Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
The only chance of their being caught depends on Anne being able to identify at least one of her attackers. Given the meagre resources of the
brigade criminelle
and the number of cases they are currently working on – a number that steadily increases every day – there is only a one-in-thirty chance that they will be caught immediately, one in a hundred that they will be tracked down within a reasonable period and one in a thousand that – by pure chance or by a miracle – they will be tracked down one day in the future. However you look at it, it is already a cold case. So many robberies are committed daily that if the suspects are not arrested at the scene, if they are professionals, they have every chance of disappearing without trace.
So, the best thing he can do, Camille thinks, is to stop this charade before it involves someone more senior than Le Guen. Right now, his friend can make all this go away. One more white lie is not likely to faze him, after all he is the
contrôleur général,
but if it goes any further, it will be too late. If Camille comes clean now, Le Guen can have a quiet word with Commissaire Michard, who will be only too happy to have her superior officer owe her a favour – one she will doubtless need some day. She would probably see it as an investment of sorts. Camille has to put a stop to things before Juge Pereira sticks his nose in.
Camille can rationalise things, say that he was angry, that he was tempted, that he was blinded by emotion; no-one would have much trouble recognising such qualities in him.
He is relieved by his decision.
He will give up the case.
Let someone else look for the robbers, his fellow officers are more than capable. He should spend his time with Anne, taking care of her, that is what she will need most.
Besides, what can he do that his colleagues cannot?
“Excuse me . . .”
Camille walks over to the receptionist.
“A couple of things,” she says. “The admissions form, you stuffed it in your pocket earlier. I know, I know, you don’t give a tinker’s damn, but the pen-pushers in this place, they’re a little pernickety about these things.”
Camille digs out the form. With no social security number, it has been impossible to process Anne’s admission. The woman behind the desk points to a faded, tatty poster Sellotaped to the glass partition and recites the slogan in a sing-song voice.
“
In hospital, there is no social contract without social security.
They even make us take courses in this bullcrap, that should tell you how important it is . . . They lose millions every year, that’s what they tell us.”
Camille shrugs, he will have to go to Anne’s apartment. He nods to the woman behind the desk. He hates this sort of red tape.
“One more thing.” The receptionist gives him what she hopes is a seductive smile that fails miserably. “I don’t suppose you can do anything about parking tickets – or is that too much to ask?”
He hates this fucking job.
Camille wearily holds out his hand. In a split second, the woman has opened the top desk of her drawer. There are at least forty parking fines. She gives a broad smile, as though handing him a trophy. Her teeth are crooked.
“Thing is,” she says in a wheedling tone, “today I’m working the night shift, but not every day . . .”
“I get it,” Camille says.
He hates this fucking job.
There are too many parking tickets to fit in one pocket and so he has to divide them up between left and right. Every time the automatic glass doors open, a blast of icy air whips at his face but does little to wake him up.
He is exhausted.
*
No plans to transfer or discharge her. Nothing is likely to happen for at least a couple of days, according to the girl on the phone. And I have no intention of hanging around this car park for two days. I’ve waited long enough already.
It’s nearly eight. He seems to keep odd hours, this cop. He was about to leave and then he suddenly stopped, absorbed in thought, staring out through the glass doors as though he doesn’t see them. Give it a minute or two and he will leave.
And then it’s show time!
I turn the key in the ignition, drive to the far side of the car park, a deserted area, being so far from the entrance, next to the perimeter wall and the emergency exit I plan to use as my getaway, God willing. And He better be willing, because I’m in no mood to be crossed . . .
I slide out of the car, head back the way I came, keeping in the shadow of the parked cars and come to the fire-door.
Inside. No-one around.
As I pad down the hallway I spot the little cop, standing with his back to me, brooding.
He’ll have a fuck of a lot more to brood about soon enough, I plan to launch him into the stratosphere.
*
7.45 p.m.
As he pushes the glass door leading into the car park, Camille remembers the call he got this morning at the police station and suddenly he realises that providence has anointed him Anne’s next of kin. Obviously he is not, but even so he was the first person contacted by the hospital, it is his responsibility to contact everyone else.
