Alex (16 page)

The ceiling of the room is sloping – for most people living here it would mean bending in order to move. But not for someone like him. Camille goes on sketching, but his heart isn’t in it; he feels queasy. His heart is heavy. Sandrine Bontemps, his irritation, his impatience – he can be impossible sometimes. He just wants this case over and done with.

Things aren’t right with him and he knows why. He needs to find the grain.

A while ago, he found it in the portrait of Nathalie Granger. Before that, in the pictures on Trarieux’s mobile; she had simply looked like a victim. One more case. This is what he had relegated her to, this girl: a kidnapping case. But in the E-FIT put together by the forensic art team, she became a real person. A photograph is realism. But a drawing is reality, your reality, fleshed out by your imagination, your fantasies, your education, your life. When he held out the picture to show Sandrine Bontemps, when he saw the face upside down like a swimmer, it struck him as entirely different. Had she killed this pillock Pascal Trarieux? More than likely, but it didn’t matter. In the upside-down drawing, he found
her touching; she was locked up somewhere and her survival was his responsibility. He felt the dread of failure grip his entrails. He had been unable to save Irène. What would he do now? Would he let her die too?

From the first step, the first moment of this case, he has been trying to block out the emotions building up behind the wall; now the wall is crumbling, one by one cracks are opening up and sooner or later it will collapse, floor him, overwhelm him, and it’ll be straight back to the morgue, straight back to the square marked “psychiatric clinic”. He looks at what he has been sketching on his pad: a huge rock, a boulder. Portrait of Camille as Sisyphus.

The post-mortem takes place first thing Wednesday morning. Camille is there. As is Louis.

Le Guen is late, as usual, and by the time he gets to the mortuary, they already know everything they’re going to know. In all probability, the body is that of Pascal Trarieux. Everything fits: age, height, hair colour, likely date of death, not to mention the fact that Sandrine Bontemps swore she recognised his trainers, despite the fact that there are half a million pairs in circulation. A D.N.A. test will be done to confirm definitively that the body is that of the missing boy, but for now they can assume that it is him and that Nathalie Granger killed him with a blow to the
back of the head with something like a pickaxe (all the garden tools found at the house have been brought back for examination) before smashing his head in with a shovel.

“Which proves she really had a score to settle with the guy,” Camille says.

“Oh yes, thirty separate blows at least,” the pathologist says. “I’ll be able to give you an exact figure later. A number of the blows were with the edge of the shovel, which is why it looks as though he was attacked with a blunt hatchet.”

Camille is satisfied. Not happy, but satisfied. The big picture matches up pretty well to what he suspected. If the arsehole magistrate were here, he might make a sarcastic comment, but with his old friend Le Guen he just winks and says in a low voice:

“I told you there was something not right about her …”

“We’ll have to run tests, but it’s definitely acid,” the pathologist says.

The guy had been hit over the head thirty times and then his killer, Nathalie Granger, had poured at least a litre of acid down his throat. From the damage caused, the pathologist speculates that it was concentrated sulphuric acid.

“Highly concentrated.”

It’s certainly true that such products cause serious damage. Flesh bubbles and dissolves at a speed directly proportional to the concentration of the acid.

Camille asks the question that’s been nagging at everyone since they found the body the day before:

“Was Trarieux still alive when it happened, or was he already dead?”

He knows the routine answer: we’ll have to wait for the results. But this time the pathologist is forthcoming.

“To judge by the marks on the remaining tissue, particularly the forearms, the victim would appear to have been tied up.”

A brief moment of contemplation.

“You want my opinion?” the pathologist says.

No-one wants his opinion, which only serves to encourage him.

“In my opinion, he was struck several times with the shovel, tied up, and then woken up with a couple of pints of acid … Which doesn’t mean he wasn’t finished off with the shovel – when you’ve found the right tool for the job … Anyway, in my humble opinion, the poor bastard really suffered.”

It’s almost impossible to imagine, but, right now, as far as the detectives are concerned, the details of the M.O. make no difference. But if the pathologist is right, for the victim, whether the acid came pre- or post-mortem makes a hell of a difference.

“It’ll matter to the jury, too,” Camille says.

*

The problem with Camille is that he never backs down. Never. When he’s got a theory in his head … One day Le Guen said to him: “God, you’re a stubborn fucker! Even a fox terrier knows when to retreat!”

