The Returned (22 page)

Adèle had said nothing to Thomas about meeting with Simon, but he didn’t blame her. He knew she needed protecting, from herself as much as from the interloper.

And then his heart split, wide and raw, at the sight on his screen. The live feed from the camera at the front of his house showed a man approach, and stand at the window. Thomas saw
Adèle rise. Saw her go to the door and let the man in.

He watched as Simon Delaître kissed his fiancée. He watched her kiss him back with a passion and fervour she’d never shared with him.
I see everything now
, he
thought.
Everything.

He feared the worst. Then, he had some hope: she took Delaître to the attic, and came down again too soon for anything to have happened between them.

He willed her on, willed her to make the right decisions, but he would not interfere. He had to know what she would do, when she thought nobody would find out. Surely that was the only thing
worth knowing about a person?

Yet he knew there was more to his inaction. He feared that confronting Adèle with Simon there could play out in only one way: with Adèle rejecting Thomas. Leaving with the
triumphant Simon. And Chloé going with her mother.

He locked his office door from the inside, and closed the blinds. He kept looking at the images of his home, as Adèle went to bed, as the lights went out. Watching, in case Delaître
left his hiding place to tempt her again.

He cried as he watched; eventually exhaustion took him and he slept uneasily at his desk.

He was woken by Bruno knocking hard on the door in the cruel bright light of morning. There was no time to check on the house, though; he would have to wait until he got back and look through
the recorded footage. The case that had come in was simply too serious for him not to attend personally. Another attack, fatal this time, on a woman in her own apartment. Thomas berated every
officer in shouting distance about the release of their only suspect, using it as an opportunity to vent his anger even though he knew exactly where Simon Delaître was hiding.

He immediately ordered roadblocks, and it was enough to settle his nerves somewhat. At least the man would be unable to flee the town and take Thomas’s family along for the ride.

Two things were clear to him now. First, that Simon had had nothing to do with either the Clarsen or Payet attacks. He’d known it instinctively before, since if he had seriously thought
the man capable of that Thomas would have been back at his house within minutes. But now it was beyond doubt. Delaître had been sitting pretty in Thomas’s house while the Payet attack
had happened.

He went to the Payet apartment to oversee the initial investigation, all the while distracted by the thought of what Simon’s intentions really were. It was late afternoon by the time he
managed to extricate himself and get back to the office.

Only to be greeted with the sight of Adèle and Simon. Fucking. In Thomas’s own bed, the bed he and Adèle had shared for so long.

The first thing to hit was a deep sorrow, unlike anything he’d known before. Hope left him, utterly. Hadn’t he given Adèle everything she’d ever wanted, been there when
she needed him, brought up her daughter as his own? And now this was the choice she’d made. Anger flooded him, but it was anger towards Simon; he still couldn’t bring himself to blame
Adèle. What chance did she stand, against such temptation? Against such
forces
?

Because there was something he didn’t lightly admit to himself: he was scared, both of what Simon Delaître was, and by the hold he had on Adèle.

Rage and despair built within him until he couldn’t stand it. Work would have to wait. He left the station with no explanation to his team of where he was going; even he didn’t
really know until he pulled in outside the church.

The priest was at the far side of the nave tidying around the altar. ‘Hello, Thomas,’ said Father Jean-François. ‘How’s the groom-to-be? Not long now!’

Thomas had no time for the niceties. ‘What did you talk to Adèle about?’

The priest looked at him, suddenly wary. ‘Now, Thomas . . . I wouldn’t be much of a priest if I shared what people say to me.’

He gripped the priest’s arm. ‘Was it Simon?’

Father Jean-François looked at Thomas’s hand until Thomas relented and let go. ‘Try not to worry, Thomas,’ said the priest. ‘It’s only natural for
Adèle to think about Simon now. But she’s marrying you. I think Adèle has come to terms with what happened.’

‘So she did talk to you about him.’

‘Thomas, you’re here. He’s a ghost. She’ll forget him in time.’

Thomas shook his head, frustrated. He pointed to the large cross on the wall of the church. ‘When Jesus came back, was He just a ghost?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He was here, wasn’t He? Physically here, in flesh and blood.’

