Irene (5 page)

Maleval chain-smoked American cigarettes, liked to have a flutter on the ponies and had a particular predilection for Bowmore single malt. But of his various proclivities, Maleval prized women above all. Maleval was unarguably handsome. Tall, dark-haired, with a face that radiated low cunning and a body that even now could win him back the place he once held on the French Olympic judo team.

Camille studied his flip side of the coin for a moment: Armand, poor Armand. Of the twenty years he had been an
inspecteur
at the
brigade criminelle
, he had spent nineteen and a half with the reputation of being the most shameful skinflint the police had ever known. He was ageless, a lanky streak of piss, gaunt, lean and fretful. Armand was defined by what he lacked. He was indigence incarnate. His stinginess did not have the charm of being a character flaw. It was pathological, profoundly pathological, and was something that Camille had never found amusing. Truth be told, Camille did not give a tinker’s curse about Armand’s meanness, but having worked with the man for so many years, it pained him to see the depths to which “poor Armand” would sink to avoid spending a red cent, the convoluted subterfuges to which he resorted to avoid paying for a measly cup of coffee. Perhaps it was a legacy of his own handicap, but Camille sometimes experienced these humiliations as though they were his own. What was truly piteous was that Armand was aware of his condition. It troubled him and as a result he became a sad, lonely man. Armand worked in silence. Armand worked hard. In his way, he may well have
been the junior officer in the
brigade
. His tight-fistedness had made him a meticulous, painstaking, scrupulous officer capable of spending days combing through a telephone directory or endless hours on a stakeout in an unmarked car with a faulty heater, capable of interviewing every resident of a street, every member of a profession if it meant – literally – finding a needle in a haystack. Give him a million-piece jigsaw and Armand would take it into his office and spend every waking hour putting it together. The nature of the research was unimportant. He did not care about the subject. His need to accumulate information made any personal preference redundant. More than once it had proved miraculous and, though everyone agreed that on a day-to-day basis Armand was insufferable, those same officers were quick to agree that this diligent, single-minded officer had something most others lacked, some quality of infinite patience which admirably proved that, taken to its logical conclusion, a mindless chore can border on genius. Having worn out every possible joke about his meanness, his fellow officers had eventually stopped taking the piss. No-one found it funny anymore. Everyone was appalled.

“O.K.,” said Camille, when Louis had finished his report. “Until we get the preliminary reports, let’s take things as they come. Armand, Maleval, I want you to go over the physical evidence, everything that was found at the scene, I want to know where everything came from: the furniture, the knick-knacks, the clothes, the bedlinen … Louis, you look into the video, the American T.V. show, anything that seems a little bizarre – but don’t get too sidetracked. If anything comes up, you’re in charge of briefing everyone. Any questions?”

There were no questions. Or there were too many; it amounted to the same thing.

An anonymous caller had reported the crime to the local police in Courbevoie. Camille decided to drive over and listen to the recording.

“There’s been a murder. Rue Félix-Faure. Number 17.”

The voice was obviously the same as the one on the answering machine, the same distortion probably made using the same gadget.

Camille spent the next two hours working on forms, affidavits, questionnaires, filling in the blanks with the unknown factors and wondering what the hell it was all about.

When forced to deal with tedious administrative procedures, he often suffered from what he thought of as a mental squint. With his right eye, he dealt with forms in triplicate, yielding to the demands of statisticians and writing out reports in the official style, and all the while the retina of his left eye still lingered on dead bodies sprawled on the floor, on wounds black with dry blood, on faces distorted by grief and by the desperate struggle to stay alive, by that last baffled look when confronted with the surprising finality of death.

And sometimes all these images were superimposed. Camille found himself imagining the severed fingers of the woman laid out like a wreath in the centre of the logo of the
police judiciaire
… He set his glasses on the desk and gently massaged his temples.

