Talking to Ghosts (8 page)

“You've no idea what her problem with her father was?”

Sandra only pursed her lips to say she did not know. She glanced at her son, who was under the table now, curled up on his side with his back to them.

“He'll go to sleep and later I'll have a hell of a job getting him out from under there. He's getting so big and heavy. And if I wake him sometimes he'll throw a tantrum and I don't know how to calm him.”

Vilar looked at the child curled under the table, like a little animal. When Pablo was learning to walk, he had loved to hide under tables and stretch his hand out to touch people's feet as they passed and, if they bent down, Pablo would laugh and scuttle away between the legs of a chair as though this were a dark forest. If someone made as if to catch him, he would scream “Wolf! Wolf!”, pretending to be scared but then suddenly he was no longer pretending and he would snuggle in your arms, hot, panting. Vilar noticed that the young woman was waiting, holding the coffee pot.

“He's calm for the moment. Would you like more coffee?”

Vilar almost asked who was calm, struggled to come back to the present. He held out his cup, mumbling an apology. Painfully he swallowed a scalding mouthful, though the smell of the coffee did him good.

“I'm terrified of what will happen when he grows up,” Sandra said. He—'

“Never say that.”

He had spoken sharply. The woman froze, the cup pressed to her lips. She bowed her head.

“I … I didn't mean … Well, I'm sure you know that kids like this grow up, but they'll never really be adults.”

Vilar got to his feet and walked to the window, staring out without seeing. The light hurt his eyes. He had to take a breath before he could speak again. He turned back to the woman.

“I'm sorry. I have … I
had
a son, and I …”

He sat down again, shook his head.

“I won't keep you much longer. Just a couple more questions and I'll leave you to take care of him. Let's see …”

He consulted his notes. Bit by bit, he managed to marshal his thoughts.

“You said that Nadia's life went to hell when she ran away. Did something happen?”

Sandra hesitated. She seemed unsure for a second, then sighed.

“I suppose I should tell you, in case it might help to … It was something Nadia didn't really talk about, or she'd make, like, some vague reference to it, but, bottom line: she was raped by these guys and after they forced her to become a prostitute.”

She rattled it off in a single breath, desperate to unburden herself.

“This was in Marseille?”

“I don't know. I suppose.”

“Did she give it up?”

Sandra stiffened, as though the question were inappropriate.

“Of course she did … She was raising a kid, she had a job …”

“She was only part-time from what S.A.N.I. told me. A few night shifts.”

“Yeah, I know, and that doesn't mean she worked every night …” the woman snapped back.

She frowned and bit her lower lip.

Vilar leaned towards her.

“Tell me a bit more about that.”

“I've let her down. I can't keep my mouth shut. I'm hopeless. Nadia's dead and here I am trash-talking her.”

Sandra buried her face in her hands.

“You haven't let anyone down. All we're trying to do is catch the guy who killed her, the man who beat her and strangled her. Anything that will help us do that can't hurt the memory of your friend. Besides, we already know that what she made at S.A.N.I. wasn't enough to cover her expenses. She had to pay the rent, the car, the bills, so she had to be getting the money from somewhere. And we know she didn't have
another job, so if you rule out a lottery win, it's not hard to work out where she got the cash. According to her neighbours she left for work almost every night at around the same time. Where did she go when she wasn't cleaning offices for S.A.N.I.? Right now, anything seems possible, so if you don't tell us, we're likely to suspect Nadia of anything and everything. Now that
would
be letting her down.”

Sandra stared intently at Vilar, winding a lock of hair around a finger.

“She had a boyfriend.”

Vilar shuddered.

“What boyfriend?”

