The next three links simply referenced encyclopaedia sites. Two more were general websites about serial killers. Fourteen in a row were forums where the name Julian Hirtmann was invoked for one reason or another, and Servaz didn’t bother to consult them. The next link immediately drew his attention:
The Valley of the Hanged is being filmed in the Pyrenees.
He saw that his hand was trembling when he double-clicked. When he had finished reading, he pushed his chair far away from the screen and closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, for a long time.
A film was going to be made the following winter. It would be based on his investigation in the Pyrenees and above all on Hirtmann’s escape from the Wargnier Institute. The names had been changed, of course, but the premise of the film was transparent. Two very well-known actors had been approached to play the serial killer and the commissar (sic). Servaz felt sick to his stomach. This was what their society had become, he thought: exhibitionism, voyeurism, commodification.
He felt angry, but also frightened. All this agitation … In the meantime, where was Hirtmann? What was he plotting? He told himself that Julian Alois Hirtmann could just as easily be in Canberra, in Kamchatka or in Punta Arenas as in an Internet café at the end of the street. Servaz thought about the time Yvan Colonna had been on the run. The media, the police, the anti-terrorist services had all thought he was in South America, in Australia, anywhere – but in fact the Corsican criminal was hiding in a sheepfold not thirty kilometres from where he had committed the crime he was wanted for.
Could Hirtmann really be in Toulouse?
Over one million inhabitants, if you included the greater urban area. A diverse population. A tangle of streets, squares, roads, bypasses, flyovers, slip roads. Dozens of nationalities – French, English, German, Spanish, Italian, Algerian, Lebanese, Turkish, Kurdish, Chinese, Brazilian, Afghan, Malian, Kenyan, Tunisian, Rwandan, Armenian …
Where do you hide a tree? In a forest …
She wasn’t unlisted, he found her number in the directory, but she hadn’t included her first name: M. Bokhanowsky. He hesitated for a good while before he dialled. She picked up on the second ring.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Martin,’ he said. For a split second he faltered. ‘Can we meet? I have a few questions for you … about Hugo.’
Silence.
‘I want you to tell me the truth,’ she said, ‘right now: do you think he did it? Do you think my son is guilty?’
Her voice quivered, as taut and fragile as a spider’s silk thread.
‘Not on the telephone,’ he replied. ‘But if you must know, I have increasing doubts about it. I know how difficult it is for you, but we have to talk. I can be in Marsac in an hour and a half, roughly. Is that all right, or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow?’
‘Marianne?’ he said at last, as she did not answer.
‘Forgive me, I was thinking … In that case, why don’t you stay for dinner? I’ll do some shopping.’
‘Marianne, I’ll be perfectly frank with you. I don’t know, given that I’m the investigator, whether I should—’
‘That’s fine, Martin. You don’t need to shout it from the rooftops. And you can ask me your questions at the same time. After two glasses of wine, I’m a good deal more talkative.’
‘I know,’ he said.
It was an attempt to ease the tension, but he instantly regretted his words: he did not want to refer to the past, still less to let her think that he might have any motivations other than professional ones, particularly at the moment.
He thanked her and hung up, then looked up the address in the directory: 5, Domaine du Lac. He still remembered the geography. Marianne lived in west Marsac. That was where the most luxurious villas were, on the north shore of a little lake. They had names like Belvedere, The Cask, or Villa Antigone, and most of them were set back from huge lawns that sloped gently down to a jetty where small dinghies or motorboats were moored. In the summer, the children of the rich lakeside inhabitants learned to sail and water ski. Their parents worked in Toulouse, as academics or in eminent positions in the aeronautics or electronics industries. Coincidentally, given what was on his mind, the other inhabitants of Marsac had baptised this district ‘Little Switzerland’.
His mobile buzzed. He quickly pulled it out of his pocket and opened it. Margot.
‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘Why do you need to know that?’
‘No time to explain. Does he smoke or not?’
‘No. I’ve never seen him smoke.’
‘Thanks. I’ll call you back later.’
15
North Shore
It was already three minutes past eight when he reached the east shore of the lake, where the café-concert restaurant Le Zik sat on stilts above the green water. Servaz drove around it and headed north. The Marsac lake was shaped like a bone or a dog biscuit, running east–west, seven kilometres in length. Most of it was bordered by thick woodland. Only the eastern area was urbanised, and ‘urbanised’ might be pushing it: every villa was huge, and generally situated on a property 3 to 5,000 square metres in size.
The address corresponded to the last house on the north shore, just before the woods and the part where the lake narrowed before widening again further along. The building must have been at least a hundred years old with its gables, balconies, chimneys and Virginia creeper. A house that was much too big for a mother and her son, he thought. The gate was open and Servaz drove beneath tall fir trees over the gravel, as far as the porch. He went up the steps and heard Marianne calling to him through the open door. A suite of rooms led to the terrace.
The rain was still sweeping over the lake. Kingfishers circled above the choppy surface before dive-bombing then reappearing in a shower of drops with their dinner in their beaks. To the left, beyond the other properties, he could see the roofs of Marsac and its steeple, veiled in mist. On the opposite shore there were dark woods and what local people pompously referred to as ‘the Mountain’: a rocky massif which rose a few dozen metres above the surface of the lake.
