The Man from Carcassonne: Volume One

By Jack Duval

HAUNTING… CHILLING… DISTURBING
The Man from Carcassonne is dark psychological fiction at its best, combining charismatic characters with atmospheric settings, revealing the secret world of a psychopath.
Set in the cities of Carcassonne, Toulouse and Paris, the story follows the life of fractured child Hugo as he becomes a man; his psyche twisted by events over which he has little control. With echoes of Patrick Süskind's Perfume, this dark novel is far more than the usual multiple-murder thriller. Duval writes with unashamed frankness about the depravity of the human condition, refusing to be silenced and drawing the reader into a desperate world where justice is everything, no matter what the price.
The Man from Carcassonne will appeal to readers interested not only in the act of murder and the psychopath that commits it, but in the often-untold tale of human frailty that lies beneath. Volume two to follow.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Jul 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781838596606

Jack Duval

The Man from Carcassonne is the first novel to be published under the name Jack Duval, with the second, The Little People, soon to follow. Jack has worked within psychiatric services for more than twenty years, and also writes world fiction under the pen-name of A.K. Karla

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Contents

PROLOGUE  FEBRUARY 2015

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

EPILOGUE  FEBRUARY 2015

Author’s Note

PROLOGUE

PARIS

FEBRUARY 2015

‘Hugo Moreau de Bellay, you are free to go.’

The prison officer stood in the doorway of the small cell, and studied the powerfully built man sat on the narrow bunk in front of him. Despite his imminent release, Hugo remained absolutely still, his eyes cast downwards as though he had not heard the declaration of freedom at all. At his request the room was left to fall into darkness as the winter evening progressed. The searchlights outside scanned the yard and high walls, throwing intermittent beams of light through the narrow barred window in the far corner. Each beam lit the room illuminating the prisoner at the same time, then plunging both back into shadowy darkness as it moved on, every twenty seconds or so.

The officer shuddered, thinking how fitting this was to the man in front of him. He was a strange one, that was for sure. Always polite, quietly spoken, helpful to the officers and a perfect gentleman, yet there was something amiss. Even the other inmates sensed it and left him alone, rarely involving him in their banter or bullying.

It wasn’t just his bulk that kept them away, nor the rather formal way he spoke which sounded out of place for someone in their mid-twenties. There was something more than that… It was impossible to say quite what was wrong, but one oddity could be seen in the small, covert sideways glances he made – his head rigid like he was in a trance; his body taut as a stretched wire.

Yes, the eyes were always a giveaway, and Moreau’s pale blue ones were forever watchful and alert, even when he was lying down. In fact, he hardly seemed to sleep at all… Still, the psychiatrist had declared him fit for release and that was that! What happened afterwards was nothing to do with him. He coughed and Hugo looked up.

‘C’mon, Moreau, don’t you want to leave? You just need to sign for the rest of your stuff and you’re out.’

‘Of course, Officer,’ replied Hugo, standing up and towering over the guard by some seven or eight inches, his broad shoulders and muscular arms barely concealed by the white linen shirt he was given a few hours earlier.

‘Sorry, I was daydreaming. It’ll be so strange to be outside again. That’s why I chose to leave when it was dark. A cloak to hide under as it were.’

‘A cloak? Well yes, it will be strange at first I suppose, two years is a long time, but you’ve got plenty of support arranged and a home to go to. I’m sure you’ll be fine. There’s money in your wallet and a taxi’s waiting to take you to the station. This way… Now sign here.’

Hugo signed for his few belongings and followed the officer through the corridors and various check points. They finally left the main prison and entered a small floodlit enclosed yard, where several silent guards with machine guns slung low across their bodies were waiting to escort him from the premises.

‘Good luck Moreau, and don’t come back!’ Surprisingly, the officer held out his hand and Hugo shook it firmly, smiling.

‘Thank you for your care. It really was much appreciated,’ he replied, his deep yet soft voice dulled further by the fine rain that had now started to fall, landing on his dark gold-flecked hair and eyebrows in small glittering droplets.

How typical of Moreau the officer thought, scanning the clean-shaven face for any signs of mockery or sarcasm. There were none, and he continued to watch as the now ex-prisoner walked through the heavy iron door to the outside world. As it slammed behind him Hugo stopped for a moment to take a final look at the high wall, barbed wire stretched across its top; the search lights moving endlessly backwards and forwards over the tall buildings inside.

