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Histoires De Luna

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Blackmail


The sad return to our car, back along the track we came up earlier, is accompanied only by the sound of our footsteps. Once on board, I can’t bear the tension any more, I break the silence.

'Well that was a crap trick.'

'You know why they did it, don't you?'

'It doesn’t take a genius.'

I was beginning to get a headache, feeling tired, like I've been for months.

'Perhaps they hoped for an instant confession?'

Roux pats Aubert on the shoulder,

'Stop here.'

We are close to a bistrot, under the shade the waiter is pulling the chairs and tables inside, it’s already almost midnight.

'Would you like a coffee, Corinne?'

'A coffee would be fine.'

I'm lying, I just want to go home and forget everything. Resume book that I left open on the dining-room table, and finish the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that I’d left in the fridge. I just want normal things that don’t stink of blood and mud.

The waiter lets us in, although it’s closing time. The restaurant smells of bleach and wine, with wooden benches and tables, it's colder inside than out. We sit at a table by the window. Roux sips his Americano, turning the cup in his hands, without taking his eyes off me, though he seems not really to see me.

'Why do they think that it was her husband?'

'First, no one has seen Bejart with his wife and child. All those who’ve come forward to testify they say they saw him alone.'

'It’s easier to remember a father trying desperately to find his wife and daughter, not so easy to recall who was in a family having a picnic.'

'Quite. But the witness statements, so far, go in one direction only.'

He’s tapping his lips with the edge of his spoon.

'Second, there was blood in the trunk of his car.'

'Thierry said that the woman was killed where they found her, he doesn’t usually say such things off the top off his head.'

'The blood of the youngster. Just a few traces, badly washed. The father couldn’t explain.'

'And then?'

'Bejart beat his wife. Three reports to the local police of screams being heard by neighbors. She was hospitalized a month ago with a broken nasal septum. She said she’d fallen in the kitchen.'

I feel the headache increasing, the more we talk about this story the more it seems to me to get to me.

'So, all square. Why the fuck am I here?'

'Think about it. The woman showed no sign of defending herself.'

'She knew her husband was violent, yet she turned her back on him and didn’t try to run away ... it's strange, I agree with you, Doctor, but it’s not enough to clear him. There may be a thousand explanations.'

'How many murders that could be called psychopathic or antisocial have you had to attend to, Corinne?'

'Quite a few.'

'How many of them who’ve killed their family have confessed in the end?'

'Some have never done.'

'But there was something about them that was telling you they were guilty, although they strenuously denied it?'

'Lying is difficult. But feelings don’t make a good impression in the forensic report.'

'And they don’t stand up in court ... But their reactions are not entirely natural. They say the wrong thing, make a joke when they should cry, or weep when they should be angry. Even those who’ve obliterated their memory of their murderous act leave transparent gaps. '

Roux remains silent for a bit, then asks,

'Did you notice anything about Bejart when he saw his wife?'

I massage my temples resting my elbows on the table. What is happening to me?

'No. But I didn’t speak to him. I only saw him squirming in the mud.'

'I observed the first interrogation, when we still didn’t know anything. He was not lying.'

'All right. Then he is the wrong man. Sooner or later Saintcolombe and D'Alembert will twig, and they’ll find the right one.'

Roux is still staring at me, almost longingly.

'And the girl?'

'Do you think she's alive?'

'I think there's a chance. If the father is innocent, the girl was taken away by the murderer. And for blood in her father’s car- trunk, there could be another explanation.'

'Unless she’s fallen into a ditch ...'

'We’d have already found her, how far can a girl get without shoes around here?'

'Saintcolombe will be looking anyway, he’s not a complete fool.'

'Saintcolombe and D'Alembert have their explanation, pre-packaged. What are the chances that any new evidence that doesn’t match up will be taken into account? In the short term, not in a week or a month.'

'Very few, I admit.'

'And the girl - what will happen to her in the meantime?'

'Does she matter?'

Roux makes a face,

'I'm not a robot.'

'But you’re a fool. You became head of Mobile because you were a good cop, but also because you know how to play the game. And now you’re poking your nose in someone else’s investigation that’s not going well.'

