The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe (3 page)

“Come in and sit down, Monsieur Trousseau.” Anne Marie gestured him to the chair beside her. “Nobody’s going to hurt you. Just two old ladies chatting.”

“Bit of a hurry,
madame le juge
.” He stood with his dark hand on the handle of the open door. “I’ve just come from the
palais de justice
.”

“Monsieur Trousseau, you know Mademoiselle Salondy?”

He moved reluctantly toward the desk and shook the outstretched hand, while his eyes remained on Anne Marie. “There’s a plane waiting for you,
madame le juge
. At the airport.”

She laughed. “My children are waiting for me.”

“You’re wanted in Saint-François.”

“On Wednesdays I have lunch with my children. You know that, Monsieur Trousseau. This afternoon I’m taking them to the beach.”

“It’s urgent.”

The laughter left her eyes. “Why a plane, Monsieur Trousseau?”

He smiled nervously and edged back toward the door.

“And to think that I chose this job.” Anne Marie looked at Lucette Salondy. “A functionary of the state,” she sighed before getting wearily to her feet. “Come and see the children soon.”

Lucette held Anne Marie’s hand. “I’m retiring at the end of the year. An old woman, thirty-seven years a teacher. I’ll have plenty of time to visit you then.”

Trousseau pulled at the dark tie again. “The
procureur
insisted on an escort.”

“Give my love to the children, Anne Marie. Kiss the lovely Létitia.”

“If the
procureur
ever allows me to see them.”

The two women embraced and Lucette Salondy squeezed Anne Marie’s hand.

The officer helped Anne Marie from the military helicopter and accompanied her to the waiting car—a dark blue Peugeot that glinted in the sunshine. Trousseau followed, muttering to himself and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

“We’ll be there in a few minutes.” The
gendarme
spoke with an educated accent. He belonged to the generation of West Indians that was now beginning to reach positions of authority. There was about him the faint odor of expensive
eau de cologne
and self-assurance. Anne Marie got into the car and he closed the door behind her. He went around the back of the vehicle and climbed in from the other side. A smile played at the edge of his lips.

Trousseau sat beside the uniformed driver. He held the battered attaché case on his knees. He was now wearing his threadbare jacket.

“To the Pointe des Chateaux.” The
gendarme
removed his
képi
. He had a high forehead and short, curly hair that had begun to recede. He was good-looking, but slightly chubby. “Capitaine Parise,” he said.

“Anne Marie Laveaud.”

The lips broke into a wide smile. “I’ve heard much about you.” He held out his hand; Anne Marie noticed a gold wedding ring. “A pleasure to meet you,
madame le juge
.”

The car took the road from the small airport, went past the Méridien hotel and the bright flags flapping from the high staffs, and out onto the road toward the Pointe des Châteaux.

Tourists were swinging golf clubs on the green of the nearby course. Caddies lolled in the limited shade of the motorized buggies.

The sky was cloudless, the sun directly overhead. The car was air-conditioned and the windows tinted. Only the slightest hint of humming as the Peugeot traveled eastwards. Thin dancing mirages played on the surface of the tarmac. “I don’t envy you.”

“What?”

“The Dugain business.” His eyes ran over her face. “You’re making a lot of enemies within the SRPJ.”

“Why the helicopter,
commandant
?”

Parise coughed. “The
procureur
wanted you here as soon as possible. I’m afraid you’re going to be rather busy. Good thing it’s not the high season.”

“High season?”

“The high season for tourism.”

“Does that matter?”

Parise glanced at Trousseau’s neck. “A nurse,
madame le juge
, aged twenty-three or twenty-four. She was on holiday here.”

The unmarked Peugeot went past the new restaurants—low, concrete buildings with grey-green corrugated roofs—specializing in lobster, conch and other seafood. The restaurants were doing brisk business beneath the midday sun. Rented cars with their stenciled plates were parked along the narrow highway.

Another day in this tropical paradise.

“A tourist from Paris. Raped and then murdered,
madame le juge
.”

In the cool air of the car, Trousseau was humming softly.

(Jean Michel used to call it their Jacuzzi Beach. “
One of those places where families go on weekends. The rest of the time, it is deserted—apart from the occasional fisherman
.”)

