Fatal Error (13 page)

We followed Tony into the living room. Ingrid, Mel, Owen, Miguel and a couple of maids were sitting there in silence, all looking stunned. Mel had been crying. Two gendarmes in uniform stood a few feet distant, watching us idly. It was a large room, with tile floors covered in chic rugs,
abstract sculptures dotted about the place and large canvases with bright splashes of colour daubing the walls. It was a room for the elegant and the sophisticated to relax in, not for a bunch of eighteen-year-olds just out of school to wait for interrogation. Not for the first time I found myself thinking, what am I doing here?

‘The police will want to ask you questions individually,’ Tony said in a monotone. ‘It should be just a formality. Nothing to worry about.’ He looked exhausted, numb. I could still smell the alcohol of the previous night on him.

‘What happened, Dad?’ said Guy.

Tony turned to his son. ‘I found her an hour or so ago. She was in bed. There was a needle on her bedside table. Heroin.’

‘Are you sure?’

Tony nodded, all his vitality gone.

He knew she took heroin, I thought. In fact, that probably explained the strangeness in her eyes. And the make-up on the inside of her forearm hiding the injection marks.

I stared up at the ceiling, at the motionless fan. A drug addict. I had had sex with a drug addict. Who was now dead. The urgent question was, what should I tell the police?

My first instinct, of course, was to lie. Or at least not to mention what had happened that afternoon. But a moment’s thought persuaded me that was a bad idea. I had done nothing wrong; or rather nothing illegal. Once I started lying to the police I would be breaking the law. And there were all sorts of ways they might find out. The post-mortem, Tony, perhaps even Ingrid. Besides, I wasn’t a good liar at the best of times, and this was the worst of times. A competent policeman would find me out in no time.

The door opened and two detectives entered. One of them signalled to Tony. They spoke in heated whispers. Whatever it was the policeman said, it shocked Tony. He
looked anxiously over towards us. The detective broke away from him and approached us.

He was a tall, burly man in a baggy double-breasted suit who managed to look both tired and alert at the same time.

‘My name is Sauville. Inspector Sauville,’ he said, in good but strongly accented English. We were listening. ‘I must inform you that we believe we are investigating a murder. In a few minutes I will begin questioning each of you in turn. It is imperative that you stay here at the house today. And keep well clear from the scene of the crime. Do you understand?’

We nodded. A murder. No wonder Tony looked so shocked. I glanced at Guy. He seemed stunned.

Sauville spoke to his detectives and disappeared into the dining room. In a moment he called in Tony. One of the other detectives began to interview Ingrid. They were splitting up the work.

The interviews took a long time, especially Tony’s. When he came out he looked dazed. He spoke to Guy quickly and then disappeared.

‘What did he say?’ I asked Guy.

‘They think Dominique was suffocated with a pillow. She had taken heroin, but the police have no reason to think it was an overdose. They’ll know for sure when they’ve done the post-mortem. Dad said they think he might have done it. He’s gone to call Patrick Hoyle.’

Guy looked stricken. Both by the idea that his stepmother had been murdered and that his father might be suspected of doing it.

More police were arriving. I could see them outside, picking their way methodically through the garden. We heard movement on the stairs and we went outside into the hallway to watch as Dominique’s body was carried down and out of the house. She was covered, of course, but we could easily
make out her shape beneath the sheet. A chill ran through me. I glanced at Guy, whose face was drained of all colour. Ingrid let out a tiny gasp and Mel began to weep. I put my arm round her; of all of us, she had had a particularly hard couple of days.

Then Sauville called her into the dining room. She wiped her eyes and tried to pull herself together. But she looked scared. I realized she must be agonizing over whether to tell them about Tony seducing her. Like me, she had no choice; I hoped she understood that. Meanwhile the other detective was cracking through the witnesses. I was anxious for my turn. I wanted it to be over. We talked little, but drank many cups of coffee. Ingrid stayed close to Mel, and took her up to her room after she had finished her interview. Guy looked agitated and anxious. Owen sat impassively, as if he were in a doctor’s surgery, waiting for a routine check-up. My turn came eventually, after Guy.

I got Inspector Sauville. He sat at the head of the table, a lackey by his side taking notes. He gestured for me to sit down.

‘Your name is David Lane?’

