Caravaggio's Angel (25 page)

22

Jean-Jacques: Paris, October

‘You realize what that means,’ Manu said.

‘Of course.’

I’d been thinking about it ever since I first saw the photo. The sight of the gun had brought to mind that other gun, the one Manu had tried to pull – with his left hand; hadn’t he told me left-handedness ran in his family? There were doubtless other forensic matters – the angle of the shot, whether it could have been self-inflicted – that only an expert could identify. But no one could argue with this. When you pick up a gun to kill yourself, the hand you use, unless it’s been cut off or otherwise disabled, is the one that comes naturally.

Of course this didn’t prove who had done the deed – only that it hadn’t been the dead man. If anything, the photo argued against rather than for Jean-Jacques’ guilt – he and Antoine had grown up together, he surely could not have forgotten such an obvious detail? But he wasn’t, at least to my knowledge, accustomed to actual face-to-face murder. Perhaps it had been messier than he’d bargained for, and he’d had to make the best of a bad job. And in the end it wasn’t so risky. You’d have to know a person very well to register that particular anomaly – it certainly wasn’t the kind of thing to strike an examining magistrate. I wondered if he knew the concierge had seen him, and hoped, for her sake, that she was right and he didn’t. Better not mention that conversation even to Manu.

‘What are you going to do?’ he said. ‘Tell the police?’

‘I don’t think so. They weren’t much use last time, were they? Listen, I want to ask a favour.’

‘What?’ He sounded suspicious.

‘I’d like to get in touch with your father, but it won’t be easy – he’ll have walls of guards fending people off. So I need the number of his private line. He must have one.’

‘Régine, we’ve been through this. What’s done’s done. Just keep away from my father. Let it go. He’s a dangerous man.’

‘And I’m a grown-up woman. I can look after myself. Why don’t you just give me the number.’

After a little bullying he gave it to me, as I’d known he would. He was weak, poor Manu. Flattened.

It sat on the table in front of me now, daring me to dial it. Every sane instinct advised against. What I had in mind wasn’t just scary, it was wrong. Mad, dangerous, immoral, on every count a no-no. So why was I doing it? Perhaps wickedness is like death – contagious. You want to keep away from it for fear of infection. Unfortunately it had come to find me. Though there as in all other respects, I wasn’t in Jean-Jacques’ league. Ambition, ruthlessness, greed – you name it, he had me outclassed. Disreputable, that was the word for what I proposed. That was more my level.

I knew what I
ought
to do. Failing the police – and that the police would fail I had little doubt – I
ought
to tell Joe what I’d found and leave the rest to him. What could be more important than to bring a criminal to justice?

Nothing. And I would. Oh, yes. I owed Juliette and Delphine nothing less, not to speak of the ones I’d never met – Antoine Rigaut, and who knew how many others? But in St Augustine’s immortal words, not yet. Between Jean-Jacques and me, things had got too personal. I needed to finish them off in my own way and my own time.

The number began with 06 – a cellphone. I wondered whether it would work. He probably had it arranged so that different ringtones indicated different callers. In which case I’d never get through directly.

I dialled; the phone rang – and switched to voicemail. I said, ‘Monsieur Rigaut, this is Régine Lee. I’m in pos-session of some interesting facts regarding the provenance of your Caravaggio, and various events surrounding it, and also some information regarding your brother’s death. I’m thinking of publishing it. If you’re happy with that, fine. If not, we can discuss it.’ I left my own number, and rang off.

The call came a couple of hours later, while I was watch-ing the television news. Naturally it wasn’t the great man himself. The speaker was a young man, some secretary or gofer. ‘Madame Lee?’

‘Yes, who’s this?’

‘I’m speaking on behalf of Monsieur Jean-Jacques Rigaut. I believe you phoned him.’

‘Yes, I did.’

‘Perhaps you would like to tell me what this is about.’

‘I told you. Or rather, him. I don’t have any more to say than that. Except to him, that is. If he wants to arrange a meeting, I’m happy to fit in with his timetable.’

‘Madame, you perhaps don’t understand how busy he is . . . the elections coming up . . . I’m sure this can be settled over the phone.’

‘Unfortunately not,’ I assured him crisply. ‘It’s up to him. If he doesn’t have time to meet, then please assure him I shall publish, if not this week then early next.’

