He has stopped two metres from the cage. He is not moving. She watches him take out his mobile; she hears a rustling sound above her head. She tries to turn but she can’t, she’s already tried a thousand times, it’s impossible.
Alex feels desperate.
The man holds the mobile at arm’s length, smiles. It’s a rictus
Alex has seen before and she knows it is an ominous sign. Again, she hears the rustle above her head, then the click of the camera. He nods, giving his approval to who knows what, then goes back to the corner of the room and hoists the cage again.
Alex’s eyes are suddenly drawn to the wicker basket of dog food next to her, jerking and twitching as though it’s alive.
Suddenly, she realises. What’s inside is not dog food or cat food.
She realises as she sees the snout of a large rat appear over the side of the basket. Above her, on the lid of the cage, she can just make out two dark shapes scuttling, and she can hear the rustle of claws she heard earlier. The two shapes stop and poke their heads between the slats just above her head. Two rats with black, glittering eyes, both bigger than the first one.
Alex cannot help herself; she shrieks hard enough to tear her lungs.
Because this is why he has been leaving the dog food. Not to feed her. To attract them.
He is not going to kill her.
The rats are.
A former outpatient clinic, completely surrounded by walls near the Porte de Clichy. A huge, derelict nineteenth-century building which has long since been condemned, the area now served by
a new teaching hospital at the other end of the suburb.
The place has been standing empty for two years; it’s an industrial wasteland. The company redeveloping the site employs a security guard to keep out the squatters, the homeless, the illegal immigrants. Intruders and undesirables. The security guard has a small apartment on the ground floor and is paid to keep an eye on the place until building work starts some four months from now.
Jean-Pierre Trarieux, fifty-three, formerly a cleaner at the clinic. Divorced. No criminal record.
It is Armand who tracked down his van from a name on the list provided by forensics: Lagrange, a freelance contractor installing P.V.C. windows who had retired two years earlier and sold off all his equipment. Trarieux had bought his van and had simply spray-painted over Lagrange’s signage. Armand had e-mailed the image of the lower section of the vehicle to the local police station who sent an officer out to check. Sergeant Simonet swung by as he was clocking off shift since it was on his way home, and for the first time in his life regretted having always refused to buy a mobile telephone. Instead of going home, he rushed back to the station to report that the green paint mark on Trarieux’s van – which was parked in front of the derelict hospital – is identical to the one in the C.C.T.V. footage. Camille, however, wanted to be absolutely sure. You don’t unleash the Battle of the Alamo without doing a few basic checks. He sent an officer to discreetly scale the perimeter wall. It was too dark to take photographs, but there was no sign of any van there anyway. In all likelihood, Trarieux was not at home. There were no lights on in the apartment, no sign of life.
The trap is set, everything is ready; they’re waiting for him to get back so they can take him in for questioning. Plainclothes officers hole up and wait. Everything is going according to plan until the
juge d’instruction
– the investigating magistrate – turns up, accompanied by Le Guen.
The meeting takes place in one of the unmarked police cars parked several hundred metres from the main gate.
The magistrate is a guy of about thirty by the name of Vidard, the same name as Giscard d’Estaing’s
secrétaire d’Etat
or maybe Mitterrand’s – who is probably his grandfather. He is a thin, gruff man who wears a pinstriped suit, gold cufflinks and loafers. Details like this speak volumes. The fellow looks as if he was born in a suit and tie. Try as you might to focus on what he is saying, you can’t help imagining him naked. He’s a straight arrow with the good looks of a playboy and a thick mane of hair parted at the side – he looks like an insurance salesman who dreams of going into politics. He’s a future ageing Lothario.
When she saw men like this, Irène used to laugh and say to Camille: “My God, he’s handsome! Why can’t I have a husband as handsome as that?”
Moreover, he seems rather stupid. Probably runs in the family, Camille thinks. Vidard is a man in a hurry; he wants to storm the place. There must be a three-star general somewhere in his family tree, too, because he wants to launch an offensive on Trarieux as soon as possible.
“We can’t do that, it’s ridiculous.”
