All Pure Souls
All Pure Souls
An Aliette Nouvelle Mystery
John Brooke
© 2001, John Brooke
Print Edition ISBN 978-0921833-80-2
Ebook Edition 2012
ISBN 978-1897109-89-2
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, for any reason, by any means, without the permission of the publisher.
Cover design by Terry Gallagher/Doowah Design.
Photograph of John Brooke by René De Carufel.
Acknowledgements
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, Mary Wollstonecraft, Modern Library, Great Britain, 2001; The White Goddess: A Historical Grammar of Poetic Myth, Robert Graves, Creative Age Press, New York, 1948; “Le Pommier enchanté,” Chansons de chez nous, Théodore Botrel, Editions Slatkine, Geneva-Paris, 1981.
Raoul Pelleau, Serge Reboul, Cécile Granger, Bernadette Granger, Annie Granger...for words, books, corrections and directions. Merci.
We acknowledge the support of The Canada Council for the Arts and the Manitoba Arts Council for our publishing program.
Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data
Brooke, John, 1951–
All pure souls
I. Title.
PS8553.R6542A74 2001 C813’.54 C2001-903654-X
PR9199.3.B697A64 2001
Signature Editions, P.O. Box 206, RPO Corydon
Winnipeg, Manitoba, R3M 3S7
Contents
Prologue
1st Part
1. The Persisting Heat
2. Her Friend Georgette
3. Day Two
2nd Part
4. Speaking of Love
5. The Goddess
6. Sunday
7. You Circle but Don’t Touch
8. Living by the Book
9. That Provisional Feeling
3rd Part
10. A Line Across Your Life
11. The Dreamiest Song of the Sea
12. Tricky Territory
13. Two Minds/One Knife
14. On Secret Doors and Waiting
15. I Am the Queen of Every Hive
16. Voices of Mari Morgan’s
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by John Brooke
for Libby & JWB
and Mike L.
...pure souls par excellence
Prologue
“I wish to see women neither heroines nor brutes, but reasonable creatures.”
— Mary Wollstonecraft,
A Vindication of the Rights of Woman
Hello, Aliette. How’s your life, ma belle?
Not so great, thank you.
What’s the matter?
Can’t sleep.
Well, no one can. Sit tight — your holiday will soon be here...
Sure. Thanks...
Inspector Aliette Nouvelle of the Police Judiciaire, lying there, enervated, bitched out in the middle of another impossible August night on the eastern edge of France. Thirty-two ugly degrees centigrade at one in the morning. A monstrous humidity has descended from the Vosges Mountains and settled in across Alsace. The oppressive system has killed the wind and dulled the local sparkle. Vines along the panoramic Wine Road hang punk and lonely. It’s peak season but the tourist boats are empty, the Rhine reduced to a congealed swath of industrial murk. Disgusting. Dispiriting.Ten days and counting... This city smells stale. Her worries fester.
You’re still pissed that Claude got the nod for Commissaire?
Interim Adjunct — they’re still watching him.
It’s his, Aliette. Just accept it and keep going.
Why should I accept it? It was me who broke the case.
True...Jacques Normand. Huge.
And where am I going? If I can go through all that and still get nowhere, what’s the point?
You could have filed a grievance with the Divisionnaire. With Paris, too.
No...no, I hate that way of moving through.
Well then?
Why should I have to file a grievance? Why wasn’t it obvious?
Do you really want to be obvious?
I want what’s right!
Claude Néon got more paper work. You got more freedom and you know it.
He got the recognition! It should have been mine! I’m a professional!
Aliette...please. Is that really the core of you? I recognize you. I know exactly who you are. There has to be something you need more than professional approbation.
Sure there is. Sex. I need sex. Right now. I need to be screwed a deep and ragged blue. Licked into oblivion. I want to hold the biggest goddamn zizi in these fine fingers and —
Enough!
Not enough! I want sex.
It’s the weather.
Do I feel better for knowing that?
