Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
“I’m afraid I don’t understand your metaphors,
commandant
.”
“Then let me be clearer. It is possible that a killer is targeting this witness. If you prevent me from doing my job and he wreaks havoc in your hospital, you will have two problems. You will not have space enough in your mortuary and, given that the patient is fit to answer questions, you will be charged with obstructing a police investigation.”
Dainville is a curious man; he seems to operate like a light switch – there is either a current or there is none. Nothing in between. Now, suddenly, there is a current. He looks at Camille, amused, and gives him a genuine smile, revealing a mouthful of perfect, straight teeth. Dr Dainville thrives on confrontation, he may be surly, arrogant and boorish, but he likes complications. He is aggressive and argumentative, but deep down he likes to be beaten. Camille has met his fair share of such men. They beat you to a pulp and then give you a Band-Aid.
There is something feminine about him, which may explain why he is a doctor.
The two men look at each other. Dainville is an intelligent man, he is sensitive.
“O.K.,” Camille says calmly. “Now let’s talk about how we make this work in practice.”
*
10.45 a.m.
“They don’t need to operate.”
It takes a second or two for Camille to absorb what Anne has said. He would like to whoop with joy, but instead he decides to be circumspect.
“That’s good . . .” he says encouragingly.
The X-rays and the M.R.I. scan have confirmed what the young house doctor told him. Anne will need reconstructive dental surgery, but her other injuries will heal with time. She may be left with some scarring around her lips and on her left cheek. What does he mean, “some scarring”? Will there be several scars, will they be conspicuous? Anne has studied her face in the mirror; her lips are so badly split that it is too early to tell what will permanently scar and what will fade. As for the gash on her cheek, until the stitches are removed, it is impossible to assess the long-term damage.
“We need to give it time,” the house doctor said.
From Anne’s face, it is clear she does not believe this. And time is precisely what Camille does not have.
He has come this morning to deliver a message. The two of them are alone. He pauses for a second and then says:
“I’m hoping you’ll be able to recognise the men . . .”
Anne gives a vague shrug that could mean many things.
“The man who fired the shots, you said he was tall . . . What did he look like?”
It is ridiculous to try to get her to answer questions. The investigating officers will have to start again from scratch; for Camille to persist now may even be counter-productive.
“Handsome.” She enunciates carefully.
“What . . .? What do you mean, ‘handsome’?” Camille splutters.
Anne looks around. Camille cannot believe his eyes as she gives what can only be called a faint smile, her lips curling back to reveal three broken teeth.
“Handsome . . . like you . . .”
In the long months while he watched Armand dying, Camille experienced something like this many times: the least flicker of improvement turned the dial to unbridled optimism. Anne has made a joke. Camille almost feels like rushing down to reception to insist that she be discharged. Hope is a dirty trick.
He would like to laugh too, but she has caught him unawares. He stammers. Anne has already let her eyes close again. At least he knows that she is lucid, that she understands what he is saying. He is about to try again when he is interrupted by Anne’s mobile phone vibrating on the nightstand. Camille passes it to her. It is Nathan.
“I don’t want you to worry . . .” she tells her brother, squeezing her eyes shut. She immediately takes on the role of the long-suffering elder sister, weary yet forbearing. Camille can just make out Nathan’s voice, panicked and insistent.
“I said all there was to say in my message . . .” Anne is making a much greater effort to speak normally than she has with Camille. She needs to make herself understood, but mostly she needs to calm her brother, to reassure him.
“No, there’s no news,” she says, her tone almost cheerful. “And I’m not on my own, so you don’t need to worry.”
She rolls her eyes and looks at Camille. Nathan sounds a little tiresome.
“No, of course not! Listen, I have to go for an X-ray, I’ll call you. Yes, love you too . . .”
With a sigh, she turns her mobile off and hands it back to Camille. He makes the most of this moment of intimacy, he does not have long. He has one thing he needs to say.
“Anne . . . I shouldn’t be involved with your case, you understand what I’m saying?”
