‘Now, Inspector, would you like a coffee?’
Her change in attitude almost gave him whiplash, then he remembered. They were in her home. Her territory. It was safe for the lady of the manor to make an appearance.
‘No, thank you. I just need some answers.’
Yolande inclined her head slightly, a gracious gesture to a working man.
‘Did you take anything out of Miss Neal’s home?’
This question brought a rise, but not from Yolande. André lowered his paper and scowled. ‘And what business is it of yours?’
‘We now believe Miss Neal was murdered. We have a warrant to search her home and seal it off.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means no one but the police are allowed in.’
A look was exchanged between husband and wife, the first since Beauvoir had arrived. It wasn’t a loving, supportive glance, more a question from him and a confirmation from her. Beauvoir was convinced. They’d done something in that home.
‘Did you take anything?’ he repeated.
‘No,’ said Yolande.
‘If you’re lying, I’ll have you charged with interfering with the investigation and that, M. Malenfant, won’t look good on your already impressive record.’ Malenfant smiled. He didn’t care.
‘What’ve you been doing in there for five days, Ms. Fontaine?’
‘Decorating.’ She swept her arm around the living room. It screamed cheap ‘taste’. The curtains struck him as a little odd, then he noticed she’d put the pattern on both sides, so it showed outside as well as in the home. He’d never seen that before, but wasn’t surprised. Yolande Fontaine only really existed with an audience. She was like those novelty lamps that came on when you clapped your hands. She switched to life with applause, or the sharp clap of rebuke. Any reaction, as long as it was directed at her, was sufficient. Silence and solitude drained her of life.
‘This is a lovely room,’ he lied. ‘Is the rest of the home as - elegant?’
She heard his clapping and sprung into action. ‘Come with me,’ she said, practically dragging him around the tiny home. It was like a hotel room, sterile and anonymous. It seemed Yolande had become so self-absorbed she no longer existed. She’d finally absorbed herself.
He saw a door ajar off the kitchen and made a guess. Reaching out he opened it and in a bound he was down the stairs and looking at an unholy mess.
‘Don’t go down there, that’s Andre’s area.’ He ignored her and quickly moved around the dank room until he found what he’d been looking for. A pair of still-wet Wellingtons and a bow leaning against the wall.
‘Where were you on the morning Jane Neal was killed?’ Beauvoir asked André, once they’d returned to the living room.
‘Sleeping, where else?’
‘Well, how about hunting?’
‘Mebbe. Dunno. I got a license you know.’
‘That wasn’t the question. Were you hunting last Sunday morning?’
André shrugged. ,
‘I saw a dirty bow in the basement.’ So like André, he thought, not to clean his equipment. But looking at the antiseptic home Beauvoir could see why André might yearn for mud. And disorder. And time away from Lemon Pledge.
‘And you think it’s still wet and dirty from last week?’ André hooted.
‘No, from today. You hunt on Sundays, don’t you? Every Sunday, including one week ago, the day Jane Neal was killed. Let me make this clear. This is now a murder investigation. Who’s the most likely suspect in any murder? A family member. Who’s the next most likely suspect? Someone who benefits from the death. And if that person has the opportunity as well, we might as well start making your bed in the penitentiary right now. You two win. We know you’re in debt.’ He took a calculated guess, ‘You believed you inherited everything, and you, André, know how to shoot a bow and arrow well enough to kill. Am I making myself clear?’
‘Look, Inspector,’ André rose from the chair, dropping the sports section a page at a time on the floor. ‘I went hunting and I bagged a deer the day Jane Neal was killed. You can ask Boxleiter at the abattoir, he dressed it for me.’
‘But you were out hunting today. Isn’t the limit one deer?’
‘What, now you’re a game warden? Yes. I went out today. I’ll kill as many deer as I want.’
‘And your son, Bernard? Where was he last Sunday?’
‘Sleeping.’
