One Green Bottle Read online

  As it turned out, the despondency she braced herself for never came. On the contrary, a couple of months after settling in, she was sitting on the patio on a glorious summer evening, sipping a glass of wine as Toupie purred contentedly round her ankles, thinking that she was no less contented herself. This was surely better than supper in front of the television with a husband who seldom acknowledged a word she said. Perhaps, looking back through the lens of anger, it all seemed bleaker than it was, but honestly, they might as well have been waxworks in a museum. Nor would she miss the sex, of which there’d been virtually none for several years. Well, he, of course, had been getting plenty elsewhere, but she’d never brought up the topic or imagined that something was wrong, because it wasn’t as if it had been that great in the first place.

  Emotionally, then, she’d not only survived but was actually, for the moment at least, and touching wood, better off. The problem though – there always had to be one – was that once she realised she was free to do what she wanted, she did something very silly.

  ‘What?’ said Luc when she told him. ‘You’re joking. I don’t believe you.’

  ‘I’ve got money,’ she said. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

  ‘Because you need ten times as much at least. Did you give it a moment’s thought?’

  ‘My job was a pain, Luc. You can’t imagine.’

  ‘Mum, you were helping people. OK, so it wasn’t great, but chucking it in was… It was stupid. There’s no other way to describe it.’

  She smiled. He was perfectly right and stupid was an understatement. In fact, you could call it perverse. When she didn’t need to work, she did, and now, when she needed a job more than ever, she gave it up. ‘You’re being so sensible,’ she said. ‘It’s not a question of money, it’s psychological.’ She couldn’t help laughing as she thought of the splutters her remark would have set off in Xavier.

  Psychological? Raving mad, you mean. Luc, bless him, merely sighed.

  She’d worked at the local Job Centre, where they put her in charge of ‘difficult’ cases. There was nothing official about this – it just seemed to happen that those of the unemployed that were actually unemployable ended up at her desk. ‘You have empathy,’ said her boss when she brought it up. ‘You’re good at listening.’ Magali took this to mean she was a handy target for other people’s rants. School drop-outs, uncouth and unskilled, or jaded fifty-somethings with a drink problem. The official policy was to urge them to be proactive, but for some reason the message never seemed to get through.

  She took up art. It wasn’t to make money and she stopped well short of claiming to be an artist, but she’d gone to art school long ago and still knew a thing or two at least. She didn’t admit it to Luc, though. He was a graphic designer, while outside the Sentabour post office was a sculpture by Sophie Kiesser – she sensibly kept her maiden name for her work. Magali therefore wasn’t in any hurry to show them her own efforts. In fact, she’d have kept them hidden for longer if Sophie hadn’t come round one morning and found her in a pair of paint-spattered dungarees.

  She took Sophie into the garage, which she wasn’t yet bold enough to call her studio. The previous occupant had kept a vintage sports car there – Magali’s easel was a less spectacular presence, standing stiffly in a corner, doing its best, she thought, to dissociate itself from the Provencal landscape it had been recruited to display.

  ‘It’s good,’ said Sophie. She glanced at the other paintings, all in similar style. ‘Will you be selling them?’

  ‘Oh, no. I’m only just starting out.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s some demand for this sort of thing. Especially round here, a good imitation of Cézanne, tourists will love it.’

  It wasn’t spoken with condescension – her daughter-in-law was simply being honest. And Magali readily conceded that her talent, such as it was, went no further than imitation but still, it wasn’t exactly what she’d been hoping to hear. ‘I could always try flogging them round the markets, then,’ she said. ‘When I’m down to my last penny.’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Sophie grinned. ‘Luc was flabbergasted when you packed in your job. But hats off to you, I say – go for it! I’m sure something will turn up.’

  Magali looked at her gratefully. The understanding sort. She didn’t really know her that well, but when it came to falling in love, Luc, she thought, had made a pretty good choice. ‘Shall we go back to the house?’ she asked. ‘Would you like to stay for lunch?’

  And a few days later, something indeed turned up: a plastic bag on the doorstep containing two bronze plaques. She’s crazy, Magali thought, as she read the note from Sophie: Wishing you all success in your new careers.

  They’d talked about ways of making a living, from bus driver to beautician, and seeing the plaques, Magali laughed out loud and put them in the garage. Later that day, though, she thought that since, after all, Sophie had gone to the trouble of making them, the least she could do was go along with the joke. She found a wooden plank which she sanded and varnished, nailed the plaques on to it, and fixed it by means of a chain round the stone pillar at the entrance to the drive. They looked so good that she almost believed them herself.

  When a man rang her bell a few weeks later and asked to make an appointment, Magali was baffled. ‘I think you must have the wrong place.’

  He jerked a hand in the direction of the pillar. ‘Aren’t you the psychotherapist?’

  ‘Oh... I’m sorry, yes, of course.’ She’d totally forgotten. A profession, Sophie had said, for which you need no qualifications, just a lot of patience and a couch. ‘I didn’t really... I wasn’t…’ She wanted to say the plaques were there for a laugh, but the man didn’t look as if he’d think it was funny. She stepped aside. ‘Do come in, Monsieur…?’