Marianne was setting the table. He stopped for a moment to look at her. She was wearing a khaki tunic dress that buttoned in front with two pockets on the chest and a fine woven belt, which gave her an almost military look. She had undone the top button, presumably because of the heat. Servaz noticed her bare suntanned legs and the absence of any jewellery around her neck. She was wearing only a faint touch of lipstick.
‘What awful weather,’ she said. ‘But we won’t let that get us down, will we?’
She was speaking without conviction, her voice as hollow as a metal box. When she kissed him on the cheek, he caught a whiff of her perfume.
‘I brought this.’
She took the bottle, looked briefly at the label and set it down on the table. Then she went back to what she had been doing.
‘The corkscrew is over there,’ she added after a moment, as he stood there, arms hanging limply by his side.
She disappeared inside and he wondered if he had made a mistake by agreeing to come to dinner. He knew he shouldn’t be there, that the little lawyer with the intense gaze would use this against him if Hugo was found guilty. He also sensed that the investigation was taking up all his thoughts, and it would be hard for him to talk about anything else. He should have questioned Marianne according to procedure, but he hadn’t been able to resist the invitation. After all these years … He wondered whether Marianne had known what she was getting into, inviting him like that. Suddenly, without knowing why, he was on his guard.
‘Why?’
‘Why what?’
‘Why did you never come back?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘No letters, no e-mails, not a single text or call – nothing, in twenty years.’
‘Twenty years ago there were no text messages.’
‘That’s not much of an answer, Commandant.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s not an
answer either.’
‘There is no answer.’
‘Of course there is.’
‘I don’t know … it was a long time ago.’
‘A white lie, but a lie all the same.’
Silence.
‘Don’t ask me why,’ he said.
‘Why not? I wrote to you. Several letters. You never answered.’
She was probing him, her green gaze sparkling in the shadow of her face. Just the way it used to.
‘Was it because of Francis and me?’
Again he said nothing.
‘Answer me.’
He stared at her wordlessly.
‘So that was it … Oh, for Christ’s sake, Martin! All those years of silence, because of Francis and me?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘Yes. Yes, I am sure. For God’s sake, what difference does it make now anyway?’
‘You wanted to punish us.’
‘No, I wanted to move on. To forget. And I did.’
‘Oh really? And that student you met after me? What was her name again?’
‘Alexandra. I married her. And then we got divorced.’
It was strange how you could sum up a life in so few words. Strange and depressing.
‘And now, are you seeing anyone?’
‘No.’
Silence.
‘So that explains your appearance,’ she said. ‘You look like a confirmed old bachelor, Martin Servaz.’
She was trying to sound light-hearted, and he was grateful to her for the attempt to ease the tension. The darkness of evening was stealing over them, along with the faint distortion of the senses that the wine induced.
‘I’m afraid, Martin,’ she said suddenly. ‘I’m terrified, scared out of my wits … Tell me about my son. Are you going to charge him?’
Her voice almost broke on the last words. Servaz saw her pained expression, the fear in her eyes. He understood that from the start this had been the only question that really mattered to her. He took the time to choose his words carefully.
‘As things stand at the moment, if he were up in court, there is a good chance he would be charged.’
‘But you told me on the telephone that you had your doubts?’
Her tone was that of a desperate plea.
‘Listen. It’s too soon. I can’t talk about it. But I need some information,’ he said. ‘And some time … There are one or two things … I don’t want to give you any false hope.’
‘I’m listening.’
‘Does Hugo smoke?’
‘He quit a few months ago. Why do you ask?’
He swept his question away with a wave of his hand.
‘You knew Claire Diemar.’
This time it wasn’t a question.
‘We were friends. But not close friends. Acquaintances. She lived on her own in Marsac, and so did I. That sort of friends.’
‘Did she talk to you about her private life?’
‘No.’
‘But did you know anything?’
‘Yes, of course. Unlike you, I didn’t leave Marsac. I know everyone and everyone knows me.’
‘What sort of things?’
He saw her hesitate.
‘Rumours … about her private life.’
‘What sort of rumours?’
Again she hesitated. In the old days, Marianne had hated gossip. But her son’s freedom was at stake.
‘People said that Claire collected men. That she used them and tossed them out like tissues. That she played with them and that she had broken a few hearts in Marsac.’
He looked at her. Thought about the messages on the computer. They expressed a sincere, violent, absolute love. They did not match this portrait.
‘But she was discreet about it, at any rate. And if you want me to name names, I don’t have any.’
What about you, he wanted to ask, where do you stand, in that respect?
‘The name Thomas, does that mean anything to you?’
She stared at him as she inhaled her cigarette, then shook her head.
‘No. Nothing at all.’
‘Are you sure?’
She blew away the smoke.
‘That’s what I said.’
‘Did Claire Diemar listen to classical music?’
‘What?’
He repeated the question.
‘I have no idea. Does it matter?’
Suddenly another question came to him.
‘Have you noticed anything peculiar lately? A guy hanging around the house? Anyone following you in the street? Something, anything, that made you feel uneasy?’
