The Circle (44 page)

She let go of the button, the way they had told her to, so that Samira could answer.

‘Yes, babe. I'm here. What's going on?'

‘Uh … I … it's just …'

‘You feel kind of alone in your room since your roommate left, is that it?'

Bull's eye.

‘That wasn't too cool of her …' A crackling sound. ‘It's getting really itchy over here. It's full of fucking horrible bugs. And besides, I'm kind of thirsty. I have two cold beers in a cooler. What do you
say? We don't need to tell the headmaster or your father – after all, he told me to keep a close watch on you …'

A smile lit up Margot's face.

He felt too tired to go back to Toulouse. He wondered if he'd find a hotel room at this time of night, then he thought of another solution. He knew it wasn't a good idea, that she would have called him if she had wanted to see him – then he thought that she might be doing the same thing he was doing: waiting desperately for him to call. He was consumed with anxiety, doubt and the desire to see her. He reached for his mobile, saw the time in the corner of the screen, and put it back in his pocket. He didn't want to wake her up in the middle of the night. But maybe she wasn't asleep. Maybe she was waking up every night the way she had woken up two nights ago when he was in her bed. Maybe she was asking herself the same questions: why the hell didn't he call? Again he tasted her mouth on his lips, the perfume of her hair and her skin. There was a horrible emptiness in the pit of his stomach. He was craving her company.

‘I'm going home,' he said to Espérandieu on the phone. ‘Goodnight.'

He saw his assistant wave to him and trudge back towards his car. In an hour, another team would take over. He couldn't help but think about Margot, sound asleep. He wondered what Hirtmann was doing. Was he asleep? Was he lurking somewhere, stalking his prey? Had he found one, had he locked her up somewhere to play with her the way a cat plays with a mouse? He banished the thought. He had told Vincent to hide, but not too well; to remain noticeable to someone who was looking for signs of surveillance. He did not think that Hirtmann would take such a risk. Freedom was far too precious to him.

Servaz headed for the lake. He went by Le Zik, the café-concert restaurant on stilts. There were people inside, and strains of music reached him through the lowered window. He went along the east shore, closest to town, and then the north shore. He slowed down when he came to the gate of Marianne's house.

There were lights on on the ground floor.

His heart began to beat faster. He realised that he wanted her, desperately; wanted to kiss her and hold her. Wanted to hear her voice. Her laugh. To be with her.

Then his heart sank.

There was a car parked on the gravel under the fir trees. It was a red Alfa Romeo Spider. Servaz was aware of a wave of sadness swelling somewhere, the painful sting of betrayal. He faltered. Then he decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. He was angry at himself for thinking evil thoughts. He decided to wait for Francis to leave and then he would go over. There was surely an explanation. He drove a bit further along and parked in the shelter of the woods, at the edge of the property, then lit a cigarette and put Mahler in the CD player. At the end of the CD, he decided he would do without the music. He tasted bile; the poison of doubt was infecting him. He remembered the supply of condoms he had seen in the bathroom. He looked at the clock on the dashboard. Another hour went by. When the red Spider emerged from the garden, tyres squealing on the asphalt, Servaz felt a chill spread all through him.

The moon up there was a sad woman, the only one who would never betray him.

It was three o'clock in the morning.

Charlène

He was twenty years old. Long brown hair, straight on top, curly at the ends and on his shoulders. He was holding a half-finished cigarette between his index and middle finger. He was staring straight at the camera lens with an intense, slightly cynical look, and the ghost of a smile – or pout – on his lips.

Marianne had taken the photograph. Even today, he wondered why he kept it. Two days after she took it, she left him.

Her voice, choked, as she told him. He had seen the tears in her eyes, as if he were the one who was leaving.

‘Why?'

‘I'm in love with someone else.'

The very worst reason.

He hadn't said anything. He had looked at her with the same gaze as in the photo (at least he supposed he had).

‘Get the hell out.'

‘Martin, I—'

‘Get the hell out.'

