After the Crash (8 page)

The first concerned his granddaughter, Malvina. She was only six
years old at the time: a lively child, and treated like a little queen.
Naturally, it was always going to be difficult for her to get over the
death of both her parents and possibly her little sister too. But, supported by her family and an army of shrinks, she would probably
have recovered, the way people do.

Except that she was the sole eyewitness, the only living being to
have seen Lyse-Rose in Turkey, during the first two months of her
life. Perhaps the only two months of her life.

Is a six-year-old girl capable of recognising a small baby? Or of
distinguishing it from another baby?
It was a question worth asking.
Against the affirmations of the Vitral grandparents, Malvina was
the de Carvilles’ sole asset, the only one capable of identifying LyseRose. Léonce de Carville should have protected her; he should not
have allowed her to testify; he should have thrown the police out of
his home. He had the means to do it. Malvina should not have had
to answer questions; she should have been left alone, sent far away
from the turmoil to a special retreat filled with attentive childcarers and happy children. Instead of which, Malvina had to testify,
over and over again, in front of judges, lawyers, police, experts.
For weeks on end, she was shuttled from office to hearing room,
from waiting room to courtroom, constantly surrounded by sinister-looking men in suits and muscled bodyguards. To protect her
from journalists, of course.
Malvina systematically repeated the exact same words to every
person she saw:
‘Yes, this baby is my little sister.’
‘I recognise her. She is Lyse-Rose.’
After a while, her grandfather didn’t even have to encourage her
to do it anymore. She grew certain of what she was saying; she no
longer had any doubts. She could not possibly be mistaken.
The clothes she was shown were Lyse-Rose’s. It was her face that
she recognised. Those were her cries that she heard. And she was
ready to swear it – before the judge, on the Bible, on the life of her
favourite doll. At only six years old, she was strong enough to stand
up to the Vitrals.
Since then, I have watched Malvina grow up. Well, perhaps that
is the wrong term. Let’s just say that I have watched her grow older,
becoming an adolescent, then an adult. I have seen the madness rise
within her.
That girl scares me, I can’t deny it – I believe she ought to be in
a psychiatric hospital, closely watched at all times – but there is
one thing I have to acknowledge: she is not to blame in the slightest for what happened to her. Her grandfather, Léonce de Carville,
bears all the responsibility for that. He knew what he was doing. He
deliberately used his own granddaughter. He knowingly sacrificed
her mental health, against the advice of all the doctors and the pleas
of his own wife.
And, what’s worse, it did him no good at all.
Because Léonce de Carville made another mistake, perhaps even
more serious than the first.

Lylie had not moved in the last thirty minutes. She was sitting on a
marble balustrade on the Esplanade des Invalides. The cold of the
stone was seeping into her legs, but she wasn’t really bothered by it.
It was a cold, dry day. Across from her, the dome of Les Invalides
could hardly be distinguished from the almost monochrome white
sky.

