Pale blue paint covered the walls of the Servat’s living room, with the woodwork around the door and windows picked out in white. A shelf that ran around the room just above the level of the door groaned with traditional greks of all shapes and colours and sizes.
“They were my father’s,” Elisabeth said, following Enzo’s eye. It took him a lifetime to collect them, and I couldn’t bear to throw them out when he died.”
Alain laughed. “I leave the dusting of them to her.”
The girls had been packed off to bed. The adults consumed steaming bowls of hot winter soup in the dining room, along with thick chunks of homemade bread and salted Breton butter. Enzo was drying out now in front of the fire, his good humour and sense of well-being somewhat restored. It was hard not to mellow under the warmth of the doctor and his wife, and their obvious affection for each other.
Alain poured the whiskies from an antique drinks cabinet with glass doors that revealed a stunning line-up of Scots and Irish whiskies. “It’s something of a passion,” he said. “And I collect the empties, too. One day Primel and the girls will inherit them and not have the heart to throw them out.”
“Just don’t expect any of the children to dust them,” Elisabeth said. “And I’m not sure that any of them would be as sentimental as us. I can see most of the contents of the house being sold off at the local brocante.”
“Never!” Alain chuckled. “They’ve got their mother’s hoarding genes. They might pack them away in the attic, but they’ll never part with them.” He handed Enzo a glass well charged with pale amber. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tasted this one. It comes from the smallest distillery in Scotland. Edradour. I won’t tell you how much it cost me, because Elisabeth is listening, but it was worth every centime.” He and Elisabeth exchanged smiles, and he handed her a glass before pouring one for himself. Elisabeth settled herself on the settee, and Alain stood warming himself in front of the fire and raised his glass. “ Slainthe mhath,” he said.
Enzo raised an eyebrow in surprise. “You know your Scots Gaelic.”
“You can’t drink good Scotch whisky without knowing how make a proper toast with it.”
Enzo raised his own glass. “ Slainthe,” he said. Elisabeth echoed the toast and all three sipped at their liquid gold. Enzo felt the sweetness emerging slowly from behind the burn, the rich, aromatic flavour of malted barley from the Scottish glens. “Mmmh. This is a good whisky.”
Alain beamed his pleasure and took another sip of his own. “So how is your investigation going, Monsieur Macleod?”
Enzo pulled a face. “Very slowly, doctor. In fact, the more I learn, the less I seem to know. I am still wrestling with the whole question of whether or not Thibaud Kerjean was involved.”
“Do you think he was?” Elisabeth asked.
Enzo shook his head. “I really don’t know. Judging by the evidence presented in court, the jury was right not to convict. On the other hand, if the police had done their job properly at the time, he would probably have spent the last eighteen years in prison.”
“So you do think he did it?” Alain said.
“I think there is some pretty damning evidence against him.” Enzo took thoughtful sips of his whisky. “But also plenty of room for doubt.” He laughed. “As I said, I am getting nowhere very fast. Do you know the man yourself?”
Alain shrugged. “I’ve encountered him once or twice. Can’t say he made a very good impression on me. But he was old Doctor Gassman’s patient, and when Gassman retired, it was another doctor in the practice who took over the Kerjean file. I have only seen him, professionally, on very rare occasions. Socially, never.” He looked toward his wife. “How about you darling?”
She nodded. “Yes, I had dealings with him a couple of times when I was nursing at the clinic. An unpleasant sort of man.”
Enzo turned toward the doctor’s wife. “Oh, yes, I’d forgotten. The receptionist said you’d worked at the clinic.”
“Only for a short while, a very long time ago, when Alain and I were first married and he was the new kid on the block in the practice. I stayed on for a while after Primel was born. My mother was a big help looking after the baby. But with Alain’s hours, and mine, it just wasn’t practical, and in the end I gave it up.” She smiled, almost sadly. “I always promised myself I’d go back to nursing when he got older. But then we had the girls, and I’m still in demand as a mom.”
Alain smiled fondly at his wife. “She’s more than just a nurse you know, Monsieur Macleod. She’s a trained physical therapist. We could do with her back.”
She returned his smile. “Maybe. Once the girls have gone to university. We’ll see.”
Alain threw back his head and roared with laughter. “ On verra, on verra.” He turned toward Enzo. “It’s been the same refrain all our married life. We’ll see, we’ll see. And when Elisabeth says “we’ll see,’ it means you can bet your shirt on it. I remember once, many moons ago, we sat talking in this very room about the possibility of having more children. Primel was proving quite a handful at the time. And all Elisabeth said was, “we’ll see.’ As you’ve seen for yourself, one became three. Without any further discussion, I might add.”
