The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (9 page)

Lila and Marco returned empty-handed. None of the people they’d talked to had seen or heard of the two evangelists described by the widows. His officers looked as discouraged as he
felt.

‘We’ll reconvene tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp. Now get out of here,’ Morel said.

He spent another hour in the office, going through the Dufour folder for the tenth time and typing up a brief report for Perrin, which he intended to leave on the other man’s desk.

It was close to 7 p.m. when he finally turned the lights off and left the building. For a moment he was tempted to cancel dinner and head home, but then the thought of Solange reminded him of
what he would miss.

It was time to go if he didn’t want to be late. First, he would pick up a nice bottle of wine and some flowers. White, always her favourite.

Morel parked his car in a no-parking spot right outside the entrance to Solange’s building and got out. For a moment he stood under the streetlight, feeling like he had
left something behind. But he held the flowers in one hand and the bottle in the other. His wallet and car keys were in his pocket. He pushed the doorbell and waited.

Solange had once told Morel there was something old-fashioned about him that made it seem as though he’d landed in the wrong decade. Maybe even the wrong century. It could have been what
drew her to him, Morel thought. Her husband Henri was a relic too. A man twice Solange’s age, who rarely left the house and struggled to face the world outside his lavish home. Most of the
time he was cooped up in his expansive sixteenth-century apartment with its barrel-vaulted stone cellars and elaborate staircase.

The door buzzed and Morel pushed it open. He climbed the stairs to the first floor. The apartment stretched over three floors of the five-storey building.

It was lucky, Morel reflected, that Henri was enormously wealthy, thanks to a family inheritance and a portfolio of properties left to him by his father, including a nice little vineyard in the
Saumur region where, according to Solange, Henri had proposed to her.

At the top of the stairs, the door was open and Solange stood waiting for him, wearing a green silk dress he hadn’t seen before.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said. The dress with its clingy material and low décolletage left little to the imagination. His eyes travelled back to her face. She was
flushed and seemed happy to see him.

‘You look beautiful, Solange.’

She smiled and opened the door wider to let him in.

‘Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get Henri.’

He watched her climb the stairs.

‘Morel is here,’ she called out to her husband.

‘Good,’ Morel heard Henri say. ‘I’ll be right there.’

Solange came back down the stairs and walked up to Morel. She touched his shoulder, her face close to his.

‘He’s on his way,’ she said.

Soon Henri de Fontenay came into the room with a broad grin on his face. The two men embraced.

‘It’s good to see you. Solange got you a drink?’

‘I was about to.’

‘Let me do it. What will you have, Morel? And you, darling?’

‘You choose,’ Solange said. Henri’s question was rhetorical. He had already picked out and uncorked the wine, and he poured it now, telling Morel he was in for a treat.

‘It’s a 1982 Château Margaux. I saved it for you,’ he said, handing a glass to Morel.

Morel took a sip, letting the liquid roll around his tongue while Henri watched approvingly.

‘How’s your father?’ he asked.

‘He seems well.’

‘Tell him he should pick up the phone once in a while.’

‘You know what he’s like.’

‘I do. He’s becoming a hermit in his old age.’

‘He always was. Just had to work, that was the difference.’

Henri laughed. He and Morel’s father had gone to school together before going their separate ways, Morel senior pursuing a diplomatic career and Henri taking over the family’s
real-estate empire, which he managed from the confines of his home. The two had remained close.

Henri had married Solange on his sixty-fourth birthday. She had been twenty-five then. ‘They met at the chemist,’ Philippe Morel had told his son, with a look of disbelief.
‘She was a pharmacist, or maybe not, just an ordinary shop girl. He liked the look of her and instead of just sleeping with her he decided to get married.’

‘He’s a romantic,’ Morel said.

‘Bloody stupid, you mean. What can they possibly have in common?’

Yet eight years on Henri and Solange seemed perfectly happy with each other. They had the sort of partnership that some couples seemed to manage, open and affectionate, each leaving the other to
pursue their interests and, in Solange’s case, occasional affairs.

