The small room was pitch black. Capestan’s eyes had no chance to get used to the darkness, because a violent blow struck her on the temple, sending a piercing pain through her skull. As the adrenaline flooded through her body, a single thought jolted through her mind just before she collapsed: “Whoever you are, when I wake up, I will kill you.”
21
“You won’t take me like this!” Sauzelle yelled feverishly.
Torrez, hands in the air, was standing six feet from the shotgun aimed at his chest. The weapon, an old Browning that must have dated back to the seventies, was shaking in the man’s hands, but his face was determined. Sauzelle kept glancing worriedly at Capestan, who was still laid out by the doorway. It was hard to tell whether he was afraid she might wake up or not wake up.
Torrez, who was unfortunately all too familiar with such situations, tried to rein in his frantic emotions. He was not going to lose his partner—not again. A steady stream of blood was running from her left temple. She appeared to be breathing, but her face had gone terribly white and she was not moving.
He had warned her . . . Why hadn’t she listened? Despite his gnawing anxiety, Torrez managed to pull himself together. If there was to be any hope of rescuing the situation, he would have to stay focused.
Sauzelle was nervous. His blue eyes, small and alert, were darting in every direction and strands of gray hair stuck to his sweat-covered forehead. Torrez needed to restore some calm to the confined space of the hut. It was up to him to prevent the situation from escalating. He found his voice, taking care to keep a measured tone:
“No one wants to take you away, Monsieur Sauzelle. We’re just here to ask you some questions.”
“That’s not true, I had a warning! You’re here to take me to prison, but I won’t go! Not at my age!”
Sauzelle’s voice was strained and he was clinging tight to his weapon. Through a mix of desperation and sheer panic, he was refusing to go down without a fight. This state of mind meant there was a good chance of his letting off a shot. He was struggling to articulate his words, but they continued tumbling out:
“Same as last time, you tried to pin the murder on me before you came up with the burglary story . . .”
“You don’t believe it was a burglary?” Torrez said.
“No, of course not! But it wasn’t me!”
Interesting. The brother had his doubts, too. Surely he had his reasons: they just needed to figure out what those were in order to move the investigation forward. The investigation? First things first, they needed the commissaire to survive safe and sound. Torrez should never have agreed to be her partner. Not her, not anybody. He shouldn’t have given in.
Capestan’s motionless body was still stretched out on the dark, dank floorboards. Above her, a khaki oilskin was hanging from a big, rusty nail. A pair of rubber Wellington boots, also khaki, had toppled over, and the heel of one was touching Capestan’s head.
“Why don’t you believe it?” Torrez said, still trying to calm the aggressor.
“I don’t know. Because of the flowers. Marie hated cut flowers—she never bought them.”
This line of argument was even more speculative than their thoughts about the DVD player, the closed shutters, and the missing cat.
“Someone might have given them to her.”
Sauzelle nodded his head vigorously—that’s just what he was coming to:
“Yes, exactly—the murderer.”
“Or someone else—a boyfriend . . .”
Torrez saw Capestan twitch. She was coming to. Torrez knew he must not let Sauzelle notice: he had to distract him somehow. A cluster of fishing rods and tangled nets occupied a corner of the hut, just within Torrez’s reach. He was reluctant to knock them over—too risky. The old man was on edge, and it would only take a slight surprise for him to pull the trigger. A verbal intervention would be a more sensible approach. Torrez took a deep breath and went for it:
“You didn’t mean to kill her, it was only an accident.”
Sauzelle reared at the accusation.
“No! It wasn’t an accident, but it wasn’t me. Why would I have killed her, anyway?”
“The house. A couple of million.”
“But I haven’t sold it.”
Capestan opened her eyes. After a moment, she discreetly brought a hand to the side of her head. She could feel the blood on her fingers and a fierce expression came over her that Torrez had never seen before. She sized up Sauzelle and prepared to act.
“Plus, you have a history of violence,” Torrez said.
“Me?”
The old man seemed genuinely amazed. Torrez nodded at the shotgun and Sauzelle’s face contorted with embarrassment. The lieutenant turned the screw:
“A man who beats his wife can just as easily kill his sister.”
Sauzelle lowered his weapon in astonishment.
“Me? I never touched Minouche! What are you saying?”
In a fraction of a second, Capestan gathered herself and pounced on Sauzelle. She bundled him to the floor and grabbed the barrel of the shotgun in one hand, wrenching it away from him roughly, shoving it to the other end of the hut. Sauzelle stood up with his back to the wall, but Capestan didn’t let him regain his balance.
