Aftershock

Twenty-eight

‘Thank God for satellite navigation,’ said Aileen, as they passed the sign that advised them they were entering the town of Collioure. ‘That was quite complicated after we left the motorway.’

‘No, it wasn’t,’ Bob protested. ‘I’m a police officer: I know how to follow traffic signs.’

‘Then why did you have the system installed in the car?’

‘I didn’t; Alex did, so she can go exploring when she’s out here. She uses the Spanish place more than I do now. She grabs cheap weekend flights whenever she can.’

‘Alone?’

‘I never ask. We had this deal, before Sarah, in her final school years, and when she was starting university. Information like that was never sought by either of us, only volunteered, if we chose.’

Aileen smiled. ‘And did you always stick to that?’

‘Sure, but she always told me what she was up to.’

‘Did you always approve of her boyfriends?’ she asked, teasing.

‘Sure, once I’d had them checked out.’

‘What? You had your daughter’s teenage boyfriends vetted?’

‘Too bloody right. So would you, in my situation.’

‘Did you ever veto anyone?’

Bob frowned. ‘There was one guy, when she was nineteen, who gave her trouble, very bad trouble.’

‘What did you do with him?’

He gave a quick, awkward smile. ‘I killed him. What else would a caring father do? Then there was Andy, of course,’ he said, moving on. ‘Now, I did not see that one coming. Christ, I even asked him once to chum her to a university dance, when she was stuck for a date. Alex has always been smarter than me; it took me a while to work out that she was only stuck because she wanted me to ask him to chum her!’

‘How did you handle it when you found out about them?’

‘Hasn’t Alex told you?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted, ‘but I want to hear your version.’

‘Very badly, I confess. I blew up at them both, told Andy he’d betrayed my trust. He transferred out of CID for a while, into uniform. Everybody thought I’d pushed him, but I didn’t. I wanted to keep him in post regardless, but he went to the chief and asked for a move.’

‘How did you get over it?’

‘Common sense kicked in. One day, I realised that my daughter had grown up. I worked out something else too: that if I was from another culture, one in which arranged marriages were the norm, Andy was probably the guy I’d have picked for her. So I was happy, and when they got engaged, I was well on-side.’ He sighed. ‘Then it all went pear-shaped.’

‘She got pregnant?’

‘She told you that too? Yes, she did, and had an abortion, without ever telling Andy about the kid. He’s Catholic, quietly devout, for all that he can be a tough boy when he has to. He took it very badly.’

‘I can understand that, but. .’

‘There was more, though, that maybe she didn’t tell you. Alex had a fling with a young guy, a cousin of her pal. The wee bastard got himself lifted on some drug-related thing, and he gave her as his alibi for the time in question. Very messy, and for Andy, very embarrassing. Not terminal, though, he’d have got over that: but the abortion, no.’

‘And you,’ Aileen asked, ‘how did you feel about it?’

‘I don’t know, to be honest. She was wrong on two counts. . no, three. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to get pregnant in the first place if she had any doubt about it. Also, she should have told him about it, and let him state his case at the very least. Plus, she was in a relationship that was supposed to be monogamous, so she shouldn’t have been shagging the boy. Mind you,’ he added, ‘that’s the one I’m least able to criticise her about. There were times when I wasn’t a great role model for her. Bottom line, though, she’s my kid and I will always support her, right or wrong. That outweighs any disappointment I might have felt.’

‘Disappointment that they didn’t marry?’

‘No, at the way she hurt Andy. That their engagement broke up? No. The truth was she was bored, or she wouldn’t have slept with the boy. The truth was she was more committed to her career than to getting married. The truth was, she was way too young to have been thinking about it.’

‘But now she isn’t too young any more. Her career is well on track, and before you know it she’s going to be a partner in that firm of hers. Do you suppose she ever thinks about Andy?’

‘You think she might be carrying a torch?’ he asked. ‘Is that your impression, from talking to her?’

‘She hasn’t said anything. But the way she spoke about him, when she did, there’s a fondness there, still. Not a torch, perhaps, but a small candle at least.’

‘If that’s so, I hope it burns out of its own accord. Andy’s happily married now, with a growing family.’

‘He never looks back?’

‘No. There was a time when he was a serial womaniser, before Alex, and then again, as a reaction, I suppose, to what happened. But then he and Karen. . found each other, I suppose. They’re a nice couple, and he won’t let anyone come between them. Plus, I like to think that my daughter wouldn’t. .’

