Alex (37 page)

Louis moves the mouse to explore the map onscreen; it’s
obvious from his expression he’s come up with nothing.

“Obviously not,” Vasseur says, “but I don’t know what she did want since she didn’t show up.”

“Didn’t you try to call her?”

“The number was disconnected.”

“That’s true, we checked. Alex cancelled her mobile contract three days earlier. In preparation for her departure, probably. So how long did you stand in front of this shop for sale?”

“Until midnight.”

“You’re a patient man, that’s good. Love is patient, everyone knows that. Did anyone see you?”

“I don’t think so.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“For you, maybe: you’re the ones who have something to prove, not me.”

“It’s not unfortunate for you or for me, it’s just unfortunate; it leaves a grey area, creates doubt, makes your story sound like a fabrication. But never mind. I’m assuming that that’s all there is, that when your sister failed to show up, you simply went home.”

Vasseur doesn’t answer. An M.R.I. scanner would reveal his neurons scrabbling to come up with a solution.

“Well?” Camille says. “Did you go home?”

Despite marshalling all its resources, Vasseur’s brain cannot come up with a satisfactory solution.

“No. I went to the hotel.”

He’s taken the plunge.

“Well, well,” Camille says, astonished. “So you knew which hotel she was staying in?”

“No. Alex had called me, so I just dialled the last incoming number.”

“Very ingenious! And … ?”

“There was no answer. I got an answering machine.”

“Ah, what a pity. So you drove off home.”

This time the two hemispheres of the brain all but collide. Vasseur closes his eyes. Something tells him this is not the right strategy, but he doesn’t know what else to do.

“No,” he says finally, “As I said, I went to the hotel. It was closed. There was no receptionist on duty.”

“Louis?” Camille turns to his colleague.

“The reception desk is open until half past ten. After that, there’s a keycode you need to enter to get in. It’s given to hotel guests when they arrive.”

“So.” Camille turns back to Vasseur. “Then you drove back home.”

“Yes.”

Camille turns towards his fellow officers.

“Well, what an adventure! Armand … you look dubious …”

Armand does not stand up this time.

“Witness statement from one Monsieur Leboulanger and one Madame Farida.”

“Are you sure of that?”

Armand glances at his notes again.

“No, sorry, you’re right. Farida is her first name. Madame Farida Sartaoui.”

“You’ll have to excuse my colleague – he’s always had problems with foreign names. So these people were … ?”

“… staying at the hotel,” Armand goes on. “They got back at fifteen minutes past twelve.”

“O.K., O.K.!” Vasseur roars. “O.K. fine!”

Le Guen picks up on the first ring.

“We’re about to call it a night.”

“What have you got?”

“Where are you?” Camille says.

Le Guen hesitates, which means he’s with a woman, which means he’s in love – Le Guen doesn’t do casual flings, it’s not his thing – and that means …

“Jean, I told you last time, I will not act as your witness at another wedding. It’s out of the question!”

“Yeah, I know, don’t sweat it. I’m not planning to fall in love here.”

“Can I quote you on that?”

“You certainly can.”

“Now you really are starting to worry me!”

“How are things with you?”

Camille checks his watch.

“Lent money to the sister, got a call from the sister, went into the hotel where the sister was staying.”

“Good. Will it hold up?”

“It’ll be enough; we have to be patient. I just hope the magistrate—”

“Don’t worry. As far as this goes, he’s on our side.”

“Good. Well, in that case the best thing to do now is get some sleep.”

*

And it’s night.

Three o’clock in the morning. He couldn’t stop himself and, for once, he managed to deal with it by himself. Five blows, no more, no less. The neighbours are very fond of Camille, but even so, banging nails into the wall at that hour … The first hammer blow surprises, the second wakes, the third astonishes, the fourth shocks, the fifth has neighbours thumping on the walls … There is no sixth: silence returns. Camille can hang Maud Verhœven’s self-portrait on the living room wall; the nail holds firm. As does Camille.

