Chapter Eighteen
The warm air felt
suddenly clammy, as if some sort of evil was closing in on me. I stared at
Brigitte and my whole body went tense.
The
younger sister reached out her arms to take the baby, but Brigitte angrily
waved her away. The sister grimaced, burst into machine gun patois and spread
her arms in exasperation. I didn’t understand what she was on about, but I
guessed it was probably along the lines of an angry criticism of Brigitte’s
continued nudity. Whatever it was, it had no measurable effect so, with a loud
snort, the sister turned and went back into the house.
I
moved in closer to Brigitte. “Why did Viola offer you the money?”
Brigitte
lowered her eyes to the baby who was clutching at her breasts. “I told you. She
wanted to have my baby. She would give me the money if I would let her have
Pierre. She said she would adopt him.”
“Adopt
him? For God’s sake! A youngster her age! She must have known she had no chance of being allowed to adopt your
baby. Why on earth did she say that?” A sudden thought hit me. I recalled
Viola’s words: there are other ways to
have a baby.
But
why?
Brigitte
sniffed and put a caressing arm about the baby’s head. “Because this is Monsieur Hassim’s baby. Pierre is his
baby and he is my baby.” There was
something pathetic about the way she spoke, as if she genuinely cared for both
Hassim and the baby. The latter was a sign of good motherhood, the former was
just plain stupidity. Which was pretty much par for Brigitte’s course.
“Why
should that matter to Viola?” I asked calmly.
She
looked at me through half closed eyes and pouted. “She thought she could
persuade her own father to let her marry Monsieur
Hassim if she had his baby.”
“She
thought…!” God! I slapped my head in anger. “Was she going to pass it off as
her own?”
“I do
not know. Maybe.”
Whatever
Viola’s plan, it was plain idiocy. A forlorn hope. The last desperate act of a
girl who knew she had lost the man she thought she loved. Big city men like
Lord Bracewell were rarely influenced by such naiveté. Only a foolish girl like
Viola could have been stupid enough to believe in it.
The
damn idiotic child! The stupid naked virgin!
“Were
you willing to let her have the baby?” I asked.
She
frowned as if it was a moronic question, which it probably was. “Non. But mama said it was the best thing
for Pierre. We had many fights because I do not want to give the baby away. But
mama said I should do it for the money.”
“Two
hundred and fifty thousand pounds?” I looked about at the luxury farm and
conjured up an image of mama. An evil image—an image of a woman who was willing
to sell her own grandson for money, when she already had all of this. “You were
going to sell Pierre for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds?”
“Non. Mama said that two hundred and
fifty thousand English pounds was not enough. She told Viola it must be three
hundred thousand. I do not think mama understood how much an English pound is
worth.”
“Hell!
Did you ever think of selling mama instead?”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.
Where would Viola get that sort of money?”
“From
selling the ring. It is not her ring anyway. I should have had that ring. It
was me that he loved, not her! It was
me that had his baby, not her!”
“She
sold that ring for two hundred and fifty thousand pounds.” I paused to chew on
a lip and think it through. “But you said that it was not enough. Where would
she get the rest?”
“She
was going to sell the boat as well. The Breton
Belle was worth that much money and some more. Monsieur Hassim said so.”
I felt
my jaw go slack. It made speaking difficult. “But it wasn’t her boat. She told
me so. How could she sell it if it wasn’t her boat?”
“It was her boat! But she did not want
people to know it in case it made trouble for Monsieur Hassim. He could not sell the boat himself, you see, because
he had problems with his bank. So he gave it to Viola. And he gave her the
papers that said she owned the boat. Then he told her how she could sell it and
give him the money. He said that there was a man in La Roche Bernard who wanted
to buy the boat.”
“So he
gave Viola the boat to put it out of the bank’s reach. But, really, he wanted
the money for himself.”
“Oui. He did not know that she wanted to keep
the money and use it to buy my baby. When I tell him, he was very angry.”
I gave
a loud snort. “Hardly surprising. It was a damn stupid idea in the first
place.”
