— a name from Arthurian legend, was that important? Would she have heard from him? He could be in the desert now, or at sea, or buried in the teeming masses of some Arab town. Dubai, Sharjah, Ras al Khaimah, Khor al Fakkan — the Emirate names passing through my mind like a refrain — and Muscat, too, El Ain… all the names of all the places I had ever visited in the Gulf. Where would it be — where would I catch up
with him? And when I did, would I really kill him? Would I have the guts?
And then, after a long time, I saw his newspaper picture face twisted in pain, the wide stare, the shocked surprise and the blood spurting. What had I used? In God’s name, was it a knife, or was it my bare hands? My teeth were bared and gritted, my fingers wet and feeling flesh, squeezing, squeezing, and I was cursing as the tongue came out and his eyes glazed…
‘Angers,’ Barre said and I blinked my eyes and sat up.
We were off the dual carriageway, driving into the centre of a city. ‘I’m sorry,’ I murmured. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’
‘You’re tired, I think. You were talking to yourself.’ He switched off the radio. ‘We are coming now to one of the great chateaux of France.’ He turned off to the right, away from the river which he said was the Maine, and above us I saw a line of great black-banded towers. ‘A pity you don’t have time to view the tapestries of the Apocalypse — this city has some of the most remarkable tapestries in the world.’ He talked then about the Angevin kings and the Plantag-enet connection until we stopped at a little hotel in Bohalle for lunch.
What I had said while I was asleep in the car I don’t know, but all through the meal, it seemed, he avoided the purpose of our journey, putting himself out to be entertaining as though I were somebody to be treated with care. It was only at the end, over the last of the wine and some excellent local cheese, that
he suddenly said, ‘That girl, what are you going to say to her, have you thought?’
I gave a little shrug. What the hell was I going to say to her? ‘Does she know her father wrecked a tanker?’
‘It’s not certain. There’s no proof yet. But of course she knows he’s-under suspicion. It is in all the papers. And yesterday the local press print a statement from the skipper of the Vague d’Or.’ And he added, ‘Is better you leave it to me, eh? She may not have any English and if I talk to her—’
‘Ask her if she’s heard from her father, if possible get his address.’
‘And how do we explain ourselves? She might talk to me, but with two of us there — I don’t know.’ He was frowning. ‘I think if I were her I would be asking some questions before giving any answers.’
We were still discussing it as we drove out of Bohalle, the road now hugging the bank of the Loire, through Les Rosiers, St Clement-de-Levees and St Martin-de-la-Place. At Saumur, with its fairy chateau perched above the river, we crossed over to the south bank and almost immediately the road was bounded by shallow limestone cliffs along which conventional house fronts had been built as facades to what were apparently troglodyte dwellings. ‘Les Tuffeaux,’ Barre said, and talked for a moment about the mushroom industry that had grown side by side with the wine business in caves carved out of the limestone to provide the building material for medieval churches.
He stopped at a riverside cafe to enquire the way
and afterwards we turned right at Souzay to join a narrow road close under the cliffs. Mushrooms, he said, were a by-product of the Cavalry School at Saumur. ‘What you call horse shit,’ he added, laughing. It was a long, very narrow road and the Choffel house was at the end, in a little cul-de-sac where there was a cave half-hidden by a drooping mass of vegetation, the entrance sealed off by an iron door with a dilapidated notice announcing Vin a Vendre. We parked there and walked back. The figures 5042 were painted black above the rough plaster porch and from a rusty little iron gate opposite that led into a small rose garden there was a fine view over tiled rooftops to the broad waters of the Loire glinting in a cold shaft of sunlight. Dark clouds hung over the northern bank where the vineyards gave way to forest.
I had no preconceived mental picture of Choffel’s daughter. I expected her to be dark, of course, but I hadn’t really thought about it, my mind on how I could persuade her to give us the information I needed. It came as a shock, when she opened the door, to find there was something vaguely familiar about her. She was about twenty, well-rounded with black hair cut in a fringe that framed a squarish face and I had the feeling I had seen her before.
Barre introduced us and at my name she turned her head, staring at me with a puzzled frown. Her eyes were large and dark like sloes, very bright, but that may have been because of her cold. She looked as though she was running a temperature. Barre was still talking, and after a moment’s hesitation, during which
