The Circle

by Bernard Minier

  Servaz looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. Then at a sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve taped to the table. At the top was written ‘Surveillance System – Operating Instructions’.

  ‘No need, I should be able to manage on my own.’

  The director looked at his watch.

  ‘We’re closing in less than ten minutes. Maybe you could come back tomorrow …’

  Servaz thought about this. He was overwhelmed by curiosity and a sense of urgency. He didn’t want to waste a single minute.

  ‘No, I’ll stay here. Tell me how to lock up behind me.’

  The director seemed annoyed.

  ‘I can’t leave the bank open like that after closing time,’ he protested. ‘Even if you are inside.’ He hesitated for a second. ‘I’ll lock you in. But I’ll switch off the alarm: I don’t want you setting it off without realising then have the gendarmerie show up.’ He showed Servaz the screen of his BlackBerry. ‘When you’re finished, call me on this number, and I’ll come and lock up behind you and turn on the alarm. I live right nearby.’

  Servaz entered the banker’s number into his phone. The director went back out, but he left the door to the box room ajar. Servaz heard the last clients leaving, then the employees gathered their belongings, said goodbye, and left the establishment in turn.

  ‘Will you be okay?’ asked the director five minutes later, sticking his head through the door, a briefcase in his hand.

  Servaz nodded, even though he was beginning to wonder. The operating instructions seemed bloody complicated – at least for someone like him who had a serious technology handicap. He began by manipulating the buttons on the remote; the image disappeared then came back; then he got a full-screen image, but it was the wrong one. He swore to himself. Nowhere in the bloody instructions could he find how to replay the recordings. Obviously … had he ever found a single instruction manual that was useful from first page to last?

  At 18.45, he realised he was in a sweat. It had to be 35 degrees in the room. He opened the little window, which was protected by two thick bars embedded in the wall. It had started raining again, and the sound of the rain entered the tiny space at the same time as the welcome cool air.

  At 19.07 he finally understood what he had to do. When he managed to get the camera recordings that had filmed the car park, he realised there was only one way to get to the scene he was looking for – if it existed – that had occurred slightly before 20.30 the previous Friday: fast-forward the recording.

  He made a first attempt but, mysteriously, the fast-forward jammed after a few minutes and the recording went back to the beginning.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit!’

  His voice echoed down the empty corridor and lobby. He took a deep breath. Calm down. You’ll get there. He decided to fast-forward the recording up to a certain point, then watch it normally, then fast-forward it again a bit further along.

  At 19.23 his heart began to beat more quickly. 20.12 said the screen. He pressed play, at normal speed. Something had set off the camera at that moment. A car was leaving the car park. A succession of fixed images. Servaz watched the car drive by the camera. A flash of lightning lit up the screen. The storm broke over Marsac, the vehicle’s windscreen wipers came and went and it was virtually impossible to see anything inside. Until he was able to make out for a fleeting moment a couple in their fifties … Once again, he was disappointed. The recording stopped, then switched back on at 20.26. Another car went by, behind the curtain of rain and the car park. The light was fading, but the system made up for it. In the background, however, the entrance to the pub was getting more and more blurry. He wondered if he would be able to make out anything at all if someone were to leave at that moment … He rubbed his eyelids. His eyes were burning from staring at the screen. The sound of the rain was deafening. It was as if it were coming from the recording. Suddenly he stiffened. Hugo … He had just come through the door of the pub. In spite of the storm and the blurry image, there could be no doubt. The clothes were the same ones he had been wearing the night of the murder. The haircut and shape of the face matched. Servaz swallowed, aware that the seconds that followed would be decisive.

  Go on, go ahead …

  His eyes riveted to the screen, he saw the young man walk across the square between the cars. The speed of a dozen images per second made his progress seem somewhat choppy. The young man stopped suddenly in the middle of the street, raised his eyes to the sky, and stood there for a few seconds.

  What the fuck are you doing, for Christ’s sake?

