Wolfnight, p.1
Wolfnight, page 1
Also by Nicolas Freeling
The Seacoast of Bohemia
You Who Know
Flanders Sky
Those in Peril
Sand Castles
Not As Far As Velma
Lady Macbeth
Cold Iron
A City Solitary
No Part in Your Death
The Back of the North Wind
Wolfnight
One Damn Thing After Another
Castang’s City
The Widow
The Night Lords
Gadget
Lake Isle
What Are the Bugles Blowing For?
Dressing of Diamond
A Long Silence
Over the High Side
Tsing-Boum
This Is the Castle
Strike Out Where Not Applicable
The Dresden Green
The King of the Rainy Country
Criminal Conversation
Double Barrel
Valparaiso
Gun Before Butter
Because of The Cats
Love in Amsterdam
Woldnight
A Henri Castang Mystery
Nicolas Freeling
Wolfnight
A dogday was ending.
Sometimes, just before twilight, the sky will go a washed pale blue. After a still, beautiful day at the very end of autumn. The sun has gone, but scattered feathers of cloud are glowing and sparking from the bushfire that has just passed. Castang stared out of his window in the PJ offices.
Some clock-watching computer had switched the car-park lights on; a pinkish orange like anaemic gladioli on their long curving stems, hanging insipidly in the sky. They had the effect upon Castang of instant impotence; the self-pity known to the poets as Look On My Works, Ye Mighty, And Despair. You piddling little man.
It was still a dogday, and still not time to go home. It is always Time for something, if not Christmas then Elections, if not chocolate then apple-blossom-shampoo. All those executives are still out there Marketing, and I’m sitting here doing nowt.
Now he was a family man, it was due to his position to be a Commissaire, and so he was; recently enough to feel uneasy about it, wondering what it meant. He was the same, wasn’t he? Only a Commissaire-Adjunct, the lowest kind. But the Step: money, standing, position. He was exactly where he had been, doing exactly the same work. In nominal charge of the Serious Crimes Brigade, in a provincial city in France, of something under half a million souls.
Commissaire Richard, too, was exactly where he had been. A divisional commissaire, the highest kind, but that was the end. Richard was pushing sixty, and would no longer be called to Paris for the choice desk, after which you become Comptroller, Sub-Director and Director of the Police Judiciaire. Those are political jobs, and Monsieur Richard had said, once too often, “You know, it’s possible to be a cunt. I’m one myself. But when it comes to being an Abject cunt …” Richard would not get sent to the Basses-Alpes, or even the Basses-Pyrénées. He would just stay the way he was. Finish.
You got promoted—it’s Buggins’ turn next—and between forty and sixty you too would go tranquilly on until you too—in Pau perhaps, or Valenciennes.
Lasserre was gone. There had been malfeasance if not malpractice: the less said the better. It had not splashed over on to Richard. A tightlipped person from the Inspectorate had spent hours closeted. Prosecution had been avoided. Lasserre, a Principal Commissaire, was replaced by a person who really had come from Pau; had in his office a banner to prove it; green and white, colours of the Section Paloise rugby club. A nicer person than Lasserre. But what’s all this Nice and Nasty? They’re all just cops.
And Cantoni was gone, promoted like Castang and replaced at the head of the violence brigade by yet another close-knit, loose-moving tricky runner with a mongol moustache. But Castang hadn’t been sent to Pau or even Valenciennes. Perhaps it was meaningless: most things in Administration are. Some professed to read subtle shades of influence and manoeuvre into every smile or frown, much like political journalists examining the entrails of a presidential speech.
He would have been happy in Pau: he liked the Navarrese, spoke a bit of Spanish. Vera would have knitted him a green and white scarf and he’d have worn it, too. Happier still in Valenciennes: he loved the North. He’d learn Flamand, and Polish too: and drink gin, and what were the colours of the Valenciennes Football Club?—he didn’t care how hideous they were. They are always underdogs, and he was one too. What would have been depressing would be a town last heard of getting besieged by Sir John Falstaff during the Hundred Years War. He liked this town—a noble and an ancient city. A dump too, of course. Maybe he loved it—it didn’t do to love things. He had grown to love the flat, with its view of a disused canal and poplar trees.
He had an office to himself now, and whenever Serious Crimes had no great urgency about them he found himself alone. Being senior, he had a window on the courtyard side. A view not inspiring, being mostly parked cars, but there were plane trees too of a design slightly less unimaginative.
When he looked again the twilight was coming down fast, and somebody was moving behind a plane tree. The somebody had a crouching, furtive manner and Castang frowned. It would not do if somebody put a bomb in a PJ car: no. It would not even do for somebody to glue subversive manifestoes to windscreens. Or execute graffiti in aerosol dye. Then the somebody straightened up and showed the unmistakable bullet head of Orthez: a PJ inspector who was skilful with cars and liked to play with them.
Castang sat upon the desk in the darkening office and lit a cigarette, enjoying his discomfiture. Twilight made things sinister. Why else is the moment before darkness falls called ‘entre chien et loup’? Between dog and wolf; when even Orthez could have snarling fangs and mad blazing eyes. And when, conceivably, the werewolf could still present a blameless air of domesticity.
