Camille (34 page)

Hafner waits for Camille to finish. Upstairs, the woman falls silent, she is probably rocking the baby.

“In January,” Camille goes on, “everything goes according to plan – but for the niggling exception of a murder. [Camille is not so naive as to expect a reaction from a man like Hafner.] You planned to double-cross everyone and disappear with the cash. All the cash. [Once again, Camille points to the ceiling.] Hardly surprising, a man with a sense of responsibility would want to ensure his loved ones are provided for. In a sense, the proceeds from the four armed robberies were to be your legacy. I’m no lawyer, so tell me, would that be taxable?”

Hafner does not so much as blink. Nothing will shift him from his planned course. He is not about to vouchsafe a smile, a confession, to the harbinger of doom who has finally flushed him out.

“Morally, I suppose, your position is unassailable. You’re doing what any good father would do, making sure that your family don’t go without. But for some reason, your partners in crime are unlikely to see it that way. Not that it matters, since you have everything planned. They may try to find you, but you have anticipated their every move, you’ve bought yourself a new identity, cut all ties with your old life. I’m a little surprised that you didn’t decide to go abroad.”

At first, Hafner says nothing but, sensing that he may well need Camille’s help, he throws him a crumb.

“I stayed for her sake . . .” he mutters.

Camille is not sure whether he is referring to his wife or his child. It comes to the same thing.

Outside, the streetlights suddenly flicker off; they must be on timers, or there has been a power cut. The light in the living room dims a little. Hafner is framed in silhouette like an empty carcass, spectral, menacing. Upstairs the baby begins to cry quietly, there is another patter of footsteps and whispered words and the wailing stops. Camille would be happy to stay here, in this half-light, in this silence. What is there waiting for him elsewhere, after all? He thinks of Anne.
Come on, Camille.

Hafner crosses and uncrosses his legs, he does so infinitely slowly as though wary of frightening Camille. Or else he is in pain.
Come on.

“Ravic . . .” As Camille says the name he realises that he has dropped his voice to a muffled whisper, in tune with the atmosphere of the house. “I didn’t know Ravic personally, but I’m guessing he didn’t much appreciate being double-crossed and left without a red cent. Especially since he came away from the robberies with a murder charge hanging over him. I know, I know, it’s his own fault, he should have held his nerve. But even so, he’d earned his share of the loot and you just took off with it. Did you hear what happened to Ravic?”

Camille thinks he sees Hafner stiffen slightly.

“He’s dead. His girlfriend – or whatever she was – got off lightly: a bullet to the head. But before he died, Ravic saw his fingers hacked off one by one. With a hunting knife. Personally, I think a guy who would do something like that is a savage. I know Ravic was a Serb, but France has always been a safe haven for refugees. And chopping up foreigners is hardly good for tourism, wouldn’t you say?”

“I would say you’re a pain in the arse, Verhœven.”

Camille inwardly heaves a sigh of relief. Unless he can jolt Hafner out of his self-imposed silence, he will not get any information out of him. He will be forced to listen to his own soliloquy when what he needs is dialogue.

“You’re right,” he says. “Now is no time for recriminations. Tourism is one thing, armed robbery is something very different. But then again . . . So let’s talk about Maleval. Now he’s someone I used to know very well, in the days before he went in for dismemberment.”

“If I were you, I’d have killed the fucker.”

“That would have suited you, wouldn’t it? Because even if Maleval has become a brutal, bloodthirsty bastard, he’s still as cunning as he ever was. He didn’t appreciate being double-crossed either, and he’s been doing his best to hunt you down . . .”

Hafner nods slowly. He has his own informants, he will have been following the progress of Maleval’s search from a distance.

“But you managed to change your identity, you cut yourself off completely from everyone and everything, you had a little help from those who still admire you – or fear you – and although Maleval has moved heaven and earth to find you, he doesn’t have your contacts, your resources, your reputation. Eventually he was forced to accept that he might never find you. And then he came up with a brilliant idea . . .”

