‘No, that’s what I call you,’ answered the man. ‘Margot calls you “Dad”. She loves you very much.’
Servaz would not be swayed by emotion.
‘And what does your wife think?’
The man immediately regained his coldness.
‘That’s none of your business,’ he retorted.
‘And have you talked to Margot about it?’
He saw with satisfaction that he had managed to rattle him.
‘Listen, even if you are her father, it’s none of your business. Yes, I told Margot everything. She doesn’t care. Now I must ask you to leave.’
‘And if I don’t feel like leaving, what are you going to do: call the cops?’
‘You shouldn’t play that sort of game with me,’ said the man in a low but threatening voice.
‘No? What if I went to see your wife and discussed it with her?’
‘Why are you doing this?’ asked his daughter’s lover – but to Servaz’s great surprise, he seemed more puzzled than frightened.
Servaz hesitated.
‘I don’t like the idea that my seventeen-year-old daughter is being toyed with by a man your age who couldn’t care less.’
‘What do you know about it?’
‘Would you get a divorce for a seventeen-year-old?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Ridiculous? Don’t you think it’s ridiculous for a bloke your age to be having it off with a kid? Isn’t there something profoundly pathetic about it all?’
‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said the man. ‘Drop it right there. Stop acting the policeman.’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard me.’
‘She’s a minor. I could arrest you.’
‘That’s bullshit! The age of consent in this country is fifteen. And you’ll find yourself in deep water if you go on like this.’
‘Oh, really?’ said Servaz sarcastically.
‘I’m a lawyer,’ said the man.
Shit, thought Servaz. That’s all I need.
‘Yes,’ confirmed his daughter’s lover. ‘A member of the bar of Toulouse. Margot was afraid you might find out about our … affair. She has a great deal of respect for you, but, naturally, where certain things are concerned she finds you somewhat … old-fashioned.’
Servaz remained silent.
‘Beneath her rebellious exterior, Margot is a wonderful girl, brilliant and independent. And a lot more mature than you give her credit for. Having said that, you’re right: I have no intention of leaving my family for her. And she knows it very well. Besides, she sees boys her own age, too, occasionally.’
Servaz wanted to tell him to shut up.
‘How long has this been going on?’ he asked, in a voice that sounded strange to his own ears.
‘Ten months. We met in the queue at the cinema. She’s the one who started it, if you must know.’
So she was sixteen when it happened … His blood was throbbing. The man’s voice were being drowned out by the buzzing of a thousand bees.
‘I understand your concern,’ said the lawyer, ‘but it’s misplaced: Margot is a self-confident, well-balanced girl – she can make her own decisions.’
He found the strength to react: ‘Self-confident? Haven’t you seen her lately, how sad she is? Is it because of you?’
The man looked genuinely embarrassed, but he held Servaz’s gaze.
‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s because of you. She can see how lost and distraught you are. She can tell that loneliness is getting you down, that you would like to spend more time with her, that your job is eating away at you and you miss her mother. And it’s breaking her heart. I’ll say it again: Margot cares very deeply for you.’
There was a moment’s silence. When Servaz spoke again, it was in a very cold voice.
‘A brilliant defence, mate,’ he said. ‘But you should keep that sort of patter for the courtroom. You’re wasting your time with me.’
Out of the corner of his eye, he was pleased to see that the man had taken offence at his familiarity.
‘Now listen carefully. You’re a lawyer, you have a reputation, and without your reputation you are dead, professionally. Whether my daughter is legally of age or not doesn’t change a thing. If the rumour gets out that you’re sleeping with a kid, it will be over for you. You will lose your clients one after the other. And your wife may turn a blind eye to your behaviour now, but she’ll be less willing to do so when the money dries up, believe me. So you’re going to tell Margot that it is over between you, as tactfully as possible. You can tell her what you like: palaver is your strong point, after all. But I don’t want to hear of you ever again. And by the way, I’ve recorded this conversation, except the end. Just in case. Have a good day.’
