Freeze Frame (12 page)
He had forgotten it was Hallowe’en and only remembered when he stepped out of the cold and dark of the Place Leurhé into the noisy ambience of Le Triskell. The first partygoers in masks and costumes were already gathering for a party. It seemed surreal, somehow, steeped as he was in real life tragedy and murder, to slip into this make-believe world of ghosts and ghouls.
Black drapes hung around walls festooned by skeletons and skulls, giant spiders, and pumpkin lanterns. Copious clouds of spider’s web tumbled in wreaths from the ceiling, and windows were plastered with x-rays of body parts, backlit to project the images into the bar. A row of deathheads dangled above the counter, and a skeleton peered out from behind the smoked glass door of a chill cabinet.
On the drive back from Quelhuit, Enzo had called Jane on his cellphone to say that he would be eating in town. He had heard the disappointment in her voice and was relieved that he was spared the prospect, at least for tonight, of succumbing to temptation and indulging in something he would almost certainly regret.
A figure in a witch’s mask and black, pointed hat ballooned into his face. He smelled fresh alcohol on breath that issued from holes in the plastic. A woman’s voice said, “Not getting dressed up for us tonight, Monsieur Macleod? You could have come as Sherlock Holmes.”
A couple of pirates jostled him toward the bar. “What will you have to drink, me hearty? Get the man a whisky, Devi. Or should it be a tot of rum?”
“What will it be, Monsieur Macleod?” Devi was a plump girl in her thirties, with a black moustache painted above ruby red lips, and blond, curly hair beneath a bowler hat. She wore a black suit and waistcoat, several sizes two small, and a white shirt and bow-tie. Charlie Chaplin, Enzo guessed.
“Whisky’ll be fine.”
“I can offer you a Black Bush, if you don’t mind a touch of the Irish.”
Enzo grinned. “I don’t mind slumming it for once,” he said. He reached into his pocket for some cash, but a hand held his arm to stop him. It was one of the pirates.
“No, no, that’s all right, Monsieur Macleod, this one’s on us.”
The three musketeers burst in from the terrace, ushering a blast of cold air in with them. “All for one, and one for all!” One of them thrust his sword toward the ceiling and brought a loop of cobweb cascading down over their heads. A great roar of laughter went up.
“Hey, watch it!” Devi shouted. “It took me hours to put that stuff up.” She pushed Enzo’s Black Bush across the counter.
He leaned toward her, raising his voice above the hubbub. “I don’t suppose you would have been here at the time of the Killian murder?”
She grinned. “I was sitting my
bac
at the time, monsieur. That was before I left for university on the mainland.” Her smile turned wry. “A worthwhile interlude in my life.” She waved an arm vaguely around her. “You can see where my doctorate in philosophy got me.”
Enzo grinned back. A Celt almost never missed the opportunity to indulge in self-abasement. “They say that the answers to some of the world’s greatest philosophical questions can be found in a bottle.”
“In my experience, the only thing to be found in a bottle is oblivion.” Which was her recognition of yet another Celtic trait, that great capacity for self-destruction. The Celts, it seemed, were obsessed with the self.
Enzo nodded. “I don’t suppose you’d know if any of your regulars were around at that time. Several gave evidence at the trial.”
She shrugged. “I couldn’t tell you. But I know that old Robert Kerber has been a regular here for years. He might know.” She nodded toward the end of the bar nearest the door. A man in his sixties, with a cloth cap pulled low over a forehead with lines like scars, sat on a high stool nursing a glass of beer. He wore a checked jacket with leather patches at the elbow and a pair of frayed, baggy jeans. This was no fancy dress, and the man wore an expression of ill-concealed irritation, cocooned in his own world, making no attempt to participate in the celebrations. Enzo recognised the name at once. Kerber was one of those witnesses.
“Thanks.” Enzo lifted his glass and pushed his way along the bar, managing to squeeze in beside him. More revellers arrived: a very fat man dressed as Madame Defarge, clutching knitting needles and a meter of hand-knitted scarf; a thinner man with a beard in the role of Marie-Antoinette; and a zombie with an axe buried in his head. “Can I refill your glass?” Enzo asked Kerber.