Hafner looks at Camille, puzzled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“He got the police to do his searching for him.” Camille spread his hands wide. “He entrusted the task to your humble servant. And he was right to, because I’m a pretty decent cop. It would take me less than twenty-four hours to track down someone like you, if I was motivated. And what better to motivate a man than a woman? And a battered woman at that, I mean I’m such a sensitive soul, it was bound to work. And so, a few months ago, he arranged an introduction, and at the time I was flattered.”

Hafner nods. Though he realises that his time is up, and senses that very soon he may have to fight for his life, he cannot but admire Maleval’s ingenuity. Perhaps, half hidden in the shadows, he is smiling.

“In order to persuade me to track you down, Maleval organised an armed robbery, being sure to give it your M.O., your panache, for want of a better word: a jeweller’s, a sawn-off shotgun and a helping of brute force. Everyone at the
brigade criminelle
was convinced that the raid on the Galerie Monier was your work. And I panicked. I was bound to – the woman I cared about was beaten half to death on her way to pick up a present for me, the whole set-up was designed to ensure I would be a loose cannon. I did what I had to do to ensure I was assigned the case, and since I’m not as dumb as I look, I succeeded. My suspicions were confirmed when this woman, the only witness, formally identified you, though she had only ever seen you in a photograph Maleval showed her. You and Ravic. She even claimed to have recognised a few Serbian words. So now we’re certain that you were behind the job at the Galerie, there’s not a shadow of a doubt.”

Hafner slowly nods again, seemingly impressed by the preparation that has gone into the plan. And realising that in Maleval he has found a formidable adversary.

“And so I set out looking for you on Maleval’s behalf,” Camille says. “Unwittingly, I become his private detective. The more he piles on the pressure, the faster I work. He appears to try to kill the witness, so I redouble my efforts. You have to admit, he made the right choice. I’m a good cop. To find you, I had to make a particularly painful sacrifice, a . . .”

“What sacrifice?” Hafner interrupts.

Camille looks up. How can he put it into words? He thinks for a long moment – Buisson, Irène, Maleval – then gives up.

“I . . .” Camille says almost to himself, “I had no score to settle with anyone.”

“That’s not true. Everyone has . . .”

“You’re right. Because Maleval has an old score to settle with me. In feeding information to Buisson, he was guilty of serious professional misconduct. So he was arrested, humiliated, banished, his name was all over the papers, the scandal, the trial, the verdict. And he spent time in prison. Not long, I’ll grant you, but can you imagine what it’s like for an officer to be inside? And so this is the perfect opportunity to get his revenge. Two birds with one stone. He gets me to track you down and in doing so he makes sure that I will be fired.”

“You did it because you wanted to.”

“Partly . . . It’s too complicated to explain.”

“And I don’t give a flying fuck.”

“Well, you’re wrong there. Because now I’ve found you, Maleval will be paying you a visit. And he’s not just going to want his share. He’s going to want everything.”

“I’ve got nothing left.”

Camille pretends to weigh up the merits of this answer.

“Yes,” he says. “You could try that, I mean, nothing ventured . . . I’m guessing Ravic tried the same spiel: I’ve nothing left, I spent it all, I might have a little left, but not much . . .” Camille smiles broadly. “But let’s be serious. You’ve put that money aside for the time when you won’t be here to provide for your family. You’ve still got it. The question isn’t whether Maleval will find your savings, only how long it will take him to do so. And, incidentally, what methods he’s prepared to use to get that information.”

Hafner turns towards the window as though expecting Maleval to appear wielding a hunting knife. He says nothing.

“He’ll pay you a visit. If and when I decide. All I have to do is give your address to his accomplice and Maleval will be on his way. I’d give it an hour before he blasts your front door open with his Mossberg.”

Hafner tilts his head to one side.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Camille says. “You’re thinking that you’ll be waiting, that you’ll take him down. Well, no offence, but you don’t seem in such great shape right now. Maleval has got twenty years on you, he’s trained and he’s cunning. You made the mistake of underestimating him once before. You might get a lucky shot in, of course, but that’s your only hope. And if you want my advice, make sure you don’t miss. Because he’s not exactly your biggest fan right now. If you do, you’ll regret it, because after he’s put a bullet between the eyes of that pretty little wife of yours, he’s liable to take a knife to your kid, to her little hands, her little feet . . .”

