“Valère, you know I can’t do it alone. I have the ideas,” she said, tapping the side of her head, “but not the poetry. I need you for that.”
I tapped my own head, mimicking her. “It’s all dried up.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said. “You’re just being lazy.”
“What’s in it for me?”
“Your name would be up in lights again,” she answered.
“We’d be coauthors?”
“Why not?” she asked. “A joint venture between lifelong friends.”
“It’s one of your crazier ideas,” I said, getting up and taking my mug with me. I let my cigar burn itself out. “Well, this lazy boy is going to bed.” I was so tired I didn’t even care if the ghosts were rattling around that night. I was sure I’d sleep through any noise they could make. Let them keep Michèle up.
I walked across the kitchen, toward the door. Michèle stayed sitting at the table. “Or if you prefer,” she said, twisting to face me, “you could be a silent partner. A ghostwriter. Sleep tight, Valère.” She then winked, relishing the power she had over me.
Chapter Twenty-two
Aix-en-Provence,
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Verlaque ordered a café crème and took a soft croissant out of the basket and bit into it, brushing aside the crumbs with a paper napkin. He saw Bruno Paulik walk in through the Café Mazarin’s swinging doors and waved.
“Salut,” Verlaque said, standing up and shaking the commissaire’s hand. “Thanks for coming in on a Saturday.”
“Good morning,” Paulik said. He ordered the same coffee as Verlaque and sat down.
“Croissant?” Verlaque asked. He tipped the basket in the direction of Paulik.
“No thanks. I ate with the girls this morning.”
Verlaque looked confused. “But you can eat a croissant, surely?”
“I’m trying to be careful.” Paulik laughed and rubbed his stomach. “I ran into Valère this morning at the mailbox. He’s thinking of selling the bastide.”
“He’s only just moved in.”
“Yes, it seems too soon,” Paulik said. “Hélène and I were talking . . . What if someone is trying to scare Valère into doing just that?”
Verlaque nodded, thinking of the book on his bedside table. “I thought of that too. Any ideas? Sandrine?”
“I don’t see what she has to gain,” Paulik said.
“True. She’d be out of a job, for one.”
“And yesterday she seemed genuinely frazzled.”
“I agree,” Verlaque said. “All the same, I’m going to call her uncle when I get to the office. What do we really know about Sandrine Matton?”
Paulik shrugged. “Go ahead,” he said. “But I think she’s harmless. Just high-strung. Hélène has a cousin like that.”
“You think?” Verlaque said, smiling. “You can’t use hunches in this line of work, remember?”
“But you do become good at knowing when someone is telling the truth,” Paulik answered. “Although I suppose one can always be tricked.”
Verlaque finished his croissant and made a neat pile of crumbs with the back of his hand. “The vines on Valère’s land might be worth almost as much as the house. Are there winemakers who’d want them?”
“Like Hélène?” Paulik asked, visibly irritated. “No local vintner could afford to buy the place. Including us.”
“Erwan’s kidnapping—any leads?”
“The only kidnapping case in Aix happened over ten years ago,” Paulik said. “And the three guys responsible are still in jail, but I’ve assigned two officers to search the records for criminals living between Aix and the Var. I went into our village bar last night and found out who was in there the night before: two old guys, the barman, a guy who everyone says sits in the corner and sleeps—I can verify that’s what he was doing last night—and two brothers or cousins named Pioger. Although it’s not clear if the Piogers were there when Erwan walked in.”
“Pioger?” Verlaque asked. “Jean-Claude Auvieux told me about them. They’re cousins and bad news. Live above an old store—”
“The hardware store.”
“That’s it. Let’s start with them—shall we?” Verlaque said, reaching into his pocket for his wallet. “I’ll get your coffee.”
“Thanks,” Paulik said, getting up. “My turn next time.”
“One last question,” Verlaque asked. “Which bar? Des Touristes? La Boule d’Or?”
“Bar des Sports,” Paulik answered.
“Drats,” Verlaque said. “I was hoping it was Le Bar du XXème Siècle. It’s my favorite local bar name.”
When Verlaque got to his office, he picked up the telephone and called Guillaume Matton on his cell phone. “Âllo,” Matton replied.
“Bonjour, Maître Matton,” Verlaque began. “This is Antoine Verlaque, the examining magistrate in Aix-en-Provence. Thank you for taking the call.”
“I hope there’s nothing wrong with Valère,” Matton said. “I haven’t heard from him in a while.”
“M Barbier is fine. But his stepson, Erwan, has disappeared. A ransom note and a phone call have been received.”
“What? Is he okay?”
“So far,” Verlaque replied. “They called yesterday, and Erwan was allowed to speak to M Barbier.”
“Bloody hell, that Erwan,” Matton replied. “How much are they asking for?”
“Fifty thousand euros.”
Verlaque could hear the lawyer breathing. “That’s not much,” Matton finally said.
“No, it isn’t,” Verlaque replied.
“Amateur job?”
“Possibly. Has anything like this ever happened before to M Barbier?”
Matton replied, “No. I feel partly responsible. I encouraged Valère to buy that house, and I suppose it has left him rather . . . exposed. In a big city one is more easily hidden. At least I can be assured that my niece Sandrine is there with him.”
“She has been a big help to M Barbier,” Verlaque said.
“Excellent, as I’m the one who recommended her. At least I did that right. I was concerned about Sandrine going to work in Puyloubier, so I’m glad she’s been a help to Valère.”
“Concerned?” Verlaque asked. “Why?”
The lawyer paused again, then said, “An old flame of hers lives in Puyloubier—of all the villages in Provence.”
“Really?” Verlaque asked.
“I adore Sandrine,” Matton continued, “but she has always had bad taste in men and a hard time letting go.”
“What’s the ex’s name?” He picked up a pencil and poised it above a notepad, but he already knew what the name would be.
“Pioger,” Matton answered. “Hervé, I believe. Tell Sandrine to