A dozen rollerbladers were practising in front of her, indifferent
to the weather. Almost as if they were trying to impress her.
The Esplanade des Invalides is mostly used to practise speed,
slaloming and jumping. The rollerbladers had put down two lines
of plastic orange cones, and they were racing one another over a
hundred yards. It was like a modern version of a medieval joust,
with the fastest, or the last one standing, winning the heart of the
watching princess.
Lylie liked watching the rollerbladers: their speed, their laughter,
their shouts. The noise and the movement helped her to stay calm.
This wasn’t easy, as everything in her life seemed to be in a state
of flux. She thought again about Grand-Duc’s notebook. Had she
been right to give it to Marc? Would he read it? Yes, of course he
would, but would he understand it? Marc had a complicated relationship with Crédule Grand-Duc: the detective wasn’t exactly a
father figure to him, but all the same, he had, for many years, been
one of the few masculine presences in Marc’s life. And Marc was
always so sure of things – his instinct, he called it. His convictions.
Was he ready to accept a different kind of truth?
One of the rollerbladers was staring at her with black, hawk-like
eyes. He was older than the others, maybe in his forties, with a
thin, chiselled face and hair that was already beginning to go grey.
He had won all his races hands down. He had taken off his leather
jacket, and would lift up his T-shirt at every opportunity, revealing
his muscular body.
Lylie had not even noticed him. She was thinking about Marc’s
present now, that macabre set-up.
Was there any point to it?
Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She had no choice: she
simply had to distance herself from Marc, at least for a few hours,
a few days; she had to do this without him, to protect him. Afterwards, when it was all over, perhaps she would have the courage to
tell him everything. Marc was so fond of her. But who was she?
His Lylie, his dragonfly. What she would have given to be known
by a single, ordinary first name . . .
The silver-haired rollerblader brushed past Lylie. She jumped,
startled abruptly from her thoughts. A smile played across her lips.
In spite of the cold (it must have been less than ten degrees Celsius),
the man had now taken off his T-shirt and was dancing bare-chested
in front of her, his huge thigh muscles clearly visible through his
skintight jeans.
He was staring at her shamelessly, appraising Lylie’s body. His
mating ritual seemed well practised and there was no ambiguity
as to his intentions: he was a sexual predator. She wondered how
many times he had done this before, how many young women had
fallen into his clutches.
Lylie held his gaze for a few moments, evaluating her seducer.
Her expression was almost indifferent. She was used to the attention: her beautiful, slender body often attracted men’s eyes, yet she
felt surprised that they would look at her in that way, desire her. She
felt as if she were transparent.
She returned to her ruminations. She should not give in to
self-pity. Right now, the important thing wasn’t her name. The
important thing was to act, and to do so quickly and alone.
She was determined. Now she had learned the truth, the awful
truth, she had no choice. She had to accept that.
She had only found out yesterday and her life had been turned
upside down in an instant. Everything seemed to have sped up now,
but she had committed the irreparable act long before all this. Now
she was caught in a vice and her options had been reduced to this:
escape or be crushed.
The rollerblader wasn’t giving up. He skated in wide circles, his
eyes fixed permanently on Lylie. But she was thinking about Marc
again. Trapped in that bar.
Trapped by her, and with another fifteen minutes to go. After
that, she felt certain, he would try to call her. She picked up her bag
and switched off her mobile phone. She had to remain invisible,
out of contact, at least for the moment. Marc would be against her
plan. He would try to protect her, seeing only the risks, the danger.
She knew him well. He would call it murder.

Like a flight of swallows in the moment after a gunshot, the dozen
rollerbladers suddenly disappeared towards Les Invalides, following
their grey-haired leader, who had either grown weary or annoyed
by the failure of his mating dance. The plastic orange cones, the
jackets, the T-shirts . . . everything vanished in an instant, leaving
behind nothing but the grey, empty tarmac.

Murder . . .
Lylie smiled nervously.
Yes, she supposed, that was one way to look at it.
A fatal and essential crime.
Killing a monster so that she would be able to live.
Or at least to survive.

Why was time passing so slowly? A strange foreboding rose
within him. That present from Lylie, which Mariam had put in her
cash register, that matchbox-sized gift . . . it was a trap. A pretext. A
decoy. The only point of this interminable hour of waiting was to
give Lylie enough time to get away from him, to hide.

But why?
He didn’t like this. He felt as if each second was taking Lylie
further away from him. Yet his eyes were still drawn back to the
notebook. He could guess what was coming next – Léonce de Carville’s second mistake. He had been there when it happened, he’d
been told, a witness with tears in his eyes. If Grand-Duc’s version
matched the legend told in Rue Pocholle, he would enjoy reading
it.

The inquiry had stalled. And even if the Minister of Justice, in
agreement with Judge Le Drian, had set a deadline of six months
for the final decision, the wait was too long for Léonce de Carville.

