The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (30 page)

‘Why him?’ Volodya had asked back then. ‘What’s so special about him?’ If she hadn’t known him as well as she did she might have guessed he was jealous of the
child who occupied so many of her waking thoughts.

I don’t know, she told Volodya. Even though she guessed. Something about the boy’s intense loneliness and her own faith. Maybe she had finally found a way to translate that faith
into something real. Something that would confirm that she had been right all along to believe in something more than the ordinary, gruelling existence she knew.

The way Dima looked at her. Like she was the child and he was the adult. All that unwanted knowledge in his eyes. She wanted to rub it out.

She was careful not to show the other nursing aides. Instead she went about her work just as they did, treating the children the same, pretending not to see the neglect all around her.

At night she cried herself to sleep in Volodya’s arms until after a while she ran out of tears. Then she just kept quiet. What was the point of crying or talking about things, when nothing
changed?

Until the Frenchman came along and something in his eyes told her that he was the one. That was when it changed. The hope that had been extinguished, the faith she was beginning to question, it
all came back.

Now Dima had written to her. A wave of emotion swept over her. How long had it been? Seven years, at least.

‘Are you thinking about him?’ she heard Volodya ask. ‘The boy?’

She didn’t answer directly. Just followed her train of thoughts, hardly aware of her husband’s presence.

‘I was never sure what Dima was feeling or thinking,’ she said out loud. Volodya was still stroking her back, lying behind her. She was glad he couldn’t see her face.

‘He was always observing. He never communicated. I tried at first to bring him out of his shell. He was so – ’ She turned partly towards Volodya and made a gesture, as though
she were enclosing a fragile insect in her hands – ‘so small, and delicate. I used to think he wouldn’t survive. I tried not to care too much, because that is what you must do,
but with Dima I found I couldn’t. I lifted him in my arms, I cradled him. He was so small he fitted in my arms like a doll.’

‘It was for you as much as for him,’ Volodya said, turning her away from him again so he could keep caressing her. With his right hand, he kneaded her shoulders, digging his thumb
into the places where she was all knotted up. He heard her sigh.

‘The other carers didn’t like it. The only way we could carry on was to keep our distance. I was making it hard for the others.’

Nina kept very still. After a while a shudder ran through her body. She pressed her back against him and he wrapped his one good arm around her waist.

‘It was so cold, that building,’ she said after a while.

He stroked her back for a long time until he heard her breathing change and knew she was asleep. Never mind if she was late for work. He would not wake her up. She needed a rest.

He lay on his back and thought about the boy. The first time Nina had mentioned him, Volodya had seen a side of her he hadn’t known. A dark place full of restless shadows that called out
to her at times when she was tired or vulnerable. Dragging her down, away from the light. Over the past couple of years, he had managed to shut that door firmly on Nina’s past. She was
sleeping and gaining weight. At times she allowed herself to be happy.

But now the past was rearing its ugly head again.

He is back in our life, he thought. As he thought this, there was no feeling attached to it. He thought only of Nina. When she had been speaking of Dima, of his fragility and her own burgeoning
tenderness, he had seen only Nina and his own fierce desire to watch over her. Sometimes it kept him awake to think how feeble he was. An academic with only one fully functioning hand, whose
instincts always called for caution. He was the guy who took a step back so that he would not be picked or noticed.

He hugged Nina and moved his legs closer, so that he could feel the back of her thighs against his skin. She stirred and murmured something in her sleep. His ribs ached from the swelling in his
heart.

Nina looked at her watch and shuffled her feet to prevent them from going completely numb. Katya had said one o’clock and it was already twenty past. She wished they had agreed to meet at
a cafe or somewhere where at least she could keep warm.

She hadn’t expected to go back to sleep. When she woke up again she saw that Volodya had already left for university. It made it easier for her to do what she’d planned.

She got dressed and grabbed a piece of toast before heading out the door.

It had been at least two years since she had seen Katya last. She felt bad about it but it wasn’t just her fault, after all. Katya could have called or written too.

