Part 28 (2/2)

'A large splinter group from the Catholic church, with strong support in the South of France. And in the Basque Country. Very traditionale traditionale. They were founded by Archbishop Lefebvre. They have links to the Front Nationale, to hard right-wing politics. Some of their bishops have denied the Holocaust. They have sympathizers across the state. They are...' He frowned. 'They are also active abroad. In Bavaria and Quebec, South America. In Poland they have political friends, the League of Polish Families. And the hard right in Austria. It is guessed there are eight hundred thousand members. Their own priests, their own seminaries, their own churches.'

Amy said: 'You are sure they are linked?'

'Quite sure. Everywhere I looked I found, mademoiselle, connections to the Society. Un reseau, une conspiration! Un reseau, une conspiration! My superior officer was a confirmed sympathizer. Very right wing.' My superior officer was a confirmed sympathizer. Very right wing.'

David gazed at the policeman, still deeply confused.

'But why would they be involved in this?'

The officer nodded, uncertainly.

'It seems to me the Catholic church wants to...suppress some knowledge. Which dates back to the war. Maybe to Gurs. Your parents were accidentally revealing the same...mystery. Perhaps by mistake. Accidentellement. Accidentellement.'

'You say the Society is involved, but now you say the whole whole Catholic church?' Catholic church?'

A shrug. 'This is my...hunch, is that the right word? My hunch. I have researched the Society ever since the first killings in Gurs. Some years ago the Society of Pius the Tenth was...excommunie...by Pope John Paul for rejecting the Second Vatican Council. And for their extreme views. But recently there have been signs that the Pope will take the Society back...into the warmth of Catholic communion. Peace overtures have been noted.' Sarria was faintly smiling. 'But I am thinking the church has asked the Society to do something, in return for healing the schism.'

'Close down this mystery. The mystery of Gurs. Once and for all?'

He sighed.

'Yes. Who better than the Society? They already know the whole story because their roots go back to Vichy, and l'occupation l'occupation. When this began. Right-wing French priests were chaplains at Gurs. They tortured Cagots, and Jews, despite themselves.'

The picture, at least half of it, was now revealed to David. He gazed through the dark potted firs, at the blue Bay of Biscay. He talked to himself, quietly: 'Everywhere we went...we went into churches. Navvarenx, Savin, Luz. Eloise's house was opposite a church. She went into the church at Campan...'

'Exactement. The Society has maybe asked for help in their search for you...from the wider church. Priests and nuns and ecclesiastical officials, are maybe identifying you as you move from place to place. Let us say the average priest does not even know why he has been asked to do this. But he will do it because he is obedient. Loyalty means much, in this part of the world.' The Society has maybe asked for help in their search for you...from the wider church. Priests and nuns and ecclesiastical officials, are maybe identifying you as you move from place to place. Let us say the average priest does not even know why he has been asked to do this. But he will do it because he is obedient. Loyalty means much, in this part of the world.'

Amy spoke up: 'And then the information would be pa.s.sed to the Society? And then to Miguel?'

'Et voila'. But what else do we know? I do not have to explain one thing, do I? Miguel's motivation.' The policeman sipped his coffee, and flicked a glance towards the sea, then returned his attention to the table. But what else do we know? I do not have to explain one thing, do I? Miguel's motivation.' The policeman sipped his coffee, and flicked a glance towards the sea, then returned his attention to the table.

'Garovillo fils fils must have been brought up a Basque radical. Violently proud of his Basque heritage. And then then one day, he discovers from his father that he is not Basque, but a Cagot, a despised must have been brought up a Basque radical. Violently proud of his Basque heritage. And then then one day, he discovers from his father that he is not Basque, but a Cagot, a despised Cagot. Cagot. Miguel Garovillo would have been shattered, destroyed. And then he must have resolved.' Sarria frowned. 'Resolved that he would do anything to keep this secret hidden, kill anyone who threatened to reveal the humiliating truth about his father and about Miguel himself. Along the way his wishes happily coincided with the wishes of the Society. Maybe they recruited him at that point, maybe the two Garovillo men were already members. So it all folded into place.' Miguel Garovillo would have been shattered, destroyed. And then he must have resolved.' Sarria frowned. 'Resolved that he would do anything to keep this secret hidden, kill anyone who threatened to reveal the humiliating truth about his father and about Miguel himself. Along the way his wishes happily coincided with the wishes of the Society. Maybe they recruited him at that point, maybe the two Garovillo men were already members. So it all folded into place.'

David spoke up. 'And on top of that his ETA status helped him. Right? He would have the guns and the bombs and the expertise. To kill.'

