The young woman was not smiling. In fact, she seemed incredibly on edge.
“What’s wrong?” Le Goënec asked immediately.
“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” she said, brandishing a page from France-Soir, on which a photograph of Le Goënec bent over Gérard’s lifeless body took pride of place.
“The Bloody Assault,” read the headline.
“What does the inspector think of the photograph?” asked Florence bitterly. “I came across it in the paper’s archives. It really knocked me on my ass!”
“I understand why you’re mad,” Le Goënec said, his stomach turning. “Let me explain.”
“I can put up with anything in a man except lies. You lied to me. I can never trust you again.”
“Listen, if I didn’t tell you I was a cop, it was for a good reason, OK? But since you take it like that, ciao,” Le Goënec said, making to leave.
“Good riddance!”
His hand on the doorknob, Le Goënec turned and gave her a hard look. This time, Flo felt she had to back down. She was impulsive, the type to blow a fuse and then immediately regret it.
“Forgive me, my love, I shouldn’t have talked to you like that, but put yourself in my place. I was mad with rage,” she said, snuggling against her man without saying another word.
It was a close call. Le Goënec, not the resentful type, hugged her close. The scent of Shalimar made him forget all thought of leaving.
“Was it because you were fired that you switched to photography?”
“No. I’m on a major case, top secret. I needed a watertight cover.”
“Very well. Don’t tell me any more.”
“Now that you know, I don’t have much left to hide from you. I think it’s fortunate we met.”
Florence wriggled out of the embrace and scrutinized him. The lovely brunette had the feeling her hardheaded Breton was up to something.
“Darling, how would you like to collaborate with an ex-cop who’s sitting on a shit heap that could blow up in his face?”
“How much more can you tell me?”
“I’m dealing with a disgusting case, and I’m trying to bring down a very high-profile public figure. You could help tell my side of the story by writing a series of articles. But on one condition: don’t publish anything before I give the green light. I’ll let you have the scoop. Is it a deal?”
“What’s it all about? Drugs, corruption, arms dealing?”
“No, it’s much more serious, Flo.”
The image of the three terrorized kids in the depths of the cellar came to him. Three childhoods ruined to satisfy sadistic sickos. Le Goënec’s jaws stiffened with the raw emotion of it all. There was a sinister gleam in his eye. This was the first time that Florence had seen her man in this state.
“What’s it all about, Loïc?”
“It’s not an easy thing to hear,” he said, heading over to the sofa and sitting down. “I’ll tell you everything, from the very beginning.”
Le Goënec had been riding his Honda around and around the chic avenues of Le Vésinet before he found the Centre Saint-Exupéry, a complex of multi-use spaces where one could do all kinds of activities, from theater to weight training, not to mention acrobatic rock and roll. Florence was already there, sitting patiently inside her red Clio. She jumped when a large, gloved hand rapped on her window. No worries; it was only Le Goënec. Punctual as ever. Florence got out of her car, a little tense. The cop reassured her with a smile and a wink in place of a passionate kiss. Off they went.
“You know, my treasure, I’ve been wanting to sign up for a yoga class for years. How about you?” said Le Goënec with a grin.
The couple entered the center, which smelled of disinfectant and hashish, like a throwback to the 1960s. The two hippies at the front desk no doubt passed the time reminiscing about the good old days of free love and prog-rock extravaganzas.
There were posters everywhere advertising a multitude of activities, as well as some rather unexciting shows, such as a Marxist Macbeth performed by a support group for ex-druggies. Le Goënec cast his eye swiftly over the bulletin board and saw that ballet classes were on the second floor. Once upstairs, the two looked for the entrance to the ballet room.
A door opened at the other end of the corridor, and out stepped a young woman wearing too much makeup and tottering on impossibly high stilettos. She walked toward them, looking at them intently. Not very welcoming.
“Can I help you?”
“We would like to see the ballet teacher,” said Le Goënec. “Can we speak with him?”
