Talking to Ghosts

by Hervé Le Corre

  The two male suspects offered no resistance. The girl found in the bed of Jonathan Caussade, the man suspected of stabbing Kevin Labrousse, was a bottle blonde, something that was immediately apparent when she leapt out of bed, fighting mad, calling the policeman who told her not to move a “fucking cunt” and hoarsely spewing a torrent of abuse until Daras told her to shut her hole and instructed her to be taken out into the corridor and cuffed to a cast-iron radiator. Caussade simply fell back on the pillow, his palms turned towards the ceiling.

  The last suspect burst into in tears and, lying flat on his stomach, his face buried in the pillow, the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his neck, he sobbed that he hadn’t done nothing, that it was all Jonathan’s fault, that he’d tried to calm him down, that Carole would corroborate his story. Without even being asked, he gave them his name: Marc Chauvin, nicknamed Marco.

  “You got a record?” Pradeau said.

  “Yeah, had a bit of a run-in with the drugs squad, but I’m done with that shit now.”

  “You can tell us all about it later,” Pradeau said. “Now shift your arse and get some clothes on. And don’t try anything stupid.”

  The guy nodded, staring fearfully at the gun pointed at him, and, snuffling, started picking up the clothes scattered around the bed.

  A team of officers turned out the wardrobes, turned over the mattresses, raising clouds of dust that made everyone choke, so they opened the other windows and sunlight flooded in, thick with specks of powdered gold.

  Vilar was rummaging through an old sideboard when he suddenly stopped and listened.

  “Quiet, everyone!”

  Garcia, who was holding a bag of grass, stared at him in surprise. Loud voices still came from the bedrooms.

  “Everybody! Shut the fuck up!”

  A child was crying. Vilar turned pale and stepped away from the sideboard, listening for the kid’s sobs in the sudden silence. They had searched all the rooms. The sound was not coming from the apartment.

  “It’s coming from across the hall, from the flat opposite,” someone said. “Someone’s banging on a door, or a wall.”

  Vilar stepped out onto the landing and went over to the closed door, pressed down on the handle and was surprised to find it unlocked.

  The sobbing was louder now. It was coming from behind one of the two doors he could just make out in the darkness. He pushed the door to his right: it was a kitchen, but the chaos and the filth were such that it was a moment before he could take it in, he had never seen the like of it before. The smell, which he had not noticed at first, almost made him retreat. The sickly, almost sweet stench caught in his throat, making his gorge rise. The smell of rotting meat and rotting vegetables. A dozen bloated bin bags were piled up under the window; one had burst and was oozing a thick, brownish liquid like toffee. There was washing-up piled in the sink, on the gas cooker and on the kitchen table, one small corner of which remained relatively clear and was set with a bowl, a packet of biscuits and box of sugar. Before he closed the door, he heard the brigadier push open the front door and cough, offering to open a window to air the place.

  The living room at the end of the corridor was in darkness. Vilar groped for a switch, turned on the light, and noticed three or four large boxes containing televisions, stacked in a corner right behind the T.V., and various other boxes that looked to contain computers and D.V.D. players. On a sideboard, in a red frame, was a photograph of the girl with orange hair, cradling a baby. At the far end of the room was a Marilyn Manson poster, pinned to a black door. Vilar stepped around the battered leather sofa, passed the coffee table, on which were two beer cans and a nearly empty gin bottle. He was surprised at how tidy this room was compared to the general squalor.

  The black door was locked. He looked around for a key but found nothing. The crying stopped as soon as he rattled the doorknob.

  “Don’t be frightened, we’re coming to find you.”

  He wanted to break the door down, but he was afraid he might scare the child on the other side. A noise behind him made him start. Turning around, he saw Daras standing in the middle of the living room sniffing the neck of the gin bottle.

  “What the hell are you up to? Where is this kid?”

  He did not answer, he simply strode past past her and crossed the landing to the flat opposite.

