Suddenly a thought occurred to her – unpleasant, unhealthy – what if it wasn’t animal pee? Her telephone had begun to ring at the very moment she stood outside the door. It couldn’t be a coincidence. Someone had waited for her, spied on her. Was it the same man who had called her at the radio? Could he have pissed on her door? And did he also cause the lift to be out of order? Or was she getting completely paranoid?
The radio.
Time was ticking. She had never been late – never, in seven years – and now she was about to be late for the second morning in a row.
In the shower she suddenly realised that the only thing separating her from that stranger was an old, probably not very reliable lock. She should have it changed and add an inside bolt immediately. She dried off and hurried to her computer, a towel wrapped around her, and went to the online yellow pages. The first three locksmiths she managed to reach told her they could not come for a few days. She looked at the clock. 8:25. Hurry up!
‘Tonight at five o’clock, will that work?’ said the fourth.
‘Perfect.’
She gave him the address and hung up. Got dressed as fast as she could. No make-up today – no time. Iggy was sitting by the door, happily wagging his tail. Christine felt her heart sink. She hadn’t taken him out the night before, and he had weed like a good boy in a box filled with newspaper for such emergencies. Last night she had felt panicked at the thought of going out into the street after what had happened, and he had waited for his walk in vain, pacing back and forth between her and the door and looking increasingly incredulous.
Iggy had not been out for over twenty-four hours.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said to him, scratching his thin little scalp, her throat tight. ‘I promise you tonight we’ll go for a long walk, okay?’
But in all honesty, she was terrified at the thought of having to go out into the deserted streets at night when there was a psycho out there.
* * *
‘Christine, for Christ’s sake, what the hell are you doing?’
‘I’m sorry, it won’t happen again!’
She tried to rush past Guillaumot, the programme director, but he grabbed her by the wrist.
‘Come into my office.’
‘What? But we’re already late: the show starts in less than twenty minutes!’
‘It doesn’t matter. I have something to show you.’
His tone tipped her off. He stepped back to let her go past, then closed the door to his office behind her. There were posters on the walls boasting of the station’s achievements, there was a coffee machine, and a computer playing their programmes on a loop. He went over to the coffee machine.
‘Would you like one?’
‘Do we have time?’
‘Espresso or Americano?’
‘Espresso, with sugar.’
He set the cup down before her and returned to his seat. He crossed his fingers. Then looked straight at her.
‘I – I’m really sorry I’m late,’ she began.
He waved her excuse away, a kindly smile on his lips.
‘Don’t worry about that; you’ve always been on time, Christine. How many years have we been working together? Six? Seven? And I’ve never seen you arrive late. You’re not coming down with the flu, I hope? There’s a lot of it around, these days.’
‘No, no, not at all.’
He nodded, reassured.
‘Good, good. And what about the working environment these days?’
For a moment she wondered what he was driving at.
‘Well, I’m not telling you anything new if I say it’s a radio station,’ she said. ‘Look, thanks for the coffee, but I have to—’
He stopped her with a gesture, opened a drawer and took out two bottles of medicine, which he handed to her.
‘What’s this?’ she asked.
He gave her a probing look.
‘You tell me.’
She looked at the labels. Xanax. A powerful tranquilliser. Floxyfral. An antidepressant used in cases of severe depression and to treat obsessive-compulsive disorder. Heavy-duty chemistry for major problems. She stared again at the two bottles, then at the programme director, not understanding.
‘I don’t get it,’ she said, frowning.
‘Forgive me,’ he continued, ‘I shouldn’t have been rummaging in your drawers, but I was looking for the list of upcoming guests, and I just found them. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’
‘Are you telling me you found these in my drawer?’
He gave her the look that TV cops wear when culprits deny the evidence.
‘Come on, Christine. I’m your friend. You can—’
She felt her face flush crimson. ‘I don’t know how this stuff got into my drawer! Someone must have got the wrong desk. They’re not mine!’
He could not hold back a sigh.
‘Listen. We all have our ups and downs—’
‘They’re not mine, shit! How do I get through to you?’
She had raised her voice. He looked at her and cocked his eyebrows. Before he could say anything more, she had slammed the door and was headed to her desk, every gaze in the open space office trained fiercely on her.
‘Christ, Chris, where were you?’ exclaimed Ilan. ‘Have you seen the—’
He stopped when he saw her expression.
‘Shut up, all right?’
* * *
‘Debriefing in five minutes, Christine.’
This time he didn’t even bother to look at her. He vanished into his office. She clenched her teeth and scrolled through the emails on the screen of her Mac. She’d screwed up, yet again. But how could she concentrate when that psycho’s words were eating away at her brain? And how had those drugs ended up in her drawer? She sighed, closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again.
In her pocket her phone vibrated. The screen displayed an unknown number.
‘Yes?’
‘Christine Steinmeyer?’
A man’s voice – but not the one from the night before: a voice with no accent, not as deep, not as ingratiating.
‘This is she,’ she said cautiously.
‘This is the police station calling. Regarding the letter you brought us yesterday.’