Wolves: an animal for which he felt esteem. Respect. Liking. Now dogs were a very different matter. These thoughts were abruptly broken by the typist from the Secretary’s office; coming bursting in: a fat girl.
“There’s someone asking for the boss.”
“Richard’s out.”
“Yes, I know.”
“Well tell Domenech.”
“He’s out too.”
“Tell him to come back then.”
“We thought”—meaning the Secretary—“you had better see him.”
“Why?”
“You’ll see,” with irritating coyness. He had barely time to put the bureau lamp on, sit hastily behind the desk, and look official.
“Miss.”
“What?”
“Put the overhead light on,” in a voice sharp enough.
“Yes, sir.” Light was shed upon a personage who had entered majestically, a man recognisable: a face familiar.
This familiarity was that given by television sets. The phenomenon is known to all, but have we come to terms with it? Most of us have not had the opportunity. Castang hadn’t, up to this moment. A man whose face, and voice, had been in his livingroom a score and probably more of times. One knew the facial and vocal mannerisms very well; the rapid, practised way of taking the spectacles off and putting them on again. But one did not know the man. His political opinions, yes. The fact that he is a skilful public debater and appearer, yes. What more?—nothing. It is such a long time since Richard Nixon’s five-o’clock-shadow and sweaty, over-eager, ingratiating manner. Marketing techniques have grown so much more subtle and sophisticated. What do you know now of the fellow in your livingroom? Precious little. Wolves look increasingly like dogs, and dogs can be trained to perform.
“Please sit down. Monsieur Vibert, right? Monsieur Marc Vibert—correct?” Good name for a politician. Vibrates. Easy to pronounce and remember. A solid, peoples’ name. Sure. Trust me. All of Castang’s invisible antennae were clustering and waving about, mobilised to catch the unsaid.
“I am listening.” In the offices of the PJ means being in public and at that moment you have to make a speech. He just can’t help it: he is conditioned.
A speech. The existing generation of French politicians, between fifty and sixty years of age, was formally educated, brought up upon ‘a solid grounding in the humanities’. Bossuet, Cicero, Demosthenes: logic, rhetoric, the turn of a phrase. Paragraphs beginning with ‘Now Therefore’. Winston Churchill, an embodiment of all that the French detest, was forgiven everything because he too had been brought up upon Gibbon and Antithesis.
One or two of the youngest do not orate. But perhaps the chief characteristic of French life, be it public or private, is their unwillingness to change any of their habits.
Castang became aware of the rise and fall of practised, polished, rehearsed paragraphs, foaming, breaking. Upon the granite cliffs of Finistère, or the broad sandy beaches of the Gironde; Atlantic rollers, ample and majestic. He had to stop it.
“A cigar?”
“I never smoke. Now therefore—”
“Then I will. Monsieur Vibert. Won’t you please listen a moment? You come to me. I am a senior police officer. Competent to take charge. That does not mean only that I know my job. I am invested with the authority of the Republic. Reduced to words of one syllable, a life has been lost, so you tell me. I must now tell you; in the absence of Divisional Commissaire Richard, Princ ipal Commissaire Domenech, I’m the one who carries the can. Who empties the pot? That’s what the Procureur de la République will ask, what the Instructing Magistrate will ask. Okay? You accept that? Then we’re stuck with one another. All right? So your style of things, my style of things …
“You understand? I take a piece of paper, I write. I write slowly, in longhand. I make it very brief, very curt. To keep up, you understand, with my pen. All right? I put the brief, factual question. You agree?”
The silence was for once not rehearsed: one beat: two beats.
“Yes.”
“This took place where?”
“The uh, commune, the locality … is called Saint-Julien-sur-Eze.”
“Good. This took place when?”
“In the early hours of this morning.”
“As far as you are able, be more precise.”
“Uh—one-thirty. Perhaps two.”
“The time is now—eighteen hundred. Minus ten minutes. Seven, but we won’t be pedantic. You agree, as to the time?”
“Commissaire, I have explained to you—”
“Leaving the time factor aside. Saint-Julien-sur-Eze is a country district. Outside the jurisdiction of the urban police. Within, thus, the sphere of authority of the gendarmerie. You have, if I understand aright, made no approach to the gendarmerie…? They haven’t been notified at all…? They know nothing…? Is that correct?”
“Commissaire; I have explained.”
“No need to explain afresh.”
We’ve got to get it reduced to basic bedrock. Outside the urban limits of whatever municipality, the urban police has no authority. In whatever country district, authority over all things—be they criminal, or just technically infractions—is held by the gendarmerie. A para-military body, organised upon military lines. Answerable to the Ministry of Defence.
Now the Police Judiciaire, a specialised and elitist body, has authority over a district, a department, even a province. It overlaps thus—putting the heart of the matter in euphemisms—both the municipal police and the gendarmerie, and is by the most natural consequence in the world heartily detested by both.
That’s putting it factually, right?