  The girl with orange hair was sitting facing Garcia, who was taking notes.

  “Name’s Carole Picard. She’s twenty-four.”

  Vilar grabbed the girl by the scruff of her T-shirt and pulled her to her feet. She screamed and called him a fat fucker. He dragged her into the narrow hallway. Her hands were still cuffed behind her back. She tripped on an empty bottle and she fell to her knees, crying out in pain and shock, but Vilar did not turn around, did not let go. He hauled her across the landing, kicking and screaming. Daras blocked his path.

  “Jesus, Pierre. Take it easy!”

  Vilar looked her in the eyes, but did not see her.

  “Let me deal with this. Don’t bust my balls, Marianne. There’s a kid all alone in that room.”

  She stood aside to let him pass, still dragging the girl who had managed to scrabble to her feet.

  “Open it,” he said as they stood in front of the door.

  She twisted her hands behind her back.

  “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”

  He uncuffed her and told her to make it quick. He watched as she shifted a pile of magazines and retrieved a Yale key.

  Together they stepped into the murky room, lit only by a small bedside lamp with a shade decorated with cartoon characters. An acrid smell filled the air. He saw a potty beside the bed.

  And on the bed, hugging her knees, sat a dark-haired girl, about five years old, maybe six. Her black hair fell across her face and her eyes shone in the half-light. She stared at the two grown-ups curiously, without apparent fear. Snot had dried on her upper lip, and her eyes were wet with tears.

  “It’s O.K.,” the girl with orange hair said. “Maman is here. It’s all fine, sweetheart.”

  The girl got off the bed and trotted over to her mother and allowed herself to be picked up, made a fuss of, closing her eyes, a vague smile on her lips. Vilar looked away as they kissed and cuddled. Then the girl broke off and put the child down.

  “Are you hungry? Maman will make you breakfast.”

  “Are you taking the piss?” Vilar said.

  Carole Picard turned as though she had forgotten he was there.

  “Are you taking the piss?” he said again, his voice choking at the back of his throat. “I don’t think you have quite understood the situation, mademoiselle.”

  He managed get the words out, but the effort left him breathless, almost trembling with rage.

  The girl drew herself up to her full height, she looked defiant.

  “Are you going to stop me making breakfast for my kid? Is that it? What right have you got? Is there a law against a mother giving her daughter something to eat?”

  She didn’t see Vilar’s hand coming. He grabbed her under the chin and slammed her against the wall, banging her head.

  “Now listen, you little slag: you better calm down, and quick, because you’re about to make me seriously angry. You leave this little girl alone, locked in a room with a potty, while you go and get off your head in the flat next door, and to listen to you, you’d think you were the perfect mother! Are you planning to make breakfast sitting on a bin bag in that shit-tip of a kitchen? And all the hi-fi gear next door, I suppose that’s her Christmas present? Don’t take me for a mug, or I swear I’ll deck you. The way I see it, the only reason you gave birth to this kid was to be rid of the weight, and you’ve treated her like an animal ever since.”

  He said all this in a low growl, his hand still squeezing her neck, oblivious to the fact the young woman was having difficulty breathing. The little girl rushed to her mother, hugging her legs, wailing with terror.

  Vilar felt hands on his shoulders, on
his arms, pulling him away, forcing him to let go, he heard voices, among them Daras’ telling him to cool it, not to manhandle a witness. He took a few steps back, out of breath, and roughly shook off the hands of the others still holding him. Daras handcuffed Carole again and she was led away by two officers.

  “Michel! Call the procureur’s office and the brigade des mineurs. Tell them you’re bringing in a child. And get me a car.”

  She pulled up a chair and sat down close to the little girl who was still standing, petrified and silent, in the middle of the room amid the forest of legs of the motionless and now silent police officers.

  “We’ll look after you. Your maman has to come with us so we can ask her some questions. What’s your name?”

  The little girl looked at the gun one of the policemen was still holding.

