Talking to Ghosts (36 page)

“I'm going to take a shower. If you want, you can go after. My mother is probably asleep, so you don't have to worry. She'll likely be there until noon, as usual.”

He sat on the rumpled bed, ran his hand over the sheet to feel the warm imprint of their bodies. He felt dazed, as though he were a different person. This had not happened to him. Not to him, maybe to someone else, to his double. A fantastical creature that came and interposed itself between him and happiness. And yet he could feel it drying, tugging slightly at his skin as it did so. He was about to slip his fingers down to check when the door was flung open.

“Who the fuck are you? Where's Rebecca? What the hell are you doing here?”

For two or three seconds he could do nothing, say nothing. The woman stood stiffly in the doorway wearing a pair of white, low-slung trousers and a sort of short red jacket so that her belly was bare all the way down to her pubes. She seemed to be looking for something in the room, glancing around, observing every detail.

“Oh, I know you, don't I?” she said, wagging her finger at him.

Victor threw himself at her, his hands on her shoulders pushing her back. She hit the wall with a loud cry and her head struck the wall with a dull thud. She stood there, rubbing the back of her head, dazed, an expression of fear or pain creeping over her face slowly as though the shock had delayed her reflexes. The boy ran out, then came back into the bedroom and looked around for Rebecca's mobile. He spotted it on the dresser, just as the woman began to swear and scream for help. Victor dashed out into the hallway, tripping over cardboard boxes and then suddenly found himself outside in a glare of sunlight that forced him to look down and squint as he walked as far as the garden gate. He could hear the woman shrieking behind him, but as soon as he reached the streets, the screams stopped and he walked quickly, keeping to the strip of shade next to the
houses, not daring to look around. While he was still in the village, he resisted the urge to run so as not to attract attention and he soon noticed that the people he passed barely seemed to see him. Once he was past the last of the houses, he jumped the ditch and plunged between the rows of vines. He wondered what time it might be, looked up at the sun and decided it had to be close to noon, then it occurred to him to check Rebecca's phone. It was barely 10.30. Time had slowed to a crawl. He kept moving away from the road, from the village, crept past a group of labourers bent over the vine stocks, noses buried in the dense foliage, talking loudly and laughing. He went into a small coppice and sat at the foot of a tree. He found Marilou's number in the list of contacts in the phone.

She answered straight away and stifled a cry when she recognised his voice.

“I thought it was Rebecca. Are you with her?”

“No. I've got her phone is all.”

“Have you seen her?”

“What the fuck do you care?”

“When are you coming back?”

“I'm not coming back. It's over.”

“What do you mean, over? They're looking for you everywhere, the police, everyone. They think you were abducted by a paedophile and that you ran away. I saw this car driving off, I thought the guy had kidnapped you. Julien said it's the same guy who came here before. They've been questioning Julien and me all morning. Where are you?”

“I can't tell you. But I need you to help me.”

“Why don't you just come home. Everyone's been worried sick. Especially me.”

Victor listened to the long drawn-out breath with which Marilou said this. She sighed.

“Where are you going to go?”

“No idea.”

“So who was that guy last night?”

“Some guy my mother knew. Some psycho.”

“Is he the guy whose car you threw stones at?”

“Yes, that's him.”

“So what does the bastard want with you?”

“I don't know. Look, you have to do me a favour. Where are you now?”

“In my bedroom. I'm tidying up. Maman threw a fit and now Julien and me aren't allowed out … He's playing on his Xbox.”

He pictured life carrying on, quiet, sheltered, and he smiled in spite of himself.

“What did they say to you?”

“Who?”

“Your parents.”

“Nothing. They're in a complete state. Maman's been crying.”

“You have to meet me.”

“I can't, I told you. And anyway, what for? You're the one who left, you can come back if you want to see me.”

“I need the urn with my mother in it. I want to have her with me. Can you bring it to me? In a bag. And something to eat.”

There was a silence. In the distance he heard Nicole's voice asking Marilou what she was doing. “Nothing,” Marilou said. “Making my bed.”

She came back to him.

“O.K. Where?”

“At the grave. And don't say anything to Julien.”

