Little Fingers! (13 page)

“
Where is my
daughter, Alice?” she demands in French.

“
I don't
know,” I reply.

“
Cannot Mme.
Malanny help us here? She must know something,” the policeman
intercedes.

“
She refuses
to tell me anything at all. She says that Alice left her, and she
has no idea of where she went - perhaps Paris.”

“
Perhaps
Paris……” The policeman himself makes a “moue” at that.

“
Perhaps
Paris!” snorts Mme QC de QP. “What would my daughter be doing in
Paris? She has never been to Paris; she does not know anyone in
Paris…..”

“
It may be
exactly for that reason.”

“
For what
reason?”

“
She may be
ashamed. She may be embarrassed. She may simply have wanted to
explore new possibilities.”

“
Shamed!
Embarrassed! She had nothing to be ashamed of until she met you
two. You have done this to her!”

“
In a sense,
yes we have. In another sense, we have freed her from her
prison.”

“
Prison, yes,
prison! That is where you should be!”

“
Did you ever
have any experiences with Mlle. Picard?” the policeman asks
me.

The pricking
in my ears warns me that this could be a trap, or that at least in
answering the question I could ensnare myself. What is the legal
age of consent in France? How do I warn Mary when they ask her the
same question?

“
No, of
course not,” I declare resolutely. “She is young enough to be my
daughter.”

The policeman
is silent.

Having fed his
képi twice through his fingers, he adds “If Mme. Malanny does not
wish to speak to us here, it could be better that she accompanies
us to the station where we can record the events in a proper
manner. What do you think?”

“
I have
nothing to say. Mary has to make her own decisions.”

“
It would
help us if you accompanied us too.”

Not another
police station! I cannot bear sitting in another police
station.

“
Please
inform Mme. Malanny that she must accompany us now.”

I turn to go
upstairs.

“
My vase! You
have broken my valuable Sèvre vase!” Even the policeman
starts.

“
What are you
talking about, Madame?” I retort. “That vase was cracked before you
were born.”

“
No it was
not. You have broken it. It will cost you a lot of money! A lot of
money!”

“
Madame, I
assure you that the vase was damaged when we arrived. Look at it.
That crack is ancient.”

“
Well, we
will examine the inventory together. If it is declared on the
inventory that the vase is cracked, then you will be right.
Otherwise, you must pay me. The inventory is the document of
record.”

The policeman
is clearly distressed that his resolute course of action is being
sidetracked. “This discussion is for another time. Now we must all
return to the police station to continue the process of finding
Mlle. Picard.”

“
You will pay
for my vase nevertheless,” Mme QC de QP hisses. “I will not forget.
It is a family heirloom. You are not taking the proper care of my
things, of any of my things.”

There is
impure hatred not only in her face but in the hypertension of her
whole body.

Now I am
outraged. Yes, I understand that she is afraid and upset, but this
is complete dishonesty and, worse, I really do not know how to deal
with it. We have no evidence of its being damaged when we arrived.
Mme. QC de QP mentioned the crack herself, and perhaps for that
reason we never thought to record it on the inventory, because she
had already acknowledged it. She really is a spiteful woman. Well,
one way or another, I am going to set her straight. She is stepping
into more dangerous territory than she knows. I am not the type to
tolerate that sort of nonsense.

In the
meantime, Mary has arrived in the hallway, momentarily
disorientated. “Mme. Mallany, are you willing to come with us to
the police station?” inquires the policeman.

“
Of course,”
replies Mary. She looks at me. “Should I have a lawyer?”

“
I don't know
how to play it. Maybe we should. He or she can deal with Madame's
little games at the same time.”

Mme. QC de QP
is listening carefully. She obviously understands more English than
she lets on.

“
Dirty slut,”
I add.

Madame steps
back as if she has been slapped. The policeman is bemused. “What
did she say?” he asks.

Madame shrugs
her shoulder. “I do not know, Thierry,” she says. “I do not speak a
word of English.”

“
We need a
lawyer,” Mary declares decisively. “Madame calling Mr. Plod by his
Christian name is not a good sign.”

* *
*

Chapter
8

“
Hi!”

“
Hello.”

“
Hello. I am
Mandy Hawke from the Manchester Evening News.”

“
Hello.”

“
And you are
Miss Julia Blackburn.”

“
I am
she.”

“
Excellent. I
was wondering if you would not mind us having a quick chat about
recent events in the village.”

“
No, I do not
mind.”

“
Excellent.
Excellent. Do you think I might come in. It is rather hard talking,
and writing, and standing up all at the same time.”

“
Why don't we
go and sit in the hammock over there?”

“
That's a
good idea. It is a beautiful day.”

“
Isn't
it?”

We settle
ourselves down, which means that we have to synchronise our rhythms
otherwise the hammock becomes a very stormy sea. Mandy smiles a
lot.

“
So how long
have you been in Hanburgh, Julia? You are a relative newcomer to
the area, aren't you?”

“
About two
months.”

“
Do you like
it here?”

“
I used
to.”

“
Yes, events
have turned rather traumatic. Why did you choose to come here? You
are not from around here, I gather.”

“
No, I used
to live in London. I came here for the peace and quiet.” I smile
ironically, as I am supposed to do.

“
Well, mostly
it is, I should think.”