He had intended to catch up with Louis as they were leaving the
brigade
offices, but Louis had already left, disappeared. He’ll see him tomorrow. What will he say? Camille trusts to his intuition, to the situation; he plans to keep the painting, to thank Louis – a lovely gesture – and to reimburse him. Or maybe not. This thing about the 280,000 euros is still going round in his head.

Ever since he’s lived alone, he’s slept with the curtains open; he likes to be woken by the dawn. Doudouche has crept up beside him. He can’t get to sleep. He spends the night on the sofa, staring up at the painting.

Obviously the interrogation of Vasseur has been an ordeal, but that’s not the only thing.

What was kindled in him some nights ago in the studio in Montfort, what assailed him in the hotel room when he came face to face with the corpse of Alex Prévost is now before him.

This case has allowed him to exorcise the death of Irène,
to make his peace with his mother.

The image of Alex, the plain-faced little girl, makes him want to weep.

The childlike handwriting in her diary, the pathetic collection of objects she kept; this whole story breaks his heart.

He feels as though, deep down, he is just like everyone else.

Even for him, Alex is just a means to an end.

He has used her.

*

In the course of the next seventeen hours, Vasseur is taken from his cell on three occasions and led back to the offices of the
brigade
. Twice, Armand is there to meet him; the last time it is Louis. They go over details, and Armand gets him to confirm the exact dates of his stays in Toulouse.

“It was twenty years ago – what fucking difference does it make?” Vasseur explodes.

Armand gives him a look that says
Hey, don’t have a go at me, I’m just following orders
.

Vasseur is prepared to sign anything, prepared to acknowledge anything.

“You’ve got nothing on me, absolutely nothing.”

“In that case,” says Louis, who is now leading the interview, “you’ve got nothing to be afraid of, Monsieur Vasseur.”

Time drags on, the hours pass, Vasseur is convinced this is a good sign. He was taken from his cell again and asked to sign something confirming the dates on which he met with Stefan Maciak as a sales rep.

“I don’t give a fuck,” he says and signs.

He glances at the clock on the wall. No-one can accuse him of anything.

He’s unshaven and has scarcely washed.

He is led out again. This time it is Camille’s turn. The moment he walks into the room, he looks up at the wall clock. 8.00 p.m. It has been a long day. Vasseur is triumphant, prepares to claim his victory.

“How are things, captain?” he says, all smiles. “Sadly we’ll be parting company soon. No hard feelings, O.K.?”

“Soon? Why do you say ‘soon’?”

Vasseur is no fool – he has a warped sensibility; he’s sharp; he has a sixth sense. He immediately knows what is coming. The proof being that he says nothing, simply goes pale, crosses his legs nervously. He waits. For a long moment Camille stares at him wordlessly. It’s like a staring match where the first to look away loses. The telephone rings. Armand comes over, lifts the receiver, says, “Hello,” listens, says, “Thank you,” and hangs up again.

Camille, who has still not taken his eyes off Vasseur, says simply: “The magistrate has just granted our request to extend police detention by twenty-four hours, Monsieur Vasseur.”

“I demand to see this magistrate!”

“I’m terribly sorry, Monsieur Vasseur, terribly sorry. Monsieur Vidard sends his regrets, but his workload means he cannot be with us. We’ll just have to rub along together for a little while longer. No hard feelings, O.K.?”

Vasseur looks round wildly, determined to make an impression. He stifles a laugh; they’re the ones he feels sorry for.

“And what are you going to do after that?” he says. “I don’t know what you said to the magistrate to get this extension, what lies you told him, but whether it’s now or twenty-four hours from now, you’re going to have to let me go. You’re …”

He gropes for a word.

“… pathetic.”

*

He is taken back to the cell. They hardly question him anymore. They could try to wear him down, but Camille thinks it’s better this way. Skeleton service. It’ll be more effective. But doing nothing, or almost nothing, is very difficult. They all do their best to focus. They imagine the release, imagine Vasseur slipping on his jacket, knotting his tie, they picture the smile he’ll give, the words he’ll find, the farewell he’s already rehearsing.

Armand manages to track down two new rookies, one on the second floor, one on the fourth. He stocks up on cigarettes and pens. It takes quite some time. But it keeps him busy.

