Hanging Around In The Pyrenees

Chapter 3

Chapter 3When I meet with Paul at the office we decide to leave the interviews with Poullet and his wife until Monday. Neither of us can face them today, and besides, it probably won't make any difference to the information we receive.

“Hopefully Madame Poullet will have had time to get over the shock of her cousin's death and Poullet will be numbed to the sound of her wailing and crying. Who knows, he might even be less belligerent,” Paul suggests.

“Fat chance,” I reply. “But I hope you're right because we'll have to interview them separately, and you're having Poullet.”

His shocked expression freezes his face and his hand covers his mouth.

“Please, Boss, no! He scares the life out of me and he hates me. I'll do anything. I'll wash your car. I'll take you out to lunch after the interviews, and I'll pay. I'll do your filing. Please, please, anything but Poullet.” Paul kneels on the floor, hands clasped as if in prayer. “Anything,” he begs.

“He doesn't hate you Paul,” I say laughing. “He hates everyone! You can beg all you like, but you're still getting Poullet. I've socialised with him, so I'm too close. We must be seen to be impartial. However, thanks for your kind offers, but my car is clean; we won't have time for lunch and you do most of my filing anyway.”

He stands, sighs and hangs his head in resignation.

“Right, Paul, let's get out of here while there's still some of Saturday left,” I say solemnly. “When you get home, rest up. You'll need all your strength for Monday.”

His reply does not require words. Just a single-fingered gesture.

When I arrive home Ollee is lying beside the front door in the shade. His head is resting on his paws and, as I approach, he opens his eyes, lifts his ears and wags his tail. He is obviously comfortable as he doesn't rise, but instead rolls onto his back, legs in the air, belly exposed. He turns his head towards me and sighs as if this small movement is all he can manage. As I stop beside him, he stares into my eyes and gives a small 'yip', begging for a tummy rub.

“Oh my, what a lazy lump you are,” I say, and oblige him by ruffling his chest fur and tickling his belly.

He shuts his eyes, and one of his back legs shakes with pleasure.

“What an easy life you have,” I say. If only everything in life was this simple, I think.

As I enter the house, rich cooking smells assault my nostrils. I detect a delicious mixture of aromas; as well as meat and fried onions, there is the sugary, buttery scent of one of Patricia's fruit pies.

“Honey, I'm home,” I call, copying the phrase from a movie.

“Dinner will be on the table in five minutes,” Patricia shouts from the kitchen. “I've set the table in the garden and the wine is breathing.”

I inhale deeply and then slowly blow the air out again, instantly feeling relaxed. I too can breathe, now that I'm in the sanctuary of our home.

Reaching up, I light the oil lamp which is suspended over the centre of the table from the pergola. It is barely evening, but darkness descends early in Autumn. Bunches of grapes still hang from the vines above our heads and the yellowing leaves throw shadows over everything beneath. While we eat, inevitably, our conversation is about the hanged man.

“Why would someone kill him in that way?” Patricia asks. “It's so odd. Why not just shoot him and be done with it? Much simpler than making him drive up the mountain in his car with a ladder. The killer must have had a g*n or another weapon to force Poullet's cousin to comply. Why else would he hang himself?”

“You've answered your own question,” Patricia. “The killer wanted him to hang himself, to take his own life. He wanted Henri to know that he'd done something terribly wrong and to feel remorse. I'm sure this killing was personal. Betrayal perhaps. We're looking for someone with a grudge. At least we will be, once the powers that be rule out it being a simple suicide.”

“Marjorie came by to visit earlier,” Patricia says, changing the subject. “I was only home for five minutes before she arrived.”

“How is she? What did our illustrious mayor's wife want? Did she come to buy some produce from you? She usually telephones to see if we're going to be in before dropping in.”

“Actually, she was very upset. She was no sooner through the door than she burst into tears.”

“What's happened? Is she ill? Is there a problem with one of the children?”