Elisabeth grinned. “It’s a woman’s prerogative to prevaricate in the beginning and decide for herself in the end.” She sipped at her whisky. “Without any further discussion. And, anyway, you don’t make babies by discussing it.” She and Alain exchanged another smile, then she laid down her glass. “I’d better go and see to old Emile.”
When she had gone, Alain took Enzo’s glass and refilled it, along with his own. He sat down in the space she had vacated, as if needing somehow to feel close to her when she wasn’t there, drawing on the warmth she had left behind. “We were in the same class at school, you know, and I fancied her from the first time I set eyes on her.” He chuckled at the memory. “I managed to get myself a place at the desk beside her, and used to walk her home after school. Until she got glasses, that is. Ugly, blue-rimmed things. And braces on her teeth. I went right off her then.” He laughed. “Poor Elisabeth. She went from beautiful swan to ugly duckling in the space of a month, and couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t talk to her anymore.” He shook his head. “Children can be so cruel.”
Enzo’s smile was tinged with sadness. These were two people who so obviously adored each other, even after more than twenty years of marriage. He thought how different his own life might have been had Pascale lived. How many more children they might have had together. A tiny worm of envy worked its way into his thoughts, and he had to shake himself free of it. He said, “Evidently she dispensed with the glasses and the braces, and you got back together when she turned into a swan again.”
“Oh, it was an off and on thing right through primary school, college, the lycee. It wasn’t until I was leaving for medical school, and we faced the prospect of permanent separation, that we came to our senses and realised we didn’t really want to be apart. So she came with me. We shared student accommodation in Paris. A cosy concubinage. She trained as a nurse while I graduated in medicine. But we didn’t actually get married until I came back to the island to fill a vacancy at the clinic.”
“And was that all that brought you back? To work at the clinic?”
“There were elderly parents, Monsieur Macleod. My mother had died a few years earlier, and I knew that my father was going to need someone to look after him. Elisabeth’s father was ill…” He paused, sipping thoughtfully on his whisky. “But I think, in the end, I would have come back anyway. This was a wonderful place to grow up, monsieur. Paris had its attractions, of course. But I could never have seen myself raising children there. This is the only place I would ever have wanted to bring up a family.” He smiled sadly. “The irony, of course, being that as soon as they are old enough, they leave. Can’t wait to get away.”
It was some time and another couple of whiskies later that Elisabeth returned. She picked up the bottle, shocked at how little of it remained, and raised an eyebrow. “There is no way you can drive home, Monsieur Macleod. You’d better stay over.”
“Oh.” Enzo tried to count up the drinks he had consumed in the last couple of hours. The whisky in Le Triskell, and three, maybe four, here at the doctor’s house. “That’s very kind. But I was really hoping to get back. Madame Killian is expecting me.”
Alain leaned forward to look at him. “Elisabeth’s right, Monsieur Macleod. You’re in no state to drive. And neither am I, I’m afraid.”
“I’ll drive you back,” Elisabeth said. “I’ve only had half a glass. I’m sure Madame Killian can drive you into town to pick up your car in the morning.”
As they followed the one-way system out of Le Bourg the moon was high, washing its bright, silvery light across the island. So bright, Enzo thought, that it might have been possible to drive without headlights. Elisabeth’s large green SUV seemed huge in the narrow streets, but she handled it with an easy confidence, and Enzo felt comfortable in her presence, leaning back against the headrest in the passenger seat, enjoying the sense of giving himself over completely to the control of someone else, an abrogation of all responsibility.
They passed a signpost pointing back the way to Port Lay. “One day,” she said, “if you have time, I’ll take you down there and show you where I used to live. For me it is the most beautiful corner of the island.”
“Take me now.” He glanced across at her. “It’s not too much out of our way, is it?”
She smiled. “No. A five-minute detour.” She hesitated for only a moment, before swinging the SUV around and taking another route out of town.
As they left the tiny conurbation behind them, she turned into a narrow road that wound steeply down the hillside. Enzo caught only occasional glimpses of the ocean, before suddenly it opened up ahead of them, moonlight reflecting silver across it’s unbroken surface. And there, the tiny harbour of Port Lay nestled among the rocks of a natural inlet that cut deep into the side of the hill.
A stone-built harbour wall cut across its entrance, leaving only the narrowest of channels for boats to come and go. In the sheltered waters of the inlet, half a dozen small boats were tethered to the quayside, overlooked by a large white house that glowed in the wash of the moon.
