HE SPENT ANOTHER HOUR GOING OVER POSSIBLE HIDING PLACES. He knew he should never have left her. Rosa was a mischievous child, subject to all kinds of whims and fancies. She might even now be hiding from him, as she had often hidden during his first weeks on the farm. All this might easily be her idea of a joke. But as time passed and Rosa was nowhere to be found, he began to consider other options. It was all too easy, for example, to imagine her climbing the banks of the Tannes and sliding in, being taken downriver for a couple of kilometres to be washed up against a mudbank, or even as far as Les Marauds. Easy, too, to imagine her simply wandering off down the road to Lansquenet, perhaps being picked up by some stranger in a car.
Some stranger? But there were no strangers in Lansquenet. Everyone knew everyone else. Doors were left unlocked. Unless… Suddenly he remembered Patrice, Marise’s stalker from her Paris days. Surely not – in seven years. But that would explain many things. Her reluctance to come into the village. Her refusal to leave the place which had become a safe haven for her. Her fierce protectiveness of Rosa. Could Patrice have somehow traced them to Lansquenet? Had he been watching the farm, waiting for an opportunity to make his move? Could he be one of the villagers themselves, keeping close, biding his time? The idea was ridiculous, pure comic-book fiction; the kind of thing he himself might have written, aged fourteen, on a lazy afternoon by the canal. All the same he felt his chest contract at the thought. He imagined Patrice looking a little like Zeth, grown taller and meaner with age, his tribal cheeks thinner, his eyes mad and clever. Zeth, with a real shotgun this time, waiting at the gate with that look of mean appraisal in his eyes. It was ridiculous but it seemed very possible then, a logical conclusion to the rest of that summer, to Joe’s final disappearance, to the way events had slipped back relentlessly towards that last October and to Pog Hill Lane. No more ridiculous, in any case, than the rest of it.
He thought of taking the car, but rejected the idea. Rosa might be hiding in a bush or by the roadside, too easy to miss for even a slow driver. Instead he walked along the road towards Lansquenet, stopping occasionally to call her name. He looked in ditches and behind trees. He detoured to a welcoming duckpond, which might possibly have tempted an inquisitive child, then to a deserted barn. But there was no sign of her. Finally, on reaching the village, he tried his last realistic option. He made for Mireille’s house.
The first thing he noticed on arrival was the car parked in front: a long grey Mercedes, with a smoked-glass windscreen and hire-car plates. A gangster’s car, he thought, or that of a game-show host. Heart pounding in sudden realization, Jay made for the door. Without pausing to knock, he opened it, calling harshly, ‘Rosa?’
She was sitting on the landing in her orange jumper and jeans, looking at an album of photographs. Her Wellingtons were parked by the door. She looked up as Jay called her name, and grinned. Relief almost brought him to his knees.
‘What did you think you were playing at? I’ve been looking everywhere for you. How did you get here?’
Rosa looked at him, unabashed. ‘But your friend came to fetch me. Your English friend.’
‘Where is she?’ Jay could feel the relief washing away into black rage. ‘Where the fuck is she?’
‘Jay, darling.’ Kerry was standing in the kitchen doorway, very much at home with a glass of wine in one hand. ‘That’s hardly the kind of language you want to be using in front of a child in your care.’ She gave one of her winsome smiles. Behind her stood Mireille, monumental in her black house-dress.
‘I called to have another word with you, but you’d gone out,’ explained Kerry sweetly. ‘Rosa answered the door. She and I have been having a lovely talk, haven’t we, Rosa?’ This last utterance was in French, presumably to include Mireille, who stood wordlessly behind her. ‘I have to say you’ve been frightfully secretive about everything, Jay darling. Poor Madame Faizande had absolutely no idea.’
Jay glanced at Mireille, who was watching, hands crossed over her enormous bosom.
‘Kerry,’ he began. She gave another of her hard, brilliant smiles.
‘Charming reunion,’ she remarked. ‘You know, I’m beginning to understand what you see in this place. So many secrets. So many fascinating characters. Madame d’Api, for example. Madame Faizande has been telling me all about her. Not quite the way she comes across in your book, though.’
Jay looked upstairs at Rosa. ‘Come here, Rosa,’ he said quietly. ‘Time to go home.’
‘You’re very popular here, by all accounts,’ said Kerry. ‘I imagine you’ll be quite the local hero when Pastures New takes off. Give the place a boost.’
Jay ignored her. ‘Rosa,’ he said again. The child sighed theatrically and stood up.
‘Are we really going to be on television?’ queried Rosa smartly, stepping into her Wellingtons. ‘Maman and you and everyone? We’ve got a television at home. I like Cocoricoboy and Nos Amis Les Animaux. But Maman doesn’t let me watch Cinéma de Minuit.’ She made a face. ‘Too much kissing.’
Jay took her hand. ‘No-one’s going to be on television,’ he told her.
‘Oh.’
‘I don’t think you’ll have the option,’ remarked Kerry blandly. ‘I have the makings of an excellent programme already, with or without you. The artist, his influences, you know the thing. Forget Peter Mayle. Before you know it people will be flocking here to Jay Mackintosh Country. You really ought to be grateful.’
‘Please, Kerry.’
‘Oh, for Christ’s sake! Anyone would think I had a gun to your head. Anyone else would give their right arm for this kind of free publicity!’
‘Not me.’
She laughed. ‘I always did have to do all the work myself,’ she remarked cheerily. ‘Meetings, interviews. Getting you to the right kind of parties. Pulling strings. And now you’re turning your nose up at a terrific opportunity – for what? Grow up, sweetheart. No-one finds gauche endearing any more.’
She sounded so like Nick that, for a moment, Jay had the dreadful conviction that they were in it together, that they’d planned it between them.
‘I don’t want people rushing here,’ he said. ‘I don’t want tourists and burger bars and souvenir shops springing up in Lansquenet. You know what that kind of publicity does to a place.’
Kerry shrugged. ‘Seems to me that’s exactly what this place needs,’ she said reasonably. ‘It looks half dead.’ She scrutinized her nails for a second, frowning. ‘Anyway, it’s hardly up to you to decide, is it? I don’t see anyone turning business away.’
She was right, of course. That was the worst of it. The momentum sweeps everything away in front of it, welcome or not. He imagined Lansquenet, like Pog Hill, relegated to the growing ranks of things which only existed in the past.
‘Not here. It’s not going to happen here.’
Kerry’s laughter followed him down the street.
61
MARISE ARRIVED AT SEVEN AS USUAL, CARRYING A BOTTLE OF wine and a closed wicker basket. She had washed her hair, and for the first time since he’d known her she was wearing a long red skirt with her black sweater. It made her look different, gypsylike, and there was a touch of colour on her lips. Her eyes were shining.
‘I feel like celebrating,’ she announced, putting the bottle on the table. ‘I’ve brought some cheese and foie gras and nut bread. There’s a cake, too, and some almond biscuits. And some candles.’
She brought out two brass candlesticks from the hamper and stood them on the table.
Then she fixed a pair of candles into the sockets.
‘It looks nice, doesn’t it?’ she said. ‘I can’t remember when we last had dinner by candlelight.’