Son of Serge Bastarde (20 page)

  'Yes, she certainly was a character,' said Serge. 'I'm going to miss her too.' He paused. 'Look, I was going to ask you a favour, Johnny. Claudette made me promise that when she died I'd go and sort out her stuff before the state got hold of it all. But I'm a bit upset and I can't face it on my own. Diddy's disappeared and I've no idea where he is. Could you come round and help me? I'd feel much happier if you were there.'

  'Certainly I will,' I said, without a second thought. Clearing out someone's belongings is never much fun but when you knew and were fond of them… well, that's really tough. 'When are you going to do it?' I asked.

  'Would now be too short notice?' he asked.

  'All right, Serge,' I said. Helen was checking out houses in the forest. 'Give me an hour, I'll be right over.'

  I rang Helen on the mobile and broke the news. She was shaken and agreed I should go straight away. So I locked up and set off in the van with Buster sitting beside me.

The smell of stale perfume was overpowering. It permeated the room and wafted up from the soft furnishings and plush cushions. Serge threw back the heavy curtains and the sun streamed in like the early morning rays of light that chase away the evil darkness of a vampire's tomb. The apartment was vintage opulence from the sixties and seventies.

  'She lived here all alone,' said Serge. 'She was always busy entertaining clients, but when they left she was just lonely. Remember that time you met her when she and Diddy came in after a night on the tiles?'

  'Yes, that night you destroyed that beautiful walnut buffet,' I said.

  'Don't remind me of that, Johnny. Poor Claudette, she never lost her zest for life. She was real class, she was.'

  I wasn't sure if 'class' was quite the best word to describe Claudette, but she was certainly special. I had been looking forward to going round to see her with Helen again. Now it was too late.

  I followed Serge through to the bedroom, which was dominated by a giant bed covered in black satin. The walls were hung with luscious pink drapes and strewn all over the bed and floor were exotic sequinned cushions. I had the distinct feeling that Claudette had just gone out for a minute and that we were intruding on her private domain.

  'She didn't have any relatives,' said Serge. 'I kept her spare key and an eye on the place whenever she was out at one of her do's. She had some very rich clients, men who kept up with her right to the very end.' He pulled a cord and the bedroom curtains swished back. 'She took to Diddy, the two of them got on really well. She had a soft spot for him.'

  He opened the drawer on a
chevet
next to the bed. 'She had no gold coins hidden away,' he said, ruefully. 'It was the first thing I checked. She always said that if anything happened to her I was to get in quick and clear her belongings out before the state got hold of them. She said I was to use the money to enjoy myself.'

  
Yes, that's what she was like,
I thought to myself. She had been so full of life. I only hoped I could be half as lively if I reached her age.

  There was a huge bird's-eye maple art deco armoire. Serge opened one of the mirrored doors. It was stuffed with what looked like expensive designer dresses. He pulled some out and threw them across the bed. 'Look at these labels... Biba, Mary Quant... She lived in London when she was younger. Nothing but the best for Claudette. She was – how do you say – a dolly bird.'

  'Wasn't she a bit too old for that?' I asked.

  'Maybe, but she was very well connected. She rubbed shoulders with politicians, show business people, royalty even. She was quite a woman. I enjoyed hearing her exploits over a coffee together. I'll miss her.'

  'She must have been more of the Christine Keeler persuasion,' I said.

  'Who's that?' said Serge, mystified.

  'It's a long story, I'll tell you another time.'

  There was a series of mirrored doors along one wall. Serge slid one back and a light came on to reveal shelf upon shelf of pairs of shoes carefully placed alongside one another, some still in their boxes with the lids open and sheets of coloured tissue peeled back. He lifted a pair out and examined them. 'These have never been worn.' He pulled out another pair. 'Or these.' He was amazed. 'Imelda Marcos, eat your heart out!'

  Inside the next cupboard were shelves full of stylish leather bags, all painstakingly labelled with stickers with copperplate writing and carefully arranged in neat rows. 'She certainly had a good choice of accessories,' exclaimed Serge. 'There must be hundreds of handbags here.' He examined one. 'This is crocodile skin, very chic.' He snapped open the clip. 'Beautifully crafted. Look at this.' There was a handwritten note tucked inside. 'M. Jean-Marc. Whoa! It says what he liked done to him. He must have given it to her as a gift.' He picked another bag and took out a slip of paper. 'It says Alexis on this. Look at this, she's written his name and his sexual proclivities.' He put his hand in front of his mouth and chuckled. '
Mon dieu!
He had some nasty preferences. What a beast! And look at this one... it says Doudou on this. She must have liked him; she's put three kisses under his name. You know what? There are names in all of these and their sexual tastes. What a professional! She was making sure she used the bag each client had bought her whenever she went out with them and gave them what they liked best. She didn't want to make a mistake and offend them.
Formidable!
'

  He pulled out a very classy Hermès bag. 'Wonder who gave her this...
Putain!
I know him – he used to be the mayor in the next village. He's a grandfather with a grown-up family.' He took out another, eager to look inside, and extracted the handwritten note. '
Mon dieu!
I recognise this name too. He was the chief of police. She certainly had some top-drawer clients. This is an eye-opener!' He picked up another bag, zipped open a pocket and withdrew a slip of paper. His eyes widened and he passed me the note. The name Bruno the Basque was written on it in neat handwriting.

  'It's Bruno!' yelled Serge excitedly. 'He must have been a regular customer too. See what he likes? If only I could broadcast that around, he'd be a laughing stock.'

