Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
“If Madame Forestier identifies Hafner as—” Louis begins.
“Even if she doesn’t identify him,” Camille interrupts, “that doesn’t mean it’s not him.”
Louis takes a breath. His boss is not quick-tempered by nature. There is something not right about this case. And it will not be easy to tell him that everyone has worked out what it is . . .
“Of course,” Louis agrees, “even if she can’t pick him out of the line-up, it could still be Hafner. The fact remains that he has disappeared off the face of the earth. I’ve been in touch with the officers who dealt with the raid last January – who, by the way, would like to know why this case wasn’t assigned to them . . .”
Camille makes a sweeping gesture, he could not give a damn.
“No-one knows where Hafner has been since January. Oh, there are rumours – that he skipped the country or that he’s on the Riviera. With a murder charge hanging over him, and given his age, it’s hardly surprising that he would go to ground, but even those closest to him don’t seem to know anything . . .”
“. . . don’t seem to know?”
“Yes. That was my first thought. Someone must know something. People don’t just disappear overnight. What is really surprising is him doing a job now. You would have thought he’d want to stay in hiding.”
“Any potential leaks?”
The question of information is wide open. Small-time crooks holding up shops are two a penny, but genuine professionals only do a job when they have solid information, when the expected haul is worth the effort if things go wrong. And the source of that information provides the first line of inquiry for the police. In the case of the Galerie Monier, the girl who turned up late for work has been eliminated as a suspect. And therefore it stands to reason . . .
“We will have to ask Madame Forestier what she was doing at the Galerie Monier,” Camille says.
The question will be asked as a matter of form, knowing he is unlikely to get an answer. Camille will ask the question because he has to, because under normal circumstances, this would be his next question. He knows very little about Anne’s timetable, he does not know which days she spends in Paris, he barely registers her trips, her meetings, he is happy just to know that he will see her tonight, or tomorrow night – the day after tomorrow is anybody’s guess.
But Louis Mariani is a first-rate officer. Meticulous, intelligent, more cultured than he needs to be, intuitive and . . . and suspicious. Bravo. One of the cardinal virtues of a good officer.
For example, when Commissaire Michard questions whether Hafner was in Anne’s hospital room, she is simply sceptical, but when she asks Camille what the hell he is playing at and demands his daily report, she is suspicious. And when Camille wonders whether Anne might have seen something important apart from the faces of the robbers, he is suspicious.
And when Louis is dealing with a case in which a woman was attacked during the course of a robbery, he asks himself why she was in that particular place at that particular time. On a day when she should have been at work. Just as the shops were opening up. When there would have been few passers-by and no customers except her. He could have asked the question himself, but for some unexplained reason Verhœven is the only officer who has questioned the woman. As though she were spoken for.
And so Louis did not question her directly. He found an indirect approach.
Camille has raised the issue, protocol has been respected and he is about to move on to the next point when he is distracted by Louis bending down and rummaging for something in his briefcase. He takes out a piece of paper. For a little while now, Louis has taken to wearing reading glasses. Presbyopia usually doesn’t develop until later, Camille thinks. But then again, how old is Louis? It is a little like having a son, he can never quite remember his age, he asks the question at least three times a year.
Louis holds up a photocopy bearing the letterhead of Desfossés Jewellers. Camille puts on his own glasses and reads “Anne Forestier”. It is a copy of an order for a luxury watch, eight hundred euros.
“Madame Forestier was there to pick up something she ordered ten days ago.”
The jeweller asked for ten days to complete the engraving. The text to be engraved has been noted down in block capitals to avoid making a mistake on such an expensive gift . . . Just imagine the customer’s face if a name were misspelled. In fact, Madame Forestier was asked to write it out herself so there could be no arguments if there was a problem later. Camille recognises Anne’s large, graceful hand.
The name to be engraved on the watch:
Camille
.
Silence.
Both men take off their glasses and the synchronicity serves only to heighten their embarrassment. Camille does not look up, he gently pushes the photocopy across the table to Louis.