A soldier to his very bones, Bergeret, the head of
identité judiciaire
, was not a man to hurry things, nor to defer to anyone’s demands. But Le Guen had clearly used his influence (the idea of a clash between these titans, two immovable objects grappling pathetically, was like a sumo wrestling bout filmed in slow motion). Whatever he had done, by mid-afternoon, Camille had the preliminary forensic report.

Two young women aged between twenty and thirty, both blonde. The first woman was five foot five, weighed fifty kilos with a strawberry mark on her left inside knee, had healthy teeth and a generous bust; the second woman was about the same height and weight but had no distinguishing marks, she too had good teeth and a generous bust. Both victims had eaten three to five hours before death: crudités, carpaccio of beef, red wine. For dessert one of the victims had had strawberries, the other a lemon sorbet. A bottle of Moët & Chandon
brut
and two champagne flutes found under the bed bore their fingerprints. The writing on the wall had been done using the severed fingers. To establish the
modus operandi
– an expression beloved of all those who never studied Latin – would obviously take considerably more time. In what order had the women been butchered, how had it been done and with what? Had it required more than one man (or woman)? Had they been sexually assaulted
and if so how (or with what)? There were so many unknowns in this grisly equation that Camille was determined to solve.

The most curious detail was that the clear print of an index finger found on the wall was not real, but had been made using a rubber stamp.

Camille had never been a Luddite when it came to computers, but there were days when he could not help but think that these contraptions were evil at heart. No sooner had he received the preliminary forensic reports than the central booking computer offered him a choice between good and bad news. The good news was that the fingerprints of one of the victims were in the system: one Évelyne Rouvray, twenty-three, living in Bobigny, known to the police for soliciting. The bad news was that this reinforced the idea they were dealing with a pervert, and brought back all of the gruesome imagery Camille had been trying, ineffectually, to dismiss from his mind. The fake fingerprint on the wall was also in the system: it related to a cold case from November 21, 2001. Camille had the file sent up straight away.

The case file that now landed on his desk was also evil to its core. On this point, everyone was agreed. Only an officer with a death wish would have wanted to take over a case which, in its time, had been the subject of so much media attention. Back then, reporters
had speculated wildly about the fake fingerprints in black ink found on the toes of the victim. For several weeks, the papers had trotted out the same details, under new headlines: there was talk of the “Tremblay Butcher”, of the “Tragedy on the Rubbish Tip”, first prize going – as so often – to
Le Matin
, which had covered the story under the banner
DEATH REAPS A MAIDEN
.

Camille knew as much about the Tremblay case as anyone – no more, no less – but as he considered the horrific details of the crime, he suddenly felt the eye of the hurricane grow smaller. Reopening the Tremblay case would shed a very different light on things. If this killer had been hacking women to pieces all over the suburbs of Paris, new cases would keep turning up until eventually they arrested him. What sort of guy were they dealing with? Camille picked up the phone, called Le Guen and told him the news.

“Shit,” said Le Guen simply.

“That’s one way of putting it, yes.”

“The media are going to love this.”

“I suspect they’re head over heels already.”

“What do you mean, ‘already’?”

“What do you expect?” said Camille. “The
brigade criminelle
is like a sieve. We had reporters showing up in Courbevoie less than an hour after we got there …”

“And …?” Le Guen sounded worried.

“And there was a T.V. crew …” Camille reluctantly admitted.

Le Guen fell silent for a few seconds, which Camille turned to his advantage.

“I want a psychological profile drawn up on these guys,” he said.

“What do you mean, ‘these guys’? You mean there’s evidence of more than one killer?”

“This guy, these guys … what the fuck do I know?”

“O.K. The case has been referred to Deschamps as
juge d’instruction
. I’ll call her and have her appoint an expert.”

Camille had never worked with this investigating magistrate, but from their one or two chance encounters remembered her as a woman of about fifty, slim, elegant and astonishingly ugly. The sort of woman who defies description, with a taste for garish gold jewellery.

