Throughout, Jeremy had never shut Eyran out of their lives. He could have become jealous and guarded about the relationship, fearing that Stuart might steal some of the limelight of Eyran's love and affection. Yet he seemed to welcome it, as if he understood that somehow it fulfilled something he himself could not provide: a kinship of free spirit and shared likes and dislikes. Jeremy appeared happy in his role as guardian angel, of both of them: warning Stuart about bad business deals and investments in the same way that he would warn Eyran about climbing too high or not going near the electrical sockets. Jeremy didn't feel threatened because he saw them just as two boys playing together, one small, one big.
With the excuse that he lacked time to organize everything, he'd left Amanda to phone his partner at work and his father in Wales; but the truth was, he just couldn't face phoning their father and telling him this news. Jeremy had always been his favourite. Only their mother when she was alive had any time for Stuart; she'd died of a brain haemorrhage two years before Eyran was born, and their father, at the age of sixty two, had then decided to take early retirement and move back from London to his native Wales. Each month either he or Jeremy had dutifully gone up to Wales to visit. But when Jeremy went to California, he sensed that his own family visits were little compensation.
Stuart tried to sleep, but found it impossible until much later, almost three hours after he'd washed down lunch with half a bottle of wine. The sleep was fitful, images of Eyran, Jeremy and their father all jumbled together. Eyran was playing, but the image quickly changed to himself as a child. He was with Jeremy in the derelict warehouse where they played hide and seek, but couldn't find him — and in the end decided that Jeremy must have sneaked out and headed home. But when Stuart got home, their father David asked where Jeremy was. He didn't want to say he didn't know in case his father worried that Jeremy was lost. So he said that he would go and get him, and ran back to the warehouse.
He went looking for Jeremy again along the rows of dusty shelves and empty crates, telling him that their father wanted to see them; but he knew that Jeremy was purposely staying hidden, thinking it was just a trick. He called out Jeremy's name repeatedly, starting to plead, but only the empty echoes of his voice returned. He started to cry, but the tears weren't for Jeremy but for himself, for what he felt certain was some dreadful trick being played on him. How could Jeremy do this, stay lost and let him go home alone to face their father?
Stuart awoke bathed in sweat. The dream had disturbed him, converging so much of the shock and anguish of the day's events. It washed over him without warning, gentle sobbing shaking his body as he turned away towards the plane window to hide his tears. Guilt compounded his sorrow; so many of his thoughts about Jeremy the past few years had been ungenerous. Anger at him taking Eyran so far away. After a few moments he snapped out of it, telling himself it was only a dream.
Though four hours later, all of Stuart's worst fears were realized as he phoned Carlson from LAX to hear that his brother had died just over an hour beforehand. And knowing that he couldn't possibly ask Amanda to do this duty, he had to call their father in Wales and above the noise and activity of the crowded terminal, tell him that his favourite son was dead.
SIX
Dominic drove the DS19 so that Poullain could absorb the teleprinter message which had just arrived headed Palais de Justice, Aix, from the nominated Prosecutor, Pierre Bouteille — declaring that Poullain's jurisdiction had been granted prime investigative control over the case, but he should liaise with Marseille on items such as forensics. Bouteille had already notified an Examining Magistrate, Frederic Naugier, and a commission rogatoire generale had been signed off to empower Poullain's initial investigative stages. A meeting had been arranged for Thursday at 11.30am, two day's time, to establish the full procedural process. The brief teleprinter message gave no options on time: Poullain was being summoned.
Dominic parked at the far end of the courtyard. The air cushioned suspension settled back as they got out of the car. The Rosselot's farmhouse formed an L-shape around the courtyard, with the garage and some farm store rooms coming out at an angle from the main house. Dominic could see a child's bike resting against the wall of the garage. Pink bougainvillaea grew profusely on the same wall, and positioned equidistant between there and the front door was a small wrought iron table and four chairs. Two palm trees at the end of the courtyard separated the house from the broad expanse of the fields beyond, and a mixture of elm and pine bordered the main road and the short approach to the house. The sound of cicadas was heavy in the air. It was 10.30 am and the temperature was already over 80?F.
Variegated ivy grew up and around the front door frame. As they rang the bell, they could hear a faint clanking sound coming from the garage, competing with the rhythm of the cicadas. They waited only a moment before Monique Rosselot opened he door.
At first she was in half shadow as she greeted them and asked them in. Dominic only got a quick impression of dark wavy ringlets, large eyes and a simple beige floral pattern dress — but it was enough to catch his breath slightly. Her eyes looked particularly large and striking in the half light of the porch. They followed her into the kitchen. There was hot coffee on the stove which she offered to them.
'It's freshly made just ten minutes ago. I've already had mine.'
Poullain thanked her and said that he would have black coffee, and Dominic followed suit and said yes, but au lait. The kitchen was large, with a small fireplace in the far corner. A large rough wooden table with chairs was close to the fireplace, making up a breakfast area. Monique waved one hand towards the table, 'Please.' Poullain and Dominic took seats on its far side. Dominic observed her closer as she prepared the coffees.
Louis had been right about Monique Rosselot. A rare beauty. Despite the fact that he should have been prepared by Louis’ description, he'd still found himself taken aback, his mouth suddenly dry. Her wavy dark hair hung half way down her back, her eyes were an intriguing blend of green and hazel, and her mouth was full and generous. It was an open, expressive face with an almost childlike innocence tempering its sensuality, making her look younger than the twenty six years mentioned by Louis. Dominic would have guessed her age at no more than nineteen or twenty, despite the faint dark circles no doubt brought on by the past night of worry. He'd heard that she'd stayed at the hospital till past 4 am. Her skin tone was smooth mocha, the outline of her full breasts pushing against the cotton print dress with her movements. She glanced over at them as she poured the coffees, and Dominic looked hastily away. He felt a momentary flush of embarrassment, as if he'd been an unwelcome voyeur.
Monique brought their cups over and set them down, then looked towards the garage and the continuing clanking sound. ‘I'd better ask Jean-Luc in now. He probably doesn't realize you're here.' She went out and crossed the courtyard.
It struck Dominic that he'd only half believed Louis, whose ratings of women's beauty had become increasingly suspect through the years. That was why he'd been caught by surprise. But he felt immediately uncomfortable with those thoughts. He was here to take notes about her son who was barely clinging to life, the last thing she wanted was some gendarme ogling at her.
Jean-Luc came back in the room ahead of Monique while she made the introductions. By the way she faltered, it was obvious she hadn't remembered their names, and Poullain filled the gaps. Jean Luc took a chair at the far end of the table while Monique poured a coffee for him. His light brown curly hair was deeply receding on both sides, and he was perspiring from his work outside. Some freckles showed on his forehead and arms from the summer sun, his shoulders and forearms were broad from the years of farm work, and there were calluses on his rough hands. But there the farm labourer ended: his eyes were soft and inquisitive and he had a vaguely intellectual air, as if he was an accountant or lecturer who farmed just at the weekends. According to Louis he was in his mid-thirties, but the receding hairline made him look closer to forty, thought Dominic. The contrast in age between him and Monique looked more marked than it was; they could be father and daughter.