  I couldn't say I was shocked. The first time I met Bruno he had struck me as a creepy lurker when he boasted about the 'little mini-skirted whore' who had pleasured him in the old quarter of Bayonne. It was no surprise to me that he sought the regular services of a prostitute of Claudette's experience and expertise. But I was surprised he appeared to have given her a handbag as a present. He struck me as the sort of oaf who would never give a woman a thing. Claudette must have been very persuasive for her favours.

  'It's this sort of information that can sometimes come in very handy,' said Serge. 'You never know, I might be able to use it one day. Anything to get one over on that
connard
!'

  Back in the living room Serge went across to a beautiful highly polished English mahogany roll-top desk. He tried to slide it open but it was locked.

  'This is a smart desk, isn't it?'

  'It's English, late Victorian, I think. Claudette said she liked English furniture.'

  'But where's the key?' asked Serge. He pulled at the drawers but they wouldn't budge.

  'Some of these desks are locked from the front,' I explained. 'There's a mechanism which drops down and blocks the drawers as well as the roll-top.'

  
'Ah, ouai?'
said Serge. He wasn't listening. He was rummaging through an ashtray full of various bits and pieces... paper clips, odds and ends.

  'I've taken them to pieces in the past,' I went on.

  'Good, that's interesting.' He had found some keys and went to try them out. He rattled the lock desperately but none of them opened it.

  'It must be around somewhere,' I said. 'They have very odd-shaped keys.'

  I again had the feeling that I was intruding and that Claudette might walk in any second.

  Serge had given up and was rifling through a pile of magazines on a bookshelf. Something prompted me to feel along the underside of the desk top. It was smooth. There was nothing there. I moved along the other side, towards the wall... and my fingers came into contact with a small metal box. It was screwed to the underside of the rim. I dropped down to my knees and examined it. There was a small indentation in the lid, and by inserting a fingernail in it and pulling I was able to slide it open. There was the distinctive brass key inside, which I triumphantly held up to Serge.

  'Incredible, Johnny!' He was amazed. 'How did you know about that?'

  'I didn't,' I said. 'Maybe Claudette helped me.' Serge had already opened the desk and was sliding the roll-top back to examine its contents. There were lots of pigeonholes and above these several small drawers with ivory knobs. He was rummaging through the papers in the drawers.

  'Look at this, Johnny.' It was a small notebook with names and contacts next to them. 'See – that's the chief of police I told you about. And these are quite large sums of money next to his name and they're all at monthly intervals. That's odd, don't you think?'

  'Was she blackmailing them then?' I said lightheartedly.

  Serge looked again at the book and then very seriously said, 'I think you might be right, Johnny. And there are other names here, too, with regular payments each month.'

  'I was only joking, Serge,' I said.

  'Actually, no, I think you are right. These are all much more than her average charges.'

  'How do you know? Were you a client of hers too then?' I quipped. I was trying to be funny and make him laugh, but instead he turned round defensively.

  'I've never had to pay for it, Johnny.'

  I'd hit a nerve.
What did he mean? Was he a faithful client?
I wondered. I decided to keep my mouth shut for a while and carry on sorting through her belongings.

  'Hang on, here's Bruno's name again and his contact number,' said Serge. 'And the amount in monthly payments she was receiving from him. Surely she wasn't blackmailing him? Impossible! He would kill anyone who tried. He's totally ruthless. Or was it payments she was making to him? That seems far more likely. Mind you, when you saw what his vices were she must have had a pretty strong hold over him.'

  There was the sound of a key turning in the front door lock and my heart missed a beat.

  Claudette was about to walk in and catch us going through her things... I was sure of it. I held my breath as the door swung slowly back to reveal not Claudette... but Diddy. He stood staring at us for a moment as if totally surprised to find us in there. Then he walked into the middle of the room and looked around, as if searching for something. When he turned his eyes were haunted. He looked desolate and lost, like a little boy.

  'I'm glad you're here, Diddy,' said Serge. 'We've just started sorting through Claudette's stuff. It's what she always said she wanted us to do when she went.'

  Diddy walked around as if in a dream and sat down heavily on the chaise longue, staring into space.

  Serge went over to him. 'Come on, the sooner we get this lot sorted the better. I was just telling Johnny, some of this stuff's worth a fortune. We were looking at all her expensive handbags stashed away; they must have been
cadeaux
from her rich clients. She certainly knew...'

  
'Ta gueule!'
Diddy shouted (Shut your mouth!). He jumped up. 'Leave her things alone!' He was shaking with anger. His face crumpled and he slumped back down, sobbing with his face in his hands.

  Serge looked at me, surprised. He mouthed
'Quoi?'
(What?) to me. The penny dropped. Serge made a silent 'Oh!' and knelt down, putting his arm round his son. 'It's all right, Diddy, I understand. She had a good life.'

  Diddy wasn't listening. 'She was special... she understood... she was like a friend and a mother,' he choked out. He looked up. His eyes were wet with tears. He turned to Serge. 'She didn't smother me like my mum did. All my life she overwhelmed me with her love and tried to make me fill the gap you left. Claudette wasn't like that, she didn't want anything, she didn't demand my love. She just liked my company.'

  Serge's eyes widened. He hadn't expected this outburst.

  '
Maman
made me the centre of everything. It was unbearable... I couldn't do anything unless she was involved... it was too much... I had to get away. I was never allowed to be myself. That's the reason I came down here to find you. I thought you might be different... put things right.'

  Serge was at a loss. He patted Diddy, trying to comfort him.

  'I understand,' he said. 'I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were growing up.'

  'Sorry? You're sorry! Where were you when I needed you? I needed to be protected from all that mollycoddling. If you had been there, we would have been a proper family and I could have been free to be a son, not a substitute partner to fill Mum's life up.'