When Fabrice was little, Jean Michel would drive the family down here. They would picnic and later Jean Michel would go off swimming with his goggles and snorkel. The surf was not ideal but a few meters into the sea there was an outcrop of rocks where the waves broke, forming a natural tub into which the foaming current swirled, massaging the body. Nine, ten years ago—before the divorce, before Létitia.

A blue van was pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. On the roof, the light turned slowly. Other vehicles were parked under the trees, between the road and the white beach.

The sun was overhead, hot and implacable. It was almost one o’clock as Parise helped Anne Marie out of the car and they walked to where the
procureur
stood talking to a couple of men in green fatigues.

An intercom rasped unpleasantly and one of the men, dark aureoles of sweat beneath his arms, spoke into a microphone.

Easterly trades blew in from the sea and rustled at the branches of the sea grapes. There were picnic tables made of unvarnished timber that had been anchored to cement blocks with steel pins to prevent termites eating into the woodwork.

The
procureur
kissed Anne Marie on both cheeks. “Sorry about this, Anne Marie.” He shrugged apologetically. “And on a Wednesday.”

“Where’s the body?”

“Monsieur Trousseau said you were busy.” He used the
tu
form.

“An investigating magistrate’s always busy.”

“He also said you were taking lunch with your children …”

“A mother’s always busy,” Anne Marie said. “The maid knows how to heat something up.”

The
procureur
was a tall man, with sandy hair and stooped shoulders. He wore white cotton trousers and black shoes. He held a cigarette in his hand; a box of Peter Stuyvesant was visible through the fabric of the shirt pocket. He was sweating; there were beads of perspiration on the freckled forehead.

He took Anne Marie by the arm and led her toward the beach. Underfoot the hot dust became fine, white sand.

“I used to come here with my husband.”

Stakes had been driven into the sand; red and white police ribbon stretched from one stake to the next, curved and flapping in the breeze.

“A fisherman leaves his boat here. He got back from fishing just after dawn and he saw something under the bushes.” The
procureur
put a hand to his eyes and pointed toward a tree on the beach’s edge. “Didn’t give it a second thought—until he returned to the beach at ten o’clock. Dogs were everywhere and when he realized they were mauling a corpse, he alerted the
gendarmerie
in Saint-François.”

The glare from the sand was painful. “Where’s the body?” Anne Marie took a pair of sunglasses from her shoulder bag.

The
procureur
stepped over the ribbon and then helped Anne Marie. His hand was damp. The wind ruffled his wispy hair.

“At the morgue.”

“Then what am I doing here?”

“I was in Le Moule and so I got here almost immediately with Docteur Malavoy.” He kneeled down in the shade of the tree and touched the sand. “The
gendarmerie
have done all the scene-of-the-crime stuff. No traces of blood.” A hand to his forehead. “I wanted to pack everything off to the lab as quickly as possible.”

“Without a corpse there’s not much point in my being here.”

“In this heat, it was best to get the body to the hospital as soon as possible.”

“Tell me about the victim.”

“Evelyne Vaton, resident of the fourteenth
arrondissement
.”

“A tourist from Paris?”

The
procureur
nodded. “Twenty-four years old and unmarried. Mademoiselle Evelyne Vaton, a nurse by profession. The only personal belonging we’ve found so far is a bikini.”

“How do you know who she is?”

“Through Hertz, the car rental people,” the
procureur
said. “She hired a car for a week and when she didn’t return the car on Monday night, the rental firm contacted the family she was staying with.”

“Monday?”

“She should have handed it in the day before yesterday.”

“The car’s been found?”

“A Fiat Uno.” He made a vague gesture toward the Pointe des Châteaux, just visible beyond the low shrub that ran along the beach to the east. “Left it in the Pointe des Châteaux parking site.”

“The Pointe des Châteaux’s three kilometers down the road from here. It’s a pretty long walk to this beach.” Anne Marie gestured to the police vehicles. “She could’ve parked here.”

The
procureur
shrugged. “The sandwich woman says she noticed that a white Fiat was the only car at the Pointe des Châteaux when she went home at seven o’clock last night.”

