‘He was one of the prisoners,’ she whispered to Marianne, so that Liesl couldn’t hear. ‘I couldn’t work out if I knew him or not.’
‘What, are you certain?’ Marianne said quickly.
‘Not at the time. He was at the far end of the platform, half covered by a blanket, and there was someone in the way.’ She looked at the black and white image. ‘But, now I’m sure. Look.’ She frowned. ‘I should have said something. Told him I’d get a message to Liesl and Lucie, at the very least.’
‘Don’t blame yourself,’ Marianne whispered. ‘It might not even have been him anyway. For now, let’s get Liesl out of here.’ She put her arm around the girl’s shoulders and raised her voice. ‘We’ll try to find out what’s happened to Max. But for now we’re going to take you home with us. You can’t stay here.’
Liesl stared blankly at her for a moment, but she allowed arianne to steer her out of the bedroom and into the living room. She stopped for a moment, staring at the defaced walls and the devastation, then carried on to the hall without saying a word.
Sandrine crouched down and picked up one of Liesl’s cardigans, then hung it on the back of a chair. ‘I’ll stay here and clean up.’
‘All right,’ Marianne said, dropping her voice again. ‘But be quick. It’s possible they’ll come back.’
Chapter 48
TARASCON
The elderly couple stood in front of a table at the Café Bernadac in the Place de la Samaritaine in Tarascon.
‘Please, Achille,’ Pierre Déjean said again.
Achille Pujol looked at his beer, cloudy yellow, rough, popular in the Vicdessos valley, then put the glass down on the table. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip, caught in the grey hairs of his moustache. He looked every inch the retired police inspector he was. Solid, strong, steadfast and, at this precise moment, immensely worried.
‘I don’t do that sort of thing any more,’ he said.
‘Just listen to us,’ Madame Déjean said quickly, ‘that’s all we’re asking. If you still don’t think you can help, then say no.’
Pujol looked into the defeated face of his friend, then drained his glass and stood up. ‘We can’t talk here.’
Between semi-retiring from the police force and the outbreak of war, Pujol had spent a few fruitless years as a private detective. There hadn’t been much call for his services in Tarascon. Disputes tended to be sorted in the old ways and his only proper client had been the Péchiney-Sabart aluminium factory in the mouth of the valley a few miles away, keen to stop pilfering. After that, the director of the largest of the region’s plaster producers had hired him to investigate losses from his Arignac factory. He’d also had a case of shoplifting from the épicerie Rousse here in the town. The work hadn’t satisfied him and he’d resigned after five years to devote himself to his garden and his hunting.
The Déjeans followed him across the square and into a three-storey house at the end of the row. Pujol pushed open the front door and led the sombre party along a corridor, chill despite the heat of the afternoon. He let himself into a small, dark room on the ground floor with a latch key.
‘I’ve been using this as an office,’ he said, by way of apology. ‘Take a seat.’
Pierre and Célestine Déjean perched themselves on the edges of their chairs, Célestine clutching her felt hat tight in her lap.
‘We want you to look into it,’ Pierre said, placing his broad pink hands on his knees. ‘Investigate Antoine’s disappearance.’
Pujol shook his head. ‘You’re saying he’s disappeared, but you don’t know that for certain. All you do know is Antoine didn’t arrive when he said he would.’
‘He never lets us down, not if he says he’s coming.’
‘Things are different now, Célestine,’ Pujol said quietly. ‘You know that.’
‘He would have sent a message,’ she said stubbornly.
Her husband cleared his throat and spat a thread of tobacco to the floor. Then he fixed Pujol with a look that carried the long story of their friendship – in the army at Verdun as young men, as neighbours in Tarascon in times of peace, their lives lived side by side in the valleys of the Ariège.
Pujol pulled his notepad towards him. ‘When were you expecting him?’
‘This weekend just gone. He works in Carcassonne. He’s doing well.’
Pujol made a note. ‘What’s Antoine do for a living? Didn’t he want to train as a teacher? History, was it?’