'I never said that I'd be sniffing around.'

'Fuck! It’s me you want to throw to the wolves?'

'Yes.'

answers Roux, without betraying any emotion.

I’ve argued many times with Roux in the past, sometimes we’ve even had a fight with a lot of screaming and slamming doors. But I’ve never felt I was being treated this way.

'You might have spared me the journey!'

'You said you want to resign - then you have nothing to lose. And you could do a good deed for that lassie.'

I cannot sit any longer, I jump up, turn towards the window, looking away from him.

'You owe me, Corinne.'

'Why are you so anxious to get me into such a thing?'

Roux sighs,

'Do you know who’s Chief of the SIC?'

'Sourier? If it is still him.'

'He’ll be retiring next year. And you know who’s in the front of the queue for that chair now?'

'I couldn’t give a shit.'

'Saintcolombe. And you know who was ahead of him?'

I turn around, looking dismayed.

'You?'

'Me. I took a step down after what happened to you. If it were going to someone who’s worth it, I’d accept that. But Saintcolombe isn’t the right man for the job.'

'So I must screw Saintcolombe for your sake?'

I feel disgusted. I seem to see Roux transformed before my eyes, showing a face that not only have I never seen, but I could never have imagined.

'For your career?'

'If things go well you’ll save a kid. I won’t forget.'

'If she’s still alive, and doesn’t die in the meantime.'

'The fault, quite rightly, will be with those who did the investigation wrong.'

'D'Alembert will resent my interference.'

'Under normal conditions he could suspend you, even sack you. But in your situation, if you don’t break the law, he has no weapons against you. If you say it was your own initiative because Saintcolombe’s a pain in the arse, that would be the end of it.'

I let myself drop on the chair, leaning against the backrest, disgusted with myself and my boss. But on one thing Roux is right, I owe him a debt. I owe it because he was the only one in whose eyes I’d never seen any shadow of suspicion, not a hint of doubt, after the Disaster, only sorrow.

'I act as a private citizen?'

'You’ve always got the card, pull it out when needed. But don’t raise too much dust, if you need anything, hand it on to me.'

'And if I find something?'

'I'll get it discreetly to D'Alembert.'

'Whenever D'Alembert gets the feeling they’re backing the wrong horse ...'

'He’ll change horses.' Roux concludes.

I press my aching head.

'It's impossible, I can’t do it alone.'

Roux hesitates, but I know he’s got an answer, he’s just bluffing, he’s prepared everything so he can use me in his miserable war.

'There is someone who could give you a hand. Someone who, if you were a police officer with a career to hang on to, you wouldn’t go anywhere near to, and who probably wouldn’t let you get close anyway. But in your case ... '

'Who?'

Roux lights a cigarette.

'Have you ever heard of ....?'
 
Luna and I are both going to be busy, and each of us away from CF for a few days,
over the coming week, so there'll be a little wait before we learn the answer -
and things get still more mysteriously entangled ;)
Watch this space, chapter 11 should be up around 1st June :)
 
Velut Luna said:
Blackmail


The sad return to our car, back along the track we came up earlier, is accompanied only by the sound of our footsteps. Once on board, I can’t bear the tension any more, I break the silence.

'Well that was a crap trick.'

'You know why they did it, don't you?'

'It doesn’t take a genius.'

I was beginning to get a headache, feeling tired, like I've been for months.

'Perhaps they hoped for an instant confession?'

Roux pats Aubert on the shoulder,

'Stop here.'

We are close to a bistrot, under the shade the waiter is pulling the chairs and tables inside, it’s already almost midnight.

'Would you like a coffee, Corinne?'

'A coffee would be fine.'

I'm lying, I just want to go home and forget everything. Resume book that I left open on the dining-room table, and finish the bottle of Veuve Clicquot that I’d left in the fridge. I just want normal things that don’t stink of blood and mud.

The waiter lets us in, although it’s closing time. The restaurant smells of bleach and wine, with wooden benches and tables, it's colder inside than out. We sit at a table by the window. Roux sips his Americano, turning the cup in his hands, without taking his eyes off me, though he seems not really to see me.