“Last night? When was the girl murdered?”

“We’ve got the signs of decomposition.”

“When did she die, Arnaud?”

“According to Docteur Malavoy, Evelyne Vaton was probably still alive at midnight on Sunday.” He glanced at his watch. “More than sixty hours ago.”

“Just last night the woman noticed the car?” Mockingly, Anne Marie counted off two fingers. “After two days?”

“Her name is Olga and she takes Mondays off.”

“The body’s only found now? When it’s started to decompose? More than two days on the beach and nobody saw the body?” Anne Marie could feel sweat trickling down the insides of her arms.

“The murderer hid the body.” The
procureur
added inconsequentially, “She was naked.”

“You said there was a bikini, Arnaud.”

“The bikini was half buried in the sand.”

“It may not have been hers. Two days on the beach—you don’t think the dogs would have got to her?” Anne Marie exhaled noisily.

The
procureur
gave a thin smile. “All the signs of rape, Anne Marie.”

“Why didn’t the dogs run off with her clothes?”

“The fisherman found the bikini over there.” He gestured toward the sun-bleached timbers of an old fishing boat, ten meters up the beach. He rubbed his chin. “Bruising of the thighs and on the lower abdomen.” He added, “If it’s not her bikini, it’s quite a coincidence. It’s her size and it’s new. Nothing else on this beach but washed up tires and tin cans.”

“Top or bottom?”

“What?”

“It’s a bikini top or bottom?” Anne Marie asked testily.

“Bottom,” the
procureur
said.

Sweating in his dark suit, the case under his arm, Trousseau stood on the hot, shadowless beach. Anne Marie wondered whether he could hear what was being said. She also wondered why he did not move out of the sun into the shade of the sea grape trees.

Arnaud was saying, “Everything’s been sent off to the Institut Pasteur. Flesh rots fast in this climate.”

“I can count on your discretion, Anne Marie?”

“You always have.”

“One of your many virtues.” The
procureur
nodded. “You’re also very efficient.”

She let her head drop back onto the upholstered headrest and stared at the roof of the car. “Arnaud, the
gendarmerie
knows exactly what to do.”

“I want you to deal with this.”

Anne Marie asked, “This girl’s death is so important?”

“More important than the Dugain dossier. You’re wasting your time and making a lot of enemies among the SRPJ.”

“You gave me the Dugain dossier, Arnaud. Remember?”

He smiled grimly. “You really think I was expecting you to follow it up?”

“I’m not a mind-reader.”

“You’re best rid of it.”

“How am I supposed to know what you want?”

“Not what I want—it’s what the politicians want.”

“The politicians want me to drop Dugain?”

“A nest of vipers.” A sigh of exasperation. “Anne Marie, I’m not a free agent.”

“The word’s to lay off the Dugain dossier?”

“The murder of a tourist is of paramount importance.” He tapped the steering wheel in emphasis.

“Who’s to tell me this Vaton murder isn’t a nest of vipers?”

“A white girl, Anne Marie. And a tourist.” He took the pack of Stuyvesant from his shirt pocket and pushed the lighter into the dashboard. “It’s very important.”

“Put Monneron on it.”

“It’s you I want, Anne Marie. I want you and the
préfet
wants you.”

“Anybody’d think I was pretty and unmarried.”

He ignored her. “Murder in Guadeloupe rarely goes beyond the family. A jealous, drunk husband who takes a machete to the mother of three of his seven children. This is different.” The
procureur
drove the Volkswagen Golf in a jerky, undecided manner, his hands making sharp tugs at the wheel, while his foot hesitated between the brake and the accelerator. “The industry’s only just getting back to where it was before Hugo.”

“Murder Incorporated?”

He glanced at her unhappily. “You’re being facetious.”

“Tired, Arnaud. Middle-aged and tired.”

He smiled as he lit the cigarette. “You’re looking marvelous.”

“That’s not what my mirror tells me. I could do with a shower. And some sleep.”

“Time you got married again.”

“A forty-two-year-old woman—who’s interested?”

“I’d be.”

“Don’t be silly.” She turned her head on the headrest and closed her eyes. “What about Hurricane Hugo, Arnaud?”