‘Latin and Greek,’ Célestine said, unable to keep the pride from her voice, ‘but of course there’s no call for it these days.’
‘It’s a good job,’ Pierre said firmly. ‘He’s a representative for Artozouls, fishing tackle, hunting equipment, that kind of thing.’
Pujol nodded. ‘I’ve heard of it.’
‘He told us he’d be coming this way for work, so he’d pay a visit. It was Célestine’s birthday last Sunday.’
‘He’s a good boy,’ she murmured. ‘If he said he’d be here, he’d be here.’
Inwardly Pujol marvelled at her naïvety. Even with all the correct papers, travelling took time these days. The buses that ran on the foul-smelling gasoline often broke down, the railway timetable was unreliable. Then again, who was to say. There might be more to it.
‘How long was Antoine intending to stay?’ he asked.
‘A few days,’ Pierre replied. ‘At least, he asked me to look out his old hiking equipment. You know, boots, ropes. I assumed he was hoping to get out into the mountains. Not a proper expedition, but you know how keen he is on climbing.’
‘I do,’ Pujol said darkly.
He remembered the numerous occasions in the past when he’d had to warn Antoine and his friends off trespassing in the caves of Lombrives and Ussat. Treasure-hunting. That German boy, Otto Rahn, with his peculiar ideas. Took over the inn for a while, Pujol seemed to remember. Good friends, they were, the German boy and Antoine.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Achille,’ Pierre said, ‘but that was years ago. He did well in the war. Done well for himself since.’
‘I know,’ said Pujol.
‘We didn’t worry when he failed to arrive,’ Célestine said quietly. ‘Not at first. I know you think we don’t understand how things are, Achille, but we know well enough. But it’s been three days and still no message.’ Her hands were clawing the material of her skirt. ‘If he couldn’t come, he’d find a way to let us know.’
Pujol sighed. ‘What exactly do you want me to do?’
‘Speak to your contacts in the police,’ Pierre said. ‘In case there’s been an accident. Any reports of . . . anything.’
Achille met his old friend’s eye and realised there was something Déjean wanted to say about his son, but couldn’t with his wife listening.
‘Célestine,’ he said lightly, ‘there’s a bottle of wine in the kitchen. Would you mind fetching it? I think we could all do with something.’
She was reluctant to leave, but she did what he asked. Pujol waited until she had gone out of the room before continuing.
‘What’s going on, Pierre?’
Monsieur Déjean glanced at the door, then dropped his voice.
‘I know he was involved in something, Achille. I don’t know what. Better not to ask questions. The thing is, a week ago, a man came looking for Antoine. Foreign. Célestine doesn’t know.’
Pujol’s attention sharpened. ‘Go on.’
‘German, though his French was excellent. Said he was a friend.’
‘He didn’t leave a name?’
‘No.’
‘Or say what he wanted?’
Déjean shook his head.
‘What did he look like?’
‘Northern skin, medium height, formal. And a ring, showy.’
Pujol’s eyes narrowed. ‘SS?’
‘I don’t know. Could be.’ Pierre shrugged. ‘A neighbour was going to Carcassonne to visit her daughter, so I asked her to warn Antoine that someone had been sniffing around.?
??
‘Did she manage to see him?’
Pierre nodded. ‘And this is what is odd. When she told him a man had been looking for him, Antoine asked if it was an old man. If he was wearing a pale suit.’
Pujol’s hand froze in mid sentence. ‘Why did he ask that?’
‘She didn’t say, only that when she said he wasn’t, Antoine lost interest.’
‘Was he worried?’
‘Thoughtful more like, that’s the word she used.’
‘You’d told her to say the visitor was German?’
‘Yes.’
Pujol scribbled a few more words on his pad. ‘Anything else?’
‘No.’
Now that Célestine wasn’t in the room, Pierre made no attempt to hide his fear. In five minutes, he seemed to have aged fifty years. Pujol’s heart went out to him.
‘I’m worried, Achille,’ he said, his voice suddenly cracking.
‘Antoine’s a good lad.’