‘Yes,’ I whispered.

‘Comment?’

‘Yes,’ I said more strongly. He had only asked my name, but already I could feel my palms sweating. This was not going to be fun.

‘How old are you?’

‘Eighteen.’

‘And you are a friend of Guy Jourdan’s?’ He pronounced ‘Guy’ to rhyme with ‘key’, just as Dominique had.

‘That’s right. We go to the same school in England.’

‘When did you arrive here in France?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘I see.’ He paused and leaned back in the dining chair. It
creaked. For a moment I was worried he would break it. ‘David?’

‘Yes?’

He swung forward. ‘What were you doing at about one o’clock yesterday afternoon?’

He knew. The bastard knew. I’d have to tell him now. My mouth was dry and I hesitated.

‘Hein?’
He was a big man, and leaning forward he seemed even bigger.

‘I was, er … with Mrs Jourdan.’

The policeman exchanged glances and a twitch of the lips with his sidekick. ‘And what were you doing with her, David?’

I was, that is, we were, well …’ I squirmed.

‘Yes?’

‘We were having sex.’

‘Ah.’ A smug smile of triumph crossed the policeman’s face. He thought this was funny. ‘Tell me more.’

So I told him the whole sordid story, and it did seem sordid that early in the morning when told to a policeman in slow English. I told him about overhearing Dominique shout at Tony the night before, and my suspicions about Tony and Mel, and Dominique’s motivation for seducing me.

‘Did you see or hear anything last night?’

‘No. I went to bed pretty early. About ten. It took me a while to get to sleep, maybe an hour or two. Then I slept until Mr Jourdan woke me up this morning.’

‘And Guy?’

‘He went to bed the same time as me.’

‘Did you hear him get up in the night?’

‘No.’

‘No other noises outside?’

‘Nothing woke me till this morning.’

‘I see.’ Sauville paused, studying me. He was probably just thinking of his next question, but I found the silence
unnerving. At last he spoke. ‘When you were with Madame Jourdan yesterday, did she seem suicidal?’

I thought before answering. ‘No. Quite the contrary. She seemed animated, excited. I think she was enjoying her revenge on her husband.’

‘And you? How did you feel about being manipulated in that way?’

‘Actually, it made me quite angry,’ I said. Then I hesitated, worried I had put my foot in it. ‘Of course, not angry enough to murder her or anything.’

The inspector dismissed my comment with a contemptuous wave of his hand. ‘What about Guy Jourdan? What was his opinion of his stepmother?’

I paused. I was still a schoolboy. I didn’t want to get my friend into trouble with the authorities. I tried to think through the angles.

‘Just answer the question honestly,’ Sauville commanded.

I did as I was told. ‘I don’t think he had ever met Dominique before this week. I think he didn’t like the idea of her. He called her a bimbo and a tart.’

‘I see. Not nice things to say about your stepmother?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘But as I said, it wasn’t her he didn’t like. It was the idea of her.’

‘Very philosophical. And the younger brother? Owen?’

‘I have no idea what Owen thinks about anything. I doubt if anyone has.’

The large policeman raised his eyebrows. Then he leaned back once again in his chair. ‘
Bon
. Thank you for your cooperation, David. But I must ask you to remain here until we have concluded our investigation.’

My heart sank. I wanted to get out. Quick. I was looking forward to the family crisis Tony had ordered me to invent, now more than ever. ‘Do you have any idea how long that will be?’

‘A few days,’ replied the inspector. ‘Perhaps more.’

‘You won’t tell Mr Jourdan what I said about his wife, will you?’ I asked.

‘Oh, we will have to. But I think you’ll find he knows already.’ Sauville winked and smiled gratuitously. ‘
Au revoir
.’

I left the room to be met by Patrick Hoyle, who was demanding to see the inspector urgently in fluent French. He pushed past me, almost crushing me against the door-frame with his great stomach, and began to harangue Sauville. I left them to it and went to look for Guy.

I found him in the garden, sitting against the trunk of the olive tree beside the old watchtower. He was looking down between his knees, ignoring the morning sun throwing golden sparkles across the sea in front of him. Bees were murmuring in the lavender behind. I winced as I remembered this was the spot where his father had seduced Mel.

‘Guy!’ He ignored me. I ran over to the watchtower. ‘Guy!’