“I don't know. She mentioned this guy called Thierry, that's all I know. She saw him a lot, but, him being married … Well, he threw his money around, at least that's what she told me. He said he wanted to help her, to get her out of here. He had money, he was the boss apparently, the C.E.O. or whatever … She ran into him one night. He was there when she showed up to clean his office. Scared the hell out of her when she saw him because she wasn't expecting anyone to be there at that time of night, so anyway he apologised, offered her a drink, and one thing led to another … I told her I thought she was pushing it but she said she needed to make ends meet, that the ends justified the means. That was Nadia's motto. She used to say that she wanted her son to get on in life.”

She took out another cigarette and lit it. Her hands were trembling again, and she could not bring herself to look at Vilar.

“You ever see him, this man?”

“Once, from a distance. He was driving a Mercedes. He was waiting for her outside the office. He had dark hair, I think, and he wore sunglasses.”

Vilar shook his head.

“Well that's a big help. What kind of Mercedes?”

“I don't know. I don't know much about cars. A sports car, you know, a two-door saloon. Black, I think. Yeah, black.”

Vilar was thinking, he had something now, a lead, maybe even a
suspect: a spurned, upstanding citizen gets angry, lashes out and kills, he smashes his little toy and with it any vague impulse to be a Good Samaritan; or maybe the girl was blackmailing our upstanding citizen in which case he's hardly likely to risk his perfect family and his social status for some fantasy, for some sleazy little affair that's supposed to end with him saving her? A perfect crime? People think they can pull it off. They think that if they leave no prints, they can disappear for good, the way a child who covers his eyes thinks no-one can see him.

By tomorrow, this Thierry would be spilling his guts, snivelling about how his life was ruined, about his poor children, and his wife who would curse the son of a bitch for generations to come. After he confessed he would have all the time in the world to re-edit his movie, to put the finishing touches to a script in which the bad guy never gets caught, not because he is not guilty, but because he is clever.

Vilar played out this scenario in his mind, then decided it was drivel. Sandra de Melo had turned her attention back to her son, who was awake now. He was gently wriggling his legs, and Vilar could tell he was playing with the clown, whispering to it. The officer got to his feet, thanked Sandra for what she had told him, and thanked her again for her coffee.

She walked him to the door and, as he passed the boy, the policeman crouched down to say goodbye and was surprised to see José roll over and stare at him with his big, vacant eyes.

Down in the lobby, he was relieved to find that the three sentries had given up their duty. The smell of dope still hung in the air, like an invisible marker of their territory. As he walked back to his car he spotted them at the far end of the tower block, glaring at him defiantly. One of them gave him the finger and shouted something Vilar couldn't make out. Vilar simply shrugged.

As he drove away from the estate, he called Ana. She picked up almost immediately. She had just got in from work and was exhausted, it had been a tough day and there was a month to go before her holidays. Vilar could hear the tension and tiredness in her voice.

“Can I call round? I won't stay long.”

She didn't answer straight away.

“I mean, if you're on your own.”

“I'm pretty much always on my own. Where are you right now?”

“Pessac. I've been on the go all day. There was a stabbing near the train station this morning around breakfast time.”

“I heard it on the midday news. People are insane … Come round, I'll be here.”

With that she hung up and Vilar, as he always did, found the silence, like a thick curtain between them, unbearable.

She smiled as she opened the door and gave him a quick peck on the lips, her fingers cool and soft against his neck. Vilar ran his hand over her hip, but she slipped away, turning and shaking out her mane of black hair.

“Sorry about earlier. I was shattered. But I feel better now I've taken a shower.”

As she walked down the hall ahead of him, she tried to pile her hair up into a sort of chignon, taking a large red slide from the hall stand and clipping it to the top of her head. She was wearing white cotton capri pants and a black spaghetti strap blouse. She moved clumsily, tottering in a pair of ancient leather mules. He liked to watch her from behind. Those hurried, flirtatious movements; that hesitant way she walked. That grace. He wanted her to turn so he could take her in his arms, tell her how beautiful she was. He felt the urge to say soppy, sentimental things. She led him into the living room, sat down on the sofa and immediately got up again and offered him a drink. Vilar shook his head. She shrugged, pouring herself a bourbon, and announcing that she was having one even if he wasn't.