“The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow. If we can get an expert on it quickly, I’ll have whoever it is sent over for the preliminary conclusions.”

Camille postponed his reading of the Tremblay file. He would take it home. Right now, it was best to focus on the case in hand.

Évelyne Rouvray’s police record.

Born March 16, 1980, in Bobigny. Mother: Françoise Rouvray. Father: unknown. Left school at fourteen. No known employment. First arrested in 1996 for prostitution, caught
in flagrante
in a car at the Porte de la Chapelle. At the time, the girl was still a minor, more than anything it was just a lot of paperwork, and besides, she was bound to show up on the police radar again. Which indeed she did. Three months later – here we go again – little Miss Rouvray is arrested for soliciting on the boulevard des Maréchaux. Once
again she is in a car, and again she is
in flagrante
. This time the case goes to court, the judge realises they are destined to meet again and as a welcome gift the judicial system gives the minor (soon to be major) delinquent an eight-day suspended sentence. Curiously, after this point, there is no record of her. This is rare. Usually, the list of arrests for petty offences gets longer over the years – over the months if the girl is particularly industrious; maybe she has a drug habit, maybe she has A.I.D.S., one way or the other if she needs the money she’ll be turning tricks around the clock. But there’s nothing of this in her file. Évelyne gets an eight-day suspended sentence and drops off the map. At least until she is found hacked to death in the warehouse apartment in Courbevoie.

Last known address:
cité
Marcel Cachin in Bobigny. A 1970s sink estate with smashed-in doors and ransacked letter boxes, adorned from floor to ceiling with graffiti tags. On the third floor, a door with a spyhole. At the words “Police, open up!”, the haggard face of Évelyne’s mother appears. It is impossible to guess her age.

“Madame Rouvray?”

“We’d like to talk to you about your daughter Évelyne.”

“She doesn’t live here anymore.”

“Where did … where does she live?”

“I’ve no idea. I’m not the police.”

“Well, we are the police, so it’s in your best interests to help us out here … Évelyne’s got herself into trouble, serious trouble …”

Curious now.

“What sort of trouble?”

“We need an address for her.”

She hesitates. Camille and Louis are still standing on the doorstep. They’re cautious. They’re old hands at this.

“This is important.”

“She’s at José’s place. Rue Fremontel.”

The door is about to close.

“José who?”

“I don’t know. Just José.”

This time, Camille jams his foot in the door. Madame Rouvray isn’t interested in her daughter’s problems. She’s got other fish to fry.

“Évelyne is dead, Madame Rouvray.”

In an instant, she is transformed. Her mouth widens into an O, her eyes well with tears, there is no scream, no sigh, just these silent tears and suddenly, inexplicably, to Camille she seems beautiful. There is something about her face, something he saw in young Alice that morning, though Madame Rouvray’s face is not bruised, only her heart. He looks at Louis, then back to her. She is still gripping the door, staring down at the floor. No words, no questions, only silence and tears.

“We’ll need you to come down to identify the body …”

She is no longer listening. She looks up again and wordlessly lets them know she understands. The door closes quietly. Camille and Louis, relieved that she did not invite them to come inside, turn to leave.

José, according to the central computer, is José Riveiro, aged twenty-four. A precocious career criminal with a record for car theft and violence, he has been arrested three times. Having spent several months inside for his part in the hold-up of a jeweller’s in Pantin, he was released six months ago and there has been no news of him since. With a bit of luck, he won’t be home and if their luck really holds he’ll be on the run, he’ll be their man. Neither Louis nor Camille believes this for an instant. From his police record, José Riveiro is not some crazed killer with a taste for the high life. In any case, he answers the door wearing jeans and slippers; he is not particularly tall, his sullen, handsome face wears a worried expression.

“Hello, José. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

From the moment they clap eyes on each other, it is war between José and Camille. José is a real man. He stares down at this little runt as though he were a piece of dog shit on the pavement.