Talking to Ghosts (26 page)

“Toto the clown.”

He ran into the kid's room. It was not the usual jumble of toys, stuffed animals and Action Men. Here too, nothing that could be swallowed or thrown had been left within reach. Vilar thought about Pablo's den, the almost primeval cave teeming with bug-eyed creatures and stuffed animals over whom he ruled as the gaudy, plastic lord of the jungle. Here, everything was spartan; in one corner sat a large, bored teddy bear, with a stuffed snake wound around it. Vilar sighed, attempting to concentrate, because the urge to lie down anywhere and fall asleep all but cut the legs from under him.

As he expected, the bed was unmade. One of the dresser drawers was open, someone had hurriedly taken some clothes. Sandra de Melo had run away. She had made the decision in a matter of minutes. She had forgotten the clown, and the boy, half asleep, had not noticed. When he woke up later, or tomorrow morning, little José would throw a tantrum and perhaps the only way of calming him would be to sneak back to collect the toy. Someone would have to wait here to see if she came back for it.

The woman had to have been pretty scared to forget this particular object, the rag doll her son kissed instead of her. This extension he had dreamed up, this image of her in which she wanted to believe. A grotesque effigy. Whoever had thrown Sandra into a panic had had his way barred by the little thug hanging out in the lobby – this time without his friends – and had despatched that little problem without a qualm: a single stab wound to the throat. But what about the screams? What about the tenants hanging out of their windows, or the ones out making the most of the cool evening? It was hardly discreet.

He had killed Nadia, he had come here – for what? To kill Sandra too? To intimidate her? To keep her quiet, obviously.

Vilar went into Sandra's room. White walls bare but for a large framed photograph of a street in the Alfama district in Lisbon. On a dresser like the one in the kid's room there were two photographs: Sandra sitting on the beach, holding José's hand, José holding Toto the
clown by its floppy arm. The kid stares into the lens, though clearly unaware of it. He is listing, as though weighed down by the doll. It looks as though were his mother to let go he would drop like a stone without using his hands to break his fall.

Vilar leaned down to get a better look at this elusive stare. The other photograph showed Sandra arm in arm with another woman, someone perhaps a little older who looked a lot like her. Two pretty brunettes. Her sister. The picture had been taken on the streets of some nearby seaside resort. Soulac, Lacanau. Behind, beside and all around them were people in beachwear. Stands selling rubber rings, beach balls, sun-hats, beach towels. The colours garish. The sky an unreal blue. Vilar took the photograph out of the frame and turned it over:
PAOLA AND SANDRA, LACANAU, AUGUST 2005. FOR MY LITTLE SISTER
.

He opened a drawer, lifted up the pile of T-shirts and blouses, but found nothing underneath; he opened the second drawer, full of underwear, which he rummaged through gently with his fingertips.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Daras was standing in the doorway of the room; reflected in the picture frame he could also see the ashen face of Pradeau.

He extracted his fingers from the lace and pushed back the drawer.

“She's at her sister's place. We have to find her. The guy who killed Nadia came here tonight. He's the one who killed the kid downstairs.”

Daras walked over to him. Pradeau leaned against the doorframe slowly massaging his temples.

“And you were expecting to find him among her bras and knickers?” she said mockingly.

“We're good now? You got a good sniff? You're sobering up?”

He ignored the sarcasm and stared down at the lingerie.

“She left in a serious hurry. She even forgot to take her autistic son's clown. I don't know what happened, whether she actually saw the guy, whether she pushed him or what … But we need to get her sister's address and get round there fast …”

“We'll talk about it downstairs. We've got three witnesses who say they saw something.”

Daras turned to Pradeau.

“Laurent, you deal with this place, see if you can turn up anything that could help us track her down. Addresses, telephone numbers, whatever. We'll go down and talk to the witnesses, you never know.”

The witnesses, who had been left standing in front of the letterboxes, had mostly heard noises. They thought it was a fight or some kids making a ruckus; it happened a lot. They had looked out of the window but had seen nothing.