‘But always one to take risks. Act first, think later.’
‘It’s seen him through so far, Pierre,’ Pujol said gently, wanting to give what crumbs of comfort he could.
The truth was, Pujol didn’t like the sound of it. Antoine was the sort of young man who would be involved with the Resistance. Rightly, in Pujol’s opinion. He was brave and moral, but the type to think he was invulnerable.
‘I’ll ask around,’ he said quietly. ‘Of course I can.’
Pierre’s shoulders sagged with relief. ‘I hope it’s nothing,’ he said. ‘That we’re making a fuss about nothing, but . . .’
‘I’m not promising anything,’ Achille said. ‘But I’ll do my best.’
The door swung open and Célestine came in carrying the wine and glasses. Pujol wondered how long she’d been listening outside.
‘Have you finished talking behind my back?’ she said, though there was no complaint in her voice.
‘Celsie,’ murmured her husband.
‘Are you going to help us?’ she said, looking Pujol in the eye.
‘I’ll do what I can, Célestine,’ he said.
She held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded. ‘We’ll drink to that, then.’
After the Déjeans had left, Pujol emptied the remainder of the bottle into his glass, sat back in his chair and looked over the notes he’d written. He drew a ring around a couple of the words in the middle of the page, then ringed them again.
‘I wonder . . .’
He couldn’t be certain, especially at three steps removed, but he’d bet his last sou that when Antoine mentioned an old man in a pale suit, he’d been referring to Audric Baillard. He thought for a moment, then ripped a clean sheet of paper from his notepad and began to write a letter.
Chapter 49
CARCASSONNE
Sandrine cleared up all she could, then packed a case for Liesl and left. She walked through the Bastide, delivering the remaining prisoners’ letters on her way back to the rue du Palais.
She put her head round the door of the salon to tell Marianne she was home, then went upstairs to the bathroom to wash and change her clothes.
‘I never thought I’d get rid of the smell,’ she said when she came back down. ‘Not that cold water and what passes for soap help much.’
She sat down in the armchair and crossed her legs. ‘I couldn’t do anything about the graffiti on the walls – it will need painting over – but I salvaged most of the clothes and photographs.’
Marianne nodded. ‘Well done.’
‘Where is Liesl?’
‘Resting.’ Marianne sighed. ‘Lucie’s still here too. Marieta said she’s been asleep most of the day. It must have been something she ate, she didn’t drink much wine last night.’
‘How is she? Liesl, I mean.’
‘Not so bad, given the circumstances. She’s tougher than she looks.’ Marianne sighed. ‘Of course, she’s been through a lot already.’
‘Did you tell her I thought I saw Max?’
‘No, I thought we should wait until we were sure. I telephoned Suzanne, though, and asked her to go to the police station.’ She sighed again. ‘She’s already been there once today, trying to find out what’s happened to César Sanchez.’
‘Any luck?’
Marianne shook her head. ‘No, which could be good news or not. Impossible to say.’
Sandrine thought for a moment. ‘Will they tell Suzanne about Max, given she’s not a relative?’
‘Whenever a train leaves Carcassonne,’ Marianne said, ‘the police are supposed to post a list of names of prisoners being deported and where they’re being sent.’
‘Do they?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Did you tell Suzanne what happened to Liesl?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about Lucie?’
‘She was asleep,’ said Marianne, ‘which I admit was a relief. The news – if it’s true – will hit her hard.’
She stood up. ‘Do you want something to drink? You look all in.’
Sandrine smiled. ‘Please. Whatever there is.’
She shut her eyes and leant back against the chair, as exhausted as she’d ever felt in her life.
‘Here you go,’ said Marianne, handing her a glass of red wine. ‘I think you’ve earned it, don’t you?’
‘Thank you.’
Sandrine took a sip of wine, then another, feeling the immediate effects of the alcohol warming her blood. Despite the temperature, she was cold. Tiredness, she supposed.