Her admirer: he hadn’t wasted his time.
‘Could you come by and see us?’
‘Well, the thing is, I’m at work.’
‘Well then, come as soon as you finish work. Ask for Lieutenant Beaulieu at the reception desk.’
She thanked him and hung up. And saw a new email had arrived in her inbox. She clicked on it. The subject was: Game. The sender’s address, [email protected], was unfamiliar, and she almost sent it straight to the trash, but at the last minute the message it contained caught her attention.
Have a look at this
Gérald
She frowned. Why was Gérald writing to her from a strange email address? Was this a joke? If it was, he’d picked the wrong time.
She clicked on the link.
Pictures in a jpg format.
The first was of an outdoor café. Patrons seated at round tables, on the pavement, with their backs to the window: she did not see any familiar faces. A slideshow had started and after two seconds a second photo replaced the first one. Christine swallowed. A siren began wailing in her mind, like a submarine that’s made sonar contact. Action stations, everyone to their station! The second photograph showed Gérald and Denise sitting behind the window at the same café, face to face. Torpedo approaching! shouted the sonar operator in her brain, hysterically. The photographer had zoomed in on them. They were leaning towards each other, laughing as they looked into each other’s eyes. The alarm was still sounding in her mind, and Christine hardly had time to let the impact of the image take effect before the slideshow sent the next torpedo. Their position had hardly changed, they were still just as close to each other, although the distance might still allow a certain doubt – and therefore hope – regarding their atti
tude and their intentions. Except that now Denise’s gloved hand was caressing Gérald’s cheek.
A wave of sheer hatred went through her. Even at this distance, with a telephoto lens, Denise’s youth and beauty were dazzling. And Gérald seemed to be totally under her spell. He was devouring her with his eyes.
Her beloved fiancé. Her future husband.
She rubbed her face, held back the tears welling in her eyes. Who had taken these pictures, and why? Who had sent them? To what end?
‘Christine. Christine.’
She realised Ilan was leaning over her, his eyes wide, and that he’d been calling to her for a moment already.
‘They’re waiting for you. For the debriefing!’
Fortunately, from where he was standing he couldn’t see her screen. In the final photo, Denise was holding Gérald by the arm, as if he were that bitch’s fiancé and not hers! And Denise was laughing, whispering something in his ear. Gérald was smiling, the smug, complacent smile of the guy who has the prettiest girl on his arm.
Bloody bastard.
She thrust her chair aside as she leapt up and ran off to the toilets, while her assistant watched, flabbergasted. She shoved open the door to the ladies’ – so roughly that it bashed into the hand dryer on the wall. There was no one inside. She rushed into one of the stalls. She bent over the bowl, coughing. For a moment she thought she was going to throw up, but nothing came out. Just a hiccup and a spasm. She felt like crying but something inside her refused to. She was terrified, too. What was going on? Who was sending her these pictures, calling her on the phone? She didn’t understand a thing. There was a vibration in her jeans: a text message. She took the phone out of her pocket and saw the little envelope flash to the top of the screen. She swiped her finger over it.
You still feel like playing, Christine?
She almost shattered her smartphone against the wall.
‘FUCK OFF, YOU BLOODY IDIOT!’
She had screamed. Her voice reverberated through the empty space.
There was bound to be an automatic acknowledgement of receipt for the message. It was him again. The guy on the phone. The one who had pissed on her door. She thought about the message on her windscreen. ‘Merry Christmas, you filthy bitch.’ Was that him, too? What did he want? Why was he hounding her? Because she hadn’t reacted quickly enough after the letter? But how did he know that, too?
‘Christine. Christine, what’s going on?’
Cordélia’s voice. She started and turned around. The tall intern was standing in front of her, eyes drowning in two black puddles of eyeshadow, staring at her worriedly.
Christine hadn’t heard her come in. Cordélia put one hand on her arm, and with the other she stroked her cheek. Her expression was curious, tender, preoccupied.
‘What’s wrong? What’s going on?’
Her voice was soft, calming. Christine could not suppress a sob, and at last the tears rolled down her cheeks.
‘Tell me what’s going on.’
Cordélia’s perfume in her nostrils, her hair smelling of tobacco.
‘You know you can trust me…’
Could she? Christine hesitated. She would have so liked to let go, to confide in someone.
Cordélia’s arms encircled her, rocking her. It did her good, in spite of everything, to surrender. Then the young woman leaned closer and placed a kiss on her cheek.
‘I’m here … I’m here.’
Another kiss – more tender this time – at the edge of her lips. Then the intern tilted her head to one side, her mouth seeking Christine’s. And finding it. Christine froze, as if she had just put her fingers in a socket.
‘Let me go!’
She gave the tall, angular figure a violent shove. Cordélia’s back bashed against the wall of the toilet stall. On her face was a predatory smile. Any trace of tenderness had disappeared.
Could she be the one who…?
But in that case, who was the man? Christine rushed out of the stall and hurried to the door. As it closed behind her she could hear the echo of Cordélia’s laughter.