The old islander turned dead eyes on the Scotsman. “You can,” he said. “But it’ll not get you anything.”
“I’m not after anything.” He signalled Devi to refill Kerber’s glass.
“No?”
“Just a few minutes of your time.”
“At my age, monsieur, every moment is precious.”
“Life is precious at any age.”
“That’s true.” He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “What do you want?”
“You were here the night Thibaud Kerjean was telling anyone who’d listen how he was going to put Adam Killian in the cemetery.”
“I was, and he did.”
“Was he drunk?”
“I never knew the man, monsieur, when he didn’t have a drink in him.” Kerber took a sip from his replenished glass. Enzo looked at the roadmap of broken veins across his nose and cheeks, and it occurred to him that the same could very probably be said of Kerber. But drunks rarely saw themselves as drunks, and Kerber appeared to see no irony in his words. He doubtless had the same capacity for self-deception as he had for alcohol. Another Celtic self.
“Kerber,” Enzo said, as if trying the name out for size. And then, “Kerjean. There are a lot of Ker names on the island.”
Kerber turned to look at him as if he were an idiot. “And a lot of Mac names in Scotland, monsieur. Son-of, right?”
“Right.”
“Ker is house-of. You people got named after the man who impregnated your mother. We got named after the house we grew up in. Kerber, house of Peter. Kerbol, house of Paul.” He paused. “Kerjean, house of Jean.” He took another pull at his beer. “Anything else I can tell you? The tonnage of tuna caught in 1933? The number of Germans billeted on Groix during the occupation?”
“You can tell me why you think Kerjean carried out his threat to murder Killian.”
“Because he’s a drunk and a brute. A man who would put his fist in your face if you so much as looked at him sideways. He might have been the worse for wear that night, but his anger didn’t come out of a bottle. It was real enough. And Kerjean is nothing if not a man of his word. There’s not a soul who knows him, monsieur, who wouldn’t think him capable of doing exactly what he said he would.”
***
Enzo stepped out into plunging temperatures. The night was clear and sharp, the sky newly painted black and spattered with silver. His breath billowed around his head like wreaths of mist. From inside the bar, the noise of the party followed him out onto the terrace, where the parasols, wrapped and tied, stood among the tables like guests awaiting an invitation that would never come. Across the square, the lights of an ATM glowed in the wall of the Crédit Agricole. And he could see lights on in the doctor’s house.
A narrow street led off darkly from the near corner of the square, and Enzo figured it might lead directly through to the church, where he had parked his Jeep. He threw one end of Killian’s scarf over his shoulder and pulled up the collar of his jacket, his hands plunged deep into his trouser pockets to keep them warm. The darkness seemed to swallow him as soon as he entered the alleyway, and he had not gone ten meters before he began to regret taking the short-cut. There were no streetlights here, and the moon was still low in the sky, casting the shadows of houses to darken his path. He slowed to take measured, cautious steps into a dark that seemed so profound it was almost tangible. His fingertips detected a wall to his right, and he followed it until almost walking into the side of a house. The street had taken a sharp left without warning, and he found himself with hands pressed up against a shuttered window. He tripped and almost fell over a doorstep, and stumbled forward into a deeper darkness. He cursed under his breath and his voice echoed back at him from hidden walls. Back the way he had come, he could just see the glow of lights from the square, and he was tempted simply to head back and take the long way round. But he couldn’t be that far from the church now. Surely. Another turn in the street and he would see the lights of the church ahead of him. Of that he was certain.
He heard a cough. A single, muffled human bark, somewhere off to his left. And he froze. There was someone there. Now the scrape of a shoe. Leather on tarmac, and the crunch of gravel underfoot. The whisper of voices seemed to rise up into the night, but it might have been his imagination. He felt suddenly very vulnerable, and a tiny knot of fear tightened in his stomach. Spurred to find the safety of a streetlight, he increased his pace, keeping his hand on the wall, following it straight ahead, until it turned sharply to the right. He turned with it, expecting to see the lights of the church square ahead of him. But there was nothing but more black. He looked up and saw a narrow strip of sky above him, illuminated by the stars, almost bright somehow compared to this endless darkened street.