‘I’ll get back to you,’ said the voice and rang off.

Half an hour later he rang again. ‘Tomorrow ten o’clock. He can give you half an hour.’

‘Where would this be?’

‘Paris. His office at the ministry.’

Not allowing myself even to think about the monstrous fares bill I was racking up, I said, ‘I’ll be there.’

Ten o’clock! Well, I was lucky he hadn’t said nine. Or even earlier . . . Whatever, I’d have had to go along with it. I checked the Eurostar timetable. There was a five twenty-four that got me in just after nine. Or I could fly – any number of flights left later and arrived earlier. But there’d be all the bother of getting out to the airport, and then back in to Paris during the rush hour, to say nothing of possible delays. Better to take the train, however uninviting. I booked a taxi for four fifteen.

Given that I was going to get up in the middle of the night I ought to go to bed at once. Before that, however, there were still a few things to do. I wrote a précis of what I now knew regarding the two French St Cecilias, together with instructions as to the whereabouts of the file that contained all the backing paperwork – the pamphlet, Lindsay Hillier’s reports, the xerox of the photo in the 1928 Caravaggio book – and emailed one copy to David at his office, one to Tony Malahide, and one to Joe. After that, I wrote an account of my suspicions regarding Antoine Rigaut’s death, printed off two copies, left one with a copy of the photograph in an envelope on my desk addressed to Joe, and slid a similar envelope, addressed to myself at the office, into the postbox on the corner. Finally, when every-thing was in order, I rang Joe.

‘Reggie, hi, I’ve been meaning to call you. Any move-ment on the story?’

‘Quite a bit, actually. I think we may have what we’re after. Look, I’m going to see Rigaut tomorrow morning, in Paris. At his office in the Ministry of the Interior. I’ve sent you an email with all the art stuff and left you a note with everything else on my desk at home – Mrs Walton next door’s still got the key. If you can’t get in I sent a copy of it to myself at the office. If I don’t get in touch by six to-morrow evening it’s all yours. OK?’

‘Are you crazy? This is serious, Reg. Not the moment to piss about with melodramatics.’

‘I’m not pissing about. We have different priorities, that’s all.’

‘Different priorities? What are you talking about?’ After a moment he said disbelievingly, ‘You can’t still mean that bloody exhibition of yours?’

‘It’s very important to me,’ I said primly. ‘It’s going to be the making of my career.’

‘If you’re not careful it’ll be the unmaking of your
life
. Fat lot of use your career’ll be then.’

‘Listen,’ I said. ‘This is my story. Eventually you’ll have it. I promise. But in my time, OK? If the worst comes to the worst, tomorrow evening. Otherwise, later. It’s no use going on about it.’

I was so keyed up that sleep was a long time coming, and the consciousness of an early start meant that I woke long before I had to and spent the next hour and a half consulting my watch at five-minute intervals. By the time the train reached Paris I felt flattened, and doubtless looked it, too.

The Ministry of the Interior occupies the Hotel Beauvau, in the Faubourg St Honoré. During World War II it was the headquarters of the Gestapo; the unfortunates who were summoned there then – among them, doubtless, many associates of the current Minister’s father – must have felt much as I did now. I gave the address to the taxi driver, and sat back exhausted while he negotiated the traffic-choked streets. The slower the better: as far as I was concerned, the ride could happily have gone on for ever. Only too soon, however, I found myself standing outside the Ministry. This was Rigaut’s home ground – no shabby provincial château, but a grand seventeenth-century palace, its pillared façades surrounding three sides of a huge
cour d’honneur
designed to contain the horse-drawn carriages of the rich and powerful, several abreast. All around busy
fonctionnaires
came and went, in animated conversation with their cellphones.

Silently repeating my mantra –
knowledge is power, knowl-edge
is power
– I penetrated the wrought-iron gates and approached the vast reception desk.

‘To see Monsieur
Rigaut
, did you say?’ The receptionist sounded distinctly unconvinced – disbelieving, even. It struck me that, having got me here at such effort and expense, my quarry was about to fob me off with some underling. I was instantly filled with invigorating fury. Fine, I thought – just let him try. He’d soon see what happened.