* * *
She went into the police station feeling as if she were up against a wall. A wall of anger and frustration. Of sadness. Of resignation. The queue went all the way from the security door to the counter; all the nearby seats were occupied. Some of the gazes she met were as hard as stone, others were lost, frantic; others still were more tired than used tissues. At the reception desk, an assistant security officer was trying to deal with the crowd.
‘I have an appointment with Lieutenant Beaulieu,’ she said, when her turn came.
The assistant security officer picked up her phone without looking at it, spoke briefly into the receiver, then motioned to the left with her chin. At no time did their eyes meet. Christine felt as if she were an insect.
She went through the turnstile and found herself by the lifts.
A few seconds later, the doors to one of the lifts opened and a man in civilian clothing came out.
‘Christine Steinmeyer?’
He was in his thirties, brown eyes, thick curly hair and the lower half of his face somewhat soft: not the same policeman as last time. The only thing they had in common was their ugly ties.
‘Lieutenant Beaulieu,’ he said. ‘Please come with me.’
He turned around and took out his magnetic badge, and they entered the lift. She felt his gaze on her as they went up, and eventually she looked at him. He did not stop staring at her even then. He seemed to think it was part of his prerogative to stare at people. He had bags under his eyes, and he looked like someone who is no longer as thrilled by his profession as he was at the beginning.
They got out on the second floor.
In an office cluttered with files, Lieutenant Beaulieu removed a stack of documents from a chair and invited her to sit down. The telephone rang. He gave a number of monosyllabic answers before slamming it down again.
‘Excuse me,’ he said.
But his tone was anything but contrite. He stared at her again without flinching, with his big protruding round eyes.
‘Have you had any personal problems lately?’ he asked point blank.
The question caught her unawares.
‘What do you mean? I’m here regarding the letter I gave you, aren’t I?’
‘Precisely.’
‘In that case, what does your question have to do with the letter?’
He studied her, with a sullen, suspicious look.
‘What did you do on Christmas Day?’ he asked. ‘Were you on your own, or with family?’
‘What? I was with my fiancé.’
As he said nothing, she thought it might be helpful to add, ‘We had Christmas dinner at my parents’.’
She wriggled on her chair, wondering if she should mention the man on the telephone. And the urine on her doormat. But her little voice told her that for the time being it wouldn’t be a good idea. Lieutenant Beaulieu did not seem very receptive. She wondered whether his colleague had told him about her profession but, in any case, she doubted whether that would have inclined him more favourably towards her.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Let’s talk about that letter. You found it on 24 December, Christmas Eve, in your mailbox. Is that correct?’
‘Yes. We were meant to spend Christmas Eve with Gérald’s parents. We were late. It was a bit … tense.’
‘The letter was in an envelope?’
‘Yes. Which I gave to your—’
‘I know. And you have no idea who might have written it?’
‘No. That’s why we asked around, among the neighbours,’ she explained. ‘Because we figured the person must have got the wrong mailbox.’
‘Okay, yes. And your fiancé, what does he think?’
She hesitated.
‘He wasn’t all that keen on the idea of questioning the residents on Christmas Eve.’
Lieutenant Beaulieu raised his eyebrows.
‘He didn’t want us to be even later,’ she
explained.
‘Ah. And other than that, things are fine between you?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘No tension? Major arguments?’
‘What does that have to do with the letter?’
‘Please, just answer.’
‘I just told you: everything is fine. We’re getting married soon.’
‘Oh!’ He gave a faint smile, lacking in conviction. ‘Congratulations. When?’
She hesitated; she was beginning to get the unpleasant feeling that he was trying to trap her, but why would he do that?
‘We haven’t quite agreed, um, on the date,’ she acknowledged.
Beaulieu’s eyes opened slightly. He nodded absently, as if two people with diametrically opposed opinions were arguing in his head. She was immediately sorry she had confessed this to a stranger who, clearly, was in danger of misinterpreting it.
‘Look,’ he said, massaging his eyelids between his thumb and forefinger, ‘don’t take this badly but … not a single suicide has been reported for the twenty-fourth, or the following day, or even – fingers crossed – today. Which we obviously should be pleased to hear. And that is a miracle in itself, believe me.’
She felt a deep sense of relief. Since nothing had happened, she was not guilty in any way, in the end. And the man harassing her had no reason to make her feel guilty.
‘But do you have any way to find out who that person was?’ she asked, insisting all the same. ‘Just because she hasn’t gone through with it yet … well, to me the threat does seem serious, don’t you think?’
‘Hmm. Is that what you think?’
‘Yes. And you don’t? Well, I don’t know, I’m not a psychologist,’ she said, blushing under the intensity of his gaze. ‘But from the way the letter is written, I don’t think it’s just pure fantasy.’
The cop’s expression suddenly grew alert and he seemed to emerge from his apathy.
‘What makes you think it could be fantasy? The fact you even entertain the idea – that says a lot, don’t you think? How did this idea occur to you?’
She fingered the collar of her blouse, and stiffened.
‘Well … I don’t know, you never know.’
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 7
