Free The Honest Folk of Guadeloupe by Timothy Williams Page B

Lafitte’s always very nice with me, always has been.” She laughed. “I try not to hate him.”
    “You’ve no reason to dislike him,
madame le juge
. A good police officer and a good man.”
    “An ageing boy scout who’s taken to rum.”
    It had been raining again and the wheels of the Peugeot hissed along the drive to the airport. Above the double row of palm trees, the low clouds caught the lights from the landing strip. The illuminated Air France livery—red, white and blue—of a jumbo’s tail-plane rose above the terminal building.
    “He’s so earnest.”
    “Lafitte managed to sit out the autopsy.” Trousseau grinned. He ran a finger along his moustache. “And you didn’t.”
    “Not much fun when Docteur Bouton starts cutting through the skull.” Anne Marie bit her lip.
    “You should never have gone to the morgue in the first place—it wasn’t necessary.”
    “The
procureur
wanted me there.” Anne Marie shook her head, as if trying to rid it of a bad memory. “Poor cow.”
    “Vaton? She’s dead.”
    “So young.” Anne Marie added, “Bouton thinks she’s part West Indian.”
    “She looks white in the photograph.”
    “Hard to tell from the photograph. She may be North African.”
    “Lot of West Indians get taken for Arabs in France—and they don’t like it.” Trousseau laughed. He pulled over and parked illegally in front of the departure lounge, beneath the wet fronds of the palm trees. “Desterres said she was white.”
    An overweight policeman, his plastic raincoat glistening, saw Anne Marie and gave an almost imperceptible nod of recognition.
    “We shouldn’t be too long, officer,” Anne Marie said as she climbed out of the car. After the chill air, the exterior was hot and humid. She could feel the damp climbing her legs, into her clothes.
    The man saluted. Unexpectedly, the dour face broke into a grin. “No problem,
madame
,” he said in Creole, with a wink. He had the round features and soft complexion of a young girl.
    Trousseau got out of the car, still carrying his attaché case but not bothering to lock the doors.
    The first Boeing from Paris had already landed.
    “Bouton couldn’t find a cause of death.” She guided Trousseau gently by the arm as they cut across the road, past the laurel and hibiscus bushes. “He hadn’t found anything by the time I had to leave. I think he was embarrassed. Wouldn’t look at me, just the occasional remark into the tape recorder. I could feel him getting annoyed. Very proud of his forensic skills, our Docteur Bouton.”
    “She was raped?”
    “No sign of penetration.”
    “And the bruising around the belly?”
    “Bouton says it occurred after death.” They entered the airport hallway. “If the Institut Pasteur can’t find the cause of death, it’ll mean sending tissue to Paris.”
    “Hopefully that won’t be necessary.”
    “Let’s hope we can identify the killer first.”
    Trousseau laughed again and in that moment, Anne Marie realized just how fond she had grown of her
greffier
. She touched the dark, gnarled skin of the Indian’s hand. “Thanks for being here tonight, Monsieur Trousseau.”
    For some reason he took offense. “I never had to become a
greffier
.I own good land in Guadeloupe and in France. The day the revolution comes …”
    “I know, I know.” Anne Marie nodded vigorously. “You’ll be on the first plane back to France. Your wife—you’ve already told me—your wife is a white woman and your children are all studying in France. And there’s no need for you to stay in Guadeloupe once the independence people get hold of power.”
    Trousseau went into a sulk. He hugged the attaché case to his chest and watched the new arrivals waiting to collect their baggage. “Revolution,” he muttered under his breath.
    Four hundred or so passengers barged and pushed as they retrieved their luggage from the moving belt. There were many West Indians, overdressed and glad to be home, relieved to have been