The Circle

by Bernard Minier

‘No one.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes. I’m the one who took it and put it in the drawer.’

  ‘Do you have a letter opener, or a pair of scissors?’

  The man rummaged in a drawer and handed him a bread knife. Espérandieu delicately tore open the envelope and placed two fingers inside. Servaz looked at his gloved hand as he pulled out a shining metallic disc. Espérandieu examined it on both sides. Over his shoulder, Servaz did the same. The disc was blank: there was nothing written on it, nor any fingerprints that he could see.

  ‘Can we have a look?’ he asked the manager.

  The man waved to the row of computers in the multimedia space.

  ‘No, not there. Somewhere more private.’

  Patrick went back to the other side of the bar and drew open a red curtain, revealing a tiny windowless room filled with computer packaging material, crates, a defunct percolator and, in one corner, a desk with a lamp and a computer.

  ‘This woman who handed you the envelope,’ said Servaz, ‘was she alone?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What sort of impression did she make?’

  Patrick thought for a moment.

  ‘She was cute, I remember. Other than that, rather on the serious side. Come to think of it, I get the impression she actually was wearing a wig.’

  ‘And she asked you to give this to us? Why didn’t you call the police?’

  ‘Because there was no mention of the police or any hint that it was anything illegal. She just told me that some people would come and ask me about her and that I had to give them this envelope.’

  ‘Why did you agree? Didn’t you find it a bit dodgy?’

  The man broke into a smile.

  ‘There were two fifty-euro notes along with it.’

  ‘That’s even dodgier, don’t you think?’

  The man didn’t answer.

  ‘So you didn’t notice anything else, besides the wig?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you have CCTV?’

  ‘Yes. But it only turns on at night, once the place is closed. It’s activated by a motion detector.’

  He could read the disappointment in Servaz’s eyes and seemed delighted. Patrick didn’t seem particularly concerned about the fate of his fellow citizens, but on the other hand he was clearly very eager not to make things too easy for the police. No doubt he read George Orwell and was convinced that his country was a police state.

  ‘The notes, do you still have them?’

  Another smile.

  ‘No. Money comes and goes, here.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Espérandieu to dismiss him.

  Servaz watched as his assistant leaned over the computer. The man didn’t budge.

  ‘Who’s this guy you’re looking for?’

  ‘You can go now,’ said Servaz with a broad smile. ‘We’ll call you if we need you.’

  The manager gave them a look. Then he shrugged and walked off. Once he was on the other side of the curtain, Espérandieu slipped the disc into the drive. A window opened on the computer screen and the media software program started up automatically.

  Instinctively, Servaz felt tense. What should they expect? A message from Hirtmann? A video? And who was this woman the manager was talking about? An accomplice? The tension was affecting them physically. Servaz could see a triangle of sweat darkening his assistant’s T-shirt, and it wasn’t just because it was hot in the tiny room.

  The silence seemed to last forever, broken only by the crackling of static in the loudspeakers. Espérandieu turned the volume up.

  All of a sudden there was a blast of music that made them both jump as if a gun had gone off.

  ‘Bloody hell!’ exclaimed Espérandieu, hurrying to turn down the volume.

  ‘What is that?’ said Servaz, his heart pounding fit to burst, while the music continued, more quietly.

  ‘Marilyn Manson,’ answered Espérandieu.

  ‘There are people who listen to this?’

  In spite of the tension, Espérandieu could not help but smile. The song played to the end. They waited for a moment, then the CD stopped.

  ‘That’s it,’ said Espérandieu, looking at the cursor on the screen.

  ‘There’s nothing else?’

  ‘No, that’s it.’

  On Servaz’s face, fear had given way to bewilderment and disappointment.

  ‘What do you think it means?’

  ‘I don’t know. It looks like a hoax. One thing is for sure: it wasn’t Hirtmann.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So it wasn’t Hirtmann who sent you the e-mail, either.’

  Servaz got the message and felt his anger return.

  ‘You all think I’m paranoid, don’t you?’