  Hugo was so motionless that Servaz wondered if the image weren’t stuck again. At the same time, he watched the entrance to the pub. But nothing was happening there … His sweating fingertips left a damp trace on the remote. Come on … Servaz tried to make out the car, the one that Hugo had left outside Claire Diemar’s place, but he couldn’t see it. It must be there, though, somewhere, in that row … Suddenly, Hugo pivoted to the right and disappeared. Shit! There was some sort of equipment shed right in the middle of the car park, and Hugo had parked behind it! Servaz swore once again and was about to bang his fist on the table when, in the background, the door to the pub opened …

  Jesus Christ!

  He’d been right. He opened his mouth, eyes glued to the screen. There was just a chance. A very slight one. Tiny even. Come closer … The figure turned into the car park, walking towards the camera, also with that slightly jerky gait, heading towards the spot where Hugo had parked. Servaz’s throat went dry. The newcomer was tall and thin. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Shit! Suddenly, Servaz was certain he would not see his face and he was filled with rage. But at least there was one positive thing: this recording would lend greater credibility to Hugo’s statements. Even if it did not constitute definitive proof. The silhouette in the hoodie disappeared in turn behind the equipment shed.

  And now?

  There was still a slight chance … The car had to back up, and come into the camera’s visual field at some point. Maybe he’d be able to see who was driving. Servaz waited, his throat tight, his nerves on edge. Too long. It was taking too long … Something was going on.

  A sound.

  He sat up straight as if someone had kicked him. He’d heard something – not from outside, but in the bank.

  ‘Is there anyone there?’

  No answer. Maybe he’d imagined it. There was so much noise from the rain through the window that he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to turn his attention back to the screen. No, he had heard something … He pressed the pause button and stood up. Went out into the corridor.

  ‘Hey! Who’s there!’

  His voice echoed down the corridor. On the far side was a metal emergency exit door with a horizontal bar. It was locked.

  He hesitated, then finally began walking towards the lobby. No one. The counter, the rows of coloured armchairs, the white line … The lobby was deserted. He turned around.

  Except … He could feel it now …

  A draught, ever so slight.

  A draught, between the window of the box room and … another window open somewhere. He swung around in the middle of the lobby and looked through the glass doors at the deserted square. The doors were locked. Inside, darkness was creeping into every corner of the lobby. Darkness and silence. It was as if someone were rubbing a grater over his nerves. He felt for the gun on his hip, and opened the holster. A gesture he had not made in many months, not since that winter of 2008, to be exact.

  Not since Hirtmann …

  Servaz walked past the counter. There was a second corridor on the other side. Now he was taking measured steps, his weapon firmly in his hand. He hoped no one would pass the glass doors of the bank just then and notice him. He wasn’t altogether sure this wasn’t simply a fit of paranoia. Nevertheless, he kept his weapon in the prescribed position, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. Sweat trickled from his eyebrows into his eyes, and he blinked.

  The other corridor was not
as long as the first one. There was only one door, leading to the toilets.

  He bent his knees, held his hand down to the ground, to the gap of two centimetres beneath the door.

  The draught was coming from there.

  He opened the door very slowly, encountering a slight resistance from the door closer. A smell of industrial cleaner. All of a sudden the draught of air increased and more than ever he was on his guard. The door to the men’s toilets.

  It was open.

  Someone had forgotten to close that window, and as the director had not connected the alarm system, no one had noticed. He was trying to think of a simple explanation. The idea that someone might have come into the bank to go after him, when they could easily have gone after him anywhere and at any time, seemed terribly far-fetched.

  He stood with both feet on the toilet bowl and pulled himself up to the little window. It had the same bars as in the box room. There was nothing to see here. He was climbing back down when he heard a new sound, outside the toilets but inside the bank. This time, the blood surged into his veins like water from a dam into a turbine. Now he was afraid. He turned to the door, heart pounding, legs like jelly. There was someone out there … He tightened his hold on his gun, but his hand slipped on the moist grip.

