Shallow Be Thy Grave (13 page)

“And?” said Lily.

Jo put the diary down. “It’s how you get a new identity. You find someone who died when they were young, then request a copy of their birth certificate. Anyone can do it. Then, when you’ve got the birth certificate you can start registering for things like gas and electricity. Pretty soon you’ve got a whole set of documents.”

 “So, why’s she called Brigitte Chance now?” asked Stuart.

“Where the fuck is she from?” asked Lily, frustration exploding in her. Every time she felt they were getting somewhere, something threw them off track. “All we know is her identity’s stolen from a dead baby and she used to be a prostitute. And she’s taken my sister somewhere.”

Jo studied Lily’s face. “We already knew Brigitte wasn’t her real name.”

“I think we’d better read those diaries,” said Stuart.

Jo threw volume 2 across the table to him. “You read that one, make a note of anyone or anything interesting. I’ll do the same for this one.”

Lily didn’t admit it, not even to herself, but she was relieved the reading of the diaries hadn’t fallen on her shoulders. She was already a wreck. She didn’t need any more thoughts swirling around her head, particularly not the inner most ones of her half sister.

Lily chewed on her fingernails while the other two read. She lit the spliff and inhaled the heavy perfume of Imperial Leather. Her stomach churned. Every so often Jo or Stuart would raise their heads and say something like ‘Monsieur Beaumont sounds like a tit’ (Jo) or ‘She met Brigitte at la Fete d’la humanities on the 8
th
September’ (Stuart). Lily smoked until could stand it no longer. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It wasn’t even ten thirty. She stood up. “I need air.”

Parisian air was hardly fresh, but it still felt invigorating to Lily. She wasn’t normally a fan of the outside world, but it was beginning to feel like the walls inside the flat were closing in. There was so much whirling around inside her head. While she wanted to focus her energy on Fiona, she knew that much of her feelings of light-headedness came from the sudden reappearance of Stuart. The disappearance of a sister and the reappearance of the only person she’d ever got close to caring for. Well, the only member of the opposite sex she’d ever got close to caring for. She cared for Fiona, obviously, and Jo. And in some strange way she cared for her mother too, more so now that she was dead than when she had been alive.

At the rear of the building, accessed via the fire door at the back, was a small car park. Lily sat on a low wall in the sunshine and tried to calm herself. Her mouth still tasted of Imperial Leather and she wished she’d brought a drink with her. There were several shops out on the front street, but she didn’t have the confidence to ask for anything in French. It was still early, but she felt like she could use a proper drink. Not a good sign. They hadn’t even had breakfast.

“Bonjour.”

The voice came from behind her, made her jump about three feet, even though she was sitting. She leaped to her feet and turned round.

The voice belonged to a good-looking man, tall. He was standing on the other side of the wall, and maybe the pavement was slightly elevated on that side, but as Lily squinted into the sunlight he looked taller than the tallest person she’d ever seen. He was wearing a suit and a tie, but he looked French-stylish rather than English-buttoned-up. He carried a soft leather briefcase.

“Pardon. Lily?”

Lily nodded.

“I am Philippe, Philippe Beaumont. You are as beautiful as your sister.”

Lily pulled her thin jacket close across her front. “Where is she?”

He held up his hands and Lily noticed how clean his fingernails were. Clean, short and possibly manicured. “This is what I come to find out. I have a meeting, in the neighbourhood. My wife and Nell, they both say they have seen you. I want to know have you found her yet?”

“No. We were hoping you might be able to tell us something.”

“Me, why should I know where she is?”

“No one’s seen her since she collected her wages from you last Thursday.”

“Would you come for a cup of coffee with me?”

She examined him more carefully. On first sight he was attractive, but on closer inspection his eyes were too close together and his nostrils too large, so that she could see dark hairs inside his nose. “I should get back,’ she said. “They might have found something out by now.”

“Who might have found something out?”

“My friends. They’re reading Fiona’s diaries, see if there’s any clues.”

“They are reading her diaries?” The surprise, the distaste in his voice was plain.

“Don’t start. My sister is missing. No one seems to know where she is. You were the last person to see her, which according to the police, makes you the number one suspect.”

“You have been to the police?” Was that alarm she heard in his voice?

“We’re thinking about it.”

