The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (15 page)

The problem with time is that it never stands still. Armand wishes he had understood this earlier, he would have held on tight to the things that mattered. This is what he would ask for, if,
like in the fairy-tale, he was granted a wish: another chance.

It takes him a while to notice the child crouching in the bushes. Staring right at him. Before the child can utter a sound Armand has turned and is fleeing the way he came, rushing through the
opening in the wall so fast he scrapes his arm against the bricks. The pain is searing. Holding on to his arm, he starts running down the road even as he hears the wailing of a child calling for
her father.

The pastor hurried across the sun-filled courtyard, nodding and smiling to the students he recognized. Many of them smiled back.

Their greetings pleased him. The knowledge that he was well-liked and respected even as he entered his seventh decade was deeply satisfying.

The heat had eased over the past few days. In the courtyard, a family of sparrows sat on the edge of a water fountain, dipping their beaks. The magnificent plane tree which had been left to grow
for decades till its branches spread low and wide across the ground gave out plenty of shade.

It was easy to forget where you were. Stepping outside the gate, you found yourself in a different world: Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré, where the likes of Hermès, Lancôme and
Lanvin stood with their long-established awnings alongside foreign embassies and the Élysée Palace. None of the faculty students were likely to be able to afford so much as a shoelace
from any of the luxury boutiques there.

The ground beneath the plane tree and the benches around the courtyard were more crowded than usual with people taking their lunch break. It gave the pastor an inordinate amount of pleasure to
see so many choosing to remain here rather than venture outside. It proved what he had always thought, that this place was a haven, an inner sanctum of peace located in the heart of Paris. It was a
place where students could form friendships and also reflect without being constantly pulled in different directions.

He felt certain that the faculty’s success was largely due to its non-denominational aspect. It was a place of learning, and advertised itself as such.

The pastor entered the building’s wing known as La Maison, where a handful of students and researchers were housed. He took the stairs, looking at his watch to check that he still had
plenty of time before his next lecture. He saw that he had slightly over an hour.

Those who managed to secure one of the rooms here were privileged. It was a pity more couldn’t be accommodated, the pastor thought, climbing the stairs easily. He was still fit, and for
that he had his many years of running to thank. He’d taken part in his last marathon seven years ago, one of the oldest participants in the race who’d made it to the finish line.
He’d realized then that it would be his last. Another one would surely kill him, and he wasn’t ready to go just yet.

The pastor walked down a quiet corridor, looking at the numbers on the doors even though he knew which one he was searching for. The people who lived here tended to be post-graduate theology
students and lecturers undertaking research projects. Lodgers were also selected on the basis of need, either because they could not afford to rent a room in the city or because they were a long
way from their home country, with no relatives or acquaintances here to help lessen their sense of isolation. Of the fifteen rooms on offer, more than half were occupied by students from eastern
European and African nations.

The pastor stopped before a door at the end of a hallway and listened for a while before knocking, at first gently then more firmly. While he waited, he thought about the man and the boy who
lived in these rooms. The Frenchman was aloof and uncommunicative but the pastor, who liked to know the lodgers, had managed once to waylay him in the corridor. He knew that the boy was adopted
from Russia. Once the man had told him this, he’d seemed to regret saying anything. They’d never spoken since.

When the pastor saw that no one was coming to open the door, he pushed it open, knowing it would be unlocked.

Every tenant had their own key, of course, but this was a community built on trust. So far this system seemed to be working. In all the years the pastor had been teaching here, hundreds of
people had come and gone. Yet there had not been a single incident or complaint of theft.

The pastor looked around. There was no one in the main living area. The furniture was basic and the walls were bare but everything looked neat and tidy. The place was sunny and comfortable. He
walked down a hallway, knowing the two bedrooms were down that way.

The boy was curled up on a corner of his bed, looking out the open window at the courtyard below. He turned to the pastor with listless eyes.

‘I hope I am not disturbing you,’ the older man said, looking at him.