  “Could you give us some space, please?” Daras said quietly to the policeman, jerking her chin towards his weapon.

  The man left without a word. Daras brushed a lock of hair from the girl’s face.

  “What’s your name, sweetie?”

  “Manon.”

  “And how old are you, Manon?”

  “I’m five.”

  A female officer came in, taking off her cap.

  “I can take care of her, if you like. We’ve got a free car. They’ll give her something to eat back at the station. I’ve worked with them before.”

  Daras started to explain to the little girl what was going to happen. Vilar left the room, his head buzzing and filled with cotton wool. He crossed the landing and went back into the living room where his colleagues were collecting the spoils of their search: fifty grams of weed, a dozen rocks of crack, two hunting knives and an Astra revolver with no ammunition. The five suspects were sitting on the sofa, they did not move, did not speak to each other, did not look at anything, seemingly indifferent to what was going on around them. Only Carole Picard looked up and shot at Vilar a look filled with hatred to which he responded with a shrug.

  He found himself suddenly useless and drained. He went out onto the landing and started down the stairs, dazzled by the solid slab of sunlight carved by the door onto the street.

  “Pierre!”

  Daras’ voice. Vilar kept walking, squinting as he came into the harsh sunlight. It was almost 11.00 a.m. He fumbled in his pockets for cigarettes, but he had left them at home. He saw a gendarme standing nearby light up and was going over to bum one when Daras’ voice caught up with him.

  “Here,” she said, holding out a pack of cigarettes.

  She was smoking herself. He was surprised, and gave her an ironic smile.

  “You’ve started again?”

  “Too right. Bought them last night. I’m allowing myself a cancer break.”

  “Not a bad idea. That way you get used to the beast and you won’t be so shaken when it shows up.”

  “Yeah, and then what? Shit …”

  They smoked in silence. Daras calmly turned her face towards the sun.

  “Is that it, then? Have you calmed down?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. You should have let me put the fear of God into that bitch. Maybe she might start to understand.”

  “You understand everything, do you?”

  Vilar shook his head, flicked his cigarette into the distance.

  “What about the kid she kept locked up, do you think she understands? What are we supposed to tell her?”

  “Her mother …”

  “Mother? I’m not sure the word really applies.”

  Daras blew the smoke far out in front of her and looked him in the eye.

  “As I was saying, the mother said that one of the guys had a thing about the kid, which is why she kept her locked up while …”

  “While she was getting her leg over in the neighbours’ apartment. Model fucking parent. Why don’t we give her a medal?”

  Daras looked around and sighed, tight-lipped. The muscles in her cheeks twitched.

  “I never said she was a model parent, I’m not stupid. But she’s still the girl’s mother, and I don’t suppose she got to be a mother all by herself. Did you stop to think about the father?”

  She was standing close to Vilar, talking into his face. He stared back defiantly.

  “She told us everything, because she’s terrified of her child being taken into care. The father was her boyfriend at university. She wasn’t exactly an innocent, a bit of a rock chick, and the guy was immature. When he found out she was pregnant, he was thrilled. Refused to let her have an abortion, threatened to leave her if she did. She believed him, she kept the baby. The little fucker showed up to the maternity ward just once. She never saw him again. He went back to his parents in Brive. A practising Catholic, with a degree in politics and a clean-cut image. He’ll probably be a cabinet minister before he’s thirty. After he left, the girl fell out with her parents and she had a tough time bringing up her kid. That’s the story. I’m not sure your macho morality lessons are appropriate.”

  Vilar shook his head.

  “The kid was locked up all by herself. She was scared stiff. There’s no excuse for that.”

  “I’m not making excuses. I’m just telling you how it is. We’re police officers, not judges. Especially not in cases like this. We collared three fuckwits who stabbed and killed a random stranger. That’s what we’re paid for. But when it comes to her child, it’s not my job to judge that girl – and it’s not yours.”