She consulted her Swatch with a disdainful air and said, “Mr. Boudon has another half hour of class. Why do you need to see him?”
“I’m a producer, and I’m making a documentary about Le Vésinet,” said Le Goënec. “My name is François Herman, and this is my assistant.”
Florence, feeling rather uncomfortable, barely managed to crack a smile. Ever the professional, Le Goënec pulled out a business card bearing the name Mirage Productions, a little gift from his buddy Marc, production manager for a company that made institutional films.
Visibly reassured, the young woman handed back the card, saying, “Very well, you may go in. You’ll see the end of the class.”
Le Goënec held open the door for Florence. Inside, Martin Boudon conducted his class in a loud voice.
“And one, and two, and three . . . Knees turned out.”
Le Vésinet’s answer to Mikhail Baryshnikov appeared to be bored stiff. In the large room, a dozen boys and girls, aged around eleven or twelve, were at the barre, opposite a mirror. With the middle-aged paunch of one who likes a good nosh, there was nothing about Boudon that said star dancer. He looked more like a retired sumo wrestler. As for the music, there was no piano, just a plain old tape player blasting crackly music from The Nutcracker.
“Watch the turns,” he screamed, incensed. Forgetting his rolls of fat, the ex-dancer positioned himself in front of the pupils and gave a rapid demonstration. “Right foot forward . . . dégagé . . . fermé . . . tour en dehors . . . Let’s go.”
The young dancers were possessed by a submissiveness quite unusual in kids of their age. Le Goënec noticed this strange dynamic right away. It made him uneasy.
After a final series of exercises, the teacher clapped his hands with authority. The class was over. Each pupil gave a little bow before disappearing into the changing rooms to shower. Florence, who had taken ballet classes when she was a little girl, found the whole circus grotesque and miserable.
“Can I help you?” asked Boudon with the icy air of a guru.
“I’m a producer of documentaries,” said Le Goënec. “This is my assistant. I’m looking for children for a shoot. Children who know how to dance and sing.”
“Who sent you?” asked the teacher, wearing the gaze of a dangerous reptile.
“A friend of mine, Robert Malet.”
Boudon nodded as if he understood. He immediately relaxed, and a thin smile played across his rotund face. “How many children, and for when?”
“Three. Two boys and a girl,” said Le Goënec, hiding his repulsion. “About twelve years old. Say, for Saturday.”
“Where will the shoot take place?”
“In a villa close to Saint-Germain-en-Laye. I’ll give you the exact address tomorrow, along with the money.”
Boudon nodded his assent.
“Can we see some pictures?” Le Goënec asked.
The ballet teacher led them to his office, a small, scrupulously tidy room. He rummaged through a drawer. He took out a pink folder containing a dozen color photographs and handed them to Le Goënec.
“Look, these are special animated photographs. Lenticular printing. They move. You view them like this,” he added, mischievously, taking one of them and wiggling it backward and forward.
The little girl in the tutu, smiling so innocently, appeared alternately dressed and undressed.
“Clever,” said Le Goënec, repressing a violent urge to floor Boudon with a punch straight to the face. “How can I get in touch with you if I require more precise information?”
“Right here. They’ll pass on any messages for me.”
“I’ll take these ones,” Le Goënec said, selecting three photos at random.
“You’ll have no difficulties with those ones. I’m often asked for them. They’ve already been on film shoots. You won’t be disappointed. True pros.”
Le Goënec and Florence were not sad to take their leave of Boudon. As they left, Le Goënec thought to himself that sometimes one had to pay a very heavy price to get to the truth.
“What a monster,” muttered Florence, once they were in the street. “He really makes me want to puke.”
Le Goënec placed a kiss on the end of her little turned-up nose before saying, “Now the process is under way. Act II: this son of a bitch brings the kids to a villa rented by us. We catch him red-handed, and I make him tell us everything. Then, all we have to do is follow the trail back to Hervet.”
