The Circle (33 page)

The Whale wiped his mouth again.

‘You won't get to be head of the party if there are any scandals, Paul. Not any more. Those days are over. So do what you have to do to keep yourself out of that murder case – understood? I'll take care of the little commandant. We'll keep an eye on him. But I want to know: do you have an alibi for the night of the murder?'

Lacaze gave a start.

‘Good Lord, what are you thinking? That I killed her?'

He saw the fat man's eyes flare with anger. The Whale leaned over the table and his bass voice rumbled like thunder between the glasses.

‘Listen to me, you prat! Keep your wide-eyed innocent act for the courts, all right? I want to know what you were doing that night: were you screwing her, drinking with friends, snorting a line in the bog, was there someone with you, or no one – people who can testify, dammit! And stop putting on airs like you're so wholesome, you're pissing me off.'

Lacaze felt as if he'd been slapped. The blood drained from his face. He looked around to make sure no one had overheard.

‘I was … I was with Suzanne. We were watching a DVD. Since her diagnosis, I've been trying to be at home as much as possible.'

The senator sat up straight.

‘I'm very sorry about Suzanne. It's awful, what's happened to her. I am very fond of her.'

The Whale said this with brutal sincerity, then plunged his nose back into his plate. End of discussion. Lacaze felt a wave of guilt wash over him. He wondered how the man seated opposite would have reacted if he had known the truth.

Quarters

Sounds, to start with. Invasive, disturbing. They made a thick net of noise, unceasing, a relentless routine. Voices, doors, shouts, gates, locks, footsteps, key chains. Then came the smell. Not necessarily unpleasant, but typical. You would recognise it anywhere. All prisons have the same smell.

Here most of the voices were female. The women's wing of the prison of Seysses, near Toulouse.

When the warden unlocked the door, Servaz stiffened. He had left his gun and his warrant card at the entrance, signed in, and gone through the multiple security doors. He followed in the guard's footsteps, and he prepared himself mentally.

The woman motioned to him to go in. He took a breath and crossed the threshold. Prisoner number 1614 was sitting with her elbows on the table, her hands crossed in front of her. The neon light fell on her chestnut hair, which was no longer thick and long and silky, but short, dry and dull. But her gaze had not changed. Élisabeth Ferney had lost none of her arrogance, nor her authority. Servaz was willing to bet that she had carved out her niche here, just as she had when she had been head nurse at the Wargnier Institute. Everyone did her bidding there. And she was the one who had helped Julian Alois Hirtmann to escape. Servaz had attended her trial. Her lawyer had tried to insist that Hirtmann had manipulated her, tried to portray her as a victim – but his client's personality had worked against her. The members of the jury could see for themselves that the woman in the dock was anything but a victim.

‘Hello, Commandant.'

Her voice was still just as firm. But there was a new weariness. Her intonation had a slight drawl to it now. Servaz wondered if Lisa Ferney was taking antidepressants. It was common practice here.

‘Hello, Élisabeth.'

‘Oh, first-name basis now, is it? Are we friends? News to me … Around here, it's usually Ferney. Or 1614. That slut who brought you here, she calls me the “head bitch”. But that's just for show. In fact, she comes to see me at night and she's the one who gets down on her knees …'

Servaz looked at her closely, trying to tell how much was true and how much was false, but it was a waste of time. Élisabeth Ferney was unfathomable – apart from the little sparks of malice that danced in her brown eyes. Servaz had known a prison director who, when referring to his female inmates, would say ‘that bitch' or ‘those whores'. He insulted them systematically, harassed the youngest ones sexually, and went to the women's wing every night for blow jobs. He'd been dismissed, but there had been no criminal charges, as the prosecutor considered his dismissal sufficient punishment. Servaz knew that in the prison world, anything was possible.

‘You know what I miss the most?' she continued, apparently satisfied with the reaction she saw on his face. ‘The Internet. We all got hooked on that crap, it's crazy. I'm sure that being deprived of Facebook will cause the number of prison suicides to skyrocket.'

He pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. He could hear sounds through the closed door. The echoes of voices, shouts, a cart being pushed – and then one particular noise: the clinking of metal on metal. Servaz knew what this meant. Exercise time. The guards used this time to go into the cells and make sure none of the bars had been sawn through by tapping on them with an iron bar.
That sound
… nothing could make the prisoners feel their solitude more than that permanent background noise.

‘Seventy per cent of the inmates here are drug addicts, did you know that? Fewer than ten per cent of them get any sort of treatment. Last week there was a girl who hanged herself. It was her seventh attempt and she had told them she would try again. And yet they left her alone, with no surveillance. So you see, if I wanted to, I could escape. One way or another.'

He wondered what she was getting at. Had Élisabeth Ferney tried to commit suicide? He made a mental note to ask the medical staff.

‘But you're not here just to see how I'm doing, are you?'

Servaz knew she would ask this question. He thought again of his father's advice. Sincerity … He wasn't sure this was the best strategy, but he didn't have any others in his arsenal.

‘Julian wrote to me. An e-mail. I think he's here in Toulouse, or not far from here.'

Was there something in the former head nurse's gaze? Or was it just his imagination? She was staring at him, as impenetrable as ever.

‘“Julian”, “Élisabeth” … We're all chums now, are we? And what did it say, that e-mail?'

‘That he was going to take action, that he was enjoying his freedom.'

‘Do you believe him?'

‘What do you think?'

The smile on her unpainted lips was like a scar.

‘Show me the e-mail, and perhaps I'll tell you.'

‘No.'

The smile vanished.

‘You look tired,
Martin
… You look like someone who doesn't get a lot of sleep, or am I mistaken? It's because of him, isn't it?'

‘You don't look too great either,
Lisa.
'

‘You didn't answer my question. Is Hirtmann bugging you? Are you afraid he'll go after you? Do you have children?'

Beneath the table he dug his nails into his palms. Then he placed his hands flat on his thighs, uncrossed his ankles and tried to relax. There was something about Élisabeth Ferney that chilled him to the bone.

‘And anyway, why you? If I'm not mistaken, you only met him once. I remember your visit to the Institute. With that little psychologist with a goatee and that female gendarme … such a pretty girl. What did you discuss for him to get so fixated on you? And you – you're fixated on him too, aren't you?'

He told himself he mustn't let her lead the conversation. Élisabeth Ferney belonged to the same race as Hirtmann: she was a narcissistic pervert, a manipulator who constantly tried to establish her hold over other people's minds. He was about to say something but she didn't give him the chance.

‘So, you figure he might have been in touch with his former accomplice, is that it? Even if I did know something, why should I tell you? You, of all people?'

This question, too, he had foreseen. He confronted her gaze.

‘I spoke to the magistrate. Access to daily papers, and you'll be enrolled in the micro-computing workshop. With Internet access once a week. I will personally make sure that the magistrate's decision is properly enforced by the administration of this … establishment. You have my word.'

‘And what if I have nothing to tell you? What if Hirtmann hasn't contacted me? Does your offer still hold?'

She gave him a nasty smile. He didn't answer.

‘And what guarantee do I have that you will keep your word?'

‘None.'

She laughed. But it was a joyless laugh. He had hit the bull's eye. He could see it in her gaze.

‘None,' he said again. ‘No guarantee. Everything depends on whether I believe you or not. Everything depends on me, Élisabeth. But you don't have much choice, anyway, do you?'

She looked at him with a brief flash of anger and hatred. She must have said that sentence so often that, even coming from someone else's lips, she recognised it. The words of someone with the upper hand. Now the roles were reversed, and she was cruelly aware of it. She had been in his place when she ran the Wargnier Institute with Dr Xavier – threatening and cajoling her patients, making them see just what they had to win or to lose, telling them exactly what he had just told her: that everything depended on her.

