‘I’m a neighbour,’ Marc said. ‘I saw you ring the bell. Can I help?’
Out of breath from running, Marc was still clutching his pen. The man looked at him with some interest and even, Marc sensed, hope.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I wanted to see Pierre Relivaux, but he wasn’t there.’
‘Try again this evening,’ Marc said. ‘He’ll be back at about six or seven.’
‘Apparently not. His cleaner said he was away for a few days and she didn’t know where he was going, or when he’d be back. Maybe Friday, maybe Saturday. She couldn’t say for sure. It’s very inconvenient, because I’ve travelled from Geneva.’
‘If you like,’ said Marc, who was anxious not to let his first minor incident fizzle out, ‘I could try to ask around. I’m sure I could find out where he’s gone.’
The man hesitated. He looked as if he was wondering why Marc was so concerned with his affairs.
‘Have you got a phonecard?’ Marc asked.
The man nodded and followed him, without making any serious objection, towards the phone box on the corner.
‘We don’t have a phone,’ Marc explained.
‘Ah,’ said the man.
Keeping an eye on his companion, Marc asked directory enquiries for the number of the police station in the 13th arrondissement. It was a piece of luck that he had brought his pen. He wrote the number on his hand and called Leguennec.
‘Can I please speak to Commissaire Vandoosler, he’s my uncle, it’s urgent.’
Marc thought that the word ‘urgent’ was a key word that worked like magic if you wanted the police to help you. A few minutes later, Vandoosler was on the line.
‘What’s going on? Have you discovered something?’
Marc realised at that moment that he had discovered nothing at all.
‘No, I don’t think so. But ask your Breton policeman where Relivaux has gone, and how long he’ll be away. He must have had to inform the police that he was leaving.’
Marc waited a few moments. He had left the door of the phone box open so that the man could hear what he was saying, and he wasn’t looking surprised. So he knew about Sophia Siméonidis’ death.
‘Still there?’ said Vandoosler. ‘He went on official business to Toulon this morning. We checked with his ministry, it’s genuine. It’s not clear when he’ll be back, it depends on how his negotiations there go. He could be back tomorrow, or it could be Monday. The police can contact him if necessary, via the ministry, but you can’t.’
‘Thanks,’ said Marc. ‘What about you?’
‘They’re working on the father of Relivaux’s lady friend, you remember, Elizabeth? Her father has been in jail for ten years for multiple stabbing of the supposed lover of his wife. Leguennec is wondering if violence runs in the family. He’s called Elizabeth in, and is questioning her now to see whether she takes after her father or her mother.’
‘Perfect,’ said Marc. ‘Tell your Breton friend that there’s a gale warning for Finistère. That’ll distract him if he likes storms.’
‘He knows already. He said “All the boats in harbour are tied up. But they’re waiting for another eighteen that are still at sea”’.
‘Right,’ said Marc. ‘See you later.’
He hung up and returned to the thin man. ‘I’ve found out where he is. Come with me.’
Marc was determined to get the man into the house, and find out what he wanted with Pierre Relivaux. It was probably something to do with his work, but you never knew. For Marc, Geneva conjured up images of boring administration.
The man followed him, still with a slightly hopeful expression, which Marc found intriguing. He sat him down in the refectory and after fetching some cups and putting the coffee on, took the sweeping brush and knocked hard on the ceiling. Since they had started using this way of calling Mathias, they were careful always to bang on the same place so as not to make marks all over the ceiling. The broom left little dents in the plaster and Lucien said they ought to tie a rag on top of it with string, which they still had not done.
While he was doing this, the man had put his briefcase on a chair and was looking at the five-franc coin nailed to the post. It was probably because of the coin that Marc broached the subject straightaway.
‘We’re looking for whoever murdered Sophia Siméonidis,’ he said, as if that explained the coin.
‘So am I,’ said the man.
Marc poured out the coffee and they sat down together. So he did know, and he was looking too. He didn’t look upset, so Sophia could not have been a close friend. There must be some other reason. Mathias came in and sat down on the bench, with a nod.
‘Mathias Delamarre,’ Marc introduced him. ‘And I am Marc Vandoosler.’
The man was obliged to follow suit. ‘My name is Christophe Dompierre. I live in Geneva.’
And he offered them a card.
‘It was good of you to find out about Relivaux for me,’ Dompierre went on. ‘So when will he be back?’
‘He’s in Toulon, but the ministry can’t say for certain when he will be home. Some time between tomorrow and Monday. It depends on the job. And we can’t reach him.’
The man shook his head, and bit his lip. ‘That’s a nuisance,’ he said. ‘And you’re enquiring into Madame Siméonidis’ death?’ he asked. ‘You’re surely not… in the police?’
‘No, not at all. But she was our neighbour and we took a great interest in her. We are hoping for a result.’ Marc realised that he was speaking rather formally, and the way Mathias was looking confirmed it.
‘M. Dompierre is doing some looking too,’ he explained.
‘What for?’ asked Mathias.
Dompierre looked at Mathias, whose calm features and limpid blue eyes must have inspired confidence, since he took off his coat and settled more comfortably in his chair. When someone takes a decision, there’s a fraction of a second when their face tells you that they are going to. Marc was very good at spotting that fraction of a second, and thought it was easier than getting a pebble up onto the pavement. Dompierre had just made his decision.
‘You might be able to do me a favour,’ he said. ‘Can you let me know as soon as M. Relivaux gets home. Would that be a nuisance?’
‘No, by no means,’ Marc replied. ‘But what do you want with him? He claims to know nothing about his wife’s murder. The police are keeping an eye on him, but for the time being, there’s nothing serious against him. Do you know something we don’t?’
‘No, no. I was hoping that he knows something. Whether his wife had received any visits, that kind of thing.’
‘I don’t quite follow,’ said Marc.
‘That’s because I’m still in the dark myself. I just don’t know. And it’s been that way for fifteen years. The death of Madame Siméonidis has given me some hope I might find what I’m looking for. Something the police didn’t want to know about at the time.’
‘At the time of what?’
Dompierre shifted on his chair. ‘I can’t tell you that yet,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure of anything. I don’t want to make a mistake, because it would have grave consequences. And I really don’t want the police interfering, is that understood? Absolutely no police. If I find what I’m after, the missing link, I’ll go to them myself. Or rather, I’ll write to them. I don’t want to see them. They caused enough havoc for me and for my mother, fifteen years ago. They wouldn’t listen to us when it all started. It’s true that we had very little to go on. Just a desperate little sliver of belief, a feeling. That doesn’t mean much to the police.’ Dompierre gestured in the air. ‘You probably think I’m being emotional,’ he said, ‘and in any case I’m talking about things that don’t concern you. But I still cling to this desperate belief, and so did my mother, who is dead now. That’s two of us who believed it. And I just don’t want to let some dumb policeman come along and dismiss it out of hand. Not again.’