“A neat comparison,” Camille retorted. “Maybe you’d be better off comparing me to a basset hound. Or hey, how about a toy poodle?”

Had it been anyone else, it would have ended in a duel.

So right now, Camille is living up to his reputation for never backing down. Since yesterday, Le Guen thinks he seems anxious, though at other times he seems to be gloating to himself. When they run into each other in the corridors, Camille barely says hello, then two hours later he’s hanging round the divisionnaire’s office as though he can’t bear to leave, as though
he has something to say but can’t bring himself to say it, then eventually he does leave, almost reluctantly, giving Le Guen a resentful stare. Le Guen is a patient man. They were coming out of the toilets together (the sight of them standing next to each other at the urinals is priceless), and Le Guen simply said: “Whenever you’re ready,” which translates as “I’ve steeled myself, I can take it.”

And now comes the moment, out on the terrace just before lunch. Camille has turned off his mobile telephone to indicate that he wants everyone’s undivided attention. All four of them are there: Camille, Le Guen, Armand and Louis. Now that the storm has cleared the skies, the weather is mild again. Armand knocks back his beer almost in a single gulp and, for good measure, quickly orders a packet of crisps and some olives on the tab someone else will wind up paying.

“This girl is a murderer, Jean,” Camille says.

“Maybe she is a murderer,” Le Guen says. “We’ll know for sure when the test results come back. For the moment, you know as well as I do that’s just pure speculation.”

“As speculation goes, it’s pretty watertight.”

“O.K., so maybe you’re right … what does it change?”

Le Guen looks to Louis for support. It’s an embarrassing situation, but Louis is a nice boy from a good family. He was educated at the best schools; one of his uncles is an archbishop and another is a far-right member of parliament, so he’s long since learned to distinguish between the ethical and the practical. Besides, he was taught by Jesuits. He knows everything there is to know about duplicity.

“The divisionnaire’s question seems pertinent,” he says in a measured tone. “What does that change?”

“Louis, I thought you were smart,” Camille says. “It changes the approach.”

Everyone is staggered. Even Armand, who is busy scrounging a cigarette from someone at the next table, whips round in surprise.

“The approach?” Le Guen says. “What the fuck are you on about, Camille?”

“You really don’t get it, any of you,” Camille says.

Usually they joke and piss around, but this time there’s something in Camille’s voice.

“You don’t get it.”

He takes out his notepad, the one in which he’s constantly sketching. To take notes (he rarely takes notes, trusting everything to memory), he turns it round to write on the back of the pages he’s drawn on. A bit like Armand. Except that Armand would write on the spine too, if he could. Louis catches a glimpse of a drawing of some rats. Camille really is one hell of an artist.

“I’m finding this girl really interesting,” Camille explains calmly. “Honestly. This thing with the sulphuric acid, too, that’s interesting. Don’t you think?”

And when the question elicits no response:

“So I did a little bit of research. It needs some refining, but I think I’ve got the essentials.”

“Come on,” Le Guen says, exasperated. “Spit it out.”

Then he picks up his glass of beer, drains it in one gulp and gestures to the waiter to bring another. Armand gestures
Me too.

“March 13 last year,” Camille says, “a certain Bernard Gattegno, forty-nine, is found dead in a Formule 1 motel near Étampes. Death caused by the ingestion of sulphuric acid, 80 per cent concentration.”

“Oh, shit …” Le Guen says, horrified.

“Given the state of his marriage, it was put down to suicide.”

“Let it go, Camille.”

“No, no, it’s funny, you’ll see. Eight months later, on November 28, Stefan Maciak, a café owner from Reims, is found murdered. The body was found in the café the following morning when they opened up. Post-mortem findings: he was beaten and tortured using sulphuric acid, same concentration. Poured down his throat. Proceeds of the theft, about 2,000 euros.”

“Can you really imagine a girl doing something like that?” Le Guen says.

“And can you really imagine committing suicide by drinking sulphuric acid?”

“But what the fuck has any of this got to do with our case?” roars Le Guen, slamming his fist down on the table.

Camille holds up his hands in surrender.

“O.K., Jean, O.K.”

In the sepulchral silence, the waiter comes back with a beer for Le Guen and one for Armand, wipes down the table and clears away the empty glasses.

