Chapter Twelve
I saw mama L’Orly’s red
car as soon as I came in sight of the farm. It was parked directly in front of
the house, but there was no one in sight nearby. I slowed down, drifted past in
low gear and then turned back. Still no one in sight. Mama and Brigitte must
have gone indoors.
I
spotted a dirt track about a hundred yards from the house, pulled in off the
road and left the car hidden behind a tall hedge. I waited for a good ten
minutes, just in case, then got out and closed the car door as quietly as I
could. Instead of walking back up the road, I dived behind the hedge and
followed it until I came within a hundred yards of the house. By then I was
back in the spot where I’d first seen Brigitte swimming in the pool.
Beautiful
images floated back. Images of Brigitte swimming in her tight little swimsuit
with the high cut legs and the low cut top. Images of Brigitte drying her
breasts and Mama scolding her. But that was the past and this was now. Today,
looking down into that same garden, I could see nothing to lust over. It was
just a quiet domestic scene. No mama, just Brigitte and the young L’Orly baby,
the sort of scene that’s shown in ads on television. The ones designed to
appeal to the older woman. It makes them go ‘ah’ and draws out their maternal
instinct.
Right
away I knew something was odd about this scene, but the reason didn’t
immediately figure. My brain must have been overcooked in the bright sun.
Brigitte was sitting in a canvas chair alongside the pool and she had the
infant in her arms, feeding it with a bottle. She was cuddling the baby and
ever so gently rocking her arms.
A
voice came to me faintly across the distance, the voice of Brigitte singing to
the child as she fed it. When it was satisfied, the baby pushed the bottle
aside and reached for the nearest breast, which just happened to be Brigitte’s.
Such good taste at such a young age! The girl laughed, lifted the baby to her
face and kissed it. It was all good domestic stuff, but the obvious bit still
didn’t hit home. In fact, it was such a peaceful scene that several minutes
passed before the full implications sank in.
When the
truth finally hit me I went suddenly weak all over. As if I’d been socked with
a good left hook and was mentally sprawled out on the canvas. Unlikely to make
it on a count of ten. God, why hadn’t I seen it sooner? How could anyone have
been so dumb as to not see it?
These two kids were not siblings -
they were mother and daughter!
I sat
down amongst the ferns. I’d misjudged mama, she probably had higher moral
values than I’d credited her with. Maybe I’d also misjudged Brigitte, maybe she
was more adult than I’d allowed. She was a young nympho, for sure, but with
more experience of life than I’d thought.
Shortly
after that, mama came out onto the patio carrying a tray of food and the rest
of the L’Orly family followed, each bearing a bowl or tray or something to make
up their lunch. Brigitte put the baby down into a crib and the quiet scene
began to erupt into a noisy family occasion. This was the moment for me to
shrink away from the garden and make my way back to the front of the house.
With the family fully occupied in their noisy eating maybe I could get another
look inside the place. I shook my head sadly as I backed away, firmly berating
myself.
The
front door was open as I sidled up to it. I detected no sounds from inside so I
crept into the dark hallway. I’d already had a look in the lounge last time I
came calling, so this time I took a door opposite it which was partly ajar. It
was a dining room, quite empty apart from a big table, eight chairs, a
sideboard and a bookcase. All good quality solidly built furniture, which must
have set them back a franc or two. It was a dark inside, but all the windows in
that farmhouse seemed to be small, so all the rooms would be starved of the
sort of light we tend to expect in modern American homes. There was a bookcase
against one wall, filled with expensive books which most likely had never been
opened, but looked good to a visitor. And there was a writing bureau alongside
it, the lid pulled down to reveal a neat stack of writing implements, but no
untidy letters.
And
there was a shotgun mounted on one wall.
Oh
hell! They had a gun!
They had the means to kill!
I
stood there, rooted to the spot, staring at the weapon. Then logic kicked in.
Viola’s injuries were not consistent with a shotgun blast. I knew that from my
time with the US Air Force and the horrific things I saw in Bosnia. Viola had
been killed by a bullet from either a pistol or a rifle. I considered it for a
moment. Maybe the L’Orlys had other weapons as well as the shotgun. I seemed
possible. If so, there was no way I could eliminate Brigitte and her mama from
the list of suspects. They certainly had the opportunity and they may well have
the weapon. But did they have a motive?
As I
stood there, Brigitte’s voice echoed in from the rear of the house. She seemed
to be making her way back indoors. Mama’s bellowing followed her.