Almost to my regret, these fantasies were interrupted by the receptionist’s fluting ‘Yes, that’s correct, to see Monsieur le Ministre.’ She summoned an official to take me through the usual procedure of badges and searches, and at ten precisely we stood outside a pair of imposing double doors, almost three metres high and elaborately gilded. The official knocked, then opened one wing of the doors. And I stepped inside.

The Minister’s office had once been the grand salon. Mirrors set in gilded panelling reflected an elaborate Louis XVI escritoire, and many side-tables, armchairs and silk-upholstered sofas in the same style. A matching arrangement of white and gold lilies perfumed the air with a faint scent of corpses. Four immense windows, of the same proportions as the door, looked out on to the
cour
d’honneur
. My man was seated at the escritoire, looking over some papers. When I came in he glanced briefly up, said, ‘
Bonjour
,’ and went on with his paperwork.

I said, ‘
Bonjour
,’ and went to wait by the left-hand window.

‘
Asseyez-vous
,’ he said, not looking up, and I took my place on a sofa, which was quite as uncomfortable as it looked.

‘Well,’ he said after we’d been sitting like this for a while, ‘I understood you had something to say to me.’

‘Absolutely,’ I agreed.

‘Then please say it.’ He looked at his watch.

I started out on my recital. The two pictures, the slight differences between them, how I’d realized what must have happened, and so on.

‘Most interesting, I’m sure,’ he remarked. He still hadn’t looked at me – was still shuffling through those papers. ‘
Et alors?
’

‘
Et alors
, Monsieur le Ministre, suddenly a lot of things fell into place.’

‘Very possibly, but art history, however fascinating, isn’t exactly at the top of my agenda just at present.’ He looked me levelly in the eye, his confidence so absolute that it felt almost physical, a barrier to be scaled.

‘Then let’s move on to something else,’ I offered. ‘Your brother’s death.’

‘Ah, yes. My brother . . . Madame, excuse me for asking, but what can the circumstances of my brother’s death possibly have to do with you?’

‘
Eh bien
, monsieur, it’s the same old story. The picture. And then one thing led to another.’

We sat staring at each other, holding each other’s gaze as lovers do. What lay between us, I shiveringly understood, was not so very different from what had bound me, briefly, to Olivier.

‘
Et alors?
’ he said again.

In reply I pulled the photograph from my bag and put it on the desk, on top of his pile of papers. He studied it, still expressionless.

‘May I ask where you got this?’

‘It came in the post. I’ve no idea who sent it.’

‘Really?’ he said coldly.

‘Really.’

He looked at the photo again. ‘My poor brother. It’s a mystery why he did it, who knows what goes on in a per-son’s head? But since you didn’t know him – I believe that’s so? – I don’t imagine you can cast any light on that.’

‘Forgive me, but why he did it isn’t really the question,’ I said. ‘It’s whether he did it at all.’

‘Please don’t speak in riddles.’ He was frowning now, his impassivity ever so slightly ruffled. Everything had been so securely tied up – what could possibly have gone wrong?

‘I believe the magistrate found that he committed sui-cide. But there’s a problem. If you look, the photo shows the gun by his right hand. And he was left-handed.’

Did he flinch? If so it was the merest flicker. Nor did he argue. What would have been the point? Instead, like the seasoned campaigner he was, he moved on to the attack. ‘Really? If that’s all you have to say, madame, I’m afraid I shall have to terminate this interview.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I can give you just two minutes more.’

‘Fine. I’ll get to the point. I have several copies of this photo, Monsieur Rigaut, and a number of my friends know I’m here today with you. I haven’t told them why – or only the art history. But if anything happens to me, I’ve made sure they will find out.’

‘How very melodramatic,’ he said, echoing Joe. ‘And why should anything happen to you?’

‘I’ve noticed that things do tend to happen to people who get in your way. Your brother. Your mother. Olivier Peytoureau.’

‘Ah, your little boyfriend. Did something happen to him? How unfortunate. I wasn’t aware . . .’

‘His wife died in a car crash. Forced off the road. The other car was never found. All we know is, it was red.’
Just
like yours
.

‘Indeed. I still don’t understand what all this is about.’ He removed the photo from his papers and began to go through the next one on the pile.

‘I’m quite sure you do,’ I said. ‘I’m here to strike a bar-gain. If you don’t give me what I want, I’ll publish what I know. Think about it, Monsieur le Ministre.’