‘Unlike you, I have not had any news from Julian Hirtmann,' she replied, and he could sense a frustration and sadness in her voice that were not feigned. ‘He hasn't tried to get back in touch. I've waited a long time for a sign. Something … You know as well as I do that there is nothing easier than to get a message to a prisoner. But it has never happened. I do, however, have some information that might interest you.'

He held her gaze, all his senses on the alert.

‘Computer once a week and access to the daily papers, we agree on that?'

He nodded.

‘Someone came here before you, someone who wanted to know exactly the same thing. And, oddly enough, she came by today.'

‘Who was it?' he asked.

She flashed him a vicious smile. He got up.

‘Anyway, all I have to do is ask the director,' he said.

‘Fine. Sit down and I'll tell you. But don't forget your promise.'

He had someone else to see. In the juvenile wing. It was perfectly illegal, and he knew it. But Servaz had his contacts at the prison, and the director would not be informed about this meeting. That was why he had asked the magistrate for permission to question Lisa Ferney: to gain access to the prison.

Walking along the corridors, he thought about what she had just told him. Someone had been there before him. Someone he hadn't seen in a long time. Once again he saw himself in the avalanche.

The guard unlocked the door and Servaz gave a start. Good Lord! The hollow cheeks, the red-rimmed eyes, the desperate gaze. He knew Hugo had been placed in an individual cell, but suddenly he was frightened for him. If Marianne saw her son in this state, she would be terrified.

Servaz went back out and pulled the door behind him.

‘I want him under special surveillance,' he said to the guard. ‘Remove his belt, his shoelaces, everything. I'm afraid he might do something stupid. This kid will be getting out of here soon. It's only a question of time.'

He thought again about what Lisa Ferney had said:
‘Last week there was a girl who hanged herself. It was her seventh attempt
…
And yet they left her alone, with no surveillance.'

The guard simply smiled at him.

‘Fuck, do I make myself clear?' said Servaz.

The guard gave him an indifferent look, then nodded. Servaz told himself he would have a word with the director before leaving, then he went into the cell.

‘Hello, Hugo.'

No answer.

Just as he had done with Élisabeth Ferney, he pulled up a chair and sat down.

‘Hugo,' he began, ‘I'm really sorry about … this.' He made a gesture that took in the room and everything around it. ‘I did everything I could to persuade the judge to let you go, but the accusations are too serious … at least, for the time being.'

Hugo stared at his hands. Servaz looked at the boy's nails: so bitten they were bleeding.

‘There is some new evidence … there's a good chance you won't be here very much longer.'

‘Get
me out of here!
'

His scream took Martin by surprise. Hugo's eyes were pleading, full of tears, his lips trembling.

‘Get me out of here, please.'

Yes
, he thought.
Don't worry. I'm going to get you out of here. But you have to be strong, kid.

‘Listen to me,' said Servaz. ‘You have to trust me. I'm going to help you get out of here, but you have to help me, too. I have absolutely no right to be here: you've been indicted, and only the magistrates are allowed to talk to you, in the presence of your lawyer. I could be severely punished for this. But there is new evidence. So the judge will be obliged to reconsider his position. Do you understand?'

‘What new evidence?'

‘Do you know Paul Lacaze?'

Servaz saw his eyelids flicker. He hadn't been an investigator for fifteen years for nothing.

‘You know him, don't you? Don't you?'

Hugo stared again at his gnawed fingers.

‘Shit, Hugo!'

‘Yes, I know him.'

Servaz waited in silence for him to continue.

‘I know he was seeing Claire …'

‘He was seeing her?'

‘They had an affair … the top-secret kind. Lacaze is married, and he's deputy mayor of Marsac. But how did you find out?'

‘We found his e-mails on Claire's computer.'

This time, Servaz detected no reaction. Apparently, Hugo was not surprised. So perhaps he was not the one who had emptied out the mailbox.

Servaz leaned across the table.

‘Paul Lacaze had a top-secret affair with Claire Diemar. An affair no one was aware of, you said so yourself. So why do you know about it?'

‘She told me.'