'Why do they think that it was her husband?'

'First, no one has seen Bejart with his wife and child. All those who’ve come forward to testify they say they saw him alone.'

'It’s easier to remember a father trying desperately to find his wife and daughter, not so easy to recall who was in a family having a picnic.'

'Quite. But the witness statements, so far, go in one direction only.'

He’s tapping his lips with the edge of his spoon.

'Second, there was blood in the trunk of his car.'

'Thierry said that the woman was killed where they found her, he doesn’t usually say such things off the top off his head.'

'The blood of the youngster. Just a few traces, badly washed. The father couldn’t explain.'

'And then?'

'Bejart beat his wife. Three reports to the local police of screams being heard by neighbors. She was hospitalized a month ago with a broken nasal septum. She said she’d fallen in the kitchen.'

I feel the headache increasing, the more we talk about this story the more it seems to me to get to me.

'So, all square. Why the fuck am I here?'

'Think about it. The woman showed no sign of defending herself.'

'She knew her husband was violent, yet she turned her back on him and didn’t try to run away ... it's strange, I agree with you, Doctor, but it’s not enough to clear him. There may be a thousand explanations.'

'How many murders that could be called psychopathic or antisocial have you had to attend to, Corinne?'

'Quite a few.'

'How many of them who’ve killed their family have confessed in the end?'

'Some have never done.'

'But there was something about them that was telling you they were guilty, although they strenuously denied it?'

'Lying is difficult. But feelings don’t make a good impression in the forensic report.'

'And they don’t stand up in court ... But their reactions are not entirely natural. They say the wrong thing, make a joke when they should cry, or weep when they should be angry. Even those who’ve obliterated their memory of their murderous act leave transparent gaps. '

Roux remains silent for a bit, then asks,

'Did you notice anything about Bejart when he saw his wife?'

I massage my temples resting my elbows on the table. What is happening to me?

'No. But I didn’t speak to him. I only saw him squirming in the mud.'

'I observed the first interrogation, when we still didn’t know anything. He was not lying.'

'All right. Then he is the wrong man. Sooner or later Saintcolombe and D'Alembert will twig, and they’ll find the right one.'

Roux is still staring at me, almost longingly.

'And the girl?'

'Do you think she's alive?'

'I think there's a chance. If the father is innocent, the girl was taken away by the murderer. And for blood in her father’s car- trunk, there could be another explanation.'

'Unless she’s fallen into a ditch ...'

'We’d have already found her, how far can a girl get without shoes around here?'

'Saintcolombe will be looking anyway, he’s not a complete fool.'

'Saintcolombe and D'Alembert have their explanation, pre-packaged. What are the chances that any new evidence that doesn’t match up will be taken into account? In the short term, not in a week or a month.'

'Very few, I admit.'

'And the girl - what will happen to her in the meantime?'

'Does she matter?'

Roux makes a face,

'I'm not a robot.'

'But you’re a fool. You became head of Mobile because you were a good cop, but also because you know how to play the game. And now you’re poking your nose in someone else’s investigation that’s not going well.'

'I never said that I'd be sniffing around.'

'Fuck! It’s me you want to throw to the wolves?'

'Yes.'

answers Roux, without betraying any emotion.

I’ve argued many times with Roux in the past, sometimes we’ve even had a fight with a lot of screaming and slamming doors. But I’ve never felt I was being treated this way.

'You might have spared me the journey!'

'You said you want to resign - then you have nothing to lose. And you could do a good deed for that lassie.'

I cannot sit any longer, I jump up, turn towards the window, looking away from him.

'You owe me, Corinne.'

'Why are you so anxious to get me into such a thing?'

Roux sighs,

'Do you know who’s Chief of the SIC?'

'Sourier? If it is still him.'

'He’ll be retiring next year. And you know who’s in the front of the queue for that chair now?'

'I couldn’t give a shit.'

'Saintcolombe. And you know who was ahead of him?'

I turn around, looking dismayed.

'You?'

'Me. I took a step down after what happened to you. If it were going to someone who’s worth it, I’d accept that. But Saintcolombe isn’t the right man for the job.'