Another cough. More footfalls. Now he was certain that he heard the whisper of muffled voices. Someone was following him. There was no longer any doubt. Two people or more. Frosted grit scraping beneath approaching feet. He turned and hurried forward into the obscurity of the alleyway ahead of him until suddenly the wall opened up to his right, where tall gates stood ajar. They led into a large overgrown garden. The shapes of trees and long grass were just visible in the starlight before the shadow of a large house that loomed out of the night swallowed them up.
Enzo slipped between the gates and into the garden. He could feel the frosted grass soaking his trousers from the the knee down, and he waded through it, as through water, certain that if he could reach the shadow of the trees, he could crouch amongst them, hidden from his pursuers until they gave up the search.
“Hey!” he heard a man’s voice shout and, startled, he began to run. The cold seemed to travel from his feet, though his legs, into his very soul, where fear closed icy fingers around his heart. It could only be Kerjean, and perhaps a couple of cronies, intent on dishing out a physical warning, doing him a little damage. Or worse. The man had been following him earlier in the day, and Enzo cursed his foolishness in straying away from the safety of the light.
Something caught and tore his trousers, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. He felt thorns tearing through the skin of his calfs. But the sound of Kerjean and friends wading through the tall grass in his wake, got him quickly to his feet, and he sprinted for the far side of the garden where the shadow of the house mired it in darkness.
But now something cold and wet wrapped itself around him, a rope cutting into his arm, spinning him around and pitching him forward. He was helplessly entangled in unseen fabric, clinging and chillingly slimy. He could smell damp and decay, something rotting and rotten. There was a loud tearing sound, and from being semisuspended he was dumped suddenly through the long grass to the hard frosted earth below. It knocked all the breath from his lungs. He tried to get up but couldn’t, as if trapped in a giant, sticky spider’s web. He could hear the swish, swish, of legs running through the grass toward him, breath rasping in the night. And suddenly he was blinded by several flashlights catching him full in their glare, and he raised an arm to shade his eyes. He heard laughter. A woman’s voice. A man’s. And what sounded like a child.
In his confusion, he saw, beyond the lamplight, a human skull, a green face with black spots. A full skeleton stepped into the light, a hand rising through the dark to lift away the death mask to reveal the altogether less frightening face of a teenage girl. A face wreathed in smiles. Bright, shining blue eyes. And peals of laughter rising in the night air. It was a face he knew. But it took a moment for him to realise that it was Alain Servat’s daughter, Oanez. Her sister stepped into the light, the owner of the witch’s green face, then Alain and Elisabeth in Laurel and Hardy outfits, bowler hats above whitened faces. Alain was padded out to make him fatter, a small black moustache painted on his upper lip. All four were almost helpless with laughter.
Alain reached out a hand help him up. “What in God’s name are you doing, man?”
Enzo, it seemed, had run straight into the rotting remains of a hammock strung between two trees. Elisabeth started to help him disentangle himself, while the girls continued to giggle. Enzo’s initial relief gave way to irritation. “I might ask you what you’re doing following folk in the dark.”
Alain laughed. “It’s Hallowe’en, Monsieur Macleod. We’re out guising.”
Elisabeth said, “I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean to scare you. We always take the girls out guising at Halloween. We were on our way home when we saw you leaving Le Triskell, and thought you might like to come in for a drink.”
“But you’re an elusive man, monsieur. Ducking into dark alleys and hiding in gardens.” Alain chuckled, still amused by the Scotsman’s unusual behaviour.
Enzo tried to regain a little of his dignity, brushing away the slime deposited on his jacket and trousers by the decaying hammock. “Oh, I’m always doing that,” he said. “There’s nothing I like better than rolling around in the freezing long grass to make myself cold and wet. It’s my party trick. Do I get an apple and some peanuts?”
This sent the girls off into another paroxysm of giggles. But Elisabeth slipped a comforting arm through his. “I’m sure we can do better than that, Monsieur Macleod. What about a nice bowl of hot soup, followed by a glass or two of whisky by a warm fire?
“Hmmm. Tough choice,” Enzo said. “Roll in the wet grass. Or glass of whisky by the fire.”
“Well, you’ve already done one of them,” Alain laughed.