“When
I told Monsieur Hassim that Viola
wanted to buy Pierre, he was very angry and he said that Viola Bracewell was
stealing the money from him. He said he would not really have married her
anyway because she was a stupid little English fool. And he told me I must not
sell the baby.”
“What
did mama think of that?”
“She
was cross. Monsieur Hassim had the
big argument with mama in St. Malo. He said some very bad things to her. He
said he would kill her. They had the big fight.”
“I bet
they did. Pity he let her live. Pity they didn’t shoot each other.”
“Mama
shouted at him. She tell him that he is the wicked man to make me pregnant and
he must pay us more money, but he will not do it. He said he cannot do it
because he is not the rich man now.”
“We
know that. When did you tell Hassim about Viola aiming to pay you all that
money in return for your baby?” I asked. “Was it a couple of days ago. In St.
Malo?”
“How
do you know?”
“Never
mind. I want you to think carefully, and tell me this: when did Viola tell you
she would sell the boat and give you the money in exchange for Pierre? Was it
that last time you saw her? Just before she died?”
“Oui.” Brigitte hung her head, her voice
subdued.
Things
were starting to fall neatly into place. “Okay, Brigitte, now let’s get down to
the real meat of the matter. What the hell actually happened on the canal bank
that morning? The morning Viola was shot. You know it all, don’t you!”
She
pouted and the pout turned slowly into a protracted sob. Morphism at its best.
“Come
on, Brigitte. tell me!”
“Non!” She sniffed to hold back her
tears. Real tears. “I tell you nothing! Nothing, you hear me!” She swung on her
heels and stormed off into the house with the baby clasped close to her chest.
“I cannot tell you! I will not tell
you!”
Williamson
came closer at that point, but neither of us had anything to say. We sat down
together on a seat at the poolside and I put my head in my hands. This was all
getting to be too much to take. My head was aching like mad.
I
shouldn’t be caught up in this. I should have gone to England with Simone. None
of this would have happened if I had gone on with her, enjoyed making love to
her, maybe started a new life with her. I needed time to myself. I needed time
to recover.
And I
needed a stiff drink.
When
you’re in a strange situation and your mind isn’t working too fast, you can
easily get the wrong idea about what’s up and what’s down. I’d originally assumed
that Viola Bracewell was just an innocent abroad, a naked virginal innocent.
I’d assumed she had no faults of her own which might have helped precipitate
her death. So I’d been aiming all my feelings of anger at the obvious suspects.
Like the Hassims. Like Brigitte and Mama L’Orly. Like the young gorilla and
those two broads with him.
It was
time to wake up and see Viola for what she really was, now that Brigitte had
put me right. She was not the innocent I imagined her to be. She was stupid,
yes, very stupid but she was also selfish—planning to double cross Hassim and sell
the boat for her own gain. Planning to buy another young woman’s baby against
that young woman’s will. All of which was pure malicious badness. She was
cheating Hassim, cheating Brigitte and cheating the administrators of his
failed bank. Lord Bracewell would not have been pleased. Hell, that touched on
another difficult point. His lordship still had to learn the truth about his
daughter and he wouldn’t be too pleased when he did.
While
all this was going through my mind I was not paying close enough attention to
Brigitte, and there was more to be learned. A damn sight more. So I followed
her into the farmhouse. The poor kid was out of her tiny mind. She had set the
baby into a carry cot, but remained bent over the child, like she was some sort
of naked statue. When she eventually straightened up and turned towards me she
had tears in her eyes.
Keep
your distance, I decided, this could mean trouble.
But
Brigitte had other ideas. She suddenly lunged towards me, wrapped her arms
round me and hugged me really tight. Beneath it all she was weeping
inconsolably. I could feel her deep-seated sobbing running in ripples through
her body and that was the reason I did no more than hold her. Hell, I did have
some moral standards.
“I did
not… want to… sell Pierre.” The words came through her sobs in slow, uniform
bursts. “I came with you… on the boat… because I was… very sad and very angry
with mama. I was going to see Monsieur
Hassim to… to tell him what had happened. I wanted to go and live with him and
Pierre so that we could all be together.”
“I
understand all that, Brigitte.” I paused before asking, “How did you feel when
Viola was killed?”
