reason.’
‘Bullshit.’
‘Yes. I thought so too.’
Yola had walked in to the wood by the path, just as Alexi had described it to her, leaving strips of white paper at five-metre intervals to guide herself back to the road when it was dark. In her head she had marked the position of the solitary cypress tree beneath which the prophecies lay buried. If the police stayed where they were, however, she would have no possibility – even if she used the woodland as cover – of reaching the prophecies unseen. The cypress tree was far too exposed.
‘Shall we take a turn about the forest?’
‘Fuck that. Let’s go back to the cabane. Light a fire. I forgot my gloves and it’s getting cold.’
Yola could see their silhouettes approaching her. What were they after? Wood? How could she explain away her presence if they stumbled on her? They’d be so keen to get gold stars from Calque that they’d probably bundle her back with them in their poullailler ambulant – their travelling henhouse. Wasn’t that what Alexi called Black Marias? And Calque was certainly no fool. He would smell a rat straight away. It wouldn’t take him long to figure out that she was after the prophecies and that they weren’t lost at all.
As the policemen approached, Yola pressed herself into the ground and began to pray.
The first policeman stopped three or four feet away from her. ‘Can you see any dead trees?’
The second policeman switched on his torch and swung it in an arc above their heads. At that exact moment his cellphone rang. He tossed the torch to his companion and felt for the phone. As the torch passed near her head, Yola could feel the light from its beam skimming across her body. She stiffened, sure of discovery.
‘What’s that you say? We’ve got to pull out? What are you talking about?’ The second policeman was listening intently to the voice at the other end of the line. He grunted from time to time and Yola could almost sense him glancing across at the first policeman, who was holding the lighted torch with its beam focused down along the seam of his trousers.
The second policeman snapped the cellphone shut. ‘That Parisian Captain they’ve sicced on us thinks he’s found out where the guy lives. Reckons, if he really has slipped the net, that he’s sure to make for there. We’re all wanted. This time all we’ve got to do is seal off the whole of the St-Tropez peninsula, from just outside Cavalaire- sur-Mer, via La Croix-Valmer and Cogolin, to Port Grimaud. Can you credit it? That’s sixty fucking kilometres.’
‘More like thirty.’
‘What do you care? There’s no sleep for us tonight.’
Yola turned on to her back, when they eventually walked away and gazed up in wonder at the first star of the evening.
73
Somewhat to his surprise Calque found himself regretting the lack of Macron’s presence as he made his way across the courtyard and back towards the Comtesse de Bale’s house. Calque did not consider himself a sentimental man and Macron had, after all, largely brought his death upon himself – but there had been something magnificently irritating about him as a person, an irritation which had, in its turn, fed Calque’s over-emphatic sense of self. He concluded that Macron had acted as a kind of straight man to his iconoclast and that he was missing having an excuse for being grumpy.
He recalled, too, his delight when Macron had leapt to his defence when the Countess had questioned his knowledge about the Pairs de France and the French nobility. You had to hand it to the man – he might have been a bigot but he had never been predictable.
The soignee private secretary in the tweed and cashmere twinset emerged from the house to greet him – this time, though, she was wearing a silk one-piece dress in burgundy, which made her look even more like a countess than the Countess herself. Calque searched through his memory banks for her name. ‘Madame Mastigou?’
‘Captain Calque.’ Her eyes skated over his shoulders to take in the detachment of eight police officers bringing up his rear. ‘And your assistant?’
‘Dead, Madame. Killed by the adopted son of your employer.’
Madame Mastigou took an inadvertent pace backwards. ‘I am sure that cannot be so.’
‘I, too, trust that I have been misinformed. I have a search warrant, however, for these premises, which I intend to exercise immediately. These officers will accompany me inside. They will obviously respect both Madame la Comtesse’s property and her privacy. But I must ask that no one interfere with them during the course of their duties.’
‘I must go and warn Madame la Comtesse.’
‘I shall accompany you.’
Madame Mastigou hesitated. ‘May I see the warrant?’
‘Of course.’ Calque felt in his pocket and handed her the document.
‘May I copy this?’
‘No, Madame. A copy will be made available to Madame la Comtesse’s lawyers when and if they desire it.’
‘Very well then. Please come with me.’
Calque nodded to his officers. They fanned out across the courtyard. Four of the officers waited patiently at the foot of the stairs for Calque and Madame Mastigou to enter the house, before clattering up the steps behind them to begin their search.
‘Do you seriously intend to implicate the Count in the killing of your assistant?’
‘When did you last see the Count, Madame?’
Madame Mastigou hesitated. ‘Some years ago now.’
‘Then you may take it from me. He has changed.’
‘I see that you have discarded the arm sling, Captain Calque. And your nose. It is healing. A great improvement.’
‘It is kind of you to notice, Countess.’
The Countess sat down. Madame Mastigou fetched a chair and placed it behind the Countess and a little to one side – she seated herself demurely, both knees pressed together, her ankles tucked beneath her and lightly crossed. Finishing school, thought Calque. Switzerland, probably. She sits just like the Queen of England.
This time, the Countess waved the footman away without bothering to order coffee. ‘It is nonsense, of course, to suspect my son of violence.’
‘I don’t suspect your son of violence, Countess. I formally accuse him of it. We have witnesses. In fact I am one myself. Thanks to the condition of his eyes, he does, after all, stand out from the crowd, does he not?’ He glanced across at her, his head tilted to one side in polite enquiry. With no answer forthcoming, Calque decided to press his luck. ‘The question I must ask – the question that really troubles me – is not whether he has done these things, but why?’
‘Whatever he has done he has done for the best.’
Calque sat up straighter, his antennae flaring. ‘You cannot be serious, Madame. He has tortured and killed a gypsy in Paris. Committed grievous bodily harm on three people, including a Spanish policeman and two casual passers-by. He has killed a security guard at the shrine at Rocamadour. Tortured and killed another gypsy in the Camargues. And two days ago he shot dead my assistant during a siege in which he was threatening to hang the sister of the man he killed in Paris. And all this to discover some prophecies that may or may not be true – that may or may not be by the prophet Nostradamus. I suspect, Madame, that you are not as unaware as you would have me believe of the true reasons behind this horrendous chain of events.’
‘Is that another of your formal accusations, Captain?
If so, I would remind you that there is a third party present.’