All his lawyers urged patience. The longer the inquiry went on,
the more likely he was to win it, they said, because of his influence.
Slowly but surely, the media, the police, even Vatelier, would fall
into line. Without any definite proof on either side, the case would
boil down to a squabble between the experts, and that meant the
judge’s decision would be final. The Vitral family had no influence,
no experience, no support. However Léonce de Carville evidently
did not share his lawyers’ confidence, no matter how calm he
appeared to be in public. He decided to deal with the problem
on his own, once and for all, in the same way he always dealt with
business matters: instinctively and autocratically.

Around noon on 17 February 1981, he picked up his telephone
(this was not something he would delegate to his secretary) and
made an appointment to see the Vitral family the following morning. Well, not the family, but Pierre Vitral. Another big mistake on
his part. Later, Nicole would tell me the whole story, in great detail.
Triumphantly.

The next morning, in Dieppe, the Vitrals’ neighbours in Rue
Pocholle were amazed to see a smart Mercedes parked in front of
Pierre and Nicole’s house. De Carville entered, carrying a black
briefcase, like someone from a movie.

A caricature.
‘Mr Vitral, would it be possible for me to talk with you in private?’
Pierre Vitral hesitated. His wife did not. Her reply was unambiguous: ‘No, Mr de Carville, that would not be possible.’

Nicole Vitral was holding little Marc in her arms. She did not let
go of him as she continued speaking: ‘You see, this is a small house
and the walls are thin. Even if I went into the kitchen, I would still
hear everything that was said. So would the neighbours, for that
matter. There are no secrets here. But then, we don’t
want
to keep
secrets from each other.’

Marc began to cry in her arms. She sat down on a chair and
bounced him on her knees, making it clear that she was not going
to budge.

