‘Yes. I know he used to converse with her, towards the end. Perhaps she’s important. And perhaps, quite possibly, it is nothing.’
The journalist made his notes. They were quiet for a few minutes. Then the old man said, with an air of distinguished sadness, ‘The truth is…I rather miss him, Mister Quinn. I miss Angus. He made me laugh. So if you find him, do keep me informed. And now I must return to my packing. You have ants crawling up your trousers.’
It was true. A couple of ants were ascending his jeans. He brushed them off. Fazackerly was already walking swiftly away.
For a while Simon sat there. Then he got up and walked to the station and caught the train home, his mind full of images of ants. Fighting. Killing. The war between species, the war of all against all.
As he emerged from his suburban stop his phone rang. It was DCI Bob Sanderson, talking excitedly.
‘Money!’
‘Sorry?’
‘The monies! We have a lead.’
Sanderson sounded very animated, he was talking about Edith Tait’s strange inheritance. The journalist was glad for the distraction; he paid close attention. Sanderson said:
‘I got a hunch when you told me. About Charpentier. So I did some old-fashioned detecting. They all had money. The Windsor victim left eight hundred grand. The Primrose Hill victim more than a mill.’
Simon felt a need to play devil’s advocate.
‘But a lot of old people have money, Bob. A decent house in a nice part of Britain and that’s half a million.’
‘Yeah sure, however…’ Sanderson drawled, merrily. ‘Let’s look a bit closer. Eh? Why didn’t they spend it? Charpentier especially. She lived in that minging little croft in Foula, as far as we know, ever since she arrived in the UK. Yet she had a ton of dosh.’
‘It is odd.’
‘And she had the money when she emigrated.’
‘In 1946?’
‘Exactly, my old papaya. Exactly. In 1946. A bunch of French people, all of Basque origin. They fetch up in Britain just after the war, having lived in Occupied France, and they all have money and they all get killed nearly seven decades later.’
‘Which means…?’
‘Which means, Simon…’ Sanderson was half laughing. ‘Something happened to all these people…’
A tiny chill shivered through Simon, despite the autumn sun. He inhaled, quickly and deeply.
‘Ah…’
‘Got it. Someone gave them the loot – or they found it – in Occupied France.’
‘You think it’s something to do with the war, don’t you?’
‘Yep,’ he answered. ‘I’m thinking blood money. Or…’ He paused, as if for effect. ‘Or Nazi gold.’
18
The girl was shouting at them. ‘Qui est-ce? Qui est-ce?’
David turned to Amy.
‘Don’t move. She has…a shotgun.’
Amy was pale and rigid but she spoke for them both, in French. David listened keenly, trying to understand. Amy called to the girl, giving their names.
Silence. David could sense neighbours peering out of windows, behind him. He was hyper aware of the gun, loaded, beyond the door: one blast of that would take down the door and maybe kill them.
They had to end the drama.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, through the door – feeling absurd and very scared. ‘Please. We just came to talk. Don’t know if you can speak English but…I just want to know about my parents. They died here. They were killed here. Or we can go. We will just go?’
Silence.
He glanced Amy’s way. A faint sheen of perspiration shone on her forehead; a lick of her blonde fringe clung to her skin. He repressed the urge to run for the car. The door swung open. The girl was standing there. Her shotgun was broken over her arm.
‘I am Eloise Bentayou,’ she said. ‘What do you want?’
David stared at the Cagot girl. She was about seventeen or eighteen. A small silver cross around her neck was bright against her tawny skin and her nail varnish was vivid. The girl’s complexion was notably dark, almost Arabic-looking. But her black hair had that Basque look, flat against the skull.
‘We…’ David struggled to explain things. ‘We wanted to know about the Cagots.’
Eloise regarded him, her young frown tinged with suspicion.
‘So you have come to look at the untouchables.’ She gave them a despairing shrug. ‘Ahh.