He turned to face me. I had never before seen Guy as he looked then. The muscles in his face were clenched tight, his blue eyes were cold and hard and his skin pale.

‘Yes, Lane?’

‘Look, I’m er, sorry …’

‘Sorry? Sorry! For what?’

‘Well, about Dominique.’

‘What about Dominique? About shagging her? Do you want to apologize for screwing my father’s wife? Is that it? Because if it is, then your apology isn’t accepted.’

‘Yeah. I’m sorry about that. I wish I’d never done it.’

‘Bullshit. You loved every second of it. You probably thought you were a real stud, didn’t you? I bet it beat fondling some slag’s tits at the school disco. If you could find one desperate enough to let you, which I sincerely doubt.’

I tried to ignore the venom in his voice. ‘Who told you? The police?’

‘They asked me about it. But I’ve just spoken to my father. He told me a lot of things. About you and her. And about him and Mel.’ He watched my face for a reaction. ‘You knew about that, didn’t you?’

‘I guessed.’

‘You guessed! What the fuck is going on here? My father screws my girlfriend, my friend screws my stepmother, and I don’t have a fucking clue. And you know where my faithful father was when his wife was being smothered with a pillow?’

‘No.’

‘In some club in Nice. And for club read bordello, by the way. That’s why he didn’t discover her till three o’clock this morning.’

‘Guy, I am sorry. If there’s anything I can do …’

‘There is. I should never have asked you out here. This isn’t your world, Lane. You’re way out of your depth. Go back to the sad little semi-detached stone that you crawled out from under and leave me alone. OK?’

He was glaring at me with something close to hatred in his eyes.

‘OK,’ I said. I left him alone.

I hid in my room and tried to make sense of the previous couple of days. I couldn’t. I had never known anyone who had been murdered before. And I wasn’t sure I had ever really known Dominique. The body I had thrilled to touch was now lifeless, the skin cold, the muscles stiff and rigid. But the person? Who was she? The very proximity of death made me shiver, the callous nature of my relationship with the victim made me cringe with guilt. Then there was my friendship with Guy ruined, probably permanently. He had shown me the kind of anger that would take years to die away, if it ever did. He hated me now, and I had so badly wanted him to like and respect me. I even felt guilty about
Guy’s father, although I knew his sins were greater than mine. I had done something very wrong, and someone had died, and I would have to live with it.

I picked up my book. For the first time since I had started to read it,
War and Peace
came into its own. I wanted to lose myself in Napoleonic Russia, which seemed at that moment much less threatening than twentieth-century France.

But after two or three hours, hunger began to gnaw at my stomach. I hadn’t eaten anything since a croissant very early that morning and the anxiety was releasing its own juices. I was eighteen. Eighteen-year-old boys get hungry regularly. I decided to brave the possibility of bumping into Guy or Tony for the chance of food.

I walked through the garden. It was another bright, cloudless day outside. It was hot, but the edge was taken off the heat by the sea breeze. There was no one on the terrace, but I could detect movement and plates of food inside.

I walked into the main house, and through the dining-room door I spied a table laden with bread, cold meats, cheese and salad. Mel was standing outside the room, listening. I stopped just behind her. I could hear Guy talking to Patrick Hoyle in an urgent whisper. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I heard Hoyle’s response.

‘Abdulatif? The man’s name is Abdulatif?’

Guy murmured in confirmation. Then Mel suddenly became aware of me standing at her shoulder. She reddened and walked into the room. I followed her. Guy turned and glowered. Hoyle coughed and nodded at me. I made straight for the lunch, to be joined a moment later by Mel.

In the awkward silence, the two of us helped ourselves, a large pile of food for me, a couple of spoonfuls for Mel. As Guy and Hoyle left the room I turned to her. ‘What was that about?’

She glanced at me quickly and just shook her head. She
clearly didn’t want to talk. I knew she must be feeling fragile, and I didn’t want to intrude. So I sat down and began to eat.

Ingrid appeared at the door. ‘There you are,’ she said. ‘I’m famished.’

‘I know what you mean,’ I said. ‘Help yourself.’

Ingrid did just that.

‘Are the police still here?’ I asked her, glad to have someone to talk to. ‘I didn’t see any in the garden.’