“Right, but I'm not touching that urn, it's too weird, and anyway, Julien won't say anything.”

“Tonight?”

“O.K., but I don't know what time.”

“I'll wait. Remember to bring me some water.”

She hung up. He bowed his head and leaned back against the tree. A helicopter buzzed overhead. He saw it pass slowly, just above the treetops, and dip lower as it flew over the vineyards. He shivered in spite of the heat gusting through the leaves, he arched his back and stared for a long time at the helicopter tracing circles high in the sky, or hedgehopping over the vineyards. Just as it dwindled to a black speck disappearing into the west, Victor heard a dog barking and a man shouting orders.

No-one answered Vilar's pounding – he had to knock, since the doorbell was obviously not working. He pressed his ear to the door to see if he could hear anything, but, as far as it was possible to tell above the hubbub of the building, the apartment was silent. The door to the stairway opened and a moment later a woman emerged, panting, a large blue grocery bag in each hand, followed by two young children. Vilar waited until she had reached the landing and set down her burden in order to look for her keys in her handbag, before showing her his I.D., rattling off his name and rank.

“I'm looking for Céline Bosc.”

The woman barely looked at the warrant card and nodded, catching her breath. She was young, her curves squeezed into tight jeans, her large breasts bouncing beneath a low cut sleeveless T-shirt. The children, a very blond boy and girl of about the same age, were hungry, thirsty and hot. They were clamouring for something to drink; their mother told them to calm down, wait a minute, but they insisted in their shrill voices and started searching through the grocery bags for fruit juice. The woman decided to take care of them before answering Vilar's questions and the policeman nodded, took one of the heavy bags for her and set it down inside the apartment. He waited at the door while the woman got her children something to drink. She spoke to them in a loud voice, probably to drown out their incessant chatter. Shouting at them to pipe down and watch television, she came back to Vilar, planting herself in the doorway.

“I'm sorry, but the kids are always on at me for something. So, anyway, Céline doesn't live here anymore. Left about two months ago.”

“Do you know where I might find her?”

The woman cocked her ear to hear what the children were up to.

“The thing is, I don't think she really wants to be found …”

“Why not? Did she leave without paying the rent?”

“Right, let's say that … Listen, I have to get back to the children, so if you don't have any other questions …”

She was about to close the door, but Vilar blocked it with his foot. On the doorbell he read the name Rayet.

“What is your first name, Madame Rayet?”

The woman looked surprised and let go of the door.

“What is it you wanted?”

“I want you to stop playing me for a fool and answer my questions. I am working on a criminal investigation and, if we are going to make this official, I should warn you that obstructing the police is a crime. There are other ways I could show you how serious this is, but I wouldn't want to upset your children. It can't be easy, being a single mother with two kids, so I don't want to make things any harder. Besides, I'm in a hurry. So, your first name?”

The woman sighed and leaned against the frame of the door, her arms folded.

“Caroline.”

“Married?”

She gave a lopsided smile.

“I wish. No, I'm raising the twins by myself. What with Céline being on her own and having to fend for herself, we hit it off, if that's what you want to know.”

“What I need to know is where she is now. You told me she didn't want to be found. What did you mean by that?”

“It's because of him. That bastard.”

“Which bastard?”

“Éric, her ex, he's the father of her little girl.”

Vilar felt a burning sensation in the back of his neck that coursed through his nerve endings.

“Did you meet him? Did he come round often?”

“No, but the couple of times he did come were more than enough. The last time, he nearly killed her. In fact I called the police – well, I mean …”

“Did they show up? Did she press charges?”

“Sure, they came, but they got here too late as always … The ambulance took her to Casualty, she had a broken arm and two cracked ribs.”

“When was this?”

“Beginning of March.”

One of the children called out, whining that Mélissa had stolen his biscuit. There was shouting and the sound of banging on the walls. The woman turned away, craning her neck towards the far end of the apartment. She yelled at the children to settle down.

She sighed, shaking her head.

“Do you want to come in? That way I can keep an eye on them.”