Marianne returned to her usual spot on the sofa. ‘I’ve just had a rather peculiar exchange with Marieta, who asked, apropos of nothing, if we might be going to Coustaussa this summer. Extraordinary! As if we can suddenly up sticks and go like we used to.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t imagine what’s brought that on.’
‘I can,’ Sandrine said. ‘I meant to tell you about a conversation we had yesterday, but then I saw Raoul and it put everything else out of my mind.’
‘Yes,’ Marianne said wryly.
Sandrine smiled, then explained what had happened in the garden. ‘The thing is, I’d never seen Marieta so rattled before. Having slept on it, I’m sure she’s now decided she wants to see Monsieur Baillard in person rather than rely on the post.’
‘How odd,’ Marianne said. ‘And you’re sure “Baillard” was the name Déjean said?’
‘Pretty sure. Have you ever heard of him?’
‘I think Papa might have mentioned him once or twice.’
For a while the girls sat in silence. Sandrine sipped her wine and allowed herself, for almost the first time in the headlong day, to think about Raoul.
She felt a wave of exhilaration, followed fast on its heels by a suffocating thought that she might not see him again for weeks, months.
‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ she said quietly.
‘Raoul?’
Sandrine nodded.
Marianne paused. ‘Honestly, darling, I don’t know. You saw what it was like today, what happened to Liesl. Things are getting worse.’
The sound of a door opening upstairs brought the conversation to a halt. Marianne got up and went into the hall.
‘It’s Liesl,’ she said, then raised her voice and called up the stairs. ‘We’re in here. Come down when you’re ready.’
A few moments later, the girl appeared. She was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes, but she seemed calm.
‘How are you feeling?’ Marianne asked, patting the sofa beside her.
‘A little better,’ she said in her quiet voice. She sat down.
‘Would you like something to drink? Are you hungry?’
‘Nothing, thank you.’
‘Do you want to tell us what happened?’ Sandrine said. ‘Or would you rather not?’
‘No, I don’t mind.’
Liesl took a deep breath, then began to talk in a steady, clear voice. With no self-pity at all. The more she heard, the more angry Sandrine became.
‘We should re
port them,’ she said fiercely, when Liesl had finished.
‘Max has tried to report them, many times,’ Liesl said. ‘The police always say there’s nothing they can do.’
‘But this isn’t just name-calling, throwing stones – though that’s bad enough. This is criminal.’
‘I could hear them breaking things, smashing the windows, ruining everything,’ Liesl said quietly, ‘but I didn’t see them. I couldn’t identify them.’
‘It’s beyond belief that this could happen in the middle of the day,’ said Sandrine. ‘What about the neighbours? Didn’t they notice?’
From the look on Liesl’s face, it was clear the neighbours had heard, but had decided not to intervene all the same.
‘I cleared up as much as I could,’ Sandrine said, now disillusioned as well as angry. ‘It was pretty foul, but apart from the graffiti, it wasn’t as bad as it looked at first glance. I brought what I could back with me.’
‘My camera?’ Liesl said quickly. ‘Max bought it for me. It’s a Furet.’
‘Yes, I got that. The thugs had turned the table over and the camera was underneath, so they missed it,’ Sandrine said. ‘I’ll fetch it.’
She went out into the hall. Someone was moving around on the first floor. She heard the chain flushing in the bathroom, then footsteps on the landing. Sandrine caught her breath. Even after two years, she half expected to see her father standing at the top of the stairs. His glasses in one hand and his newspaper in the other. She smiled. He’d never gone anywhere without his newspaper.
She stared into the empty space for a moment, the light fading from her face. She sighed, then picked up the case with Liesl’s things and went back into the salon.
‘Lucie’s up,’ she said to Marianne.
‘Lucie’s here? She’ll know where Max is,’ Liesl said with a spark of hope. ‘Have you asked her?’
‘Asked me what?’
Lucie looked dreadful. Pale, her lips cracked and tiny blue veins on her eyelids. She hadn’t even brushed her hair, let alone waved it, and her dress was crumpled.
‘Lucie!’ Sandrine blurted, before she could check herself.