“She . . . she’s a friend.”
Louis nods. A friend. Fine.
“A close friend.”
A close friend. Fine. Louis realises that he is playing catch-up. That he has missed several episodes in Camille Verhœven’s life. As quickly as he can, he reviews the extent of his lacuna.
He thinks back to four years ago: he knew Irène, they got along, Irène called him “
mon petit Loulou
” and made him blush by asking questions about his sex life. After Irène’s death came the psychiatric clinic, where Louis visited regularly until Camille said he would rather be alone. For a time, they saw each other only from a distance. It took Le Guen’s most Machiavellian machinations to force Camille, two years later, to rejoin the serious crime squad investigating murders, kidnappings . . . and Camille asked that Louis be reassigned to his team. Louis has no idea what had been going on in Verhœven’s private life since his time in the clinic. But in the life of a man as punctilious as Camille, the sudden appearance of a woman should be obvious from countless little details, differences in behaviour, changes in routine, precisely the sort of things Louis generally notices. And yet he saw nothing, sensed nothing. Until today, he would have dismissed the notion of there being a woman in Verhœven’s life as idle speculation, because in the life of a widower who is by nature a depressive, a serious romantic relationship would be a seismic event. And yet this feverishness, this exaltation today . . . There is something contradictory about it that Louis cannot quite grasp.
Louis stares at his glasses on the coffee table as though somehow they might help him see the situation more clearly: so, Camille has a “close friend”, her name is Anne Forestier. Camille clears his throat.
“I’m not asking you to get involved, Louis. I’m up to my neck right now and I don’t need anyone to remind me that what I’m doing is against regulations, that’s my business and nobody else’s. And I wouldn’t ask you to take that kind of risk, Louis. [He looks at his assistant.] All I’m asking for is a little time. [Silence.] I need to close this thing down, and fast. Before Michard finds out that I lied in order to have a case involving someone very close to me assigned to my team. If we can arrest these guys quickly, none of that will matter. Or at least it can be dealt with. But if we don’t, if the case drags on and this thing comes out . . . well, you know what Michard’s like, there’ll be hell to pay. And there’s no reason for you to have to pay it too.”
Louis is lost in thought, he does not seem to be here, he glances around him as though expecting a waiter to come and take his order. Finally, he gives a sad smile and nods towards the photocopy.
“Well, this isn’t going to help the investigation much, is it?” he says. His tone is that of a man who thought he had discovered treasure only to be deeply disappointed. “I mean, Camille is a pretty common name. There’s no way of even knowing if it refers to a man or a woman . . .”
And when Camille does not respond:
“What do you want us to do with it?”
He fiddles with the knot on his tie.
Pushes his hair back with his left hand.
He gets to his feet, leaving the piece of paper on the table. Camille picks it up, crumples it into a ball and stuffs it into his pocket.
*
1.15 p.m.
The officer from
identité judiciaire
has just packed away his things and left.
“Thank you, Madame Forestier, I think we did some good work,” he said as he went. It is what he always says, regardless of the result.
Despite the fact that it makes her dizzy, Anne got out of bed and went into the bathroom. She cannot resist the temptation to look, to survey the extent of the damage. Now that the bandages around her head have been removed, she can see only her short, lank hair and the twin shaved patches where she needed stitches. Like holes in her head. There are more stitches along her jawline. Her face seems even more swollen today. It’s normal, they tell her over and over, the swelling is always worse in the first few days, she knows, she’s been told, but no-one told her what it would actually look like. She has swollen up like a balloon, her face has the flushed complexion of an alcoholic. A battered woman looks a little like a bag lady. Anne feels a fierce sense of injustice.
She brings her fingertips to her cheeks, feels a dull, diffuse, insidious pain that seems rooted there for ever.
And her teeth, my God, it gives her a pitiful air, she does not know why; it is like having a mastectomy, she thinks, she feels utterly violated. She is no longer herself, no longer whole, she will have to have dental implants, she will never recover from this ordeal.