Elisabeth drew in at the top of the hill where a bridge spanned the beach below. “It’s hard to imagine now those tuna fleets coming in and out of that tiny little harbour. But they did, and the place was alive with activity. I used to sit on the quayside as a little girl, watching them land the catch, waiting for my dad. I knew all those faces. Island faces. Red and weathered. Such a hard life, Monsieur Macleod. We don’t realise how lucky we are.” She was lost in momentary reflection. “But we’ll come back another day, and I’ll show you my house, if you’re interested. And the old fish processing factory.” She nodded up the hill to the right, where a large building stood dark and empty, the legacy of a way of life gone forever.
“I’d like that.”
“It looks better in the sunshine.” She revved the engine, swung across the bridge, turning sharply to the left at the far side, and accelerated up an impossibly narrow street between whitewashed cottages.
They cut back through Le Bourg and were soon heading east, along the north coast, to where the road dipped down to the beach at Port Melite. Enzo closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of the woman at the wheel, allowing the whisky its freedom to take him where it would. It wasn’t until the car drew to a halt, that he opened his eyes again, realising that he had drifted off to sleep.
A phosphorescent sea washed up on the half moon of sand in the bay below the Killian cottage. Elisabeth had drawn in beneath the trees that overlooked the beach and was smiling at him indulgently. “You can wake up now, monsieur. Your limousine has reached its destination.”
“Oh, my God!” Enzo sat up. “I hope I wasn’t snoring.”
“Only a little. I just turned the radio up louder.” She laughed when she saw the horror on his face. “Only joking, Monsieur Macleod.”
He grinned sheepishly. “Enzo.”
“Well, Enzo, I am happy to report that snoring is not one of your vices. But you do talk in your sleep.”
“Do I?”
“We were having a very interesting conversation. It wasn’t until we got to Kervaillet that I realised you were talking to yourself.” She laughed. “And so was I.”
Enzo looked at her, unsure whether or not to take her seriously, till he saw the twinkle in her eye. Then he grinned. “Thank you for the lift, Elisabeth. And I’ll look forward to seeing Port Lay in the sunshine.” He paused as he opened the passenger door. “I didn’t dream that, did I?”
She laughed out loud. “No, Enzo. You didn’t dream it. Goodnight.”
He stood watching as she turned the SUV and gunned the engine, accelerating fast up the hill, back to the waiting arms of the man who loved her. And for the second time that night, he had to extinguish the little flame of envy that sprang up inside him.
He crossed the sandy parking area to the track that led to the house, and as he opened the gate, the front door swung open to flood the front garden with yellow light. Jane Killian came out on to the doorstep. “What happened? Did your car break down?” Her voice sounded shrill, oddly strained.
“No. Too much to drink. Doctor Servat’s wife drove me home.”
“Elisabeth Servat?”
He heard a tone in her voice that suggested not only surprise. “I was at their house. The doctor had too much to drink as well.” Why did he feel the need to explain this to her? He climbed the steps to the door.
“She’s an attractive woman.”
“She is.” For a moment they stood very close to one another.
Jane held the door open for him, and he transitioned gratefully from the freezing cold of the night to the smoky warmth of the cottage. He crouched by the fire, rubbing his hands together in front of its glowing embers, and noticed the empty glass at Jane’s chair. He was aware of her crossing the room behind him, and looked up as she handed him a glass of whisky.
“I think maybe I’ve had enough already tonight.”
“One more won’t hurt. I hate drinking on my own. And, in any case, I could do with another.” She refilled her own glass and sank into her chair, lifting it to her lips and watching him as he perched on the edge of the armchair opposite. “We had a visitor tonight?”
Enzo frowned. “Who?”
“I don’t know. Someone who parked a little further up the road and walked the rest of the way so I wouldn’t hear the car.”
The whisky fog in Enzo’s head seemed suddenly to clear, and he found himself focusing. “Tell me.”
“It’s so quiet here at nights, Enzo. I heard the squeak of the gate. At first I thought it was you, and couldn’t understand why you hadn’t driven right down to the shore. I went to the window, but there was nobody there. At least, no one I could see.” She took a mouthful of whisky, and he noticed for the first time how pale she looked. “Then I went through to the kitchen, but left the light off. And out of the window I saw someone crossing the lawn. Just a shadow among the trees, heading for the annex. So I thought then it must be you, and I opened the door and called your name.”
“It wasn’t me, Jane.
“I know that now.”
“Did you see who it was?” Her hand was trembling slightly as she took another drink.
“I couldn’t see anyone. And whoever it was wasn’t responding to my call. So I turned on the outside light. It floods the whole of the back garden with light.”
“And did you see someone?”
