‘You know, Jorge loved to make up stories, anecdotes, loved to invent fictional lives for himself. A bit like you. Maybe he was trying to fill a void, to embellish a reality that was too prosaic. Perhaps he got it from his penchant for novels, who knows? Through his lies he became a sort of character in a story, an offshoot of Dickens or Dumas.’ He winked at her. ‘It was thanks to him that I discovered all those authors. So I really liked Jorge.’
Then he shot her a look she could only qualify as suspicious.
‘And now, he’s dead. Right outside your building. And according to your neighbours, the two of you often stopped to chat. You even had him up to your flat.’
Her neighbour … She would gladly strangle that moralising, hypocritical bitch.
‘What happened?’ she asked again.
‘He was stabbed. Last night. Except that no one noticed a thing until the blood stains were found on the pavement.’
Last night. The night her dog was killed. And she had been drugged and raped. She felt her entire body turning into a block of ice.
‘Were you at home last night, Mademoiselle Steinmeyer?’
‘No.’
‘Where were you?’
‘At the Grand Hôtel de l’Opéra. I spent the night there.’
‘Why?’
‘That’s my business.’
Another suspicious gleam in his eyes.
‘Why did you invite this man to your flat?’
She searched for an answer.
‘Out of … compassion?’ he prompted. ‘You felt sorry for him because it was cold, it was snowing, and you saw him through your window every morning, is that it? And you decided to give him a hot meal and some human warmth?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
He leaned over to her and she could feel his breath on her ear.
‘Stop having me on. You’re not that kind of person. You’re lying; it’s plain to see. You’ve crossed my path twice now, and both times, something rather violent has happened, isn’t that right? I don’t know what you’re up to, or exactly what you’re doing, but I’m going to find out. And I’m going to make your life hell until I discover your dirty little secret.’
He sniffed. He was getting a cold. Or else it was the expression of his scorn. She shook her damp hair and pulled up her hood.
‘Have you finished?’
‘For now.’
The rain had soaked the facade and the light stone had turned dark and shiny. She was trembling so hard with anger and fear that it took her three attempts to type in the door code correctly.
* * *
Servaz took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He was shivering all over from the icy rain trickling down the back of his neck. Who was that woman? He noticed how Beaulieu went red in the face while speaking to her, his eyes glowing with rage – this from a man whose gaze ordinarily expressed only apathy. Earlier, while he had been shadowing Léonard Fontaine, he had seen the same woman meet him at McDonald’s, and from where he sat at some distance he had observed their tense conversation. From time to time he had lost them from view, but he had managed all the same to register Fontaine’s preoccupied air, as well as the perplexed, worried look on the woman’s face when she went back out. Was she the next victim? He suddenly decided to follow her: he knew where Fontaine lived and worked, and now he knew his habits he would have no trouble finding him again, whereas he knew nothing about this woman.
And now here she was again at what looked very much like a crime scene. And incensing a lieutenant from the crime squad, by the looks of it. He made sure there were no public prosecutors around anywhere, then bent down and ducked under the police tape. He flashed the badge dangling from his belt at the policeman on guard.
‘Martin?’ said Beaulieu, when he saw him approach. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you were on sick leave.’
‘Some friends live in this building and they called me. They want to know what’s going on. And as I was in the neighbourhood…’
Beaulieu stared at him, not fooled for a minute.
‘Tell them to watch the local news next time,’ he replied, pointing to a camera under a big umbrella.
Servaz also saw onlookers filming the scene with their mobile phones. Fucking voyeurs. The lieutenant took out a pack of cigarettes and offered it to Servaz.
‘No, thanks, I’ve quit.’
‘Homeless man,’ said Beaulieu. ‘Stabbed last night. But as no one paid him any attention, it took a few hours for someone to realise there was blood oozing out of the cardboard. Jorge, does that ring a bell? At one point, he used to hang out by the police station near the Canal and Compans…’
Servaz nodded. ‘He was sleeping in this street?’
