“And yet, a little birdie tells me that numbers are right down,” Logan continued. “By the sounds of it, Bernie’s antics have had a real impact on the number of new cult members coming through your door, or… tent flaps, or whatever.”
André uncrossed his legs, then crossed them again the other way. He adjusted his robe, sniffed, then shrugged. Throughout it all, he didn’t once stop smiling. “Attendance ebbs and flows, just like everything else. The Universe fluctuates. Seasons come and go. The tides rise and fall. It is the way of all things. Even here and now, in this room, there are changes going on, so subtle, that we do not see them. But they are happening. A wall may creak as it contracts. A window groans as the sun heats the glass. If I shout at the sky, would you blame me for the sunset, Detective Chief Inspector?”
Logan rubbed his temples, nursing the headache he could feel starting to build there. “No. Because that would be mental,” he said. “But shaking your fist at the sky isn’t the same as telling people they’re being ripped off, is it? There’s fuck all the sun can do, but people can always choose to take their business elsewhere. And by the sounds of it, that’s exactly what’s been happening.”
“That is incorrect.”
“My arse it’s incorrect,” Logan barked. “He was messing with your business. He was costing you money, and nothing you could do was going to make him stop. You couldn’t reason with a man like that. No one could. Not the police, not the community. Hell, probably not even himself. There’s only one way you stop someone like that. And that’s permanently.”
André’s smile became a chuckle, then a laugh that he tried and failed to conceal behind his beard. This did nothing to endear him to the detective towering over him.
“Something funny?”
“Non. Oui. It is… It is just the ludicrousness of this. Of accusing moi, me, of something like this.”
“And why’s that amusing?” Logan wondered.
“I detest violence in all its forms, Detective Chief Inspector. I have dedicated my life to healing others. Helping them. Even Bernie himself, in fact.”
Logan’s eyes narrowed. “Oh? In what way?”
“I mentioned the last time I had seen Bernie was a month ago. But I had heard from him just a few weeks back. Two, maybe three. He telephoned me.”
“He phoned you? Out here?” Logan said, looking highly doubtful. “How? There’s no bloody signal. And, from what we can gather, he didn’t have a phone.”
“I have satellite telephone for the retreat. Bernie was not calling from here. He was calling from a number in Glasgow. I assumed it was a new enquiry about attending the centre, but when I answered there was nothing. No reply. Nothing, so I hang up.”
“How did you know it was Bernie, then?”
“He called back. Three, perhaps four times. On the last time, that is when he spoke to me. He sounded different then. Smaller. Does that make sense? Sounding smaller? Not quieter, exactly, just like he had been shrunken down. Like he was a tiny person.”
“What, you mean like he was squeaky? Like a mouse?” Logan asked. “Had he been on the Helium or something?”
“Non. Non, not squeaky. Just… like he had no fight in him. Like his strength—like his soul was smaller, not his physical form. Like his energy had been compressed.”
“Oh, like his energy had been compressed. Gotcha. Why didn’t you say that to start with?” Logan replied. “What did he say?”
“He said sorry, would you believe?”
“Sorry? Bernie, the man who had been calling you a fraud and leading a relentless one-man campaign to shut you down, called you up to say sorry?”
“Oui. And he said he would no longer be bothering me. He was calling a truce between us.”
“That’s convenient for you. You making friends like that, right before someone murders him,” Logan said, not buying a word of it. “Well, I suppose that’s you in the clear then.”
“You do not believe me, I understand,” André said. “But I am telling the truth. He called me, apologised, and then he asked me for my help.”
“What sort of help? To do what?”
The man in the chair ran a hand down his beard, stroking it as he sized the detective up. “You are sceptical about the spirit realm, oui? About the possibilities to commune with those who have passed to the other side?”
“If by ‘sceptical’ you mean I think it’s a load of absolute horse shite, then aye, that’s a pretty accurate summing up.”
“Oui. Well, Bernie, for all his faults and prejudices, was more open-minded. He called me asking if anyone had a message for him. From beyond the veil, so to speak. I am a spiritual medium, you see?”
“Aye. You mentioned. You’re a magic telephone. Very good,” Logan said.
“You may not believe me, but Bernie did. And he was hoping to hear from someone.”
“Someone dead?”
“Oui.”
“Did he say who?”
André shook his head. “Non. He gave me nothing to work with. He merely asked if there was anyone from the other side who wished to talk to him. He said he wanted to know if what he was going to do was right.”
“What was he going to do?”
“He would not say. But the spirits believed—”
“I’m going to stop you there,” Logan said, cutting him short. “I’ve got zero interest in any bloody ghost gossip you claim to have heard. If Bernie didn’t say it, I don’t care.”
André got to his feet. The smile he put on was a patronising, infuriating thing that made Logan’s fingers curl into fists.
“I get it, Detective Chief Inspector. You do not like to dwell on things you cannot comprehend. You like to think that you are in control. You ignore or ridicule what you do not understand, rather than face up to the possibility that the world is a place filled with magic and wonder.”
“Aye. That’s a fairly accurate description, son. Well done. Very insightful. Sit down.”
“Ah, non. Apologies, Detective Chief Inspector Logan, but I have other appointments to attend to.”
“Other appointments? I don’t care what other appointments you’ve got. They’re cancelled.”
André laughed. “You are a funny man, monsieur. But I am not under arrest. This is not an official interview. This is just a conversation, oui? Two little motes of stardust briefly crossing paths, neither one bound to the other. I am free to leave at any time, I think.”
Logan felt his back teeth grinding together. He swallowed, forcing down a big wad of anger that was threatening to burst out of him. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed a little longer, Mr Douville.”
“Ah. Were it only possible. Alas, my other appointments are too pressing.” He turned away—turned his back on the DCI—without anything in any way resembling permission.
Fortunately, for his sake, he turned back just a second later.
“You may not believe that the dead can talk to us, Detective Chief Inspector. But Bernie did. And he was hoping to hear from someone. Someone who had been very close to him, I think.” He started to turn again, then stopped. “I think grief does funny things to people. It affects them in different ways. Some become cold. Angry. They bury themselves in their work, and distance themselves from others for fear of losing someone else, and feeling that pain again.”