All three were men, one of whom had visibly had an alcoholic Friday night bender, explaining that his wife was already in bed asleep because of the pills she took for her panic attacks. He probably drank every other day of the week, mornings too. It was impossible to guess his age, his drunken face was slick with sweat, his puffy red eyes glistened with tears, but he tried to shrug it all off with a sad smile, hunched over his cigarette, tottering on his feet. From time to time as he talked his horrified eyes flicked towards the corpse on the far side of the lobby, where the forensic boys from
l'Identité judiciaire
were now at work.

Another witness, tall and broad-shouldered with close-cropped hair, biceps bulging under a black sleeveless T-shirt, seemed pleased to be helping the police with their inquiries. He spoke in an affected, ponderous tone, clearly attempting to lend gravitas to his words, but came off sounding like a character from a badly written T.V. show. Vilar and Daras quickly sent him packing and when he gravely asked whether he should remain available for further questioning, Vilar patted him on the shoulder and thanked him for the valuable assistance he had given in tracking down a dangerous criminal. They would not hesitate to call on him if necessary. The man announced that he was merely doing his duty as an upstanding citizen and that if everyone did likewise, everything would be fine, then headed for the lifts, which had just been made operational again.

“I saw something,” the last witness said. He took a step towards Vilar and said his name was Éric Gauthier and that he lived on the fifth floor.

“I saw a guy doing a runner. I told the other officer earlier. He went that way.”

He pointed towards the end of the street and the whole town beyond.

“Did you see what he looked like?”

“Dark hair, not very tall. He was wearing a denim jacket.”

“His hair was long or short?”

“Short.”

“Did you get a look at his face?”

“It was dark, all I could tell was he was young. I mean he wasn't
young
young. Thirty, thirty-five maybe.”

“No car?”

“Like I said, he left here on foot. After that, I didn't see. Was he the killer?”

Vilar's mobile made a sound like a foghorn. It was Pradeau. He turned away from his witness and took a few steps.

“We've got about a dozen addresses where she might have gone.”

“Do what you need to do, sort it with Daras. We have to get there before he does. I'm sure he's looking for her right now. He might even have been in the apartment, I mean she didn't close the door when she left, remember? He might have the same addresses we've got.”

“Fucking hell,” Pradeau said, and rang off.

Vilar went back to the witness, who had not moved and was waiting for him, smoking a cigarette. The smell of the smoke made him feel sick, and he felt his stomach heave slowly into his throat.

“What were you doing at the window?”

“Nothing. Just looking out. Getting some fresh air.”

“Did you know Sandra de Melo?”

“What did you say the name was?”

“Sandra de Melo. She lives on the third floor.”

“Neighbours, well, you know … I've not been living here long. What's she look like? I must have run into her in the lift.”

“Short, brown hair, with a little boy.”

“Oh right, yeah, I know her. Really sweet, the kid. José I think his name is. Really polite, always smiling, he says hello to everyone.”

Vilar tried to conceal his surprise: the kid was not the sort to say
hello to anyone, but this man, Éric Gauthier, clearly knew José by name. He was about to question him a little further about this when he heard shouts outside, the sound of people running, charging into the lobby. As the harried officers tried to restrain her, a woman rushed over to the body and howled, then fell on her knees, pulled off her hijab and used it to gently wipe the face of the dead boy. She lay down next to him, stroking him and covering him in kisses, letting out a long wail broken by sobs. Two young girls tried to lift her up, but she clung to the shoulders of her son. Her lamentations mingled Arabic and French and the girls seemed at a loss as to which language to speak in to make her see sense.

“Don't touch me! Let me go!”

A man appeared, struggling with the security guards who tried to hold him back. Daras stepped forward and told them to let him through, then took him gently by the arm. He stood, frozen, before the body of his son, now covered by that of his wife who went on wailing while the two sisters hugged each other and sobbed. The forensics team responsible for collecting samples had retreated into a corner, gloved hands limply by their sides, petrified, as though shocked that anyone might grieve for a corpse. Vilar stepped forward to where Daras was standing next to the father and laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Come on. Leave them.”