“Don’t talk shit, Verhœven, I’ve dealt with guys like him dozen of times.”

“That was the past, Hafner, even your future is behind you now. You could try to send your family into hiding with the cash – assuming I give you enough time – but it won’t make any difference. If Maleval tracked you down for all your cunning, finding them will be child’s play. [Silence.] I’m you’re only hope.”

“Go fuck yourself!”

Camille nods, reaches for his hat. His face neatly sums up the paradox, a combination of feigned resignation and frustration –
Oh well, I did what I could
. Reluctantly, he gets to his feet. Hafner does not move.

“O.K.,” Camille says, “I’ll leave you to spend some time with your family. Make the most of it.”

He heads into the hallway.

He has no doubt that this is the right strategy. It will take as long as it takes: he might get to the front door, the steps, the garden, maybe even as far as the gate, but Hafner will call him back. The streetlights come on again, casting a pale-yellow glow over the far end of the garden.

Camille stands for a moment in the doorway, staring out at the tranquil street, then he turns and jerks his chin towards the ceiling.

“What’s her name?”

“Ève.”

Camille nods. A pretty name.

“It’s a good start,” he says, turning away again, “I just hope it lasts.”

He walks out.

“Verhœven!”

Camille closes his eyes.

He retraces his steps.

*

9.00 p.m.

Anne is still in the studio. She does not know whether this is bravery or cowardice, but she is still here, waiting. The hours tick by and the exhaustion has become a crushing weight. She feels as though she has survived an ordeal, as though she has come through: she is no longer in control, she is an empty shell, she can do no more.

It was her ghost who, twenty minutes earlier, packed up her few belongings. Her jacket, the money, the piece of paper with the map and the telephone numbers. She heads for the sliding glass door, then turns back.

The taxi driver from Montfort has just called to say he has been driving around but cannot find the lane. He sounds Asian. Anne is forced to turn on the living-room light so she can study the scribbled map and try to guide him, but it is no use. “Just past the rue de la Loge, you said?” “Yes, on the right,” she says, though she does not know which direction he is coming from. She will come to meet him, she says,
Park next to the church and wait for me there, alright
? The driver agrees, he is happier with this solution, he apologises but his G.P.S. . . . Anne hangs up. Then goes and sits on the sofa.

Just a few minutes, she promises herself. If the telephone rings in the next five minutes . . . But what if the call does not come?

In the darkness, she runs her finger over her scarred cheek, over her gums, picks up one of Camille’s sketchpads. She could do this a hundred times and not happen on the same drawing.

Just a few minutes. The taxi driver calls back, he is impatient, unsure whether to stay or go.

“Wait for me,” she says, “I’m on my way.”

He tells her the meter is running.

“Give me ten minutes. Just ten minutes . . .”

Ten minutes. Then, whether Camille calls or not, she will leave. All this for nothing?

What then? What will happen then?

At that moment, her mobile rings.

It is Camille.

*

Jesus, I fucking hate waiting. I opened up the futon, ordered a bottle of Bowmore Mariner and some food, but I know I won’t get a wink of sleep.

On the other side of the wall, I can hear the bustle of a busy restaurant. Fernand is raking it in, which will add to my bank balance. That should make me happy, but it’s not what I want, what I’m waiting for. After all the effort I’ve put in . . .

But the more time passes, the less chance I have of pulling this thing off. The biggest risk is that Hafner fucked off to the Bahamas with his tart. Word on the street is that he’s terminally ill, but who knows, maybe he’s decided to do his convalescing on the beach. With my cash! It really pisses me off to think that right now he could be living it up on the money he owes me.

But if he
is
still in France, then the moment I find out where he’s holed up I’ll be all over him before the cops even have time to get their boots on, I’ll drag him down to his cellar and we’ll have a nice little chat, just me, him and a blowtorch.

In the meantime, I sip my fifteen-year-old malt, think about the girl, about Verhœven – I’ve got the little fucker by the short and curlies – and I think about what I’ll do when I find Hafner . . .