Vandoosler said. ‘Siméonidis
père
is one of his daughter’s greatest fans. He never missed any of her concerts. In fact he met his second wife at the Paris Opera. The second wife had come along to see her son, who just had a walk-on part, and she was very proud of him. And she was also very proud to have met, simply by the accident of being next to him in the stalls, the father
of the prima donna.
She probably thought he could help her son, but things went further, they got married and they live in his house in Dourdan. Two points: Siméonidis isn’t rich, and he can still drive. But the bottom line is this: he’s passionately devoted to his daughter. He was absolutely prostrated to hear of her death, he has collected everything there is to know about her, press cuttings, photos, the lot. Apparently it takes up a whole room in his house. So – true or false?’

‘Well, it’s what the family say,’ Alexandra murmured. ‘He’s a nice old man, a bit bossy, maybe, but he married a stupid woman second time round. She’s younger than him, and she seems to be able to do what she
likes, except where Sophia is concerned. Anything to do with Sophia is sacred, and she’s not allowed to poke her nose in.’

‘This woman’s son is a bit odd.’

‘Aha,’ said Marc.

‘Don’t get too excited,’ said Vandoosler. ‘Just odd in the sense that he’s a bit slow, a bit gormless, doesn’t settle to anything, a bit of a voyeur, I’d say, and living off his mother’s money at the age of forty. He’s pretty useless: now and again he gets some little business going, but it doesn’t last-in short, he’s pathetic rather than sinister. Sophia got him a few more walk-on parts, but even when he didn’t have to say anything, he was no good, and he soon got tired of it.’

Alexandra was wiping the table absently with the handkerchief Lucien had given her. Lucien was looking concerned about the handkerchief. Mathias got up to go and work at
Le Tonneau.
He said he would give Kyril something to eat in the kitchen there, then take a few minutes off to bring him back to the garden house. Alexandra smiled at him.

Mathias went upstairs to get changed. Juliette had insisted that he be properly dressed under his waiter’s uniform. This was tough for Mathias. He felt as if he were bursting under three layers of clothes. But he understood Juliette’s point of view. She had also requested that he stop getting changed half in the kitchen, half in the restaurant when the customers had left, ‘in case someone saw him’. Mathias failed to see what was so embarrassing about that, but he didn’t want to upset her. So now he got changed in his bedroom, which meant he had to leave the house fully dressed, underpants, socks, shoes, black trousers, shirt, bow tie, waistcoat, jacket and he felt really uncomfortable. But he liked the work. It was the kind of job that doesn’t stop you thinking while you’re doing it. And sometimes, if they weren’t too busy, Juliette let him go home early. He would not have minded staying all night with her, but since he said very little, she was unlikely to guess that. So she let him go home. As he buttoned up his hateful waistcoat, Mathias thought about Alexandra and the number of slices of bread he had had to cut to keep the situation under control. Vandoosler senior certainly didn’t beat about the bush. All the same it was amazing how many slices of bread Lucien could eat.

Once Mathias had gone, everyone fell silent. It was often like that living with Mathias, Marc reflected. When he was there, he hardly said anything and nobody took any notice of him. But when he left, it was as if the stone bridge they had all been standing on had suddenly disappeared and they had to find their balance again. He shivered and gave himself a shake.

‘You’re sleepy, soldier,’ said Lucien.

‘No, I’m just moving about while sitting still. It’s a question of tectonic plates, but you wouldn’t understand.’

Vandoosler stood up and with a touch of his hand got Alexandra to look at him.

‘Yes, your version makes plenty of sense,’ Alexandra repeated. ‘Sophia’s father couldn’t possibly have killed her, because he loved her. His stepson couldn’t have done it, because he’s too useless. His mother couldn’t, because she’s too silly. My mother couldn’t have, because she’s my mother. Anyway she never left Lyon. So that leaves me. And I’ve been running about all over the place, I’ve told my mother lies, I sold my car, I haven’t seen Aunt Sophia for ten years, I’m bitter and twisted, I got the police to start up their enquiries when I got here, I haven’t got a job, I went out driving at night with no proper reason. I’m sunk. Well, I was already in deep trouble anyway.’

‘So are we,’ said Marc. ‘But there’s a difference between being in deep trouble and being sunk. You might be floundering if you’re in trouble, but you’re under water if you’re sunk. Not at all the same thing.’

‘Don’t play word games,’ said Vandoosler. ‘She doesn’t need that at this point.’

‘A little word game from time to time doesn’t hurt anyone,’ objected Marc.

‘What I told Alexandra is more useful to her just now. All the mistakes she made tonight, panicking, crying, getting angry, interrupting me, saying “fucking” twice, shouting, looking defeated and confused, she won’t make them on Monday. Tomorrow she’s going to lie in, read a book, take the child out to the park or down to the Seine. Leguennec will probably have her followed. That’s likely to be arranged. She mustn’t
give any sign of noticing that. On Monday, she will take the child to school, and then go to the police station. She knows what they’re going to say. She will tell the truth as she sees it, without being aggressive, and that will be the best thing to slow down the investigation.’