Sometime in mid-morning, there is a strange series of to-ings and fro-ings in which Camille tries to take Louis to one side to talk about the painting, but nothing seems to go as planned. Louis keeps being called away; Camille can feel the atmosphere between them become awkward. As he types up his reports, half an eye on the clock, he realises that what Louis has done has royally screwed up their working relationship. Camille could say thank you, but so? He can pay Louis back, and then what? There is something paternalistic about Louis’s gesture. The longer this drags on, the more Camille feels that this whole thing about the painting is Louis trying to teach him a lesson.

At about three o’clock, they finally find themselves alone in the office. Camille doesn’t stop to think. He says, “Thanks” – this is his first word.

“Thanks, Louis.”

He needs to say something more; he can’t just leave it at that.

“It—”

But he stops. From Louis’s quizzical expression he realises the enormity of his mistake. This whole deal with the painting – Louis has got nothing to do with it.

“Thanks for what?”

Camille ad-libs, “For everything, Louis. For your help … with all this.”

“Sure,” Louis says, astonished; they’re not in the habit of saying things like this to each other.

Camille had hoped to come up with the right words, and he just did; he himself is surprised by this unexpected confession.

“This case, it’s kind of my comeback. And I know I can be an awkward bugger to get along with, so …”

The presence of Louis, this mysterious young man he knows so well yet hardly knows at all, is suddenly powerfully moving, perhaps more so than the reappearance of the painting.

*

Vasseur has been brought up from his cell once more to corroborate a few details.

Camille goes to Le Guen’s office, knocks and goes straight in. It’s clear from his expression that the divisionnaire is expecting bad news. Camille immediately raises a hand to reassure him. They discuss the case. They’ve each done what they needed to do. All they can do now is wait. Camille talks about the auction of his mother’s paintings.

“How much did you say?” says a thunderstruck Le Guen.

Camille repeats the figure, one that he finds increasingly abstract. Le Guen looks impressed.

Camille doesn’t mention the self-portrait. He’s had time to think now and he’s worked it out. He’ll call his mother’s friend, the man who organised the auction: he must have made a tidy
profit from the sale and clearly decided to thank Camille by giving him the painting. It’s no big deal. Camille feels relieved.

He telephones, leaves a message and heads down to his office.

The hours tick by.

Camille had decided to do it at 1900 hours and the moment has come: it is seven o’clock. Vasseur shambles into the office, sits down and stares fixedly at the clock on the wall. He is obviously exhausted; he has hardly slept in the past forty-eight hours, a fact that is starkly etched on his face.

“This thing is …” Camille begins, “we have a number of little niggles about the death of your sister. Your half-sister, sorry.”

Vasseur doesn’t react. He struggles to work out what this means, but makes little headway – scarcely surprising given his exhaustion. He considers the possible meanings, the questions that might follow from it. He feels calmer. As far as Alex’s death is concerned, he’s got nothing to reproach himself for. His whole face says as much. He takes a deep breath, relaxes, silently folds his arms, glances again at the wall clock and when he finally says something, it is completely unrelated.

“The detention period ends at eight o’clock, does it not?”

“I can see that you’re not much bothered by Alex’s death.”

Vasseur stares up at the ceiling as though searching for
inspiration, as though in a restaurant someone had asked him to choose between two desserts. Embarrassed, he puckers his lips.

“I’m upset by it,” he says at length. “Very upset, actually. You know how it is with families: blood is thicker than water. But what can you do? This is the thing with depressives.”

“I’m not talking about the fact of her death, but the way she died.”

Vasseur understands, he nods.

“Barbiturates, yeah, it’s terrible. She told me she was having trouble sleeping, said without them she wouldn’t sleep at all.”

He hears the words as he says them; exhausted as he is he has to struggle not to make some crude joke about her closed eyes. Eventually, he opts for an exaggeratedly concerned tone.

“That’s the thing about medicines – they should be more tightly controlled, don’t you think? Though I suppose she was a nurse, so she could get her hands on whatever she wanted.”

Vasseur becomes suddenly thoughtful.

“I don’t know what death from a barbiturate overdose is like … I assume it causes convulsions.”