knew. And now he was telling them. Leguennec probably thought that Marc was telling them all this with incredible calm. But Vandoosler knew that this unstoppable flow, sometimes smooth, but always driven onwards like a vessel by a squally wind, had nothing to do with being calm. He was sure that by now his nephew’s thigh muscles would be feeling stiff and painful, so that they would need to be wrapped in hot towels as he had often done for him when he was a boy. Everyone else thought Marc was moving normally, but Vandoosler could tell that he was as if made of marble from his hips to his ankles. If he interrupted him, he would stay paralysed like that, and that was the reason he should be left in peace to finish, to reach harbour after this infernal mental chase. His leg muscles would only be able to relax at the end.
‘She told Georges never to say a word to Sophia, because he was in trouble too,’ Marc was saying. ‘And Georges would do whatever she said. Perhaps he was the only person she ever really loved, a bit, but I’m not even sure of that. Georges believed her. She may have told him she wanted to try again to be Sophia’s understudy. He has no imagination, he never dreamed she wanted to kill Sophia, or that she had shot the two critics. Poor old Georges, he was never in love with Sophia. That was a lie, a filthy lie. And that cosy little world of
He was certain of himself. It would be easy to find the evidence now, and witnesses. He looked at what Leguennec was doing. He was putting a dressing on the arm. It wasn’t a pretty sight. His legs were hurting terribly, much worse than the arm. He forced them to carry him, automatically. But he was used to that, it had happened before and he knew it was inevitable.
‘And fifteen years after “Elektra”, she laid her trap. She killed Sophia, she killed Louise, put two of Sophia’s hairs in Alexandra’s car, killed Dompierre. She pretended to protect Alexandra’s alibi for the night of the murder. In fact, of course, she had heard Lucien yelling his head off in the street at two o’clock in the morning, because she had just got back from the Hotel du Danube after stabbing that poor guy. She was sure that the alibi for Alexandra wouldn’t hold water, and that I would be bound to realise it was a lie. So she could “admit” that Alexandra had gone out, without seeming to betray her. It was disgusting, in fact worse than disgusting.’
Marc recalled the conversation at the bar: ‘You’re very kind, Juliette.’ Not for a moment had the thought crossed his mind that Juliette was manipulating him in order to incriminate Alexandra. Yes, worse than disgusting.
‘But then suspicion fell on her brother. It was getting too close for comfort. She persuaded him to run away, so that he couldn’t give anything away under questioning. And then it was an extraordinary piece of luck for her that they found the message from the man she’d killed. She was safe! Dompierre seemed to be accusing Sophia, who was dead, but was then believed alive! It was too perfect. But I just couldn’t swallow that. Not Sophia, no, Sophia would never have done those things. And what about the tree? It didn’t explain the tree. No, I couldn’t swallow it.’
‘Oh, what a dirty war,’ murmured Lucien.
When they reached the house again at about four in the morning, the beech tree had been dug up, Sophia Simeonidis’ body had already been exhumed and taken away. This time the tree had not been replanted.
The three evangelists, worn out, didn’t feel like going to bed. Marc and Mathias, still wrapped in blankets instead of clothes, were sitting on the little wall. Lucien was perched up on the big dustbin opposite them. He was growing fond of it. Vandoosler was smoking a cigarette and walking up and down. It felt warm. At least compared to the well, Marc thought. The chain would leave a scar on his arm in the shape of a coiled snake.
‘It’ll go well with your rings,’ said Lucien.
‘Wrong arm.’
Alexandra came round to say good night. She had not been able to get back to sleep after the police had been to dig up the beech tree. And Leguennec had been round. To give her the piece of basalt. Marc looked at her. He would have been so glad if she could have fallen in love with him. Just like that, to see what happened.
‘Tell me, Mathias,’ he said, ‘when you whispered in her ear to make her talk, what did you say?’
‘Nothing. I just said “Go on, Juliette, talk to them”’.
Marc sighed. ‘I might have guessed there wasn’t any magic trick. It would have been too good to be true.’
Alexandra kissed each of them and went away. She didn’t want to leave her son on his own. Vandoosler followed her slim figure with his eyes as she walked away. Three little dots. The twins, the woman. Shit. He looked down and stamped out his cigarette.
‘You should get some sleep,’ Marc said.
Vandoosler started off towards the house.
‘Does your godfather usually do what you tell him?’ asked Lucien.
‘No, never,’ said Marc. ‘Look, he’s coming back.’
Vandoosler tossed the five-franc piece into the air and caught it. ‘Let’s chuck it away,’ he said. ‘Anyway, we can’t cut it into twelve.’
‘There aren’t twelve of us,’ Marc said. ‘Only four.’
‘Ah, that would be too simple,’ said Vandoosler.
He swung his arm and the coin tinkled to the ground a long way off. Lucien had climbed onto the dustbin to follow its trajectory.
‘Company dismissed!’ he cried.
Fred Vargas
FRED VARGAS was born in Paris. A historian and archaeologist by profession, she has now become a bestselling and award-winning novelist. She is the author of many novels.
