The Critic Page 19

  No reply. His mouth was dry from sudden fear and too much alcohol.

  ‘God damn you! Come out of there, will you!’ The bellow of his voice echoed around the ramparts. He was no more than a hundred metres from the safety of the house where they had been drinking wine all evening. But it was down the steepest of inclines, and he doubted if he would make it. And up here, on the top of the hill, there wasn’t another soul around. No light, no sign of life. He felt absolutely alone and horribly vulnerable. Why in the name of God had he let Sophie and Bertrand go off without him? And where the hell was Braucol? Just the presence of the dog might have given him courage.

  A sudden movement, and a clatter in the shadows, provoked a surge of adrenalin to fuel the opposing instincts of fight or flight. He was in no condition to fight, so turned instead and ran. Slithering over the cobbles on shaky legs. He heard sounds of pursuit behind him, but was afraid to look round. The street ahead dipped away into darkness, and he was afraid that if he went that way he might be lost in it for good. Beneath the wall on his right, where he had been sitting just moments earlier, a slope thick with shrubs and bushes fell away to a lower street transecting the hillside. It was caught in full moonlight and seemed like the safer option.

  He scrambled over cold stone and felt fresh air beneath his feet as he dropped into the bushes below. It was not as soft a landing as he had hoped for. Jagged branches and thorns tore at his clothes and face and hands. Then he began tumbling uncontrollably down the slope. Even as he fell, he was aware of a streak of movement off to his left. But he was unable to focus on it, as the world turned over again. He came to a cushioned halt, cradled in the branches of a young tree. Branches that creaked and dipped, and broke beneath him, to dump him unceremoniously into the middle of the street below.

  The fall took away his breath, and pain shot up his arm from his elbow. He heard his head crack hard on the cobbles, and his whole universe was shot through with light. A roaring sound filled his ears, to be replaced by a sudden squealing. He screwed up his eyes against the light and saw that it came from two blinding orbs no more than a metre from his face. He lifted an arm to shield his eyes and a car door slammed.

  ‘My God, Papa, what are you doing?’ To his great relief, Sophie loomed out of the darkness, her silhouette crouching against the light.

  ‘Someone was trying to kill me.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Up there.’ He waved an arm vaguely through the air. ‘There was someone up there.’

  Bertrand dipped into the light and helped him up off the road. ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘Well…no. But there was someone.’

  ‘Where’s Braucol?’ Sophie said. And almost as if he had heard her, Braucol came haring out of the undergrowth, growling and barking, a streak of black cat ahead of him, just inches beyond his reach.

  With three agile leaps, the cat mounted a wall, a window ledge, a roof, and sprinted away across the tiles. Braucol was left barking in frustration below the wall.

  Sophie shouted at him. ‘Braucol, shut up! You’ll wake the whole town.’

  Enzo wondered if there was anyone in the whole town to wake. It had seemed so impossibly deserted just minutes before.

  And as Braucol flapped big paws and crossed the cobbles to join them, disconsolate and defeated, Sophie said, ‘So that was who was trying to kill you, then? A cat?’

  Enzo shook his head and found that it hurt. Surely it wasn’t just a cat that had spooked him. ‘There was someone up there,’ he repeated, but with less conviction than before.

  ‘We’d better get you home,’ Bertrand said.

  IV.

  Fabien parked his four-by-four at the top of the rubble track where the police had left their vehicles the night before. An abandoned length of black and yellow crime scene tape was the only evidence that they had ever been there. He gave Nicole his hand to help her up the slope towards the trees.

  ‘I used to play up here all the time when I was a boy,’ he said. ‘The woods were my world. I fought battles against the crusaders, hid from the Germans, got shipwrecked. The cellars of the old Cathar château still exist, right below the hill. Just bits of broken-down wall and the remains of a flagstone floor. But it became my château, my hideaway. I loved it.’ He stopped and breathed deeply. ‘And the smell of the woods takes me back every time.’ He looked at Nicole. ‘Almost as if all the years between then and now had never been.’ His face shone with some distant, happy memory. Then a shadow crossed it, like the moon slipping behind a cloud. ‘That tree, where they found Serge Coste. I used to climb it, and hide in the hollow where the killer put the body. It was my tree. Seeing the body there like that, I felt…violated.’