She left without saying another word. Only later had he found out who it was. A double betrayal. For months he had hoped she would come back. And then he met Alexandra. He put the photo back where he had found it. This morning when he woke up, he had meant to tear it up and throw it away, then thought better of it. He was at the end of his tether. He had slept for only two hours, if that, and his sleep had been troubled, full of nightmares.

Hirtmann, Marsac, and now this
… He felt as if he were an elastic band that someone was pulling on to see how far they could stretch him before he snapped. Not much further, he could tell. He went out onto the balcony. Nine o'clock in the morning. The sky was turning stormy again: a mass of black clouds was approaching from
the west, even though the sun continued to shine. Waves of heat rose from the town, along with a chorus of car engines and horns. There was electricity in the air; the swifts were swirling, shrieking.

He got dressed and went out. His hair was uncombed, he hadn't shaved, his face bore the signs of his night-time expedition, and he hadn't washed in twenty-four hours, but he didn't give a damn. Walking through the streets did him good. He sat down at an outdoor café on the place Wilson and asked for an espresso and two lumps of sugar. An extra sugar to help with the bitterness …

He wondered who he could talk to, who he could turn to for advice. He realised there was only one person. He saw a lovely face, long ginger hair, a body and a smile to die for …

He drank his coffee and waited for opening time.

Then he took the rue Lapeyrouse, crossed the eternal construction site that was the rue d'Alsace-Lorraine, and turned down the rue de la Pomme. He knew the gallery opened at ten. It was 9.50. The door was already open, the gallery silent and deserted. He hesitated.

His soles squeaked on the light parquet floor. Jazz was playing quietly. His gaze did not linger on the modern canvases on the wall. He could hear footsteps upstairs, and a voice, so he went up the spiral metal staircase at the back.

She was there, on the phone, standing behind her desk near the big semi-circular plate-glass window.

She looked up and saw him. She said, ‘I'll call you back.'

Charlène Espérandieu was wearing a white T-shirt that left one shoulder bare, and black harem trousers. Across her chest the word ‘ART' was embroidered in brilliant sequins. Her red hair was ablaze in the morning light.

She was diabolically beautiful, and for a split second he told himself that this might be her, the one he was looking for, the woman who would console him and make him forget all the others. The one he could rely on. But of course not. She was his assistant's wife. And she no longer filled his mind the way she had two winters ago. She was on the periphery, in spite of her beauty – a pleasant thought, but without pain or passion.

‘Martin? What brings you here?'

‘I'd love a coffee,' he said.

She walked around her desk to kiss him on the cheek. She smelled of a light lemony perfume, like a breeze through a citrus orchard.

‘My coffee machine isn't working. I need one too. Come on. You don't look too great.'

‘I know, and I need a shower.'

They crossed the place du Capitole towards the cafés beneath the arcades. He was walking with one of the most beautiful women in Toulouse, he looked like a tramp, and he was thinking about someone else.

‘Why do you never answer my messages?' she asked, once she had drunk some coffee.

‘You know very well.'

‘No, I don't. Why don't you tell me?'

He suddenly realised he'd been mistaken, that he couldn't talk to her about Marianne. He didn't have the right; he knew she would be hurt. Perhaps subconsciously that had been his goal: to hurt someone the way he had been hurt.

He wouldn't do it.

‘I got an e-mail from Julian Hirtmann,' he said.

‘I know. Vincent thought it was a hoax, that you were imagining things. Until you found the letters carved on a tree trunk … Now he doesn't know what to think.'

‘So you know about the letters?'

‘Yes.'

‘And you know where—'

‘Where you found them? Uh-huh. Vincent told me.'

‘Did he also tell you in what circumstances?'

She nodded.

‘Charlène, I—'

‘Don't say anything, Martin. There's no point.'

‘He must have told you that it was someone I've known for a long time.'

‘No.'

‘Someone that I—'

‘Hush. You don't owe me any explanations.'

‘Charlène, I want you to know—'

‘Hush, I said.'

The waitress had come to collect the money but left again in a hurry.

