Crimes of Winter

by Philippe Georget

  Sabine Henri needed only a few seconds to make her decision. She had the security perimeter expanded, to the south as far as the intersection with the Avenue du Général Jean Gilles, to the north as far as the Rue Blondel. She had all the houses within this perimeter evacuated. After transmitting her instructions, she turned to Sebag.

  “Go ahead, Lieutenant.”

  Gilles dialed the number of the house’s landline. He thought that for making the first contact, it was less intrusive than calling the mobile directly. The telephone rang a long time before someone picked up. Then there were a few seconds of silence.

  “Yes, who is it?”

  A deep, thick, aggressive voice. Sebag turned on the speaker.

  “Lieutenant Sebag of the Perpignan police. I wanted to be sure that everything is all right, Monsieur Gali.”

  “Yeah, everything’s fine, just peachy.”

  “And everyone is all right there?”

  “If you mean . . . my wife, yes, she’s fine. She’s fine . . . for the moment. Have you had the neighborhood evacuated?”

  “Is that necessary?”

  “It might be, yeah!”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’ve got what I need to set it on fire, that’s why, you boob!”

  Sebag remained calm.

  “Is that what you want?”

  “I have to say that I’d like that a lot, yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I feel like it!”

  “Is that a good enough reason?”

  “For me it is, yeah!”

  “What did your neighbors do to you?”

  Silence. That lasted ten seconds.

  “Nothing. Everything and nothing. They take me for a loser!”

  “Do you really think so? I’ve just been talking with them, especially Norbert and Muriel: they seem to me to have a rather good opinion of you.”

  “Oh, sure . . . Then they’re hypocrites. Like that floozy!”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “My wife, you moron! She made a fool of me, she did. She thought she could do anything to me and I’d accept it, but she got that wrong! And that other bastard, too . . . They were all wrong, I’m not a loser. Now they’re scared shitless, aren’t they? And you’re scared too, aren’t you, copper?”

  Sebag took a deep breath. He had to remain focused.

  “You’re scared, huh, copper?”

  “Yes and no,” he finally answered.

  “What do you mean, yes and no?”

  “The neighborhood has been evacuated. If you set a fire, there will be only property damage. Except for you and Véronique. I’m scared for you, Bastien.”

  “You’re scared for me, copper? You don’t even know me! She’s the one you’re panicking about, not me.”

  “For both of you, Bastien, for both of you. You don’t deserve that, either of you. I’m beginning to get to know you and . . . I believe I understand you.”

  There were a few seconds of silence. Sebag was afraid he’d annoyed his interlocutor by claiming to know him. That was a mistake. He sensed that Gali had barricaded himself in the house to make everyone, and himself first of all, believe that he was regaining control over a life that had gotten away from him. He had to be allowed to nourish that illusion.

  “What do you mean, you understand me?”

  Sebag could breathe again. Gali had ignored his tasteless remark and had just taken the cue offered him.

  “You know very well what I mean . . .”

  “Not really.”

  Sebag counted to five to give what he was about to say a confidential tone.

  “You’re not the first person to whom this has happened, and you won’t be the last.”

  “What are you saying, copper?”

  Sebag glanced at the supervisor and the chief of staff. He wanted to fool them. So he gave them a look that said “the things we have to do in this line of work!” Then he lowered his voice and almost whispered into the telephone:

  “Discovering the terrible secret, the hole in the pit of your stomach, your brain retracting, the world collapsing, and then, suddenly, solitude, the incredible solitude . . . But don’t make me say more: I’m surrounded by people.”

  There was another pause of a few seconds.

  “What are you up to, copper, you want to tell me the story of your life? And how would you like to do that? How about coming back tomorrow to have a drink with me at the corner café?”

  “I can come see you . . .”

  Sebag looked up at the chief of staff and the superintendent before adding:

  “Now.”

  “You want to have a little chat at home, is that it?” “Gali said. “Like in the movies, you’ll take off your jacket and walk toward the house with your hands up to show that you’re not armed? You want to play Bruce Willis? Do cops get a bonus when they do something heroic?”

  “I don’t want to do anything heroic. I trust you.”

  “You trust me? You don’t even know me! You want to fool me, that’s what you want!”

  His voice had risen a notch.

  “I want to keep you from doing something stupid, that’s all.”

  “Yeah, sure . . . You want to fool me. Bye-bye, copper!”

  Bastien Gali slammed the receiver down.

  At headquarters, Ménard was reading the Abad file, over and over. But he was making no progress at all. And it wasn’t easy to concentrate with the radio constantly spitting out news about what was happening on Rue Viollet-le-Duc. He angrily turned the thing off and took a bite of his tuna sandwich with tomato and mayonnaise.

  He took a break by looking over the week’s other cases. He learned about the burglaries at Vernet, and noticed that Sebag had been investigating them since that morning. Then he came across the Valls case. Another case being handled by Gilles. Well . . . for an idler, he was certainly all over the board . . .

  Ménard flipped through the file. Yeah . . . Nothing exciting. The suicide of a forty-two-year-old man. A relatively ordinary sentimental tragedy. The husband had just learned that his wife was leaving him for another man.