Since the wedding, Henri and Morel’s father had lost touch. Without saying it openly, Henri clearly felt it was because Morel Senior disapproved of his young wife. Morel thought it had
more to do with his father’s increasing reluctance – or was it inability? – to socialize.

Thinking of his father now, he wondered what the old man would say if he knew about his son’s involvement with Henri’s wife. It was unthinkable. The funny thing was that Henri knew
and accepted Morel’s involvement in his wife’s life. There was no way of knowing what went on in the old man’s head, whether his generosity was altruism or whether he was getting
his kicks out of the situation. Knowing his wife enjoyed being screwed by another man. Morel chose not to dwell on it.

They ate at the bench in the kitchen, where the couple liked to have their meals. The dining table was reserved for dinner parties. Solange had prepared a dinner of cold lobster, poached salmon
and salad. She ate very little. Most of the time she sipped at her drink, resting one arm on the counter. The dress, like the lobster, was expensive. It allowed him to see her almost as he would if
she were naked. With Henri in the room, he tried not to stare at her too blatantly.

Henri didn’t give him much time to feel self-conscious. After dinner, they had another glass of wine together, and Henri made coffee. Then he excused himself, saying he would have his
coffee in his study. He gave Morel a kiss on the cheek. Not for the first time, Morel felt he was receiving the older man’s blessing. In the early days it had confused him, but he accepted it
now without any reservation.

‘I have some work to do, and an early start tomorrow. I’ll leave you two now.’ He kissed his wife tenderly, one hand stroking the back of her neck.

Solange and Morel moved together to the sofa. Solange sat opposite him. Neither one of them said a word. For a while they listened to Henri’s footsteps above. Her gaze never wavered from
his.

‘Long day?’ she said.

‘Very.’

Morel reached over and pulled down the straps of her dress. It fell easily around her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He sighed as he sat back and stared at her.

‘I’ve been wanting to do that since I walked through the door.’

She leaned back, letting her hands rest on the sofa and the dress fall further down her hips. He could tell there was nothing else on her, besides the thin silk dress.

‘What else?’ she said, while he let his eyes travel from her breasts down to the curve of her hips. ‘What else have you been wanting to do?’

Later they got dressed and she offered him another drink. His mouth felt dry and he didn’t really want another glass of wine but he took it anyway. After sex, Solange
seemed to shed one skin in favour of another, more self-assured.

Out on the balcony the air was barely any cooler. Down below there was a shout, and Morel thought there might be trouble. Perhaps a fight had broken out. But then there was laughter. Still, it
made him edgy.

Solange touched his arm. The pressure of her hand was proprietorial. She left it there, unmoving. Gradually, his breathing slowed down. He found himself looking out at the night without trying
to guess what it might conceal.

Elisabeth Guillou closed her book and yawned. She looked at her watch. It was still only 8.30. She would usually be ready for bed around 9.30, but it had been a particularly
tiring day. Her son had come for lunch with his wife Clare and their two children. The boy had just turned six and was never still; forever looking for an opportunity to do the things he should
not. Clare had spent most of the afternoon barking at him while he ignored her with an air of such complete indifference that his grandmother found something to admire in it, though the
child’s mother clearly did not. Meanwhile Elisabeth Guillou’s own son sat there like a sack of potatoes, grinning like a lunatic at some joke only he was privy to. She’d looked at
him and wondered when exactly his face had lost its shape and character. It was as inexpressive as a loaf of bread. He and Clare, they were both that way. They both dressed, too, as though
appearance no longer mattered.

Elisabeth Guillou yawned again. She wondered what it was about her son’s family. She had raised two children herself and could not remember it being as exhausting as they made it out to
be. The pair of them looked as though they’d lost their spirit and the children were not much better. Well, the boy was quite lively. He had spent an hour bouncing up and down on the
trampoline, so gleeful it had gratified her. Though it wasn’t long before she started wondering how her grandson filled his days to get such manic delight from a trampoline. The girl said
little and spent her time drawing stick figures with oversized heads. She had a mild form of autism, her father said. Something Syndrome – Elisabeth couldn’t remember. Nowadays
everything had a name.