“Qu’est-ce que vous voulez boirre?”
“Un verre de vin blanc!”
“Du Muscadet ou Gros Plant?”
“Du Muscadet!”
Even
my severe lack of French wasn’t going to cover the fact that Brigitte had come
into the house in search of a bottle of wine. Muscadet is Muscadet in any
language. I didn’t know where they kept the wine, so I beat it quickly back out
the front door before I could be seen. I made it with seconds to spare.
There
was no point in prowling round the farmhouse any longer, so I hurried back along
the road. My brain was still scrambled. Thoughts in turmoil. Brigitte was the
mother of the baby! I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. Brigitte was an
unmarried teenage mother. At least, I assumed she was unmarried. In my present
frame of mind I was ready to be knocked flat by yet further revelations about her.
Surely she wasn’t married!
No, but she might be the murderer!
Once I
was back inside the car I sat turning over my options. Should I go back to the
police and tell them all I now knew? Should I march in on the L’Orly family and
confront them straight up? Or should I just give up and head off hotfoot to
England and make passionate love to Simone?
And Simone.
Ah, what a blissful thought. How I missed her.
But
going back to Simone now would be to abandon Viola. And who else was prepared
to take the time to figure out what had happened to her? Not the French police,
that was for sure. It was a pretty straight choice between Viola and Simone.
Again, my thoughts drifted. The attraction of going after Simone was pretty
strong. But… no. I had to see this through. Simone must wait. But would she wait? Would she bide her time for a
Yank who was already out of his depth and sinking fast?
The
more I sat there, the more indecisive I became. Whatever course of action I
thought up, there seemed to be a damn good counter argument for doing something
else.
About
half an hour later, Mama’s red Renault pulled out onto the road and headed off,
with the engine revving fast in low gear and the tail end lost in a cloud of
exhaust fumes. Whoever was driving didn’t know how to drive economically. It
didn’t look like they were any too safe on the road either. Anyhow, it was the
moment to stop pondering and bring a bit of real action into play. I started up
the rental car and set off down the road a discrete distance behind the L’Orlys.
There
were two people in the Renault, but it wasn’t until I had to pull up right
behind them at a traffic junction that I was able to pin down the identity of
the occupants. Brigitte and… well, it looked like it might be mama. Probably
was, in fact. They were outlined in silhouette and the driver was somewhat
overweight. Brigitte was turned to her left, wagging a finger at the driver and
talking, or shouting, quite vociferously. I caught her profile quite cleanly.
Then the driver reached into the back of the car to pick up a handbag and I
knew for sure it was Mama L’Orly. It seemed like she had no qualms about
leaving the younger children to mind the farm.
I sat
low in my seat trying to avoid being recognized, but the women were too tied up
in their argument to notice me. It was blazing hot by this time and most
European cars don’t have air conditioning, probably because most of them don’t
need it. Anyhow, I was soon feeling fatigued and drowned in sweat. I was
wearing a plain white shirt and light cotton pants and both were sticking to
the car seat. And me. On top of that I knew just how long a drive I had in
front of me. In fact, I knew within half an hour where we were heading.
Right
back to St. Malo.
For
most of the journey the road was none too busy and I kept well back behind the
Renault. I only closed the gap when we went through towns or villages, which
was a mistake because mama was even more lethal in urban streets. The Renault
seemed to be either speeding or stopped with no gradations in between. And when
she opened up the throttle it seemed like the car had been fired off from a
steam catapult with the engine in full reheat. But I didn’t want to lose sight
of the car in traffic so I tucked myself in behind and occasionally peeled
myself off the front windscreen.
As we
came into St. Malo, I slowed down to keep at least one car between me and the
red Renault. I’d learned by now that it was safer. At the same time I couldn’t
afford to get too far behind. Mama knew the town far better than me and she
knew where the hell she was going. I caught a momentary recall of that day it
all began: Viola and the big youth on the marina quayside at le port des Bas Sablon—and the fracas.
Then the L’Orlys pulled into a large parking lot near the St. Malo sea front. I
turned in behind them and found a vacant parking spot well clear of where they
had stopped.
Both
mama and Brigitte got out of the car. They disgorged from opposite sides like
they were parachuting from a blazing airplane. Mama was wearing a heavy brown dress
that must have been hell in the heat inside the car. Brigitte was wearing very
short shorts and a tight fitting tee shirt that looked just a trace more
comfortable. And seriously erotic.
They
seemed to be arguing; in fact they probably had been since they left the farm.