“The problem is with her rotten husband. As you know, he's been having an affair with a younger woman for some time. Marjorie is my best friend, after you of course, and I can't understand why she puts up with it.”

“Look, Patricia, everyone knows he's having an affair,” I reply, “but at least he keeps his mistress away from his family and their friends. He doesn't flaunt her in public. Marjorie puts up with it because she enjoys the position of being the mayor's wife. She lives a privileged life, both socially and financially. Being married to a cheating bastard like Francis has its compensations, so what's causing her grief? What's changed?”

“He just gave his mistress a job in his office. She is his new PA,” Patricia says. Her face is stiff with indignation and she stares into my eyes.

“Oh merde,” I reply. “No wonder she's upset.”

“Marjorie feels she cannot enter the Mairie now. Everyone who works there will know. She's frightened the town staff will be mocking her behind her back. She's scared that this is just the first step and perhaps Francis will try to replace her in their home too.”

I can't quite believe Francis has done this. He had the perfect set up. Why risk everything? His brains are certainly not in his head, I think.

Marjorie has been our close friend for some time now, but her husband has always been distant. Even though Marjorie's brother is gay, Francis is homophobic and has always kept Patricia at arm's length. I'm sure he still sees us as a couple while everyone else accepts us as we really are, as sisters not lovers. I have done favours for him and helped him, so he owes me. When I go to bed, I can't stop thinking about the situation. Perhaps I should talk to him and try to make him see sense. Something must be done before everything spins out of control. I rely on my close relationship with the mayor to keep the status quo in this town, and to support my extra-curricular work. I mustn't let the fool do anything that will put pressure on my position.

* * *

I have a very sleepless night, then I wake early on Sunday morning. It's still dark outside. Patricia is going to Montpellier with her friend Elodi, who is a savonniere. An elderly woman who also makes soap is retiring. She has offered to sell Elodi her remaining stock and some equipment at a knock down price. However, the lady is leaving for Paris early in the afternoon and it will take some time to load Elodi's van. The journey should take about two hours each way. So, it's a very early start for my friend. I don't hear her rise, or move about in the kitchen preparing her breakfast. Neither do I hear Elodi's van draw up or the front gate open. But Ollee does, and the little dog barks his head off. I'm sure he will wake the neighbours for miles around. Ollee barking for France at six o'clock on a Sunday morning is not going to make us popular.

“Sorry, I'm so sorry, Danielle,” Patricia calls. She knows I'll have been woken. “Quiet, Ollee, please stop; go back to your bed. Bed, now,” she insists.

Then I hear the front door close and silence resumes. I think about trying to go back to sleep, but it is no use. I'm awake now, so I decide to plan my working week as there is much to do both in the office and in our home before we wind down for winter. By ten, I've walked the dog, picked up a fresh baguette for breakfast and although I'm tired, I feel better for having sorted out my agenda. I decide to phone Poullet to arrange the earliest time to hold the interviews with him and his wife.

The call is answered on the third ring, so I know he's been awake.

“Yes. Who is it?” he says.

“Bonjour Doctor, ca va?” I ask. “It's me, Danielle.”

“Danielle,” he repeats. “Are you ill?” he asks. “Have you fallen in the street and can't get up? Are you having a heart attack?”

His voice is gruff and grumpy.

“I'm fine – thank you,” I reply hesitantly.

“Do you know what time it is? What day it is? It's Sunday,” he bellows. “The Lord's day. A day for church and rest. Why are you calling me?”

“You don't go to church and you rest most days,” I say cheekily. “I might be calling to invite you to lunch. I might be phoning to have a chat with you about something you're interested in.”

“And is that the case?” he asks, chuckling now.

“No, I'm phoning to make an appointment to interview you and your wife about Henri Boudin.”

“Tomorrow morning – ten thirty – not one minute before.”

The line goes dead. He has hung up without saying au revoir. Silly old fool I think. No wonder Paul's scared of him.