Sugar Cane Killer
By Jeff Glazier
Sugar Cane Killer Š Jeff Glazier 2013
First published in 2013 by BK Press ISBN 978-1-920584-21-4 Cover design & Typesetting: Ginny Porter. Photographs by Ruth Ellis All characters in this work are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, translated or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
By the same author:
Tales From Three Chameleons. (Short stories) Regret. (Young Adult Novella) Not Everything Is Quite As It Seems. (Novel) Seeming Isn’t Believing. (Novel) The Wreck of Christian van Riebeeck. (Novella)
Sugar Cane Killer
C
aptaine Marc Lefèvre sat with conspicuous discomfort, in his heavily starched blue shirt. His colleague, Lieutenant Marie Rondeau wore her
shirt a whole lot better, and it deserved a second glance. The considerably larger shirt, facing the audience, on Inspecteur Général Arnund Barrand, was covered in obscure medals and looked ridiculous. Bright stage lights reflected off the shiny trinkets onto his pink bloated face. The French Minister of Tourism was speaking as everyone politely listened. It was an annual event in the police calendar and generally occurred well past the high point of the tourism season on Réunion Island. In fact, this year, it was well into the austral winter. It was all part of the road show – to show appreciation for the conscientious force
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who kept the Island running smoothly – or, as Marc often thought, just about kept a lid on things. The gendarmes sat, in an orderly fashion, in the row behind the Captaine and his colleagues. They were responsible for the Island’s security and shore management, checking that all boats were licensed and that they didn’t bring in any drugs. They were also on constant shark patrol, liaising with the lifesavers. There had only been one fatal shark attack this year, the poor girl was bitten in half. He thought that their claim that more were safe was a rather callous dismissal. Marc was beginning to get a bad feeling about the coming season, not just because of the shark attacks, the financial meltdown in mainland France was bound to be reflected there. Money would be tight and it was really only tourism that kept the Island going, that and sugarcane of course. The island in the Indian Ocean may have been the outermost region of France, but it still played a valuable rôle for the country. It was their home-from-home getaway, but tropical. Its coral beaches and beautiful warm waters put it high on the agenda for holidays. The periodically active volcano in the south of the Island was also a drawcard. A ripple of applause pulled Marc away
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from his thoughts, the minister was drawing the meeting to a close. Now would come the embarrassing part – the awards ceremony. He noticed Anton Jardin prepare his camera. Jardin was a callous swine of a journalist, always managing to seek out the sensational worst to sell his paper. So far the gruesome discovery of a second young girl’s body in the sugarcane fields, two days ago, had escaped the attention of his ever-active camera – but for how long? First, the Inspecteur-Général, though he didn’t deserve any pat on his fat back. Smug, smiley and sweaty as he received his citation for outstanding service – what a joke! Marc would be next. His unit in Saint-Dénis was the cleanest and most disciplined on the Island. Next, Marie, she accepted her community awareness award with grace and her disarming flashing smile. She was a Creole, single and very sexy. Jardin took several pictures of her, he really was a slimy character. Then the lesser players for their tokens of appreciation, no hard cash for anyone and that was what was really needed. The token applause wasn’t worth much either. The Minister was ushered away, onto
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the next part of the road show and now the party would begin and everyone would get drunk, discreetly that is. The conference facility was at the Island’s largest hotel. They walked out into the late evening sunshine towards the decorated tables, spread out around the enticing pool. The Indian Ocean was crashing over the coral in the background and the sun was just beginning to drop into the distant water. The hotel grounds edged the beach, the last of the sunbathers were shaking blankets and packing bags. Marc’s mind drifted to the girl found in the sugarcane field – she had traces of white coral sand stuck to her bare feet, maybe from the beach just in front of them. “Are you thinking about that girl?” Marie’s voice seemed distant. “Don’t speak too loudly, that scumbag Jardin hasn’t got wind of it yet and we’re trying to play it down – to him two dead means a serial killer is on the rampage and you’ve just heard what the Tourism Minister has had to say. No one can afford to have tourists put off coming here, it’s bad enough with the press we get from the sharks. You know both girls were on the beach a few hours before they died.
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The very last thing we want is for people to be afraid to come to the beaches here. Virtually all the little towns along this stretch of coastline rely on tourism. I can just see Jardin’s headlines, something like Jaws of Death on the Beach. Also, I haven’t mentioned it to you yet, but the second girl was a prostitute, and a Creole.” Marc raised his eyebrows
and
gave
a
sense
of
supportive
acknowledgement, briefly squeezing her hand. Marie hung her head for a moment; she may have even known the girl. She tried to put it out of her mind, for the evening, at least. Glasses of wine were brought round on a tray. “Go steady on that, won’t you?” The bulky figure of the Inspecteur-Général loomed in front of them, he was the first to remove a full glass of wine from the tray for himself. He had lost his congenial pose for the big brass. He mopped his balding head with a white handkerchief then put back his flat peaked cap. “Have you got any leads yet, regarding those two girls?” (Why don’t you get off your fat backside and do some work yourself, were Marc’s first thoughts.) “No sir, but we are on to it. I don’t know for how much longer we can keep the knowledge of the second girl under wraps.” Marc noticed Jardin was walking in their
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direction. “I suggest we change the subject, sir.” Jardin’s greasy pock-marked face was soon amongst them. “A little bird’s been tweeting, can you comment on the discovery of a second girl’s body? A sweet little thing apparently, in the sugarcane fields.” As usual, little compassion from Jardin. “Not really the time or the place to discuss police business, we will let you know.” Marc was dismissively abrupt. “So now we can let you go.” Marie’s barbed comment was masked by the flashing smile from her large oval brown eyes. There was little love lost between them. Jardin had tried his luck with her – he blamed it on the drink, he even got a bit rough, thought that she might like it. It was him that ended up bruised, pity that there was no one to report it to. “I’ll leave you to it then. Oh, look who’s coming to spoil your little party.” Marc looked away to see his wife being checked in off a list on the gate. Jardin walked off, whistling. “Hope someone pushes him into the pool.” Marc uttered under his breath.
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Adèle Lefèvre joined them, she politely allowed the Inspecteur to kiss her cheek then turned to Marie and four air kisses were exchanged between them. She always worried seeing her husband and his colleague together. Marc kissed his wife. “The girls okay?” She immediately felt better, she was the one with her handsome husband’s children, Cécile and Zoe. They also adored him and Marc reached for a glass for her from a passing tray. “They’re fine and tucked up in bed before I left. Aunt Edith is with them. Thanks.” She took a sip, “How did the speeches go?” They all put their heads on one side, “About the same.” Marc offered. “Oh well, beautiful evening at least.” The sun had just disappeared and a slight chill came into the air as it did for just a couple of months in the austral winter. Eric Pinault found himself on the beach again, almost as if he had been drawn to it, and it wasn’t because of the washed white coral sand. Pieces of the reef were being pushed up, then dragged down relentlessly by the clear
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