The Returned (13 page)

His nerves were on edge, his temper short. The night before, he had gone up to the attic while Adèle slept, and had hunted through the box where she kept everything from her old life
– her life with Simon Delaître.

Even as he opened the box he knew he was being a fool, that the man in custody must have been an old acquaintance of Delaître. Yet the first time he’d seen the guy the feeling of
recognition had shocked him. He’d only ever seen Delaître alive in photographs; photographs he’d never looked at closely, only glimpsed. He’d seen the body at the time, of
course, but nobody could have recognized the living man from that shattered face. It had to be his mind playing tricks on him. Surely.

And then he’d found Adèle’s photographs, and had seen.

It was him. It was no failure of Thomas’s memory.

It made no sense. All Thomas could do was keep him in custody as long as possible, and keep all of it away from Adèle. There were only two weeks until the wedding and . . .

Perhaps that was it. After all, Delaître had died on the morning of his wedding to Adèle. To come back when she was about to marry someone else did make a
kind
of sense.
Thomas had enough belief in the paranormal to accept the idea of ghosts, but he was also a supremely practical man. Whatever kind of ghost Delaître was, and whatever his intentions, Thomas
wasn’t going to give in to fear. There had to be things that could be done. There always were.

After all, Delaître was safely in the cells now, wasn’t he?

There was a knock on his office door. ‘Enter,’ he said, closing the images from his home cameras.

Laure and Alcide came in.

‘Update on the Clarsen case, sir,’ said Laure. Thomas nodded for her to go ahead. ‘We’ve been questioning everyone who lives near the tunnel. We have nothing new to add
to the CCTV footage. No one saw a thing. It’s deserted at night.’

‘And Pascal?’ asked Thomas. Pascal was the officer he had tasked with attempting to track where the attacker had gone after leaving the tunnel. Twenty-four hours of footage from
thirty cameras spread across the town was a tough job for one officer, but Pascal had a knack for it. And besides, they weren’t exactly overstaffed.

‘He’s certain the offender didn’t reappear within the sight of any of the nearby cameras,’ said Laure. ‘It limits the routes he could have taken, but it’s not
that helpful. And so far he’s found no sign of him reappearing elsewhere.’

Thomas nodded.

‘Sir?’ said Alcide. ‘We could question that woman, Julie Meyer. Our file says she was attacked in the same place seven years ago. She may have remembered something since
then.’

Thomas saw Laure stiffen. ‘I know the case,’ he said, reining in his sarcasm. Alcide, keen as a puppy, and only on the force for two years.

‘I can question her,’ said Laure. ‘If you like.’

‘We need to talk to her anyway,’ said Thomas. ‘To let her know what’s happened, and assess her personal security. But there’s no need for you to do it,
Laure.’ It was always important to keep private life and the job separate, Thomas thought, before remembering Delaître in the cells downstairs.

‘I want to, sir.’

‘Fine, then. Take Alcide with you.’

‘It’s OK,’ said Laure. ‘I’ll go alone.’ She looked at Alcide. ‘You find out more about Lucy Clarsen.’

Alcide nodded. ‘Yes, ma’am.’ His voice was uneven, Thomas noted, the young officer still affected by his fondness for the woman.

‘Close the door on your way out,’ said Thomas. And once it was closed, he opened the camera feeds again, and watched. He had a nose for trouble. He could smell it now, but he’d
be damned if it was going to ruin his wedding.

Thomas wondered how long you could keep a ghost in jail.

Pierre made sure he was at Michel Costa’s funeral early. It was held in the old chapel graveyard, high on the valley slope looking down on the town. If the Helping Hand
was to achieve the goals he envisaged, he needed the community to support it. As such, he made it his business to know all that he could about the townspeople, to forge links, and to keep as high a
profile as he could.

He took in the view of the town. It seemed subtly changed to him, he realized, knowing what had happened with Camille, but he was by no means sure that his suspicions about her return were
correct; that it was the beginning of something that would change the lives of everyone out there. Of everyone in the
world
.

All he could do was pray for guidance, and see what happened next. See if there would be others like Camille.

Slowly, people started to arrive. So many had known Michel Costa; so many had been taught by him. But there were fewer attendees than might have been expected. There was the manner of his death
to consider, thought Pierre. Suicide carried a considerable stigma, especially in a town so bogged down in traditions. So unwilling to accept new truths.