  Really, he said to himself.

  He thought about his own wife, Corinne. She had given him three children, she still loved him, he thought, and he loved her too. However, questions had arisen a few times. Who had never had questions? Corinne had also probably wondered . . . Their relationship had gone through a period of tension three years earlier. Maybe she had guessed something . . .

  Because he hadn’t always been faithful. Oh . . . nothing important, just a misstep, an affair that was over and done.

  He’d just told a divorced woman that her son was dead. An argument on the village square had gotten out of hand. A refusal to give somebody a cigarette, voices raised, a few punches thrown, and then a knife taken out of a pocket and planted in a sixteen-year-old heart. The woman—Sylvie, her name was Sylvie—had broken down. He was her only son, she’d raised him alone. François had taken her in his arms to comfort her. The physical contact had been exquisitely pleasurable. He’d felt her firm breasts press against his chest. His heart was beating very fast. In his pants, he’d gotten a hard-on. She’d noticed.

  Despite the noise of the evacuation that filled the street, Sebag, Castello, and Henri felt a dense silence seep from the telephone. The superintendent was the first to speak.

  “You’ve handled this well, Gilles. It’s to be expected that he would hang up the first time. But you’ve created a link and aroused his interest. Let him stew a quarter of an hour and then call him back.”

  “I sensed that he was determined,” the chief of staff said with concern. “I’m going to have the GIPN14 called in. It’s procedure. I want them to be alerted first, and then we’ll see. We’ve got time: they have to get here from Marseille . . .
”

  “If he really wanted to set the neighborhood on fire, it would already be ablaze,” Sebag noted. “His act is a call for help, he doesn’t want to go through with it.”

  “So in your opinion Gali isn’t dangerous?” Sabine Henri said with astonishment.

  “The problem is that he set a challenge for himself. And if we don’t do what we’re supposed to, he’ll be forced to carry out his threat. It’s a question of pride now. Between him and her, between us and him, and especially between him and himself. And on top of that, he’s been drinking.”

  “Ah, men’s pride . . . ,” the young woman felt obliged to remark philosophically. “How many deaths and massacres in its name! How many acts of madness, too. And you, Lieutenant Sebag, it isn’t your pride that makes you want to go into that house?”

  “No. I don’t like the telephone, that’s all!”

  Sebag was getting irritated. That was unusual for him, but his nerves were on edge, with all these troubles, all this shit . . . What did she know about life, about psychology and philosophy? So far as he knew, those subjects were not central to the ENA’s curriculum.

  “Obviously, the telephone is safer,” Superintendent Castello broke in. “But in such cases, nothing will ever replace direct contact. I agree with Gilles when he says that this guy has no desire to set a fire. In my opinion, he’ll want to do it even less if there’s a third person in the house.”

  “You might be right,” Sabine Henri conceded. “But I’m going to reach out to the experts on the task force. They have experience with this kind of situation.”

  The kind of remark that is always pleasing . . . No, clearly, psychology was not her strong point. Sebag watched the chief of staff move away to make her phone call. When he turned back to the superintendent, he noticed that the latter was looking at him. Sizing him up.

  “Are you all right, Gilles? Do you feel up to this?”

  Gilles knew that an excessively definitive answer would worry his superior.

  “I think so, I hope so. But by the way, aren’t you on vacation?”

  “Uh . . . Yes, but since I had stayed home, I came when the prefecture contacted me . . .”

  “What dedication!”

  “Go ahead, make fun of me . . . But you don’t look so good, Gilles. Is everything OK?”

  “A virus that’s hanging on. It’s the season.”

  Then they discussed running. Superintendent Castello had resolved to run a marathon before the end of the year, and he was seeking advice from Gilles. But the return of the chief of staff put an end to their conversation.

  “At the GIPN they told me that if we have a competent volunteer we could try it.”

  “I’m a volunteer,” Sebag said.

  “And he’s competent,” the superintendent added.

  “So go ahead, call him.”

  Sebag dialed the landline number again. After it rang a dozen times, Gali picked up.

  “That you again, copper?”

  “My name is Sebag. Gilles Sebag.”

  “Whatever you say, copper.”

  Gali’s voice seemed even thicker than before. There lay the real danger: alcohol sweeps away fears and inhibitions.

  “You’re drinking, are you?”

  Gilles was now using the familiar “tu.” When French men talk about drinking, women, or sports, they say “tu” to each other. It’s instinctive.

  “Vodka. Do you like it?”

  “I prefer whiskey.”

  “I have some of that, too.”

  “Whoa . . . lucky guy. Outside here we’ve got nothing but water.”

  “Tough.”

  “Yeah.”

  The conversation was dying. Gilles counted to ten.

  “How’s Véronique?”

  “She’s scared.”

  “That’s not surprising.”

  “Sure . . . especially since she doesn’t like her new perfume.”

  He stopped and waited to be asked for more. Sebag played along.

  “What perfume is that?”

  “Unleaded 98 from Total.”

  “You poured it on her.”

  “Affirmative, old pal! She also doesn’t seem to like the wet T-shirt contest.”

