'So…As I thought. Les eglises…La Societe.' He was almost talking to himself — staring above their heads, searching for an answer in the sky over Biarritz.
Then he snapped from his thoughts and explained.
'It is the churches. It is not just the mobile phones, how he traced you. Monsieur Martinez. It is the churches. As the priest at Navvarenx implied.'
Amy spoke. 'What does that mean?'
'After I was taken off the Martinez murders, after the case was closed…I did some of my own…investigating. I looked into the background of those who had been stopping me. See if I could find this connection with GAL. Of course there was no such connect. Mais — ' He paused, then continued: 'But there was a link with the church. Specifically, the Society of Pius the Tenth.'
Amy's face showed surprise.
'I've heard of them. Yes. And — and — and Jose was linked to them. He had that crucifix blessed by Pope Pius. Yes — ' She clutched at David's arm. 'The priest, at Navvarenx.'
David recalled. 'He mentioned a Society. Said he had been asked to warn them…or someone…about us. And there were portraits of that pope in some of the churches.' David struggled with the idea, he was at a loss. 'But who are they?'
Sarria elaborated.
'A large splinter group from the Catholic church, with strong support in the South of France. And in the Basque Country. Very traditionale. They were founded by Archbishop Lefebvre. They have links to the Front Nationale, to hard right-wing politics. Some of their bishops have denied the Holocaust. They have sympathizers across the state. They are…' He frowned. 'They are also active abroad. In Bavaria and Quebec, South America. In Poland they have political friends, the League of Polish Families. And the hard right in Austria. It is guessed there are eight hundred thousand members. Their own priests, their own seminaries, their own churches.'
Amy said: 'You are sure they are linked?'
'Quite sure. Everywhere I looked I found, mademoiselle, connections to the Society. Un reseau, une conspiration! My superior officer was a confirmed sympathizer. Very right wing.'
David gazed at the policeman, still deeply confused.
'But why would they be involved in this?'
The officer nodded, uncertainly.
'It seems to me the Catholic church wants to…suppress some knowledge. Which dates back to the war. Maybe to Gurs. Your parents were accidentally revealing the same…mystery. Perhaps by mistake. Accidentellement.'
'You say the Society is involved, but now you say the whole Catholic church?'
A shrug. 'This is my…hunch, is that the right word? My hunch. I have researched the Society ever since the first killings in Gurs. Some years ago the Society of Pius the Tenth was…excommunie…by Pope John Paul for rejecting the Second Vatican Council. And for their extreme views. But recently there have been signs that the Pope will take the Society back…into the warmth of Catholic communion. Peace overtures have been noted.' Sarria was faintly smiling. 'But I am thinking the church has asked the Society to do something, in return for healing the schism.'
'Close down this mystery. The mystery of Gurs. Once and for all?'
He sighed.
'Yes. Who better than the Society? They already know the whole story because their roots go back to Vichy, and l'occupation. When this began. Right-wing French priests were chaplains at Gurs. They tortured Cagots, and Jews, despite themselves.'
The picture, at least half of it, was now revealed to David. He gazed through the dark potted firs, at the blue Bay of Biscay. He talked to himself, quietly:
'Everywhere we went…we went into churches. Navvarenx, Savin, Luz. Eloise's house was opposite a church. She went into the church at Campan…'
'Exactement. The Society has maybe asked for help in their search for you…from the wider church. Priests and nuns and ecclesiastical officials, are maybe identifying you as you move from place to place. Let us say the average priest does not even know why he has been asked to do this. But he will do it because he is obedient. Loyalty means much, in this part of the world.'
Amy spoke up: 'And then the information would be passed to the Society? And then to Miguel?'
'Et voila'. But what else do we know? I do not have to explain one thing, do I? Miguel's motivation.' The policeman sipped his coffee, and flicked a glance towards the sea, then returned his attention to the table.
'Garovillo fils must have been brought up a Basque radical. Violently proud of his Basque heritage. And then — then one day, he discovers from his father that he is not Basque, but a Cagot, a despised Cagot. Miguel Garovillo would have been shattered, destroyed. And then he must have resolved.' Sarria frowned. 'Resolved that he would do anything to keep this secret hidden, kill anyone who threatened to reveal the humiliating truth about his father — and about Miguel himself. Along the way his wishes happily coincided with the wishes of the Society. Maybe they recruited him at that point, maybe the two Garovillo men were already members. So it all folded into place.'
David spoke up. 'And on top of that his ETA status helped him. Right? He would have the guns and the bombs and the expertise. To kill.'
'Vraiment. And one day, Miguel found out that your parents were in France, researching the Cagots, and staying near Gurs. Asking questions at the Brasserie d'Hagetmau. That would have scared Miguel, alerted him to danger. The Wolf took action. Alors.'
The frail laughter of a child carried on the coastal breeze. A brief glimpse of personal emotion, of sincere sadness, crossed Sarria's face. He added:
'But this, of course, is all too late for your family, Monsieur Martinez. I am sorry I could not do more. I tried. Please forgive me?'
David quietly nodded. But he didn't really mean it: he didn't want to forgive, he didn't want contrition: he wanted answers. As many answers as possible. His determination was returning, he wanted vengeance for his mother and his father. For his unborn sister. But to do that he needed to see the whole picture. Before Miguel could destroy the evidence.
He spoke up: 'But, Officer Sarria, the link with Gurs? What happened there?'
Sarria shrugged his ignorance. 'That I cannot tell you — because I simply do not know. No one seems to know. What I can say is this…'
He leaned to the centre of the table, his voice low and concerned: 'I can only protect you so far. You are in danger. Very serious danger. The Society, and its powerful political sympathizers, they still want you dead. They need you dead.'
'So what the hell do we do?' Amy said. Her arms were crossed. 'Where can we go? Britain's too dangerous. Spain likewise. Where else?'
'Anywhere. You do not know what danger you are in…' Sarria glanced significantly at David and Amy. 'Maybe this can assist. If you need motivating.'
He reached in a briefcase, and pulled out a large brown envelope. He opened the envelope and extracted a sheaf of photographs.
'These are the photos from the Gurs murder. Eloise's grandmother, Madame Bentayou. I was not sure whether to show them to you. But…but maybe you need to see them.'
David picked up a few of the glossy photos. Hesitantly. He was about to see what Eloise had seen through the window at the bungalow. What she could not, would not describe: the unspeakable murder of her grandmother.
He steeled himself, then looked at the biggest photo.
'Oh Jesus.'
The photo showed the entire murder scene.
Madame Bentayou's body was lying on the kitchen floor, a floor that was smeared with her own blood. Her body was identifiable from the clothes — and the tartan slippers; but there was no face to confirm this identification. Because her head had been cut off.
Not only had it been cut off, it seemed to have been pulled off. The jagged nature of the grotesque wound, the shredding and ribboning of the skin, the stretched elastic of the tormented ligaments, they all implied that her