‘She’ll tell the truth, but Leguennec won’t believe her.’

‘I didn’t say “the truth”, I said “the truth as she sees it”’.

‘Do you think she’s guilty then?’ Marc exploded again.

Vandoosler raised his hands and dropped them back onto his knees. ‘Marc, it may take a little time to make “the truth” and “the truth as she sees it” mean exactly the same thing. Time is what we need right now. And I’m trying to gain a little time. Leguennec’s a good detective, but he tends to want to catch his whale right away. He’s a harpooner, and yes, they’re necessary. But I prefer to stalk the whale, let it dive, let out a bit of rope, watch where it comes up, try again and so on. Take my time.’

‘But what do you expect from more time?’ Alexandra asked.

‘Reactions. After a murder, nothing stands still. I’m waiting for reactions, even little ones. They will happen. One just has to be on the lookout for them.’

‘And you’re going to sit up in your attic waiting for reactions?’ said Marc. ‘Without going anywhere, without looking for clues, without budging? You think reactions are going to fall on your head like pigeon shit? Do you know how often I’ve been hit by pigeon shit in the twenty-three years I’ve lived in Paris? Just once, that’s all. And there are millions and millions of pigeons flying around every day. So what on earth do you expect? That something is going to turn up on your doorstep?’

‘Just so,’ said Vandoosler, ‘because this …’

‘This is the front line,’ said Lucien.

Vandoosler stood up and nodded. ‘He catches on fast, your Great War friend.’

There was a heavy silence. Vandoosler felt in his pockets, and found two five-franc pieces. He chose the brighter and disappeared into the cellar where they kept the tools. They heard the sound of an electric drill. Then he came back, holding the coin which now had a hole through it, and nailed it to the upright wooden beam on the left of of the fireplace.

‘Have you finished this circus act?’ Marc said.

‘Since we’re talking whaling, I’m nailing this coin to the mainmast. It will go to whoever catches the murderer.’

‘Do you have to?’ said Marc. ‘Sophia is dead, and you’re playing games. You want to be Captain Ahab. It’s pathetic.’

‘It’s not pathetic, it’s symbolic. There’s a difference. Bread and symbols, not circuses. That’s basic.’

‘And you’re the captain of the ship, of course?’

Vandoosler shook his head. ‘I don’t know the answer. It’s not a race. I want to catch the murderer and I want everyone to work at it.’

‘You’ve been more indulgent towards murderers in the past,’ said Marc.

Vandoosler turned round sharply. ‘This one,’ he said, ‘will get no indulgence from me. This one is a bastard.’

‘You know that already?’

‘Oh yes. This one is a killer. A real killer, you understand? Good night everyone.’

XXIII

ON MONDAY, AT ABOUT MIDDAY, MARC HEARD A CAR DRAW UP AT THE
gate. Dropping his pencil, he rushed to the window. Vandoosler was getting out of a taxi with Alexandra. The old man accompanied her to the garden house next door and came back humming to himself. So that was what he had been doing: he had gone to pick her up from the police station. Marc clenched his teeth. The subtle omnipotence of his godfather was beginning to infuriate him. A vein was throbbing in his temple. He couldn’t help these attacks of blind fury. The tectonic plates were shifting. How on earth did Mathias manage to remain so foursquare and laconic, even though nothing was working out for him either? Marc felt as if he was wasting away with exasperation. He had practically chewed his way through a pencil that morning spitting splinters of wood onto the paper. Perhaps he should try wearing sandals? No, that was ridiculous. Not only would he have cold feet, but he would lose the last shreds of originality he possessed, which lay in his sophisticated clothes. No, sandals were definitely out.

Marc tightened his silver belt and smoothed his tight black trousers. Alexandra hadn’t even come over to see them the night before.

But then why should she? Now that she had her own little house, she had her independence and freedom. She was the kind of girl who liked to feel free, and one had to watch out. Still, she had spent Sunday doing exactly what Vandoosler had told her to. She had gone to the park with Kyril. Mathias had seen them playing ball and had joined in for a while.
The June sunshine was warm. The idea had not even occurred to Marc. Mathias knew how to perform quiet comforting acts which Marc would never have dreamed of, they were so simple. Marc had gone back to his study of village trade in the eleventh and twelfth centuries, though his enthusiasm for it had waned. The problem of the surplus of rural production was so treacherous that you had to lie flat on top of it, if you weren’t to plunge up to your waist in its quicksands. Bloody complicated. He might have done better to go and play ball; at least you can see what you’re throwing and what you’re catching. As for the godfather, he had spent the whole day perched on his chair, watching the neighbourhood from his skylight, the silly old bugger. Playing at being the watcher on high or the captain of the ship might make him look important to those who didn’t know him, but that kind of showing off was not going to impress Marc.