‘Recently, yes.’
Servaz sneezed and took out his handkerchief again.
‘I saw you talking to a woman when I arrived. You looked very … annoyed. Who was it?’
The lieutenant shot him a cautious look.
‘Why should you care?’
Servaz gave a falsely casual shrug of the shoulders.
‘You know what it’s like … Work is an addiction: it’s hell trying to wean yourself off it.’
Beaulieu stared at him, as if he were about to say, ‘No, I don’t know, and I don’t want to know.’
‘She’s a nutter,’ he said at last. Servaz saw him become thoughtful. ‘It’s weird. She was involved in another matter recently; I even took her into custody. I can’t believe it’s just a coincidence.’
‘Oh, really?’
‘There was a girl who filed a complaint for assault and battery. She was a real mess. She said it was this woman who did it. Apparently, they had been indulging in some sexual experimentation that turned nasty. The victim had been paid to take part, and this woman wanted her money back. Or something like that. Two dykes who ended up in a catfight – both equally nuts, if you want my opinion.’
Beaulieu shook his head, disgusted, as if what the world was coming to was beyond all comprehension.
‘But that’s not all. Before that, the bitch showed up twice at the police station. The first time, she swore she had got a letter in her mailbox from some woman who said she was going to commit suicide, and she wanted us to investigate. It was plain to see she’d written it herself. The second time, it was an outright conspiracy story: some man took a leak on her doormat, broke into her flat, called her up at the radio station where she worked, and again at home. She even alleged she’d been drugged by the same young intern who filed the complaint for assault and battery, and then was taken unconscious back to her house, where she woke up stark naked! Completely out to lunch. And now they find a body outside her building, poor Jorge who she used to talk to more often than not and even invited up to her place once, according to the neighbour. Fuck, can you tell me what sort of woman invites a homeless man to her house and pays to have it off with a nineteen-year-old girl?’
‘What’s her name?’ asked Servaz after a moment.
‘Steinmeyer. Christine Steinmeyer.’
Christine.
‘Did she talk about opera?’
The lieutenant spun around and gave him a sharp look.
‘Bloody hell, how did you know that? She said the man who was harassing her had left an opera CD in her flat. You didn’t just happen this way, did you?’
‘No.’
‘You bloody piss me off, Servaz: you could have said so sooner! What exactly do you know about this business? Because I don’t know if you are aware of the fact, but I’m the one conducting the investigation!’
‘Let me ask her a few questions,’ he said. ‘After that, I’ll put you in the picture. What if she was telling the truth?’
He watched Beaulieu change colour. His mouth gaped.
‘If you believe that, then you’re as sick or as nuts as she is! You can’t just interrogate her like that, it’s up to me to do it.’
‘Have you got the door code?’
‘Servaz, for fuck’s sake! What are you
playing at?’
‘I don’t think you’re seeing the whole picture. You’re way off. Tell me one thing: have I often been mistaken?’ He saw the young lieutenant hesitate. ‘I’m not on duty, I’m on sick leave. So you’re the one who will get the credit. I just want to ask her a few questions, that’s all.’
He saw the other man shake his head.
‘1945.’
‘Seriously?’
‘Seriously.’
* * *
She switched on the overhead light and listened to the silence. He had been here. She felt absolutely certain of it, all of a sudden. During her absence. It took terrific nerve for him to come back to the scene of his crime with Max’s body – Jorge’s body – downstairs. She held her breath, looked all around for any trace of him, then saw it: a CD. On the coffee table. She walked over.
The Rape of Lucretia. Benjamin Britten.
She bet anything it ended in suicide.
She noticed one more thing, next to it. A sheet of paper. A handwritten letter. Her hand shook slightly when she picked it up, and the shaking increased as she read it:
You see what’s in store for you. You had better do the job yourself. Finish it off. And if you try to rebel again, we’ll go after your mother.