  ‘My name’s Paul Daveney.’

  ‘And you just happened to see the sign and thought…’

  ‘My mother saw it. She said I should make an appointment.’

  ‘Your mother?’ Magali couldn’t prevent her voice from striking a note of disbelief. The man was in his mid-forties. But then that, she supposed, was why he needed a therapist.

  He glanced at her warily. He was tall, stooping, with a rugged but gentle face, and eyes that seemed to melt into sadness when he looked at her. ‘She said it would be better than medication.’

  His features went from wary to hopeful. Drugs versus therapy. This, she suddenly realised, was not a joke any more. His whole personality was at stake. ‘Well, if there’s one thing I can say straightaway, it’s to keep taking your medicine. At least until we’ve had time to explore the matter further.’ She clasped her hands together. ‘Agreed?’

  ‘My mother says it’s not natural.’

  ‘Well, maybe not, but if it’s helping you to cope, you mustn’t stop. Not now.’

  Paul Daveney took a deep breath. ‘All right.’

  ‘Good.’ Magali smiled brightly. She went to her desk and pretended to consult a diary. ‘When shall we start then? Next Tuesday?’

  Just a few days to tidy the sitting room and gain some self-assurance. She wouldn’t be tackling Freud’s collected works, it was more a matter of Psychotherapy for Dummies. But with a bit of luck, she could make a decent go of it.

  She was polishing the piano a couple of days later when the doorbell rang again and a woman was there on the steps asking to speak to her. She was about Magali’s age, but slim and well dressed, and Magali, in comparison, felt dowdy and shapeless.

  ‘I happened to notice your sign,’ said the woman. Her eyes had the haunted look of someone worn down by anxiety or stress. ‘I’d like you to help me if you can.’

  Magali hesitated. She couldn’t hoodwink anyone else, she had a sense of ethics, after all. ‘Well, I… Actually, I’m thinking of winding up my practice. There’s not much call for therapists in Sentabour.’

  The woman was taken aback for a moment. ‘No, I mean the other plaque. I was surprised, in fact, to see you do both. But perhaps they’re complement
ary?’

  The other plaque. Ah, yes. Sophie was pleased with that one. Again, she claimed, no need for qualifications, you just go out and do it.

  ‘Uh… In a way, yes.’ Magali attempted a smile.

  ‘In which case,’ said the woman, ‘Since you’re a private detective, I’d like you to find the person who murdered my son.’

  Chapter 2

  Magali’s first impulse was to come clean. Say straightaway it’s a joke and the matter would go no further. The woman would be upset, possibly angry, but if Magali promised to remove the plaque immediately, she might escape a visit from the police.

  But that first thought was elbowed aside by a second, and although in the days and weeks that followed, honesty would make attempts to reassert itself, it never really stood a chance. ‘Come in,’ she said. ‘Take a seat. Some coffee?’

  Harmless enough on the surface. But what she really meant was that she was going to listen, and the more she let this woman talk, the more difficult it would be to confess.

  The woman’s name was Charlotte Perle. Her son’s name was Enzo. Her voice was calm when she spoke, but she sat on the edge of the chair and her body was tense and you could see she was having to struggle to keep herself under control.

  ‘It happened in March. The 10th, they think. That was a Thursday. He wasn’t discovered till the following Monday.’

  ‘Five and a half months ago.’ Magali raised her eyebrows.

  ‘They’ve found nothing. That’s why I’m here. It’s as if… They say they’re still looking, but…’ She made a helpless gesture and shook her head.

  Magali thought: and she expects me to find something when the police haven’t? Five months after the event?

  ‘Where did it happen?’ she asked gently.

  ‘In the Cévennes. The middle of nowhere, more or less. The nearest place is a village called Mannezon. Then a bit further, there’s Padignac. But even that’s out of the way.’

  ‘I know it. I’ve travelled the area a bit. Remote, as you say.’

  ‘But beautiful. He has a house down – had a house.’ She paused and took a deep breath, looking off to the side. ‘He loved it there. He was doing up this house. He was good that way. Good with his hands. I don’t know where he got it from. Certainly not from me. Not from his father either. But he was good at many things. Music. Cooking. Relating to people. Music, especially. That was his career, if you like, or the one he was planning on. He was working on a film score.’

  ‘I assume he must have been… quite young?’

  ‘Twenty-four.’ Charlotte Perle looked at her directly, her eyes moist, and nodded. ‘Twenty-four,’ she repeated, and the figure said it all: a world that had fallen apart, become a world of absurdity and never-ending pain.

  The woman’s grief seemed unendurable to Magali, her expectation too great. Or perhaps, in fact, she wasn’t expecting anything. Perhaps this too would turn into therapy, and after a while, once she had let out the rage and despair, she would find some sort of closure and be able to carry on.

