Free The Cyclist by Fredrik Nath Page A

on cocktail-sticks. His globular body propped upon his thin short legs and his cherry-red cheeks belied a man of good intellect and Auguste knew this. He was after all, not a man who tolerated fools.
    ‘Good morning Doctor,’ he said.
    ‘This is where the body was found?’
    ‘Yes, I turned her over onto her back to make sure she was not alive.’
    ‘Always you do this. You know you make more work for me my friend.’
    ‘Sorry. I checked her pulse. Bernadette Leclerc. I knew her.’
    His words seemed to have a hollow ring to them. He knew her. It was more than a simple acquaintance. He had known her a long time, since her father had died and her mother was crippled. And here she lay, cold in the drizzle of the morning air, her toenails the only sign of warmth or feelings. He hated his job now. Politics and now death. Death and then politics, it had all merged in his mind until he could not tell them apart. It was as if he faced a huge monster marching or crawling towards him, destroying all in its path, even young innocents. And she had been a young innocent, who had squeezed the last ounces of his desire to protect, from him. He had not been there for her and he hated himself for it.
    ‘Auguste, there is hypostasis forming even now,’ Dubois said.
    ‘Yes, I realised. When do you think she died?’
    ‘Auguste, please. You know, when the blood drains through the tissues into the lowermost part of the body at least two hours must have passed and the rigor mortis has only begun now which means about four hours.’
    ‘You called it something else last time.’
    ‘Eh?’
    ‘Yes, you called it something else.’
    ‘Livedo gravitatas?’
    ‘Perhaps.’
    ‘Auguste, my friend, please be patient. I will examine the body and you will get my report after the weekend.’
    ‘After the weekend? Are you mad? I need to know the cause of death and the timing today.’
    Dubois smiled.
    ‘You are joking?’ Auguste said.
    ‘Of course. You are such an easy target my friend.’
    Dubois slapped Auguste on the arm, ‘I can do it this afternoon. I will have the written report in your hands tomorrow morning.’
    ‘Can I come to the mortuary this evening?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘But you can’t tell me how she died?’
    ‘You don’t know?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘You should have spectacles, my friend. You did not see the bruising around her throat?’
    Auguste looked at the exposed throat, where Dubois had pulled down the overcoat.
    ‘Yes, I see it now. Not very marked.’
    ‘Ah, the laryngeal cartilages will be crushed, wait and see. Poor girl.’
    Dubois raised his hand to his two porters and they came, black bag and stretcher. Auguste felt revulsion as they manhandled Bernadette into the bag and folded the edges. They were neat, practised in their work and it was another aspect of the matter filling him with revulsion. To be practised with death, to be used to handling dead bodies tugged at his feelings of disgust.
    ‘I will see you later Auguste. Telephone at five and I will tell you if we have finished.’
    ‘Thank you Jean.’
    Auguste stood and watched as the mortuary attendants loaded the girl’s body into the van. They departed, a green van disappearing around a corner, carrying with it the last remnants of his self-respect.
    It had always been like this for Auguste. Every death was personal. Every one meant something to him. His teachers and seniors always taught him it was unprofessional to be too closely involved. A case is a case, they said.
    Murders were unusual in Bergerac, where everyone knew everyone else. To Auguste, unpractised as he was in solving murders, each body was a person, a soul departed from its mortal shell. It was God’s will but apprehending the killer was Auguste’s will and he had never failed so far. He would find Bernadette’s killer and bring him to justice. Good, honest, French justice.
    He walked towards the door of the Prefecture and he swore by the soul of St Sacerdos of Sarlat, he would