She understands. She nods and gives a soft “Uh-huh”.
“You sure you understand?”
Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Camille lets out a breath, releases the pressure, for himself, for her, for them both.
“I got a bit ahead of myself. And then . . .”
He holds her hand, strokes her fingers. His hand, though smaller, is manly and with pronounced veins. Camille has always had warm hands. He fumbles frantically for words, any words that will not leave her terrified.
Avoid saying: the scumbag who beat you is a vicious thug called Vincent Hafner, he tried to kill you and I’m sure he’ll try again.
Say rather: I’m here, you’ll be safe now.
Don’t say: my superior officers don’t believe me, but I know I’m right, the guy’s a madman, he’s utterly fearless.
Better to say: we’ll have this guy in custody soon and this will all be over. But we need you to help us identify him. If you can.
Don’t say: they’re putting a uniformed officer outside the door for the day, but I can tell you now it’s a waste of time because as long as this guy is on the loose, you’re in danger. He’ll stop at nothing.
Make no mention of the guys who broke into her apartment, the stolen papers, the determined efforts they have made to track her down. Or the fact that the resources at Camille’s disposal are almost non-existent. Which, in large part, is his fault.
Say: everything will be fine, don’t worry.
“I know . . .”
“You will help me, won’t you, Anne? You will help?”
She nods.
“And don’t tell anyone we know each other, alright?”
Anne agrees, and yet there is a wary look in her eyes. An uneasy silence hangs over them.
“The
gendarme
outside my room, why is he here?”
She spotted him in the corridor as Camille came in. He raises his eyebrows. Camille either lies with consummate ease or he babbles shamefacedly like an eight-year-old. He can shift from best to worst in a breath.
“I . . .”
A single syllable is enough. For someone like Anne, even this syllable is superfluous. From the flicker of hesitation in his eyes, she knows.
“You think he’ll come here?”
Camille has no time to react.
“Are you hiding something from me?”
Camille hesitates for a second and by the time he is ready to answer, Anne knows that she is right. She stares intently at him. In this moment when they should be supporting one another, he feels utterly helpless. Anne shakes her head, she seems to be wondering what will happen to her.
“He’s already been here?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.”
This is not the response of a man who honestly does not know. Anne’s shoulders begin to shake, and then her arms, blood drains from her face, she looks towards the door, glances around the room as though she has been told that this is the last place she will ever see. Imagine being shown your own death bed. Ham-fisted as ever, Camille adds to the confusion.
“You’re safe here.”
The words are like an insult.
She turns towards the window and starts to cry.
*
The most important thing now is that she gets some rest, builds up her strength, it is on this that Camille focuses all of his energy. If she does not recognise anyone in the photographs, the investigation will go off a cliff. But if she can give them a thread, a single thread, Camille feels confident he can find his way through the maze.
And deal with this. Quickly.
He feels dizzy, as though he had been drinking, he feels a crackling in his skin, the world seems to be reeling.
What has he got himself into?
How will it end?
*
12.00 noon
The officer from
identité judiciaire
is Polish; some call him Krystoviak, others Kristowiak; Camille is the only one who can correctly pronounce it: Krysztofiak. He has bushy sideburns and looks like an ageing rockstar. He carries his equipment in an aluminium flight case.
Dr Dainville has given them one hour, assuming it might stretch to two. Camille knows it will take four. Krysztofiak, who has conducted thousands of photo line-ups as a forensic officer, knows it could take six hours. Spread over two days.
In his folder are thousands of mugshots from which he has to make a careful selection. The objective is not to show the witness too many since, after a while, faces begin to merge and the whole process becomes pointless. Buried among hundreds of pictures is Vincent Hafner and three of his known accomplices together with photographs of everyone in the police database of Serbian origin.
He leans over Anne.
“
Bonjour, madame . . .