“This is a complete cock-up. Let's get out of here, there's nothing useful we can do now. I'll tell them to move the body.”

The lobby was now full of police and bystanders, all united in a solemn silence broken only by sobs and the whispered voices of the daughters begging their mother to get up.

Vilar turned as he felt someone touch his shoulder and was rewarded with a cloud of alcoholic breath from the first poor bastard he had interviewed. Nose to nose with this angular, unshaven face weathered by drink and tired of living.

“What is it? What do you want?”

The man's lips quivered, his wild eyes rolled, still glistening with tears.

“That guy. The one you were talking to a minute ago.”

Pradeau appeared on the stairs and stood, staring at the scene of mourning. He was very pale. He shot Vilar a weary smile.

“Yes, what about him?”

“He's never lived here. I've never seen him before. I heard what he said to you, but he doesn't live up on the fifth or down in the cellar. I don't know him and I know everyone around here, me and the wife have been living here nearly thirty years.”

Vilar looked around half-heartedly to see whether the man was still among the small group of people bustling around the door.

“Did you see where he went?”

“Outside. About three minutes ago. That's why I came to say something. I think it was him …”

Vilar laid a hand on the man's shoulder. He tried to smile at him to express his gratitude.

“Thank you … Thank you.”

Pradeau came over.

“Look after this gentleman. We'll need to take a statement. The guy talked to me, pretended to be a witness, he's outside there somewhere on the estate …”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“The guy who did it, for fuck's sake. The guy who cut the kid's throat, the guy who's after Sandra de Melo. He was right here not five minutes ago, he wormed his way into the group of witnesses, he's still toying with us, the bastard.”

Vilar was already heading for the door. A uniformed officer asked if he needed a hand, but he did not reply.

“Where the fuck is he going?” he heard Pradeau calling after him. Outside, there was no-one. All the night owls were inside, gathered around the body of a boy with his throat cut. Vilar could not see any of the riot police who had been milling around when he and Pradeau arrived. He turned right and quickly crossed the road, running past the cars parked along the tree-lined central reservation. Acacias. He shivered at a gust of warm air. Through the foliage, Vilar could see
the tower block opposite, the few windows still lit up at this hour of the night. Snatches of music, of muffled bass reached him. He came to a crossroads: directly ahead on the right were tower blocks like the one he had just passed. To the left, a few shops grouped around a car park with about twenty cars.

Turning his head, Vilar saw a figure standing on the pavement, diagonally opposite, watching him perhaps. Suddenly he felt out of breath. He could not make out the face, but he was convinced he recognised the false witness. And when he saw him take off, running around the building, he ran out into the road without knowing whether his body could hold out more than five metres. As he crossed the road, a car sped past behind him, but he barely heard it. He slowed to a walk in order to ease the pounding of his heart and the terrible racket in his brain, the blurry mélange of alcohol and fatigue. He struggled to try and hear anything beyond the buzzing that engulfed him, and after a moment found himself in a sort of park planted with groves of trees whose dark shapes he could barely make out in the gloom. A few street lights were still working, but the faint bluish glow served only to stir the shadows that gathered around him, urged on by the wind that whirled around the tower blocks.

He stopped, hearing a slight rustle to his right. He peered into the darkness, saw the page of a newspaper slithering past a bench like one of those languid predators you see grazing the seabed in search of sustenance. He realised that he was standing at the foot of a pylon strung with a mesh of wires that reminded him of the complex rigging of a pirate ship in a movie. Again, he peered, tried to make something out in the darkness; he saw a roundabout, a see-saw, wooden horses set on huge springs. He listened for sounds above the cacophony of his exhausted body and found it ridiculous to find himself here, standing by a playground in the dark, searching for a suspect who had drawn him here precisely in order to toy with him, a suspect he would not find tonight. He decided to turn back, to go back to the others, he no longer felt the need to lie down, to rest his weary head on something soft and let sleep come.