  ‘Listen, the lunatic is out there somewhere. Every police force in Europe is looking for him, but they haven’t got the slightest clue. He could be anywhere. And before he disappeared he confided in you.’

  Servaz looked at his assistant. ‘There is one thing I do know,’ he replied, aware that his words could be yet another piece of evidence for the file on his paranoia: ‘Sooner or later, that lunatic is going to show up again.’

  18

  Santorini

  Irène Ziegler looked down at the cruise ship anchored in the volcanic crater 100 metres below her. From this vantage point, the huge ship looked like a pretty toy, all white. The sea and the sky were almost artificially blue, contrasting with the blinding white terraces, the red ochre cliffs, and the black of the little volcanic islands at the centre of the bay.

  She took a sip of very sweet Greek coffee then a long draw of her cigarette. Eleven o’clock in the morning. It was already hot. On the neighbouring terrace, an English couple wearing straw hats were writing postcards. On yet another, a man in his thirties gave her a friendly little wave while talking on the phone. At €225 a night in low season, the hotel catered to a rather wealthy clientele. Fortunately she wasn’t the one, on her gendarme’s salary, who was paying for the room.

  She waved back, and stood up. A little sea breeze struggled against the rising heat, but she felt, all the same, a trickle of sweat run down her back. She went through the French windows.

  ‘Don’t move,’ said a voice in her ear.

  Ziegler jumped. The voice was full of menace.

  ‘If you make a single move, you’ll regret it.’

  She felt a rope go round her wrists behind her back and her forearms prickled with goosebumps, despite the heat. Then everything went dark as a blindfold covered her eyes.

  ‘Go over to the bed. Don’t try anything.’

  She obeyed. A hand pushed her roughly onto the bed on her stomach. Her skirt and bathing suit were immediately yanked off.

  ‘Isn’t it a bit early for this?’ she asked, her face in the sheets.

  ‘Shut up!’ said the voice behind her, followed immediately by a stifled laugh. ‘It’s never too early,’ added the voice, with a slight Slavic accent to her French.

  She was turned over onto her back and her tank top was removed. A body as naked and hot as her own lay on top of her. Moist lips kissed her eyelids, nose and mouth, then a wet tongue ran over her body. Irène freed her wrists, removed the blindfold and looked at Zuzka’s brown head moving down towards her belly. A wave of desire broke in the hollow of her back. With her fingers in her companion’s silky black hair she arched, rubbed against her and moaned. Then Zuzka’s face came back up, and they kissed.

  ‘What’s that weird taste?’ she asked suddenly between kisses.

  ‘Yaourti me meli,’ answered the voice. ‘Yoghurt with honey. Quiet.’

  Irène Ziegler gazed at Zuzka’s body stretched out next to her. She was naked except for a Panama straw hat over her face and strappy little leather sandals on her feet. She was asleep.

  For three weeks they had been hopping from one island and one ferry to another: Andros, Mykonos, Paros, Naxos, Amorgos, Serifos, Sifnos, Milos, Folegandros, Ios and finally Santorini, where they had spent the
ir time swimming, diving, and sunbathing on the black sand beaches, and shutting themselves away in their hotel room to make love. Especially to make love … From time to time, they would go and sip a Marvin Gaye at the Tropical Bar, just before the rush of hysterical revellers drove them away. Then they would enjoy a moment wandering hand in hand through the calm streets, kissing under awnings and in dark corners, or jumping onto the scooter to head for a moonlit beach – but even there it was difficult to get away from the drunks and the bores and the thumping echo of techno.

  Ziegler stood up soundlessly, so as not to wake her girlfriend, and opened the fridge to take out some bottled fruit juice. She drank a tall glass, then went into the bathroom for a shower. It was their last day. The next day they would fly back to France and each of them would resume her usual life: Zuzka in the nightclub where Irène had met her two years earlier, where she was both manager and head stripper, and Ziegler to her new assignment: the investigation squad in Auch.