‘Really,' she added. ‘It's not as if we were married, or even lovers, or anything.'

He remained silent.

‘After all, who cares what I feel?'

‘Charlène—'

‘Was it only me, Martin? Didn't you ever feel anything? Did I dream it?'

He looked at her. She was so terribly beautiful in that moment. There was no more desirable woman in a hundred kilometres than Charlène Espérandieu. Married or not, she must be overwhelmed with propositions. So why him?

He had been lying to himself all these long months. Yes, he had felt something. Yes, he had thought about her often and imagined her in his bed – and in many other places besides. But there was Vincent. And their daughter Mégan. And Margot. And all the rest.

Not now.

She too must have felt that it wasn't the right time, because she changed the subject.

‘Do you think we're in danger? Or Mégan?' she asked.

‘No. Hirtmann is obsessed with me. He's not going to go after every cop in Toulouse.'

‘But if he couldn't get at you?' She seemed suddenly worried. ‘If he's as well informed as you say he is, he must know that Vincent is your friend – have you thought of that?'

‘Yes, of course. But we don't even know where he is. To be honest, I don't think there's the slightest danger. Vincent never met Julian Hirtmann. Hirtmann doesn't even know he exists. Be on the lookout, that's all. If you like, tell Mégan's school to make sure that no one is lurking about, not to leave her on her own.'

He had requested surveillance for Margot. Was he going to have to ask for the same thing for everyone who was close to him? Vincent, Alexandra?

Suddenly he thought of Pujol. Damn, he'd forgotten him again! Was Pujol still tailing him? What would he think if he saw Charlène and his boss deep in a very animated discussion at an outdoor café – without Espérandieu? Pujol couldn't stand Vincent. Servaz was sure he would be only too eager to dish the dirt.

‘Shit,' he said.

‘What's the matter?'

‘I'd forgotten that I'm being tailed myself.'

‘Who by?'

‘Members of my team. People who aren't very fond of Vincent.'

‘Do you mean the ones you gave a dressing-down to two years ago?'

‘Mm-hm.'

‘Do you think they saw us?'

‘I have no idea. But I don't want to run the risk. You're going to stand up and we'll say goodbye and shake hands.'

She looked at him and frowned.

‘This is ridiculous.'

‘Charlène, please.'

‘As you like. Take care, Martin. And take care of Margot …'

He saw her hesitate.

‘And I want you to know that … I'm here, I will always be here for you. Any time.'

She pushed back her chair and stood up, then shook his hand very formally across the table. She didn't turn round, and he didn't watch as she walked away.

Pre-Match

He had an appointment at the general inspectorate at 10.30 a.m. When he went into the commissioner's office, Santos was talking to a woman in her fifties. Servaz thought she looked like an old-fashioned schoolmistress, with her glasses down at the end of her nose and her pursed lips.

‘Sit down, Commandant,' said Santos. ‘Allow me to introduce Dr Andrieu, our psychologist.'

Servaz glanced at the woman who went on standing, although there were two vacant chairs, then he focused his attention on Santos.

‘She will be seeing you for treatment twice a week,' added Santos.

Servaz gave a start of disbelief.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘You heard me.'

‘What do you mean, “treatment”? Santos, you've got to be joking!'

‘Are you depressed, Commandant?' asked the woman, straight off the bat, gazing eagerly at him over her glasses.

‘Am I suspended, or what?' asked Servaz, leaning over the fat commissioner's desk.

Santos's little eyes studied him for a moment from between eyelids as puffy as a chameleon's.

‘No. Not for the time being. But you need treatment.'

‘I need what?'

‘Counselling, if you prefer.'

‘Counselling, my arse!'

‘Commandant …' said Santos in warning.

‘Are you prone to depression?' asked Dr Andrieu again. ‘I would like you to answer this simple question, Commandant.'

Servaz did not even look at her.

‘Where's the logic in this?' he asked the commissioner. ‘Either I
need treatment and in that case you have to suspend me, or you acknowledge that I'm capable of working and this …
individual
has no business here. Full stop.'