Her head was spinning. For a moment, she was tempted to go to the bedroom window and call to the policeman downstairs. Then one detail caught her attention. And she felt weak at the knees. The note was in her own handwriting. Or a perfect imitation of it, in any case, for anyone who wasn’t an expert. She wondered if even a graphologist would be able to tell the difference. She was trapped. Yet again. Because she knew what that bastard cop would think: that she’d written it herself, like the other letter. That she was crazy. And dangerous. Oh yes, fucking dangerous.
Yet again, her enemy was several steps ahead of her.
In all likelihood, before all this she would have been tempted to feel sorry for herself, given everything that had happened. But now her eyes were dry. Her thoughts turned to Iggy’s body in the bathroom. She had to find him a grave; she couldn’t leave him there indefinitely. What would happen if the police found him? She thought about the fact that her enemy had killed her dog, had raped her and killed a man, all in the space of one night: he had moved into a higher gear. There would be no more limits; nothing stopping his fury, now: it was a battle to the death. The thought was staggering. She remembered the woman who had committed suicide. Célia. She felt her rage return: she would be stronger, she was going to fight; she had nothing left to lose. She had to tell Léo what had happened last night, tell him that He had crossed a new line. She had to warn him of the danger. And Gérald, too.
Then the doorbell jangled in the silent flat and she froze.
She swung round to look at the front door. Was he crazy enough, bold enough, careless enough to come and see her with the street full of police? Why not? It would be one hell of an apotheosis … For a moment she pictured him pushing her out of the window and into the void, then disappearing.
No, said Madeleine’s voice. Stop inventing things; he’s much too careful to show up here now. He’s trying to wear you down, Chris. He won’t take any pointless risks.
The bell rang a second time. They were insisting.
The cops, she thought. They’ve come to arrest me.
She walked to the door and looked through the spyhole. She was sure she had never seen the man standing on the other side. In his forties. Thick brown hair and a six-day beard. Shadows under his eyes, hollow cheeks, but pleasant enough looking. He didn’t look like a murderer. Or a sicko.
Then a police badge flashed in front of the spyhole, blocking her view, and she backed away. Shit …
She put on the safety chain and opened the door. He blinked as if he had just woken up, and they looked at each other cautiously through the opening.
‘Yes?’
The man blinked again. He was silent for a moment, observing her, gauging her while he took the time to put his badge away. But there was nothing hostile about the way he looked at her. There was even the faint trace of a smile on his lips.
‘My name is Martin Servaz,’ he said. ‘I’m a police commandant. And unlike my colleagues, I believe your story.’
37
Accessories
At one point she had dozed off, curled up on the sofa. It was the effect of the adrenaline wearing off, he thought. How long had it been since she felt safe? She had pulled the woollen blanket up to her chin and, slumped in an armchair, he continued to observe her in silence.
Compared to her, he almost looked on top form. Dark shadows marked her cheeks, her hair was dry, the ends split, and her cheekbones were visible beneath the skin like fossils in a palaeontologists’ dig. She had been through hell and you could tell. And yet how strong she must have been, to have withstood the massive tremor that had devastated her life, sweeping aside entire aspects of it in just a few days.
She had told him about her meeting with Fontaine. Her doubts, and Cordélia’s confession. But there was one element she did not have at her disposal: Mila’s diary. Why didn’t he mention it to her? He poured himself another glass of the excellent Côte-Rôtie she had opened two hours earlier. Why? Well, because he couldn’t tell her he wanted to catch Fontaine red-handed and that basically she, Christine, was his … his … bait.
The telephone vibrated. Beaulieu again. He had already sent four text messages. Servaz got up and went into the bedroom.
‘Servaz,’ he said.
‘For God’s sake, what are you doing? You said a few questions! And why are you speaking so quietly?’
‘Hush, she’s sleeping.’
‘What?!’
‘It’s not her. She didn’t kill him.’
