After the Crash (41 page)

Marc was taken to a large room in the basement where the archives
were kept. The room was windowless, the walls unpainted, and the
only light came from neon strip lights on the ceiling. Past copies of
the
Est Républicain
were filed in wooden cabinets, classified by year
and month.

Marc opened the drawer labelled
1980, December
. He found the
edition he was looking for and placed it on the table in the middle
of the room.

The front page was mostly covered by a large colour photograph
of the burning remains of the crashed Airbus. It was a scene of utter
devastation. But below this was a smaller photograph showing a
baby being held by a fireman outside Belfort-Montbéliard hospital.
Lylie. The caption beneath it read:

The Airbus 5403, flying from Istanbul to Paris, crashed into Mont
Terri, on the Franco-Swiss border, last night. Of the 169 passengers and
flight crew on board, 168 were killed upon impact or perished in the
flames. The sole survivor was a baby, three months old, thrown from
the plane when it collided with the mountainside, before the cabin was
consumed by fire.

And that was all.
Marc spent a long time looking closely at the photographs – the
faces in the background, the fuselage in flames, the trees, the snow
– and re-reading the caption.
But there was nothing new here at all. Nothing.
All he had found was another dead end. The very last one.

Marc sat with his head in his hands, then leaned back and stared
at the blank walls. Only then did he bother looking at the other
stories on the front page. Not that there was much: FC Sochaux’s
3-1 win over Angers; a strike at a glasses factory near Morez in the
Haut-Jura; details of Father Christmas’s appearances in the region’s
villages . . .

And a very short piece, right at the bottom of the page, no more
than a few words. A missing persons ad.
Mélanie Belvoir. 18 years old. Missing since 2 December.
Next to these words was a small colour photograph.
Marc almost fainted. It was impossible. It had to be a fake, a
forgery.
The face of this eighteen-year-old girl, Mélanie Belvoir, was
instantly and heartrendingly familiar to him. It was Lylie’s face.
This was not the photograph of a girl who looked like her. It
was
her. The same azure eyes, the same cheekbones, the same smile, the
same dimple on her chin. Only the haircut differed: Lylie’s hair was
slightly shorter.
The photograph published in this newspaper eighteen years ago
was an exact replica of Lylie’s current ID photo: the one on her
student card, the one on her travel card, the one that Marc kept in
his wallet.
It was unbelievable!
On the same page of the newspaper, dated 23 December 1980,
were two photographs of Lylie: one showing her at three months
old, in the arms of a fireman; the other at eighteen years old, beautiful and smiling, just as she had been the last time he saw her, two
days ago, on 2 October 1998.
Was he going crazy?
Was he dreaming? Would he wake up at any moment, covered in
sweat, next to Lylie?
Or, far worse, next to Malvina, in the cabin on Mont Terri . . .

The rays of sunlight shone through the holes in the cabin’s roof,
moving across the floor until eventually they touched Malvina’s
face. To begin with, she savoured the pleasant warmth on her skin,
then turned over a couple of times beneath the duvet, before finally
opening her eyes.

Half asleep, she reached over to touch the duvet next to hers.
Her hand found only dry earth. Marc had vanished. Only a note
remained in his place:

The bastard! Next to his note was the guidebook. The message
was clear:
You’re on your own!
Cursing, Malvina got to her feet. She had been stupid ever to
put her trust in a Vitral. What had she been thinking? Now look at
her: stuck up a mountain, on her own, with a mobile phone that
had no signal. Like some naïve child, she had walked straight into
a trap. And now there was only one solution: to go back down the
mountain.

Malvina left everything behind her in the cabin – duvet, torch, food
– and immediately began walking down the mountainside, eyes
fixed angrily on the ground. Not once during her descent did she
even glance at the sliver of morning sun that made the Swiss mountains look like the Himalayas.

One hour later, the Nature Reserve Office came into view. A few
children were already messing around in the adventure playground
while their parents spent a ridiculously long time tying the laces of
their walking boots. Marc’s van was not in the car park, of course.
The piece of shit really had abandoned her.

She checked her phone. Finally, a signal. She would be able to get
out of this hellhole. There was a message on her voicemail. Someone
had tried to get hold of her last night. Her grandmother, probably.
Who else could it be? Malvina clicked on the message and was surprised to see that it came from an unknown number.

Marc Vitral? Crédule Grand-Duc?
She put the phone to her ear.
‘Malvina, it’s Rachel. Rachel de Carville, your great-aunt . . .’
Her great-aunt, heir to the Elytis and La Baule perfumeries.

