Paulette was regarding Enzo with considerable curiosity. ‘How did you know?’
Enzo took a photocopied wad of papers from his bag. ‘Gil Petty’s
curriculum vitae
, as presented to the
Ordre de la Dive Bouteille
, to whom he was obliged to reveal all. He took that requirement literally, it seems. Because in it he disclosed that his interest in Gaillac was not just wine-related. His roots were here. His family had emigrated to the United States, he thought early in the nineteenth century. The name Petty is just a corruption of Petit. His ancestor was Georges Petit who lived, as your ledger attests, in the very
gîte
Petty rented when he came here four years ago. For him it was a voyage of discovery. A man in search of his history. Gil Petty was coming home. Although I doubt if he realised for one moment that he was coming home to die.’
I.
Nicole looked up apprehensively from the laptop computer as Enzo came in. He was, she thought, looking very pleased with himself. For most of the last couple of hours she had been framing in her mind how to tell him that she’d blown his cover at La Croix Blanche and making herself ill at the thought. So it was with some relief that she decided, given his mood, that this was not the moment. ‘You look like the cat that got the cream,’ she said.
But he walked straight past the table where she’d set up the computer and took out a marker pen to write
Petit
up on his board, right below Gil Petty’s name. Then he turned towards her. ‘What does that mean to you?’
She shrugged and frowned her confusion. ‘
Petit
. Small.’
‘Yes, but what else?’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve no idea.’
‘It’s a name, Nicole. Petty’s family name. Petit corrupted to Petty when they emigrated to the United States during the French Revolution.’
Understanding dawned. ‘So he was really French?’
‘His ancestors were. And they lived in this very house. I always wondered why he’d rented this place. Now we know.’
‘Wow!’ She thought for a moment. ‘So how does that help us?’
Enzo’s smile lost a little of its shine. He turned and looked at the board. ‘I’m not sure. But it’s information, Nicole. Something we know now that we didn’t know before. It’s what you learn about the application of forensic science to the examination of a crime scene. Every microscopic speck of evidence is important in piecing together a complete picture of what happened. But this is important, I think. It’s something no one else seems to have known.’
He inclined his head towards the computer.
‘Are we connected to the internet?’
‘Yup.’
‘How? Did the Lefèvres give us a telephone line?’
Nicole made a show of examining something on the screen. ‘No.’ Her response was too casual.
Enzo frowned. ‘Then how are we connected?’
‘They’ve got wi-fi downstairs in the estate office. It’s not password-protected. So I just sort of…tapped into it. They’ll never know.’
‘That’s stealing, Nicole.’
‘No, it’s not. We haven’t taken anything from them. They’ve still got their own access.’
‘We’ll have to tell them.’
She shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ She started tapping at the keyboard.
‘Did you get yourself a place to stay?’
She kept her eyes fixed on the screen. ‘Uh-huh.’
He waited for her to tell him, but she just kept typing. ‘Well, where?’
‘On a farm. Just up the road. Hardly any distance.’ Then she added quickly, ‘I’ve been doing some research on Petty. There’s still a lot of stuff out there on the internet about him. He really was the number one wine critic, wasn’t he?’
‘He had more power to determine people’s tastes in wine, and the price of it, than any one man should ever have.’ Enzo spoke with feeling. There were too many good wines out there that would always be beyond his means.
Nicole poked a finger at the screen. ‘I found an article here that says his recommendation of one of the Bordeaux vintages in the nineteen-eighties sent prices skyrocketing four hundred percent in three years!’
Enzo shook his head. ‘That was the irony. When Petty first started publishing his newsletter, with detailed tasting notes and wine ratings, he wanted to be the consumers’ champion. To tell them what wines were good and what weren’t. Trouble was, he became so influential, that when he gave a wine a good score, the price of it soared way beyond the pocket of the ordinary consumer. He almost single-handedly turned the drinking of good wine into an elitist pursuit for the wealthy.’
Nicole scrolled down her screen. ‘It says here that eighty percent of wine sold in the US is bought by only twelve percent of the population.’
Enzo shrugged. ‘I rest my case.’
Nicole looked at him, forgetting for the moment her debacle at La Croix Blanche. ‘That Michelle Petty…’
‘What about her?’
‘It seems they didn’t talk, she and her papa.’
‘No, they didn’t.’ But Enzo didn’t want to discuss it with Nicole. It was all just a little too close to home for comfort. He changed the subject. ‘Let’s take a look at how he rated the wines he tasted.’
