Maria parked on the outskirts of St. Rimou, in a side street, away from gossiping eyes. She took the GR221 up through the morning mist and pines and out onto the granite scattered scrub. It was a damp morning in the valleys, with a chill in the air. The end of summer, but not quite the beginning of winter. In the distance, though, through breaks in the drifting and rising cloud she saw that a dusting of overnight snow had covered the Pyrenees, like icing. After two hours, at a junction with a tatty farm track she left the Randonnée and turned right, still climbing, until she came out onto the road 100 metres downhill from Chalet Gemain.
Tapping in the keycode the wide driveway gates slid silently open and she slipped inside, strolling up the levelled drive towards the house and large detached garage. The sun was, by now, breaking through the mist, but she was unconcerned. She knew Alex and Louise were away. Together. For a change. And that was why it had to be today.
She let herself into the garage and turned off the alarm. Louise’s Renault Clio and Alex’s Maserati gleamed in the stark operating theatre lighting. Ten minutes later she emerged, slipping the wire cutters back into her coat pocket.
The taxi drew up outside Chalet Gemain in the early hours of the next morning. A tanned Louise, stretching as she climbed out of the back seat after a two hour drive from the airport, was glad to be home. From the sharp tang in the air she sensed that a frost was on its way and was thankful for the garage. She loved everything about winter in the mountains—the skiing, the crisp air, the roaring log fires—except for scraping ice from car windows. And they both needed to be up and out early tomorrow morning; she for food, Alex for lunch with a friend. Louise was going to drive them both into Toulouse so that Alex could have a drink.
The next morning Alex strolled into the kitchen, still in his dressing gown, stopping as he always did in front of the triple width patio doors that lined the mezzanine level of the chalet. He stared out across the Pyrenees, glistening like jewels in the Autumn sunshine, a thick frost covering the manicured lawns and shining off the tarpaulin swimming pool cover like a scattering of diamonds. For a man who grew up with inner city poverty, he tried hard to never take this for granted. Or ever risk losing it.
He could hear Lou fussing around in the kitchen. He glanced at the sofa. With a reminiscing smile he recalled Maria lying back on that sofa, just a couple of weeks ago—naked—a half empty bottle of champagne on the side table. They were lounging, entwined, watching a glorious sunset over the Massif du Montcalm. And, as his dull wife frittered around the kitchen, Alex felt a fission of desire at the illicit liaison happening right under his wife’s rich, pampered nose.
His wife’s money, another woman’s passion; yes, a lucky man indeed.
Anyway, to business. He took his phone out of his pocket. “Shit!” His hand going to his forehead.
Louise’s head popped up from a cupboard below the counter. “What?”
“I’ve been cancelled.”
“Oh, that’s a shame.” Louise ducked back down. “What you going to do with yourself instead?”
“Oh,” waving a hand airily, “I’ll have a stroll, a read.”
“You don’t want to come with me anyway?”
“No. You know what I’m like shopping. Why don’t you meet erm, such and such, the thick one.”
“She’s not thick, and she’s in the West Indies.” Louise stood up, placing a large serving plate on the counter.”
“What’s that?”
“Polly wants to borrow it.” Louise sighed. “Well, in that case, I may as well go shopping now.”
“Good idea,” Alex said, turning away, unable to meet her eye.
Alex jumped as the buzzer sounded. He stood up shakily from the sofa and picked up the intercom phone. On his way to the front door he stopped, stared into the hallway mirror for a moment and forced himself to take a couple of long, slow breaths. They had taken far longer than he’d expected.
“Monsieur Lawrence?”
“Yes.”
“Inspector Piro, sir. May I come in?”
A uniformed gendarme followed them into the lounge and stood silently in the corner as Alex and the Inspector sat on opposite sofas.
“Monsieur, we’ve found the wreckage of your wife’s car. In a ravine between here and St. Rimou.”
“Oh no!” Alex jumped up. “That’s terrible. What happened?”
The Inspector held up his hand. “Monsieur. A moment. Thankfully, there was no one in the car.”
Alex stared.
“Are you alright Monsieur?”
Alex swallowed and nodded. He cleared his throat. “Where is she then?”
The Inspector cocked his head to one side. “That, Monsieur Lawrence, was what I was going to ask you.”
It was an hour later that he received the text. An unknown number. He’d spent that hour pacing back and forth in front of the patio doors, calling and messaging on every app that Louise had.
‘Meet me at the Café Rousseu.’
Sweat broke out on his brow.
‘Louise?’
‘Now’
As Alex climbed into his car, he glanced sideways at the space where Louise’s little car used to be. He shook his head. Why was she not found in her car? It made no sense. If that was Louise texting, why the unknown number? If it was someone else then, what, blackmail? But then where was Louise?
He wished he could talk to Maria, but they’d agreed. Not until after the funeral. That’s what they’d planned. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He wished he’d never agreed to this plan of hers. But, as she had kept pointing out to him, if he and Louise divorced then the ridiculous terms of her ridiculously religious father’s endowment legacy would cease. And then everyone loses. And a million Euros a year is a big loss. Bereavement though…
The Inspector hated this part of the job; this ‘formality’. He loathed that term. Formality was an insult, a kick in the nuts, a travesty of uncaring bureaucracy. And this was not going to be an easy one; the deceased had to be ‘separated’ from the wreckage.
And he hated coincidences.
Two cars.
In one day.
And the conversation with Mrs Lawrence when she’d been found, walking down the mountain road towards St. Rimou. Who the hell forgets to put their handbrake on?
A tap on the doorframe. “They’re here Inspector.”
“They?”
Two women were seated outside. One of which was…
“Madame Lawrence.” The Inspector bowed his head. “I am sorry for your tragic loss.”
“Merci, Inspector.”
“As I said on the phone, I’m very sorry to have to put you through this, but—”
“I understand Inspector, it must be done.” She nodded towards the other, shorter woman. “May my good friend assist me, or must she wait here.”
“No,” the Inspector flapped, “I mean yes, the lady may accompany you.” He turned towards her. “For the record you are…”
“Maria. Maria Ramon.”
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