”
He has a nice voice. Gentle. His movements are slow, precise, reassuring. Her face still swollen, Anne is sitting up in bed, propped up on pillows. She has had one hour’s sleep. To show willing, she gives a faint smile, careful not to part her lips and show her shattered teeth. As he opens his aluminium flight case and lays out various files, Krysztofiak reels off the usual pat phrases. He has had lots of time to polish this routine.
“It could be all over quickly. You never know, sometimes we get lucky.”
He flashes a broad, encouraging smile. He always tries to bring a light touch to the procedure because when he is called on to present a photo array it is usually because someone has been beaten or has witnessed a sudden, savage attack, the woman may have been raped or may have seen someone being murdered, so the atmosphere, unsurprisingly, is rarely relaxed.
“But sometimes . . .” he goes on, his tone serious and measured, “. . . sometimes it takes time. So if you start to feel tired, just tell me, O.K.? We’re in no rush . . .”
Anne nods. Her troubled eyes seek out Camille; she understands. She nods again.
This is the signal.
“O.K.,” Krysztofiak says, “let me explain how this works.”
*
12.15 p.m.
Suddenly, though he is no mood for such things, Camille tries to think of a joke, of one of Commissaire Michard’s idiocies, anything but the serious matter at hand. The
gendarme
sent to stand guard is the same one Camille met yesterday at the Galerie Monier, the tall, raw-boned man, his eyes ringed with blue circles like something that has just crawled from the grave. If he were superstitious, Camille would see this as a bad omen. And he is superstitious, he knocks on wood, throws salt over his shoulder, he is petrified by signs and omens and when he sees this hulking zombie standing guard at Anne’s door, he finds it hard to remain calm.
The
gendarme
makes to salute, but Camille stops him.
“Verhœven,” he introduces himself.
“
Commandant
!” the officer replies, proffering a cold, skeletal hand.
About six foot one, Camille reckons. And organised. He has already commandeered the most comfortable chair from the waiting room and brought it out into the hall. Next to him, against the wall, is a small blue knapsack. His wife probably gives him sandwiches and a flask of coffee. But what Camille notices is the smell of cigarette smoke. If this were 8.00 p.m. rather than noon, Camille would send him packing on the spot. Because the first time he pops downstairs for a crafty cigarette, someone will be watching, timing this little ritual; the second time, the killer will confirm his schedule, the third time he has only to wait until the
gendarme
emerges before he can sneak into Anne’s room and blast her. Michard has sent the biggest officer, but he may also be the dumbest. Right now, it is not much of a problem since even Camille cannot imagine the killer coming back so soon, and certainly not in broad daylight.
The night shift will be critical and he will deal with that when the time comes. Even so, Camille issues a warning.
“You don’t move from that spot, is that understood?”
“No problem,
commandant
!” the
gendarme
says cheerfully.
The sort of response that makes your blood run cold.
*
12.45 p.m.
At the far end of the corridor is a small waiting room which is permanently deserted. It is in an impractical location and Camille cannot help but wonder why it is there at all. Florence, the charge nurse who wants to kiss life full on the lips, explains that there were plans to turn it into an office, but they were vetoed. There are regulations, apparently, so the waiting room is still there, useless. Those are the rules. It’s something to do with Europe. And so, since there is a shortage of space, the staff use it to store supplies. Whenever there is a security inspection, everything is piled onto trolleys and taken down to the basement only to be brought up again afterwards. The security inspectors are happy and duly rubber-stamp the form.
Camille pushes piles of boxes back against the wall, pulls two chairs up next to the coffee table. Here, he sits down with Louis (charcoal grey suit by Cifonelli, white shirt by Swann & Oscar, shoes by Massaro, everything made to measure. Louis is the only officer at the
brigade criminelle
who wears his annual salary to work). Louis brings Verhœven up to speed on their current cases: the German tourist’s death was suicide; the driver in the road-rage incident has been identified, he is on the run, but they will track him down within a day or two; the 71-year-old killer who has confessed, he was jealous. Having dealt with this, Camille comes back to what is really worrying him.