‘I used to be. But that was before, Cordélia…’
‘You wouldn’t dare,’ insisted Cordélia, but her voice was trembling slightly.
‘Really? Just look: look what you did to me.’
Christine got up. Went over to the next room. Pushed on the open door. She felt as if the soles of her feet were made of lead. The baby was there, sleeping peacefully in his pram. A mobile made of planets and a crescent moon hung above him, along with a rattle, within reach of his little fist. The blade began trembling in her hand as she drew nearer. Cordélia was right, of course: she was bluffing. Regarding the box-cutter, at least. She held out her free hand. Oh, shit. Her fingers pinched the soft, fine skin, the plump little pink arm. Anton opened his eyes and immediately began to wail. She pinched him again, harder: his screaming intensified.
‘Come back!’ shouted Cordélia from the living room. ‘Please!’
Christine felt nauseous. What was she doing?
‘Please, oh please!’ screamed Cordélia from the next room. ‘I’ll talk!’
Christine heard her crying uncontrollably.
Don’t give in. Focus on your anger.
She went back to the living room. The baby was still crying. Cordélia looked up at her with frantic eyes, and spoke all in a rush:
‘I don’t know his name. He contacted us, Marcus and me, and offered us money. In the beginning, all we had to do was call the radio, drop off a letter, he told us exactly what to do. And then he wanted us to scare you, to…’
Her tears were overflowing.
‘… to break your dog’s leg. I didn’t want to go along with it, but it was too late to back out, and there was a lot of money on offer … A lot. I’m so sorry, I didn’t know it would go so far, I swear!’
‘Who is Marcus?’
‘My boyfriend.’
‘Is he the one who raped me? Who killed my dog?’
There was shock in the young woman’s eyes.
‘What? He was only – he was only supposed to drug you!’
She was shaking her head now, filled with dismay.
‘This man who contacted you – who is he?’
‘I don’t know! I don’t know anything! I don’t know his name, I swear!’
‘What does he look like?’
Cordélia glanced at something behind Christine.
‘The computer … there’s a photograph in there. You can see him getting in his car. Marcus took it when he wasn’t looking, just in case something happened to us, after the first time we met. The file is called…’
Christine turned around. The computer was on the coffee table. Open, and switched on. She felt a strange sensation, mingled with dizziness, when she got up. Would she recognise him? Was it someone she knew? Suddenly she was no longer in such a hurry to find out the truth.
‘There’s an icon on the desktop,’ said Cordélia behind her back. ‘It says, “X”.’
Christine went around the laptop. Leaned towards the screen. She saw the icon. The strange feeling was still there. Her forefinger reached for the trackpad and moved the cursor. A slight tremor. She double-clicked; the file opened. Half a dozen pictures.
Before she had even enlarged the first one, she knew: she had recognised him.
She could no longer feel anything, just a void, sucking away all thought.
Léo …
36
Dress Circle
Just then, the front door opened.
‘Cordie? Are you there?’
Christine turned around and met Cordélia’s gaze. Shit! She rushed over to the tear-gas key ring and the stun gun.
‘Marcus! Help!’ shrieked Cordélia.
Paying no attention to the girl writhing on the floor, Christine rushed up to the man who had just come in and sprayed him with the tear gas. But the little man had already put up his hands to shield himself and only part of the cloud reached his face. He coughed violently all the same, furiously blinking then opening his eyes wide. Which gave Christine enough time to zap him with 500,000 volts in the shoulder. She saw him stiffen and begin to tremble. Then he collapsed. Once again she prolonged the electricity for over five seconds, but the batteries were draining fast. She reached for the club and struck both legs several times, before delivering one last blow between them – which didn’t really hit the target, because he had curled up into himself.
She grabbed the black bag, stuffed the tear gas and club inside and pulled on the zip.
‘You bitch!’ moaned Cordélia behind her. ‘You’re going to pay for this! Marcus will have your hide, you slut!’
Christine slammed the door and took long strides down the corridor towards the lift. It seemed to take forever to go down, but once she went back out into the hall, she tried to breathe calmly and walk more slowly. She went out into the cold, damp mist and was startled when she saw the two hooded figures on either side of Gérald, a bit further along.
She still had the strap of the stun gun around her wrist, in her pocket, and with her fingertips she made sure the safety catch was off. But there must not be much charge left.
‘Here she is,’ said Gérald when he saw her approaching.
She stiffened, but kept walking towards them; small clouds of vapour formed in front of their mouths as they spoke. But Gérald did not seem worried or nervous.
‘Don’t hesitate to send me your CVs, guys,’ he said. ‘I’ll see what I can do, all right?’
‘That’s cool. Thanks, man.’
‘Don’t mention it. Have a nice day.’
‘You too. Hello, mademoiselle.’
She returned their greeting, then she and Gérald began walking quickly towards the Métro station.
‘You’re conducting job interviews on the street, now?’
‘Those boys used to be my students,’ he said.
She gave him an astonished look.
‘And they recognised you, despite your disguise?’
He gave a short laugh.
‘They asked me what I was doing here, and I said I was waiting for a friend. They also asked me if I was on my way to a fancy-dress party.’