The cab driver sounded the horn impatiently and Hugo hurried over, slinging his bag onto the rear seat then climbing in after it. Leaning forward he spoke to the driver. ‘The station – Gare d’Austerlitz please.’ Almost immediately the car sped away, the prison quickly disappearing into the dark November night.

An hour later he walked into the busy station, stopping to buy a ticket and some cigarettes from the machines on the platform. Leaning against a wall he took a Gauloises from the pack and lit it, inhaling deeply, the plume of exhaled smoke hovering around his head before drifting off into the damp night air. Within minutes the TGV heading south towards Carcassonne pulled in, and throwing the cigarette to the floor, he stamped it out under his foot before tossing the rest of the packet into a bin. He had never smoked before prison, and once home had no intention of ever smoking again. He flung open the nearest door and stepped onto the train. Hurrying down its entire length Hugo apologised as people stepped aside to let him pass.

‘Excuse me, so sorry, thank you, how kind,’ he repeated, until he reached the very last door. At this point he took a black wool hat from his pocket, pulling it low over his forehead and turning up his coat collar at the same time. Just as the whistle blew for the train to depart he jumped back down onto the platform, walking with the ever-shifting crowd to the exit and into one of the dozens of taxis waiting at the front of the station.

‘Where to?’ the driver asked, setting the clock without even glancing back to see who had got in.

‘Montmartre – Place St. Pierre. Thank you.’ Hugo leant back in his seat and sighed. Not long now. He had waited some considerable time for this moment and, closing his eyes, allowed himself to be lulled by the movement of the cab as it sped through the streets of Paris. Being a driver wasn’t a bad job. If he ever needed to earn a living he would certainly consider a life of perpetual motion whilst sealed in a motorised capsule – the only aim being the next destination, and then the next one, ad infinitum. It was the ultimate in avoidance…

Opening his eyes he unzipped the bag and took out one of two pairs of black woollen gloves, both still wrapped in their cellophane. Putting them on he carefully straightened the fingers, then held out his hands in front of him to check their appearance. Back in the bag he pulled out a narrow scarlet silk tie which he tucked into his coat pocket. Gazing out of the cab window, he watched as the streets passed by. Then, suddenly alert, he leant forward and spoke to the driver.

‘You can pull over just here on the left – that’s fine. Keep the change.’ Standing on the pavement Hugo watched as the cab turned the corner before disappearing altogether. Crossing the square he turned into a side-street which led to a narrow alley that ran behind the various shops and restaurants. Overflowing dustbins and bags of rubbish lined the sides of the wet cobbled path. The stench of rotting food, dog mess and urine was overwhelming, and he paused for a moment to look around him. The poorly-lit alley was empty apart from two dogs. Startled by his sudden appearance they growled and snarled menacingly as they tore open a bag and scavenged amongst the waste, their almost-yellow eyes narrowing as they assessed the intruder. Kicking an empty can in their direction Hugo hurried past, quickly scanning each building before finally stopping.

On his left was the rear yard of a restaurant, and sitting on a small stool by the door was a young woman, her dark hair scraped back into a ponytail. Tossing the stub of her cigarette into the alley she lit another one, the end glowing brightly in the darkness as she inhaled. Stepping further back into the shadows he waited for her to finish her break and go back inside. This she eventually did, and still hidden from view he rolled down the turn-up on his hat to cover his face entirely. Two holes had been cut in the wool to see through, as well as another slightly larger one over the mouth area. He shifted his position slightly to get a better view, then took a deep breath and settled himself to wait. Now bored with the rubbish bag the dogs ran down the lane barking. In a nearby building a radio was switched on, and in another raised angry voices could be heard, an argument in full flow. At a further distance a baby began to cry, and at that moment the back door of the restaurant where the woman had sat was flung open and a man stepped out.

Dressed in chef’s clothing he held a bottle in his hand which he raised to his lips, taking a long drink before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He turned to sit on the low wall that ran around the yard, his back now towards the alley. Oblivious to Hugo’s presence he continued to take great gulps of the clear fluid then froze; the bottle poised in mid-air as he heard a voice behind him.