‘Are you unwell, Thomas?’ said the priest, concerned. ‘Maybe we should sit, until you can calm down.’

Thomas had no time for this. ‘Answer my question, Father,’ he snapped.

Father Jean-François paused, but he still looked more concerned for Thomas than fearful. ‘Some believe that,’ he said. ‘But the resurrection doesn’t have to be
read quite so literally.’

‘Father, I’m not a theologian. I need to
understand
. Would a physical resurrection be permanent, or is it just a matter of time before it ends?’

‘You’re talking about a subtle point of theology. The question must be this – what do you believe? Faith is the important thing. The rest . . . there aren’t always
answers, I’m afraid.’

‘I’m a police officer, Father. I deal in facts. It’s my job to find the answers. So tell me, how long would resurrection last? Would it be
permanent
?’

‘You’re asking the wrong questions, Thomas.’

Thomas looked at Father Jean-François with disappointment, verging on disdain. ‘You’re giving the wrong answers.’

He left the church and drove, aimless, his police radio off. He still felt unable to go home, his mood dark and confused, not good for confrontation. Nor was he ready to face his officers at the
station, feeling unable to put on a facade of strength. So he drove, watching the town through his car windscreen for a change, rather than his computer monitor. Time slid away from him; suddenly
it was dusk, the sky darkening rapidly, street lights coming on for the approaching night.

He wished for Simon to appear in the road, imagined his foot hitting the accelerator. There would be irony in that, he thought, and a sour smile crept onto his face. As he drove in the gathering
dark, a power cut spread across town. There had been a few of these power failures in the last week. He’d intended to contact the electricity company to find out if there was an expectation
of further problems, but with everything else that was going on it had slipped his mind.

He kept driving, looking out for trouble. The streets felt more dangerous in the unlit night, as if every shadow held a nasty surprise. It was a longer outage than before, twenty-seven minutes
before the power returned. When it did, he started to head back to the station, so he could use his cameras and see what Adèle was doing. Then he would have to make a proper decision on what
action to take.

As he entered his office, Bruno bounded up from his desk. ‘The suspect was spotted, sir,’ he said. He was eager, but wary; trying to worm his way back into favour, thought Thomas,
after letting the man go in the first place.

‘Captured? Did you say captured?’ Thomas felt the faintest stirring of hope.

‘No, sir,’ said Bruno. ‘Spotted. A patrol saw him walking in the street. As they approached, he made a run for it. Then the power went, and he gave them the slip in the dark.
We tried to get hold of you.’

Thomas felt a stab of frustration; he’d turned off his radio. Maybe, just maybe, that idea of finding Delaître in the streets himself hadn’t been so crazy after all. ‘Get
more people out there,’ he said. ‘Focus on that area.’ Knowing Bruno couldn’t see what was on his monitor he opened his security-camera program, wanting to make sure
Adèle and Chloé were OK. His face fell when he saw what was on the screen. All the cameras in his house had failed, he thought; every image was dark. Then he noticed a corner of one
image was still barely visible.

‘
No
,’ he said.

‘Sir?’

‘Nothing, Bruno. Just go. Get back to me if the suspect is brought in.’

Bruno left, and Thomas hit the desk with his fist. The cameras hadn’t failed. Their view was being obscured somehow. And that meant they’d been discovered, that Adèle knew
about them. He didn’t relish the thought of explaining them to her.

He left the station again and drove straight home. He didn’t want to call Adèle, and without the cameras he had no idea if she and Chloé were even there. If they were
safe
. As he approached, he could see that Chloé’s bedroom light was on. There was movement in the room. He breathed a sigh of relief, but still checked his gun before he went
to the door – Simon could have come back. Adèle was in the hallway as he entered, her face like a dark storm.

‘Is he here?’ asked Thomas. There was no point in trying to pretend.

‘No,’ she said, her voice cold. ‘He left.’

She stood in the hallway, glaring at him. Irritated, Thomas walked past her.

‘How long have the cameras been there?’ she snarled, suddenly furious.

‘So that’s how you want to play it?’ said Thomas. ‘You think you’re the only one with the right to be angry? How long have you been fucking your dead
boyfriend
, Adèle?’

‘Keep your voice down,’ she said, looking at the ceiling. ‘Chloé.’