She spotted her, walking towards her with a grin on her face. And suddenly it was as though the years in between had slipped away and never happened. They kissed and hugged. When they drew
apart, Nina was surprised to see Katya wipe a tear from her face.

‘It’s been so long. Thank you for meeting me at such short notice,’ Nina said. ‘Where shall we go?’ She too felt like crying, but she managed to contain herself.
She hadn’t cried in so long she worried that once she got started again she might never stop.

They chose a new cafe, two steps away from the apartment where Nina’s favourite writer Mikhail Bulgakov once lived. Katya ordered soup but Nina, ever conscious of the money, stuck to a
coffee.

‘You look wonderful,’ Nina told her old friend. And it was true. Katya had always been pretty but she was particularly radiant.

‘So do you,’ Katya responded. But Nina knew she was being kind. She knew she had aged a great deal over the past few years.

While they waited for their order to arrive, they chatted about their respective lives. Like Nina, Katya had gone on to qualify as a nurse and she was working in a hospital now. But where Nina
worked five days a week, Katya worked two. She was married to a man who had an import-export business, she said, without giving any further details. And she was pregnant.

‘That’s wonderful! I’m happy for you,’ Nina said.

‘And you? No baby plans?’

Nina shook her head. ‘God, no.’ Seeing Katya’s face, she regretted the way she’d said it. ‘I mean, I don’t think I am cut out to have children. It is such a
big responsibility. Volodya would like to, I think, but as for me—’

The coffee and the soup arrived. The two of them sat in silence for a while.

‘You know,’ Katya said, ‘you shouldn’t be so hard on yourself.’

‘What do you mean?’ Nina asked. The coffee was strong and sweet. She took small sips, savouring it.

Katya seemed to hesitate. ‘I feel as though you are still dwelling on the time we spent, back at the orphanage. The conditions we saw . . . but we did our best for those kids.’

‘Maybe.’ All of a sudden the coffee tasted bitter. She put her cup down. ‘I had a letter from Dima,’ she said, and saw Katya’s eyes widen.

‘How did he find you?’

Nina shrugged her shoulders. She knew better than to tell Katya that the boy had always known where to find her.

‘I don’t know. Does it matter? I knew, somehow, that I would hear from him again.’

She looked at the table and at Katya’s hand, carrying the spoon from the bowl to her lips. The ring on her slender finger was studded with diamonds.

‘I think he may be in some sort of trouble,’ she said, lowering her voice though they were quite alone in their corner of the room.

‘Why are you whispering?’ Katya asked.

‘I’m not sure.’ Nina smiled. She looked at her friend, whose figure gave no indication yet of the new life she was carrying. At this stage the baby was probably little more
than a tiny beating heart. Yet so much tenderness and hope had already been invested in this unborn child.

Nina pulled out the letter she’d received and handed it over to Katya.

‘I thought maybe you could help me translate it. He’s written in French.’

‘In French! You always said he was clever. I hope my French is good enough. You know I only studied it for a couple of years.’

‘Katya, did you ever – you know – tell anyone about what happened?’

Katya looked at her. ‘Never.’ Katya’s eyes clouded over. ‘You know I had mixed feelings about what you did. Interfering like that in the boy’s fate. What you did
could have landed you in jail. But I never told a soul.’

‘Thank you.’

Nina waited in silence while Katya read the letter. When she’d finished she looked up at her friend with troubled eyes.

‘You’re right. He does seem to be in trouble.’ She slid the letter across the table to Nina. ‘He is asking for your help.’ She pointed to the words and read them
out loud. ‘
Aides-moi
, it says. ‘Help me.’

It wasn’t seven yet and there was nowhere to park. Morel circled the block a couple of times. By the fourth time he entered the street, a car was pulling out. Morel took
the empty parking space and waited.

Over the next twenty minutes, several men exited the building. There was no sign of Mathilde. Morel sat and thought about Marie Latour with a heavy heart. He rubbed his eyes. The case was
threatening to overwhelm him.

If only Mathilde would appear. He had really tried to stay away since driving here last, by telling himself there was nothing to be gained by following her. But here he was again, watching her
building. He could barely recognize himself.