“True.” Enzo was slowly recovering his sense of humour. “No choice at all, then. Soup and whisky it is.”
Pale blue paint covered the walls of the Servat’s living room, with the woodwork around the door and windows picked out in white. A shelf that ran around the room just above the level of the door groaned with traditional
greks
of all shapes and colours and sizes.
“They were my father’s,” Elisabeth said, following Enzo’s eye. It took him a lifetime to collect them, and I couldn’t bear to throw them out when he died.”
Alain laughed. “I leave the dusting of them to her.”
The girls had been packed off to bed. The adults consumed steaming bowls of hot winter soup in the dining room, along with thick chunks of homemade bread and salted Breton butter. Enzo was drying out now in front of the fire, his good humour and sense of well-being somewhat restored. It was hard not to mellow under the warmth of the doctor and his wife, and their obvious affection for each other.
Alain poured the whiskies from an antique drinks cabinet with glass doors that revealed a stunning line-up of Scots and Irish whiskies. “It’s something of a passion,” he said. “And I collect the empties, too. One day Primel and the girls will inherit them and not have the heart to throw them out.”
“Just don’t expect any of the children to dust them,” Elisabeth said. “And I’m not sure that any of them would be as sentimental as us. I can see most of the contents of the house being sold off at the local
brocante
.”
“Never!” Alain chuckled. “They’ve got their mother’s hoarding genes. They might pack them away in the attic, but they’ll never part with them.” He handed Enzo a glass well charged with pale amber. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tasted this one. It comes from the smallest distillery in Scotland. Edradour. I won’t tell you how much it cost me, because Elisabeth is listening, but it was worth every centîme.” He and Elisabeth exchanged smiles, and he handed her a glass before pouring one for himself. Elisabeth settled herself on the settee, and Alain stood warming himself in front of the fire and raised his glass. “
Slainthe
mhath
,” he said.
Enzo raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know your Scots Gaelic.”
“You can’t drink good Scotch whisky without knowing how make a proper toast with it.”
Enzo raised his own glass. “
Slainthe
,” he said. Elisabeth echoed the toast and all three sipped at their liquid gold. Enzo felt the sweetness emerging slowly from behind the burn, the rich, aromatic flavour of malted barley from the Scottish glens. “Mmmh. This is a good whisky.”
Alain beamed his pleasure and took another sip of his own. “So how is your investigation going, Monsieur Macleod?”
Enzo pulled a face. “Very slowly, doctor. In fact, the more I learn, the less I seem to know. I am still wrestling with the whole question of whether or not Thibaud Kerjean was involved.”
“Do you think he was?” Elisabeth asked.
Enzo shook his head. “I really don’t know. Judging by the evidence presented in court, the jury was right not to convict. On the other hand, if the police had done their job properly at the time, he would probably have spent the last eighteen years in prison.”
“So you do think he did it?” Alain said.
“I think there is some pretty damning evidence against him.” Enzo took thoughtful sips of his whisky. “But also plenty of room for doubt.” He laughed. “As I said, I am getting nowhere very fast. Do you know the man yourself?”
Alain shrugged. “I’ve encountered him once or twice. Can’t say he made a very good impression on me. But he was old Doctor Gassman’s patient, and when Gassman retired, it was another doctor in the practice who took over the Kerjean file. I have only seen him, professionally, on very rare occasions. Socially, never.” He looked toward his wife. “How about you darling?”
She nodded. “Yes, I had dealings with him a couple of times when I was nursing at the clinic. An unpleasant sort of man.”
Enzo turned toward the doctor’s wife. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. The receptionist said you’d worked at the clinic.”
“Only for a short while, a very long time ago, when Alain and I were first married and he was the new kid on the block in the practice. I stayed on for a while after Primel was born. My mother was a big help looking after the baby. But with Alain’s hours, and mine, it just wasn’t practical, and in the end I gave it up.” She smiled, almost sadly. “I always promised myself I’d go back to nursing when he got older. But then we had the girls, and I’m still in demand as a mom.”
Alain smiled fondly at his wife. “She’s more than just a nurse you know, Monsieur Macleod. She’s a trained physical therapist. We could do with her back.”