‘As you like,’ he said, smiling. ‘This won’t take long. What I have
to propose can be summarised in a few words.’
He moved further into the room, glancing at the small TV set in
the corner, which was showing some American sitcom. The living
room was tiny – thirty square feet at most – with orange Formica
furniture, as if they were still living in the 1960s.
‘Mr Vitral, let us be frank. No one will ever know for sure which
baby survived this aeroplane crash. Who is alive now – Lyse-Rose
or Emilie? There will never be any real proof: you will always feel
certain that it is Emilie, just as I will remain sure that Lyse-Rose was
the one who survived. No matter what happens, our convictions
will remain the same. That is human nature.’
Up to that point, the Vitrals could only agree.
‘Even a judge or a jury will never be sure,’ de Carville went on.
‘They will be obliged to make a decision, but no one will ever know
if it was the right one. Essentially, it is a fifty-fifty chance – heads
or tails. Mr Vitral, do you really believe a child’s future should be
determined by the toss of a coin?’
The Vitrals gave no response. They were waiting for de Carville
to make his point. Moronic laughter blared from the TV set. Nicole
walked over, switched it off, then returned to her seat.
‘I am going to be completely honest with you, Mr Vitral. Mrs
Vitral. I have gathered information about you. Doubtless you have
done the same for me.’
Nicole Vitral felt a growing dislike for this man’s self-satisfied
smile.
‘You raised your children with dignity. Everyone says so. It wasn’t
always easy for you. I heard about your eldest son, Nicolas – the
moped accident, four years ago. I also heard about your back,
Pierre, and your lungs, Nicole. I am sure that with a job such as
yours . . . What I mean is, you ought to have found something else
a long time ago. For your own sake, and for your grandson.’
So that was it. Nicole was holding Marc too tightly and he cried
out.
‘What are you getting at, Mr de Carville?’ Pierre Vitral asked
suddenly.
‘I am sure you have already grasped my meaning. We are not
enemies. On the contrary. We should be friends, in the interests of
our Dragonfly. We should join forces.’
Nicole Vitral stood up. Léonce de Carville did not even notice,
so attached was he to his chain of thought.
‘Let us be frank,’ he continued. ‘I am sure that you have dreamed
of enabling your children, and your grandchildren, to enjoy real
holidays, to study in the best schools. Of giving them all that they
desire. All that they deserve. A real chance in life. But a real chance
has a price. Everything has a price.’
De Carville was digging a hole for himself, but he was incapable
of realising it. Instead, he kept on digging. Horrified, the Vitrals
said nothing.
‘Pierre, Nicole, I don’t know if our little Dragonfly is my granddaughter or yours, but I want to give her everything she could ever
want, to satisfy her every desire. I swear I will make her the happiest
girl in the world. In fact, I will go even further: I have a high regard
for your family, and I would like to offer you financial help, so that
you are better able to bring up your grandson Marc. I am well aware
how difficult this tragedy has been for you, as well as for me, and
that you will be forced to continue working for many years in order
to feed another mouth . . .’
Nicole Vitral moved closer to her husband. Her rage was building.
Léonce de Carville finally hesitated for a moment, then continued: ‘Pierre, Nicole, if you agree to give up any claim to the child,
to Lylie, if you acknowledge that her name is Lyse-Rose de Carville,
I solemnly undertake to look after you and Marc. You will be able
to see Lylie as often as you like – nothing will change in that sense.
It will be as if you are still her grandparents . . .’
The look on de Carville’s face was imploring, almost human.
‘I beg you to accept. Think of your future. Of Lylie’s future.’
Nicole Vitral was going to say something, but it was Pierre who
responded first. His voice was astonishingly calm.
‘Mr de Carville, I would prefer not even to reply to your question. Emilie is not for sale. Nor is Marc. Nor is anyone here. Money
can’t buy everything, Mr de Carville. Didn’t the death of your son
teach you that?’
Taken aback, Léonce de Carville suddenly raised his voice. It
was a rule of his never to remain on the defensive. Marc was now
screaming in his grandmother’s arms. The whole street must have
heard what followed.
‘No, Mr Vitral! Don’t start lecturing me, on top of everything
else. Perhaps you don’t realise how humiliating it has been for me,
to come here and make this proposal to you. I have offered you
a genuine opportunity to escape your situation, and you can’t be
bothered to take it. Pride is a wonderful thing . . .’
‘Get out!’
De Carville did not budge.
‘Get out of here right now! And don’t forget your briefcase.
How much is inside? What price were you offering us for Emilie?
A hundred thousand francs? The cost of a nice car. Three hundred
thousand – a bungalow with a sea view, for our retirement?’
‘Five hundred thousand francs, Mr Vitral. With more to come
after the judge’s decision, if you wish.’
‘Get the hell out of my house.’
‘You are making a mistake. You are going to lose everything.
You know as well as I do that you haven’t a chance of winning
this battle. I have dozens of lawyers who are on first-name terms
with the experts and the policemen in charge of this investigation. I
am personally acquainted with half of the judges in the Paris High
Court. That isn’t your world. The game is rigged, Mr Vitral, and
you know it. The miracle child will be called Lyse-Rose, even if
irrefutable evidence is found proving the opposite. Lyse-Rose is the
one who survived; it is a
fait accompli
. That’s just how it is. I have
not come here as your enemy, Mr Vitral. I was under no obligation
to offer you anything. I came here simply to help you.’
Marc was still wailing in Nicole’s arms.
‘I told you to get the hell out of my house.’
De Carville picked up his briefcase and walked towards the door.
‘Thank you, Mr Vitral. At least I have eased my conscience. And
it hasn’t cost me a penny!’
He left.
Nicole Vitral held Marc tightly. She was weeping into his hair.
Weeping because she knew that de Carville had not been lying.
Everything he had said was true. The Vitrals knew the workings of
fate; they had faced up to it so many times. With pride. She also
knew perfectly well that they had no chance of winning.
Pierre Vitral stood for a long time staring at the soundless television. At that moment, his back was not troubling him. He was
suffering from something else, a different pain that blocked it out.
Pierre Vitral looked at the little television screen one last time.
Finally, a glimmer of resistance appeared in his expression. Almost
to himself, he mumbled: ‘No, Mr de Carville. No, you won’t win.’