She did her best to appear cheerful, but Vilar knew that dark look she sometimes got, those fine wrinkles under her eyes.

She sat down, took a swig from her drink, and screwed up her face.

“What are you doing drinking that? I didn't have you down as a bourbon drinker.”

“I had a lousy day,” she said. “Desperate measures for desperate times. We had to find urgent foster care for two kids whose parents took off to Metz last week and left them with a fridge full of frozen ready meals. A
boy and a girl, six and eight. Apparently they weren't allowed to go with their parents because they hadn't worked hard enough at school this year. The neighbours heard them knocking on the door and called the police. Three days we've been working on this, and today was the case conference with the parents, so you can imagine: screaming, sobbing, even threats. Hang on a minute, I'm going to get something to nibble on.”

“Why Metz? What the fuck were they doing there?”

“No idea,” she said from the kitchen. “Something about an aunt being ill, or dying. Two years ago they won a holiday in Martinique and pulled the same stunt, apparently. Between them they've got a mental age of twelve.”

She came back with a bowl filled with olives. Vilar tucked in. He realised he was hungry. He wanted a drink, but he didn't dare go back on his earlier refusal.

“When are you off on holiday?”

Vilar made a vague gesture.

“I pencilled in three weeks in late August, early September, but I'm not sure … the idea of going on my own … What about you?”

“Some friends are renting a place in Tuscany and asked me to go with them, that way we'd share the costs. You can just imagine the price of a villa there … I'm going for two weeks at the end of July. You remember Suzanne and Samuel? And there's another couple, but I haven't met them.

“Sounds good,” he said.

He almost mentioned the holiday they had taken near San Gimignano, before they married, before Pablo was born. Before … He could still picture the Italian countryside, the way it had shimmered in the May sunlight, and could not remember ever having felt such harmony. He swallowed hard, feeling his throat tighten again.

“Are you O.K., Pierre?” Ana was looking at him anxiously. “You look all … I don't know what.”

“It's nothing, I … Sometimes I get like this. I find myself upset over something trivial. Don't worry, I'll be fine. It's probably because I feel happy, being here with you. Sorry …”

She put down her glass. For a moment he thought she might come over and sit next to him. He wanted to put his arms around her, to feel her arms around him, but he knew that she would not, that it was too much for her to bear. They sat for a moment, gazing at each other with mournful affection. Then Vilar slumped back against the sofa.

“I had a call from Morvan.”

Ana shook her head.

“Don't, Pierre. Please … I told you before, I …”

“He only ever calls if he's got a new lead,” Vilar went on, as though he had not heard. “It's usually something worth checking out.”

“Pierre …”

“He's never given up on the investigation. He's been working on the case full time since he retired from the force. He's still got his police contacts, he's managed to gather a lot of information. And these days he doesn't have to go cap in hand to his superior officers. In the year he's been working as a freelance investigator, he's already managed to solve one case.”

Ana had murmured something inaudible and buried her face in her hands. Now she looked up, leaned towards Vilar, and stared into his eyes.

“Pablo's dead,” she said softly. “Just like those kids Morvan found.”

“How do you know? Have you seen his body? What would you know about it?”

The words used up what little oxygen he had. He felt as though he might faint and forced himself to take a deep breath.

“I just
know
, I can feel it in every fibre of my being, Pierre. I'm the one who carried him for nine months, so I know, something deep inside me knows that he's dead.”

As she stared at him, her eyes filled with tears.

“Bullshit,” Vilar said. “This whole maternal instinct thing is bullshit. Jesus Christ, Ana, we can't just give up. I refuse to accept that Pablo is dead until I've got proof, until …”

He trailed off, suddenly overwhelmed as the chilling image of a child's body lying in a ditch popped into his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, unable to breathe.

“I just can't give up,” he managed to say. “I'll find him … Even if only so that I can mourn him.”