  But of course it could never be that simple. Twenty-four. Two years younger than Luc. Magali found it impossible to imagine what such a bereavement was like, but she knew what it was like to have a son, and for an instant, she was filled with the dread of losing him. Then there came a rush of relief as she realised he was safe, and the normal world was neither absurd nor cruel.

  In Charlotte Perle’s world, though, there couldn’t be any closure till the killer was found. ‘He lived on his own?’ Magali asked. It seemed a young age to go off to the country to become some sort of hermit.

  Charlotte Perle nodded. ‘He had a girlfriend, Marie. They were quite serious when they were living in Paris, but in the Cévennes… She made a go of it, tried it out, because I think she was really keen on him, more than the other way round perhaps, but when the autumn came along it was just too much for her. They didn’t actually say they were splitting up. I think there was still this idea that it might work out. But I don’t think it would have.’

  ‘So he was there on his own. Through the winter.’

  ‘He came back to Paris for Christmas. He wanted me to go down there, but I said no way. It was freezing.’

  ‘Did he speak to you about the people he knew there? People from the village, neighbours?’ She’d said he was good at relating to people, so surely he couldn’t have been entirely alone.

  ‘A little bit. There was a woman, Brigitte, I know that. Married.’ She put a sombre emphasis on the word. ‘He actually went out with Marie again at Christmas, but it was really… I think they were just deciding that it was over. He didn’t go into details with me. He was never very forthcoming about his relationships and I didn’t push him. It was his personal life and I didn’t –’ She stopped, turning to Magali with a curious smile. ‘You’re asking me these questions. Do I take it that means you’re agreeing to take this on? Shouldn’t we be talking first about a contract?’

  Magali was taken aback, but managed to recover quickly. ‘It was just for a little background information. One can’t commit to a case without knowing something.’ Not bad, she thought. She was almost convinced herself.

  But Charlotte Perle looked at her steadily and her smile became broader. ‘Of course.’ She left a pause, long enough for Magali to feel uncomfortable. ‘And now,’ said Charlotte, ‘with the background information, what do you say?’

  ‘Well, it won’t be easy. Five months old and very little to go on, from what I gather.’

  ‘Practically nothing, according to the police.’

  ‘Well, I…’ Magali felt herself flounder. She’d put up the plaque, now all she needed was the confidence to go with it.

  ‘Do you know why I’ve come to you?’ Charlotte Perle leant towards her. ‘I said it was your sign, but it wasn’t. I’ve come because you haven’t got the slightest bit of experience.’

  Magali was confused, then indignant, then scared – all in quick succession. She assumed that Charlotte Perle had been playing her along and now was about to arrest her. She tried to think of an appropriate answer. She couldn’t. She gaped and said nothing.

  Sophie had been stretching it when she said there were no regulations. Magali had looked it up – in fact, she’d been downright wrong. Yes, there was a time when anyone could do it, as long as they had no criminal record, declared on their honour that they were law-abiding and upright, and waded through the paperwork imposed on the self-employed. But in 2005 a decree came out saying you had to be qualified, you had to take a course. To be a private detective, you had to have the certificate to prove it. And you weren’t a detective anyway. You were a ‘research agent’.

  The decree was signed by six different ministers including the Minister of the Interior at the time, Nicolas Sarkozy. Magali had not the slightest respect for the man who went on to become the President of France, but even so, it felt odd, and a little disturbing, to contravene so brazenly a document to which he had put his signature. Especially when the reason behind it was precisely to prevent people like her from doing what she was doing.

  The woman in front of her didn’t look at all like a police officer, but Magali fully expected her to pull out a pair of handcuffs. Regulations, I’m afraid. Just slip these on and come quietly. But her accuser, although not quite laughing, appeared highly amused. ‘I met your son and his wife. They told me all about it.’

  ‘You met Luc? What for?’

  ‘I work for a company that makes documentaries. We had someone doing the credits on one of our current productions but he’s dropped us and gone to Canada. I came down to see if Luc could replace him.’

  ‘And can he?’

  ‘His work’s good and he’s cheaper than the people in Paris. So, yes, there’s a chance.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad about that.’ Magali spoke cautiously, not quite ready to give full rein to her relief. ‘So how did my name crop up?’

  ‘I let…’ Charlotte Perle faltered, turning her head to the side. Then she c
ontinued softly, ‘Sometimes I find it hard… I can be in a situation and everything’s fine and then something will just… It was simply the way he suddenly rested his ankle upon his knee, the way Enzo did, and I more or less fell apart. So then I had to explain. And they mentioned you.’

  Magali felt ashamed to have thought this bereaved woman might be trying to trap her. The pain was so raw, so urgent, that it got in the way of everything. She couldn’t have done anything devious if she’d wanted.

  But how had they even dared to come up with the suggestion? Was it in all seriousness or a joke? Oh, Mum’s a private eye. She’ll sort it out in no time. A real Miss Marple, she is. No. Either way, it would be heartless. Neither Luc nor Sophie was like that.