The boy shook his head and smiled. He looked ill. The pastor cast his eyes furtively around the room, feeling a little guilty. While he generally made himself available to those who sought him
out, he also prided himself on his discretion. Clearly, this time he was not minding his own business. But he justified his behaviour by reminding himself that he hadn’t seen either of the
two lodgers in over two weeks, which was unusual.

‘Is your father here?’ he asked. It was strange, to refer to the older man as the boy’s father, even though there was probably a twenty-year gap in their ages. Maybe it was
because the boy gave the impression of knowing far more than his years. His eyes were filled with a weariness you did not expect or wish to see in an adolescent.

Now he was shaking his head and making a sign as if to say his father had gone away. The pastor wondered whether the boy was able to look after himself.

‘Have you eaten?’

The boy didn’t answer. He pressed his legs against his chest and rubbed them with his hands, as though trying to warm himself up. The pastor took two steps forward, and held out his
hand.

‘Come on. It’s a beautiful day out there. Let me take you out for lunch.’

After a moment’s hesitation, the boy held out his hand.

Morel was on his way to Irina Volkoff’s house. He had gone straight from home and rung Marco from the car to say he should meet him there. He had also told him to pack an
overnight bag.

He was feeling more than a little irritable. Before calling Marco, he’d spent ten minutes on the phone with the police chief in Versailles. Less than twenty-four hours and already they
were moaning about the extra workload. The gist of it was that if Morel wanted continued surveillance at Volkoff’s home, he’d have to rely on his own resources.

Straight after that call, Perrin had rung to tell him that the press conference was on.

‘Didn’t I tell you we should have one? Remember what you said? That a press conference would scare these guys away and make them go into hiding? Well, it seems to me . . .’
Morel hadn’t heard the rest of his sentence. He’d put the phone down beside him and waited, the distant voice like the buzzing of an angry insect.

He’d been pissed off with Perrin but most of all with himself. The fact that his boss was an arsehole didn’t change the fact that two women were dead. Maybe Perrin was right, maybe
if Morel had agreed to call a media briefing earlier, Guillou would still be alive.

When he’d finally heard Perrin call his name, his voice becoming louder and more insistent, he’d picked up the phone and held it to his ear.

‘I’ll be there,’ he’d said before hanging up.

Morel set out straight after the phone calls, hoping to avoid the worst of the morning traffic. Versailles at this time of the day could take him well over an hour if he waited too long.

It had rained during the night and for the first time in two weeks the temperature was bearable. Along Avenue de Neuilly, people were walking their dogs. Over the past week, the extreme heat had
made both pets and humans too lethargic to venture outdoors.

Morel wondered whether to call Solange and suggest dinner. But he wasn’t sure whether he felt like company. He’d decide later.

On the way to Versailles, he ran over his interview of Elisabeth Guillou and tried to think whether he had missed anything important. What had she said? That her visitor, the older of the two,
had been well-dressed and polite. The women had all said he was educated and courteous. Morel thought about the significance of Fauré’s
Requiem.
Maybe the man’s
profession had something to do with the arts. Or maybe he was a teacher of some sort.

Morel thought of something else. Keeping his eye on the road, he called Lila.

‘I’m sorry to bother you so early.’

‘Don’t lie. Besides, I’ve been up for an hour.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Cleaning.’

Morel wondered what she was doing cleaning so early, but he didn’t say anything.

‘Listen, can you get Marie Latour to list every event she’s been to these past few months? Concerts, theatre, exhibitions. You mentioned that Isabelle Dufour had been to the Holy
Russia exhibition at the Louvre. Ask Latour if she went to that one. And can you also check whether there have been any concerts in the past six months featuring Gabriel Fauré’s
works?’

‘It’s Fauré with an e, right?’

‘You’re kidding. Seriously?’

‘Yeah, I always enjoy a good laugh at my expense around this time of the morning,’ she said before hanging up.