She stood up and found herself swaying for a moment. This happened to her when she’d been sitting for a long time, and when she took her glasses off. Her doctor had told her this was quite
normal, nothing to do with age, just an adjustment of perspective.

She headed towards the bathroom. It was warm but she didn’t like to leave the windows open. Since her husband’s death, many years had gone by but still she had not got used to living
alone. She did a good job of hiding just how fearful she was. The truth was she only felt safe in her own house, with the windows shut and the door locked. She thought of the inspector whom she had
sat with the day before, the handsome one with the dark, thoughtful eyes. She had felt safe with him too.

An attractive and elegant man. Just because she was old didn’t mean she couldn’t tell a good-looking man when she saw one. Was that why she hadn’t been entirely truthful with
him? During their meeting, she hadn’t given him any indication that she was scared. She hadn’t wanted to appear weak.

Foolish old woman, she told herself. Trying to impress a man half her age.

As she walked past the window where the curtains had been left open she sensed rather than saw something. It made her pause and take a few steps back. She put her glasses back on and turned the
light off.

After a moment’s hesitation, she moved towards the window and looked out at the garden. It was dark but there was a full moon and it lit up the sky like a fluorescent beam. The gardener
had recently been to mow the grass. The trees seemed as attentive out there as she was inside, looking for the thing that had caught her attention a moment ago.

There. She hadn’t imagined it.

There was someone sitting on the trampoline.

Morel left Solange at 2 a.m. and drove home. He was probably over the limit but he chanced it anyway. He didn’t like to leave his car on the street.

He went straight to bed, but then he woke up at 4.30. He’d dreamed of Mathilde for the first time in months.

He tried to read for a while but found he couldn’t focus on the pages. Lila had lent him the book; the first he was reading in maybe a year. He’d liked the start but now he found he
couldn’t remember the first twenty pages he’d read the day before. He set the book aside and found himself thinking instead about his conversation with Paul. He was quite sure
he’d overlooked something that his old friend had said, something important.

At 5 a.m. he gave up trying to sleep and ended up sitting at his desk. He began working on the plan that had started to form in his head, since visiting Isabelle Dufour’s apartment.

There were many owl designs out there, quick-and-easy versions that he’d made, but this one was going to be exceptional, if he could just get the mapping right. He thought about Isabelle
Dufour’s bronze owl and began to draw, sketching each detail with care. The feathered wings and tail; the large, expressive claws; the expression of the face, which he could picture in his
mind, but was still trying to figure out how to convey on paper. It couldn’t be rushed.

The magic would happen when the design accounted for exactly the right amount of paper to be deployed for each feather, the half blink of an eye, the curve of a claw. Every inch of paper would
be used rather than tucked away. That was the elegance Morel strove for. It was the opposite of disorder and wastefulness, which was the natural order of things.

In a design like this, a lot of the paper was hidden, layers that contributed to the final product while remaining invisible. As far as Morel was concerned, the art of origami lay in one’s
ability to visualize the unseen parts. As he folded, he retained a mental picture of the layers beneath.

He was so engrossed in what he was doing that, when the alarm went off, it took him a while to realize it was morning and time to get ready for work. There was no sound from upstairs but Morel
knew his father would come down before him.

Setting his drawings aside, Morel got undressed and stepped into the shower. He turned his mind back to the Dufour case. Here too there were unseen layers that would help form a complete
picture, if only he could see them.

Getting to work turned out to be a nightmare. It took Morel an hour to get across town. What had possessed him to drive? The whole city seemed to be on the march. At Place de
la Concorde, he remained stuck in his car for what felt like an eternity. A young man on roller blades zigzagged through the stalled traffic, selling drinks and sandwiches.