I didn’t envy mama none. If she was lucky, maybe the rest of her family would
be easier to get along with. Brigitte leaned back into the car. Her head was
inside and her bottom was stuck out into the sunshine, stretching the seams of
her shorts. She pulled out a beach bag and threw it down to the ground. Boy,
she was in a really foul mood. Then she peeled off her tee shirt. Mama was at
the opposite side of the car wagging a finger at her and shouting non-stop. But
Brigitte just carried on undressing until she was down to a small, bright red
bikini which she had been wearing under her outer clothes. She picked up the
beach bag and stormed off with mama following on behind. The row between them
continued as they walked through the car park. They paused and split up just as
they got to the main road. Mama headed off towards the town while Brigitte
crossed the road to get to the beach. There was no missing her in that red
bikini so I followed at a fair distance.
I was
sweating profusely by now, but not entirely because of the weather. A crowd of
young French girls in their brief swimsuits and bikinis had their part to play.
The sun was still high in the sky and it felt like it was around ninety degrees
in the shade. Possibly even higher. It was mid-afternoon by now and I hadn’t
eaten since breakfast, but I had no appetite in that heat. I decided to wait
until it got cooler after dark.
As I
walked along the sea front I wiped a hand across my dripping brow and flicked
the glistening beads of sweat to the ground where they evaporated almost
instantly. Like small droplets of liquid silver, the moisture globules flashed
in the sun and then suddenly disappeared from sight.
Of
course I was doing my best to look inconspicuous, but that was not an easy task
in the circumstances. But it was essential if I was to avoid being seen by
Brigitte L’Orly. I tailed her until she went down onto the beach and then I
waited until I saw her set herself down onto a vacant patch of sand. She was
half way down the beach facing towards the water. She took a towel from her
bag, spread it out on the sand, lay down on her back and then removed her bra
top. It looked like she was going to be there for a while.
There
was nothing to be learned from watching Brigitte sunbathing. I already knew the
ins and outs of her body so it seemed a fair bet that I should go looking for
mama in the town instead. What was her purpose in coming here?
I
headed away from the beach and up into the shopping area inside the walled
city. The clothes I’d set out in were getting soaked in sweat so I stopped at a
shop near the old city gates to purchase something more comfortable. My French
was not up to the task, but a few expressive gestures were enough to indicate
to the sales girl what I wanted. A brightly coloured beach shirt, shorts and a
pair of shades. Then I went back to the rental car to change. I must have spent
an hour or more after that just wandering around the town keeping my eyes open
for Mama L’Orly, but saw no sign of the heavy brown dress covering that bulky
frame.
When I
got back to the beach, I first stopped to check I wasn’t walking into a
confrontation with Brigitte. I stepped to the edge of the sea wall and looked
towards the clear, tepid water which was running about half way up the beach.
Most of the surface was a shiny flat calm, broken only where young people were
splashing about wildly, swimming or lying on air beds. No immediate sign of
Brigitte but it seemed safe enough so I strode purposefully down a concrete
path that led towards the sand. At the bottom of the path I paused beside a
wooden seat.
Still
no sign of Brigitte, but the tide was coming in, tantalizingly close. I went on
down a couple more steps onto the sand and walked towards the water’s edge. All
about me sun lovers were sprawled about on the heated stretch of strand like so
many toasting lumps of meat.
I’d
heard that people came here in their hundreds during the week, and in their
thousands at weekends. Old and young, families and singles, all determined to
pack in as much excitement and fun as they could in their summer break from the
toils of life. I watched them and felt sad and frustrated.
A
beach air bed drifted into view a few yards from the shore, a bright yellow
plastic float moving lazily on the surface of the water. A young girl lay face
up on the float. I thought her eyes were closed behind her reflective
sunglasses and I was surprised when she pushed the glasses onto her forehead
and stared back at me. Taken aback somewhat, I looked away while the girl shouted
at me in a shrill voice. French words spoken so quickly I didn’t understand any
of it. Why couldn’t they speak at normal speed?
She
waited to see if she was having any effect on me and then shouted again in
voluble French. She stared at me like I was stupid not to understand.
I
spread my arms. “Pardon me?”
She
frowned and paddled close in to the shore. “Qu’est-ce
que vous voulez?”
“I
don’t speak French very well.” I shook my head. “In fact I don’t speak French
at all.”
“You
are English?”
“American.”
“Huh!
You have had a good look at me, have you?”