‘I see you haven’t changed, Duprés, and after all this time… That’s a great shame for you. In fact, more than that, it’s catastrophic!’ Hugo had quietly crept out from his shadowy hiding place and was now standing behind the still-seated man. The red silk tie was held taut in his large gloved hands, poised ready to use at any moment.

‘What the fuck?’ the chef shouted, startled. Attempting to turn around he dropped the bottle which smashed, its remaining contents spreading out in a pool amongst the shards of glass.

As quick as a lightning strike, Hugo flipped the tie over the man’s head and pulled it tight. Still with his back to Hugo, he struggled to get hold of the slippery silk and began to writhe and twist his body. Hugo responded by increasing his strangle-hold, his straight white teeth bared between his narrowed lips.

‘Moreau? Is that you? You sick bastard – I thought you were in prison!’

‘Too bad for you that I’m not!’ replied Hugo as he tightened the tie further. ‘I was released today to begin the life of a law-abiding citizen… I can’t wait!’ he laughed. ‘However, there was one task left to complete and ensure that justice is done, and here I am doing just that!’ He pulled harder, twisting the noose several times as he did so.

In a final attempt to release himself the choking man swung around, then fell to his knees as Hugo adjusted his grip. ‘You’ll never get away with it, Moreau! They’ll know it was you...’ he gasped, his voice now little more than a hoarse whisper, his weakening hands still trying to pull at the red silk around his neck that was choking his life away.

‘How will they know?’ replied Hugo, his smile now gone and replaced with a look of utter contempt. ‘Guess work? That won’t do in court, you know that. They’ll need evidence, and with you dead who’s going to speak? You’re an evil disgusting pervert and a drunk, preying on women to satisfy your depraved needs. You – will – never – do – that – again.’ He spoke each word slowly and clearly giving a tug on the tie with each one; the soft deep voice now laden with hate and menace.

‘Do you hear me, Duprés?’ Hugo demanded, a gurgling sound now coming from the depths of the strangled man’s chest. Unable to reply Duprés fell across the wall, and giving two more jerking tugs Hugo let go, slipping off the tie and shoving it into his pocket. Flipping open the lid of a large dumpster he lifted the skinny body as though it weighed nothing, and with a single heave threw the dead man amongst the rotting food and waste, dropping the lid down after him. ‘Good riddance,’ Hugo muttered, then paused for a moment before raising his still gloved hand to cross himself.

‘In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.’

He rolled back the hat, and picking up his bag ran down the dark alley and out into the busy street. He glanced around him. The bars and restaurants were full, and walking for about half an hour he finally hailed a taxi to take him back to the station. At ten the last train of the night pulled in, and with his collar turned up and hat pulled low, he once again hid himself amongst the crowd.

Climbing onto the train he quickly found a seat, and turning his face to the window stared out into the dark night, running through the events of the evening. The gloves and tie had been thrown onto a roaring fire, lit and left unattended by a homeless community not far from Montmartre. Drugged out of their brains, needles and silver foil were carelessly scattered on the ground around them, all too far gone to even remember their own names let alone the large man dressed in a dark coat, throwing a few bits of rubbish onto the leaping flames.

It was still dark when the train pulled into the station at Carcassonne, although a glimmer of light could just be seen creeping up from behind the old citadel perched on the hill, as he began the walk home. He had thrown his coat into the back of a refuse truck, and standing back he watched as it was swallowed by the metal crusher that compacted the rubbish. He remained unseen as the men scurried about, gathering the bins into one large group before setting them in front of the machine that lifted them up.

It was cold and he hurried on, a few minutes later turning the corner into a long, rather narrow enclosed street called ‘Place de la Liberté.’ More a close than a square it was surrounded on all four sides by tall terraced houses, with an entrance on one side and a narrow passage at the other which led directly to the busy city centre. Each house was painted white, with stone steps leading up to a black front door. Large bay windows looked over the houses opposite and, although these let in the light, privacy was clearly not taken into account when the plans were drawn up. Hugo gazed around, re-familiarising himself, then heading to the house at the beginning of the east facing row.

Climbing the eight steps, counting them as he did so, he took out his key and began to open the door. Suddenly spinning around, he raised his hand and waved towards the house directly opposite his own. There was no light on, and although he couldn’t see her in the gloom of early morning he knew full well that his elderly neighbour, Estelle Séverin, would be sitting in her usual place by the window waiting for his return home. Disabled by arthritis from a very young age, she had been cared for by the same woman, Nicolette Segal, for more than thirty years. Amazingly she was still alive, and now in her seventies the very least he could do was acknowledge her tenacity and perseverance if nothing else.