Everyone else? he thinks. Though he has racked his brain, he does not know anyone else in Anne’s life. He has met one or two of her colleagues, he recalls seeing a woman in her forties with thinning hair and huge, tired eyes walking down the street, she seemed to be shivering. “One of my colleagues . . .” Anne told him. Camille tries to remember her name. Charras? Charron? Charroi, that’s it. They were crossing a boulevard, she was wearing a blue coat, she and Anne nodded to each other, exchanged a conspiratorial smile. Camille found it touching. Anne turned back to him. “A complete bitch . . .” she whispered, still smiling.
He always calls Anne on her mobile. Before leaving the hospital, he tracks down her office number. It is eight o’clock, but you never know, there might still be someone.
“Hello, you’ve reached Wertig and Schwindel. Our offices . . .”
Camille feels a rush of adrenaline. For a second, he could have sworn it was Anne’s voice. He feels suddenly distraught because precisely the same thing happened with Irène. One month after she died, he accidentally called his home number to be greeted by Irène’s voice: “Hello, you’ve reached Camille and Irène Verhœven. We’re not able to take your call . . .” Dumbfounded, he had burst into tears.
Leave a message. He stammers: “Hi, I’m calling about Anne Forestier. She is in hospital and she won’t be able to . . . [what?] to come back to work . . . I mean not straight away, she’s been in an accident . . . it’s not serious, well, actually it is [how to put this?], she’ll call you as soon as she can . . . if she can.” A rambling, incoherent message. He hangs up.
He feels self-loathing rising in him like a raging tide.
He turns round, the receptionist is staring at him, she looks as if she is laughing.
*
8.00 p.m.
Up to the second floor.
To the right, the stairs. Everyone takes the lift, no-one takes the stairs. Especially not in hospitals; people don’t need the hassle.
The barrel of the Mossberg is just over forty-five centimetres long. It has a pistol grip and fits easily into the large, inside pocket of a raincoat. You have to walk a little stiffly, a little stilted, lumbering like a robot, trying to keep the barrel pressed against your thigh, but it’s the only way. At any moment, you have to be ready to fire or fuck off. Or both. Whatever you do, you need to be accurate. And driven.
The little cop has gone downstairs, she’s alone in her room. If he hasn’t left the building yet, he’ll hear the blast, at which point he’d better get his arse in gear or he’ll be charged with professional misconduct. I wouldn’t bet much on his future in the force.
I come to the first floor. A long corridor. I go all the way across the building and take the opposite stairwell. Up to the second.
The great thing about the public sector is everyone is so overworked, no-one gives you a second look. The corridors are full of distraught families or anxious friends tiptoeing in and out of rooms as though they’re in church, while harried nurses scurry past.
The second-floor corridor is deserted. Wide as a boulevard.
Room 224 is right at the other end, ideally situated for those who need a long rest. And speaking of a long rest, I think I can make it permanent.
I take a few steps towards the room.
I need to be careful as I open the door, a sawn-off shotgun clattering on the floor of a hospital is likely to panic people, they just aren’t very understanding. The handle turns as quietly as an angel, I take a step across the threshold, shift the Mossberg from one hand to the other, opening the raincoat wide. She is lying on the bed, from the doorway I can see her feet, lifeless, unresponsive, like the feet of a dead woman. I lean a little to the side and now I can see her whole body . . .
Jesus, the face on her!
I did a bang-up job.
She’s lying on her side, asleep, a trickle of drool hanging from her lips, her eyelids swollen shut – she’s no oil painting. Instinctively I remember the expression “to rearrange someone’s face”. It seems appropriate. She looks like a mid-period Picasso. The bandages probably help, but even the mottled colours of her skin. Her skin looks like parchment. Or canvas. Her head is grotesquely bloated. If she was planning a night on the town, she’ll need to take a rain check.
Stand in the doorway. Make sure the shotgun is visible.
Let her know I didn’t come empty-handed.