I felt
my face redden. My leg muscles loosened up and I began to walk away. In the
space of seconds, I felt myself become an old man. When, a moment later, I
swung back towards the sea, I saw that the girl had turned onto her face and
was paddling away slowly across the silvery surface.
Then I
spotted Brigitte.
She
must have moved as the tide came in and now she was just fifty yards away, face
down into the sand. She seemed to be asleep. My mind was raging with confusion.
Why had I followed her here? Because I was hoping to find out what the hell she
and her mama had to do with the death of Viola Bracewell. That’s why! But all
I’d discovered so far was that most French girls were as uninhibited as young
Brigitte.
Once
again the thought hit me that I should not have come here to the beach. I
should have headed across to England to be with Simone. The more I thought
about her the more I realized she was growing on me, slowly beginning to take
Penny’s place in my thoughts.
I sighed
and walked back up to the road that overlooked the beach. I was just standing
there, wondering what to do next when I saw mama coming along the sea front.
She was with a tall, grey-haired man who looked a bit older than her. He had a
deep, protruding brow and a barrel chest but there was something imposing about
him, something that made him stand out from the crowd. He had the bearing of a
man who was used to being admired by all around him. A bit like Omar Sharif in
one of his later films: grey and mature, but still good for a few years’ useful
service.
There
was also something distinctly unsettling about him, and something else,
something I couldn’t put my finger on. He was dressed in thick woollen clothes
that were as out of place as penguins at a beach barbecue. It probably left him
sweating like a pig. But that wasn’t what puzzled me.
From
the top of the path that led to the sand, mama stood and roared down at
Brigitte. The effect was instantaneous. The girl sat up, looked towards mama
and then stood up. She left her towel and beach bag on the sand and went up to meet
mama and the man. Mama was scolding her severely long before they got close to
each other.
I just
stood and watched. They didn’t notice me, not then nor afterwards while the
three of them sat on the sea wall, arguing volubly with constant waving of
hands. It was more of a row than an argument. After a while, the man stood up
and stormed off towards the town. Even from a distance I could see he was really
hacked off.
I saw
no point in tailing Brigitte and her mama any longer, so I followed after the grey-haired
man until he was swallowed up by the crowds in the city. Then I just hung
around until I found a cafe where they served me a decent meal and a long cold
beer.
By then
I needed both.
I had
been sitting there about half an hour when Brigitte came up to me from out of
the blue. One moment I was idly staring into space, and the next moment she was
standing right in front of me.
“What
are you doing here?”
“Eating.”
I couldn’t think of a more suitable response, not immediately.
“In
St. Malo? You are supposed to be on the river at Redon.” She sat down,
uninvited, directly opposite me. Her breasts were quivering and bouncing
beneath a flowery tee shirt.
“I
came to talk to someone at the marina office.” It was a spur of the moment
idea, but a good one. “He spoke to Viola before we left here, you know.”
“What
did he tell you?”
“Nothing
much,” I lied. “You want something to eat?”
“Non. Mama and I have eaten.”
“So,
what are you doing here in St. Malo?”
“Mama
brought me. She wanted to see someone.”
“Who?”
“That
is nothing to do with you.”
I
accepted the point and gestured to a waiter. “Are you sure you don’t want
something to eat? Or a coffee?”
“Hmmmh.
I will have the quick one.”
“You
mean a coffee, I hope?” I ordered cappuccinos for both of us before she changed
her mind.
She
eyed me with a sour look. “You say things I do not understand, Henry. Viola was
the same. She was too clever.”
“Not too clever, Brigitte. She allowed
someone to get the better of her… someone who killed her.”
Brigitte
pondered over that for a few seconds before she asked, “Do you want to have the
loving with me again? I know somewhere…”
“No,
Brigitte. Not now. Not again. Not ever again.” And I meant it.
“Pah!”
She shrugged then let her shoulders and arms fall in a gesture of defeat.
“Tell
me what you know about the ring.”
Her eyes flashed wide. “Ring? What ring?”
“Viola’s
ring.” I stared into her eyes, countering her evasive look. “You know about her
ring, don’t you?”
Her
voice rose an octave as she looked away. “No! I know nothing about her ring.
Nothing!”
“Yes
you do!”
She
jumped to her feet like the seat had suddenly turned red hot. “You are
impossible!” she shouted. “I offer you the loving and all you do is talk about
another girl’s ring! Maybe I will not go to your bed again!” Then she turned
and stalked away without a backward glance.
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