“When he got home, David found his wife lying on the sofa. Dead,” she said in a quiet voice. “They’d been fighting. And she killed herself.”
“Do you know what, I don’t believe that for a second. Since when has anyone taken an overdose because of a domestic spat? Funny how my client was so much more concerned about his son than his wife when I was driving him home. The sonyouwere babysitting, if I recall correctly. He didn’t think his son was safe with you. Have you come across a lot of fathers who’d hang themselves, yet are concerned for their children’s safety in the house next door?”
“Then why did he ask me to babysit?” Tiphaine said with a mocking little laugh.
“He didn’t know. It was only after he found out he’d been taken into custody for being in possession of a pot of foxgloves that he lost his temper and implicated you.”
“You have no proof of anything.”
That is always the clincher: when the accused doesn’t bother to even try to prove their innocence but proceeds directly to the next level of defense:you have no proof—four words that sweep away any lingering doubts about their guilt.
Gérard clicked his tongue, as though weighing up whether or not he did have any proof. He waved the file folder at them as if it were bait.
“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t!” he said, not even trying to hide his pleasure at seeing Tiphaine dig herself in deeper. “How would you know?” He smiled teasingly, then went on, “So, this is the way I see it: whatever the evidence, there are enough elements here to reopen the case, and I promise that I will not let you out of my sight. But understand this: getting you put behind bars is not the aim of the game, even though I can’t deny it would give me immense pleasure.”
“What is it you want?” asked Tiphaine, looking at him with undisguised hatred.
So there it was! A tacit acknowledgment. Better than a confession. Gérard didn’t know if Tiphaine was conceding Ernest Wilmot’s murder or the Brunelles’ double suicide. He turned to Sylvain, who stood there, pale as a ghost.
“First off, I’d like Don Juan here to stop dunking his cookie in my wife’s coffee. Got that, asshole? Forget she ever existed. You don’t even look at her anymore. Her or my kids. Hands off. Got that?”
“You really think the police are going to reopen a case on the basis of a few conjectures?” said Tiphaine, desperate to get the upper hand. “If you have no proof, you have nothing.”
“What’s gotten into you?” Gérard gave her an ironic half smile. “Does it make you hot to think of your husband getting it on with another woman on the other side of that wall?”
“You have no evidence against us,” said Tiphaine, ignoring the attorney’s sarcasm. “The police will laugh in your face with your pathetic, empty file.” Gérard gave her a dark look. The woman was unstoppable—further evidence that she was capable of just about anything.
“The police, maybe,” he conceded with a wolfish grin. “But I don’t think any of this will amuse Milo one bit.”
Chapter 33
At the mention of Milo, Tiphaine reacted like a tigress sensing a threat to her cubs. Though she was appalled by Sylvain’s betrayal, it was the absolute necessity of protecting the boy from the attorney’s meddling that brought out her aggression. Gérard realized it immediately. The moment he uttered the boy’s name, Tiphaine was transformed; her eyes shone with a belligerent gleam, and she gave him a venomous look.
That was when he knew for sure she was capable of murder.
Gérard was a veteran of the terrible things of which the human soul is capable, and he was undisturbed by Tiphaine’s suppressed violence. But he felt an instinctive quiver in his solar plexus that told him to be careful, the woman’s dam of reason could, ceding to intense pressure, burst at any moment. He knew from experience that it is vital to leave the door open for the enemy to escape, or rather to give the illusion that there is the possibility of escape: someone who has nothing to lose...has nothing to lose.
“It’s very simple,” he said after a moment’s pause. “You leave my family alone, and I’ll leave yours alone. Everyone goes back to how things were. And we’re all happy.” He watched Tiphaine closely to be sure she had understood. The hostility in her expression was no less intense, but he detected something in her eyes that unnerved him. Was she determined to hold her course?
He had to get out of there. If Tiphaine and Sylvain wanted to get rid of him, there was nothing to stop them doing so there and then. Any lingering doubts he might have had about their guilt dissipated in the barely disguised hostility of the encounter. They may not have confessed, but their demeanor made their guilt obvious.
He made his way to the front door, his mind teeming with thoughts. He was going to have to watch his back now. The confrontation with Tiphaine troubled him; she had a malevolent energy that made him very uneasy. He had taken no precautions prior to his visit, beyond the plan to blackmail Sylvain, which had been rendered null by the man’s idiocy almost as soon as he arrived and was now no more than a vial emptied of its poison. Even his secretary had no idea where he was.
“By the way, I must inform you I had a full medical check just recently, and I’m in excellent health,” he said, looking meaningfully at Tiphaine. “Heart, blood pressure, cholesterol levels. Tip-top!”
“I’m very happy for you,” she said, holding his gaze.
“I’m just saying that should anything untoward happen to me—a heart attack, say—my doctor would ask questions. And furthermore, my secretary has a list of documents to forward to various people concerning files I’m currently working on. Just a precaution I put in place for certain cases...” He stopped for a moment, before concluding his spiel. “So should anything happen to me, all the documents concerning you will be sent to Milo.”
It occurred to him that covering himself like this made a great deal of sense. He would tell Mélanie when he was back in the office that if anything untoward were to befall him, she must send everything on to Milo. And he would warn Nora too. Put her on her guard. Maybe even convince her to come back home for a few days until things calmed down. Now that Tiphaine knew she’d been having an affair with her husband, their neighborly relationship was unlikely to remain cordial.
Just as he was leaving, a young man turned up at the house. He didn’t need Sherlock Holmes’s gifts to deduce that the young man must be Milo. Gérard gave him a warm smile, then reached into the inside pocket of his jacket for his wallet and drew out a business card.
“Milo! Delighted to make your acquaintance.” Surprised, Milo barely had time to stammer out a greeting before the attorney went on, “Allow me to introduce myself: my name is Gérard Depardieu. I was your father’s defense attorney eight years ago, the night he was in custody, which was in fact the same night that...Right, well, you know what I mean. This is my card, and if you’d like to talk about it, if you have any questions at all, please feel free to call.”
More and more puzzled, Milo took the card and gave it a perfunctory glance.
“Depardieu. Any relationship to Inès?”