Vilar closed the door behind him and followed her down the hallway to the kitchen, where the two children were drinking fizzy drinks and staring in open-mouthed stupefaction at a small T.V. Caroline Rayet turned back towards him.

“What is he like, physically?” Vilar said.

“Tall, dark hair, big hands … He has green eyes. He would have been pretty hot if it weren't for …” She paused. “He'd come around sometimes and stay the night, but if he'd been drinking, or if he was on something, he'd get nasty. He still wanted to sleep with her, but she didn't want him touching her. She used to say he was sick in the head. And it would always end in a fight. But Céline's not like me, she's short and skinny, so you can imagine …”

“Did he come back, after that time you called the police?”

“No. Wouldn't have mattered if he had because she was so terrified that by two weeks later, she was gone. And anyway, she couldn't afford the rent here anymore. She found a caravan for rent out in the sticks, in Beutre, on the rue de la Princesse – you couldn't make it up! You
can imagine what a dump the place was, especially with Alexia, but at least it wasn't too cold that winter … I went to visit them once, and I tell you it depressed the hell out of me.”

“How old is the daughter?”

“Seven. She's a lovely little girl. If it weren't for her, I don't know how Céline would cope.”

Vilar nodded. It was a story he had heard before. Nadia and Sandra and now Céline, all of these women could only survive because they had children with bright futures ahead of them, something they tried hard to believe in since, at thirty, they felt their own futures were nothing but a dark sink. Vilar desperately needed to get away from this misery memoir, and tried to think of some way to take his leave of this woman who would have happily poured out her whole life story now that someone was finally prepared to listen to what she had to say, even if it was only some detective who seemed panicked, his face pale and slick with sweat.

“I have to go,” he said almost curtly, as she launched into telling him about how tough life was, how it was no picnic.

She trailed off in mid-sentence and looked at him in surprise, then nodded her head.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I really need to find Céline. You understand …”

He felt as though he were fleeing. He felt as though these days he did only two things: hunt and flee, in his role as a staunch guardian of the laws of the jungle.

*

Twice before he had been to this part of Mérignac, away from the main road and the motorway. He needed a map to find the rue de la Princesse, which looked more like a country lane and ran through a no man's land of woodland, fields overgrown with brambles and illicit rubbish dumps. There were a few houses, most guarded by fierce dogs, surrounded by ramshackle wooden outbuildings.

The caravan park was at the end of a tarmac drive lined with acacias. Under the trees, it was possible to imagine in the soft afternoon sunlight
that this was a holiday camp. Vilar parked his car at the gate and walked in. Lined up along a central path were some fifteen caravans of various sizes and degrees of disrepair, ranging from large mobile homes to rusty tin cans. At the far end of the site was a brick building, which probably housed the showers and laundry facilities from which two women were exiting, carrying baskets piled high with washing. When they saw Vilar approaching, they stopped. He asked where he could find Céline Bosc and the younger woman, tall and slim with an angular face, wanted to know who was asking. Vilar flashed his warrant card.

“The blue and green striped awning over there,” she said pointing towards a long caravan whose roof was green with moss and lichen.

He walked away, feeling the worried glances of the two women boring into his neck. A little further on, three kids were laughing and swinging on a purple and pink porch. The children's laughter sounded strange in the oppressive silence that reigned beneath the thick foliage of the oak trees.

Coming to the awning, Vilar wiped his feet on the tatty doormat that read H
OME
, S
WEET
H
OME
, then stepped onto linoleum with a pattern mimicking a wooden floor. Under the awning was a makeshift living room. A brown plush sofa stood next to the caravan underneath an open window, next to it was a camping table and three chairs. In one corner, a wicker chair with a couple of cushions sat facing a switched-off television. On the other side, a plywood dresser sat on a wooden pallet. He did not need to knock, because the door opened suddenly, and a woman appeared in a fog of cigarette smoke. She was wearing a navy blue Girondins de Bordeaux football shirt and a pair of cut-off jeans. Her dishevelled hair was dark with streaks of red, her puffy features made it look as though she had been drinking, or had just woken up. Or both.

“Céline Bosc.”

“Yes, that me. And who are you?”

