Worst of all, however, had been listening to Torrez apologizing for the delay for the entire journey. However much Capestan tried to persuade the lieutenant of his probable innocence in the cable affair, he had continued to grumble: “It’s because of me, it’s because of me.” He feared that this unfortunate hitch had set an ominous precedent.
Torrez could not let go of his jinx, and Capestan began to wonder whether this feeling crept into his private life, or whether it was exclusive to his role as a police officer. Whether it was the mark of Cain or the sword of Damocles, Torrez had no shortage of baggage.
Behind the wheel of a freshly vacuumed car, gazing out on the countryside of his beloved Creuse, the lieutenant calmed down a bit. A smile was obviously a step too far, but his eyebrows had returned to something resembling a normal position. As the road wound through hills, fields, and forests, Capestan felt carefree, delighted to see the word “autumn” shift from an abstract term to a reality. The monochromatic town and the evergreen mountains were in the past, and nature was now putting on a glorious Technicolor show for them: red and orange oaks, the brown of the horse chestnuts, and yellow for the beeches. Each species paying its own tribute to October. The verdant prairies put the finishing touches on the eco-idyll they saw before them. No noise, no gray, and everywhere the primeval smell of the wild. The air was pure and fresh, cleansing every cell and flushing out the foggy heads of the city dwellers. It was enough to make Capestan giddy. Torrez picked up on it, puffing his chest as though it were a personal compliment.
At the far end of a village, an imposing eighteenth-century house came into view. A scarlet Virginia creeper covered the facade of the two-story house, reaching up to the roof’s slate tiles. Traces of rust on the iron shutters indicated that they could do with a lick of paint. From the street, Capestan made out a note on the shabby door.
She pushed at the garden gate, which let out a quiet squeak, and walked up the path, gravel crunching underfoot. Good, honest sounds, she thought, returning to her whimsical reverie. André Sauzelle had left them a message: I’m at the pond. The fishing hut on the little island.
Before returning to Torrez, who was waiting with his back to the car, Capestan noticed some large balls of fat hanging in several of the trees for the birds. Strange, she thought: it wasn’t even winter yet.
“André Sauzelle is waiting for us in his fishing hut. I feel like swinging by the churchyard before going to find him.”
“You want to say a quick prayer?” Torrez said in surprise.
“No. That’s where Marie is buried. I just want to check something.”
Back in the car, Torrez, hampered by his sheepskin coat, took two attempts to buckle his seat belt.
“Aren’t you hot with that on?” Capestan asked.
“I am a bit now, but it’ll be perfect in a month. Plus it has pockets,” Torrez said, turning the key in the ignition before finally admitting: “I don’t like the cold.”
The churchyard was perched on the hillside above the village. They saw the dark outline of the bell tower and the cock of the weathervane slicing through the deep azure sky. The fields stretched for as far as the eye could see, dotted with reddish-brown cows. At least the dead could rest in peace with a lovely view. They had to climb a bit higher to reach the Sauzelle family vault, which was sheltered from the wind by a stone wall.
The marble and the inscriptions were in an impeccable state. The headstone was resplendent, with no trace of moss, rain, or earth, all perfectly maintained and surrounded by fresh flowers. Three rows of azaleas filled a lush flowerbed, its perfect edges suggesting the use of a gardener’s line. The chaos of the house in Issy was still vivid in Capestan’s memory: André Sauzelle might have closed the door on that, but when it came to his sister’s tomb, surely he was not keeping it spick and span for show?
The commissaire had seen what she had wanted to see. Torrez was still by the entrance to the churchyard, looking uneasy as he read the notices on the community board. Capestan came down some steps to join him again. Just off the walkway, a plaque with the pledge WE WILL NEVER FORGET YOU had fallen over and was lying half-buried in the ground, with one of its corners chipped. Capestan looked at all the photographs of the dead smiling for posterity. They only existed in this little patch, wedged inside their overelaborate frames.
“Shall we go?”
“It’s a trap,” Torrez said with a gloomy voice.
“Not this again . . .”
Torrez tapped his knuckle against a yellow leaflet, the way you knock on a door:
“Sauzelle’s got no business in that hut. The fishing season has finished.”
Capestan brushed the risk aside with a shrug, while Torrez shoved his hands in his pockets and stared at his boots.
“We shouldn’t go there. I’ve got a bad feeling,” he said.
The lieutenant was insistent, and his contagious anxiety was starting to irritate Capestan. In trying to play the role of Cassandra, he was simply inviting disaster. The commissaire was not one for superstition, but she did have an aversion to die-hard pessimism.
It took them a couple of minutes to get to the pond. Two children were screeching with delight on the seesaw in the playground. Further on, the