Go then! Rutty sex in the dog days? Woof, woof. Put on something nice and go downtown to the clubs. You can make it happen in five minutes. Sex is the easiest thing in the world.
I will!
No you won’t...
And that’s true. She won’t. It’s this voice that lives inside her. It’s always there to question everything, saying yes to this and no to that, and especially when everything is bad. Sets a balance to her impulse, puts a damper on her fun. The inspector rolls fitfully in twisted sheets and stares out her wide-open balcony door. No air anywhere... She hears traffic on the rond-point, a horn blast, tires screeching, then a chorus of horns blasting back in cranky reply. The city’s wide awake, going in neurotic circles, in desperate search of respite.
Oh, come on! Why do I need permission from myself? Why not just do it? Go. Go out and get laid.
Propriety? Her mother’s warnings...her mother’s values? Surely these things have nothing to do with the life of a thirty-five-year-old professional woman living alone in a place that’s about as far as you can get from Nantes, the west coast city where Maman lives happily with Papa. This is not their world; what a burden, having to double-think your way through the codes they’ve planted in your soul. She thinks of her sister Anne, also back in Nantes. Two years younger, no real job, no serious man, and no qualms either. Say what you like, for all her wrong choices, Anne had freed herself in that one essential thing. A night like this, Anne would be out dancing, sweating, reeling in a guy who looked just fine for a night. Aliette could almost feel her sister feeling it: a stranger’s body, no questions asked.
Or is it simply a dislike of strangers? Not fear. Beyond fear. It’s a woman’s natural sense of privacy (as opposed to propriety), overlaid with a cop’s inclination to be wary. With so many unknown people flowing by, how can you just latch onto one so arbitrarily, so closely? Aliette can’t do it.
A professional hazard, then? Because tonight she wishes she could.
And could I ever stop you from something you really need to do?
More shrieks and groans from the traffic circle. She kicks her sheets away, swings her feet to the floor, pulls on her discarded pyjama. Piaf follows her out onto the balcony, brushing her ankles, pushing his luck. “Va-t-en!” She kicks, gently, but firmly, enough to let him know she’s in no mood. The sixteen-year-old white cat knows her well enough to back away.
It’s Myriam, out of her mind, out loose in the city, swaying through the night-time traffic, thumb out, oblivious to the alarmed horns and swerving cars, only looking for the next 300-franc trick. The inspector knows her as soon as she sees her. She had adopted Myriam as a “cousin,” a source of information, someone who could have been arrested and saved from herself at any time but was more valuable left to fend for herself on the street. Myriam’s another professional hazard for a cop whose instinct is to care, because she’s a professional necessity when it comes to landing bigger, more dangerous fish. Poor
Myriam... Mmm, sad: one of the ones without make-up, in jeans and ratty running shoes, bottom-of-the-line sex for sale. Even from a distance Aliette can see she’s not doing so well. She’s in pain, in need of more of the drug she lives on, and it’s making her jumpy. The inspector forgets her own itching, her own internal bitching as she stands in the dark watching Myriam do her pathetic and precarious dance.
Myriam moves toward each passing car, compulsive, purely physical, practically punches her thumb through the window of every car that dares to slow down for a look. One guy slows, passes... Myriam whirls, waving the thumb high in aid of any rear-view second thoughts. Guy doesn’t go for it... Two more gear down, take a look, pass by. And Myriam repeats her movements exactly: thumb out, shake it in his face, then spin. Yes: As if it were all a dance. But it’s not working. Myriam gets off the circle and stands under the street lamp at the bus-stop. One more passes, she whirls around again — and watches another one go by. Fuck it! Standing there, Myriam raises her arms in a gesture of exaggerated incredulity, hopeless face saying, God I can’t win! What is it — my breath?
It’s exquisite acting. Tonight it’s for no one except Aliette Nouvelle.
Now the haggard pute sits on the bench beside the bus-stop and bends double, clutching her belly, rotating her neck slowly back and forth, trying to relax. “Myriam!” Aliette calls down through the night, quietly, not wanting to disturb her fellow tenants. “Myriam!... Up here!...it’s Aliette.”
