Death in the Rainy Season Page 27

  ‘Undoubtedly. And you won’t be coming back?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Her smile was shaky. ‘I couldn’t. Knowing everything that I do.’ She thrust her hands in her pockets. ‘I wanted to go to Mariko. She’s been so good to me. She must be so distraught. I’d like to be able to comfort her. But after everything that’s come out, I don’t feel capable of it.’

  ‘It’s a lot to take in,’ Morel said.

  ‘Maybe when she comes to Paris. For Paul’s funeral. Oh God,’ she said, as if the dreadful facts were still finding their way into her consciousness.

  He steered her out of the bookshop to obtain some privacy. Outside, she opened her umbrella so that they could both shelter beneath it.

  ‘Maybe Hugo needed to tell Paul the truth about Nora,’ Florence mused. ‘Why else would he let Paul drive him to the hotel that night? Unless he was hoping Paul would see Mariko there.’

  ‘You may be right,’ Morel said.

  Best to let her think that Hugo had meant to make amends. That he hadn’t asked Paul along that night because he’d been tempted to boast about Nora, as though she were his achievement rather than Paul’s, who had raised her.

  Then Florence surprised him, by stepping forward and giving him a hug.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘For finding out what happened to Hugo. The truth.’

  ‘It’s what I do,’ Morel said. He thought about Mariko Arda, her lifeless figure in his arms the night before, her broken-hearted sobs, and wondered whether there was really any relief in knowing, for anyone.

  Paul Arda had left a detailed note. It had led Sarit to the bloodied T-shirt Paul had stuffed into a plastic bag, and hidden at the back of a drawer at home. A T-shirt that belonged to Hugo. Paul had wrapped it around his fist when his knuckles had begun to hurt from the repeated blows to Hugo’s face.

  With effort, Morel turned his thoughts back to the present moment.

  ‘What’s next for you?’ he asked Florence. ‘The baby, of course. But afterwards?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she said. She looked at him intently. ‘You know, we came here thinking that we were going to experience something new, that we would invest ourselves in this country. Hugo thought he could do something useful and I know we both thought we would grow here. Yet in the end, what did we achieve? Nothing.’

  ‘Do you really believe that?’ Morel said. ‘Besides, there’ll be other opportunities.’

  ‘Not for Hugo.’ Her lower lip trembled. ‘Perhaps it is a conceit, to think that somehow we have a part to play in countries where we don’t belong. ’

  Morel didn’t respond.

  She sighed. ‘I know what people have said about Hugo, you know. That it was all about him, the effort he put into his work. That his ego was what drove him. It’s so wrong.’

  ‘You shouldn’t let any of that worry you,’ Morel said. ‘What matters is what you know.’

  She ran her hand across her face. ‘I loved him so much. He was a good man.’ She looked at him. ‘He remained true to me, didn’t he? It’s going to be very hard when I go back,’ she said, without waiting for an answer. ‘My parents and I, we don’t exactly get along. But I’ll work things out.’

  ‘I’m sure you will.’

  He waited while she unlocked her car. She folded her umbrella but made no move to get into the driver’s seat.

  ‘I’m scared,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Scared of being alone, and of spending the rest of my life missing him, and never loving anyone else.’

  Morel reached over and touched her shoulder. They both seemed oblivious to the fact that they were getting soaked.

  ‘You have a great capacity for love, Florence Quercy. And a long life ahead of you. Take good care of yourself and of that baby, and don’t worry about the future.’

  She nodded, and squeezed his hand.

  When Morel turned back towards the bookshop, he saw Sarit getting out of a parked car. The scene reminded him of his first meeting with the Cambodian captain. It felt so long ago.

  Sarit seemed to be having trouble with his artificial leg. He winced as he stood, and straightened slowly.

  ‘The rains, I think,’ he told Morel by way of explanation. ‘Sorry I’m late. Let’s go and question the man who attacked you.’

  ‘Have you had a chance to talk to him?’

  ‘Yes.’ Sarit looked troubled. ‘I don’t know whether to believe him or not. Maybe I don’t want to.’

  Morel looked at him questioningly but the Cambodian detective had turned away and was getting back into the car.

  Morel didn’t bother to check on Gaveaux, whose sobs could be heard through the walls of his cell. Instead, he followed Sarit to another room where his attacker was being held.

  ‘His name is Fabien Delarue,’ Sarit said.

  The man looked familiar. Morel tried to think whether he knew him from anywhere, this thin man with a balding head that looked too big for his body. And then he remembered.

  ‘You were in Siem Reap,’ he said. ‘Staying at the same hotel as me.’

  The man didn’t answer.

  ‘Why did you come after me?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Tell him what you told me,’ Sarit said.

  ‘I have information,’ the man told Morel.

  ‘What sort of information?’

  ‘If I tell you, will you promise to get me out of here?’

  ‘That’s not up to me,’ Morel said.

