A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(145)

Guy had been the one to find it, the one to say, “Frank, what d’you make of this?” as he spoke no German.

Frank himself had supplied the translation, doing it mindlessly and automatically, without pausing to read every line of it, without pausing to consider the ramifications. The meaning sank in as the last word —Tabak— drifted between his lips. As he’d become conscious of the implications, he’d lifted his gaze to the top of the paper and then shifted it to Guy, who’d already read it. Guy, who had lost both parents to the Germans, lost an entire family, lost a heritage. Guy said, “How will you deal with this?”

Frank made no reply.

Guy said, “You’re going to have to. You can’t let it go. Holy God, Frank. You don’t intend to let it go, do you?”

That had been the colour and the flavour of their days ever after. Haveyou dealt with it, Frank? Have you brought it up?

Frank had thought he wouldn’t need to now, with Guy dead and buried and the only one who knew. Indeed, he’d thought he would never need to. But the past day had taught him otherwise. Who forgets the past repeats it.

He got to his feet. He replaced the other papers in their envelope and returned the envelope to its folder. He shut the filing cabinet on it, and he turned out the light. He pulled the cottage door closed behind him. Inside his own cottage, he found his father asleep in his armchair. An American detective show was playing on the television, two policemen with NYPD on the back of their windbreakers poised—handguns at the ready—to burst through a closed door and do violence behind it. At another time, Frank would have roused his father and taken him upstairs. But now he passed him and climbed upwards himself, seeking the solitude of his room.

On the top of his chest of drawers stood two framed photographs. One depicted his parents on their wedding day after the war. In the other, Frank and his father posed at the base of the German observation tower not far from the end of Rue de la Prevote. Frank couldn’t remember who had taken the picture, but he did remember the day itself. They’d been pelted by rain but had hiked along the cliff path anyway, and when they’d arrived, the sun had burst upon them. God’s approval for their pilgrimage, Graham had said.

Frank leaned the list from the filing cabinet against this second picture. He backed away from it like a priest unwilling to turn his back on the consecrated bread. He felt behind him for the end of his bed, and he lowered himself to it. He gazed on the insubstantial document and tried not to hear the challenge of that voice.

You can’t let this go.

And he knew he couldn’t. Because It is the cause, my soul. Frank had limited experience in the world, but he wasn’t an ignorant man. He knew that the human mind is a curious creature that can frequently act like a funhouse mirror when it comes to details too painful to recall. The mind can deny, refashion, or forget. It can create a parallel universe if necessary. It can devise a separate reality for any situation it finds too difficult to bear. In doing this, Frank knew, the mind did not lie. It simply came up with the strategy to cope.

The trouble arose when the coping strategy obliterated the truth instead of merely shielding one from it temporarily. When that occurred, desperation resulted. Confusion reigned. Chaos followed. Frank knew they were on the cusp of chaos. The time had come to act, but he felt immobilised. He’d given his life to the service of a chimera, and despite knowing this fact for two months, he found that he was still reeling from it.

Exposure now would render meaningless more than half a century of devotion, admiration, and belief. It would make a miscreant out of a hero. It would end a life in public disgrace.

Frank knew that he could prevent all this. Only a single piece of paper, after all, stood between an old man’s fantasy and the truth. On Fort Road, an attractive albeit heavily pregnant woman answered the door of the Bertrand Debiere household. She was the architect’s wife, Caroline, she informed St. James. Bertrand was working in the back garden with the boys. He was taking them off her hands for a few hours while she got some writing done. He was good that way, a model husband. She didn’t know how or why she’d managed to be so lucky as to end up his wife.

Caroline Debiere noted the collection of large sheets of paper that St. James carried rolled up under his arm. Was this about business? she inquired. Her voice gave a fair indication of how eager she was for that to be the case. He was a fine architect, her husband, she told St. James. Anyone wanting a new building, a renovation of an old one, or an extension of an existing structure would not go wrong hiring Bertrand Debiere to design it. St. James told her that he was interested in having Mr. Debiere examine some pre-existing plans. He’d called in at his office, but a secretary had told him Mr. Debiere had left for the day. He’d looked in the phone directory and taken the liberty of tracking the architect down at home. He hoped this wasn’t an inconvenient time...?

Not at all. Caroline would fetch Bertrand from the garden if Mr. St. James wouldn’t mind waiting in the sitting room.

A happy shout rose from outside, at the back of the house. Pounding followed it: the sound of hammer striking nail and wood. Hearing this, St. James said he didn’t want to take Mr. Debiere from what he was doing, so if the architect’s wife didn’t mind, he’d join him and his children in the garden.

Caroline Debiere looked relieved at this, doubtless happy that she would be able to continue her work without having her sons handed over to her. She showed St. James the way to the back door and left him to his meeting with her husband.