“A figure darting through the trees, running away from the annex, and then climbing over the bamboo fence at the back.”
“Someone trying to break in, do you think?”
“I don’t know. But I closed the shutters and locked up at the back, and sat here with all the lights on waiting for you to get back. I didn’t think you’d be so late.”
He drained his glass and stood up. “I don’t suppose you went over to check if there was any sign of a break-in?”
She laughed, a shrill laugh without humour. “No, I didn’t.”
“I’d better take a look, then.”
She stood up. “I’ll come with you.” And she went to lift a coat from the stand in the hall and followed him into the kitchen. She turned on the outside light before unlocking the door and lifting a flashlight from the kitchen worktop.
The garden lay still and quiet, frost settling white on the grass. Enzo took the flashlight from Jane and shone it across the lawn. A trail of footprints in the frost led from the side of the house across to the door of the annex, and then away again toward the back fence, the second set spaced further apart, indicating flight and haste. Enzo crouched to examine them, but they were scuffed and indistinct, rapidly disappearing now as the frost hardened.
He shone the flashlight on the handle and lock of the door to the annex. But there was no sign of any attempt at forced entry. He heard Jane’s erratic breathing at his side and wasn’t sure whether it was fear or cold. He unlocked the door and pushed it open. Immediately his eye was drawn to a folded slip of paper on the hall floor. Evidently slipped beneath the door by their visitor. He turned on the light and stooped to pick it up as Jane closed the door behind them. “What is it?” She peered over his shoulder to read it with him as he opened it up. The note was brief and cryptic.
YOU KNOW WHO I AM. WE SAW KERJEAN TOGETHER THIS MORNING. I HAVE HELD MY TONGUE FOR LONG ENOUGH, MONSIEUR. I WILL TELL YOU WHAT I KNOW AS LONG AS YOU PROMISE TO KEEP MY NAME OUT OF IT. I WON’T BE SEEN WITH YOU. MEET ME TOMORROW EVENING, 19:30, AT THE TROU DE L’ENFER. THERE IS A BUNKER BENEATH THE OLD GERMAN GUN EMPLACEMENT. I’LL WAIT FOR YOU THERE.
“Who were you with this morning when you saw Kerjean?” Jane looked up at him, eyes filled with curiosity now.
“The woman who serves at the Maison de la Presse. A skinny woman with short, curly white hair.”
“Madame Blanc? Was it her who pushed the note under the door?”
Enzo raised a skeptical eyesbrow. “Well, someone wants me to think so. What’s the Trou de l’enfer?”
“Just about the most dangerous place on the island. Bad enough in the daylight. But you certainly don’t want to be going out there in the dark.”
“Why is it dangerous?”
“Well, obviously you understand the meaning of Trou de l’enfer.”
He nodded. “Literally, “hole of hell’. Or “hellhole’.”
“It’s an enormous crack in the cliffs on the south side of the island, Enzo. Whether it was broken open by the sea, or by some geological upheaval, I don’t know. But it’s maybe seventy or eighty feet deep, and crumbling all along the edges. At high tide, during stormy weather, the sea rushes into it, throwing spray hundreds of feet into the air. And they say you can hear the roar of it for miles around. The devil himself calling out from hell.”
He saw that she was shivering now, in spite of her coat. The temperature in the annex had plunged, even since the night before. “You’re freezing,” he said, and he put his arms around her as much for comfort as for warmth. She responded, slipping her arms beneath his jacket, and around his waist to hold him tight. He felt her body trembling.
“Don’t go out there,” she said. “I’d feel terrible if anything happened to you?
“Why would anything happen to me?”
“A lot of people have died at the trou in recent years, Enzo. Strayed too close to the edge and had the ground give way beneath them. They’ve roped off all around it now.”
“So if I stay inside the ropes I’ll be fine. And I’m sure you’ll lend me your flashlight.”
She looked up at him, and her face seemed very close to his. He felt her breath on his neck, and smelled the whisky on it. “Of course. But I’d still rather you didn’t go.”
“Nothing ventured, Jane. That’s why I’m here. You do still want to find out who killed your father-in-law?”
“Not at the expense of another life. No risks, Enzo, please. I don’t like the sound of it at all.”
And in truth, neither did Enzo. Everything about the scribbled message in his hand struck discordant notes. He knew perfectly well that it was not Madame Blanc who had put pen to paper to write these words. If she’d had something to say to him she could have said it anywhere, anytime. But someone clearly wanted to get him alone in an isolated and dangerous place, and although it seemed like an obvious trap, he knew that the only way he was likely to find out who had set it was to take the bait.