  “I understand why.”

  “You understand me, you understand her . . . You understand everybody, copper.”

  “It’s one of my defects.”

  “What about you? Do you understand your wife too?”

  Gali had taken the bait, he wanted to share his feelings. Sebag had to set the hook.

  “I’ve been trying to.”

  “Can you do it?”

  To mislead the superintendent and the chief of staff again, Gilles made another gesture that meant: “This guy’s beginning to get on my nerves.”

  “Understand, yes. Accepting is harder.”

  Castello and Henri held their breath; they were looking at each other in a strange way. He’d been too convincing. But it wasn’t in vain.

  “Are you thirsty, copper?”

  “Pretty thirsty.”

  “I thought cops didn’t drink while they were on duty . . .”

  “Precisely. For once I could do it, and I don’t want to miss the chance.”

  Bastien Gali took time to think about it. Or rather he pretended to take it. He wanted to talk, that was obvious.

  “OK, Bruce Willis, you can come in. With your jacket off, your hands up, and when you get to the driveway, turn around a couple of times so that I can see that you haven’t got a gun. Just like in the movies, I love it . . .”

  Sebag glanced at his superiors, who gave him a green light.

  “Get a glass out for me, Bastien. I’m coming.”

  “Just a second, I’ve changed my mind, pal. What have you got on under your shirt, an undershirt or a T-shirt?”

  “Uhh . . . an undershirt.”

  “A little sensitive to the cold, are you?”

  “A little, yeah.”

  “Then take off your shirt and come in your undershirt . . . Like Bruce in Die Hard.”

  “In the film, he was also barefoot. Can I keep my shoes?”

  “You’re pretty funny, you know? OK, you can keep your shoes.”

  And then the desire . . . Violent, fierce, shared. Life’s revenge on death. A challenge, a combat, a demand. The young woman had grabbed his cock through the fabric of his pants and pressed it hard. Their lips locked together . . .

  Stop! Ménard didn’t want to remember any more.

  He was embarrassed to have betrayed the mother of his children, the woman with whom he had once decided to make his life. No, he wasn’t very proud of himself, and on several occasions he had almost confessed it all to her.

  But he’d never said anything. What was the point? So long as his wife didn’t know about it, it didn’t hurt her. And so far as he was concerned, this foolish act had had no effect on his love. Sylvie hadn’t counted. Why take the risk of breaking up a family because of a moment of folly?

  A moment of folly . . . But what a marvelous moment! A smile flickered over his lips every time he thought about it. He’d never seen her again. He hadn’t tried. Neither had she.

  In the file still lying open on his desk, one word caught his attention: Cantalou-Cémoi. Didier Valls held a position as an accountant for the factory where Stéphane Abad worked in quality control. Initially, it occurred to him that this year the trêve des confiseurs had been hard on the chocolate company: an employee had killed his wife, and another had committed suicide . . . They’d have to open up a counseling center for the rest of the staff as soon as the vacation was over!

  Then he reflected that the psychologists might do better to look into the conjugal relationships of the company’s other employees, because after all, these two tragedies sprang from more or le
ss the same source. Strange coincidence.

  Coincidence . . .

  Sebag took off his jacket and then his shirt, which he handed to Julie. He didn’t have his service weapon; he rarely carried it. He walked toward the little house, went through the gate, and approached the remains of the fire that continued to smolder, still emitting thick, foul-smelling smoke. He put his hands up and turned around the first time. Then he went around the fire. He stepped in the black, dirty water that was slowly running toward the little hedge. At one meter from the door, he stopped again and turned all the way around. He glimpsed the silhouette of someone watching him from behind the curtain on the glass door.

  Sebag covered the last meter separating him from the front door and knocked. After obtaining authorization, he opened the door and went in. The door led directly into a small living room.

  Bastien Gali was waiting for him, sitting on a couch in mahogany leather. His wife was curled up at the other end of the couch. She gave the policeman a frightened look. Between the man and the woman was a bottle of vodka, two-thirds empty. Gilles spotted no weapon in the area, there was a packet of firecrackers on the coffee table in front of the couch. That must have been what Gali had used to set fire to his wife’s things. A first reassuring point.

  “Come in and sit down, Gillou,” Gali said, pointing to a chair.

  Sebag took a few hesitant steps. His wet shoes left dark spots on the ocher-colored tile floor.

  “Don’t worry about that. The housekeeping these days isn’t the best!”

  Rainbow puddles stood on the floor of the living room, and an intoxicating smell of gasoline floated in the room. Sebag came forward carefully. On his left, he saw a few strangely colored flames illuminating the hearth of a fireplace. Fortunately, the fireplace was equipped with an insert, and the door seemed to be firmly closed.

  “I made a little fire, I didn’t want you to be cold.”

  Sebag sat down on the chair. A bottle of whiskey had been put on a low table in front of it. Tullamore Dew. Not bad . . .

  “Serve yourself,” Gali suggested, grabbing the bottle of vodka and taking a swig. You’ll have to excuse me, I didn’t set out a glass for you. I prefer to drink out of the bottle.”