What the hell did
she
want? They hadn’t spoken in years.
‘Malvina, my poor girl. You must call me as soon as possible.
Something awful has happened at Coupvray. Oh, darling . . . your
grandmother and your grandfather have both passed away. They
were found this morning, in their beds, and neither was breathing.
They went to heaven together, my poor angel . . .’
Malvina switched off her phone. Her arm fell to her side as if the
phone suddenly weighed a ton. For a long time she stared into the
dark forest, newly aware of the silence that surrounded her. Then
she reached for her bag. There was no time to think, cry, or even
pray. She had to act. To understand. To seek vengeance. She had
one sole target to focus on. A very real target and still very much
alive.
Inside the bag, her fingers tightened around the handle of the
Mauser L110. Vitral thought he was so clever, but he had made the
mistake of falling asleep last night. She was good at pretending to
be a mad girl tortured by nightmares when it suited her. All she’d
had to do was grab her gun back. Anyway, that hypocrite would
never have been capable of using the revolver. Unlike her.

Marc was still in the archives of the
Est Républicain
. His friend
at France Telecom was working all that weekend. This was the one
advantage he had, and he could not afford to waste it.

‘Jennifer, it’s Marc again. I need another favour. It’s a big one . . .’
‘You can ask me whatever you want. You know that, Marc.’
‘I need a phone number and an address. Mélanie Belvoir.

B-E-L-V-O-I-R.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Try the area around the Jura and the Doubs first, then all over

Franche-Comté. And then just try anywhere in France.’
‘No problem . . .’
Marc heard the muffled sound of Jennifer’s fingertips tapping the

keys of her computer keyboard. He could not stop staring at the
photograph on the front page of the newspaper spread out before
him. The resemblance was uncanny, almost surreal. Who was this
Mélanie Belvoir? There had to be some rational explanation . . .

‘Sorry, Marc,’ said Jennifer. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Maybe she’s ex-directory?’
‘I tried that too.
Nada
!’
‘Shit. Are there any other Belvoirs in France?’
‘Hang on . . .’
More muffled typing.
‘Yeah. Three hundred and forty-eight of them.’
‘And in the Jura?’
‘Let me see . . . Oh, that’s narrowed it down. Only twenty-three.

But no Mélanie.’
‘Maybe she changed her name . . .’
‘Who is she, this Mélanie?’
‘Sorry Jen, it would take way too long to explain. The craziest

stuff has been happening, but I’m in a desperate rush. Could you try
checking cancellation requests under the name of Mélanie Belvoir?’
‘How do I do that?’
‘Look in the archives. You can get in through the administrator’s
account and do a search on cancellation requests – they date right
back to when our records were first digitized. That was at least fifteen years ago.’
‘We’re not supposed to do that, Marc. I could get fired . . .’
‘Don’t worry. I’ve done it loads of times. Please Jen, it’s urgent
. . .’
‘You owe me big time for this, Marc. I want to be taken out to
dinner somewhere
really
nice.’
‘Anything you want, I promise. Just do it, please.’
Again, Marc heard the sound of Jennifer’s fingertips tap-dancing
on the keyboard.
‘OK, I want a two-star restaurant, at the very least. God knows
I deserve it! I’ve found the woman you’re looking for. She cancelled
her subscription with France Telecom five years ago, on 23 January
1993. At the time, she was living at 65 Rue du Comte-de-la-Suze in
Belfort. Since then, not a trace of her.’
‘OK, Jennifer. Could you check requests for call forwarding?’
‘What?’
‘Call forwarding. Usually when customers cancel their subscription, it’s because they’re moving house or going to live with
someone else, so they ask for calls to their old number to be forwarded to the new one, for a few months. That’s archived too,
and you can access it in the same way, through the administrator’s
account.’
‘You’re unbelievable! Three stars – I want a three-star restaurant
for this! And as much champagne as I can drink.’
‘You’ve got it, I promise. And Hungarian violinists if you want
them . . .’
‘I’m going to hold you to that.’
The seconds of silence that followed seemed interminable to
Marc.
‘You were right,’ Jennifer said finally. ‘Mélanie Belvoir requested
call forwarding to a number belonging to Laurent Luisans. I assume
you want the address? The village is Dannemarie, in the Doubs, and
the address is 456 Route de Villars. You realise this information is
strictly confidential. What do you want with this woman? Is she an
ex? Does it have anything to do with the list of hospitals I gave you
the other day?’
Marc frantically scribbled down the address on the first piece of
paper he could find: the front page of the
Est Républicain
.
‘You’re the best, Jen! I’ll take you out to dinner and explain then,
I promise. Champagne, the works . . . Could you do me one last
favour? Are you connected to the internet right now?’
Jennifer sighed. ‘Yes . . .’
‘Can you find me the shortest route from Montbéliard to that
address?’
‘Jesus Christ . . . Who do you think I am, Miss Moneypenny?’