'So I must screw Saintcolombe for your sake?'

I feel disgusted. I seem to see Roux transformed before my eyes, showing a face that not only have I never seen, but I could never have imagined.

'For your career?'

'If things go well you’ll save a kid. I won’t forget.'

'If she’s still alive, and doesn’t die in the meantime.'

'The fault, quite rightly, will be with those who did the investigation wrong.'

'D'Alembert will resent my interference.'

'Under normal conditions he could suspend you, even sack you. But in your situation, if you don’t break the law, he has no weapons against you. If you say it was your own initiative because Saintcolombe’s a pain in the arse, that would be the end of it.'

I let myself drop on the chair, leaning against the backrest, disgusted with myself and my boss. But on one thing Roux is right, I owe him a debt. I owe it because he was the only one in whose eyes I’d never seen any shadow of suspicion, not a hint of doubt, after the Disaster, only sorrow.

'I act as a private citizen?'

'You’ve always got the card, pull it out when needed. But don’t raise too much dust, if you need anything, hand it on to me.'

'And if I find something?'

'I'll get it discreetly to D'Alembert.'

'Whenever D'Alembert gets the feeling they’re backing the wrong horse ...'

'He’ll change horses.' Roux concludes.

I press my aching head.

'It's impossible, I can’t do it alone.'

Roux hesitates, but I know he’s got an answer, he’s just bluffing, he’s prepared everything so he can use me in his miserable war.

'There is someone who could give you a hand. Someone who, if you were a police officer with a career to hang on to, you wouldn’t go anywhere near to, and who probably wouldn’t let you get close anyway. But in your case ... '

'Who?'

Roux lights a cigarette.

'Have you ever heard of ....?'
Click to expand...
Dr Roux is a really nasty piece of work. :mad:

There isn't much to choose between him and Saintcolomb. :mad:

But I'll curb my emotions till 1st June. :cool:
 

:eek::eek: SCARY!!! :eek::eek:​
 
Before


The young couple at the top table are talking rather loudly. They're not accustomed to luxury, but they’ve chosen to have dinner here to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. She’s gazing around at the other tables, looking for any celebrities, he’s trying not to think about the stratospheric bill that’s coming. He knows it will be painful, this restaurant is on the top floor of a boutique where they’d normally fear to tread (oh yeah? In truth she always comes here to sneak a look at the new collections), but he hopes it won’t be quite as painful as some of the prices he can see on the menu. He doesn’t want to ask his wife to be economical in ordering, she’s been looking forward to tonight all week, looking for the right combination among the Zara outfits she’s bought in the sales.


Not far from them, a lone German is eating mixed sushi, he’s reading ‘The Bone Collector’ in English; he’s irritated to discover that his English has deteriorated in recent years, he thinking he should start taking private lessons, although the idea depresses him, he suspects his memory is not what it used to be. He loves sushi and has dinner here once a week, usually alone.


At the big round table near the window, discreetly obscured by white raw cotton curtains, sits a DJ with his girl, his agent, and the owner of a suburban disco-nightclub. They listen to the waiter inquiring about possible allergies before showing them the menu. The DJ is going to answer 'I'm allergic to raw fish', without knowing the waiter hears that joke at least once a day and doesn’t smile anymore. The girl, who’s holding his hand that’s bedecked with rings like Our Lady of Lourdes (everyone around the DJ looks over the top, with tattoos and bleached hair), she’s hoping that this time he’ll stay for the weekend. She’s not his real girlfriend, only the one he calls that when he’s in Paris, but she knows there is a real chemistry between them. After they made love this afternoon, he was open, he laughed and joked, revealing that he was thinking of ditching his agent - would he have told her that if it had been just been a flying fuck?

The agent wasn’t born yesterday, he’s sussed the situation. He’s desperate for a cigarette, he’s decided that after the show they’ll be having a face-to-face, and this has taken away his appetite. The disco owner does not participate much in the conversation, which has become a monologue by DJ, a rant about the new musical trends, he thinks all the DJs on earth put together don’t have a shred of the class of the old guard of rock. The club-owner remains silent, reflecting that he’s shelled out ten thousand Euros in credit because that’s what it costs to fill the place. Meanwhile, he smiles at the girl and thinks she really is a beautiful pussy, with a model-girl’s physique and an innocent look. He can imagine her doing slutty things, with that face. Perhaps he can charm her by proposing to make her the image-model for his club?


