Chapter Thirty-Three
It was getting on for eight o’clock in the evening as they approached their destination. The rain had stopped, and snowclouds were gathering thickly in the night sky. Ben bought a local map from a service station outside Millau, then drove on a little way to the tiny village of Comprégnac where a quick enquiry at a bar-restaurant yielded two key pieces of information: firstly, it provided him with directions to the late Father Fabrice Lalique’s nearby home; secondly it confirmed what Ben had already suspected, that the priest’s name had become virtually unmentionable locally since the child porn outrage had erupted across the media.
The village of Saint-Christophe nestled at the foot of towering cliffs close to the bank of the River Tarn. The oldest buildings dated visibly back to medieval times, when the village’s population had probably never exceeded a hundred people. Some centuries later, the village had begun to sprawl outwards along the banks of the river, sprouting a latticework of narrow cobbled streets. But Saint-Christophe’s most striking and least picturesque architectural development hadn’t happened until much, much more recently. The illuminated span of the massive, towering Millau Viaduct, cutting across the valley several kilometres away, dominated the entire landscape. As Ben drove around the outskirts of the village, he kept glancing at the distant bridge. Its ugly presence was inescapable, and a constant brutal reminder of what had happened there just weeks earlier. It would be years before the local community would be allowed to forget the scandal of their disgraced priest.
Less than a kilometre outside the village limits, ringed by an ivy-covered stone wall, was the simple eighteenth-century country residence where the now infamous Fabrice Lalique had spent most of his life. Ben drove the Laguna in through the pillared entrance. He’d half-expected the place to be deserted, but a light in a downstairs window prompted him to walk up to the old house and rap the heavy iron door knocker.
Several chilly minutes went by before his repeated knocks finally drew the attention of whoever was inside. The door opened, and Ben found himself looking down at a tiny, gnarled old woman in a black gown that did nothing to disguise her dowager’s hump. Her face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut shell, and its expression was openly hostile. ‘Qui êtes vous? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?’
Ben told her his name and explained in French that they were very sorry to disturb her at this time of night, but that they were friends of one of Father Lalique’s most trusted colleagues. The old woman seemed utterly unmoved by this, but Ben pressed on, saying that he had a few questions about Father Lalique’s work and that he’d be very grateful for a few moments of her time.
‘Allez,’ the old woman rasped. ‘Allez-vous-en!’
‘What’s she saying?’ Jude asked.
‘That’s French for “piss off”,’ Ben told him.
‘I get it now,’ Jude said as the old woman began shooing them away from the doorstep, threatening to call the gendarmes and doing everything but hawk and spit at them. ‘Charming wife this guy had.’
‘He was a Catholic priest, Jude. They remain celibate. She must have been his housekeeper.’
‘Whatever,’ Jude said, backing away from the ferocious old woman. ‘I think I can grab her, if you find something to tie her up with.’
Ben looked at him. ‘What do you think I am?’ He graciously thanked the housekeeper for her time, apologised again for the disturbance and said he’d be staying locally for a few days in case she changed her mind. He knew she wouldn’t.
‘That wasn’t much use, was it?’ Jude said as they drove off. ‘All this way to be scared off by the priest’s resident bulldog.’
‘I don’t blame her,’ Ben said. ‘I’d have done the same, in her position. She’s probably had a million journalists sticking their noses into her life since her employer’s death. She’s alone and vulnerable.’ The truth was that he had every intention of returning to the house, but he wanted to do it alone, and discreetly. His way.
‘I’d hardly describe her as vulnerable. So what now, boss?’
‘Don’t call me “boss”,’ Ben said.
The late priest’s housekeeper, Cécilie Lamont, peeked through the window at the disappearing taillights of the car, then tutted loudly in disgust and marched over to the phone to call her elder sister in Perpignan. ‘Can you believe what the world’s coming to, Claudette?’ she complained bitterly. ‘Now it’s two rosbifs coming round here to pry into poor Father Lalique’s affairs. As if there hadn’t been enough injustice done to that man already!’
‘You should report them,’ Claudette croaked. She was eighty-seven and full of emphysema. ‘Did you get their names?’
Cécilie thought for a moment and said yes, the older of the two had given his name – she pronounced it ‘Ope’. Spoke almost perfect French, hardly a trace of accent, and it had only been when they’d started talking English that she’d realised they were rosbifs. They’d told her they were staying nearby, and perhaps she should call her grandson Philippe at the gendarmerie in Millau. Philippe would know how to deal with their kind.
Cécilie ranted on a while longer about foreigners, then returned to the subject of all the terrible intrusions she was having to endure now that dear Father Lalique was gone. She couldn’t wait until January, when his replacement Father Girard would arrive along with a new housekeeper, and she could finally retire and move to Perpignan to be with Claudette. There was nothing like family, the two sisters agreed.
After a few minutes, the operative monitoring the phone call from much further away than Perpignan decided he’d heard all that was going to be useful. He turned off his earpiece and let the two old ladies natter on. The details of Madame Lamont’s two foreign visitors were information he needed to relay immediately.
Earlier that day, the team had acquired the details of the ferry booking made by Ben Hope, minutes after it had been made; just over eight hours ago, they’d learned that Hope and Arundel had cleared passport control into France and duly passed that information over to Rex O’Neill. Since then, the team had been frantically trying to pick up a trace of their targets. Now all of a sudden the trail was live again.
The operative picked up a phone and quickly stabbed in a number.
Things would move quickly from here.
Chapter Thirty-Four
The village’s only hotel was the Auberge Saint-Christophe, a medieval inn that seemed to be undergoing its first major overhaul in about seven centuries and was half-hidden behind a tower of scaffolding. The owner was apologetic, but the renovations meant all he could offer Ben and Jude was a small twin room. Sadly the restaurant was closed too, but the owner could heartily recommend Chez Moustache at the other end of the village. Ben took the room anyway.
The snow was floating down and beginning to line the cobbled streets as Ben and Jude left the Auberge in search of Chez Moustache. They found the old stone building down a winding alley, with a sign that swung in the wind. A battered red Peugeot 504 pickup was parked outside, empty bottle crates littered on the back.
Ben led the way inside the bar. In contrast to the sleepy street the place was lively, noisy and crowded. He saw right away how it had got its name. The barman was a broad, bear-like character sporting a formidable set of grizzled whiskers that he must have spent the last thirty years pampering.
‘Bonsoir, messieurs. Je suis Moustache,’ he welcomed them proudly, the bush parting in a toothy grin. There was a door open behind him leading through to a busy kitchen, two women scurrying here and there amid a lot of steam and smoke, leaping flambée flames and some wonderful odours of frying meat, garlic and shallots.
Ben asked Moustache if they could cook up a couple of steak-frîtes for him and his friend. No problem,