'Vraiment. And one day, Miguel found out that And one day, Miguel found out that your your parents were in France, researching the Cagots, and staying near Gurs. Asking questions at the Bra.s.serie d'Hagetmau. That would have scared Miguel, alerted him to danger. The Wolf took action. parents were in France, researching the Cagots, and staying near Gurs. Asking questions at the Bra.s.serie d'Hagetmau. That would have scared Miguel, alerted him to danger. The Wolf took action. Alors Alors.'

The frail laughter of a child carried on the coastal breeze. A brief glimpse of personal emotion, of sincere sadness, crossed Sarria's face. He added: 'But this, of course, is all too late for your family, Monsieur Martinez. I am sorry I could not do more. I tried. Please forgive me?'

David quietly nodded. But he didn't really mean it: he didn't want to forgive, he didn't want contrition: he wanted answers. As many answers as possible. His determination was returning, he wanted vengeance for his mother and his father. For his unborn sister. For his unborn sister. But to do that he needed to see the whole picture. Before Miguel could destroy the evidence. But to do that he needed to see the whole picture. Before Miguel could destroy the evidence.

He spoke up: 'But, Officer Sarria, the link with Gurs? What happened there there?'

Sarria shrugged his ignorance. 'That I cannot tell you because I simply do not know. No one seems to know. What I can say is this...'

He leaned to the centre of the table, his voice low and concerned: 'I can only protect you so far. You are in danger. Very serious danger. The Society, and its powerful political sympathizers, they still want you dead. They need need you dead.' you dead.'

'So what the h.e.l.l do we do?' Amy said. Her arms were crossed. 'Where can we go? Britain's too dangerous. Spain likewise. Where else?'

'Anywhere. You do not know what danger you are in...' Sarria glanced significantly at David and Amy. 'Maybe this can a.s.sist. If you need motivating.' You do not know what danger you are in...' Sarria glanced significantly at David and Amy. 'Maybe this can a.s.sist. If you need motivating.'

He reached in a briefcase, and pulled out a large brown envelope. He opened the envelope and extracted a sheaf of photographs.

'These are the photos from the Gurs murder. Eloise's grandmother, Madame Bentayou. I was not sure whether to show them to you. But...but maybe you need to see them.'

David picked up a few of the glossy photos. Hesitantly. He was about to see what Eloise had seen through the window at the bungalow. What she could not, would not describe: the unspeakable murder of her grandmother.

He steeled himself, then looked at the biggest photo.

'Oh Jesus.'

The photo showed the entire murder scene.

Madame Bentayou's body was lying on the kitchen floor, a floor that was smeared with her own blood. Her body was identifiable from the clothes and the tartan slippers; but there was no face to confirm this identification. Because her head had been cut off.

Not only had it been cut off, it seemed to have been pulled pulled off. The jagged nature of the grotesque wound, the shredding and ribboning of the skin, the stretched elastic of the tormented ligaments, they all implied that her head had been wrenched away; as if someone had sawn halfway through her neck, then given up in anger, impatience or blood l.u.s.t. David tried not to imagine the scene: the terrorist pulling at the living head, until the neckbone split and the ligaments snapped. off. The jagged nature of the grotesque wound, the shredding and ribboning of the skin, the stretched elastic of the tormented ligaments, they all implied that her head had been wrenched away; as if someone had sawn halfway through her neck, then given up in anger, impatience or blood l.u.s.t. David tried not to imagine the scene: the terrorist pulling at the living head, until the neckbone split and the ligaments snapped.

And that was not all. Someone Miguel surely Miguel had also cut off the hands: the old woman's wrists were bleeding stumps, trailing veins and muscles. Puddles of blood extended from the stumps like flattened red gloves.

And then the hands had been nailed to the door. nailed to the door. Several more photos showed the hands, impaled. Several more photos showed the hands, impaled.

Two decomposing hands. Nailed. On the kitchen door.

Amy was hiding her face behind her fingers.

'Horrible. Horrible horrible horrible...'

Sarria murmured, 'I know. I am sorry. And there is more.'

David swore. 'How can there be more? How much worse can it be?'

The officer opened the envelope again, and pulled out a final photo. It was a close-up of one of the severed hands. He pointed to the left of the photo, with his pen.

David squinted, and scrutinized. There seemed to be...an arc of marks on the flesh. Faint, but definitely there. A curved row of small indentations in the pale flesh.

'Is that...' He fought his own revulsion. 'Is that...what I think it is?'

'Oui. A human bite. A bite mark. It looks a little experimental...as if someone has just, impulsively, tried to bite the human flesh. To see what it tastes like.' A human bite. A bite mark. It looks a little experimental...as if someone has just, impulsively, tried to bite the human flesh. To see what it tastes like.'

Silence ensued. The waves were lullaby rhythms on the beach. And then the other policeman leaned in. And spoke for the very first time.

'Allez. Go. Anywhere. Before he finds you.' Go. Anywhere. Before he finds you.'

29.

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