The look she gave him said she failed to understand.
‘Are we talking about Claire, now, or me?’
‘About you.’
‘No. Should I have?’
‘I don’t know … if anything comes to mind, let me know.’
She stared at him intensely, but did not say anything more.
‘And you,’ he said suddenly. ‘Tell me about yourself, about your life over all these years.’
‘Is this still the cop talking?’
He looked down, then up again.
‘No.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything … These past twenty years, Hugo, your life since …’
Her gaze clouded over in the fading light. She took the time to gather her memories. And to sort through them. Then she told him. A few carefully weighed sentences, nothing melodramatic. And yet there was plenty of drama; hidden, deep. She had married Mathieu Bokhanowsky, one of the members of their gang. Bokha, thought Servaz. Bokha the boor, the oaf. Bokha the good guy, occasionally the third wheel – there was always one like that – and openly scornful of girls and any form of romance. Bokha with someone like Marianne: back then, it would have seemed unimaginable. Bokha, against all expectations, had turned out to be a good, tender and affectionate guy, even funny. ‘A fundamentally decent man, Martin,’ she insisted. ‘He wasn’t pretending.’ Servaz lit a cigarette and waited for her to go on. She had been happy with Bokha. Truly happy. With his kindness, simplicity and incredible energy, Mathieu had turned out to be someone who could move mountains, and he had almost managed to make her forget the scars left by Servaz and Van Acker. ‘I loved you. Both of you. God knows I loved you. But you were both inaccessible, Martin: you had the burden of your mother’s memory, your hatred of your father, that anger; and Francis had his ego.’ Mathieu was calming, Mathieu didn’t ask for anything in exchange for what he gave. He was simply there, whenever she needed him. Servaz listened to her as she unravelled the skein of years, no doubt leaving many things out, touching up some things and embellishing others, but isn’t that what we all do? Back in the days when they were friends, no one, starting with Marianne herself, would have bet a centime on Bokha’s future, and yet he had turned out to be not only extremely gifted at human relations but also endowed with a practical intelligence, something he had not really needed in the days when Francis and Martin spent their time talking about books, music, cinema and critical theory. Bokha had studied economics, created a chain of computer stores, and made a fortune that was as unexpected as it was sudden.
In the meantime, Hugo was born. Bokha the mediocre oaf, the underling of the gang, now had everything a man could want: money, recognition, the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood, a home, and a son.
Too much happiness, no doubt – at least that was Marianne’s opinion, and Servaz thought, without saying it, of hubris, that lack of moderation which to the ancient Greeks was a capital sin: the man who committed it was guilty of wanting more than his share, and so he drew down the wrath of the gods. Mathieu Bokhanowsky was killed in a car crash one night on his way home from the opening of an umpteenth store. There were rumours: according to some, his alcohol level was over the limit. Others said that they had also found traces of cocaine in the car. Or that he hadn’t been alone: his pretty secretary was with him, who escaped with only a
few bruises.
‘Slander, lies, jealousy,’ hissed Marianne.
She had lifted her knees up against her chest and her bare feet clung to the edge of the wooden chair like claws. For a moment he observed them, those pretty tanned feet.
‘There were also rumours implying that Mathieu was ruined. They were untrue. He had invested his money in life insurance and shares, but I found a job so I wouldn’t have to sell the house. I’m an interior decorator for people who have no taste; I design websites for various organisations … It’s a long way from our dreams of being artists, but still, it’s not as far as—’ She broke off, but he knew she had almost said, ‘as being a cop.’ ‘I’ve been bringing Hugo up alone since he was eleven years old,’ she concluded, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I’ve managed fairly well, I think. Hugo is innocent, Martin. If you charge him, it’s not just my son you’ll be sending to prison, but also an innocent boy.’
He got the message. She would never forgive him.
‘It doesn’t depend just on me,’ he answered. ‘It’s up to the judge.’
‘But it depends on what you say to him.’
‘Let’s get back to Claire. There must be some people in Marsac who disapproved of her way of life?’
She nodded.
‘Of course there were. There was constant gossip. I was the target of similar gossip after Mathieu died, whenever married men came to visit.’
‘Married men came to visit you?’
‘Completely above board. I have a few friends here, perhaps Francis told you. They helped me get over it. This is a new thing, this judgmental attitude …’
‘It’s the job, I can’t help it,’ he said.
She stood up.
‘You should forget your job from time to time.’
Her tone was as harsh as a whip, but she softened it by placing her hand on his shoulder as she walked by. She turned on the light on the terrace. The sky was getting dark. Servaz could hear frogs. Insects gathered around the lamp, and wisps of mist began to appear on the surface of the lake.
She came back with another bottle. He felt good, relaxed – but he wondered where this was heading. He noticed that he was following every move she made, that he was hypnotised by the way she filled the space. She uncorked the bottle and poured him another glass. Neither one of them felt the need to speak now, but she looked at him often. He suddenly understood that something else was happening, in his guts: he desired her. Violently. It had nothing to do with their history together. It was a desire for this woman, the Marianne she was today.
The Circle Page 12
