Marked

He doesn’t know what to make of this, whom to believe. The problem is he doesn’t know either party well enough. Not even his own partner. Doyle is not the sharing type. Maybe he’s got issues. If we were to get all psychological about this, maybe the shit he went through when his partners were killed has turned him into a man who feels he cannot trust anyone but himself. Who the hell knows?

Can I even be sure that he hasn’t gone totally off the rails?

And as for Proust. .

Well, maybe I need to get to know him a little better too.

It’s almost as if Proust has been waiting for him to arrive.

He is standing behind his counter at the far end of his shop, staring straight at LeBlanc as he comes through the door.

Pangs of pity instantly stab at LeBlanc.

Jesus. Just look at the guy. He can’t even stand up straight. If he were an animal he’d be put down.

‘Hey,’ he says. ‘How’s it going?’

‘Detective LeBlanc,’ says Proust, and it seems to LeBlanc that he has difficulty just getting those two words out. ‘Are you. . alone?’

Meaning, Is Doyle with you?

LeBlanc catches Proust’s fearful glance through the window behind him.

‘I’m alone,’ he says. ‘Thought I’d check up on you. See how you are.’

‘I think. . I think it looks worse than it is.’ He attempts a smile, but then winces with his pain.

Putting a brave face on it, thinks LeBlanc. Would he do that if he were faking?

‘You got time to talk?’

‘Sure. It’s pretty quiet right now. You wanna come back for a coffee?’

LeBlanc nods, then walks around the counter to join Proust. He follows him through the first door into the small storeroom. It looks as though most of the glass has been cleared up, but as they get closer to the other door there is still a crunching noise underfoot.

‘I made a start,’ says Proust apologetically. ‘I’ll try to get the rest later.’

LeBlanc glances at the spot where Doyle had him pinned against the wall. The image of Doyle’s face is still vivid, his expression that of a man who was about to rip LeBlanc’s head off.

They step through the now useless door, and into the tiny living area.

‘You want coffee? Or do you prefer tea?’

‘Tea. If that’s okay.’

He watches as Proust shuffles over to the electric kettle, grunting as he picks it up.

‘Here,’ says LeBlanc. ‘Let me do it.’

He takes the kettle from Proust, then tells him to go sit down while he prepares the tea. For the next few minutes, the only conversation is about where the teabags, cups and so on are kept.

When the tea is made, LeBlanc joins Proust at the table. He starts off with some chit-chat. Some meaningless preamble to put the guy at his ease.

‘How’s business?’

‘Two customers today. The first one was a woman. Took one look at me and walked straight out again. Then a guy came in for a neck tat. He asked what happened. I told him I forgot my wife’s birthday.’

LeBlanc smiles, putting on a show for Proust’s benefit. ‘You expecting any more today?’

‘I doubt it. Nothing booked in. And this weather, not many people passing by either. You ever consider it yourself?’

‘Me? A tattoo? Nah, not my thing.’

‘You should. You worried about the pain?’

‘Should I be?’

‘Not at all. It’s like a. . like a hot scratch.’

‘A scratch, huh?’

‘Yeah. And you don’t need to worry about hygiene neither. All of my equipment is guaranteed bug-free. I use an autoclave. You know what that is?’

LeBlanc shakes his head.

‘It’s kinda like a pressure cooker, you know what I mean? It makes this super-hot steam which-’

‘Stan, what happened here today?’

Proust was happy talking about his work. LeBlanc can see the enthusiasm drain from his face.

‘What?’

‘What happened? When Doyle came to see you.’

LeBlanc watches as Proust’s eyes widen and the knuckles whiten on the fingers of his hand holding the cup.

‘We were talking. He wanted to ask me some questions.’

‘About what?’

‘About the girl who was killed. He thinks I had something to do with it.’

‘And did you?’

Proust’s stare is one of disbelief at the bluntness of the question. ‘No, man. I told Doyle and I’m telling you. I never met that girl. I wouldn’t put a tat on someone that young, and I wouldn’t hurt a girl like that. I wouldn’t hurt anyone. You gotta believe me.’

‘Why doesn’t Doyle believe you?’

‘I. . I dunno, man. I really don’t.’

LeBlanc hears something else in those words. He’s not quite sure what it is. Something Proust wants to say but which he’s holding back.

‘Okay, so he’s asking you questions. When I came into your shop, it wasn’t just a conversation, Stan. It was getting kinda heated back here.’

‘Yeah, I know. He wouldn’t let it go. I kept telling him I didn’t do this terrible thing, but he wouldn’t listen. He kept calling me a murderer. Saying how I enjoyed doing disgusting things to young girls. Sexual things. And then. . torturing them. Detective, I couldn’t even torture an ant. I respect life. He’s trying to make me out to be some kind of monster. I couldn’t do those things. Please. You have to believe me.’

Proust grimaces and brings a hand to his ribs. He’s really suffering, thinks LeBlanc.

‘What I heard, it wasn’t just an argument. You were pleading, Stan. You sounded like you were being attacked. You were begging Doyle to stop. Stop what, Stan?’

Proust drops his gaze. Stares into his tea. ‘The questions. The accusations. I’d heard them a thousand times. So many times I was starting to believe them myself. I needed for them to stop. I felt like he was driving me crazy.’

It’s a lie, thinks LeBlanc. Everything in Proust’s body language tells me it’s a lie. He can’t look at me. His words have no emotion. The question is, is he lying because he’s afraid of what Doyle might do if he tells me what really happened here? Or is he lying so badly on purpose because it’s all part of this elaborate plan to set Doyle up?

‘Okay, so then what? What happened after the shouting?’

‘I just needed to get away. I ran to the door.’ He gestures to the remains of the door behind LeBlanc. ‘I wanted to get out of here. Maybe out of the building, if that’s what it took. And then. . I just tripped.’

‘You tripped?’

‘Yeah. I musta been in too much of a hurry. My foot caught on the rug or something. That’s all I remember.’

He’s looking down at his tea again. Lies, lies, lies.

‘Look at me, Stan.’

Proust raises his head slightly, but not his gaze. His eyelids flutter as though he’s struggling to lift them.

‘Stan, look at me.’

It’s an effort, but Proust finally gets there. They lock eyes.

‘Doyle says you didn’t trip. He says you jumped through that door.’

‘What? No. No. Why would I do that? That’s crazy. Why would I jump through a glass door?’

Good question, thinks LeBlanc. Why the hell would anyone do such a thing?