Now, here she is. She has just spent hours reviewing dozens of photographs. She did as she was asked, she was meek, obedient, unemotional, when she recognised the man, she pointed with her index finger.
Him.
How will it end?
By himself, Camille cannot protect her. Who else can she count on, given that this man is determined to kill her?
He probably wants this ordeal to be over. Just as she does. They both, in their different ways, want it to end.
Anne wipes away her tears. She looks around for some tissues. Blowing your nose is a delicate affair when it is broken.
*
1.20 p.m.
Given my experience, I almost always end up getting what I want. Right now, I’ve had to resort to drastic measures, partly because I’m in a hurry, but partly because it’s in my nature. That’s just how I am: impatient, impetuous.
I need money, and I don’t fancy losing all the loot I’ve sweated blood to earn. I like to think of it as a pension fund, but a little more secure. And I’m not about to let anyone siphon off my future prospects.
So, I redouble my efforts.
Having reconnoitred every inch of the area on foot, then in the car, then a second time on foot, I spend twenty minutes watching. Not a living soul. I take another ten minutes and survey the area using binoculars. I send a text message confirming my arrival, then walk quickly past the disused factory towards the van, open the rear door, climb in and slam it behind me.
The van is parked in an industrial wasteland. I don’t know how the guy always manages to find places like this – he should be a location scout for the movies rather than an arms dealer.
The inside of the van is as well ordered as the mind of a computer analyst: everything is in its place.
My fence subbed me a small advance, pretty much the most he could give under the circumstances. At the sort of interest rate that should earn him a bullet between the eyes, but I don’t have a choice, I need this thing settled right now. I have temporarily set aside the Mossberg in favour of .308 calibre M40 semi-automatic sniper rifle that takes six rounds. Everything is in the case: silencer, Schmidt & Bender telescopic sights, two boxes of ammunition for a clean, accurate, long-range kill. As a handgun, I opt for a 10-shot Walther P99 compact equipped with an astonishingly effective silencer. Lastly, I get a 6” Buck Special hunting knife, which is always useful.
That bitch has already had a sneak preview of my talents.
Now, I’m going to shift things up a gear; she could do with a thrill.
*
1.30 p.m.
It is Vincent Hafner.
“The witness positively identified him.” Krysztofiak has joined Louis and Camille in the waiting room. “She has an excellent memory.”
“Though there was only a short period when she could see their faces . . .” ventures Louis.
“It can be enough, it depends on the circumstances. Some witnesses can stare at a suspect for minutes at a time and be unable to identify them an hour later. Other people, for reasons we don’t understand, can accurately recall every detail of a person’s features after one glance.”
Camille does not react; it is as if they were talking about him. He can glimpse someone in the
métro
and, a month or two months later, make a detailed sketch of every line, every wrinkle.
“Sometimes, witnesses block out memories,” Krysztofiak goes on, “but a guy who savagely beats you and fires at you from a car at point-blank range, that’s a face people tend to remember.”
Neither Camille nor Louis can tell whether this is somehow intended to be funny.
“We narrowed the selection down by age, physical characteristics and so on. She’s absolutely certain that it’s Hafner.”
On his laptop screen, he pulls up a photograph, a tall man of about sixty, a full-length shot taken during a previous arrest. Five foot eleven, Camille calculates.
“Six foot, actually,” Louis says, leafing through the police record. He who knows Camille’s every thought, even when he is saying nothing.
Mentally, Camille merges the man in this photograph with the armed robber at the Galerie, picturing him in a balaclava, raising the shotgun, aiming, firing; he pictures him moments earlier, lashing out with the rifle butt at Anne’s head, her belly . . . He swallows hard.
The man in the photograph is broad-shouldered, his angular face framed by salt-and-pepper hair, his thin, grey eyebrows accentuate his vacant, staring eyes. An old-school gangster. A thug. Louis notices that his boss’ hands are trembling.
“What about the other two?” Louis asks, ever willing to create a diversion.