He glanced up and down the car park before speaking. “I would not advise you to do that. Going to the police might get your sister’s friend into a great deal of trouble.”

“Which friend?”

“Brigitte. The friend who lives in this apartment.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Let us say she has a lifestyle which she would not like the police to investigate too closely.”

“Are you saying she’s a prostitute?”

He frowned, a lightning frown that darkened his entire face for a moment. He exhaled heavily. “We need to be careful about going to the police.”

Lily took a step backwards, prepared to run if the occasion demanded. “Were you one of her clients?”

He glanced about him again and set his briefcase down on the floor. “We are getting off on the wrong leg,” said Philippe.

“Sounds like you’ve been getting off on the wrong something,” mumbled Lily. “If you’ve done anything to my sister...”

Lily felt the tears pressing against her eyeballs. She hadn’t slept since they arrived in Paris. She hated the foreignness of this place, of not knowing where anything was or who she could trust. She hated not being able to buy a bottle of water when she was thirsty.  She wanted the familiar, the comfortable, the reassurance of the familiar. Monsieur Beaumont seemed to sense his advantage – he took her arm and steered her out of the car park. She allowed herself to be led down a side street, past an array of sex shops and small bars, before he pushed her gently through the doorway of a small hotel. “There is a bar in here. We can have a drink. You look like you need a drink,” murmured Monsieur Beaumont, in a reassuringly deep voice.

“You can’t buy booze at this time,” said Lily. “It’s not eleven o’clock yet.”

But the licensing hours didn’t seem as strict as they were in England and Lily allowed herself to be bought a shot of something called Pastis. She took a sip. It tasted of aniseed, which Lily hated. She had to force herself not to spit it out. It was disgusting on its way through her mouth, but became more pleasant as it hit her stomach lining and she felt its warmth seep into her.

“I will be even with you,” Monsieur Beaumont began, once he’d knocked back his own glass of Pastis. “I am fond of Fiona. Perhaps too fond. To you she is your little sister, but to me she was a woman. A woman who know her own mind and her own thoughts. I did not set out to diminish her in any way.”

“Diminish?”

“To take something away from her.” His eyes went misty and Lily had the feeling he was somewhere else. She waited a moment then coughed. He brought his attention back to the room, back to her. “But she is already experienced in these matters.”

“What matters?” Lily tried to deliberately misunderstand. She hated where she thought this conversation was heading, wanted to head it off at the pass.

“She is forthright. I try to ignore the temptation of a beautiful young woman, but I am only human.”

Lily winced as she finished her drink, forced herself to swallow. “Only male, you mean.”

“Mankind, the human condition, whatever you call it.”

She slammed her glass down on the small table. “How old are you?”

“I know, to you I am a grown man who should know better. But at heart, we are the same, we don’t develop, the body just grow older. Fiona is a clever, intelligent woman.”

“You’re telling me it was her mind you were interested in?”

“I am saying I did not take advantage of her.”

“What do you mean, was?”

Beaumont appeared confused. “What?”

“You said, ‘to me she was a woman.’”

“On the Thursday night, the last time I saw her, she came to see me to say goodbye. To say I cannot see her ever again. She is full of remorse for our understanding.”

“Did you have sex with my sister, you pervert?”

He didn’t answer and Lily sat there, her face smarting as much as it did when Greta had slapped it. She made herself stare into his green eyes. “You disgust me,” she said slowly. “How old are you?”

“It is not against the law.”

“She’s a kid. You’re twenty years older than her.”

“You haven’t seen her for a long time. More than one year. At that age, girls, women, they change quickly. I assure you that Fiona was an equal in our relationship.”

“Does your wife think so too?”

“It is accepted in France. It is part of our culture.”

Lily stood up so quickly her chair fell over. The Pastis on an empty stomach made her insides feel like they were curdling.

Monsieur Beaumont righted the wooden chair. “Sit again, I want to help you find her.”

Lily stopped, didn’t sit back down. She stood in front of him, with her hands on her hips. Philippe lowered his voice. “I think she left Paris, because she love me and this is too much for her young heart to cope with. At first I think it is best that she go. She loves me too much. I am not a free man.”

“You’re freer than you should be. You want locking up.”