  Not really a promotion when you came from the investigation squad in Pau, a much bigger place …

  The winter 2008 investigation had left its mark. Paradoxically, Commandant Servaz and the Toulouse crime squad had stood up for her, and it was her own superiors who had punished her. For a moment she closed her eyes against the memory: that sinister session where her superiors, all lined up in their dress uniforms, had listed the charges against her. Against all the rules, she had wanted to play the lone warrior, and she had hidden information from the members of her team; she had also hidden certain aspects of her past with regard to the investigation, and she had concealed an important piece of evidence where her name appeared. The only reason she had not been punished more severely was thanks to Martin’s intervention and that of the prosecutor, Cathy d’Humières, who had insisted that she had saved the policeman’s life and also risked her own to capture the murderer.

  So when she got back she would be taking up her position in the investigation squad of the county town of a region of 23,000 inhabitants. A new life and a new departure. In theory. She already knew that the cases she would deal with there would have little in common with the cases she had previously worked on. Her only consolation was that she would be the head of the department, as her predecessor had retired three months earlier. Auch did not have a court of appeal the way Pau did; there was a county court, and she had already noticed that the trickier cases were sent to the regional section of the Criminal Affairs Division, to the departmental public security police, or to the regional gendarmerie in Toulouse. She let out a sigh, came out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and emerged again on the terrace, where she picked up her sunglasses before leaning over the little wall of stones.

  She lost herself in the contemplation of the ships criss-crossing the caldera. This was the last chance to stock up on memories.

  She wondered where Martin was, what he was doing at that moment. She was fond of him, and although he didn’t know it, she was watching over him. In her own way. Then her thoughts drifted again. Where was Hirtmann? What was he doing at that very moment? Deep inside, her restlessness and her hunter’s instinct were stirring. A little voice told her that the Swiss killer was at it again, that he would never stop. She suddenly realised she was eager for the holidays to be over. She was in a hurry to get back to France, to continue the hunt …

  Servaz spent the rest of his Sunday doing a bit of housework and thinking. At around five o’clock the telephone rang. It was Espérandieu. Sartet, the examining magistrate, together with the magistrate for custody and release, had decided to charge Hugo and place him in provisional detention. Servaz’s mood clouded over. He wasn’t sure the young man would emerge unscathed from such an experience. He would go through the looking glass, and see what was hidden behind the veneer of their society; Servaz could only hope that Hugo was still young enough to forget what he was about to see.

  He thought again about the sentence in Claire’s notebook. There was something odd about it. It was both too obvious and too subtle. For whom was it intended?

  ‘Are you still there?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ replied Espérandieu.

  ‘Do what you can to find a sample of Claire’s handwriting. And ask for a graphological comparison with the sentence in the notebook.’

  ‘The Victor Hugo quotation?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He went out onto the balcony. The air was still heavy, and a threatening sky hung over the city. The thunder was only a distant muffled echo, and it was as if time had stood still. There was electricity in the air. He thought about an anonymous predator moving around in the crowd, about Hirtmann’s victims who had never been found, about his mother’s murderers, about war and revolution, and about the world that was using up all its resources, including those of salvation and redemption.

  ‘To last night in Santorini,’ said Zuzka, raising her glass of margarita.

  Just beyond their table the white terraces, tinged blue with night, plummeted dizzyingly towards the edge of the cliff, a Legoland of balconies and lights piled up above the void. All the way down at the bottom, the caldera sank slowly into the night. Still anchored in the bay, the cruise ship glittered like a Christmas tree.

  A salty offshore breeze ruffled Zuzka’s hair and she turned to look at Ziegler. In the candlelight her irises were a very pale blue with a darker edge bordering on violet. Irène could not get enough of looking at her.

  ‘Cheers to the world,’ she said, raising her glass again.

  Then she leaned across the table and kissed Irène, beneath the curious gazes of their neighbours. She tasted of tequila, orange and lime. Eight seconds, no less. There was some applause.

  ‘I love you,’ declared Zuzka, out loud, oblivious of their surroundings.