  They turned at the treeline and looked back down the vine-covered slope towards the flood plain below. The moon was a bright globe in a star-encrusted firmament, turning night almost into day. They heard the wind moving through the treetops, brittle leaves whispering to the night. Fabien still held her hand, and she felt a strange, aching sensation in the pit of her stomach. Not unpleasant but accompanied by a sense of apprehension verging on fear. She could feel the beat of her heart, and it seemed to be in her throat.

  ‘Anyway, the source is up here.’ Fabien turned and led her along a well-beaten path through the trees to a small clearing where stones had been set into the earth centuries before to protect the precious water.

  ‘This is it?’ Nicole was disappointed. She had been expecting more, although she was not sure what.

  ‘There hasn’t been much rain in the last six weeks, so the water table’s low. When she’s in full flood, she bubbles out of the ground like she’s alive.’

  And still he held her hand. She could feel his anxiety through it. Shattered moonlight fell among the trees to sprinkle them with bits of silver. Beyond the source, the forest seemed dark and impenetrable. Nicole looked up into Fabien’s face and thought how much she liked its soft cadences and the dark of his eyes. ‘What age are you, Fabien?’

  He shifted uncomfortably, unsettled by her question. ‘Thirty-one.’

  ‘Why have you never married?’

  Which brought a tiny smile of regret to his face. ‘There have been one or two close things. I guess I never met the right woman.’ His smile turned wry. ‘Certainly, my mother thinks so.’

  ‘So do you think twelve years is too much?’

  He frowned. ‘Too much what?’

  ‘Of an age difference.’

  She was certain he blushed, but his embarrassment was masked by the night. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Between you and me.’

  He laughed. ‘When I was twenty, you’d have been eight. A primary school kid.’

  ‘I’m a big girl now, though.’ And then, realising what she’d said, added self-consciously, ‘Too big, most people seem to think.’

  Fabien took her other hand and stared earnestly into her face in the dark. ‘I think you’re lovely.’

  She could barely hide her pleasure. ‘A lovely spy.’

  ‘A beautiful spy.’ He let go of her hand and slipped his arms around her, drawing her tenderly towards him. She put her hands around his neck and stretched up to meet his lips as he bent to kiss her. For such a big, clumsy man, he was very gentle. The aching in her belly had spread to fill her whole body. She wished he would put his hand on her breast. Men were always looking at her as if they wanted to, but few of them had ever had the courage to actually do it. And Fabien was much too much of a gentleman. So slowly she drew one of his arms out from behind her, and slid his hand up to cover one of her breasts, an erect nipple pushing hard against the taut cotton of her tee-shirt. She felt his tension, and then an almost uncontrollable wave of desire as she pressed her body against his to feel his passion pressing right back.

  V.

  Enzo had sobered up a good deal by the time they got back to the gîte, forty minutes in the passenger seat of Bertrand’s van, the window down, cold air blowing in h
is face, the best part of a litre of mineral water poured down his throat.

  He could feel the swelling at the back of his head where it had cracked off the cobbles, and his elbow was distended and stiff where it had broken his fall. He had no idea, now, whether he’d had simply imagined everything on the hilltop at Cordes, or whether in fact there had been someone there. But it left him feeling unsettled and vulnerable again. For there was no doubt that someone had tried, and failed, to kill him on his first night here. Why wouldn’t they try again?

  Bertrand drove past the line of parked cars opposite the chai and pulled his van up at the foot of the steps. Enzo climbed stiffly down on to the gravel and shrugged aside offers of help from Sophie. ‘I’m fine,’ he said tetchily, and climbed up to the terrasse to unlock the door.

  The room was filled with the glow from his computer screen, and he crossed to the table to switch on the desk lamp and drop into the seat in front of it. He got rid of his screensaver and saw that there was an e-mail waiting for him. He opened up his mailer. It was from Al MacConchie in California.

