The Dead Don’t Lie

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

Pascale Hervé woke with a start. The digital readout from the clock on the bedside cabinet cast a green luminous glow across the room. Its display read 01:15. Something had woken her. A noise downstairs. Reaching into the drawer in the cabinet, she pulled out her pistol, removing it from its holster. Slipping out of bed, she shivered as her feet touched the cold floor. Pulling her fleece gown tightly around her she slid her feet into a pair of heel-less slippers and held the pistol tight as she made her way to the door. Opening it, she listened for any noises. Nothing. Maybe she had dreamed it.  Maybe not. Until she had checked, she wouldn’t be sure.

Creeping down stairs, she winced as the stair creaked under her weight. She stopped, ears cocked. A murmur – a low groan– coming from the front room. An intruder after all, she thought. She flicked the safety catch off and stole panther-like to the door of her lounge. Again, the low moan. Holding the pistol in her right hand, she reached across to the light switch with her left and as the light came on, she snapped;

“Don’t move… Geneviève!”

Geneviève Duval looked up from the sofa where she was sitting. A wan smile crossed her face. Beneath the blonde bob, her skin was pale with a patina of cold sweat on her brow. “Pascale,” she said softly.

“What are you doing here? How did you get in? I could have killed you!”

Geneviève waved a hand dismissively. “We are police officers, how do you think I got in, eh?” She coughed softly and leaned back, closing her eyes.

“You’re hurt,” Pascale started.

“Yes…”

Pascale now looked more closely at her friend. A dark stain spread across her abdomen beneath the hand clutching the sodden clothing. The blood was inky, almost black, indicating a major organ. The liver, Pascale realised. Geneviève needed immediate hospital treatment and she said so. “You’ve been shot. You need the hospital, now.”

“No!”

“I must call…”

“No,” Geneviève interrupted. “There is nothing anyone can do. I am dying. I will not die in hospital.”

“But.”

“No buts, it is too late for me. I need to you to listen and to help me. Do this one last thing for me, eh?” Her eyes were pleading as she stared back at the horrified Pascale.

“Who…?”

“Paul Dupont.”

Pascale slowly sat next to Geneviève as she took this in. “But we were expressly ordered to stay away from Dupont.”

“I know. But how were we to get the evidence we needed, mm?”

Pascale sighed. “So you ignored the orders?”

Geneviève coughed and smiled before wincing with a spasm of pain. Looking down at the dark ooze between her fingers, she said “Yes. I know where the bullion is hidden. There’s a farm north of Martigues.” She shivered. “I’m cold, not long now.”

Pascale said “I’ll get a blanket” before leaving the room and returning a moment later and wrapping the blanket around Geneviève. She sat again beside her friend.

“They’ve built a false wall and used the bullion as bricks. If you remove the paint, you will find it. Neat, eh?”

Pascale smiled. “It’s been done before, but yes, neat.”

“The murder weapon,” Geneviève said, “it’s in Dupont’s car. A silver Mercedes, in the glove compartment. You must be quick; he thinks he has time as I won’t have told anyone.”

“Murder weapon?”

Geneviève smiled wanly and looked again at the dark stain still spreading across her abdomen. “Mine.”

“Attempted murder.”

“Not by morning. Stay with me. Please.”

So they sat, Pascale reluctantly going along with Geneviève’s request not to call the ambulance. “I still think about that English boy sometimes,” Geneviève said, grasshoppering.

“English boy?”

“The one we met in Portugal.”

“Ah, Mike Jenner,” Pascale smiled as the memories from twenty years previously flooded back into her mind. Closing her eyes momentarily, she saw again the skinny young man with dark, tousled shoulder length hair framing a heart shaped face with pale blue eyes and a crooked smile. It amused her that his leather jacket appeared two sizes too large when draped about his slight frame. Yet, for all his lack of stature, he handled his large Yamaha vee-twin with the deft competence of a seasoned veteran. Mike Jenner, she thought; a pretty, feminine boy, which was just how Geneviève liked them.

“He’ll be pushing fifty now,” Geneviève said.

“As are we,” Pascale reminded her.

“But I’ll not grow older,” Geneviève smiled.

Pascale didn’t answer, her thoughts were still on that trip two decades ago and Mike Jenner. She preferred the hairy biker type, the more hirsute the better. Indeed, she had sometimes wished that Guillaume hadn’t shaved. On the occasions that he let his beard grow for a few days, the feel of the rough bristle against her skin had the capacity to send a shiver down her spine. But that was in the past. Time to move on. “I always thought you were sweet on him,” Pascale said, retrieving her shoulder bag from the coffee table. She slid her hand into the bag, past the event horizon and rummaged for the tobacco pouch and lighter lurking amongst the kludge in the depths. Rolling a smoke, she said, “I always wondered why you didn’t do anything about it.”