“So what do we do now?”
You go home, write up your notes, and lock them away safely.”
“OK, chief,” she said, nibbling at his earlobe.
“I’m going off to do my dirty work.”
They reached the red Clio. The inspector gently took Florence’s chin between his thumb and forefinger and pulled her lips toward his.
“Hold up,” she said. “Never while on duty.”
“You’re dismissed for now.”
They shared a deep kiss that took Le Goënec’s breath away.
“Call me tonight, OK?”
“I promise,” Le Goënec replied.
He was already walking across the street. His day was only just beginning. As she got back in her car, Florence gave her sweetheart a final wave.
It was eleven a.m., according to the clock in the little car. Florence turned the key in the ignition. This case really excited her. If Le Goënec allowed her to accompany him all the time, she could write the best article of her career. No more dead dogs and traffic accidents. The time had come to strike a blow, to give her show-off colleagues a lesson in American-style investigative journalism.
She was just about to pull out when in her rearview mirror she noticed Martin Boudon leaving the center. She instinctively huddled down so as not to be seen. The teacher squeezed his girth into a Lancia Delta. The engine roared as he started it.
Without thinking, Florence decided to follow him. The Clio slipped in behind Boudon, who was driving very fast. Fortunately, the young woman loved speed; it didn’t scare her at all. She kept a sensible distance. The idea of being spotted tied her stomach in knots.
Where was this madman going? Given the direction, he seemed to be heading straight for the sticks. But there was no question of backing down now.
The two cars entered a residential area that was very quiet at this time of day. As they reached an intersection, the Lancia suddenly accelerated as the light changed to yellow, then turned right.
“Fucking asshole,” Florence said, coming to a stop under the watchful eye of a cop sitting on his moped.
When the light changed to green, she turned down the same street as Boudon. It was empty, with narrow side streets running off it. Florence drove around the neighborhood’s one-way streets for a good while, hoping to spot Boudon’s car. But she very soon had to face the fact: the Lancia and its driver had disappeared.
Somewhat miffed, the young woman headed back to Paris. If she’d been a little more observant, Florence would have realized she’d been served a taste of her own medicine. Having lain in wait, Martin Boudon was now tailing the Clio at a distance. Ever since he’d started working for Hervet, he had learned to keep a close eye on his rearview mirror.
He trailed her just long enough to write down the Clio’s license plate on an old parking ticket he would never pay. He had to learn this woman’s identity.
CHAPTER VII
Laure took advantage of the sunshine to clean her windows. When the weather was fine like this, it was a sheer joy to be living on a houseboat moored at the Quai de l’Alma, right in the very center of Paris. She rubbed away with her rag, sparing no effort. With obsessive care, she leaned in close, inspecting the glass to make sure that not the slightest speck remained. That’s when she got the shock of her life. An unreal sight—it couldn’t be! Had she really seen a body float by? Laure quickly grabbed a stool and climbed onto it to get a better view. It hadn’t been a hallucination. The Seine really had carried a body right past her boat.
“Julien! Julien! Come quick,” she screamed to her husband, scurrying belowdecks. “There’s a stiff floating in the river!”
Tavernier’s cold gaze was riveted to the huge gold signet ring sitting tightly on the gray, swollen pinky. Malet was not a pretty sight to see after two days in the drink. Rats and fish had eaten his moustache and everything around it.
Standing there impassively, hands in the pockets of his trench coat, Tavernier watched the frogman who had fished out the corpse taking off his scuba gear. The firemen had wrapped Malet’s body in a blanket and placed it on a stretcher. An inspector had pieced together the ripped up ID card found in Malet’s pocket.
“You seen this, boss? He’s one of ours.”
“Awful,” sighed Tavernier. “I saw him only a week ago. Must have been something to do with that business with the Ghanaian prostitutes. Shit, I can’t believe it. Jean-Paul, I want two of your guys on this.”