‘Oh, yeah? How do you know?’
‘Because I have my own little theory about who did.’
He distinctly heard Beaulieu sigh.
‘Martin, are you raving mad or what? You show up out of nowhere and you know more than anyone else. And what about the door to door? And the pathologist’s conclusions? You haven’t even looked at the body, for Christ’s sake! Who is it, in your opinion?’
‘If I tell you, you won’t believe me.’
‘Huh, what? I’ve had my fill of your riddles, Servaz. Out with it.’
‘Léonard Fontaine.’
There was a brief, incredulous silence before Beaulieu’s voice came back on the line:
‘The astronaut?’
‘Mm-hmm.’
‘You’re joking, aren’t you? Tell me it’s a joke.’
‘Not at all.’
‘Servaz, I don’t know what’s going on, but if you’re having me on…’
‘I’ve never been more serious. Fontaine is mixed up in a business you cannot even begin to imagine. He is clever, and twisted, and he’s behind all this. As surely as two and two make four. Do you remember that artist who took her own life last year at the Grand Hôtel Thomas Wilson? She was his mistress. As was Mila Bolsanski, the former astronaut, and she gave me her diary where she describes everything Fontaine made her go through. She accuses him of having beaten and raped her on multiple occasions while they were together at Star City, but the affair was hushed up by the Russians and the European Space Agency. As for Christine Steinmeyer, she met Fontaine at a bar, at his request, this very afternoon, before she ran into you on her way home.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I was there.’
This time the silence lasted longer.
‘Until now, I had no way of cornering the bastard,’ he continued. ‘But if we manage to prove that it is Fontaine behind Jorge’s death, well then that will change everything.’
Beaulieu let out a whistle.
‘Bloody hell. Are you sure you’re not leading me up the garden path?’
Behind the lieutenant’s voice, Servaz heard a little beep informing him of an incoming text message.
‘So then all this stuff about prank calls and kidnapped dogs and harassment
was actually true?’
‘It’s all true. This woman is the victim of a very intelligent, very sick madman who has been making her life hell for quite a while already.’
‘That’s freaky,’ said the copper quietly, on the other end of the line.
‘It certainly is.’
‘What do you think we should do?’
‘Corinne Délia,’ said Servaz. ‘As of tomorrow, don’t let her out of your sight. And her boyfriend – his name’s Marcus. Above all her boyfriend. He might be the one who killed Jorge. I can’t actually see Léonard Fontaine getting his own hands dirty. But if they’re in touch, and we manage to corner them, they will help us bring Fontaine down.’
‘And you?’
‘I’m going to see what else I can get out of this woman.’
‘And what do we tell our superiors?’
‘Nothing. I’m supposed to be on sick leave, don’t forget. And if Fontaine’s name got out, they would all try to cover themselves. And we’d be fucked.’
‘I was a bit tough on the woman,’ said Beaulieu, his tone somewhat contrite.
‘Well then, next time you can apologise.’
He hung up. Saw a little red ‘1’ on the envelope symbolising his text messages. He pressed the button. Plop. Margot. He opened the message. Plop.
I’ll stop by tomorrow. 8 a.m. Kisses.
He smiled. She didn’t ask if it was convenient. If he planned to have a lie-in. If he would even be presentable at such a time. Or even if he would be there at all. No. She didn’t ask any of that. He didn’t really have a choice. But when had his daughter ever left him a choice, in anything? He smiled and typed ‘OK’, because it was shorter than ‘all right’, which he preferred, naturally, and he hit send.
* * *
She was awake. For a moment, she seemed not to recognise him, and he saw a fleeting spark of terror in her eyes, but it vanished immediately.
‘I fell asleep,’ she said. ‘For long?’
‘Not even an hour.’
He pointed to the packets of medication piled on the sofa.
‘Are you … taking all that?’
She blushed.
‘It’s temporary,’ she replied. ‘I needed it … to keep going.’
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 34