Fifty paces away, Myriam’s vague eyes finally find her.
“Stay there. I’ll be right down.”
She slips on jeans and sandals and goes lightly down the stairs. She comes out the door just in time to see Myriam getting into a top-of-the-line Peugeot, the Peugeot pulling away. Myriam does not look at her as they pass. No, she’s grinning at the guy, coy, sussing him out, already angling for the best possible price.
Merde!...climbing back up the stairs, returning to her humid room. Suddenly empty. Fatigued. The restless thing has gone with Myriam.
She lies there. Now she would sleep.
The voice says, Take heart, Aliette: Myriam’s a professional, too — and doing what she can.
1st Part
Garde à vue
A suspect may be held for twenty-four hours without legal representation pending the formal charge; the Procureur may extend.
“Other women, other goddesses, are kinder seeming. They sell their love at a reasonable rate — sometimes a man may even have it for the asking.”
— Robert Graves,
The White Goddess
1
The Persisting Heat
The day is Thursday, August 6th, the first day of Quert, an ancient Celtic apple festival. Hidden away now, out of time. For most, the 6th is the Transfiguration; but on the old calendar the 6th coincided with the celebration of the Assumption of the Virgin into Paradise. The apple is beauty, innocence, the ideal of youthfulness and freshness as set against eternity. A lot like the Virgin, no? It also stands for wisdom and choices. Now Assumption Day is not till the 15th... But hardly anyone knows this. Certainly not Inspector Nouvelle. And if she did, would she care? Not likely. Not today. It’s just past 8:00 a.m. and she’s already sticky from the persisting heat. She sits completely still, barely breathing, comparing two photos. One, clipped from a glossy magazine, shows the universally recognized face of the American movie queen, Marilyn Monroe. Too many people had loved this woman for the wrong reasons so she had died — by her own hand. The other photo is a Polaroid of the murdered woman lying in a drawer four floors below. A prostitute; her obvious gimmick the physical impersonation of the American star: wavy platinum hair, an air of glittery surprise conveyed in the laughing smile, the slightly out-of-focus lusty eyes, and of course the bountiful proportioning inside the lamé gown. The likeness is serviceable, but only that.
“It’s not perfect,” opines interim Adjunct Commissaire Claude Néon. He’s looking worse than usual this morning, skin pale and porous, eyes bloody, as if he’s been up all night. Maybe he was. The humid heat is getting to everyone.
Aliette agrees. “It’s not perfect at all. Who would buy it?”
“Lots, apparently. Personally, I’ll never understand those Americans and the things they like, but their bad taste seems to be catching on here. She always seemed too much like a cow to me. That thick body. Those stupid eyes...”
Aliette has learned to tune out the more offensive aspects of Claude’s observations. In any case, she’s more interested in the more recent victim. “Poor girl. Who was she?”
“They called her Manon...Manon Larivière...no girl: forty-four last May. There’s a bit of a past. A village in the Vosges. But no family has come forward, if that’s what you mean.”
Families of her kind rarely did.
“Forty-four?” She did not look forty-four. Then again, with the false face carefully made like that, age had nothing to do with it. Or age was all that mattered. Aliette Nouvelle knows that feeling: standing in front of a mirror putting yourself together for the world’s approval, always aware that the world is strongly biased in favour of the young and the firm and the fresh. To the face in the photo she offers a quiet declaration. “Well, Manon Larivière, American fantasies or not, we’ll see if we can’t find a good reason for why you had to die like this.” The woman had been stabbed, once, in the heart.
Claude, ever skeptical of her reactions, swings in his chair to face the hazy morning sky. “Looks pretty simple to me. That pimp...he’s the one with the reasons. Sprawled on top of her when it was discovered. Took them ten minutes to pry the knife out of his hand.”
She glances again at the information. “Herménégilde Dupras.”