She returned his smile. “Maybe. Once the girls have gone to university. We’ll see.”
Alain threw back his head and roared with laughter. “
On verra, on verra
.” He turned toward Enzo. “It’s been the same refrain all our married life. We’ll see, we’ll see. And when Elisabeth says “we’ll see,’ it means you can bet your shirt on it. I remember once, many moons ago, we sat talking in this very room about the possibility of having more children. Primel was proving quite a handful at the time. And all Elisabeth said was, “we’ll see.’ As you’ve seen for yourself, one became three. Without any further discussion, I might add.”
Elisabeth grinned. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to prevaricate in the beginning and decide for herself in the end.” She sipped at her whisky. “Without any further discussion. And, anyway, you don’t make babies by discussing it.” She and Alain exchanged another smile, then she laid down her glass. “I’d better go and see to old Émile.”
When she had gone, Alain took Enzo’s glass and refilled it, along with his own. He sat down in the space she had vacated, as if needing somehow to feel close to her when she wasn’t there, drawing on the warmth she had left behind. “We were in the same class at school, you know, and I fancied her from the first time I set eyes on her.” He chuckled at the memory. “I managed to get myself a place at the desk beside her, and used to walk her home after school. Until she got glasses, that is. Ugly, blue-rimmed things. And braces on her teeth. I went right off her then.” He laughed. “Poor Elisabeth. She went from beautiful swan to ugly duckling in the space of a month, and couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t talk to her anymore.” He shook his head. “Children can be so cruel.”
Enzo’s smile was tinged with sadness. These were two people who so obviously adored each other, even after more than twenty years of marriage. He thought how different his own life might have been had Pascale lived. How many more children they might have had together. A tiny worm of envy worked its way into his thoughts, and he had to shake himself free of it. He said, “Evidently she dispensed with the glasses and the braces, and you got back together when she turned into a swan again.”
“Oh, it was an off and on thing right through primary school, college, the
lycée
. It wasn’t until I was leaving for medical school, and we faced the prospect of permanent separation, that we came to our senses and realised we didn’t really want to be apart. So she came with me. We shared student accommodation in Paris. A cosy
concubinage.
She trained as a nurse while I graduated in medicine. But we didn’t actually get married until I came back to the island to fill a vacancy at the clinic.”
“And was that all that brought you back? To work at the clinic?”
“There were elderly parents, Monsieur Macleod. My mother had died a few years earlier, and I knew that my father was going to need someone to look after him. Elisabeth’s father was ill…” He paused, sipping thoughtfully on his whisky. “But I think, in the end, I would have come back anyway. This was a wonderful place to grow up, monsieur. Paris had its attractions, of course. But I could never have seen myself raising children there. This is the only place I would ever have wanted to bring up a family.” He smiled sadly. “The irony, of course, being that as soon as they are old enough, they leave. Can’t wait to get away.”
It was some time and another couple of whiskies later that Elisabeth returned. She picked up the bottle, shocked at how little of it remained, and raised an eyebrow. “There is no way you can drive home, Monsieur Macleod. You’d better stay over.”
“Oh.” Enzo tried to count up the drinks he had consumed in the last couple of hours. The whisky in Le Triskell, and three, maybe four, here at the doctor’s house. “That’s very kind. But I was really hoping to get back. Madame Killian is expecting me.”
Alain leaned forward to look at him. “Elisabeth’s right, Monsieur Macleod. You’re in no state to drive. And neither am I, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll drive you back,” Elisabeth said. “I’ve only had half a glass. I’m sure Madame Killian can drive you into town to pick up your car in the morning.”
***
As they followed the one-way system out of Le Bourg the moon was high, washing its bright, silvery light across the island. So bright, Enzo thought, that it might have been possible to drive without headlights. Elisabeth’s large green SUV seemed huge in the narrow streets, but she handled it with an easy confidence, and Enzo felt comfortable in her presence, leaning back against the headrest in the passenger seat, enjoying the sense of giving himself over completely to the control of someone else, an abrogation of all responsibility.
They passed a signpost pointing back the way to Port Lay. “One day,” she said, “if you have time, I’ll take you down there and show you where I used to live. For me it is the most beautiful corner of the island.”