Pierre had been on the phone to various people that morning, asking if they would be coming to the funeral. Most had told him they would have come, if only the man hadn’t died in such
disgrace. A few had expressed surprise that the burial was being allowed at all, their outrage barely concealed.

Pierre saw the police captain and approached, greeting him. The police were always useful allies, of course. He moved on, spotting the captain’s wife-to-be.

‘Hello, Adèle,’ Pierre said. ‘I heard about your wedding. Congratulations.’

‘Thank you, Pierre,’ she said. And she looked happy. Happier than all the times she had come to him for bereavement counselling over the last decade.

When he saw Claire arrive with Léna – Jérôme absent, of course, because someone had to stay at home with Camille – he waited until they had finished speaking to
others in the graveyard before going over to them.

‘And how is Camille doing?’ he asked quietly.

‘She’s going stir crazy,’ said Claire. She was glancing left and right as she spoke, wary of people nearby, her voice muted. ‘We only allow her to go outside if she stays
in the back garden. It’s secluded enough that nobody would see her.’

‘She must be patient,’ he said. ‘It’s vital that she keeps out of sight.’

Claire suddenly gripped his arm. ‘Pierre, do you think there might be others? I know none of the other parents have said anything, but . . .’

It felt to Pierre as if the air had become charged, loaded with some kind of
potential
. He tried to keep his voice calm. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Léna thinks she met one.’

Pierre turned to Léna, keeping his eagerness masked. ‘Where?’

‘The Lake Pub,’ said Léna, almost reluctantly. ‘But I’m probably wrong about him.’ She was looking at Pierre with genuine dislike. He’d not had much
contact with Léna; while the Helping Hand had arranged the counselling of parents after the coach crash, it had been the school that had provided direct support for the affected children.
Given his relationship with Claire it was reasonable that she should show such distrust. As long as it didn’t tip over into disrespect, it didn’t really bother him.

‘What if there are more?’ said Claire. ‘What if Camille isn’t the only one? She wouldn’t need to hide. It would destroy her to have to hide forever.’

‘I understand how difficult it must be,’ he said.

‘A fat lot of use that is . . .’ snapped Léna.

Pierre bit his tongue. It wasn’t his place to instil discipline in Claire’s children. ‘If there are others,’ he said, ‘then she would be able to come out of hiding
eventually. But she should still lie low for now. The consequences of her situation becoming known would be unpredictable, Claire. The biggest news story the world has ever seen. And the
authorities . . . They would fear her, and anyone like her. She
must
be careful. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. She may still be the only one.’ He turned to Léna,
ignoring the hostility in her eyes. ‘So,’ he said. ‘What do you know about this person you saw?’

‘He’s called Simon,’ said Léna. ‘He was behaving weirdly, and I just thought he was odd, but then I realized I remembered his face from somewhere. I saw a photo of
him, from ten years ago. He looks exactly the same. I think he knows Adèle Werther.’ Her eyes darted over to where Adèle stood at the far side of the graveyard.

Simon
, thought Pierre. Could it really be Adèle’s Simon? The charge of potential in the air seemed to coalesce around him, filling him with an excitement that he found hard
to disguise. ‘Leave it to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can find out.’

It was when he got the call from the police station later that morning that Pierre knew everything he hoped for might truly be coming to pass.

Once Michel Costa was in the ground, Pierre had returned to the Helping Hand to arrange some of the more specialist supplies he thought might be needed.

In case.

In case what Claire and Léna had said was true, and there were others.

The hope was almost painful for him, but it had been there since the moment he had seen Camille, back from the dead. He had been praying for a sign ever since.

With his jobs done, he sat in his office seeking the wisdom of the scriptures, his Bible open at the first chapter of Revelation. He was formulating a plan of action, wondering how to go about
looking for the man Léna had spoken of. He had so little to go on; speaking with Léna in more detail seemed unavoidable.

Then the phone rang. It was Bruno, a policeman he knew, calling from the station. Bruno told him they had a lost sheep for the Helping Hand, someone right up Pierre’s street; a man with
nowhere to stay, forbidden to leave town. A mystery man, who wouldn’t even give his real name.