“Who says I didn’t?” Geneviève replied.

Pascale stopped mid light. The flame hovering before the unlit tobacco as Pascale arched her eyebrows in a look that said “do tell and leave nothing out, I don’t want to have to use my imagination” without the questioner uttering a sound.

“I went to England the following year. We had a wonderful two weeks together.”

“So why didn’t you…?”

Geneviève waved a hand listlessly. “Life. My career here, his over there, things just got in the way.” She paused. “There is one more thing I want you to do.”

Pascale absent mindedly plucked a stray strand of tobacco from her tongue. “What?” she asked.

“You will know when the time comes.”

They drifted into a companionable silence and eventually, Pascale dozed, her friend’s head resting on her shoulder, the sound of her breathing soft and shallow, faint shivers coming from her dying body.

It was cold when Pascale woke to the sound of her mobile phone chirruping in her shoulder bag. She was alone on the sofa with the blanket half on, half off. Puzzled she looked about, but there was no sign of Geneviève. “I must have been dreaming,” she muttered to herself, pulling the blanket around her as she fumbled in her bag and pulled out the insistent phone.

“Âllo?”

“Sergeant Hervé,” she recognised Inspector Daniel Viala’s voice. “Sorry to call you today, but…” There was a pause as he chose his words. “We’ve found a body…”

“One of ours?” Pascale asked flatly.

“How…?”

“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “Where?” She listened to the directions and promised to be with him in half an hour.

***

As she walked through the cordon to where Daniel was waiting, she recognised Geneviève’s blue Peugeot. The driver’s door was open and Geneviève’s lifeless body lay skewed in the driver’s seat, two bullet holes in her abdomen. There were two matching punctures in the car’s windscreen.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said as he motioned Pascale to the crime scene.

“You can move her now,” the pathologist said as they walked up to where he was examining the body.

“Can you give an indication of time of death?” Pascale asked.

The man shrugged…

“I know,” she replied, “not before the post mortem, but an educated guess?”

“After midnight,” he pursed his lips, “and no later than three a.m.”

“So, one fifteen would be about right.”

Daniel narrowed his eyes. “You know something?”

“Rather more than I should,” Pascale said flatly. “She was going after Dupont.”

“But, I gave express orders…”

“And she disobeyed them and this is the consequence,” Pascale said, interrupting. “If it helps, I know where he has the bullion hidden from the bank job, and if you look in the glove compartment of his Mercedes, you’ll find the murder weapon – he won’t have had time yet to get rid of it and he’s arrogant, he isn’t expecting us to come after him anyway – you gave express orders, remember? And, he is banking on Geneviève not telling anyone.”

“How could she?” Daniel reached for his phone. “You had better be right about this or there will be serious trouble… I’m talking uniform and traffic duties.” He tailed off and snapped instructions into the handset and Pascale watched her friend’s body being manhandled onto a stretcher. She reached out and gently closed the staring violet eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Daniel said, breaking her reverie. “I know you two were close…”

“We started out at the academy together.” Pascale crouched down and looked into the interior of the car. Something caught her eye – an envelope with a UK stamp. She lifted it out and turned it over.

Daniel reached for his phone as it rang. He listened for a moment or two before snapping it shut and turning back to Pascale. “I don’t know how you knew, and I’m not sure I want to, but we have recovered a pistol from Paul Dupont’s car. We will see what forensics has to say about a match.”

“It will,” she said, slipping the envelope into her pocket.

“Perhaps, when we have time, you will offer some sort of explanation?”

“If I can,” she sighed. “If I can, I’m not entirely sure I understand myself.”

Daniel frowned. “You’d better go home,” he said. “You’re not making any sense. Get some rest. We’ll talk later.” He looked down at the body in the open body bag. “I wish I could say merry Christmas, but in the circumstances…”

“I know.” Pascale nodded and turned to Geneviève as the bag was zipped shut. She slipped her hand into her pocket and felt the envelope. She took out the card inside. Opening it, she read the message: “Gen, nice to hear from you after all these years. Since my divorce, I’m now a free agent, so I’d love to get in touch again. Call me, love, Mike”

Pascale sighed. A call she would have to make. But not now. There was another she had to make first. She flipped open her phone and dialled.

“Pascale,” Guillaume said. “I didn’t expect to hear from you.”

“No…I…”

Pride is not an easy thing to swallow and Pascale nurtured hers like a prize orchid, but she swallowed it anyway.

“Guillaume, I’m sorry, it was my fault…I was just calling to say…”

“That’s okay, I know. So you’ll be round later? Lunch?”

“I’d like that.” She ended the call and looked again at the card, tears pricking her eyes. Not at Mike’s doomed message of hope, but the one below it, written in Geneviève’s bold, round hand. “Call Guillaume. Today.”

—————————————-

A merry Christmas to you all and may your gods – or none – go with you.