She
replied angrily, hissing through gritted teeth. “I was glad she was killed
because then I did not have to sell Pierre. Not when Viola was dead. But I was
still angry with mama and I wanted to leave home and live with Monsieur Hassim.”
“So, that’s
why you hitched a lift on the boat? To get to Hassim?”
“Oui. I knew that Monsieur Hassim would be good to me.”
“And
me? Why did you seduce me?”
“Because
I like you, and I needed the loving. I needed someone to hold me and love me.”
I
began to feel just a touch of sympathy for Brigitte, but no more than a touch.
At base level, she was only an immature youngster and she’d been given a raw
deal. Other people, including her own mother, had been making use of her. Even
so, she had retained enough adult composure to come to my bunk and take what
she saw as her rights of pleasure.
I kept
my voice calm and reassuring. “No one can make you sell your own baby,
Brigitte. It’s illegal in any European country.”
“But
they would have made me do it: mama and Viola. I had to go and see Monsieur Hassim and tell him that they
were bad to me. I thought he would be at La Roche Bernard when the boat got
there.”
“How
did mama take to that?”
“Mama
was angry. When she came after me, she said that I must not cause the trouble
now that Viola is dead. The police might think that we killed her.”
I took
a moment to think be fore I asked my next question. “Did you? Did you kill
her?”
At
first she said nothing, just lowered her head.
“Brigitte?”
“Non.” She spoke with little conviction.
She was involved, I was certain of that, but I was fairly certain she had not
pulled the trigger. Was it that I didn’t believe she killed Viola? Or that I
didn’t want to believe it? Maybe I
wanted to believe that she was innocent because I really did feel sorry for
her.
“Why
did mama need the money?” I asked.
“She
does not need the money.” Brigitte’s
sobbing eased off and she drew back to wipe her eyes. I kept my arms about her
for her own comfort. At least, that’s what I told myself. “Monsieur Hassim has given us all the money we need to live here.
Mama is the greedy one.”
That
figured. What it all boiled down to was that Brigitte was as much a victim of
what was going on as Viola. Alive, but still a victim. I must have been
confused at the time because I didn’t pick up on the comment about Hassim
providing the family living expenses. The brain goes like that at times, it
picks up on the fact of one murder but misses the extra corpse lying in the
rubble. Maybe I was distracted by having that nude teenage body clamped inside
my arms.
Eventually
I gently disentwined myself.
“Okay,
Brigitte. You’d better get dressed now.”
“Non.”
“Why
not?”
“I do
not want to.” Childish obstinacy was creeping back. “You cannot make me.”
“Suit
yourself.”
I went
outside to find Williamson. He was sitting by the pool staring down into the
water. His shoulders were hunched like he had a million tons of trouble loaded
on them.
“You
know what this all boils down to, Charlie?” I sat down beside him. “The battle
of the vixens, that’s what. Two naked vixens in a fight to the death. Two
mistresses who’ve been fighting over the same old goat. Both imagined that they
had some sort of emotional hold over him. One had his baby and the other had
access to what was left of his money. The one with the baby was forced to go
for the money by her mama. She’s an easily-led child and her mother is nothing
more than a greedy old bitch. Meanwhile, the one with the money wanted the baby
because she thought it would increase her chances of holding on to the
relationship.”
“Not
much chance of that, was there?”
“Absolutely
none at all, but I reckon Mama L’Orly got together with Viola and did a deal
anyway. The money-grabbing bitch! The baby was to be sold for a pot of gold.”
“Sounds
like a plausible theory, old chap.”
“More
than plausible, Charlie. More than a theory. And it would have happened if
someone hadn’t put the boot in. Or, to be more precise, if someone hadn’t put
the bullet into Viola’s chest. Didn’t you know what sort of a fool she was?”
“I
suppose I did,” he conceded. “But it wasn’t my business to judge her. I was
there simply to keep an eye on her. She comes from a very good family you know.
Her brother is in the RAF. He flies Tornados and the word is that he’s destined
for high office. He was decorated after the Gulf War. They say he did more than
most to make a mess of Saddam’s army.”
“The
Iraqis must love him.”
“Someone
had to do it.”