‘Could you pick him up from here?’ said Bruno. ‘He calls himself Simon Delaître.’

Pierre froze, just for a moment: it
was
Adèle’s Simon, and Pierre wouldn’t even need to look for him now.

‘He was arrested for assault,’ said Bruno. ‘If that’s a problem.’

‘It won’t be,’ said Pierre. He told Bruno he would be there as soon as possible, then hung up. He looked again at the passage from Revelation, and read it aloud.

‘
Fear not
,’ he said. ‘
I am the first and the last, and the living one. I died, and behold I am alive forevermore, and I have the keys of Death and
Hell
.’

He had been praying for a sign; this was much more. This was like a
commandment
.

At the station, Pierre waited impatiently, eager to see this man. He knew Simon Delaître’s face, knew it from the photographs Adèle had brought to the early counselling
sessions, and when the guy was brought out Pierre found himself unable to breathe. The awe he felt was palpable, staggering.

It was
him
. There was no doubt.

Pierre couldn’t stop himself smiling at him, making the man nervous.

‘It’s Simon, yes?’ said Pierre.

Simon Delaître nodded.

‘That’s what he says,’ said Bruno. ‘If you can talk him round into telling us who he really is, it’d save a lot of trouble. For him, too.’

Pierre looked at Simon. ‘If he wants to, he’ll tell me,’ he said, wondering if Simon could detect that Pierre was only playing along, that he
knew
.

He led Simon to the car and drove, unable to stop glancing at the man in the passenger seat. ‘We can get some food at the Helping Hand,’ said Pierre. ‘You can rest there. We
have a dorm for visitors. Nothing terribly swish, but it’s warm and comfortable. We can give you money, too.’

‘Who are you?’ said Simon, almost sneering. ‘Father Christmas?’

‘I try to help people who have, let’s say, gone astray.’

‘You think I’ve gone astray?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Pierre. He didn’t want to come right out with it, not yet, but he was interested to know how much Simon had remembered, and how much he had worked
out. ‘I’ve met many people who were lost, and I’ve helped them find their way again. Only this morning, I saw a woman I helped. Adèle Werther.’

‘You know Adèle?’

‘Yes, a little,’ said Pierre, casually observing Simon’s wary reaction. ‘A tragedy like that is hard to forget.’

Simon’s face grew pale. ‘What tragedy?’

‘Her fiancé died. On their wedding day.’

Simon looked at Pierre, desperation in his eyes. ‘Do you know what happened?’

Pierre nodded. ‘He was hit by a car.’

Simon was silent, stunned.

He doesn’t remember,
Pierre thought.
Just like Camille
. ‘I don’t think I’ve seen you before,’ he said. ‘Have you lived here long?’ He
wondered what Simon thought had happened, and if he knew how many years had gone by.

‘Yeah. But I . . . I had to leave.’

‘And you were gone for a long time. Am I right?’ He looked at Simon, and saw the sudden increase in the man’s wariness. ‘Do you mind if I ask why?’

Too much
, Pierre realized; Simon’s expression went from wariness to outright hostility. ‘You can drop me here,’ he said.

‘Don’t, Simon,’ said Pierre, angry that his curiosity had spoiled things. ‘There’s no need for you to go.’

‘
Drop me here
,’ Simon shouted.

Pierre pulled the car over. The sudden anger on Simon’s face was intimidating. He thought of the assault charge Bruno had mentioned, knowing that he had naively hoped the reborn Simon
would be the model of benevolence. ‘Simon, please. I can help you.’

‘I don’t think so.’ Simon opened the door and started to walk away.

Pierre leaned over, raising his voice so Simon could hear. ‘Come to the Helping Hand if you change your mind. You’re not alone, Simon. Do you understand? You’re not
alone.’

Simon gave no sign that he’d heard. They’d stopped by the town’s only industrial estate, a mishmash of faceless concrete buildings half of which were no longer occupied, now
abandoned and vandalized. This town had always had aspirations of success that had overreached themselves;
exactly what I just did
, Pierre thought. With success close, his lack of caution
had put it at risk.

But self-recrimination was not appropriate. What had happened had to be God’s will, of course. It was all God’s will, and so this must have been the path Simon needed to follow.