The Circle

by Bernard Minier

  colleague

  detainee

  outside visitor

  In the last two cases, it was unlikely that Martin would have left them on their own long enough for them to be able to get anything done. She added one last possibility:

  cleaning woman

  32

  In the Darkness

  At around eleven o’clock at night, an old man took his dog out and gave Servaz a suspicious look, which he then transferred to the broken lamppost two metres from the car. Servaz hoped he wasn’t going to call the gendarmes. Not taking his eyes from the house, he made two calls, one to Vincent and the other to Samira. The window on the first floor was still lit.

  Shortly before midnight, his attention sharpened when a silhouette walked past the window. Then that light went out and another one came on behind a small stained-glass window where the two wings met, which must have been where the staircase was. Then a third window was lit on the ground floor. Servaz twisted his neck to watch the entrance. A few seconds later he saw the light in the vestibule come on, then the front door opened and Francis’s head and shoulders appeared above the hedge. The last light went off inside the house. Van Acker was going out.

  Servaz slid lower into his seat as he watched Van Acker come down the garden, open the gate, and emerge on the pavement twenty metres from his bumper. He saw his erstwhile friend head towards his car, a red Alfa Romeo Spider roadster parked a bit further along. With his hand on the ignition, he waited for Francis to start the car and drive to the end of the street before he turned the key and pulled out. He told himself that if Van Acker was on the defensive, it would be difficult to follow him without being noticed. But Van Acker hadn’t seemed interested in what was going on in the street: he’d headed straight for the car without once looking around him.

  Servaz came to the end of the street in time to see the car on his right, turning left 100 metres further on. He accelerated and turned at the same spot. Ahead of him, the roadster took the rue du 4 Septembre as far as the place Gambetta, and then headed southeast. As he drove past the church, Servaz saw a student vomiting in the shadow of the presbytery; two schoolmates were waiting for him, laughing. The Spider sped past the lowered iron shutters of the little shopping streets, bouncing over the cobblestones, then round the fountain and onto the D939. He was leaving town. Servaz followed suit. The full moon shone on the dark wooded hillsides, and after a long straight line, the road went uphill and began to wind through the woods. Servaz kept a good distance, and he regularly lost the two rear lights before seeing them again as he came out of a bend. His GPS told him there would be no crossroads for four kilometres, so it would be useless to stay within sight, but Van Acker was driving fast and he must be careful not to allow too much distance between them.

  It was obvious that Van Acker enjoyed testing the performance of his sports car, and he was driving well above the speed limit. Francis had never given a damn about the rules – except the ones that he himself established.

  The road went up and downhill, winding like a snake. They were going so fast that the wheels of the Jeep tossed up dead leaves and gravel at every turn. Servaz got the impression that they must be audible from miles around. In the beam of the headlights he could see that the woods were getting thicker. From time to time he saw the full moon, but most of the time it was hidden by the vault of greenery. Twice, maybe three times, Servaz thought he saw headlights in his rearview mirror – but he was focused on what was happening in front of him, not behind.

  When they reached the end of the valley, Servaz saw the Spider turn left 200 metres ahead of him and start down an even narrower road. He did likewise, and the little road began to climb, with hairpin bends. They went through a hamlet with three or four farms that clung to the top of the hill like a row of teeth in a crooked jaw. He forced himself to slow down to avoid being noticed. He reached a small junction and hesitated, until again he saw the rear lights off to his left, between the trees. The road began to climb again. Then it reached a plateau and followed a long open plantation of trees, with tall trunks regularly spaced like the pillars of a cathedral. There were hundreds of them.

  Servaz was beginning to feel worried. Where was Van Acker going? His route had avoided the main roads, taking instead a series of small secondary roads with very little traffic – especially at this time of night. Servaz tried to think, but he was too focused on the car ahead of him.

  At the next crossroads, right in the middle of a vast uninhabited plateau, he saw a sign: ‘GORGES DE LA SOULE’. He searched for the Spider but couldn’t see it. Shit! Servaz switched off the engine and got out. There was a special quality to the silence. There was not a breath of air and the night was astonishingly warm. He listened out. An engine noise … on his left. He strained to hear, and again he detected the change of gears and the faraway squeal of the tyres in a bend. He got back behind the wheel, took the Jeep in a large curve and headed for the gorges.

  He reached them five minutes later, slowed down and parked the Cherokee at the side of the road. In daylight the gorges were a place of luxuriant vegetation, and the forest only opened to let in a few rays of sun and glimpses of the tall limestone cliffs. A wide, slow-moving stream ran through them. There were also several shallow caves by the side of the road, which people came to visit on Sundays when there was nothing else to do. At this late hour they seemed very different. In his youth Servaz had come here on more than one occasion, with Francis, Marianne and the others.

  Something like a premonition told him that this might be where Van Acker was headed. There had always been a dark romantic side to Francis, and this place suited him well. It was a bit like the paintings of Caspar David Friedrich. If Francis had parked somewhere in the gorges and Servaz went that way too, his friend could not help but notice him. No one drove along this back road at this time of night. Francis would see him go by and realise that Martin was following him. And if Van Acker had simply driven on, Servaz would have lost him by now anyway – but he was willing to bet that he hadn’t.

