The Circle (49 page)

‘Would you like something to drink?'

‘A coffee. Strong and sweet. Thanks.'

‘Have a seat.'

Servaz collapsed onto one of the sofas by the television. He recognised the piece that began to play a few seconds later: Nocturne No. 7 in C-sharp minor. There was a tension all through the music, where the bass notes predominated. Servaz felt a shiver go down his spine.

Francis came back with a tray, pushed aside the art books on the coffee table, and set the cups down before them. He nudged the sugar bowl delicately over to Martin. Servaz noticed that he had a scratch between his neck and shoulder. On the TV screen, a series of adverts silently elapsed, then he saw the players of the French team come back onto the pitch for the second half.

‘To what do I owe the honour of your visit?'

His host had raised his voice above the music.

‘Can't you turn that thing down a little?' Servaz blurted.

‘That thing, as you call it, is Chopin. No, I like it like that. Well?'

‘I need your opinion about something!' shouted Servaz.

Perched on the wide armrest, Van Acker crossed his legs. He lifted the cup to his lips. Servaz diverted his gaze from his bare feet, his calves as smooth as a cyclist's. Francis stared at him thoughtfully.

‘About what?'

‘The investigation.'

‘How is it going?'

‘It's going nowhere. Our prime suspect didn't do it.'

‘It's going to be difficult to help you if you don't tell me more.'

‘Let's say that I need your opinion on a more general, theoretical level, rather than a practical one.'

‘Hmm. I'm listening.'

The image of the red Alfa Romeo Spider roaring out of Marianne's garden at three in the morning crossed Servaz's mind. He hastened to banish it. The notes of the piano rose and fell, hypnotically, in the room. He got a grip and forced himself to regain his lucidity. He breathed in.

‘What is your take on a murderer who tries to make us believe that another murderer, a serial killer, is in the region, and who tries to pin the blame for his own crimes on this serial killer? He sends e-mails to the police. He disguises himself as a biker and deliberately
speaks with an accent to a petrol station attendant. He puts a CD in his victim's stereo. He leaves little breadcrumbs wherever he goes, like Hansel and Gretel. He could also suggest there is a sort of … special relationship between the investigator and the murderer, even though there is a very precise motive behind his murders.'

‘Like what?'

‘The usual things: anger, revenge, or the necessity of silencing someone who's blackmailing you and threatening to ruin your reputation, your career and your life.'

‘Why would he do that?'

‘I told you: to lead us in the wrong direction. So that we believe someone else is guilty.'

He saw a spark in his friend's eyes. The ghost of a smile. The tempo of the music picked up; now the notes were resounding across the room, as the pianist articulated and hammered frenetically on the keys.

‘Do you have anyone in particular in mind?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘And the suspect who is not the right one, that's Hugo?'

‘It hardly matters. But what's interesting is that whoever tried to frame him knows Marsac very well – its local customs, what goes on behind the scenes. It's also someone with a literary mind.'

‘Really?'

‘He left a note on Claire's desk, in a brand-new notebook. A quote from Victor Hugo, talking about enemies … to make us believe that Claire herself wrote it. Only she didn't. It's not her handwriting – the graphologist is categorical.'

‘Interesting. So, you think it might be a teacher, a staff member or a student, is that it?'

He looked Francis in the eyes.

‘Exactly.'

Van Acker stood up. He went behind the counter and leaned over the sink to wash his cup, his back to Martin.

‘I know you, Martin. I know what it means when you speak like this. You used to speak like this in the old days when you were close to the solution. You have another suspect, I'm sure of that. Out with it.'

‘Yes, I do.'

Van Acker turned round to face him again and opened a drawer behind the counter. He seemed relaxed, calm.

‘Teacher, staff member or student?'

‘Teacher.'