Vilar introduced himself. No sooner had he mentioned Éric Sanz than Céline Bosc peered nervously out through the transparent plastic sides of the awning.

“Come in,” she said quickly. “We'll be more comfortable inside, and anyway, it's not so hot in there.”

Inside, he felt the floor tremble and perhaps bow slightly under his weight. The woman gestured to a bench draped with a dark red slipcover.

“Would you like something to drink? Beer? Mineral water?”

Vilar felt his mouth water. He accepted a beer. At the other end of the caravan, the banquettes had been pushed together to make a bed, covered by a duvet decorated with cartoon characters. On the shelf above were a dozen children's books next to a pile of neatly folded clothes. A single glass and a plate sat on the draining board of the tiny stainless steel sink.

The woman sat down opposite him and with quick, precise movements opened two bottles. She handed Vilar a beer and took a long gulp of her mineral water. Then she lit a cigarette and offered one to the policeman, who declined.

“I'm looking for Éric Sanz, your ex. We need to—”

“How did you find me? Was it Caroline?”

“Yes. But don't blame her, I leaned on her pretty hard.”

“Yeah, I bet …”

She smiled scornfully, pretending to study her bottle of water

“So what's the dumb fuck done now?”

“He's suspected of murder.”

With a sigh, she exhaled a cloud of smoke, stared out of the window and shook her head.

“It was waiting to happen. That's what he was banged up for, or pretty close.”

“For grievous bodily harm.”

“Yeah, you could call it that. The girl he beat up is in a wheelchair now. Paralysed. I'd rather be dead, wouldn't you?”

Vilar said nothing. He was studying Céline Bosc. She flicked the ash from her cigarette with such force it was as if she wanted to flick out the tobacco too, she rolled her shoulders like a boxer warming up. The exhaustion in her face was so striking that at first you did not notice
her large grey eyes, her delicate features made sharper by an aquiline nose.

“That son of a bitch,” she said at last.

“Tell me about him. Tell me where we can find him so we can put an end to this.”

“Why? Are you going to shoot him? Because I'm telling you, that's the only fucking way. Rid the world of that bastard. But no … You slap the handcuffs on him and he'll be remanded until the trial and he'll get, what? fifteen years max, right? And seven or eight years from now he'll be out terrorising women and pimping whores to make money. You can take it from me, that's what'll happen.”

“Was he different when you met him?”

“He used to be the gentlest, most handsome man in the world. He was working as a barman in a club, where me and a gang of girls used to go for a laugh, for a break. We were twenty-five back then, working on the checkouts at Carrefour, so to let off steam – to forget the crappy job, the bosses, the long shifts – we would go down this club on a Saturday night and we weren't scared of anything, maybe because we already knew we'd never get far in life. I don't know … Anyway, he was working behind the bar and he had this amazing smile and we got talking. And that was that. For two years, he was fantastic. I knew he'd been inside, he insisted on telling me, wanted things to be clear. Some nights he didn't come home and I suspected he was still in the life, but I ignored it because otherwise I was happy.”

The ghost of a smile flitted over her face and then her features hardened again.

“Alexia was born, and that's when he changed. He never took to her. Once, when he was really pissed off, he told me she wasn't his. But anyway …”

She fell silent, leaned back in the seat, her eyes down. From outside came the sound of children playing.

“She's not here, your daughter?”

“I put her in the outdoor day-care centre. It's not good for a kid, being shut up in a caravan. Just look around – I do my best to keep the
place clean, but it's like living in a shoebox. At least at the centre they look after her, she can have fun. When you've got a social worker, it's pretty much free. And it saves on food. And it means when I'm at work I know where she is. One of my neighbours picks her up and looks after her till I get back.”

She stood up suddenly, grabbed her cigarettes and lit one.

“There is one place you might find Éric. At his foster parents' place in Saint-Martin-du-Puy, over in Entre-deux-Mers. An aunt of mine lives nearby, she's from Sauveterre, that's how I remember. He put them through hell when he was a kid, but every time he goes home they take him in with open arms. The father worked in the post office, and she looks after kids placed with her by social services. That's how they ended up looking after Éric until he was eighteen.