The door is now wide open to the corridor, but she doesn’t wake up. I go to all this trouble and this is the kind of welcome I get? Usually wounded people are like animals, they sense things. She’s bound to wake up; just give her a couple of seconds. Survival instinct. She’ll see the gun – she and the Mossberg know each other well, they’re practically friends.
When she sees me with the shotgun, she’ll be terrified. Obviously. She’ll toss and turn, try to sit up against the pillows, her head thrashing about.
And she’ll howl.
Given the serious damage I did to her jaw, she won’t be up to much in the way of intelligible conversation. The best she’ll probably manage is “Heeeeehhh” or “Heeeeeppp”, something like that, but to compensate for her lack of clarity she’ll go for volume, a full-throated scream to bring everyone running. If this happens, then before we get down to business, I’ll signal for her to be quiet –
shhhh
– bring my finger to my lips.
Shhh
. She will carry on screaming the place down.
Shhhh,
this is a hospital for fuck’s sake!
“Monsieur?”
In the corridor, just behind me.
A distant voice.
Don’t turn round, stand stock-still.
“Are you looking for someone . . .?”
Usually it’s impossible to get anyone’s attention in a hospital, but show up with a sawn-off shotgun and suddenly you’ve got some nurse eager to help you.
Glance up at the number on the door like someone who has just realised their mistake. The nurse is closer now. Without turning, stammer awkwardly:
“Sorry, got the wrong room . . .”
Keep a cool head, that’s the most important thing. Whether you’re pulling off a heist or paying a visit to a friend in hospital, a cool head is crucial. Mentally, I picture the evacuation plan. Go to the stairwell, up one floor, turn left. Better get a move on, because if I’m forced to turn round now, I’ll have to pull out the Mossberg and open fire, thereby depriving a public hospital of a fine nurse when they’re short-staffed already. I lengthen my stride. But first, lock and load. You never know.
Loading a round into the chamber takes both hands. And the pump action makes a distinct metallic click. Which echoes ominously down hospital corridors.
“The lifts aren’t that way . . .”
A dry clack and the voice suddenly breaks off, giving way to a nervous silence. A young voice, at once pure and troubled, shot down in mid-flight.
“Monsieur!”
With the shotgun loaded, all I need to do is take my time and be meticulous. Keep my back to her at all times. The rigid line of the barrel is visible through the fabric of my trench coat; it looks as though I have a wooden leg. I take three steps. The flap of the coat flicks open for a fraction of a second revealing the end of the barrel. A brief glimmer like a beam of light, like the sun glinting on a shard of glass. Barely noticeable, barely recognisable, and if you’ve only seen guns in the movies you’re unlikely to realise what it is. Still, you know that you’ve seen something, you hesitate, thinking it might be . . . No, it’s too preposterous . . .
*
In the time it takes for the penny to drop . . . the man turns, head bowed, apologises for his mistake, closes the flap of his coat and goes into the stairwell. But he does not go down, he goes up. He’s not running away, otherwise surely he would have gone downstairs. But that stilted way he was walking . . . Very weird. What was that thing under his coat? From a distance, it looked just like a gun. Here? In a hospital? No – she can’t bring herself to believe it. Just time to run up the stairs . . .
“Monsieur . . . monsieur?”
*
8.10 p.m.
Time to leave. As a police officer, Camille cannot afford the luxury of behaving like some star-crossed lover. Detectives don’t spend the night at the victim’s bedside. He has already made enough blunders for one day.
And at precisely that moment his mobile vibrates, he checks the screen: Commissaire Michard. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket, turns back to the receptionist and waves goodbye. She winks and crooks her finger, gesturing to him. Camille hesitates, pretends he does not understand, but too weary to resist he trudges back. He already has the parking tickets, what more can she want?
“You finally off, then? Don’t get much sleep on the force, do you?”
This is meant as an innuendo, because she smiles, showing off her crooked teeth. To think he wasted his time for this. He sighs heavily, gives a half-hearted smile. He desperately needs to sleep. He has taken three steps when she calls after him.