Part Two: Nick
Eamon was right.
The ordeal was nearly over for us but just about to start for somebody else.
As they were sorting the formalities of the murder attempt, Sablon received a message that he was to return to his office immediately, on a personal matter. He questioned the young gendarme on the phone who had no details but the chief inspector had been called in from home and was waiting for Sablon in his office.
Sablon gave instructions to the guards at the detention centre then made his way back to his office. The case was now under way and in his opinion solved except for the formalities and Sablon worried that his boss was about to take him off the case. But Sablon had expected this and had already rehearsed his reasons for staying with it until Fabrier was put away.
The chief inspector greeted Sablon and asked him to sit down. He seemed very serious.
Then Sablon experienced an emotion he had not felt for many years.
Fear.
“Inspector Sablon,” he started, “I have some terrible news for you.”
This was not what Sablon was expecting.
“I am sorry to tell you of this, but it appears that your wife has been the victim of a hit and run road accident.”
Sablon remained calm, externally but confused.
“My wife ... is she all right?”
“Sablon ... I’m afraid that she is dead. It was all over in a matter of seconds. I am so very, very sorry.”
He stared at the chief inspector. These words were not new to him. On a number of occasions, he had used them himself to convey bad news to people. He always disliked telling relatives but insisted that if there had to be involvement, he would perform the duty as an honour to those departed.
This made his head spin. There was something stopping this small message from registering with him.
“I’m a professional officer. I can deal with this,” he told himself.
“You need me to make a formal identification. Where is she?”
The chief inspector came over to him and rested his hand on his shoulder.
“I think you know where she is. Come on, I’ll go with you.”
“No,” Sablon said quickly and flatly. “I’d rather be by myself.”
Her battered and bruised face looked horrendous.
She had clearly suffered.
Yet the skin around her neck was undamaged and looked captivating and beautiful as it had always done. Her lifeless red hair looked limp and lay loosely at her side. It had been brushed though she would not have approved. To Sablon, she looked much younger lying there. In death, most of us tend to age but Louisa again looked as young as she had on the day Sablon asked for her hand.
He slipped his hand under the back of her head and brought her lifeless head up to his.
Then the emotions erupted and overwhelmed him.
He cried and whimpered like a dog.
“Oh, my baby, my precious, precious darling. It can’t be like this, it can’t be.”
The years of crying flooded back to him. The turmoil of the miscarriages, the dismissal of God, the sleepless nights, the fear of death, it was all there. And the years of happiness, the love, the passion. the friendship, the understanding. It was draining from Sablon as he held the lifeless body of his love, the life force which made him get up in the mornings, the hope for the future. It was all dragged from him.
“Wake up, Louisa.