The lower half of his body hidden by the counter, Francis went on absently staring at him. Servaz wondered what he was doing. He stood up and went over to a wall where, in the middle, a solitary painting hung. It was a large canvas, representing an imperial eagle perched on the back of a red armchair. The bird was fascinating, its feathers glinting golden, cloaking it in a mantle of pride. Its sharp beak and piercing gaze, focused on Servaz, expressed power and the absence of any doubt. It was a very fine canvas of striking realism.

‘It's someone who believes he looks like this eagle,' he commented. ‘Proud, powerful, sure of his superiority and his strength.'

Van Acker moved behind him. Servaz heard his steps coming around the counter. He felt the tension spreading through his back and shoulders.

‘Have you mentioned this to anyone?'

‘Not yet.'

He knew it was now or never. The painting was covered with a thick layer of varnish, and Servaz could see Francis's reflection moving in it above the eagle's shimmering feathers. Not towards him, but sideways. The music slowed and stopped.

‘And why don't you follow your reasoning through to the end, Martin?'

‘What were you doing with Sarah in the gorge? What were you talking about?'

‘You followed me?'

‘Answer my question, please.'

‘Are you really so lacking in imagination? Reread your classics, for Christ's sake:
The Red and the Black, The Devil in the Flesh, Lolita
… the teacher and his student, the ultimate cliché.'

‘Don't take me for a fool. You didn't even kiss.'

‘Ah, you were that close? She came to tell me that it was over, that she was putting an end to it. That was the purpose of our little nocturnal rendezvous. What were you doing there, Martin?'

‘Why is she leaving you?'

‘That is none of your fucking business.'

‘You get your drugs from a dealer nicknamed “Heisenberg”,' said Servaz. ‘Since when have you been taking drugs?'

The silence weighed on his shoulders. And seemed to drag on.

‘That, too, is none of your fucking business.'

‘Except that on the night of the murder, Hugo was drugged. Drugged and taken to the scene by someone who, in all likelihood, was at the Dubliners at the same time he was. And who poured something in his glass. There was a bit of a crowd, that night, wasn't there? It can't have been terribly complicated. I called Aodhágán. You were at the pub on the night of the match.'

‘Like half the teachers and students in Marsac.'

‘I also found a photograph at Elvis Elmaz's place – the guy who was fed to his dogs. You must have heard about it. A photograph where you're butt naked and with a girl who, by the looks of it, is under age. And I'll bet she's a student at the lycée, too. What would happen if word got out to the other teachers and the parents?'

He thought he heard Francis pick something up, saw his arm move in the reflection.

‘Go on.'

‘Claire knew, didn't she? That you were sleeping with your students. She had threatened to denounce you.'

‘No. She didn't know a thing. At least, she never said anything to me.'

The reflection on the painting moved very slowly.

‘You knew that Claire was having an affair with Hugo. You figured he would make an ideal culprit. Young, brilliant, jealous, quick-tempered – and stoned.'

‘Like his mother,' said Francis behind him.

Servaz shuddered.

‘What?'

‘Don't tell me you haven't noticed anything? Martin, Martin … Clearly, you haven't changed. Still just as blind. Marianne has been hooked on certain substances since Bokha's death. She has a monkey on her back, too. And not a little one. More like a chimpanzee.'

Servaz saw Marianne again as she had been on the night they made love – her strange look, her erratic behaviour. He mustn't let himself get distracted – that was just what the man behind him wanted.

‘I'm not sure I follow you,' said Francis, his voice echoing, although Servaz could not tell exactly where it was coming from. ‘Did I try to insinuate that Hirtmann was the guilty one, or Hugo? Your …
theory
is not very clear.'

‘Elvis was blackmailing you, wasn't he?'

‘He was.'

A slight movement again behind his back.

‘I paid him. After that, he left me alone.'

‘You really expect me to believe that?'

‘It's the truth.'

‘Elvis isn't the type to let go of such a good source of cash when he's onto one.'

‘Until the day he found his favourite fighting dog in its cage with its throat cut and the note, “Next time it will be you”.'

Servaz gulped.

‘You did that?'