Louis knows exactly what is going to happen; like a music hall magician he could write it down, put it in an envelope and hide it somewhere in the café. Camille will return to the attack. Armand finishes his cigarette with relish – he’s never bought a pack of cigarettes in his life …

“One little thing, Jean …”

Le Guen closes his eyes. Louis smiles to himself. In the presence of the divisionnaire, Louis only ever smiles inwardly, that’s the rule. Armand goes with the flow; whatever the situation he’d offer thirty to one on Camille.

“If you could just clear something up for me,” Camille says.
“Guess how long it’s been since we had a murder involving sulphuric acid … Go on, guess …”

Right now the divisionnaire is in no mood for guessing games.

“Eleven years – I’m talking unsolved cases, obviously. From time to time we’ve had villains use acid as part of their M.O., but it’s secondary, an artistic touch, you might say. But we catch them, we arrest them and we bang them up – the decent, upstanding vengeful public won’t stand for it. No, in the last eleven years, when it comes to sulphuric acid, the police have been remorseless and unbeatable.”

“Know what you are, Camille?” Le Guen sighs. “You’re a pain in the arse.”

“A good point, divisionnaire. I fully understand your reservations. But the thing is, as Danton used to say, ‘facts are stubborn things’ and those are the facts.”

“Lenin,” Louis says.

Camille turns, irritated.

“What about Lenin?”

Louis pushes back his hair with his right hand.

“Facts are stubborn things,” says Louis, embarrassed, “It wasn’t Danton who said it, it was Lenin … quoting John Adams.”

“So what?”

Louis blushes. He’s about to say something, but Le Guen gets in before he can.

“Exactly, Camille, so what? So what if there hasn’t been a murder involving sulphuric acid in ten years?”

He’s furious, his voice thunders across the terrace, but Le Guen’s Shakespearean outbursts of rage alarm only the other customers. Camille, for his part, stares modestly at his shoes, which dangle six inches off the ground.

“Eleven years, sir, not ten.”

This is one of the many failings Camille might be accused of: when he practises modesty and restraint he can be a little theatrical, a little too Racine.

“And now,” he goes on, “there have been two cases in the space of eight months. Both victims were men. In fact, including Trarieux, there have been three.”

“But …”

Louis would say that the divisionnaire “eructates” – he’s got a way with words, that boy. Only this time his eructation peters out. Because he can’t think of anything to say.

“How is this connected to the girl, Camille?” Armand says.

Camille smiles.

“At last, an intelligent question.”

Le Guen simply mutters “… a total pain in the arse.”

To show how disheartened he is, he gets up, makes a weary gesture as if to say, fine, maybe you’re right, but we’ll talk about it later, later. Anyone who didn’t know Le Guen would think he was genuinely depressed. He tosses a handful of coins onto the table and, as he leaves, raises one hand like a jury member taking the oath. From behind he’s wide as a truck; he trudges heavily away.

Camille sighs. It’s always wrong to be right too soon. “But I’m not wrong.” As he says this, he taps his nose with his finger, as though he needs to remind Armand and Louis that, in general, he’s got a nose for things. It’s just that he gets the timing wrong. Right now, the girl is a victim, nothing more. And not finding her, when that’s what you’re paid to do, would be a fuck-up, and claiming the woman is a multiple murderer would not be much of an exoneration.

They all get to their feet and head back to the station. Armand has cadged a small cigar – the guy at the next table didn’t have anything else. They leave the café and walk towards the
métro
.

“I’ve got the teams together,” Louis says. “The first one …”

Camille abruptly places a warning hand on his forearm as though he has just spotted a cobra at his feet. Louis looks up, listening intently. Armand is listening too, ear cocked. Camille is right. It’s like a jungle – the three men look at each other, feel the ground tremble under their feet to some deep, rumbling rhythm. As one, they turn, prepared for anything. Twenty metres away a colossal hulk is bearing down on them at a terrifying speed. Le Guen is thundering towards them, the flying tails of his jacket making him seem even more huge, his raised hand clutching a mobile telephone. Camille fumbles for his own mobile, remembers he had turned it off. He doesn’t have time to move, to get out of the way; Le Guen is already upon them. It takes him several paces to come to a halt, but he’s calculated his trajectory with care and stops right in front of Camille. Strangely, he’s not out of breath. He jabs at his mobile.