Capestan wondered how he managed that. The lieutenant was able to string together questions and registers. It wasn’t hard to see that he was an officer well accustomed to working alone.
“She was refusing to sell, but he was insistent,” Sauzelle said. “But to go from that to . . . I didn’t pay much attention, in any case.”
“She was a retired teacher, correct? Can you tell us about her? Her life, her personality . . .”
“Yes, of course. But in all seriousness, do you mind if I start my rounds? You can fit in the van; it’ll be a bit tight up front, but we’re not going far.”
Torrez looked over at the commissaire, and she nodded her consent.
They jammed themselves into the front seats and Sauzelle tore off at full speed.
“Where are we going?” Capestan said, returning to the fold.
“Bénévent-l’Abbaye. They have a three-day antiques fair there every autumn. I keep the bar stocked up with apple juice,” the brother said, nodding at the cases of bottles in the back of his Berlingo.
The way into the village was blocked off for the fair, and Sauzelle had to move the barriers aside to reach the place de l’Église. On the way, they had learned a little more about Marie. A chance posting had sent her to Paris, where a woman of her vitality had gotten into the swing of things right away. She loved traveling, and on the death of her husband, she had taken a trip around the whole of Europe—by herself. She had also been hiking in the Holy Land, crossed the Atlantic to visit the Americas, and roamed across India and the Middle East. Sadly none of these voyages had yielded a second husband. Aside from that, Marie was passionate about tango, tarot, movies, and Asterix comics. Her cat was even called Tunafix. André Sauzelle could not remember if it had died by the time of her murder, but it wasn’t something he had ever given much thought to.
Still misty eyed, the brother hauled out a few cases of bottles from his van and shut the door with his elbow.
“Give us a hand, big man,” he said, offloading one to Torrez.
He thought better of trying it with Capestan, but she had the feeling that he had been tempted. The three of them headed to the beverage tent, and while Sauzelle chatted to his customers, Capestan and Torrez decided to sample his wares and a cheerful lady in a floral apron served them some juice that was murkier than the waters of the Seine. They went and sat on one of the benches and observed the gathering as they sipped at the nectar.
“I’ve been thinking back to the unforced dead bolt, the muted television . . . Marie muted her TV to go and open the door—I’m sure of it. She knew her attacker.”
Torrez nodded in agreement. He had evidently arrived at the same conclusion.
“The brother fits the bill pretty well,” he said.
“Yes . . . Even if I do find him less violent than the description in the file . . . ,” Capestan began.
Torrez nearly choked on his juice. After regaining his breath, he pointed at his partner’s mangled temple.
“Okay, but not really violent . . . ,” the commissaire maintained. “Unstable, more like. Good profile, but he doesn’t have a motive, he cared about his sister, he hasn’t received a huge inheritance, he hasn’t sold . . .”
“Maybe he’s patient. Or he doesn’t have the means to pay her inheritance taxes. We’d have to check the title deeds, do a bit of digging. And the motive could well relate to something else: family resentment, some sort of betrayal . . . Perhaps he couldn’t bear sharing her affection.”
Not so farfetched, Capestan thought to herself: this happens frequently where blood relations are concerned. Torrez traced a finger around the rim of his cup before saying:
“And Naulin? Naulin’s not a bad fit.”
Torrez had done his homework and found out that Naulin had a record for drug offenses. He peddled morphine and opium in the sixties but had been toppled by the next generation of dealers and seemed to have gone into early retirement. His current source of income was no less opaque.
Capestan chewed it over for a moment.
“He certainly looks like a tricky customer,” she said. “I just don’t know if the sale falling through is a solid enough motive. But then neighborhood spats are always tough to call . . .”
“You start by pumping up the volume on the TV and end up poisoning the dog . . .”
“. . . or warning a suspect that the police are on their way. Just in case he had to get rid of any incriminating evidence.”
The square was buzzing with various traders and stands of charcuterie and other local produce. A lady was sitting in a deck chair embroidering the doilies she was selling. Leaning against her stall was a bicycle with a NOT FOR SALE sign flapping in the breeze.
Capestan went to fetch two slices of pâté aux pommes de terre on cardboard plates, which they ate in silence with their fingers, enjoying the spectacle of the fair. In a vehicle that opened on the side like a pizza van, a man of about fifty gazed adoringly over his wares: a six-foot line of Kinder Surprises in tight formation, arranged by series in transparent boxes. The man was glowing, proud to be displaying his life’s work. At a tiny stand next to him, his wife was nonchalantly threading wooden beads onto charm bracelets.
Sauzelle came over to break up their lunch party. Capestan put down her slice on the greasy cardboard and asked the question that been bothering her:
“Why did you never clean up the house? There are companies who can do that for you.”
“Out of the question. Someone killed my sister. And the police let him get away with it. They closed the case. If I cleaned the house and sold it, that would be the end of that—just move on to the next thing. And then what? The house will stay as it is until this mess gets sorted out.”
So the house is