  Call for back-up. But what if he was mistaken? He could just see the headlines: Cop Loses It in Empty Bank. He could also call the director and tell him that he couldn’t play the recordings. And then? Would he stay locked inside here waiting for someone to show up? He had got as far as this in his deliberations when he heard the sound of the emergency exit door closing with a bang.

  Bloody hell!

  He rushed out of the toilets and past the counter, skidded at the corner and ran as fast as he could to the end of the corridor. He went through the same metal door. A stairway. He heard footsteps above him. Shit! He took off after them. Two flights of concrete stairs and a door between each floor. The stairs vibrated beneath his feet. He listened out to try and hear whether the fugitive had left the staircase, but he felt certain that he was still climbing. After three flights, Servaz was out of breath, his chest burning. He clung to the metal railing. On the sixth floor, he stopped to catch his breath, bent double, his hands on his knees. His lungs were making a wheezing sound. His target was continuing to climb: he could feel the vibrations beneath his feet. He resumed his climb. He had reached the seventh floor when a metal door squealed, then banged noisily, closing above him. He opened the door to the seventh floor. It didn’t squeal and didn’t close, either. So he hadn’t gone through there … His heart was pounding fit to burst. For a split second he wondered if he might die of a heart attack, climbing up some stairs in pursuit of a murderer.

  He continued on up past the eighth floor.

  His muscles were like cement when he finally made it up the last two flights of stairs. The roof … The metal sound had come from here. This was where they were hiding. Servaz’s apprehension returned, full blast. He recalled the investigation in the Pyrenees. The vertigo. His fear of the void. He hesitated.

  He was soaked in sweat. As he passed his weapon from one hand to the other, he wiped his palms on his trousers, then sponged his face with the back of his sleeve. He waited for his heart to ease a little, and he stared at the closed metal door.

  What was behind it? What if this were a trap?

  He knew that his fear would make him weak. But he had a weapon …

  And what if the fugitive was armed, too?

  He hesitated, unsure how to proceed. At the same time, impatience and urgency were snapping at his heels. He placed a trembling hand on the metal bar. The door squealed when he pushed it. He was immediately overwhelmed by the storm: lightning, wind and rain. The wind was much stronger up here, out in the open. The soles of his shoes crunched on gravel. The terrace was a vast flat space with a concrete edge not more than twenty centimetres high. His stomach went into a knot. He could see the roofs of Marsac below. He let the door close behind him. Where had they gone? The wind mussed his hair. He looked to the left and the right: a row of masonry pillars one metre high, with openings for ventilation, rose up out of the roof. There were also huge pipes running along the ground, and three satellite dishes – and that was all.

  Where had they gone?

  It was raining harder than ever, pounding on his skull, streaming down his face. Black clouds hovered above the town. The hills were pale in the lightning. He felt as if he were suspended in mid-air.

  The wind in his ears.

  A sound, over to the left …

  He turned his head, his gun pointed. At the same time his brain analysed the situation, and in flash he knew it was a trap. A pebble, an object … Something had been tossed that way to lure him in the wrong direction.

  Too late he heard the footsteps running towards him, and he felt a brutal blow against his spine as he was rammed full on, seized by the waist and thrust forward. His legs arched. He let go of his gun, his hands flapping at the air.

  He was hustled along, dragged. His aggressor had the advantage of the initial impulse and surprise. And before he even had time to react, he was being propelled at full speed towards the edge of the roof.

  The void.

  ‘NOOOO!’

  He heard himself scream, watched as the edge of the roof and the entire countryside leapt up to meet him, altogether too quickly, despite the soles of his feet desperately clinging to the gravel.

  Ten storeys.

  His vision grew larger and blurred, distorted by fear, rain, vertigo … He screamed again. He saw the entire square in the darkness, the row of balconies below him, the vertical, convergent lines of the rain, the toes of his shoes striking the concrete edge. His body plunging forward, hovering perilously.