He stood up and walked away, without even turning to check the effect his words had had. He already knew. Then he thought of Margot’s pain, and felt a twinge of remorse.
* * *
On Christmas Day, Servaz got up early and went downstairs without making a sound. He felt full of energy. He and Margot had stayed up talking till the small hours, after everyone else had gone to bed: father and daughter in a living room that was not theirs, sitting at the end of the sofa next to the Christmas tree.
At the foot of the stairs, he glanced at the thermometer. One degree above zero outside. And fifteen degrees indoors: his hosts had turned down the heat for the night and the house was cold.
Servaz stood for a few seconds listening to the silence. He could imagine them under their duvets: Vincent and Charlène, Mégan, Margot. It was the first time in a long time that he’d been away from home on a Christmas morning. A strange feeling, but not an unpleasant one. The opposite in fact. Sleeping under the same roof were his best friend and assistant, a woman who filled him with desire and his own daughter. Bizarre? The most bizarre thing was that he accepted things as they were. When he had told Espérandieu he would be spending Christmas Eve with his daughter, Espérandieu had immediately invited them. Servaz was about to refuse, but to his great surprise he found himself accepting.
‘But I don’t even know them!’ Margot had protested in the car. ‘You told me there’d be just the two of us, not that we’d be spending the evening with a bunch of cops!’
But Margot had got along very well with Charlène, Mégan and above all Vincent. At one point she’d got quite drunk, and waving the bottle of champagne, she exclaimed, ‘I never imagined a cop could be so nice!’ It was the first time Servaz had ever seen his daughter tipsy. Vincent was almost as drunk as she was, and he wept with laughter. As for Servaz, at first he had felt awkward in Charlène’s presence, and he couldn’t help but remember her kiss at the gallery. But with the help of the alcohol and the atmosphere, he had eventually relaxed.
He was heading barefoot into the kitchen when his toes struck an object that began to flash, making a strident noise. A Japanese robot. Or Chinese. He wondered whether there were more Chinese products on the market in this country now than French ones. But then a black shape burst out of the living room and came rushing at his legs. Servaz bent down and gave the dog a brisk rub; it was the same mutt Espérandieu had run over on the road to the nightclub. He’d gone to get the vet out of bed at three o’clock in the morning and the dog had been saved. He had turned out to be very gentle and affectionate, so Espérandieu decided to adopt him. In memory of that freezing, terrifying night, he had named him Shadow.
‘Hey, boy,’ said Servaz. ‘And Merry Christmas. Who knows where you’d be right now if you hadn’t had the bright idea of crossing the road?’
Shadow replied with several approving yaps, his black tail banging against Servaz’s legs. Apparently he was not the first one up: Charlène Espérandieu was already awake. She had started the kettle and the coffee machine, and was dropping bread into the toaster. She had her back to him and he gazed at her for a moment, at her long auburn hair falling onto her dressing gown. He was about to leave, a lump in his throat, when sh
e turned towards him, her hand on her round belly.
‘Good morning, Martin.’
Through the window he saw a car go down the street very slowly. All round the edge of the roof, Christmas lights were twinkling, as they must have done all night long. A real Christmas night, he thought. He started forward and stepped on a soft toy, which let out a squeak. Charlène laughed and bent down to pick it up. Then she stood up straight, put a hand on his neck, pulled him close and kissed him. Servaz immediately felt the blood rush to his cheeks. What if someone came in? At the same time, he felt an instant desire, in spite of the round belly between them. It wasn’t the first time he’d been kissed by a pregnant woman, but this time the woman wasn’t pregnant by him.
‘Charlène, I—’
‘Sshhh. Don’t say anything. Did you sleep well?’
‘Very well. May I – could I have a coffee?’
She caressed his cheek affectionately and went over to the coffee machine.
‘Charlène—’
‘Don’t say anything, Martin. Not now. We’ll talk about it later. It’s Christmas.’
