The Front Seat Passenger: Shocking, hilarious and poignant noir. Pascal Garnier

      ‘I’ve no idea … I imagine like everyone she didn’t want to die at all.’

      ‘OK, we’ll sort that out later then. Don’t worry, we’ll look after everything.’

      ‘I’m not worried. I trust you. It’s my first time; I don’t know what to do.’

      ‘We understand, Monsieur Delorme, we understand. If you’d like to follow me, I have some questions to ask you.’

      They went back the way they’d come, still at the jerky pace of the inspector. Fabien felt as if he were watching a film in reverse. Had they not stopped by the coffee machine, he could have gone back in time to before his visit to his father, and found Sylvie fresh and elegant. He wouldn’t have been surprised. Since the previous evening, nothing much surprised him.

      ‘Sugar?’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘So, Monsieur Delorme, you weren’t aware your wife was in the area?’

      ‘No, she didn’t tell me she was coming here. I thought she would be at home.’

      ‘In Paris, 28 Rue Lamarck?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      ‘Monsieur Delorme, where were you this weekend?’

      ‘I was visiting my father in Ferranville, in Normandy. I helped him clear out his attic. There was a car-boot sale.’

      ‘You went on Friday and came back on Sunday evening?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘You had no idea your wife had come to Dijon?’

      ‘No, we don’t know anyone here. At least, I don’t.’

      Forlani was taking notes in a brand-new 12.50-franc notebook, the price sticker still on it. The cap on his biro was chewed and the stem bent outwards so that he could bounce it on the edge of the table as he was thinking. What was it he was not saying?

      ‘Monsieur Delorme, do you know if your wife was having an affair?’

      ‘An affair?’

      ‘Whether she had a lover?’

      ‘A lover? What’s that got to do with it?’

      ‘Your wife wasn’t alone in the car.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘She was with a man who also died in the accident.’

      ‘But just because he was in the car with her doesn’t necessarily mean …’

      ‘Of course not, Monsieur Delorme, but the evening before they went to an inn where they were well known because they’d been there several times. Le Petit Chez-Soi. Have you heard of it?’

      ‘Le Petit Chez-Soi? No. That’s a horrible name, don’t you think?’

      Clearly Forlani had no opinion about the name. He simply made a face as he waved his biro like a rattle.

      ‘I bet they have lamps made from wine bottles with tartan lampshades.’

      ‘I couldn’t say, Monsieur Delorme. Perhaps, perhaps they do … Tell me, do you have a car?’

      ‘No, I don’t drive.’

      ‘Do you mean that you don’t have a driving licence?’

      ‘That’s right. I hate cars. With good reason now, wouldn’t you say?’

      ‘Yes, indeed … In that case I won’t detain you much longer.’

      ‘Before I go, I’d like to know a bit more about how the accident happened.’

      ‘Of course. Well, it was on Saturday evening, about eleven thirty, dry, straight road, at the bottom of a hill. The car must have been going quite fast. It crashed into the security barrier on the right and fell into a ravine. Your wife and the man who was driving were coming back from a restaurant in Dijon, but they hadn’t drunk much. Perhaps the driver was taken ill, or perhaps he had to swerve to avoid an oncoming vehicle? There were tyre tracks from another car. They’re being investigated.’

      ‘What was he called, my wife’s … lover?’

      ‘Why do you want to know?’

      ‘Perhaps I know him; affairs often develop between friends. And also, we’re sort of related now.’

      ‘I can’t tell you, Monsieur Delorme. The man is also married.’

      ‘To one of the women we passed as we went into the morgue?’

      ‘Well … yes. You should go home now, Monsieur Delorme. We’ll keep you informed.’

      ‘You’re right … Oh, sorry, I’m so clumsy!’ He had just spilt the remains of his coffee in the inspector’s lap. The inspector rushed off to the toilets, leaving his brand-new notebook and chewed pen behind on the low table.

      His wife’s lover was called Martial Arnoult and his wife was Martine, residing at number 45 Rue Charlot, in the third arrondissement in Paris.

      Martine Arnoult, 45 Rue Charlot. Paris, 3rd arrdt. The first thing he did when he got home was to note the name and address on the white board in the kitchen underneath brown shoe polish, batteries (4), pay electricity bill. He didn’t really know what he would do with it. Probably nothing. He had just collected the information like picking up a stone on a beach. The kind of thing you chucked in the bin when you got back from holiday. Then he had slept straight through for fifteen or sixteen hours.

      But tomorrow wasn’t another day. Sylvie was still dead. In the street and in the supermarket, everyone continued with their lives as if nothing had happened. A warm summer was forecast, the cashier’s sister had just had a little girl. Someone dropped a bottle of oil.

      Fabien bought the brown polish, the batteries, eggs and some strong chorizo. He would do the cheque for the electricity as soon as he got home. Hello, goodbye, everything was incredibly normal. He was torn between the desire to shout out, ‘Hey! Don’t you know? Sylvie is dead; I’m a widower!’ and the bitter pleasure of being in possession of a secret: ‘I know something that you don’t and I’m not going to tell you what it is.’

      In the flat, Sylvie’s presence could still be felt everywhere. It was not just because of the familiar objects dotted about, but it also felt as if she had left behind a little part of herself in every molecule of air she had breathed. It was like watching invisible hands on the keyboard of a pianola. Fabien fried himself two eggs, with onions, tomato and chorizo. That was what he always cooked when he ate on his own. Sylvie couldn’t bear strong chorizo. He loved it and could happily have eaten it for lunch and dinner every day for the rest of his life. Now his delight in it was ruined.

      He went over in his head all the household tasks and other duties that he had never undertaken and quickly felt overwhelmed. He poured a large Scotch to make himself feel better. But it wasn’t just the tasks. It was the loss of all their little routines – evenings in front of the telly, going to the market on Saturday morning, family birthdays, trips to the museum. In short, everything he had detested up until the day before yesterday. This revelation had a strange effect on him; he was even going to miss their petty little squabbles. He helped himself to another glass, fuller than the first one. He hadn’t thought of what he would miss. Until now he had considered widowhood a sort of honorary bonus, like a rosette to pin on his lapel. Of course, it had been a long time since they had been in love, but he hadn’t hated Sylvie; there had been a sort of tender complicity between them.

      The alcohol was making him tearful. Memories of the happy times they had spent together kept surfacing like soap bubbles. Gradually self-pity gave way to anger.

      ‘At a stroke you’ve made me a widower and a cuckold. Nice one. Bravo! Do you know that down there in the street no one cares you’re dead? Yes! A widower and a cuckold! I don’t like that word. It’s not