Nicole brightened. ‘I was reading about that earlier.’ She went into her browser’s history and pulled up a previous page. ‘He didn’t go for the hundred-point scale that other critics like Robert Parker or the
Wine Spectator
use.’
‘Why not?’
‘It seems he thought that the difference between, say, a ninety-five and a ninety-six, would be so tiny, and so subjective, that it really didn’t mean anything at all. That’s why he grouped his ratings in fives, which he categorised by letters of the alphabet. “A” at the top end, “F” at the bottom. So that an “A” would be like ninety-five to a hundred, “B” would be ninety to ninety-five.’
‘Which means it was the hundred point scale by any other name.’
‘Except that it allowed room for personal interpretation. One man’s meat, and all that. And…’ she held up one finger as she scrolled down the page, ‘he gave each wine a value rating, which Parker doesn’t do—1 to 5, with 1 being the best value, and 5 being pretty damned expensive. That way, an A5 would be a great wine that cost a fortune.’
‘And an A1?’
Nicole grinned. ‘The Holy Grail. He never awarded an A1, although apparently he was convinced that it was out there, and that one day he’d find it.’
Enzo eased himself into a wicker rocking chair facing the table and winced as bruised and overstretched muscles from the night before reminded him that he was not as young as he used to be. ‘So do these numbers represent actual prices?’
‘Broadly, yes. The best rating, a 1, would be anything up to twenty-five dollars, scaling up to a 5, which was anything over three hundred. But most of his A wines were rated 3 or higher, which takes them up over seventy-five dollars.’
Enzo marvelled at the prices some people would pay for a bottle of wine. Twenty-five dollars to him would be seriously expensive. Most of the wines he bought were around five or six euros. He rubbed his fingers gently over the scab on his head wound and mused out loud: ‘Petty was used to rating top wines from Bordeaux and Burgundy, Champagne and Chablis. How could he possibly have applied that kind of value scale to the wines he was tasting here? I’ve never
seen
a Gaillac that cost more than twenty-five dollars. Most of them are under ten euros.’
Nicole said, ‘My papa gets his wine
en vrac
, in a big plastic container. It costs one-and-a-half euros a litre.’
He looked at her and realised that where she came from, there would be something obscene about paying twenty-five dollars for a bottle of wine, never mind a hundred. The budget to feed the family was probably under fifty euros a week. Her father was hardly able to bear the cost of sending her to university. Enzo knew, because he had seen it, that Nicole shared a miserable bed-sit in Toulouse with three other students, and her father could barely even manage that.
They heard a car pulling into the gravel parking area beyond the
pigeonnier
, and Enzo got up to look out of the window. ‘It’s Michelle Petty. She must have got her father’s things.’ He watched for a moment, as she lifted a large suitcase out of the trunk, and a smaller bag, like a soft briefcase. She was wearing jeans and sneakers and a tee-shirt today, hair freed from its clasp and cascading over square shoulders. As she lifted the case and turned towards the cottage, braced to take the weight of the bags, he thought how attractive she was. Not at all like her father. And he remembered, from somewhere amongst all the notes he had read, that her mother had been a contestant on the beauty queen circuit in the States before meeting Petty at a party and marrying in haste. Only to repent at leisure. He turned to Nicole. ‘You’d better go.’
Her disappointment was palpable. ‘Why? I’d like to see what she’s got, too.’
‘Another time, Nicole. She’s pretty fragile right now.’
Nicole raised a skeptical eyebrow. ‘And it wouldn’t have anything at all to do with the fact that she’s young and attractive.’
‘Nicole.’ Enzo’s warning tone was clear.
‘Alright, alright.’ She held up her hands. ‘I’m out of here.’
II.
Enzo watched as Michelle crouched to unzip her dead father’s suitcase and throw back the lid. She stood up then, and looked down at the case lying open in front of her on the clic-clac. Neatly folded clothes, a toilet bag, shoes in a plastic carrier, unopened packs of socks held to the inside of the lid by a strap. And silent tears filled her eyes, teetering briefly on the lower lid, before tumbling down cheeks flushed with sudden colour. She sucked in a deep, tremulous breath. ‘Oh, my God. There’s still the smell of him in his clothes.’ She wiped away hot tears with the backs of her hands. ‘I don’t know what it was. Aftershave, hair-cream. But I remember that smell from when I was a little girl, and he would sit me on his knee in the big armchair to watch TV. It was so him. Like a signature. When I came in from school I would know if he was home by the scent of him in the hall.’ She turned to look at Enzo, eyes shining with tears of contradiction, happy memories fighting for ascendancy with sad ones.
