'And from there, she flew straight to Namibia, according to the airline records.' His face showed irritation. 'Do not try to deceive me, Monsieur Martinez. We have been following this whole mystery for some time. The trail of chaos and blood…from the murders in Gurs…to that house in Campan, where someone heard two gunshots.' His words were terse. 'And the old priest in Navvarenx church told us your name. After that, it was easy to find out more. The news story about you, and so on.' The officer glanced at a tiny cup brought by a waiter: a delicate cafe noir. He didn't touch it. 'You may like to know the priest is quite well. He saved your life, I think. Shut the door just in time.'
Amy persisted.
'But how did you find us? Down here?'
'I am a senior officer of the gendarmerie. Part of my job is to maintain awareness of Basque terrorists.'
David flashed a brief glance at Amy; her face was composed, her blonde hair gently lifting in the breeze. But David could glimpse the turmoil of feelings under her concertedly impassive expression. He wondered if she was thinking of Miguel; he wondered what she was thinking of Miguel.
Sarria glanced sidelong at his colleague, then continued:
'We have contacts all across Le Pays Basque. Watchful contacts. We guessed you might be in Biarritz, because this is where Eloise flew out. I asked all the cybercafe owners to keep an eye, as you say — for an English girl. Of your description, Miss Myerson. Not so difficile.'
The silent policeman was scanning the terrace, and the beach beyond; like a presidential bodyguard, looking left and right.
Sarria elaborated: 'I also know, of course, that you are being hunted by Miguel Garovillo. One of the worst of ETA killers. Infamous and sadistic. I would like to arrest him myself. But he is clever. As well as cruel.' Sarria tilted his gaze towards David. 'And he has a lot of very…significant assistance. Important people behind him.'
'What do you mean?'
'Before I tell you, you need to know more. Of the history. You must prepare yourself.'
David looked Amy's way; the autumn light was bright on her hair. He turned to the suntanned face of the French cop.
'Tell me.'
'Very well.' He took a tiny, pouting sip of his cafe noir, then said: 'Do you have the map? The map mentioned in the news story?'
David felt a tremor of anxiety. 'Yes. It is here…I always keep it on me — ' He felt in his jacket pocket, then pulled out the very worn road map.
Officer Sarria took it, and unfolded it; the paper was white in the sun, the blue stars almost pretty; he nodded, and glanced at his colleague, then he refolded the paper, and placed it on the table.
'I have seen this map before.'
'What?'
'It is your father's map, Monsieur Martinez. I returned it to your grandfather. After the murder.'
'I know it's Dad's map, but I don't understand — '
But even as he said this, the truth began to reveal itself in his mind. David stammered:
'You were — you mean — '
'I mean this.' He gazed at David. 'Monsieur Martinez, I may be a senior flic with grey hair, but once I was a young officer. In Navvarenx. In Gurs. Fifteen years ago.'
The reality kicked in; David's grief was painful in his chest.
'When my parents were killed?'
'I suspected it was ETA from the start. It had the hallmarks, if that is the word, of an ETA operation. The sabotaged car, a nasty explosion, it was similar to other ETA killings we investigated at the time. And I also suspected the young Miguel Garovillo was involved, we had eye witnesses.'
'So why the fuck didn't you arrest him?'
Sarria frowned.
'When I was at the Navvarenx police station we had a visit from the senior officer of the region.'
'Who?'
'It does not matter. What matters is this — he told me to conclude the case. He ordered me to finish the investigation, and mark it — unsolved. Yet we had evidence. I was very angry.'
'Why? Why would they do this?'
Sarria looked Amy's way. 'At first my immediate reaction was GAL.'
David also looked at Amy.
'Sorry? Who is gal?'
She replied:
'It's not a person, David. It's GAL.' Her face was white with anxiety. 'Capital G capital A capital L. GAL. They were a group set up by the Spanish state to kidnap and execute Basque radicals. In the 1980s and 90s. They had covert support from…elements inside the French government.'
'Exactly, Miss Myerson.' Sarria's nod was curt. 'This was the obvious answer. And my senior officer dropped hints, in that direction. A GAL killing — so you leave it alone. The authorities implied, to us, that your parents were Basque terrorists, Monsieur Martinez. Their death was therefore not a tragedy for the French State.'
David waited. Sarria sighed.
'But this made no sense to me. No sense at all. From what I could tell your parents had no link to terrorism. An American man and a British woman touring the area? And why would a known Basque radical, perhaps the fiercest ETA terrorist of all, Otsoko, the Wolf — son of the great Jose Garovillo — why would he suddenly be working for GAL? Suddenly a traitor to his entire cause?'
The question hung in the air, like the tang of salt from the sea, a hundred metres west.
'So…' Amy said, quietly. 'Why?'
'That is the question. Why the three murders.'
David interrupted:
'Three murders?'
'Yes. Of course…' Sarria's frown darkened. 'You…did not know?'
'I was fifteen. No one told me anything. Know what?'
'The autopsy. Your mother was five months pregnant with a daughter…when she died.'
The table was silent. David's soul churned with emotion. All his life he'd been an only child. Yearning for a sibling. And when he'd been orphaned, that loneliness, that hunger for a brother or a sister, had only intensified. And now this. He'd almost had a sister.
His anguished memories wove themselves, out of desperation, into a speculative reverie. Was this why Mum and Dad had gone on their strange holiday to France? Some desire to explore their roots? Following the revelation of her long-awaited second pregnancy?
Sarria spoke.
'I am very sorry, Monsieur Martinez. You can see I am here to help you. I knew your face as soon as I saw you a moment ago. Just like your father. In the car when we found him.' He looked briefly towards the sea, then returned his gaze to David. 'I would very much like to put Miguel Garovillo in a French prison cell, for the rest of his life. But before I tell you any more. I need to know your story.'
He shifted his little coffee cup to the side, and leaned his uniformed elbows on the table. 'Desole. You may not wish to trust me. I am sure you do not trust me. But I remember what it was like, discovering your mother and father. Believe me, that kind of memory, it does not fade. So my advice is tell me everything, now, and tell me quickly.' He paused, heavily. 'Because, let us face the truth: what other choice do you have?'
David gave Amy a long and significant look, her fingers interlinked with his across the table. She said:
'We have to. We have to be honest.'
She was, of course, correct. Their choices were narrowing down to nothing. So David nodded and drew a breath, and he told the policeman — everything — the whole story. The link to the British, French and Canadian murders. The journalist in England. The Cagot doors. The whole surreal roadtrip, crimsoned with blood every inch of the way.
By the end of this monologue, Sarria had taken off his kepi and laid it on the white paper tablecloth. His eyes had remained fixed on David the whole time.