The Citroën slowly climbed the road that led to the Swiss border,
seven miles further on. Marc kept his foot firmly pressed to the
accelerator pedal, but that did nothing to encourage his van. Gradually, as it moved higher up the hillside, he left the edge of the town.
The road snaked around a waterfall before continuing its upward
trajectory. The villages became smaller and less numerous, until the
only human dwellings along the route were a few scattered chalets.

The village of Dannemarie appeared as the van rounded a bend.
According to Jennifer’s directions, Mélanie Belvoir’s chalet was
located as the road left the village, a little higher still, closer to Switzerland, just beneath the ridge line. Marc drove through the silent
village. It was eight in the morning, and there was not even a bakery
or a café open. One last turn and he left the village. Marc braked
and parked the van on the pavement.

It would have been madness to drive to the doorstep and throw
himself into the mouth of the wolf. Crédule Grand-Duc was
undoubtedly on Mélanie Belvoir’s trail too, and after years of visiting the Vitrals in Dieppe he would recognise the orange-and-red
van from miles away. He might as well have driven up honking his
horn.

It was cold outside. Marc walked quickly, and spotted the Xantia
after the third bend in the winding road. It was hidden on a small
path, just off the main road. A little higher, he could see a chalet
– Mélanie Belvoir’s, almost certainly. Walking on the dew-wet
grass beside the road, Marc approached the Xantia, making sure he
couldn’t be seen in the vehicle’s rear-view mirror.

The detective sat calmly inside the car, a white plastic cup in his
hand. Marc moved stealthily towards him. If anything went wrong,
he knew he could always use the Mauser, but his plan – if you could
call it that – was to take a more direct approach. Grand-Duc was
nearly sixty-five years old, while Marc was twenty, fit and strong.
There was not much doubt over who would win in a fight.

The detective did not have time to react. The Xantia’s door was
wrenched open and he was grabbed by the arm and pulled roughly
to the ground. Before he had even caught a glimpse of his assailant,
he took a kick to the ribs that cracked a few bones, causing him to
curl up in pain. Then a second kick, to the coccyx. ‘Bast . . .’ His
curse was swallowed up by the mountain’s immense silence.