“That
doesn’t alter the fact that his sister was an immature idiot.”
“What
is it about you and women, old boy?” Williamson mused. “Two naked vixens and
they both shared the boat with you? You seem to have some sort of charisma,
don’t you think?”
I
snorted and ignored the remark. “Brigitte made the decision to come with me in
order to get to Hassim. She wanted to get away from mama once and for all and
live with Hassim.”
“Didn’t
she know he was destined to end up in gaol?”
“She
probably didn’t want to know.”
“But,
meanwhile, mama still wanted to get her hands on the cash?”
“Right.
But she wasn’t the only one after the cash, of that I’ll be sure. That big hulk,
Jacques Hassim, and his two lady friends were also after it.”
Williamson
nodded. “Seems likely.”
“And
I’m still not too sure exactly where those two bitches, Colette and Aimee, fit
into the picture.”
That
was when Brigitte came back out from the house. She had the baby in her arms
once more and she sat down at the edge of the pool, right alongside me, and let
her feet dangle in the water. I felt Williamson’s whole body stiffen as his own
erotic thoughts kicked into play.
“Are
you angry with me?” Brigitte asked.
I
looked at her and shook my head. “Frustrated is a better word, Brigitte. Where
do you get the money to keep this place going?”
She
looked at me blankly. “It is a farm.”
“Like
hell it is. This is no more a working farm than a nudist camp. In fact it’s a
damn sight more like a nudist camp than a farm.” I watched her breasts heave as
I spoke. “The fact is, Brigitte, this is a luxury country home that looks like
it might once have been a farm. How many farms round here have swimming pools?”
“Mama
looks after the money. She pays all the bills.”
Only a
tacit admission that I was right. But it was enough.
“I bet
she does,” I said. “She’s been blackmailing Hassim, hasn’t she? Threatening him
with legal action over the baby unless he pays up?”
She
nodded slowly. “When I knew I was pregnant, mama went to him and told him he
should pay the price. He gave her money, lots of it because he was very rich
and she said it was only fair that the whole family should share it.”
“I
thought as much.” And later, I figured, when she saw Hassim facing financial
ruin and her money supply at risk of drying up, she turned to the novel
opportunity of selling the baby to Viola Bracewell. “Brigitte, did mama shoot
Viola Bracewell?”
“Non! Mama did not want her killed!”
I
considered that for a moment. That made sense, of course. Mama would not want
Viola killed while there was a chance of selling the baby. But Brigitte had the
motive to do the deed if it helped her keep the baby.
“Who
did it, Brigitte?”
“Go
away,” she snapped suddenly. “I will not talk to you any more. Go away!”
“Okay,
Brigitte. But I reckon you’d better have a damn good story when the police
catch up with you.”
She
scowled at me and clutched the child tighter. “You had better go now. Mama will
be back soon.”
“In
that case, Brigitte…” I got to my feet and looked down at her slumped shoulders
and bent head. “You’d better get some clothes on.”
Williamson
was already on his feet and edging away fast. I made to follow. Brigitte stood
up and trailed after us as we left, almost as if she was sorry we were going.
Perhaps she was. Perhaps I was the only person who had actually seen her for
the pathetic figure she really was.
She
stopped in the driveway before we got to the car and then backed away to the
big front door. Williamson kept looking over his shoulder as we walked to the
car. It was pretty obvious that he couldn’t keep his eyes off Brigitte who
stood holding her baby close to her chest. He never saw his memsahib unwrapped that far, he had
said. What the hell had he been doing throughout his military career?
I’d
left the car parked in the short driveway in front of the farmhouse. I didn’t
see any reason why it should cause anyone any bother or that it would attract
any unwanted attention. But it did.
I was
just reversing out onto the road when a dark red Mercedes pulled out from the
access to a narrow lane just fifty yards down the road. It accelerated rapidly
and roared down on us at a high rate of knots. Just as it flashed past I heard
a loud, echoing bang and something smashed through the front windscreen. The
glass shattered and fell in on us like screaming hailstones. The bullet went in
through the front screen and out again through the passenger side window just
in front of Williamson’s head. It must have scared ten shades of shit out of
him. Me as well.
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