  Hey, Magpie….

  It was a long time since anyone had called him that. It was the nickname schoolfriends had given him when, as a teenager, his Waardenburg syndrome had manifested itself in a silver stripe running back through dark hair from his temple.

  Bring your samples. I’ll see what I can do. Let me know what flight you’re on and I’ll pick you up at the airport.

  ‘We’re going to bed, Papa.’ He looked up as Sophie and Bertrand climbed the stairs to the mezzanine. ‘You should, too.’

  ‘I’ve got to book a flight.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘California.’

  She stopped mid-step, and Bertrand nearly bumped into the back of her. ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ll explain tomorrow.’

  He waited until the light went out upstairs and he thought they might be sleeping before he got up to pour himself a small whisky sprinkled with a dash of water.

  ‘You’re not having a drink, are you?’ Sophie’s voice came out of the dark like a reproach from the gods.

  ‘Sophie!’ He tried to imbue her name with all the gravitas of an adult chiding a child. If he was going to make this booking tonight, he needed something to keep him awake. He heard her sighing.

  It took him nearly half an hour of internet searches, and a dozen small sips of whisky, before he found a flight that wouldn’t bankrupt him. Paris to San Francisco with Air France in four days’ time. Non-stop. Eleven hours and forty minutes. He groaned at the prospect. Then he remembered Charlotte’s suggestion that he stay over with her the night before flying out, and his stomach flipped over.

  He sent an e-mail back to MacConchie with his flight details and put the computer to sleep. His head was throbbing and his eyes felt full of grit. He turned off the light, and waited for his pupils to dilate before standing up and making his way to the door. The moon was still dispensing its light across the lawn and through the glass. He opened the door and stepped out on to the terrasse to breath in fresh air. The night was filled with the sound of warm wind in the trees. He could see the dark shape of them swaying against the sky.

  A movement distracted him and drew his eyes towards the line of parked cars beyond the pigeonnier. And with a shock, he realised there was someone sitting in one of them, a flash of white face caught in the moonlight. Alarm bells began ringing in his head and he was about to call for Bertrand when the car door opened, and by its courtesy light he saw that it was Michelle. She stepped out of the car and stood looking across the grass towards him.

  He closed the door of the gîte and went down the stairs. They met beneath the pigeonnier, the child’s swing turning in the wind. Her hair blew about her head, and she swept it back out of her face. She seemed very pale.

  ‘How long have you been sitting there?’ He searched her face for some clue as to what might be in her head, but there was an opaque quality in it, an evasive cloudiness in her green eyes.

  ‘Most of the evening.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I was waiting for you.’ She glanced towards the gîte. ‘Where’s Charlotte?’

  ‘She’s gone back to Paris. I thought you were leaving.’

  ‘So did I.’ She scuffed the gravel with the toe of her shoe. ‘Then I got to thinking. About that kiss. Up at Château de Salettes. And about whether I really wanted to go or not.’ She looked up from her feet, into his eyes, and reached up to touch his face.

  He shook his head. ‘I’m old enough to be your father.’

  ‘My father’s dead.’ Her voice was flat, emotionless. ‘I’m not looking for another one.’

  She pushed herself up on tip-toes towards him and her nose crinkled in a smile.

  ‘I smell whisky.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  I.

  It was his first night in the bed. After the clic-clac it had been soft and warm, enveloping him in quilt and mattress, to relieve aching and weary bones and draw him down into a deep sleep. Now sunlight spilled in through the unshuttered window, lying hot across the bed, and he felt Michelle’s breath in his face. She kissed him. A soft, wet kiss, her tongue dragging across his lips and nose. He reached over and ran a hand over her smooth, hairy body. And an arrow of consciousness pierced his slumber, startling him awake.

  Braucol gazed lovingly into his face and licked him again.

  ‘Jesus!’ Enzo sat up spitting and spluttering, then groaned as pain flooded his head. There had been way too much alcohol the night before. But where the hell was Michelle? And then he remembered. He wrapped a sheet around his nakedness and hurried through to the bathroom to slunge cold water on his face. She had been reluctant to spend the night as long as Sophie and Bertrand were there.