  Vilar was about to say something, but Daras put a hand on his arm:

  “You have to stop losing it every time you come across some kid who’s had a tough life, otherwise one of these days you won’t be able to do your job at all.”

  An officer came over and said they were taking the suspects down to the station. Daras checked her watch, swore under her breath, she had a ton of paperwork to get through that would probably keep them busy well into the evening.

  Minutes later the police cars that had cordoned off the street since dawn had disappeared. Two officers stayed to keep an eye on the forensics team as they gathered up the evidence.

  Caussade quickly confessed to the stabbing, but justified his actions because the victim, Kevin Labrousse, had been slow to give him a cigarette. Besides, he said, he had been up all night drinking. When asked if he had been aware that his actions might have fatal consequences, Caussade did not seem to understand the question, and when Pradeau, who was leading the interrogation, rephrased it, he sighed peevishly and said he had no idea.

  Caussade’s answers were an object lesson in studied weariness. All these questions “were making his head spin”, he said. It was not his doing, he said, it was “fate”. At this, Pradeau kicked the chair out from under him.

  “You’re the one who murdered him,” he yelled, “not ‘fate’!”

  “Yeah, yeah, alright, fine!” Caussade grumbled. “No need to get all worked up, it’s not going to bring the guy back. It’s not like I wanted to kill him, I couldn’t give a fuck about him. Look, I was off my face, it just happened. Too late to fix it now.”

  Carole Picard and Marc Chauvin claimed that there was nothing they could have done, that it all happened so quickly, and when asked why they did not report Caussade – who, after all, had killed a man who had never done him any harm – they both insisted it was a matter of loyalty – one of the few values they clung to – and besides, they said, they didn’t grass. Chauvin was panicked about the possible repercussions, but a man’s death barely seemed to touch him, it was something remote, abstract, it was meaningless. Like something in a video game. Neither expressed remorse or even a whit of compassion.

  The procureur was kept regularly informed, and towards 11.00 p.m. the three accused were taken to the cells to appear before the court first thing in the morning.

  The officers quickly headed towards the underground car park, each of them finally alone but done in. Engines roared into life, tyres squealed, and a procession of vehicles sped up the exit ramp, like gangsters making a getaway.

&nb
sp; The first thing Vilar did when he got home was turn on his computer. Morvan had sent him an email an hour earlier: they needed to meet up, he had something to show Vilar, he could not talk on the phone. “It’s not exactly a lead, Pierre, don’t get your hopes up, but it’s interesting, we need to talk,” the former gendarme had written. Vilar sat for a long time staring at the two-line message on the screen, as though somehow more information would appear by magic. He felt as though he were on a slow merry-go-round watching familiar faces flash past, a dizzy feeling keeping him rooted to his seat.

  Not a lead, no. The best Vilar could hope for was a snake-infested field of brambles, and maybe a few old footprints, all but worn away.

  *

  The following morning at 7.30 a.m. he called at the home of Thierry Lataste, the man in the Mercedes who had been dating Nadia Fournier when she died. Posh area, nice, two-storey middle-class house, a pretty wife called Mireille who could not hide her panic when he showed his warrant card and asked to speak to her husband. Without even asking what it was about, she stepped aside to let him in. Lataste appeared from the kitchen, holding a large mug and wearing a pale suit over a bottle-green polo shirt. He was about to leave for work, he said.

  “Well, then, you’ll need to call and tell them you’ll be late.”

  “Would you mind telling me just exactly what …”

  Lataste had said the words a little too brashly, setting his cup down with a faint clink on a glass table and stepping forward in the hope of intimidating this interloper. Vilar sized him up: early forties, not bad-looking, and, as the head of a property advisory office, probably used to being obeyed, even feared, but now, behind the arrogant facade, he looked nervous. He glanced furtively at his wife who stood, frozen, leaning against the banister, staring at Vilar as though an exterminating angel had come to call.