The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe Read Free Page B

wedding ring. “A pleasure to meet you,
madame le juge
.”
    The car took the road from the small airport, went past the Méridien hotel and the bright flags flapping from the high staffs, and out onto the road toward the Pointe des Châteaux.
    Tourists were swinging golf clubs on the green of the nearby course. Caddies lolled in the limited shade of the motorized buggies.
    The sky was cloudless, the sun directly overhead. The car was air-conditioned and the windows tinted. Only the slightest hint of humming as the Peugeot traveled eastwards. Thin dancing mirages played on the surface of the tarmac. “I don’t envy you.”
    “What?”
    “The Dugain business.” His eyes ran over her face. “You’re making a lot of enemies within the SRPJ.”
    “Why the helicopter,
commandant
?”
    Parise coughed. “The
procureur
wanted you here as soon as possible. I’m afraid you’re going to be rather busy. Good thing it’s not the high season.”
    “High season?”
    “The high season for tourism.”
    “Does that matter?”
    Parise glanced at Trousseau’s neck. “A nurse,
madame le juge
, aged twenty-three or twenty-four. She was on holiday here.”
    The unmarked Peugeot went past the new restaurants—low, concrete buildings with grey-green corrugated roofs—specializing in lobster, conch and other seafood. The restaurants were doing brisk business beneath the midday sun. Rented cars with their stenciled plates were parked along the narrow highway.
    Another day in this tropical paradise.
    “A tourist from Paris. Raped and then murdered,
madame le juge
.”
    In the cool air of the car, Trousseau was humming softly.

7
Jacuzzi
    (Jean Michel used to call it their Jacuzzi Beach. “
One of those places where families go on weekends. The rest of the time, it is deserted—apart from the occasional fisherman
.”)
    When Fabrice was little, Jean Michel would drive the family down here. They would picnic and later Jean Michel would go off swimming with his goggles and snorkel. The surf was not ideal but a few meters into the sea there was an outcrop of rocks where the waves broke, forming a natural tub into which the foaming current swirled, massaging the body. Nine, ten years ago—before the divorce, before Létitia.
    A blue van was pulled over onto the shoulder of the road. On the roof, the light turned slowly. Other vehicles were parked under the trees, between the road and the white beach.
    The sun was overhead, hot and implacable. It was almost one o’clock as Parise helped Anne Marie out of the car and they walked to where the
procureur
stood talking to a couple of men in green fatigues.
    An intercom rasped unpleasantly and one of the men, dark aureoles of sweat beneath his arms, spoke into a microphone.
    Easterly trades blew in from the sea and rustled at the branches of the sea grapes. There were picnic tables made of unvarnished timber that had been anchored to cement blocks with steel pins to prevent termites eating into the woodwork.
    The
procureur
kissed Anne Marie on both cheeks. “Sorry about this, Anne Marie.” He shrugged apologetically. “And on a Wednesday.”
    “Where’s the body?”
    “Monsieur Trousseau said you were busy.” He used the
tu
form.
    “An investigating magistrate’s always busy.”
    “He also said you were taking lunch with your children …”
    “A mother’s always busy,” Anne Marie said. “The maid knows how to heat something up.”
    The
procureur
was a tall man, with sandy hair and stooped shoulders. He wore white cotton trousers and black shoes. He held a cigarette in his hand; a box of Peter Stuyvesant was visible through the fabric of the shirt pocket. He was sweating; there were beads of perspiration on the freckled forehead.
    He took Anne Marie by the arm and led her toward the beach. Underfoot the hot dust became fine, white sand.
    “I used to come here with my husband.”
    Stakes had been driven into the sand; red and white police ribbon stretched from one stake to