Camille could have chosen his words more judiciously, could have respected the proprieties, but this arsehole magistrate is planning to risk the life of a woman who’s been held hostage for five days. Le Guen steps in:
“As you’ll see,
monsieur le juge
, Commandant Verhœven can be a little … abrupt at times. He’s simply trying to say that perhaps it would be more prudent to wait for Trarieux to make his appearance.”
Commandant Verhœven’s abruptness doesn’t faze the magistrate one little bit. In fact, he’s determined to prove he’s fearless, a man of decision. Better still, a strategist.
“I suggest we surround the building, free the hostage and wait for the kidnapper inside.”
Then faced with the stunned silence that greets this brilliant suggestion: “We’ll have him trapped.”
The team is flabbergasted. A silence Vidard evidently reads as admiration.
“And how exactly do you know the hostage is inside?” Camille is the first to react.
“Are you even sure he’s definitely the man?” Vidard counters.
“We’re sure that his van was at the scene at the time the woman was kidnapped.”
“Which means it must be him.”
Le Guen tries to think of a way to defuse the situation, but the magistrate gets there first.
“I understand your position, gentlemen, but you see, things have changed …”
“I’m all ears,” Camille says.
“Forgive me for putting it so bluntly, but as a society we are no longer focused on criminals; we focus on the victims.”
He looks from one to the other before concluding grandiloquently: “Tracking down criminals is entirely laudable, indeed it is our duty. But our greatest concern must be for the victims. They are the reason we are here.”
Camille opens his mouth, but he has no time to say anything before the magistrate opens the car door and gets out. Mobile in hand, he turns back, leans through the car window and glares at Le Guen.
“I’m calling in R.A.I.D. right now.”
Camille to Le Guen: “This guy’s a complete muppet.”
The magistrate is still standing next to the car but pretends not to hear. Genetics.
Le Guen rolls his eyes and he too takes out his mobile. They’ll need backup to cover the perimeter in case Trarieux reappears just as they storm the building.
In less than an hour, everything is in place.
*
It’s 1.30 a.m.
Sets of keys for the building have been urgently despatched so all doors can be opened. Camille doesn’t know Commissaire Norbert from the R.A.I.D. squad. With a surname like that, no-one ever asked his first name: shaved head, sure-footed as a cat. Camille feels he’s seen the type a hundred times.
Having studied the maps and the satellite photos, the R.A.I.D. officers are despatched to four key points: one unit to the roof, one to the main entrance and two units covering the windows. The
brigade criminelle
is tasked with manning the perimeter. Camille has put units in unmarked cars at each of the three entrances. A fourth unit has been discreetly posted to cover the storm drain, the only other possible exit should the suspect try to make a run for it.
Camille has a bad feeling about the whole operation.
Commissaire Norbert is being careful. Caught in this stand-off between a divisionnaire, a colleague and an investigating
magistrate, he sensibly limits his remarks to his area of expertise. When asked by the magistrate, “Can you storm the building and free the woman being held in there?” Norbert studied the maps, checked out the building and in under eight minutes came back with the response: yes, they could storm the building. The advisability and appropriateness of such an action are a different matter – one on which he has no authority to pronounce. But from his silence, his opinion is deafeningly clear. Camille likes the guy.
Of course it’s frustrating to have to wait for Trarieux to come back when you know that inside is a woman who has been held in conditions you hardly dare imagine, but, he feels, it is the best course of action.
Norbert takes a step back; the magistrate takes a step forward.
“What does it cost us to wait?” Camille says.
“Time,” Vidard says.
“And what does it cost us to play it safe?”
“A life, maybe.”
Even Le Guen is reluctant to intervene. Camille suddenly finds himself in a minority of one. The R.A.I.D. team will storm the building.
Camille takes the officer who scaled the perimeter wall aside.
“Tell me again what it’s like in there.”
The officer doesn’t quite know what to say.
“I mean,” Camille is getting a little irritated, “what did you see in there?”
“I dunno, not much: site machinery, a skip, a site shed, some demolition equipment. Well, one excavator anyway …”
And the mention of an excavator makes Camille think.
Norbert and his units are all in place and give the signal. Le
Guen is following behind. Camille decides to stay within the grounds of the building.