At the table near the entrance an elderly couple is waiting for the dessert: green tea ice-cream for him, an blend of whipped cream for her. She’s eaten almost nothing of the previous courses. They were the first to sit in the room, when it was still empty and silent. The husband has asked several times if something was wrong, but she’s just smiled and replied that everything’s fine, except that she’s not got much appetite. They’ve been together for nearly half a century. He was a ministry official before retiring, she’s raised two children who they don’t see now except on religious holidays. She’s put up with his occasional betrayals, now ancient and semi-forgotten, he has endured her moments of emotional fragility. Time has eroded the differences and softened the edges, it’s penetrated them and made them dependent on each other. Now she doesn’t know how to tell him that the test results are not reassuring, there’s undoubtedly a massive tumour. What is more frightening than death is leaving the other alone.


Two tables away, at another round one, sit four Albanian girls and one man, Greek, judging by his profile. The girls are models, the man’s their escort, hired by the agency to watch they don’t get into any shit, to take care of them, help them, keep an eye on them before important fashion shows. So he’s has got them a gram of crack and now the girls are nibbling listlessly at their meals. As for him, he doesn’t like drugs, doesn’t use them, he’d line all the drug-dealers up against the wall. But he knows banning the girls from getting the stuff is useless, if he doesn’t procure it, they’d be getting it from those types hanging around sitting in their Porsche Cayenne in front of their lodgings with powder and bags ready, and if he locked in their room, they’d climb through the window to reach them, and then they’d go crashing out all over the place. He'll give them another gram after dinner, hopefully that’ll be enough. The conversation is fragmentary, the girls only speak broken French, but they giggle a lot. In Albanian they’re speculating on whether he's gay or he’ll take one of them to bed. Both options are wrong, he's not gay, it’s just that he doesn’t fancy models, finds them boring, stupid, and hard to tell one from another. They simply depress him.

The maître guides four Japanese into the room. They represent a company that’s among the big sellers in the West in the oriental style shops, they’ve spent the week meeting local wholesalers. Disheartening experience, it seems that no-one wants anything that departs from the stereotype, from the white tatamis, the futons, lamps made of rice paper; many are surprised that their company does not manufacture katanas to hang on the wall, nor are there any longer samurai in Japan. Tomorrow they’re leaving for Tokyo, and eating fake Japanese sushi was not in their plans, but the director of the emporium invited them to dinner and they could not refuse. They would have preferred a different restaurant, where they could loosen their ties and laugh and drink wine, but that’s how it goes, they’re resigned to it.


The woman who’s sitting at a table alone with her back to the wall keeps her eyes fixed on the entrance. When someone passes in front of her she moves her head so as not to lose sight of it. She hasn’t spoken since she sat down, hasn’t touched the water, hasn’t read the menu of the day. She’s just watching, with one hand on her knee and the other open on the tablecloth. The waiter asks her if she wanted to order, she replies that she’s waiting for someone, bringing her gaze towards him only for a moment. In those eyes the waiter doesn’t see himself reflected, her look went right through him as if he were air, as if he did not exist. He thinks he wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of whoever’s late, the woman does not seem willing to forgive.


At the moment when the woman with the cold stare suddenly jumps up, as the DJ is about to crack his joke, as the German customer is going to turn page one hundred and five of his novel, as the one-year wife is deciding to choose the twenty-course taster menu, as the Japanese businessmen refuse a taste of house sake, as one of the models is starting to get up to go to the ladies for a last snort ....

Time stops.
 
Velut Luna said:
Before


The young couple at the top table are talking rather loudly. They're not accustomed to luxury, but they’ve chosen to have dinner here to celebrate their first wedding anniversary. She’s gazing around at the other tables, looking for any celebrities, he’s trying not to think about the stratospheric bill that’s coming. He knows it will be painful, this restaurant is on the top floor of a boutique where they’d normally fear to tread (oh yeah? In truth she always comes here to sneak a look at the new collections), but he hopes it won’t be quite as painful as some of the prices he can see on the menu. He doesn’t want to ask his wife to be economical in ordering, she’s been looking forward to tonight all week, looking for the right combination among the Zara outfits she’s bought in the sales.