He stopped for a moment to think. Perhaps it was time to correct the woman for the many years of spite and malice so often aimed at his innocent mother? He winced, feeling a stirring deep inside him – an acknowledgement of a great injustice done which then quickly turned to anger. Madame Séverin had been critical of everything yet offered no help, her vicious words often reaching the household through a woman who was the domestic help in several of the large houses along the street. He glanced up at the window again. Yes, there she was – in the growing light he could see her quite clearly and looking right at him too!

‘He that condemns the righteous is an abomination to the Lord… Proverbs, 17:15.’

Hugo nodded his head at this quote, spoken aloud, and taking out the second pair of gloves, threw the bag into the hallway and marched to the house across the street. He knocked loudly, but getting no reply turned the handle and pushed it open. The door had been left unlocked for as long as he could remember allowing doctors, nurses and other visitors to get in without Estelle having to leave the comfort of her armchair. He ran up the stairs, sure where he was going since the house was an exact replica of his own. Pushing open the sitting room door he immediately saw the back of the woman’s chair, its occupant struggling to turn around and see who had just come in.

‘Nicolette? Is that you? You’ve only just left! I thought you weren’t coming back until this evening?’ She pulled her walking frame closer ready to get up, then called out again. ‘Nicolette? Is that you? Speak, you stupid woman! Nurse? Who is it? I know someone’s there.’

‘My dear Madame Séverin,’ replied Hugo. ‘How nice to see you after such a long time. Are you keeping well? Your voice certainly seems on good form.’ He stood behind her, his voice low and calm – seductive even.

The old lady hadn’t heard him speak for years, and at first made no association between the man behind her and the one who, for most of his life, lived in the house directly opposite her own. ‘Is that the doctor?’ She began to get up and Hugo moved closer, reaching over the back of the chair and pressing lightly on her shoulders to make her sit down again.

‘Yes, you could say that. I suppose I am a doctor of sorts, helping people on their way, you know, that sort of thing…’ He laughed. ‘It is I, Madame, Hugo, the boy from across the street.’

‘Hugo? You? How dare you come in here, and just freed from jail! Get out! Get out!’

She began to shout, and keen to silence her Hugo once again leant over from behind, this time placing a large strong hand over her mouth, keeping it there whilst she scrabbled and scratched with her own bony, wrinkled ones, trying to pull it away. To Hugo they looked like claws, the nails long and yellow like talons, rather as he imagined the devil’s might be. This repulsed him. Removing his hand he grabbed the ends of the long silk scarf wound around her neck, the bile rising up his throat as he began to pull the two ends together.

‘Would you like to repent your sins, Estelle? I can call you that, can’t I? I mean, you know so much about me after spying for all these years, and I you, of course.’ He laughed again and loosened the scarf so that she could speak.

‘Get out! Get out or I shall call the police! Don’t ever touch me again!’ she screeched, rubbing her throat, her back still to Hugo. ‘Repent? Me?’ she continued. ‘Never! I have lived a clean and decent life and have never done anything that needed repenting. That, Hugo Moreau de Bellay, is not something that you nor your disgusting family can claim, despite your money, fancy name and airs and graces.’ Trying to reach back she raised her arm, Hugo slapping it down like he was swatting a fly. The slap hurt, and now scared the old woman began to cry.

‘Madame Séverin, you are a vicious, spiteful, gossiping bitch! You have sat here for decades passing judgment on those who needed help!’ He picked up the ends of the scarf again, his hands poised ready to pull. ‘So I’ll ask you again, do you want to repent? You really should before you die!’ This time, the old lady made no response at all. Letting the ends of the long scarf fall over the wooden arms of the chair he walked in front of her, watching for a moment then prodding her arm to check for any response. ‘Heart given out before I finished you off, eh, Estelle? That’s a shame... you deserved to suffer more, you old witch.’