‘In three hundred yards, turn right!’ The firm voice of the navigation system interrupted him.

‘Wouldn’t dream of even trying,’ he murmured, as he obeyed.

‘You have reached your destination.’

He looked along the road into which they had turned and saw, twenty yards ahead, a sign that read ‘Gendarmerie’.

‘Okay,’ said Bob, ‘this is where we split. You take the car and explore the town, if you’re happy doing that. I’ll call your mobile when I’m done and you can tell me where to meet you.’

‘Fine by me,’ Aileen replied. ‘I’ll probably have lunch first, unless you want me to wait for you.’

‘No, you do that. I can grab something later.’

He held the door open as she slid behind the wheel and drew the seat a little further forward, then waved her off as she turned and headed back to the junction. Only when she was out of sight did he turn and walk into the gendarmerie station.

Skinner had been in local police offices in seven countries, on three continents, and found them more or less interchangeable: busy, untidy, poorly furnished, and marked by the underlying body odour of those who worked there. The Collioure version was an exception to his rule of thumb. There were freshly cut flowers in the reception area, and a modern air-conditioning unit was going full blast, a blessed relief from the heat of the day outside.

‘Oui, monsieur?’ the desk officer greeted him.

‘Bonsoir,’ he replied. ‘Je suis Monsieur Skinner, d’Edimbourg, ici pour Lieutenant Cerdan.’ The words felt thick on his tongue. He wondered how far his limited French would carry him. Every sentence had to be thought out carefully before it was uttered: he knew that conversation would be very difficult.

He sighed inwardly with relief when a voice behind him said, in clear, confident English, ‘Good day, sir, and welcome to Collioure. I am Lieutenant Jérôme Cerdan.’ He turned, to see a slightly built man with dark hair and a small moustache, dressed, almost identically to him, in a white short-sleeved shirt and lightweight tan trousers. The two shook hands. ‘I am told you are here to find a young Englishman,’ the French officer continued.

‘That’s right: a lad called Davis Colledge. I’m grateful for your help.’

‘No, it’s you who have done me a favour: I am based in Perpignan, but on days as hot as this I take every opportunity to come to the coast.’

Skinner smiled. ‘Glad to be of service. Have you been told why I need to speak to the boy?’

‘His lady friend is dead, yes? Murdered?’

‘Yes, in Edinburgh, almost two weeks ago. We have no reason to regard the boy as a suspect, but we need to interview him.’

‘And there is a delicacy, yes?’

‘His father is a public figure. As far as I’m concerned that doesn’t win him any favours, but if our press found out about his involvement, they’d give him a hard time. We don’t have the privacy laws that you do in France.’

‘I understand, sir. You have an address for him?’

‘Yes; three Passage Jules Ferry, studio apartment.’

‘Then we will go there at once. It’s not far, but a local officer will take us.’

Cerdan led the way through the station, past a row of cells, of which three seemed to be occupied, to a courtyard at the rear, where a uniformed corporal waited beside a police car. He saluted as they approached, then opened the front passenger door for the lieutenant, and the rear for Skinner.

Rather than take the busy main thoroughfare, the driver showed his local knowledge by picking his way through a maze of back-streets, deserted but for parked cars, all with French registrations, and most of them covered with dust. As Cerdan had said, it was a short journey, less than five minutes, until they took a turn and the sea-front opened out before them, a tight bay bounded on the right by a tall domed tower, and on the left by a pier, leading to a rocky outcrop, on which stood a stone shelter, topped by a bell, and beside it, a life-sized figure of Christ on the cross.

The corporal pulled up at the roadside, on a red line that could have meant only one thing, and spoke quietly to the officer.

‘He says we have to walk from here,’ Cerdan explained. ‘These are old streets and only for pedestrians and cyclists.’

They stepped out of the car’s chilled air into the blazing afternoon heat, the corporal leading the way. He took them along the beach-front past a crowded restaurant, two art galleries, a busy crêperie and, improbably, an ancient Fiat Abarth motor-car that had been converted into a soft drinks bar, until they reached a street that was little more than a wide alley. They had gone no more than a hundred yards when he turned right into a cul-de-sac that was even narrower.

‘Ici,’ he announced.