Not far from them, a lone German is eating mixed sushi, he’s reading ‘The Bone Collector’ in English; he’s irritated to discover that his English has deteriorated in recent years, he thinking he should start taking private lessons, although the idea depresses him, he suspects his memory is not what it used to be. He loves sushi and has dinner here once a week, usually alone.


At the big round table near the window, discreetly obscured by white raw cotton curtains, sits a DJ with his girl, his agent, and the owner of a suburban disco-nightclub. They listen to the waiter inquiring about possible allergies before showing them the menu. The DJ is going to answer 'I'm allergic to raw fish', without knowing the waiter hears that joke at least once a day and doesn’t smile anymore. The girl, who’s holding his hand that’s bedecked with rings like Our Lady of Lourdes (everyone around the DJ looks over the top, with tattoos and bleached hair), she’s hoping that this time he’ll stay for the weekend. She’s not his real girlfriend, only the one he calls that when he’s in Paris, but she knows there is a real chemistry between them. After they made love this afternoon, he was open, he laughed and joked, revealing that he was thinking of ditching his agent - would he have told her that if it had been just been a flying fuck?

The agent wasn’t born yesterday, he’s sussed the situation. He’s desperate for a cigarette, he’s decided that after the show they’ll be having a face-to-face, and this has taken away his appetite. The disco owner does not participate much in the conversation, which has become a monologue by DJ, a rant about the new musical trends, he thinks all the DJs on earth put together don’t have a shred of the class of the old guard of rock. The club-owner remains silent, reflecting that he’s shelled out ten thousand Euros in credit because that’s what it costs to fill the place. Meanwhile, he smiles at the girl and thinks she really is a beautiful pussy, with a model-girl’s physique and an innocent look. He can imagine her doing slutty things, with that face. Perhaps he can charm her by proposing to make her the image-model for his club?


At the table near the entrance an elderly couple is waiting for the dessert: green tea ice-cream for him, an blend of whipped cream for her. She’s eaten almost nothing of the previous courses. They were the first to sit in the room, when it was still empty and silent. The husband has asked several times if something was wrong, but she’s just smiled and replied that everything’s fine, except that she’s not got much appetite. They’ve been together for nearly half a century. He was a ministry official before retiring, she’s raised two children who they don’t see now except on religious holidays. She’s put up with his occasional betrayals, now ancient and semi-forgotten, he has endured her moments of emotional fragility. Time has eroded the differences and softened the edges, it’s penetrated them and made them dependent on each other. Now she doesn’t know how to tell him that the test results are not reassuring, there’s undoubtedly a massive tumour. What is more frightening than death is leaving the other alone.


Two tables away, at another round one, sit four Albanian girls and one man, Greek, judging by his profile. The girls are models, the man’s their escort, hired by the agency to watch they don’t get into any shit, to take care of them, help them, keep an eye on them before important fashion shows. So he’s has got them a gram of crack and now the girls are nibbling listlessly at their meals. As for him, he doesn’t like drugs, doesn’t use them, he’d line all the drug-dealers up against the wall. But he knows banning the girls from getting the stuff is useless, if he doesn’t procure it, they’d be getting it from those types hanging around sitting in their Porsche Cayenne in front of their lodgings with powder and bags ready, and if he locked in their room, they’d climb through the window to reach them, and then they’d go crashing out all over the place. He'll give them another gram after dinner, hopefully that’ll be enough. The conversation is fragmentary, the girls only speak broken French, but they giggle a lot. In Albanian they’re speculating on whether he's gay or he’ll take one of them to bed. Both options are wrong, he's not gay, it’s just that he doesn’t fancy models, finds them boring, stupid, and hard to tell one from another. They simply depress him.