Now from the point of view of a politician, a well-known public figure. The law states that in the event of unexplained loss of life, to put it laconically, there shall be enquiry. By whom? The law could not state it more precisely. The legal authority is the Procureur, who will delegate enquiry (and any legal sequels) to a Judge of Instruction, an examining magistrate. Who confides the technical and administrative aspects to—the PJ? The Gendarmerie?
Brief answer; whoever gets there first.
Since, my dear boy, after a time-lapse of sixteen to seventeen hours this well-known politician has chosen to confide in the PJ, it is to be concluded that he is on better terms with the Ministry of the Interior than with the Ministry of Defence. Full stop. Paragraph.
Castang, boy, you’re saddled with this. No use looking around for Richard, for Domenech. The shadow on the sundial is pointing at you.
“I think it advisable, Monsieur Vibert, that in view of the very large lapse of time—”
“Commissaire, I have tried to explain …”
“Lapse of time, that we proceed together to an examination of the ground.”
“Commissaire, I—”
“Monsieur Vibert, these scruples do you honour.” But this was no mere frightened bourgeois, no smalltime notable out of his depth. He was determined to take charge, not to allow the control of affairs to get out of his hands. What after all is a little police officer in a provincial city? He’d better keep quiet, if he knows what’s good for him.
Come, that is somewhat crude. A PJ officer, of enough rank and experience to know his way about, has learned not to break any china. Vibert wanted this made clear.
“Monsieur Castang. Let’s be quite sure we understand each other. An accident took place, a very dreadful accident from which I escaped with my skin more or less whole. In great distress—I can use the word distraught—I sought the help of a deeply trusted friend who happens also to be a medical man of acknowledged eminence. I wished of course to bring this dreadful occurrence to the notice of the proper authorities without delay. You will, I feel sure, distinguish readily between the problems of being a nationally known figure—and the responsibilities accruing—and those of an ordinary private citizen. It is of course impossible—the press …”
“We’re discussing this quite quietly, like two sensible prudent men,” said Castang. “So we need not cover up our words too much. It wouldn’t do—quite so—to go tottering into some country gendarmerie post, all deranged and distraught—covered in blood and dust—no, no.”
“I’m so glad you understand.”
“So that the moment you feel sufficiently collected and coherent—”
“Against medical advice, in fact.”
We’re getting on beautifully. He’ll be calling me Castang next—we’ve been friends for years.
“So that another half-hour can’t make any difference.” It was a very intelligent face there across the desk.
“I’m not altogether sure that I’m following you.”
“There’s an unpleasant fact, and I see no possibility of its remaining unknown.”
“My dear Castang, there’s no question of anything being withheld or disguised.”
“No. If nothing has been found, which appears to me most unlikely, the woman has been down there for seventeen hours.”
The pause was a short one.
“Yes. That’s a very dreadful thought. You realise of course that this has only been brought home to me—I mean that my recall has been total—for, well, perhaps an hour.” There was a longer pause.
“I see,” said Castang. “Without entering upon technical medical jargon—mm, we’re looking for a blanket-word. Blanket’s not quite the right expression. Amnesiac, perhaps?”
“Something of the sort, perhaps. My medical adviser very kindly drove me here. I insisted on coming in here alone. He was unwilling to take the responsibility.”
“You think perhaps we should have him in?”
“As a witness you mean? If you think it advisable.”
“I was just wondering whether you felt up to answering a few questions.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Monsieur Vibert gallantly. “I must warn you, I’m still a bit on the giddy side. Had a bit of a knock on the head, you know. And full up rather of various assorted medications. Not quite sure how these might affect my realisation or recollections. But go ahead, my dear chap. This isn’t formal, is it? If I understand aright, you are seeking the essential information on which to base the action you see fit to take.”
“That’s roughly it,” perhaps a little too drily.
“Have I left anything out?” with cooperative warmth.
“We’d do better perhaps to leave the questions for now. Till you’ve had a good night’s sleep. Or perhaps just the one. How did you know she was dead?”
“How did I know ..? I’m at a loss.”
“The car skidded. Hit something, there was an impact, you think that sprung the door open, there was a violent lurch, conceivably an overturn—you were flung clear?”
“Those were my impressions. They may be inaccurate. Piecing it together after … you see, otherwise, I’d hardly be here to tell the tale. Would I?”
“No safety belt?”
“Perhaps not. I don’t recall. If not, then just as well, I should think.”
“And you were driving? Or was she?”
“You know, Commissaire, this is very strange … I simply had not asked myself that question, hitherto … Quite honestly, I don’t know.”
“What would have been normal?”
“Normally she. I dislike driving at night especially, when tired or preoccupied … the weirdest things happen to one, under stress. Only now does it begin to come back to me … of course, this sort of precise, professional questioning …”
“Yes? You were going to say?”
“I came to, after a moment. And then when my eyes got accustomed to the night I could see this frightful ravine, and thought Good God, the car’s gone down that. And by some fantastic miracle I hadn’t. And that was all that occurred to me. I must have thought at that moment that I was alone in the car. Or I suppose—but naturally; I would have made efforts to get down there. Or if that proved impossible—nearly a sheer drop as I see it now—I would have tried of course to get help. But I seem to have had the conviction that I was alone.