Morel tried to guess which of the men exiting the building was Mathilde’s husband. Was it the bald one with the pinstriped suit? The good-looking one in jeans and a loose white cotton
shirt which he wore untucked, whose hair was too long and definitely needed a trim? He hoped it wasn’t that one. Or the one with the violin case who finished his cigarette as he stepped onto
the street and stubbed it out with his shoe.

It was 7.22 when Mathilde appeared with her son. He was wearing his school bag on his back and Mathilde was wearing a navy blue dress and the same sandals she’d been wearing the last time
he’d seen her. They walked quickly, as though they were running late. He knew the school wasn’t far and that she would walk back this way once she had dropped the boy off.

Morel looked at his watch. There wasn’t any time to linger. He couldn’t be late for Marie Latour’s friend. With one last look at the building and the floor he knew Mathilde
lived on, he drove away.

‘How did she look? Did she look – did she seem . . .’

‘She looked peaceful. But we’re certain that she didn’t die of natural causes,’ Morel said.

There seemed little point in telling Guy Charon that his old friend’s wife whom he had been so fond of had been stripped naked and drowned in a bath, before being dressed and made to look
like a geriatric hooker, with excessive make-up and a cheap red wig.

Charon had called the police after turning up at Marie Latour’s house for lunch on Sunday. She hadn’t come to the door.

It had been a long day for Morel’s team.

Thankfully, the details about the killings hadn’t made it into the papers. It was only a matter of time, though.

The man sitting before him looked so helpless that Morel almost felt like leaning over and giving him a hug.

‘I’m very sorry, Monsieur Charon,’ Morel said again. And he was. Angry and upset that another woman had been killed. He’d never felt as powerless as he did now.

‘I was Marie’s closest friend, you see,’ the man said. ‘Since her husband died. I knew Hector would want me to look out for her. She wasn’t used to doing anything
on her own.’ The memory of the dead woman stopped him for a moment. He shook his head. ‘But the fact is, it wasn’t just me looking out for her. The fact is, we looked out for each
other. I never thought . . .’ He paused and lowered his head.

‘No one ever thinks about these things until they happen. Why should you?’ Morel said.

‘But she was worried,’ the man said, looking up at him. ‘I should have listened.’

Morel leaned forward. ‘Worried about what?’ he said, though he suspected he knew.

‘That man and the boy. They’d made her uneasy.’

‘What did she say about them?’

‘She said the boy was strange.’

‘And the man?’

‘He was a con artist.’

‘Is that what Madame Latour said?’

‘No, that’s what I told her. That these sorts of people prey on people they think are gullible enough to believe them.’

‘But what did she say?’

‘That he seemed nice enough. But then she is a good woman. I’ve never heard her say an unkind thing about anyone.’ He seemed to realize that he was using the present tense and
he swallowed, visibly shaken. ‘She was a good woman.’

For a moment it looked like he might cry and Morel felt a moment of panic. But then he seemed to pull himself together.

Morel picked up the picture of Armand that Amelia Berg had given him.

‘Take a look at this. Did you ever see this man, in any of your outings with Madame Latour? The one on the right?’

Guy looked carefully at the photograph. He shook his head. ‘No. Who is he? Is this the man who distributes those pamphlets? Is he the one who killed Marie?’

Morel took the photo from Guy’s hands.

‘We think he might be,’ he said carefully.

‘What are you doing to catch him?’ Guy asked.

‘Everything in our power.’
And yet we can’t seem to track him down
, Morel thought.

‘Well I hope you find him in a hurry. Marie didn’t deserve to die,’ Guy said, his voice breaking.

Morel nodded.

As he walked the old man to the top of the stairs he felt the full weight of the investigation on his shoulders. Don’t blame yourself, a voice inside his head said. His old boss, who knew
Morel better than anyone else he’d worked with, had told him you had to shoulder the blame as a team. It wasn’t healthy for a single person to carry the entire load. It was how some
policemen ended up leaving the force, or leaving this world altogether. One day they just gave up. Their wives or children walked in on them hanging from a rope or sitting in their cars with the
windows fogged up.