The maître guides four Japanese into the room. They represent a company that’s among the big sellers in the West in the oriental style shops, they’ve spent the week meeting local wholesalers. Disheartening experience, it seems that no-one wants anything that departs from the stereotype, from the white tatamis, the futons, lamps made of rice paper; many are surprised that their company does not manufacture katanas to hang on the wall, nor are there any longer samurai in Japan. Tomorrow they’re leaving for Tokyo, and eating fake Japanese sushi was not in their plans, but the director of the emporium invited them to dinner and they could not refuse. They would have preferred a different restaurant, where they could loosen their ties and laugh and drink wine, but that’s how it goes, they’re resigned to it.


The woman who’s sitting at a table alone with her back to the wall keeps her eyes fixed on the entrance. When someone passes in front of her she moves her head so as not to lose sight of it. She hasn’t spoken since she sat down, hasn’t touched the water, hasn’t read the menu of the day. She’s just watching, with one hand on her knee and the other open on the tablecloth. The waiter asks her if she wanted to order, she replies that she’s waiting for someone, bringing her gaze towards him only for a moment. In those eyes the waiter doesn’t see himself reflected, her look went right through him as if he were air, as if he did not exist. He thinks he wouldn’t want to be in the shoes of whoever’s late, the woman does not seem willing to forgive.


At the moment when the woman with the cold stare suddenly jumps up, as the DJ is about to crack his joke, as the German customer is going to turn page one hundred and five of his novel, as the one-year wife is deciding to choose the twenty-course taster menu, as the Japanese businessmen refuse a taste of house sake, as one of the models is starting to get up to go to the ladies for a last snort ....

Time stops.
Click to expand...
Masterful. Sad. Poignant. Deep. Gorgeous. It's a rich golden dessert of prose. I feel I want more, but it's so beautifully complete.:clapping::clapping::clapping::clapping::bdsm-heart:
 
Luna seems to like my little potted plot summaries, I'm happy to help, if helpful they are. :)


The Horror

They drive and then walk up to the Crow’s nest. A pair of sneakers has been found tied to a tree.

That’s how they’d found the body.

The body of Laure Béjart. Decapitated.

Saintcolombe is not pleased to see Corinne, but Roux states that she’s here at his invitation.

The only person up there who seems pleased to see her is Thierry, an undertaker. Corinne asks him why both the SIC and the UCV are there when they should only be involved in serious crime or serial murders respectively, and he replies that it’s because of D’Alembert:

‘They can deal with lost cats, if the magistrates get involved.' (Great line Luna! :))

Thierry observes that Corinne is probably only there to act as a scapegoat in case Saintcolombe fails to get a result. (He doesn't know how right he is...;))

Laure, apparently, was struck from behind by a ‘semi curved’ blade; the first blow probably killed her, but the evidence shows that 2 or 3 blows were required for complete decapitation.

Talking of blows, Corinne and Saintcolombe nearly come to blows as a sickle is discovered; she is sarcastic and he is pompous and dismissive (well deserving of a slap), but Thierry steps in and calms things down.

Meanwhile Martin Béjart has been picked up alive and well, and is brought to the murder scene to gauge his reaction. Does he already know his wife’s body is there? Probably not, but only Luna knows for certain.


Blackmail

Roux has them stop at a Bistro en route back, even though it’s very late.

Béjart is suspected because he wasn’t seen with his family by witnesses, and because there is blood in the boot of his car (“trunk”, sorry, Inglese, no speekee Americano :doh:).

Corinne is bought an Americano (See? I can do neat links, too, Luna! :rolleyes:)

The blood is that of Béjart’s daughter. There is evidence that he was violent towards his wife.

Corinne has a lot of experience of family murders, it is often difficult to get a confession, but Roux doesn’t seem to think Béjart was lying.

Roux is poking his nose into Saintcolombe’s investigation. He freely admits that he will ‘throw Corinne to the wolves’ if it goes wrong.

It turns out that Roux wants to dislodge Saintcolombe as front runner for the post of Chief of the SIC when the current Chief, Sourier, retires next year. It had been Roux in the lead, but Corrine’s ‘disaster’ had also been a setback for his career.

He wants Corinne to undermine Saintcolombe and feed him information about the case so he can pass that on to D’Alembert.