He took the cup of coffee and drank it down, his head empty. His mouth was furry. He was suddenly sorry he hadn’t brushed his teeth before coming down. When he turned round, she had vanished. Servaz leaned against the countertop, feeling as if there were ants gnawing away in his stomach. He could feel in his bones the scars of his expedition on the mountain. This was the strangest Christmas he had ever known. And also the most terrifying. He could not forget that Hirtmann was out there. Had he left the area? Was he thousands of miles away? Or was he lurking somewhere nearby? Servaz couldn’t stop thinking about him. And about Lombard, too: they had finally found his corpse. Frozen. Servaz shivered every time he thought about it. What a horrible way to die … and he had almost died the same way.
The icy, bloody interlude of the investigation seemed so unreal now. And already so far away. Servaz knew there were things that would probably never be explained. Like the initials ‘C S’ on the rings. What did they stand for? And when had the foursome’s series of crimes begun? Who had been the ringleader? The answers would remain buried for ever. Chaperon had walled himself up in silence. He was waiting in prison to be tried, but he hadn’t revealed a thing. Then Servaz remembered something else. He would be forty years old a few days from now. He’d been born on 31 December – and, according to his mother, on the stroke of midnight: she had heard the champagne corks popping in the next room at the very moment he let out his first cry.
The thought of it struck him like a slap in the face. He was about to turn forty … What had he done with his life?
* * *
‘Basically, you’re the one who made the most important discovery in the whole case,’ declared Kleim162 the day after Christmas. ‘Not your boss – what’s his name again?’
Kleim162 had come down to spend the holidays in the Southwest. He’d arrived in Toulouse the night before on the TGV.
‘Servaz.’
‘Well, anyway, your Monsieur I-quote-proverbs-in-Latin-so-I’lllook-clever, he may be the king of cops, but that doesn’t hide the fact that you were ahead of him.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. I was lucky. And Martin did a remarkable job.’
‘Where does he stand sexually, your living god?’
‘Straight, a hundred and fifty per cent.’
‘Pity.’
Kleim162 swung his legs out of the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. He was naked. Vincent Espérandieu took a moment to admire his broad, muscular back as he smoked, one hand behind his neck, his back propped against the pillows. A faint film of sweat shone on his chest. When Kleim162 stood up and walked over to the bathroom, the cop could not help but check him out again. Outside it was snowing, at last, on 26 December.
‘I don’t suppose you’re in love with him,’ said Kleim162 from the bathroom.
‘My wife is.’
The blond head peered back round the door.
‘What do you mean? Are they sleeping together?’
‘Not yet,’ said Vincent, blowing smoke towards the ceiling.
‘But I thought she was pregnant? And that he’s the future godfather?’
‘True enough.’
Kleim162 studied him with genuine stupefaction.
‘And you’re not jealous?’
Espérandieu just smiled, raising his eyes to the ceiling. The young journalist shook his head as if he were deeply shocked, and vanished into the bathroom. Espérandieu put his headphones back on. The marvellously hoarse voice of Mark Lanegan in reply to Isobel Campbell’s dreamy murmuring in ‘The False Husband’.
* * *
One fine April morning, Servaz went to pick up his daughter at his ex-wife’s place. He smiled as she came out of the house with her backpack and sunglasses.
They took the motorway towards the Pyrenees, then the Montréjeau/ Saint-Martin-de-Comminges exit, causing Servaz to frown and the base of his skull to itch. Then they drove due south, heading for the mountains. The weather was incredibly beautiful. The sky was blue; the summits were white. Through the open window the pure air was exhilarating, like ether. Margot had put her favourite music on full blast in her headphones, and was singing over it – but even this could not mar Servaz’s good mood.