With a light push of his toe, Claude swivels his creaky chair back round to face her. “There’s a record. Beat one of them up...” leafing through the file; “a Francine Léotard...well, twenty-three years ago.” Well before the time of Aliette and Claude.
“Nothing after that?”
“Nothing here. From what I gather, the longer he stayed in business the better connected he managed to get himself. If there was anything else, it got swept under the carpet... No pals to the rescue this time, though...Proc has to charge him. Just a question of whether 221-3 or passionnel.”
Article 221-3: premeditated murder — termed assassinat; a conviction gets life imprisonment. A crime passionnel is less categorical and the plea is often effectively used to mitigate. The Proc is the Procureur; like a Crown Attorney, the state’s representative to the court. But barring flagrant délit (caught in the act), the initial information can only ever be prima facie. “You know the knife doesn’t mean much, Claude. He was out of his mind when our people got there...couldn’t put three words together.” This too is down in writing and could mitigate against a 221-3.
“So was she. Loaded up with hallucinogens.”
“Could a man so drugged manage a knife — and her? Looking at this, I wouldn’t call her petite.”
“He’s a pretty large guy, Inspector. And there’s this rage factor.”
“That was twenty-three years ago.”
Claude shrugs; it’s too hot for a big debate. “Who else could it be? Everyone knows the gangs aren’t in that place. It’s a clear case of mixing too much pleasure with business.”
That place is Mari Morgan’s. Elegant and expensive, the brothel is tolerated because it would have been a large political mistake for anyone who might have had the power to make a fuss to do so. If you had made it that far in the local hierarchy and had not yet been to Mari Morgan’s, the chances were too high you were in tight with someone who had. As for members of the Police Judiciaire such as herself and Claude, they’re paid by the Minister of the Interior; as such, they’ve nothing to gain from the local meisters and too much to lose if they go poking their noses into pleasure pots where there’s no real call. But it’s true: never a hint of a gang or gang-type activity around Mari Morgan’s. That is Aliette’s business and she knows. “Wh
at about the guests?”
“The guests...” Claude yawns, fighting lethargy as he goes back to his notes; “a dentist, an accountant from Hôtel de Ville, a couple of lawyers you might have run into, two managers from Peugeot with one of their parts suppliers in from Lille, and a Herr Von Schorrker from across the river. Five of them were otherwise engaged at the time she was found, three were sitting in the bar. No one’s above suspicion, of course...let’s just say the guests all cancel themselves out of the picture. No need to ruin any careers, Inspector. Not with this heat...our public would hold it against us. Mmm?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“A big bother getting the Germans to comply.”
True enough. “How many girls?”
“Ten... Rather: make that nine plus a cook.”
“So, nine girls — five in bed, at least one working the bar; leaves three with time on their hands.”
“Two actually — she was with him, remember.”
“Right.” With him? Often the mystery starts right there: A woman could be “with” so many different men, each of them in a different way; all the more so if work’s involved. Why am I admired? Why am I wanted? Why am I privy? Between the personal and the professional, the reasons are seldom clear. Like most women, she has learned to live with it. But most women do not have their hearts pierced in the boss’s office. Studying the information: “Says here she was very much in demand. Which means she was bringing in money. Why would a pimp be angry?”
“We’ll see,” mutters her Commissaire. He shrugs, “It’s there if you want it, but...well...not really up your alley, is it?”
She watches Claude staring down at the collected information, shaking the head that is too small for the gangly body in that slow, morose way. Is he pondering the fact of the corrupting influences that always swirl around a man’s carefully constructed life? He has, after all, been the beneficiary of such influence. The friendship of Louis Moreau, their former boss, with Jacques Normand, one of the country’s most wanted criminals, had played itself out to a tragic end, leaving Inspector Claude Néon in charge. Whether justly so is a question not enough people have sought to consider. She knows he knows it; she hopes the lesson has not been lost: forget hard work; forget risk and results; pray for luck...maybe a penis to go with it? Mmm — bitter, bitter. Stop it, Aliette!