She’ll help, acting in a private capacity, not to save his career, but maybe to save the missing girl, Luciole. As the chapter closes he is about to give her the name of someone who can help her.

Before

Luna takes us back to a busy restaurant. An expensive restaurant. A couple celebrating their first anniversary, (he’s nervous of the prices); a German on his own, reading an English book; a DJ with his ‘girl’, his agent, and a nightclub owner; an elderly couple (she hasn’t told him yet that she has cancer); four Japanese arrive who would prefer not to be in this ‘sushi’ restaurant, they prefer proper Sushi; a Greek man ‘minding’ four Albanian crack-head models; and a woman, anxiously watching the entrance, showing no interest in ordering, very anxious.

An ordinary, everyday restaurant scene, just like in any restaurant in any city.

Then the anxious woman stands up and time stands still….
 
It is complicated for me ...
But I can do it.
Wragg134 said:
Luna seems to like my little potted plot summaries, I'm happy to help, if helpful they are. :)


The Horror

They drive and then walk up to the Crow’s nest. A pair of sneakers has been found tied to a tree.

That’s how they’d found the body.

The body of Laure Béjart. Decapitated.

Saintcolombe is not pleased to see Corinne, but Roux states that she’s here at his invitation.

The only person up there who seems pleased to see her is Thierry, an undertaker. Corinne asks him why both the SIC and the UCV are there when they should only be involved in serious crime or serial murders respectively, and he replies that it’s because of D’Alembert:

‘They can deal with lost cats, if the magistrates get involved.' (Great line Luna! :))

Thierry observes that Corinne is probably only there to act as a scapegoat in case Saintcolombe fails to get a result. (He doesn't know how right he is...;))

Laure, apparently, was struck from behind by a ‘semi curved’ blade; the first blow probably killed her, but the evidence shows that 2 or 3 blows were required for complete decapitation.

Talking of blows, Corinne and Saintcolombe nearly come to blows as a sickle is discovered; she is sarcastic and he is pompous and dismissive (well deserving of a slap), but Thierry steps in and calms things down.

Meanwhile Martin Béjart has been picked up alive and well, and is brought to the murder scene to gauge his reaction. Does he already know his wife’s body is there? Probably not, but only Luna knows for certain.


Blackmail

Roux has them stop at a Bistro en route back, even though it’s very late.

Béjart is suspected because he wasn’t seen with his family by witnesses, and because there is blood in the boot of his car (“trunk”, sorry, Inglese, no speekee Americano :doh:).

Corinne is bought an Americano (See? I can do neat links, too, Luna! :rolleyes:)

The blood is that of Béjart’s daughter. There is evidence that he was violent towards his wife.

Corinne has a lot of experience of family murders, it is often difficult to get a confession, but Roux doesn’t seem to think Béjart was lying.

Roux is poking his nose into Saintcolombe’s investigation. He freely admits that he will ‘throw Corinne to the wolves’ if it goes wrong.

It turns out that Roux wants to dislodge Saintcolombe as front runner for the post of Chief of the SIC when the current Chief, Sourier, retires next year. It had been Roux in the lead, but Corrine’s ‘disaster’ had also been a setback for his career.

He wants Corinne to undermine Saintcolombe and feed him information about the case so he can pass that on to D’Alembert.

She’ll help, acting in a private capacity, not to save his career, but maybe to save the missing girl, Luciole. As the chapter closes he is about to give her the name of someone who can help her.

Before

Luna takes us back to a busy restaurant. An expensive restaurant. A couple celebrating their first anniversary, (he’s nervous of the prices); a German on his own, reading an English book; a DJ with his ‘girl’, his agent, and a nightclub owner; an elderly couple (she hasn’t told him yet that she has cancer); four Japanese arrive who would prefer not to be in this ‘sushi’ restaurant, they prefer proper Sushi; a Greek man ‘minding’ four Albanian crack-head models; and a woman, anxiously watching the entrance, showing no interest in ordering, very anxious.

An ordinary, everyday restaurant scene, just like in any restaurant in any city.

Then the anxious woman stands up and time stands still….
Click to expand...
 
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