The idea for this outing had come to him a week earlier, when Irène Ziegler had called to ask how he was doing. He drove through picturesque villages, the mountains coming ever nearer until they were so close he could no longer distinguish them, and the road began to climb. With every bend in the road they came upon grandiose views: hamlets tucked away at the end of valleys, streams sparkling in the sun, layers of mist suffused with light surrounding the cattle. The landscape, he mused, didn’t look at all the same anymore. Then they reached the little car park. The morning sun, hidden behind the mountains, had not yet reached it. They were not the first ones there. A motorbike was parked at the end. Two people were waiting for them, sitting on the rocks.
‘Good morning, Martin,’ said Ziegler.
‘Good morning, Irène. Irène, let me introduce Margot, my daughter. Margot, Irène.’
Irène shook Margot’s hand and turned to introduce the pretty woman by her side. Zuzka Smatanova had a firm handshake, long jet-black hair and a dazzling smile. They spoke few words before heading off, like no time had passed since they’d last seen each other. Ziegler and Martin went in front; Zuzka and Margot let them get ahead. Servaz could hear them laughing behind him. Somewhat further along, during the long climb, he and Irène began to talk. The pebbles on the path cracked beneath the thick soles of their shoes, and the murmur of water rose from the stream below. The sun was already warm on their legs and faces.
‘I went on looking,’ she said suddenly, when they had just gone over a little wooden bridge.
‘Looking for what?’
‘Information about the four men.’
He gave her a cautious look. He did not want to spoil this fine day by stirring up unpleasant memories.
‘And?’
‘I found out that at age fifteen Chaperon, Perrault, Grimm and Mourrenx were sent by their parents to a holiday camp. By the sea. You know what the colony was called?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Colonie des Sternes.’
‘So?’
‘You remember the letters on the ring?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you think that – that maybe that is where they began…?’
‘It’s possible.’
The morning light filtered through the leaves of an aspen grove rustling in the light breeze.
‘Fifteen years old. The age where you find out who you really are. Where you make your lifelong friendships. The age of sexual awakening, too,’ said Servaz.
‘And the age of your first crimes,’ added Ziegler, looking at him.
‘Yes, that could be it.’
‘Or it could be something else,’ said Ziegler.
‘Or it could be something else.�
�
‘What’s going on?’ called Margot, coming up to them. ‘Why did you stop?’
Zuzka gave them a penetrating look.
‘Let it go,’ she said. ‘Shit, let it go!’
Servaz looked all around him. It really was a magnificent day. He spared a thought for his father. He smiled.
‘Yes, time to let it go,’ he said, and started walking again.
Author’s Note
Some of the facts and information contained in this book may seem the product of an overactive imagination; this is not at all the case. The subterranean power plant two thousand metres up does exist; I simply moved it by a few dozen kilometres. Similarly, some of the psychiatric techniques described here, such as aversion treatment or penile plethysmography, are, unfortunately, practised in hospitals in Europe and other parts of the world. So is electroshock – and while it has certainly changed from the era of Lou Reed and ‘Kill Your Sons’, it is still very much in the news in twenty-first-century France.
As for the music that Espérandieu listens to, you can always download it.
Acknowledgements
As far as acknowledgements are concerned, the number one suspect must be Jean-Pierre Schamber. An ideal culprit, who combines impeccable taste, a passion for crime novels and other literary forms, and a knowledge of music that I sorely lack. He is the one who, from the very first pages, made it clear to me that I couldn’t stop there. Thank you, friend.
The other suspects, whatever their degree of guilt, are also partly responsible for the crime: my wife, who knows what living with a writer means, and who has made life infinitely easier; my daughter, a globetrotter for whom the very planet is far too small – I would need three lives to catch up with her; my son, who knows a lot more than I do about the latest technology and who will hopefully put it to one side long enough to read this book.
Dominique Matos Ventura is surely another lead: without his encouraging words, his talent and our friendship, this book would not exist. His songs, moreover, were the soundtrack for this book while I was writing it.
Greg Robert might not be guilty, but he is definitely suspicious: a tireless tracker of abnormalities and a patient proofreader, whose only fault is that he loves fantasy. Greg is as much a friend as he is my nephew.
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