He put a hand of comfort on her arm and was taken by surprise when she slipped her arms around his waist and pushed her face into his shoulder, clinging to him, pressing herself into all his curves, stifled sobs vibrating against his chest. Years of denial given sudden release to mourn. He held her for what seemed an inordinately long time before she finally released herself to stand back, self-conscious and embarrassed by a moment of emotional weakness she had never, perhaps, suspected was even possible.
‘Sorry.’ She couldn’t meet his eye.
‘We can do this later, if you like.’
‘No!’ A sudden fiery determination lit her from within. ‘Let’s get it over.’
And so they went through the suitcase, item by item. Shirts, pullovers, pants, underwear. Everything seemed clean, freshly pressed, and Enzo wondered what had happened to Petty’s dirty laundry. He had, after all, been at the
gîte
for over a week before he went missing.
He seemed to have only one pair of shoes, although perhaps he had been wearing another when they found the body. There was a pair of threadbare old slippers in a plastic bag at the bottom of the case.
In the toilet bag there was a half-empty tube of toothpaste for sensitive teeth and a soft toothbrush. Michelle opened a bottle of aftershave moisturising cream. She sniffed, pressing her lips together to contain some emotion that welled up inside, then screwed the lid back on. ‘That’s it. That’s what he wore. I never knew before.’
There was a small pressurised container of shaving foam, a razor in a waterproof black bag, and a plastic box of fresh shaving heads. Enzo carefully examined the head which had been in use. There was a gluey dust of finely cut whiskers clogged between the blades, with the possibility that there could be dried blood in there from tiny nicks made while shaving. He set it aside. Michelle looked at him, the question in her eyes, but she didn’t ask it.
There were some medicines. A nearly empty pack of Hedex, paracetamol painkillers. Hemorrhoid cream and suppositories. Ranitidine tablets for a duodenal ulcer. A glycerine-based dry-skin product called Cuticura. A man suffering from the ailments of middle-age.
Michelle picked up the skin cream. ‘He had psoriasis. Not all the time. Bouts of it. I can remember his elbows breaking out, and sometimes he would have patches of dry skin on his face.’
All the symptoms of a man under stress. Psoriasis, headaches, acidity. Even hemorrhoids could be aggravated by stress. This was not a man at ease with himself or the world.
Michelle removed a plastic comb from the bottom of the bag, and Enzo took it from her, holding it up to the light. There were still hairs caught in the roots of the teeth. Short, black-dyed hairs. Enzo took it through to the bathroom, laid out a piece of white toilet paper beside the sink, and carefully teased out a few of those precious hairs. He became aware of Michelle’s shadow at his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Between these and the razor, we should be able to get a sample of his DNA.’
‘Is that important?’
Enzo shrugged. ‘It might be. But it’s better to have it than not.’
‘Won’t the police already have done that?’
Enzo found it hard to resist a small, cynical smile. ‘I doubt it. Things might have improved in the last four years. But at the time your father went missing, the French police were about twenty years behind the British and Americans in the use of DNA technology. There was no DNA database in France before the year 2000. There are only a hundred thousand names in it today. Compare that to the British, with a similar population, who have the DNA fingerprints of more than three million offenders.’
‘It’s weird.’ In the mirror, Enzo saw her biting her lower lip. ‘He’s been dead for four years, and yet you can still extract the living essence of him from a hair.’
‘Maybe.’ Enzo carefully wrapped the hair in the toilet tissue and slipped it into a clear plastic ziplock bag. ‘We’ll see. What’s in the other bag?’
‘His laptop computer. But the battery will be dead.’ They went back through to the
séjour
.
‘If there’s a power cable, we should still be able to fire it up.’
The laptop was a white G3 Macintosh Powerbook, the top model of its day. It was in a padded black nylon case, along with various cables, an instruction manual, and a book that Petty had clearly been reading. There was a bookmark at page 220. The book was called
A Superior Mystery
, by American writer Carl Brookins. Enzo turned it over and read the back cover. It was about a Seattle PR executive and his wife sailing amongst the Apostle Islands of Northern Wisconsin to solve old and new murders.
‘My father loved to sail,’ Michelle said. ‘But for him it was a solitary thing. A one-man dinghy out on Lake Washington. He was a member of the local club in Sacramento. I would have loved to go sailing with him, but he wasn’t interested in taking out a family membership.’ Enzo heard the bitterness in her voice, and he looked up to see her fighting back more tears.