“Listen. It is over a week since I saw her. When she say she is leaving Paris, I did not say the right things. I think maybe it is for the best. But now, I realise something. I want you to give her this.”

He handed her a thick envelope. Lily didn’t have to look inside to know it contained money.

“You want to buy her off?”

“She needs money. For her travelling.” He didn’t make eye contact with her. Instead he downed his own shot. He stood the glass on the table. “It’s to show her how much I care.”

“Give it to her yourself.” Lily dropped the envelope on the table. “Then she can tell you where to stick it.”

“I will, if you find her.” He reached into his inside pocket and passed her a small piece of white card.  Lily saw an address and a telephone number. “Please. This is my work number. You can ring me on this. If I am not there, my secretary will find me.”

Lily shook her head, repulsed at the thought of this man, a man who looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of a C&A advert, having sex with Fiona. “You disgust me.”

 “You don’t understand. I want you to tell her that I love her.”

“Oh please. I think I’m going to be sick.”

Lily hadn’t taken the key with her, so she had to ring the bell again. Stuart let her in the door to Brigitte’s flat. Lily wanted to punch him for being male at the same time as wanting to throw her arms around him in gratitude of the fact he was nothing like Beaumont. How could Fiona have gone from Stuart to that middle-aged prick? “You’ll never guess who I’ve been talking to,” said Lily.

But Stuart didn’t answer, was already halfway down the hall on his way back to the kitchen. Lily shrugged to herself and followed him.

In the kitchen, Jo sat on the sofa, rolling a spliff. She looked up from her task as soon as Lily stepped through the doorway, and stopped what she was doing, her fingers poised in mid-air. “Fiona was having an affair,” Jo almost yelled. “With the father, Monsieur Beaumont.”

“I knew there was something about him I didn’t trust,” said Stuart, as he paced endlessly round the kitchen table.

Lily hovered at the doorway, not wanting to get in his way. His hands were thrust deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched by his ears. “That’s who I’ve just been drinking with,” said Lily.

“What?” said Jo as Stuart looked at her blankly, like he wasn’t sure how she’d got into the flat.

Lily took off her jacket. “He was waiting for me downstairs. He thinks Fiona’s left Paris because she’s broken-hearted.”

“There’s no way she’d let that creep break her heart,” said Stuart.

“Are you saying her taste in men is questionable?” Jo looked at Stuart as if she was about to say more, but then thought better of it. Lily knew Jo didn’t have it in her to be mean, not when Stuart was so obviously distraught. That was one of the things she loved most about Jo, she was all mouth, but when push came to shove, she was as soft as the guy from the Trebor Softmints advert.

Stuart continued muttering, almost talking to himself. “I stayed in his house. He’s at least forty. No wonder he kept out of my way.”

Was Stuart pissed off that Fiona had fallen in love with someone else? Did that mean he was still in love with her? Jealously rose like bile. Lily could taste it at the back of her throat. For a moment she thought the Pastis might reappear, but her stomach clung on.

“He’s so smarmy. Thinks he’s God’s gift. Trying to prove his masculinity by having sex with a teenager.”

Lily concentrated her thoughts back onto Monsieur Beaumont and recoiled at the memory of him. These were the kind of thoughts she liked, felt comfortable with. The familiar. Men, sleazy, letdowns, disappointers. The stereotype she could live with. It was the exception to the rule she struggled with. “What’s it say about him in her diary?”

“What was he doing? Hanging around outside waiting for you?” asked Stuart. “That’s seriously weird. I think we should call the police.”

Lily realised she wasn’t going to get any straight answers from Stuart. She looked to her best friend.

Jo, having crafted the spliff, crossed her legs on the sofa and sat up straighter. “‘PS is obviously some kind of code for Monsieur Beaumont. Remember? We wondered what it meant?  Probably she was worried Madame Bitchmont might read her diary. Listen to this, this is July last year, ‘PS asked me if I wanted to meet for coffee. Like I get a lunch hour or something!! What he thinks I’d do with the children, I just don’t know. I said no. He’s got a six-week old baby for God’s sake. Grace says all French men have affairs. Especially when they’ve got young children. And their wives don’t mind. I can’t believe a man of 37 is interested in me! I know that’s sick, but it makes a change. Dad still just sees me as a kid.’