  For a split second he swung out over the edge of the abyss, and was only kept from falling by a hand at his back.

  Then he felt a violent blow to his head. He fell into a black hole.

  Irène Ziegler and Zuzka Smatanova landed at Toulouse-Blagnac airport from Santorini at 20.30 that night. They claimed their luggage and headed towards Hall D. From there a free shuttle would take them to the ‘budget’ car park where their car had been waiting for a month. Altogether, 108 euros in parking fees. Ziegler had spent the entire trip calculating the amount in her head. Her girlfriend had paid for almost all of their holiday; Irène had paid only for her return ticket and two restaurants. No doubt about it, a stripper and nightclub manager earned more money than a gendarme. Irène had already wondered what her superiors would say if they ever found out that her partner was the manager of a strip joint, but she had decided once and for all that if she ever had to choose between her job and Zuzka, she would not hesitate for a second.

  They were dragging their wheeled suitcases behind them, looking out of the window at the downpour, already nostalgic for the Greek sunshine, when they went past a newspaper stand. Irène stopped short.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Zuzka.

  ‘Wait.’

  Zuzka gave her a questioning look. Irène had put down her suitcase. She went up to the display: the photo was poor quality but the face was familiar. Martin Servaz was looking at her from the front page of the newspaper, his face white from the flashbulbs. The headline declared, HIRTMANN WRITES TO POLICE.

  20

  Clouds

  Grey, bruised clouds, bulbous as mushrooms. Piled high in the sky like monuments. As he looked up at them, he felt a drop of rain hit his cornea. Hard as a marble. Then a second, and a third. He blinked. Rain was hitting him in the face. With his mouth open, he felt it on his tongue.

  There was a terrible pain at the back of his skull, where his head was resting on the gravel. He raised his head; the pain grew worse, spread like tentacles around his neck and shoulders. Wincing, he rolled over to one side, to the left. He found himself staring out into the abyss, and a wave of nausea came over him. He was lying on the edge of the roof! Only a few centimetres from a fatal fall. Terrified, he rolled the othe
r way, then crawled out of harm’s way before getting up on his shaky legs.

  He raised one hand to his skull and touched it cautiously. The pain immediately radiated throughout his head and he took his hand away. But he had had time to feel the enormous bump beneath his scalp. He looked at his fingers, and rain washed away the blood. It didn’t necessarily mean anything: the scalp always bled abundantly.

  He saw his gun a bit further away. He took two steps and bent down to pick it up. He dragged himself over to the metal door, which, on this side, was equipped with a handle. He tried to figure out what had happened.

  And he knew at once. The recording …

  He hurried unsteadily down the stairway from the roof, opened the door to the tenth floor and rushed over to the lifts. Once he was on the ground floor, he looked for the door to the staircase. He went through it and located the bank’s emergency exit. The automatic door closer had shut it. He went back out of the building and over to the glass doors of the bank. They were locked, and he could not get back in. He took out his telephone and called the manager.

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘No. But something happened.’

  Five minutes later, a Japanese 4x4 pulled onto the square. The manager got out and came over, looking worried. He typed in a code and Servaz heard the buzzing of the electronic lock. He pushed open the door and hurried to the box room.

  The little recorder had vanished. All that was left were the cables on the table.

  This was what his attacker had wanted. To get hold of the recording. He had taken a considerable risk. Without a doubt, that’s who it was … the person in the hoodie. He was the one who had killed Claire Diemar, who had drugged Hugo. Servaz no longer had any doubts. He had been there all that time, spying on him, following him. He had seen him go up to the surveillance camera and into the bank. He had realised what Servaz was about to do. He had no way of knowing whether someone would recognise him, so he had taken a crazy risk. He must have got into the bank with the other clients, then gone to the toilets and stayed there until closing time. Then he had lured Servaz away from the box room and he had stolen the hard drive and disappeared. Or something to that effect.