He turned to her.
‘Well? Did it work? Your plan?’
She winked at him.
‘Perfectly.’
There was a glow of curiosity in his eyes.
‘And what did you find out?’
‘The name of the bastard behind all this.’
Her voice was icy as she said it. She met his questioning gaze. Just then her mobile began to vibrate in her jeans; she pulled it out and looked at the screen. Nothing. Then she understood: it wasn’t coming from her official telephone, but from the prepaid mobile she had used to reach Léo. She found it in another pocket – and saw she had just received a text message. She opened it and read:
Meet me at the McDonald’s by Compans. Léo.
She stared at the screen. Her brain was trying to work it out. Where was the trap? Had Cordélia and Marcus already got hold of Léo? But if Cordélia was as afraid of his reaction as she had said she was, why would she call him? It could not be a coincidence, however: her visit, Cordélia’s revelations, and now this text message … there was something not quite right. If it was a trap, why would Léo choose McDonald’s – a public place, where there were lots of students and young people, even families with children, and which must be filling up by now?
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ asked Gérald.
They had reached the esplanade. She turned around.
‘I have to go somewhere. I’ll explain later…’
He looked at her, puzzled. She began jogging towards the Métro station.
‘Chris, for God’s sake! Wait for me!’
He began running behind her. She spun around.
‘No! I have to go on my own. I’ll explain later!’
He froze in the middle of the esplanade, puzzled and annoyed. The mist swirled around him. A grotesque, motionless figure, he disappeared from view once she was in the Métro.
* * *
Unsmiling, he watched her coming closer, his gaze right on her, all the time it took her to walk across the room with its vaguely modernist décor that resembled a geometry lesson in space. He was wearing a grey woollen coat over a chunky-knit polo-neck jumper. She sat down across from him, never taking her eyes off him.
‘Hi, Léo.’
He looked preoccupied. Because he knew that she knew? The fine crow’s feet at the edges of his eyes creased further.
‘I owe you an apology,’ he said.
She raised her eyebrows.
‘For what I said on the telephone, the other day. It was unfair. And cruel.’
She remained silent.
‘But there was a good reason for it.’
He looked around, as if to make sure no one was close enough to hear them, then lowered his voice and she understood he had chosen this spot, so unlike him, because the noise and hubbub guaranteed a certain confidentiality.
‘I needed some time and … I was afraid someone was wiretapping me.’
‘Wiretapping you?’
‘Yes.’
She looked at him for a moment, pensively.
‘What did you need time for?’ She raised her voice to be heard above the ever-increasing noise.
‘I had to check on a few things.’
He leaned forward, entering her personal space. Looking right in her eyes.
‘Marcus and Corinne Délia, do those names mean anything to you?’ he said.
She nodded. Her gaze hardened, went cold.
‘I’ve just seen them,’ she replied.
He seemed genuinely surprised.
‘When?’
‘A few minutes ago.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘They gave me a name, Léo…’
He stared at her intensely, his muscles twitching nervously in his cheeks.
‘Really?’
‘They gave me your name.’
‘Huh?’
‘Is it because I dumped you for Gérald? Is it because your pride, your self-esteem couldn’t take it, is that it? Or was there something else? Some sort of perverse game you like playing with women, except for your wife?’
Léo’s eyes flickered. She could tell he was searching for an answer.
‘Marcus was at the hotel the day we saw each other,’ she continued. ‘I remember his tattoos. Not terribly discreet, I will say that. His size isn’t either, for that matter. I bumped into him when I came out of the lift. Why would he have been there? I took every precaution to make sure I wasn’t being followed.’
She shot him a defiant look and continued, ‘Who, other than you, knew that we were meeting?’
He shook his head.
‘For God’s sake, Christine: didn’t it occur to you that he could have followed you all the same? You’re not a pro. Or that your phone might be tapped?’
‘I used a new one, with a prepaid card.’
He paused, then said, ‘They could have put a bug in your things … to find you again if they lost track of you … Place Wilson, for God’s sake! It’s not as if we’d arranged to meet in the woods!’
She looked him up and down, her lips pinched, aware that all the colour had drained from his face.
‘Cordélia confessed to everything … When I threatened her child, she cracked.’
‘When you did what?’
He seemed stunned. Once again, he shook his head.
‘You’re completely off beam. You don’t get it all.’
‘What don’t I get, Léo? Why are you behaving like this? It’s true. So, explain.’
A veil of sadness seemed to shroud his face, which looked suddenly old and withered; an expression she had never seen. It was as if he were suddenly ten years older. He looked her right in the eye.
‘It’s a long story,’ he said.
* * *
She no longer knew what to think. She had heard Léo out and then, on her way home, she went back over his explanation, trying to find the flaw.
Léo had told her about a person harassing him, the person who was pulling the strings. Such a strange story … Someone harassing Léo, she thought. For years. Someone who was also harassing the people close to him, or rather the women who were close to him. Making their life hell.
Christine thought of Léo’s worried face. Should she believe him? For the time being he had refused to give her a name: ‘There are a few more things I have to check … I can’t bring charges without proof. But you know, that detective I told you about, that woman detective, she followed this person, and that’s how she traced Cordélia and Marcus.’ His voice had sounded heavy, preoccupied.
