I don’t mean to defend Arnaud, but the situation doesn’t seem as one-sided to me as Jean-Claude makes out. He finishes his omelette and wipes his mouth with a paper napkin.
‘Maybe. I’m not making excuses for Didier. But Arnaud acts like he’s under siege. He’s always had a chip on his shoulder, but barbed wire and man-traps?’ Jean-Claude gestures at my foot with his knife. ‘And please, don’t insult us both by pretending that was an accident. I never actually believed the rumours about the traps before, but Christ! Why would you stay there after something like that?’
He seems genuinely puzzled, but that’s a door I’m not about to open. ‘I still don’t see what you want from me.’
‘Like I said, Arnaud knows more than he’s saying or he wouldn’t have bothered making up that bullshit story. You’re living on the farm, you could look around, ask questions. Maybe see if the old guy, Georges, has seen or heard something he hasn’t told anyone about. Find out what Arnaud’s hiding.’
Spy on them, in other words. It puts me in an awkward position, but I’m more distracted by something else Jean-Claude’s said:
The crumbling patch of concrete in the barn.
I push my plate away, the food almost untouched. ‘If you’re so convinced he’s lying why don’t you go to the police?’
‘You think I haven’t? I tried the local gendarmerie and the National Police in Lyon, for all the good it did. Without proof, they don’t want to know. They said Louis is a grown man, he can do what he likes.’
It takes me a moment to realize what that implies. Rural areas of France like this come under the jurisdiction of the gendarmerie: the National Police only operate in cities. There’s only one reason I can think of why Jean-Claude would have approached both, and I seize on it.
‘Where did you say he was last seen?’
Jean-Claude hesitates. He lowers his eyes to his glass, turning it in both hands. ‘There was a sighting of him at a garage on the outskirts of Lyon, two days after he left here. He was caught on the security camera when he stopped for fuel. But that doesn’t prove anything.’
He’s wrong. It proves his brother only went missing after he left town. From the way Jean-Claude’s been talking I assumed Louis never actually made it to Lyon, that his disappearance must be directly linked to Arnaud and the farm. If the last sighting of him was in a city halfway across the country, that’s something else entirely.
It feels like a weight’s gone from my shoulders.
‘Have you thought that the police could be right? Maybe he had a good reason for running away.’ The irony of that only occurs to me as I’m saying it. It prompts a twinge of shame I deliberately ignore.
Jean-Claude stares at me, big arms resting on the table. I have the uncomfortable feeling that he’s weighing me up, reconsidering what to make of me.
‘My wife and I, we haven’t been blessed with children,’ he says. ‘Apart from her, Louis is my closest family. And I’m his. Whenever he fucks up, sooner or later he comes to me to sort it out. Because I’m his brother, that’s what I do. Except this time.’
‘Look—’
‘Louis is dead. I don’t need the police to tell me that. If he were still alive I’d have heard from him by now. And Arnaud’s got something to do with it. I don’t care where Louis was last seen, the old bastard’s hiding
Despite his gruffness, the loss and frustration are plain. God knows I can sympathize with the need to find someone to blame, but it doesn’t change anything. ‘I still don’t see what I can do. I don’t even know how much longer I’ll be staying there. I’m sorry.’
It sounds like I’m making excuses, even to me. Jean-Claude stands up, taking out his wallet and dropping a note onto the table to cover lunch.
‘There’s no need to—’
‘I said it was on me. Thanks for your time.’
His broad shoulders briefly block the doorway as he turns his back and walks out.
The cabin of the van is like an oven, stifling with the smell of hot plastic and oil. It drives sluggishly, the bags of sand in the back weighing it down like an anchor. I keep my foot on the accelerator, trying to force the speed from it. It’s only when the van begins to rattle that I ease off, and then only slightly. The engine vibrates, complaining as I drive along the almost empty road.
I don’t know why I’m so angry, or who at. Myself probably: I should never have agreed to listen to Jean-Claude. Still, at least now I know the reason for the hostility towards Arnaud. The town’s been given a juicy scandal to chew on, and someone as antisocial and belligerent as him would make a convenient target.