  ‘Sophie doesn’t like me,’ she had told him.

  ‘Nonsense. Why wouldn’t she like you?’

  ‘Because she likes Charlotte, and Charlotte doesn’t like me.’

  Women, Enzo reflected, always seemed aware of things that passed him by. And so he had spent the night alone. Again. Waking up to the dog on the pillow next to him. He brushed his teeth with extra vigour, then found his towelling robe and went through to the séjour. Sophie and Bertrand were heating croissants in the oven. The room was filled with the smell of their savoury sweetness and the aroma of fresh coffee.

  ‘Bonjour,’ Bertrand said brightly. Sophie scowled at her father, then turned away to pour herself a coffee. She was in a mood with him. Enzo raised his eyebrows towards Bertrand in silent question, but Bertrand just shrugged and made a facial apology in silent response.

  ‘I need your help collecting soil samples today,’ Enzo said.

  For a moment, Sophie forgot her mood and turned around, coffee raised to her lips. ‘What for?’

  He explained the principal of wine fingerprinting and told them they would need samples from every vineyard Petty had visited. ‘We know where he went from his tasting schedule. I’ll draw up a list after breakfast and we can divide them up among us. I doubt if any of the vignerons are going to welcome us with open arms, so we’ll not tell anyone what we’re doing. Nicole can collect a sample from La Croix Blanche.’

  ‘And Michelle? I suppose she’ll be helping too?’ Sophie cocked a disapproving eyebrow at her father.

  ‘Any objections?’

  Bertrand said, ‘I think I’ll just go and take my shower.’ He hurried out of the room, leaving father and daughter in awkward silence.

  ‘Look, if this is because I had one little whisky last night…’

  ‘I saw you,’ Sophie said. ‘You and Michelle Petty out there by the pigeonnier.’

  ‘You were spying on us?’

  ‘No, I was worried about you. I heard you going outside.’ She drew a deep, indignant breath. ‘It’s disgusting, Papa.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘You and that…that girl. She’s less than half your age. Younger than Kirsty, for God’s sake!’<
br />
  Enzo gasped in frustration. ‘I don’t believe I’m getting lectured on my love-life by my own daughter. It’s none of your business, Sophie.’

  ‘You’re my father!’

  ‘You’re my daughter. And you’ve made it abundantly clear that it’s none of my business who you go out with.’

  ‘That’s different.’

  ‘No, it’s not. We’re all adults here. We make our own choices in life. I’ve been twenty years on my own, Sophie.’ He choked back a sudden surge of self-pity. ‘Sometimes a man needs the company of a woman.’

  ‘What about Charlotte?’

  ‘Good question. One I’ve asked her often enough. I’m still waiting for an answer.’

  They stood glaring at each other, but the flame of their anger was subsiding as quickly as it had flared. And with two steps, Sophie extinguished it completely, throwing her arms around her father’s waist and burying her head in his chest. ‘I’m sorry, Papa. I just worry about you. I don’t want to see you hurt.’

  He drew her to him. She was all he really had in the world. The only one he could count on for unconditional love. And he hated it when they fought.

  They broke apart at the sound of the door opening and turned to see Nicole hesitating on the threshold. Her eyes were red-rimmed and raw, her face the colour of chalk. It was clear she had been crying, and now tears gathered again in stinging eyes, like rain in clouds.

  ‘My God, Nicole, what’s happened?’ Enzo reached her in three strides.

  Her lip quivered as the tears burned tracks down her cheeks, and she looked up into his face. ‘My mother’s dead.’

  II.

  The gendarme was young, attractive, with short dark hair, and black Mediterranean eyes. She smiled at Enzo across the desk and told him that Gendarme Roussel had taken several days’ leave. Enzo nodded through the open window towards the other side of the courtyard.

  ‘Does he stay in the apartments?’

  ‘No, he and his wife moved out when they had their second kid. They live in his family home near Lisle sur Tarn.’