There were no shops or bars in the passage, only a dozen or so houses. Number three was half-way along and beside it a blue door, bearing the word ‘Studio’. There was no sign of a lock, only a handle. Without bothering to knock, Cerdan seized and turned it, revealing a stone stairway behind that appeared to lead up to the roof. They climbed until they reached a landing, barely large enough for the three men, with a second door, this one brown, with a mortise lock, and a Yale, for extra security. Skinner rapped on it firmly and waited. He knocked again, harder this time, and called out, ‘Davis. Davis Colledge. Open up, please. I’m a police officer from Scotland.’

The corporal reached out and tried the handle, but the door was secure.

‘Bugger,’ Skinner muttered. ‘He’s probably gone out for lunch. I guess we might have to hang around and wait for him, Lieutenant.’

‘Maybe,’ Cerdan replied, ‘but let’s ask first.’ He spoke to the corporal, who nodded, and trotted back down the stairway.

He was gone for several minutes: Skinner filled them by asking the Frenchman about his career, about the structure of the gendarmerie, and about its interface with its parallel force the Police Nationale, the Sûreté of Simenon’s Maigret. Much of it he knew already from the research he had done in preparing his paper for Aileen, but he found it interesting to have the perspective of a serving officer in one of the forces. ‘It’s all right,’ the lieutenant said finally, ‘as long as we take care not to become involved together. That can lead to arguments over. .’ He paused. ‘I don’t know the word.’

‘Jurisdiction?’

‘That is it. Do you have such problems in Scotland, sir? I understand that you have a different way?’

‘Yes, but it’s relatively simple. We’re organised on a territorial basis; there’s the boundary line and we don’t cross it, operationally, other than in hot pursuit. There is a national body tackling serious crime, but that co-operates with forces like mine.’

The noise of footsteps on the stairway announced the corporal’s return. He was smiling and holding a key-ring, breathing slightly hard as he reported to his officer.

‘Some good news,’ Cerdan announced. ‘Madame Marnie, the lady in the house below, is the owner of the studio. She has given us keys. But now, not so good. The young man is not here. He left early this morning.’

‘He’s gone back to Britain?’

‘It seems not. He told her that, since he was alone, he was going to see some more of the coast. He asked her also that if his friend should arrive she should tell her that he would be back in a few days.’

‘A few days,’ Skinner muttered.

‘I can find him,’ the lieutenant offered. ‘I can put out an order to all the stations in the region to look out for him. We can find out if he uses a credit card.’

‘We can, but then we’ll have started a manhunt. We’ll have made it look as if he’s a murder suspect, and I don’t want that. Let’s take a look. Maybe there’s another way I can play this.’

The Frenchman nodded, took the keys from the corporal and unlocked the door, then held it open for Skinner. He stepped inside.

‘The studio’ was exactly that, a big living area, with a kitchen in a corner to the left, a double bed against the wall on the right and a sofa and armchair in the middle. In the furthest part of the room a door lay ajar, revealing a basin and mirror. Two wider doors, half glazed, lit the apartment; they opened out on to a roof terrace.

The place was a mess. The bed was unmade, and the area was littered with pizza boxes. . Skinner counted four. . beer cans. . Davis Colledge appeared to be a Kronenbourg drinker. . and discarded wine bottles. But all that was incidental.

In the middle of the room there stood an easel, supporting a large canvas. The picture seemed to be complete: it was a woodland scene and in the centre was a female nude, slim, fair-skinned and dark-haired, with heavy, brown-nippled breasts. In the background, to the left, a young man stood, observing her. Skinner moved closer. The male figure was also naked, with a shock of fair hair and an erect penis. It was a beautiful piece of work, spoiled by only one thing; the woman’s face had been obliterated, wiped out by a great black smudge that gave the painting an air of menace. Skinner moved closer, examining its detail. The female form had a small pink scar on the right side of the abdomen. He made a mental note of that, then looked at the self-portrait of Davis Colledge. As he studied it, he whistled. The young man’s eyes were vivid, and his mouth was a slash across his face. He held something in his hand. Unmistakably, it was a gun.

Skinner reached into his trouser pocket and produced a small digital camera. Using its LCD screen to frame the image, he photographed the picture.

‘Lieutenant,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m going to leave my business card and a note for Davis, if he comes back here, asking him to call me as soon as he finds it. But I hope it doesn’t get to that stage. I’ve changed my mind about your looking for him. I think you should. If this picture represents his state of mind, then he is a very troubled young man.’