He notes the precise time Norbert launches the operation: 01.57. From here and there in the deserted buildings lights flash on; there is the sound of running.
Camille thinks. Site machinery. Some demolition equipment.
“There’s been a lot of coming and going here,” he says to Louis.
Louis gives a quizzical look, waiting for Camille to explain.
“Site workers, engineers, I don’t know what all, people delivering site machinery before the building work starts, maybe even meetings about the development project. Accordingly …”
“… he’s not going to be holding her here.”
Camille doesn’t have time to respond because just at that moment, Trarieux’s white van appears around the corner.
From this point, things move very quickly. Camille jumps into the car Louis is driving, radios the four units manning the perimeter wall, and then they give chase. Camille juggles with the car radio, providing running commentary of the exact location of the suspect’s van heading for the suburbs. It’s not very fast and it’s belching smoke – it’s an old, clapped-out model so even if he floors the accelerator, Trarieux’s got no hope of getting more than 70 k.p.h. out of this rust bucket. And it’s not like the guy’s a Formula One driver. He hesitates and wastes precious seconds making ridiculous manoeuvres, allowing Camille to close the net. Louis has no problem staying right up his arse, lights flashing, siren wailing. Before long the police cars will have got the van boxed in; it’s only a matter of seconds now. Camille continues to give their position, Louis drives up behind the van, headlights on full to freak the guy out, make him panic, two more cars
appear, one from the left, one from the right; the fourth car has taken a parallel route, crossed the Périphérique and is coming back the other way. The die is cast.
Le Guen phones Camille, who’s hanging on tight to his safety belt.
“You got him?”
“Nearly,” Camille shouts. “Anything your end?”
“You can’t afford to fucking lose this guy, because the girl isn’t here.”
“I know.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I said we’ve drawn a blank, d’you copy?” Le Guen roars. “There’s no-one here.”
As Camille is about to find out, this is to be a night of key images. The first, the opening scene in a way, is the flyover across the Périphérique where Trarieux’s van skids sideways and screeches to a halt. Two police cars behind him, a third in front blocking his escape route. The officers pile out, take cover behind the car doors and train their weapons on the van. Camille gets out too – he’s pulled his gun and is about to shout the standard warnings when he sees the man jump down from the van and lumber across to the railing where, unbelievably, he sits facing them as though goading them to come closer.
Everyone immediately knows what’s coming next. One look at him is all it takes as he sits on the railing, his back to the traffic below, his legs dangling, staring at the line of police moving slowly towards him, weapons trained on him. This first image is the one that will stick: a man staring at the advancing officers.
He flings his arms wide, as though about to make some momentous statement.
Then he raises his legs high.
And topples over the edge.
Before they even reach the railing they hear the body smash on the autoroute below, the sound of the truck hitting him, the shriek of brakes, the car horns, the screech of metal of cars unable to stop in time.
Camille looks down. Below is a tangle of cars, a blaze of headlights and hazard warning lights. He turns, runs across the flyover and leans over the opposite railing. Trarieux has gone under the wheels of an articulated lorry. Camille can see half the body, the shattered skull, blood spreading across the asphalt.
For Camille, the second image comes about twenty minutes later. The Périphérique is completely cordoned off, the whole area is an eerie scene of flashing lights and sirens, horns, paramedics, firefighters, police, drivers and gawkers. They’re on the flyover, in the car. Louis is taking notes as Armand reels off the information they’ve got on Trarieux. Next to him, Camille has snapped on latex gloves; he’s holding the mobile phone found on the suspect’s body which somehow escaped the wheels of the articulated lorry.
Photographs, six of them, of a sort of wooden crate, the slats regularly spaced, suspended above the ground. Inside, imprisoned, a woman, young, maybe thirty, her hair lank, greasy, dirty, completely naked, huddled in a space clearly much too small for her. In each picture, she is looking at the photographer. Her eyes are frantic, ringed by dark circles. But her features are delicate, her dark eyes are striking; she is in a terrible state, but this cannot hide the fact that in ordinary circumstances she must be quite
pretty. But right now, all the images tell the same story: pretty or not, this caged woman is dying.