“
Mostly,
yes.”

“
And had you
known Mr. Willows long?”

“
Funnily
enough, he was the first person I met here, and he asked me almost
exactly the same questions as you have. He cleaned up this garden
for me, too. You are looking at his work.”

“
Wow! It is a
beautiful garden.”

“
Well, he did
not lay it out, but he did restore it to its former glory, with the
help of some hard labourers.”

“
What did you
think of Mr. Willows? What sort of man did you judge him to
be?”

“
I am sure
that you know his reputation better than I.”

“
Frankly, I
am having a little difficulty getting past that. I would like to be
able to write something more insightful about him than that he was
the village lothario. Could you help me?”

“
I can try.
His being the village womaniser, and a very gifted gardener, are
the two most obvious things about him.”

“
What did
women see in him? Was he funny, was he comfortable? He must have
been sexy…..”

“
No, I would
say that he was none of those things. More determined, I would
say.”

“
Determined?”

“
Yes,
determined to fill his day, and his life.”

“
By sleeping
with people?”

“
Well,
specifically with women.”

“
So sleeping
around filled his day, you think?”

“
Yes. It
certainly passed the time.”

“
What did he
want from these women - their love, their affirmation, their
warmth?”

“
I never got
close enough to him to find out.”

“
But you were
the last person to see him alive and, in this context, the last
woman.”

“
Yes, I was
probably the last woman to sleep with him, as far as I know. I
suppose he could have snuck in another quickie.”

“
How does
that make you feel?”

“
Afraid.”

“
Why afraid?
Do you think that the murderer might come after you, or that he
might have killed you at the same time if you had still been
there?”

“
Yes, I feel
vulnerable, both to the murderer, and to life. Something like this
reminds you that anything can happen at any time. And being
interviewed by the police is not that funny either.”

“
How was that
experience?”

“
Daunting.
Police stations are not pleasant places, and policemen are not that
pleasant either.”

“
Did
Inspector Frampton question you for a long time?”

“
Quite a long
time.”

“
And then he
let you go.”

“
Yes.”

“
So he
doesn't think it was you. That must be a relief,
anyway.”

“
The crime
was pretty obviously done by a man.”

“
Well, women
can do most jobs nowadays.”

“
I would
think that handling a double-handed axe precisely would take a lot
of practice. I have not known many women lumberjacks, or even many
of us who go out and split the logs for the fire. There again, I
have lived nearly all my life in London in a smoke-free
zone.”

“
What did you
do in London?”

“
I was a City
trader.”

“
So you made
your money and got out before you burnt out.”

“
I don't
think I was in any danger of burning out but, after the crash, it
was not going to be much fun or, more importantly, very lucrative
to work in stocks and shares for a while.”

“
Good for
you. You must be quite upset that your new-found peace has been
invaded.”

“
Yes, I am. I
am a very private person.”

“
And now you
have to lock all the doors at night.”

“
I always did
that.”

“
Does it make
you feel afraid, being alone at night, if you are alone at
night?”

“
Yes, it
does. I think we have covered that.”

“
To be
honest, I think we have covered everything. Thank you so much,
Julia. It has been very nice talking to you.”

“
It has been
my pleasure. This must be quite a good assignment for
you.”

“
Well, I have
been the crime correspondent for the Manchester Evening News a
couple of years now.”

“
The
Manchester Evening News has a full-time crime
correspondent?”

“
Sure. There
is lots of crime around here. Quite a few murders, actually, most
drug-related. We don't get many old-fashioned village murder
mysteries, like this one.”

“
Perhaps Tom
grew cannabis on the side in a sunny corner of his
garden.”

“
I don't
think anyone gets murdered for grow-your-own. You are hardly likely
to corner the market, are you?”

* *
*

In a way, I
have lived alone all my life. If you were being trite, you might
try to classify me as a loner, but that is not really it. It is not
that I have ever chosen to be alone, and I am rarely physically
alone at all. OK, yes, in this precise interlude of my life, I am
more alone than ever. I have a large house, and I rattle around in
it. Isn't that what you are meant to say in these circles? “Julia
rattles around in that large house up there.” Mary visits often,
but she is not here most of the time, or anything approaching that.
People call, but they are mostly strangers. I have met up a few
times with Sam. Contrary to my initial expectations, I like Sam.
She is more original than I would have imagined, more weird. Her
thoughts flutter around like a bird's wings against a wire cage,
not overly distressed, yet not still - absent-minded
energy.

It is more
that I cannot avoid being alone. I am alone amongst the wildest
company. I am alone even with myself. What does Durkheim call it?
Anomie? I am not quite sure how you spell that. Anomie is where you
are adrift from the natural concerns of society, almost
sociopathic, although even more desperate than that, and too
lacking in spirit to kill anyone, never mind everyone. I am not
that either. I scrutinise with great care what happens in society,
and I am frequently moved by what I see, often to anger. Human
beings feel so little respect. They are reckless and stupid about
themselves, and careless for others. They are slobs, half-baked,
pointless wander-abouts. Dazed and confused and pettily nasty. They
have brains like tins of baked beans (is that where the
“half-baked” comes from?). The most exciting moment of their lives
is when they are picked up and shaken so that all the beans are
spread evenly through the sauce. Then someone brings out a tin
opener, and they die.