“Take me now.” He glanced across at her. “It’s not too much out of our way, is it?”
She smiled. “No. A five-minute detour.” She hesitated for only a moment, before swinging the SUV around and taking another route out of town.
As they left the tiny conurbation behind them, she turned into a narrow road that wound steeply down the hillside. Enzo caught only occasional glimpses of the ocean, before suddenly it opened up ahead of them, moonlight reflecting silver across it’s unbroken surface. And there, the tiny harbour of Port Lay nestled among the rocks of a natural inlet that cut deep into the side of the hill.
A stone-built harbour wall cut across its entrance, leaving only the narrowest of channels for boats to come and go. In the sheltered waters of the inlet, half a dozen small boats were tethered to the quayside, overlooked by a large white house that glowed in the wash of the moon.
Elisabeth drew in at the top of the hill where a bridge spanned the beach below. “It’s hard to imagine now those tuna fleets coming in and out of that tiny little harbour. But they did, and the place was alive with activity. I used to sit on the quayside as a little girl, watching them land the catch, waiting for my dad. I knew all those faces. Island faces. Red and weathered. Such a hard life, Monsieur Macleod. We don’t realise how lucky we are.” She was lost in momentary reflection. “But we’ll come back another day, and I’ll show you my house, if you’re interested. And the old fish processing factory.” She nodded up the hill to the right, where a large building stood dark and empty, the legacy of a way of life gone forever.
“I’d like that.”
“It looks better in the sunshine.” She revved the engine, swung across the bridge, turning sharply to the left at the far side, and accelerated up an impossibly narrow street between whitewashed cottages.
They cut back through Le Bourg and were soon heading east, along the north coast, to where the road dipped down to the beach at Port Mélite. Enzo closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the woman at the wheel, allowing the whisky its freedom to take him where it would. It wasn’t until the car drew to a halt, that he opened his eyes again, realising that he had drifted off to sleep.
A phosphorescent sea washed up on the half moon of sand in the bay below the Killian cottage. Elisabeth had drawn in beneath the trees that overlooked the beach and was smiling at him indulgently. “You can wake up now, monsieur. Your limousine has reached its destination.”
“Oh, my God!” Enzo sat up. “I hope I wasn’t snoring.”
“Only a little. I just turned the radio up louder.” She laughed when she saw the horror on his face. “Only joking, Monsieur Macleod.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Enzo.”
“Well, Enzo, I am happy to report that snoring is not one of your vices. But you do talk in your sleep.”
“Do I?”
“We were having a very interesting conversation. It wasn’t until we got to Kervaillet that I realised you were talking to yourself.” She laughed. “And so was I.”
Enzo looked at her, unsure whether or not to take her seriously, till he saw the twinkle in her eye. Then he grinned. “Thank you for the lift, Elisabeth. And I’ll look forward to seeing Port Lay in the sunshine.” He paused as he opened the passenger door. “I didn’t dream that, did I?”
She laughed out loud. “No, Enzo. You didn’t dream it. Goodnight.”
He stood watching as she turned the SUV and gunned the engine, accelerating fast up the hill, back to the waiting arms of the man who loved her. And for the second time that night, he had to extinguish the little flame of envy that sprang up inside him.
He crossed the sandy parking area to the track that led to the house, and as he opened the gate, the front door swung open to flood the front garden with yellow light. Jane Killian came out on to the doorstep. “What happened? Did your car break down?” Her voice sounded shrill, oddly strained.
“No. Too much to drink. Doctor Servat’s wife drove me home.”
“Elisabeth Servat?”
He heard a tone in her voice that suggested not only surprise. “I was at their house. The doctor had too much to drink as well.” Why did he feel the need to explain this to her? He climbed the steps to the door.
“She’s an attractive woman.”
“She is.” For a moment they stood very close to one another.
Jane held the door open for him, and he transitioned gratefully from the freezing cold of the night to the smoky warmth of the cottage. He crouched by the fire, rubbing his hands together in front of its glowing embers, and noticed the empty glass at Jane’s chair. He was aware of her crossing the room behind him, and looked up as she handed him a glass of whisky.