was following him. There was no longer any doubt. Two people or more. Frosted grit scraping beneath approaching feet. He turned and hurried forward into the obscurity of the alleyway ahead of him until suddenly the wall opened up to his right, where tall gates stood ajar. They led into a large overgrown garden. The shapes of trees and long grass were just visible in the starlight before the shadow of a large house that loomed out of the night swallowed them up.
Enzo slipped between the gates and into the garden. He could feel the frosted grass soaking his trousers from the the knee down, and he waded through it, as through water, certain that if he could reach the shadow of the trees, he could crouch amongst them, hidden from his pursuers until they gave up the search.
“Hey!” he heard a man’s voice shout and, startled, he began to run. The cold seemed to travel from his feet, though his legs, into his very soul, where fear closed icy fingers around his heart. It could only be Kerjean, and perhaps a couple of cronies, intent on dishing out a physical warning, doing him a little damage. Or worse. The man had been following him earlier in the day, and Enzo cursed his foolishness in straying away from the safety of the light.
Something caught and tore his trousers, causing him to stumble and fall to his knees. He felt thorns tearing through the skin of his calfs. But the sound of Kerjean and friends wading through the tall grass in his wake, got him quickly to his feet, and he sprinted for the far side of the garden where the shadow of the house mired it in darkness.
But now something cold and wet wrapped itself around him, a rope cutting into his arm, spinning him around and pitching him forward. He was helplessly entangled in unseen fabric, clinging and chillingly slimy. He could smell damp and decay, something rotting and rotten. There was a loud tearing sound, and from being semisuspended he was dumped suddenly through the long grass to the hard frosted earth below. It knocked all the breath from his lungs. He tried to get up but couldn’t, as if trapped in a giant, sticky spider’s web. He could hear the swish, swish, of legs running through the grass toward him, breath rasping in the night. And suddenly he was blinded by several flashlights catching him full in their glare, and he raised an arm to shade his eyes. He heard laughter. A woman’s voice. A man’s. And what sounded like a child.
In his confusion, he saw, beyond the lamplight, a human skull, a green face with black spots. A full skeleton stepped into the light, a hand rising through the dark to lift away the death mask to reveal the altogether less frightening face of a teenage girl. A face wreathed in smiles. Bright, shining blue eyes. And peals of laughter rising in the night air. It was a face he knew. But it took a moment for him to realise that it was Alain Servat’s daughter, Oanez. Her sister stepped into the light, the owner of the witch’s green face, then Alain and Elisabeth in Laurel and Hardy outfits, bowler hats above whitened faces. Alain was padded out to make him fatter, a small black moustache painted on his upper lip. All four were almost helpless with laughter.
Alain reached out a hand help him up. “What in God’s name are you doing, man?”
Enzo, it seemed, had run straight into the rotting remains of a hammock strung between two trees. Elisabeth started to help him disentangle himself, while the girls continued to giggle. Enzo’s initial relief gave way to irritation. “I might ask you what you’re doing following folk in the dark.”
Alain laughed. “It’s Hallowe’en, Monsieur Macleod. We’re out guising.”
Elisabeth said, “I’m so sorry, we didn’t mean to scare you. We always take the girls out guising at Halloween. We were on our way home when we saw you leaving Le Triskell, and thought you might like to come in for a drink.”
“But you’re an elusive man, monsieur. Ducking into dark alleys and hiding in gardens.” Alain chuckled, still amused by the Scotsman’s unusual behaviour.
Enzo tried to regain a little of his dignity, brushing away the slime deposited on his jacket and trousers by the decaying hammock. “Oh, I’m always doing that,” he said. “There’s nothing I like better than rolling around in the freezing long grass to make myself cold and wet. It’s my party trick. Do I get an apple and some peanuts?”
This sent the girls off into another paroxysm of giggles. But Elisabeth slipped a comforting arm through his. “I’m sure we can do better than that, Monsieur Macleod. What about a nice bowl of hot soup, followed by a glass or two of whisky by a warm fire?
“Hmmm. Tough choice,” Enzo said. “Roll in the wet grass. Or glass of whisky by the fire.”
“Well, you’ve already done one of them,” Alain laughed.
“True.” Enzo was slowly recovering his sense of humour. “No choice at all, then. Soup and whisky it is.”
Chapter Eighteen
Pale blue paint covered the walls of the Servat’s living room, with the woodwork around the door and windows picked out in white. A shelf that ran around the room just above the level of the door groaned with traditional greks of all shapes and colours and sizes.
“They were my father’s,” Elisabeth said, following Enzo’s eye. It took him a lifetime to collect them, and I couldn’t bear to throw them out when he died.”
Alain laughed. “I leave the dusting of them to her.”
The girls had been packed off to bed. The adults consumed steaming bowls of hot winter soup in the dining room, along with thick chunks of homemade bread and salted Breton butter. Enzo was drying out now in front of the fire, his good humour and sense of well-being somewhat restored. It was hard not to mellow under the warmth of the doctor and his wife, and their obvious affection for each other.
Alain poured the whiskies from an antique drinks cabinet with glass doors that revealed a stunning line-up of Scots and Irish whiskies. “It’s something of a passion,” he said. “And I collect the empties, too. One day Primel and the girls will inherit them and not have the heart to throw them out.”
“Just don’t expect any of the children to dust them,” Elisabeth said. “And I’m not sure that any of them would be as sentimental as us. I can see most of the contents of the house being sold off at the local brocante.”
“Never!” Alain chuckled. “They’ve got their mother’s hoarding genes. They might pack them away in the attic, but they’ll never part with them.” He handed Enzo a glass well charged with pale amber. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tasted this one. It comes from the smallest distillery in Scotland. Edradour. I won’t tell you how much it cost me, because Elisabeth is listening, but it was worth every centime.” He and Elisabeth exchanged smiles, and he handed her a glass before pouring one for himself. Elisabeth settled herself on the settee, and Alain stood warming himself in front of the fire and raised his glass. “ Slainthe mhath,” he said.
Enzo raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know your Scots Gaelic.”
“You can’t drink good Scotch whisky without knowing how make a proper toast with it.”
Enzo raised his own glass. “ Slainthe,” he said. Elisabeth echoed the toast and all three sipped at their liquid gold. Enzo felt the sweetness emerging slowly from behind the burn, the rich, aromatic flavour of malted barley from the Scottish glens. “Mmmh. This is a good whisky.”
Alain beamed his pleasure and took another sip of his own. “So how is your investigation going, Monsieur Macleod?”
Enzo pulled a face. “Very slowly, doctor. In fact, the more I learn, the less I seem to know. I am still wrestling with the whole question of whether or not Thibaud Kerjean was involved.”
“Do you think he was?” Elisabeth asked.
Enzo shook his head. “I really don’t know. Judging by the evidence presented in court, the jury was right not to convict. On the other hand, if the police had done their job properly at the time, he would probably have spent the last eighteen years in prison.”
“So you do think he did it?” Alain said.
“I think there is some pretty damning evidence against him.” Enzo took thoughtful sips of his whisky. “But also plenty of room for doubt.” He laughed. “As I said, I am getting nowhere very fast. Do you know the man yourself?”
Alain shrugged. “I’ve encountered him once or twice. Can’t say he made a very good impression on me. But he was old Doctor Gassman’s patient, and when Gassman retired, it was another doctor in the practice who took over the Kerjean file. I have only seen him, professionally, on very rare occasions. Socially, never.” He looked toward his wife. “How about you darling?”
She nodded. “Yes, I had dealings with him a couple of times when I was nursing at the clinic. An unpleasant