“What do you make of the ID ripped up like that? Odd, isn’t it?”
“His killer can’t have held him in very high esteem.”
Paul Hervet scrutinized himself harshly in the large bathroom mirror. Still two kilos too many. The chief was keen to maintain his string-bean figure. He had a supermodel’s obsession with his weight. He’d puke in the toilet after a thousand-franc meal. He promised himself he would hardly touch the buffet following the ceremony over which he was due to preside this morning. He left the room quickly, pulling on a pale pink shirt.
The dining room opened onto a conservatory that connected to the terrace. The tablecloth, which was hand-embroidered with large, bright yellow daisies, was laid with a porcelain Villeroy & Boch breakfast service.
Charlotte Hervet was a tall, blonde, sporty woman in her forties. Her slight androgyny somehow lent her a certain class. A trendy jet-setter type like her husband, she attended all the Paris society events. Thanks to her personal fortune and her status as the wife of the chief of police, she was surrounded by a gaggle of snobbish hangers-on who would take her along to the capital’s most exclusive nightclubs, often until dawn.
Wearing a Lacoste polo shirt and miniskirt, Charlotte Hervet spread orange marmalade on a fresh roll. After ten years of marriage, she had finally accepted her husband’s homosexuality. A scandal was out of the question for an aristocratic family. Their marriage had become one of polite indifference. If she wanted to get laid, the young party boys who haunted the high-class raves were perfectly suited to the job.
Paul Hervet finished knotting his tie as he entered. He kissed his wife on the forehead, as he did each morning, and took his usual seat.
“Tennis today?” he asked, just to fill the silence.
“Yes, I feel tip-top. I hope I’ll finally be able to beat that idiot Arnaud.”
“You’re lucky. I’d also like to have a bit more time for sport. I still can’t lose these two damn kilos.”
A creature of habit, Hervet opened the morning paper and skimmed the headlines, suddenly exclaiming, “Christ almighty!”
It was there in black and white: “Body of Vice Cop Fished from Seine.” It only took the first few lines to propel him into an all-out nightmare:
/> On Wednesday morning the body of Inspector Robert Malet was discovered in the Seine. It would appear that he had been dead for several days. According to the forensic pathologist who examined the body, a large contusion at the base of the skull indicated the probable cause of death. The autopsy report goes further, concluding that the inspector was killed before his body was thrown into the river. Robert Malet worked for the vice squad. The investigation is focusing on a revenge killing by a prostitution ring.
Hervet rushed into his office, copy of Le Figaro in hand, and feverishly dialed a phone number.
Robert Malet had bought a place in a new apartment building on Quai Kennedy, right next to the Radio France headquarters. The vice cop had picked a three-room apartment with a terrace, opposite the Seine. A lovely bachelor pad. Having a woman around the house wasn’t really his style. Girls had always just passed through his life. It made for a low-maintenance existence.
The twins, Nikita and Nicolas, parked their Toyota 4x4 close to the building and entered the lobby after pressing several buzzers to get in. The two blond musclemen always went everywhere together. A combination of martial arts and weight training had given both of them the physique of a young Sylvester Stallone. As for gray matter, the brothers could hold their own in a chess match against Garry Kasparov. The only distinguishing mark to tell them apart was the mole above Nicolas’s right eyebrow.
They wore identical sweatpants and spoke little. A glance and a gesture were enough for them to understand each other. In the elevator taking them up to the twelfth floor, the two heavies scrutinized themselves in the mirror, attentive to their appearance. It was their secret weapon.
The elevator opened onto a maze of corridors covered in thick carpet made to welcome expensive shoes. Luck smiled upon them: Nikita found the right door in the first corridor they’d taken. His double took a master key from his pocket. In no time at all, the lock was open. The twins split up to search the dark apartment, their usual method of operation. Drawers, shelves, boxes, cushions, mattress—nothing was overlooked.
Dance of the Angels Page 7