‘Did I say that? There are people who are very good at that sort of thing – even though their rates are somewhat … excessive. But I'm not the one who hired them. It was another of Elvis's victims. You know as well as I do that Marsac is full of important people – and money's no object. After that, Elvis gave up his blackmailing activities. Good God, Martin, the police: what a waste! You were so talented.'

Servaz saw the reflection reappear and take a step towards him in the varnish of the painting, then stop. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, a mixture of panic and excitement.

‘Do you remember that short story? The first one you ever had me read, called “The Egg”. It was … it was absolutely marvellous.' A vibration, a genuine trembling in his voice. ‘A jewel. There was everything in those pages,
everything.
It was like something written by an author already at the peak of his art, and you weren't even twenty! I kept those pages. But I've never had the courage to reread them. I remember how I wept when I read them, Martin. I swear: I wept in my bed, those sheets of paper trembling in my hand, and I screamed with jealousy, and I cursed God because it was
you
, a naïve, sentimental little fucker, that he had chosen. A bit like all that bullshit with Mozart and Salieri, know what I mean? And that way you had of always looking gently stunned: you had everything, you had talent and you had Marianne. God is a proper shit when he wants to be, don't you think? He knows how to hit where it hurts. So, yes, I wouldn't rest until I had taken Marianne from you, because I knew I could never have your talent. And I knew how to go about it with her. It was easy. You made it incredibly easy for someone to take her from you.'

Servaz felt as if the room were spinning. As if a fist were pressing
against his chest to cause it to explode. He had to stay in control at all costs – this was not the moment to give way to emotion. That was exactly what Francis was waiting for.

‘Martin … Martin,' said Francis behind him, and his smooth, sad, resigned tone made Servaz shudder.

In his pocket, his mobile vibrated.
Not now!
Behind him the reflection moved again. The vibration persisted … He plunged his hand into his jacket, took out the phone and answered, keeping an eye on the reflection.

‘Servaz!'

‘What's going on?' asked Vincent worriedly. He had heard the tension in his boss's voice.

‘Nothing. Go ahead.'

‘We've had the results from the graphological comparison.'

‘And?'

‘If those are his notes on Margot's homework, then it wasn't Francis Van Acker who wrote in Claire's notebook.'

Parked by the side of the road, Margot and Elias were peering at the narrow road down which Sarah, David and Virginie had disappeared. It veered off from the other side and immediately started to climb. A sign indicated, ‘N
éOUVIELLE
D
AM
, 7
KM
'. Through the window Margot could hear the rush of a stream just nearby, in the shade below the road.

‘What do we do?' she asked.

‘We wait.'

‘How long?'

He checked his watch.

‘Five minutes.'

‘Is that road a cul-de-sac?'

‘No. It leads to another valley over a pass,
1,800
metres high. Before that, it goes past the Néouvielle dam and along the lake of the same name.'

‘We might lose them.'

‘It's a risk we take.'

‘You thought it was me.'

The statement was voiced without emotion. Servaz looked at the bottle and Francis's hand. An amber liquid. Whisky. It was a fine
glass decanter. Heavy … Did he intend to use it? In his other hand, Francis was holding a glass. He half filled it. His hand was trembling. Then his gaze enveloped Servaz, full of pain and scorn.

‘Get out of here.'

Servaz did not move.

‘Get the fuck out, I said. Why am I surprised? After all, you're just a cop.'

Exactly
, he thought.
Exactly, I'm a cop.
He headed towards the door with a heavy step. As he placed his hand on the doorknob, he turned round. Francis Van Acker was not looking at him. He was drinking his whisky and staring at something on the wall he alone could see. And he looked so very lonely.

The Lake

A mirror. Reflecting clouds, the setting sun, jagged peaks. Margot thought she could hear something: a chime, a deep bell, glass breaking. The waves lapped against the steep shores in the half-light.

Elias switched off the engine and they got out.

Margot immediately felt dizziness drain all her strength: on the other side of the road, she had glimpsed the vertiginous drop that left them suspended between heaven and earth.