  ‘Tell him what you told me,’ Sarit snapped. Delarue jumped. He was clearly afraid of the Khmer policeman.

  ‘Antoine Nizet,’ Delarue said. ‘You know him, right?’

  Morel’s headache was worse now and the dizziness had returned. He looked for a chair and sat down. ‘What about Nizet?’ he said.

  ‘It was Nizet who sent me to stop you.’

  ‘Stop me? What do you mean?’

  Sarit looked at Morel.

  ‘He means that you could have been killed. Thierry Gaveaux, this guy, they are nothing,’ Sarit said. ‘Delarue claims Nizet is part of an international paedophile ring.’

  Morel let Sarit’s words sink in. He tried to remember if anything about Nizet had stood out; whether he should have known.

  ‘I’ll tell you what you need, if you let me go,’ Delarue said.

  ‘I can’t make any promises. But if you start talking, right now, I’ll consider it,’ Sarit said. It sounded convincing but Morel knew he was lying; that he had no intention of letting Delarue go.

  The man hesitated.

  ‘Now!’ Sarit barked. Delarue flinched again.

  ‘He goes by the name of Bruno,’ he said.

  An hour later, Morel and Sarit drew up outside his hotel. Neither had said a word since leaving Delarue’s cell. Now Morel spoke.

  ‘I accused you of refusing to dig up the truth, but I was the one who was blind,’ he said. ‘I was blinded by my paranoia, and by my affection for Paul Arda.’

  ‘You were not wrong to be paranoid,’ Sarit said. ‘If there had been anything to tie Quercy’s death to the land evictions, you might never have found out the truth. And anyway, you were not the only blind man. What about Nizet? I worked with him. I liked and trusted him.’

  For a moment, neither man spoke.

  ‘Will you need a ride to the airport?’ Sarit asked.

  ‘No, I’ll be fine,’ Morel said. His uncle had offered to take him.

  He hesitated, wondering whether it was appropriate to request a favour.

  ‘Could I ask something of you?’

  ‘Of course,’ Sarit said.

  ‘I believe Mariko will be travelling back to France once she’s made arrangements for Paul Arda’s funeral. I’d appreciate it if you could look out for her over the next few days,’ Morel said. ‘This isn’t your role, I know. But she needs a friend.’

  ‘You can count on me,’ Sarit said without hesitation.

  EPILOGUE

  The air was bitterly cold when Morel came out of Charles de Gaulle airport. He waited in lin
e for a taxi, rubbing his hands together. A brisk wind sent shivers up his spine. In the car, he gave the driver his address in Neuilly and asked him to turn the heater up.

  It was early on a Sunday morning and the traffic was smooth. Morel sat back and looked out the window. A grey drabness had replaced the warmth and colour he’d grown accustomed to over the past week. Gingerly, he touched the side of his face. The scar was not quite so tender, and the pain in his ear was tolerable now.

  As he let himself into his house, he saw no one was home. He walked into the living room and stopped, overcome by an emotion he knew well. Always, when he came back to a quiet house, he experienced this sense of loneliness. An old feeling that had taken root in his childhood, a feeling fed mostly – he knew this now – by his father’s temperament and emotional distance. Like a dull and familiar ache, it was now part and parcel of who he was.

  Mathilde, he remembered. He would call her today. The prospect of hearing her voice thrilled him and lifted his spirits.

  He heard a shuffle behind him, followed by heavy panting. When he turned around, he came face to face with a dog so huge it gave him a fright. It wagged its tail and came closer to sniff him. It was black, brown and white, with a shaggy coat and great drooling jaw.

  ‘It’s lucky for me you’re not much of a guard dog,’ Morel said. He let the dog lick his hand. ‘You must be Descartes,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to tell you, it’s a lousy name for a pet.’

  The dog looked up genially, as if to say it wouldn’t take offence.

  With one eye still on Descartes, Morel checked the messages on his mobile phone. There were half a dozen from Perrin; in each one, he sounded angrier. Morel would have to brief him fully this morning, before Quercy’s funeral. Perrin would then have to explain to the minister, and Quercy’s mother, that Hugo had had a child with a woman other than his wife. That his closest friend had killed him because of his betrayal, and because, sixteen years down the track, Hugo had decided he wanted to acknowledge his illegitimate daughter. They’d learn too that for the sake of his career the man had given up the names of people who were vulnerable – who had entrusted their stories to him – to corrupt officials.

  The landline started ringing. Morel ignored it and listened to the remaining messages on his phone. There was one from Lila, asking whether Morel would be in on Monday. Another from Mariko, that didn’t make sense, because while she spoke she couldn’t stop crying. And a message from Adèle, that couldn’t be clearer, asking him to call as soon as he got in.

  He needed a couple of minutes before he could face any of them. He was barely off the plane and already the clamour had begun. He disconnected the landline and switched his mobile phone to silent. Then he made a pot of coffee and unlocked the door to his apartment within the house. When he looked back, the dog was close behind.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Morel started saying, but he quickly relented.