Irina Volkoff’s house was hidden from the street by a high stone wall and conifers planted along its side. Morel drove through the gates up a perfectly manicured driveway that circled a
marble fountain and a weeping willow. Its drooping branches formed the perfect hideaway for anyone seeking some privacy, Morel thought. The house was an imposing two-storey villa with pale pink
walls, a chimney and tall windows on the ground and upper floors.

Morel was so busy admiring the house that he nearly hit a large black and white dog that came bounding out of the bushes, barking and wagging its tail. As he parked the car outside the front
door, Irina Volkoff came out of the house. The dog lolloped up the steps and parked its lean, shaggy frame next to its mistress. It was a strange creature, with a head that seemed oddly narrow and
out of sync with its tall frame.

‘Thank you for coming,’ the woman said.

Morel remembered her visit to the station when she’d been asked to help with the composite sketch. As far as he could remember she had been cooperative, if not particularly friendly. But
Jean was right: she must have been beautiful in her youth.

‘Your colleague is already here,’ Irina Volkoff said. Just then Marco’s face bobbed up in the hallway behind her. He looked relieved when he saw his boss.

‘That’s a beautiful dog you have,’ Morel said. ‘Lucky I saw him in time.’

‘He gets excited when he hears a car come down the driveway,’ she said.

‘What breed is he?’

‘He’s a Borzoi. Also known as a Russian wolfhound.’

Morel patted the dog’s head and followed Volkoff and Marco into the house.

‘Do you mind telling me why you are sending your own people in? I had a man from the Versailles station last night. Is it because the threat has become greater that I need someone from the
headquarters in Paris?’

‘No,’ Morel said. ‘Our Versailles colleagues have a number of other priorities to attend to. We’re just making sure we don’t overload them.’

He thought he saw her smile briefly and wondered whether she’d detected the sarcasm in his voice.

‘Would you like some tea or coffee?’

‘We’re fine, thank you,’ Morel said.

For the next ten minutes he provided Irina Volkoff with a brief update. He could no longer shield her and he told her now about Elisabeth Guillou’s death since Volkoff and Latour had come
in to help with the composite sketch. She seemed shocked but not particularly frightened.

‘So you think this man will now look for me? Why?’

‘Right now I can’t tell you much more than what I’ve told you so far. But until we track the man and the boy down, we want to keep you safe,’ Morel said.

‘This is all quite unbelievable,’ she said. ‘How do you know you will find these people? Are you close?’

‘We’re making good progress,’ Morel said vaguely. ‘In the meantime, try not to worry. My colleague will stay here for the rest of the day and after that we will make sure
there is always a police officer on duty.’

In the end Morel accepted a cup of tea from Irina Volkoff. She poured it from a silver samovar on the side table between them. He was not a tea drinker, and quietly wished she’d offered a
strong cup of coffee instead, but he sipped at it anyway, amazed that anyone should find this drink invigorating.

‘We will keep you up to date with any new developments. Feel free to ask my colleague here anything.’ Morel gestured to Marco, who was fidgeting in his chair.

‘Is he going to follow me around the house?’ she asked.

‘Rest assured, you will have as much privacy as you need. But it’s important we keep you safe,’ Morel said again.

He looked around him at the high ceiling and drawn curtains, the heavy, uncomfortable chairs. It smelled as though the room hadn’t been aired in a while. Where the curtains were slightly
parted, light poured in, revealing dust motes in the air. Irina Volkoff blinked and got up to draw the curtains fully.

‘Have you spoken with your son lately, Madame Volkoff?’

‘Yes, on Sunday,’ she said, her eyes gliding over Morel’s hands and the half-empty cup. ‘More tea?’

‘No thank you,’ he said. ‘It might be a good idea for you to call him.’

‘If he hears about this he will get nervous and panicky,’ she said. ‘He’s not a brave man.’

‘You told my colleague Jean Char when he spoke with you that you thought the boy was Russian,’ he said.

‘That’s right.’

‘Why did you think that?’

‘How can I explain? Surely it is the same for you, that you recognize a French person sometimes without being told they are French. I saw it straight away.’