For a split second, he seemed lost in thought.
‘I have €30,000 in an account,’ he said abruptly. ‘Do you have any money invested anywhere?’
‘I have €20,000 in life insurance,’ she replied, surprised. ‘Why?’
‘Take it out. First thing tomorrow. We might need it.’
‘To do what?’
‘To buy back your freedom, Christine. To get you out of their clutches. To put an end to the story – if it’s what I think it is.’
* * *
She had the impression that the darkness surrounding her was filled with obstacles. It was raining, and the city was nothing but shadows, reflections, headlights, a glow. Everything was sharp, cutting, this evening. She walked as if she were in a trance, while she took in what Léo had said. He had also talked to her about a young woman he had known who had committed suicide. At the time, he hadn’t suspected anything. Particularly, he said, as Célia – that was her name – had suddenly distanced herself from him. Now he thought it must have been connected to his harasser, he was sure of it. Finally, he told her something that would have filled her with joy, before: he was going to get a divorce. His wife had left and taken the children. They’d agreed on an arrangement for custody, and he’d seen his lawyer that very day.
A passing bus briefly interrupted her thoughts. Should she believe him? Cordélia had accused Léo, and Léo was accusing someone else. She turned into her street then suddenly slowed down when she saw the swirling glow illuminating the facades, the wrought-iron balconies, the cornices, the moulding: the profusion of adornments that made her think of wedding cakes lined up in a pastry shop window. Most of the windows and balconies were lit up. And people were rushing to look down, like spectators at the theatre.
Two police cars were blocking the road. It was their coloured lights that were sweeping across the facades. Christine suddenly felt all her senses on alert. Part of the street had been cordoned off: the very bit where her building was located. She removed her hood and went up to a policeman. A cluster of people had gathered by the police tape.
‘I live here,’ she said, pointing to her building a few metres away.
‘Just a moment,’ said the policeman.
He turned to a man whom she instantly recognised: it was Beaulieu, the lieutenant who had taken her into custody. Beaulieu came up and stared at her.
‘Mademoiselle Steinmeyer,’ he said.
His tone was icier than ever. The rain was sprinkling his poodle mop and dripping from the tip of his nose.
‘Did you know him?’
A crackle of messages over the radio, cameras flashing, rain sparkling in the spotlights, effervescence, agitation. Christine tried to control her malaise, to breathe calmly. Max … He lay sprawled among his cardboard boxes. From where she stood, she could see only his face – and his eyes, wide open, staring unblinking at the sky.
Men in white coats, gloves and blue disposable overshoes were bending over him. They were taking photographs with a big square camera, coming and going between his body and a van with a raised roof.
‘Yes. His name was Max.’
‘Max…?’
‘I don’t know his last name. I occasionally stopped to chat with him. He used to be a teacher, before. And then he fell on hard times, the street … What happened?’
‘Oh,’ said
Beaulieu, nodding his head in a self-important manner.
Then he gave her a stern look.
‘His name wasn’t Max,’ he corrected her.
‘What?’
‘His name was Jorge Do Nascimento, and he was never a teacher. He’d been living on the street for nearly thirty years, and he’s certainly lived like this as long as I’ve known him. Jorge was pretty well known around Toulouse, believe me. Oh yes. And incidentally, Jorge was a drug addict. Back in the days when I was a uniformed officer, we were already hauling him in for being drunk and disorderly. I saw him take his shoes off, once. If you could have seen his feet, Mademoiselle Steinmeyer – what a mess they were. Do you know why? Multiple drug use,’ he replied, to his own question. ‘Since they don’t have any money, homeless people will swallow anything that comes along. It starts with alcohol and medication, because some of that is reimbursed by Social Security: tranquillisers, drugs prescribed by doctors who aren’t too fussy. Then comes the hash, of course. And heroin, too, it’s cheaper than coke … But let me reassure you, Jorge didn’t have Aids: he was just Hepatitis B and C positive. He probably got that way from sharing needles with other junkies. Oh, and he had just recovered from tuberculosis. You might have found him somewhat thin and tired. Apparently he was only forty-seven: he looked fifteen years older. He just suddenly seemed worn out.’
She saw again that weary glow she had noticed in his eyes, the first time: the look of someone who has admitted defeat, seen the absurdity of struggling.
‘But one thing’s for sure, he did love his books.’ He raised his right hand, and she saw that he was holding a plastic evidence bag with a book inside: the Tolstoy she had seen in Max’s pocket when he came up to her flat. She shuddered: it was splattered with blood. ‘And classical music. I remember you could talk with him for hours about Russian novelists, and baroque music, and opera … Some people at the police station told him to shut up; I’d be there writing down titles, names of authors … I think I owe a good amount of my cultural knowledge to him,’ he concluded with a faint, sad smile.
‘Was he ever married?’
Beaulieu shook his head. He wiped his runny nose.
‘Not to my knowledge, no.’
‘Why did he lie to me?’
He shrugged his shoulders; Christine noticed they were drenched.
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 33