  ‘Same here,’ answered Irène, her cheeks on fire.

  She had never been the demonstrative sort. She had a Suzuki GSR600 motorcycle, a helicopter pilot’s licence and a firearm, and she liked speed, deep-sea diving and motorsports, but next to Zuzka, she felt shy and awkward.

  ‘Don’t let those macho bastards mess your head, all right?’ (Zuzka occasionally had difficulty with idiomatic expressions.)

  ‘You can count on it.’

  ‘And I want you to call me every night.’

  ‘Zuzik …’

  ‘Promise.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘At the slightest sign of … depresia, I’ll be right over,’ said Zuzka threateningly.

  ‘Zuzik, I’ve got a company flat, in a building full of gendarmes …’

  ‘So?’

  ‘They’re really not used to this sort of thing.’

  ‘I’ll put on a fake moustache, if that’s what worries you. We can’t spend life hiding. You should change jobs, you know?’

  ‘We’ve already discussed this. I like my job.’

  ‘Maybe. But your job doesn’t like you. Why don’t we go for little walk to beach, so we enjoy last Greek night?’

  Ziegler nodded, lost in thought. The holidays were over. Back to the norm, to life in the Southwest. She liked her job. Really? So many things had changed since that notorious winter. Suddenly, she saw herself as she had been eighteen months earlier, when she’d been carried away by the avalanche, casting a desperate look at Martin before he disappeared from sight, up there in the mountains. She thought for the hundredth time of that psychiatric hospital lost in the snow, with its long corridors and its electronic locks, and the enigmatic man, pale and smiling, who had been locked up in there – and Mahler’s music …

  A full moon was shining over the Aegean, inscribing a silver triangle on the surface of the water. They held hands, and walked barefoot at the edge of the waves. The sea breeze blew harder here, caressing their faces. Now and again strains of music came to them from one of the tavernas along the immense beach at Perissa, then the wind shifted and the roar of the sea grew louder.

  ‘Why didn’t you say anything, earlier, when I said you should change job?’ asked Zuzka.<
br />
  ‘Say anything about what?’

  ‘That I too should change my job.’

  ‘You are free to choose, Zuzka.’

  ‘You don’t like what I do.’

  ‘It’s thanks to your job that we met.’

  ‘And that’s exactly what frightens you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know very well what I mean. Do you remember? When I was stripping and you showed up in the room, you and that other gendarme … Do you think I have forgotten your look? You tried to hide it, but you couldn’t take your eyes off my body. And you know I have same effect on other clients.’

  ‘Why don’t we change the subject?’

  ‘Ever since we’ve been together, you haven’t been back to Pink Banana, or just that once, that night when I left letter to say I was leaving you,’ continued Zuzka.

  ‘Zuzka, please …’

  ‘I haven’t finished. And you know why? You are afraid to see other clients gazing at me the way you did. You are afraid I’ll find someone like I found you. Well, you’re wrong. I found you, Irène. We found each other. And no one can come between us, you have nothing to fear. There is only you. The only thing that can come between you and me is your job.’

  Ziegler didn’t answer.

  ‘You are too sensitive for that job,’ said Zuzka, walking on. ‘All those months where I saw it interfere in your private life, where I put up with your dark moods, your silences, your fears. I don’t want to live through that again. Because if you cannot separate private life from your fucking job, if you cannot disconnect when we’re together, it’s not some dyke who comes to stare at me you have to be afraid of; no, it’s you: you are the only person who can separate us, Irène.’

  ‘Then you don’t need to worry. Where I am now, all I have to deal with is a few stolen handbags and some drunken brawls.’

  She said this wearily. Zuzka grabbed her by the hand and stopped her.

  ‘I’m going to be honest with you. For me, this is excellent news.’

  Ziegler said nothing. Zuzka pulled her close. She kissed her and took her in her arms. Irène could smell her skin and her hair, her light perfume. She felt her desire return. She had never felt this before meeting Zuzka, never with such intensity.