Another kick. He managed to turn onto his back. A man was
towering over him.
Marc Vitral.
It wasn’t possible. How could he have found him here so quickly?
‘Marc?’ Grand-Duc groaned. ‘How did you . . .’
The detective spat blood onto the dusty ground and attempted
to get up. Marc’s foot pushed down on his chest.
‘Stay where you are or I’ll crush you like a cockroach.’
‘Marc, what are you . . .’
‘Shut the fuck up. I don’t want to hear any more of your bullshit.
I’ve spent the last two days reading your lies. Your life, your investigation, your hypocritical soul-searching . . .’ Marc pressed his foot
down harder on Grand-Duc’s chest, and the detective gasped. ‘Let’s
get straight to the point. I know you killed my grandfather. You
would have killed my grandmother too, if you could . . .’
‘Marc, surely you don’t believe . . .’
Marc’s boot lifted from Grand-Duc’s chest and landed on his
face, crushing his nose and mouth.
‘I don’t have time for this crap, Crédule-la-Bascule.’
The detective spat blood again. He seemed to be having trouble
breathing.
‘How did you find out? Did . . . was it the de Carvilles who told
you? Mathilde? Malvina?’
‘I worked it out for myself, believe it or not. Like a big boy.’
‘I . . . I never wanted to do it. You have to believe me. I . . . was
just following orders . . . I regretted it. I was honest after that . . . I
really loved . . .’
Marc kicked Grand-Duc in the collar bone. The detective rolled
over, howling with pain. His bloodied hand touched his shoulder.
‘Please, Marc, stop this. Please, I . . .’
‘Shut up, then. And spare me all your poetic nonsense about
remorse, and love. I’m not interested in that. The only thing I want
to know is Lylie’s identity. The truth!’
For the first time, Grand-Duc’s lips curved into a sort of smile.
‘So you haven’t understood . . . not everything, at least. You still
have need of my services as a detective . . .’
Marc raised his foot threateningly again.
‘Not necessarily. It’s up to you to prove that to me.’
‘But how did you find me so quickly?’
‘I’m not as slow as you think. But stop playing for time. Tell me
the truth about the DNA tests. And that photograph of Lylie in
the newspaper.’
‘But . . . your grandfather . . . did someone sell me out or did you
really guess yourself?’
‘I really did figure it out myself. I already told you that! Now quit
stalling . . .’
Marc gave the detective another kick in the ribs. Grand-Duc’s
body twisted up in pain, and his arm reached down past his leg.
Instantly Marc realised what he was doing: reaching for his gun.
Marc thrust his hand into his bag to grab the Mauser . . .
The bag was empty.
The Mauser had vanished.
Images of the night before flickered through Marc’s brain: Malvina on her feet, awake while he slept, supposedly having had a
nightmare . . . but it was too late for regrets.
Crédule Grand-Duc was aiming his revolver at Marc’s chest.
‘You were very quick, Marc. Seriously, I’m impressed. But you let
your feelings get in the way. A classic mistake. You held all the winning cards – an old man at your mercy, the solution to the mystery
only a few feet away, on the passenger seat of my car, the finale to
my famous notebook . . . Yes, what you want to know is just there,
inside an envelope. A few pages that explain everything and could
make me a fortune. All you had to do was reach in and take it . . .’
Shakily, Grand-Duc stood up. His lip was bleeding and his beige
jacket was heavily stained with blood and dirt. He could barely
even put weight on his right leg. Marc said nothing. He was furious
with himself. To have come so close and to fail right at the end. It
was so stupid . . .
‘You were pretty tough on me, Marc. But I guess I deserved it.
In your place, I’d have done the same thing. Worse, probably . . .’
The detective stretched his left arm gingerly while aiming the
revolver steadily at Marc with his right hand.
‘Sorry, Marc, but you leave me no choice. Do you understand?
You’re the only other person in the world who knows the truth
about your grandfather. Except old Léonce, of course, but he’s
hardly going to spill the beans, is he? Killing you is the last thing I
want, Marc, but what else can I do?’
Finally, Marc managed to say a few words. Looking over at the
Xantia, he asked quietly: ‘Did you say the same thing to Nazim
Ozan?’
Grand-Duc shrugged. He stood gingerly on his injured leg. ‘Life
is full of surprises, Marc. It’s hard to swim against the current. Five
days ago, I was planning to commit suicide. At home, all alone.
Everything was ready, my finger on the trigger. Game over. Now,
I’ve won. Yet I’ve had to murder two of the people I love most in the
world – Nazim and Ayla. You are the third, sadly.’
Marc shivered. He was ten feet away from the barrel of the
Mateba, which was now pointed at his head. It would be futile
to attempt to disarm the detective. If Marc moved an inch, he
would be shot, he had no doubt about that. The mountain road
by which they stood was utterly deserted, and it was unlikely that
any passing motorist would see them, hidden away on this small
track.
‘Let me explain, Marc. I was paid a fortune to murder a couple
and make it look like an accident. I was a mercenary, and I had
already killed people for relatively miserable sums all over the world.
Léonce de Carville was offering me more money than I had ever
dreamed of. It was an offer I couldn’t refuse. How could I possibly
know that I would fall in love with one of my victims?’
If only he would shut up, thought Marc. The worst thing was
that Grand-Duc wasn’t insane. He didn’t even have that excuse. Yet
the words came out of Marc’s mouth anyway. What was he thinking, that he could move this man?
‘Listen, Lylie is pregnant. With my child. She’s supposed to have
an abortion at ten o’clock this morning.’
The detective’s revolver did not tremble.
‘This was bound to happen, Marc. You shouldn’t have got
involved. You might have lived happily ever after with Lylie – the
two of you make a sweet little couple. She will be inconsolable. But
you leave me no choice. Let’s just get it over with, shall we?’
Grand-Duc aimed the Mateba at Marc’s heart, and Marc stood,
frozen, incapable of moving a muscle. Strangely, his head was filled
with happy memories of their house at Rue Pocholle: birthday parties, Lylie playing the piano, Marc and Crédule watching the World
Cup together, the penalty shoot-out and the Didier Six shirt . . .
‘None of this should have happened, Marc, none of this pain
and grief. But it did, and it’s no one’s fault. Well, maybe Mélanie
Belvoir’s . . . but even she thought she was doing the right thing.’
I should move, thought Marc. Throw myself at his feet or
something.
As if reading his mind, Grand-Duc took a few steps backward,
still gripping the revolver.
‘We all hang on desperately to life, Marc, even when there’s no
hope left. That’s the root of the problem. That whole battle between
the Vitrals and the de Carvilles was pointless. Like all wars. It was
just a misunderstanding. I think you know the truth now. They
both died on that plane, Marc. Emilie
and
Lyse-Rose. They both
died in the accident. I am so sorry, Marc, believe me.’