  ‘I’m assuming you’ve made yourself at home here in my absence anyway,’ he said.

  Morel’s ground-floor apartment included a bedroom, a study that doubled up as a living room, and a bathroom. He wheeled his suitcase in and took in his surroundings. If only he could shut himself in here, at least for the remainder of this day, he thought.

  ‘It’s good to be home,’ he told Descartes. The dog responded by leaping onto Morel’s bed and spreading itself across the covers. Apparently, it had found its place.

  Twenty minutes later, after two cups of coffee and a shower, he reconnected the landline. It started ringing straight away and this time he picked it up. It was his sister. She didn’t give him a chance to speak.

  ‘Bloody hell! I’ve been calling and calling. When did you get in? Why didn’t you call? Can you come and meet us? The car keys are on the kitchen counter.’

  ‘Why? What is it?’ Morel said, bracing himself for news about his father.

  ‘It’s Maly,’ Adèle said, her voice shrill with excitement. ‘She’s had her baby.’

  Morel felt a wave of relief, followed by gladness. It washed over the sorrow and pain of the past days.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘She’s great. How soon can you get to the Neuilly clinic? Dad is here too. You should see him. He’s been crying. Crying! Can you imagine that?’

  Morel looked out his window. An elderly couple were walking down the street, hand in hand, dressed in matching dark coats. The trees were beginning to shed, the leaves turning red, orange and yellow.

  ‘I can’t imagine it,’ he said. He felt teary himself, worn out. A few hours from now, he would attend Hugo Quercy’s funeral. Neither Paul, Mariko nor Nora would be there. There would be another funeral soon. Who would attend that one, besides the widow and her daughter? He was filled with sadness, not just for Hugo Quercy but for Paul Arda too.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Morel said, leaning against the wall with the phone in one hand, while with the other he stroked Descartes’ massive head. Through the receiver, he could hear voices in the background. He pictured Adèle in the hospital corridor, Morel Senior sitting by Maly’s side, stiff and hesitant, carefully holding his first grandchild.

  ‘So how long will you be?’

  Morel looked down. The dog was licking him now, leaving a great slobbery trail along his hand and wrist. Its tail thumping against the floorboards. It stopped and looked up at Morel, as if waiting for an answer.

  ‘I’m on my way,’ Morel said.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Many people helped with this book. But it was inspired above all by its setting. I grew up with my parents’ memories of a place I didn’t remember, a place we’d lived when I was a child. We left not long before the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh on 17 April 1975. I returned as an adult. Despite the ravages of the past and the many challenges of the present, Phnom Penh is a vibrant city, full of charm and grace. It has left an imprint on my heart.

  In Phnom Penh, I would like to thank my old friends Alexis and Marie de Suremain, Dimitri Bouvet and Nathalie Parize, for their generosity, and for their stories. Others also provided invaluable insight into many aspects of Cambodian life and culture. I am grateful to Father François Ponchaud, Dr Milton Osbourne, Dr Andrew Thomson, Bret Sylvain and Emma Bourgeois. Special thanks go to Kim Horn Su and Kim You for their moving recollections of life under the Khmer Rouge. Thanks again to Dr Malcolm Dodd and to Hervé Jourdain. The quotes about land evictions in Chapter Twenty-four were taken directly from an Amnesty International press release dated 11 February 2008. I am indebted to Sébastien Marot, whose NGO Friends International stands out among the plethora of charitable organizations working in Cambodia. While Sébastien’s account of his NGO’s work with Phnom Penh’s street children inspired me, it is important to note that Kids at Risk is not meant to be a replica of Friends. The aid group and the characters in my book are entirely fictional.

  I owe a great deal to my amazing agent, Peter Robinson. Heartfelt thanks also to Maria Rejt, Sophie Orme and Sam Eades, as well as to Jo Thomson for the cover.

  Above all, I am grateful to my family. To Alex and Max, the best boys in the world, and to Selwyn – best reader and best friend.

  Also by Anna Jaquiery

  The Lying-Down Room

  First published 2015 by Mantle

  This electronic edition published 2015 by Mantle

  an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited

  Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR

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  www.panmacmillan.com

  ISBN 978-1-4472-4446-2

  Copyright © Anna Jaquiery 2015

  House © Austin Bush/Getty Images

  River and palm trees © Shutterstock

  The right of Anna Jaquiery to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Extract from The Land Grab
bers by Fred Pearc

  Copyright © Fred Pearce 2012

  Reprinted by permission of Beacon Press, Boston

  Extract from Phnom Penh: A Cultural and Literary History by Milton Osborne

  Copyright © Milton E. Osborne 2008

  Reprinted by permission of Signal Books, Oxford

  Extract from The Gentleman in the Parlour

  Copyright © W. Somerset Maugham 1930

  Reprinted by permission of A P Watt at United Agents on behalf of the Royal Literary Fund

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