Thomas bowed his head, his anger deflated. Yes. Chloé. ‘I installed the cameras two years ago.’

She nodded, and it was a few seconds before she spoke again. ‘I’m leaving you,’ she said. There was no triumph in her voice, he noted. Just certainty.

He felt all emotion drain from him, felt as cold and dead inside as the creature she claimed to love. ‘You’re leaving me for Simon?’

Adèle looked at him with despair, and shook her head. ‘How can I trust you? You’ve been spying on me for two years.’

‘I wasn’t spying on you,’ he said.

‘Really?’ He saw the anger grow in her. ‘On Chloé, then?’

He was distraught. ‘God, Adèle . . . how can you think that? I was away from home so often. I was terrified of leaving you on your own, and then sometimes you didn’t hear the
phone and you didn’t answer it. Every time, I’d be scared that you’d done it again. I’d see you in my head, covered in blood, your wrists . . .
open
.’ He felt
tears start to come, thinking of how he’d felt all those times, just
imagining
Adèle like that. ‘I couldn’t cope with it, and I couldn’t tell you how I felt.
So I put the cameras in. Then when you didn’t answer the phone, I could make sure you were safe. That was all. To make sure that you were OK. That you hadn’t hurt yourself
again.’

He could see in her eyes that she believed him. He could see her anger shrink as her thoughts settled. Then she shook her head. ‘I’m still leaving, Thomas.’ But she sounded far
less certain than she had a moment before, he thought.

He felt a tear fall from his eye; he wiped at it hurriedly. ‘For a dead man you were afraid of even when he was alive?’

She frowned at him. ‘I never said that. All I said was that sometimes . . . Sometimes, I was wary of him. He never
hurt
me.’

Thomas shook his head. ‘Of course he hurt you. The scars may not have been physical, Adèle, but we’ve both been living with them for years.’

She turned away from him, and he knew she was thinking: weighing up her options, the decision to leave him not quite made. At last, she turned back. ‘If I do go with Simon, it’s a
chance for Chloé to know her true father,’ she said, sounding desolate. ‘It might be a chance for everything to be put right. Everything Simon’s accident took away from
me.’

Thomas closed his eyes for a moment, torn. He could let her go. Let her go, and make the worst mistake possible. Or he could fight for what they had, and tell her the truth. The secret that he
and everyone else who had known had kept from her these last ten years. Their only desire had been to protect her: she’d suffered enough and didn’t need to know what had
really
happened that day. But now? Now she had to be told. Had to know the truth about the man she was planning to abandon him for. For her sake, and for Chloé’s.

But it would hurt, and he knew it. He opened his eyes and took her hands in his. ‘It wasn’t an accident,’ he said. ‘Simon wasn’t taken from you, Adèle. He
abandoned
you.’

Adèle looked blank, unable to grasp what he meant. Then a shadow of fear crept across her face. ‘What?’

‘When Simon died. The priest asked us to call it an accident. But it wasn’t.’

She looked at him, lost. ‘What was it?’ she asked. ‘Thomas,
what was it
?’

He told her.

That night, he read Chloé her bedtime story. When he’d finished and returned to his and Adèle’s bedroom, Adèle was still dazed, looking at
herself in the mirror. Telling her the truth had seemed to shake her clear of Simon’s grip, at least for now.

Thomas made a point of changing the sheets. Then he made sure to give Adèle her medication himself. Perhaps she’d stopped taking it, he thought. She’d done that before without
discussing it with him, stopped it or reduced the dosage. But it was up to him, now, to take the decisions she could not. He hoped that everything he’d told her would sink in – and that
she would understand.

Soon enough, Simon would be in custody again. It would be complicated. Simon was an enigma: a dead man walking through the streets of the town. No home. No family.
I’ll be damned if I
let him take mine
, he thought. The creature – he couldn’t even think of him as a real man – was a loose end.

And Thomas didn’t like loose ends.

When the power cut came after dusk, Pierre went to stand outside the Helping Hand. High on the valley slope, he watched the town lie in darkness, feeling the cold mountain
breeze on his skin. The only buildings he could see lit were those important enough to have their own sources of power: the hospital, the police station and, further up the valley, the control room
of the dam itself.