He continued to watch as her face began to relax. He expected her to look as hideous in death as she had when alive, but not so. Instead she looked rather peaceful, her lips curving upwards slightly at the corners as though she was beginning to smile. Even her eyes had taken on a softer hue, quite different from the mean and spiteful glint they normally had. He shrugged, and as quickly as it had come the anger disappeared. ‘Estelle Séverin,’ he said slowly, as though she might still be able to hear, ‘that was for my mother.’ Picking up the ends of the scarf, he wound each one around the chair’s wooden arms as though to tether her down, then crossed himself.

‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’

Within seconds he was back across the street, and heaving a sigh of relief closed the door behind him. The house smelt fresh and clean. Juliette, the woman who had looked after things in his absence had written a short note saying that she would get things ready, and clearly this had been done. Living mainly on the upper floors he pulled off his shoes and carried them upstairs.

There were four doors in the long tiled corridor, with another flight of stairs leading to the bedrooms above. About halfway along stood a tall grandfather clock. Now silent, it hadn’t chimed for many years, its hands permanently set at twelve for as long as Hugo could remember. Giving it a wide berth he opened the furthest door to reveal a large bright kitchen.

Going straight to the sink he began to rhythmically scrub the soles of his shoes, up and down nine times then sideways for seven, repeating the movements three times and carefully rinsing the sink afterwards. In the sitting room he lit the already-laid fire. Waiting for the wood to catch and give off some heat he threw the gloves and hat into the flames, watching as the wool melted before finally disappearing altogether.

Stripping off, he then put all his clothes in the machine on a hot wash. Back out in the hall he climbed the stairs to the second floor. Another long corridor stretched out before him with doors to either side. Stopping at the first one on the left he carefully listened, then bending over peered through the keyhole. A puff of cold air blew into his eye and he recoiled, standing up again as though waiting for something. His eyes now fixed on the door handle, some minutes passed before he finally walked away.

In the shower, he scrubbed himself roughly with a bristle brush in the exact same manner as the shoes; up and down nine times, sideways for seven, equal strokes on both sides then repeating the movements three times – the stream of hot water cascading over his red stinging body.

An hour later, Hugo sat in his favourite armchair in the large first-floor sitting room where he spent most of his time. He was dressed in a fine black silk cassock, the pleated folds at the front draping perfectly over his crossed legs revealing bright red socks and polished black lace-up shoes. Around his neck was a starched clerical collar, and dangling across his chest was a heavy gold chain hung with a large ruby-studded crucifix that reached almost to his waist. On the fourth finger of his left hand he wore a heavy gold ring – a large round diamond at its centre. As the early morning sun caught the gem’s facets it gleamed in multi-coloured hues, the reflected light bouncing around the pale walls of the room. He got up and walked over to the huge bay window that looked over the street. In the far distance, set high above the gap made by the entrance to the close, the ancient citadel loomed over the sprawling city like a giant all-seeing eye. As a child, he had often crawled under the windowsill rather than walk past, in order to remain hidden from its black arrow-slit windows; convinced that each one had a watcher positioned to spy on the people below. Of course, the real spy had been Estelle Séverin. He could see her quite clearly sitting in her chair and facing in his direction, although her spying days were now well and truly over. When Nicolette arrived to put the woman to bed she would be taken away, and that episode of his life would be complete.

At this moment there was a clattering sound from the hallway as though a large pan had been dropped, and from above him a door slammed. He sighed, then went back to sit in the soft armchair. A large cup of black coffee cooled by his side and, barely moving, his pale-blue eyes staring straight ahead, Hugo Moreau de Bellay composed himself to wait.

ONE

CARCASSONNE 1997

‘You stupid little idiot!’

Hugo’s father lunged across the table at him knocking over the tall coffee pot, his attempt to grab his son suddenly halted. He glared at the small boy sitting opposite him as the hot black liquid spread across the white cloth, his fists clenched and his face red with anger.

‘Now look what you’ve made me do!’ he shouted. ‘You can go without breakfast. You don’t deserve any!’

Terrified that his father might lunge at him again if he made the slightest move, Hugo froze.

‘Camille, stop that! He hasn’t done anything wrong. Leave him alone!’ Hugo’s mother, Tatienne, got up and pulled back the cloth to stop the coffee dripping onto the floor. ‘Eat your toast, Hugo, there’s a good boy. Don’t worry. Everything’s fine.’

Hugo continued to stare at this father, his hand held in mid-air, the dropped piece of toast that had ignited so much wrath still lying on the cloth nearby.

‘There you go again, excusing his bad behaviour.