  There was a track six feet from his rear bumper. He reversed down it very slowly until the vehicle was invisible from the road, in case Francis came back this way. He switched off the headlights, then the engine, and got out. Not a sound, other than the murmur of the stream that flowed on the other side of the road. He closed the car door gently. Listened. A nocturnal bird cried out somewhere. Nothing else. He tried to analyse the situation. He didn’t have much choice; his only option was to go into the gorge. He knew that Van Acker might be gone already, leaving him completely alone in the middle of nowhere, caught up in some wild-goose chase. He took his mobile from his pocket and switched it off. Then he began walking along the road, under the moonlit sky.

  As he walked along the asphalt, he wondered what he actually knew about Van Acker nowadays – what had he been up to all these years? Their lives had gone in such different directions. Francis had always been a mystery. Can your best friend be the person you know the least? Two people who were so close and yet so different. We change. All of us. A part of ourselves stays the same: the kernel, the pure heart that comes from childhood, but all around, sediment builds up. Until it disfigures the child we used to be, until it makes the adult such a different person, so monstrous, that the child would not recognise the adult he has become – and no doubt he would be terrified at the idea of becoming that person.

  Servaz went deeper and deeper into the gorge. Now the sound of the nearby stream concealed any other noise. He followed the long bends in the road, walking more and more quickly. He tried to see through the growth at the roadside, but to no avail. It was almost completely dark in there, deep in the forest. Still no sound … Where had Van Acker gone? Servaz went a few yards further and saw him at last, parked just beyond the next bend. A corner of the car and a headlight: the red Spider. Servaz froze; leaned forward slightly. Two more headlights appeared between the trees; there were two cars parked there. And two silhouettes in the Alfa Romeo. He hesit
ated about what to do next. Could he get any closer without being noticed? Or would it be better to wait for the second person to get out and return to their car? He figured he had one advantage over them. From inside the car, only what was in the beam of the headlights would be visible: the cliff dazzling in the harsh light.

  If he crept through the woods, he would remain invisible. The question was whether he might make a noise as he went closer. But the two figures were deep in conversation, and the sound of the stream would cover him. He began to creep through the trees, but soon realised he could not go as fast as he had thought. The thickets were so dark and dense that it was impossible to make out the numerous obstacles in his way, and he was confronted with ever more impenetrable clusters of brushwood. Several times over he almost twisted his ankle in the dark because of the uneven terrain. Low-hanging branches scratched his cheeks and forehead, and he snagged his shirt several times on the brambles. He had to stop frequently. He would observe the two forms in the car, then set off again. After what seemed like an endless amount of time he found himself confronted with an insurmountable obstacle: a brook flowed invisibly in the darkness; it must join the stream further down. Servaz only knew it was there because of a sudden incline beneath his feet, and the sound of water up close. He removed one shoe and sock, rolled up his trouser leg, and tried to put his foot in, but his leg went into the cold water up to his knee, and his foot hadn’t even touched the bottom. The two figures were only a few metres away on the far side of the brook, but they had their backs to him. He moved along the brook until he could see the passenger more clearly. It was a woman. With long hair. He had no idea of the colour – any more than he could tell her age from where he stood.

  Suddenly another solution occurred to him.

  The road went all the way through the gorges, from one end to the other. There were two ways out, so either the woman had come from the other side, or she had been there well before them. Servaz was willing to bet on the first possibility. They didn’t want to be seen together. They were taking a risk. He made his way back the way he had come, this time not worrying about any noise he might make. Time was of the essence. As soon as he reached the road, he began to run along the asphalt and gravel towards his car. He switched on the ignition and left the track, then headed down the road at thirty kilometres an hour. As soon as he was sure that the occupants of the Spider could no longer hear him, he put his foot on the accelerator. When he reached the previous junction, he saw a car parked beneath the trees, its lights switched off, but perfectly visible. He immediately recognised it. He pulled up alongside and lowered his window.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’

  Pujol sat up.

  ‘What do you think?’ said Pujol, annoyed. ‘Have you forgotten?’

  Sweet Jesus! He had asked Pujol to tail him in case Hirtmann showed up. He had completely forgotten!

  ‘I said, “at a distance”!’

  ‘That’s what we’re doing. But you’re driving all over the place.’

  ‘Nice job with the fishing rod,’ Pujol’s teammate in the shadow said, sarcastically.

  Servaz thought about Francis in the gorge: he might drive by at any moment.

  ‘Go back to Toulouse! Get the hell out of here! I don’t want you under my feet tonight.’

  He could see the anger in Pujol’s eyes, but he didn’t have time for further explanations. He waited until their car had disappeared, then he set off again, turned left at the next junction, then left again. He went roughly two kilometres before he saw a new sign to ‘GORGES DE LA SOULE’ next to a ruined building: an abandoned farmhouse with a barn. He reversed the Jeep and parked against the wall, then switched off the engine and the headlights and began to wait.

  After what seemed like forever, where he was beginning to wonder whether the woman had not gone the other way after all, the unknown car went by in front of him. He waited until she was out of sight and then started the car. For a few kilometres, he drove slowly, then accelerated when his GPS informed him that he was approaching the next junction.

  He saw her turn left, and once again he took his foot off the accelerator to let her put some distance between them, then repeated the whole rigmarole as they drew near the following junction, just in time to see her carry on straight ahead. The road to Marsac. The one that went by the lycée before leading into town. He would have to get closer if he didn’t want to lose her in the little streets. He was roughly 200 metres behind her, gradually closing the distance on the long straight stretch, when he saw her brake lights come on just before she veered into the oak-lined lane that led to the lycée. His mind was racing. If he turned into the long lane that led to the car park, there was no chance she wouldn’t notice him. But from this distance, it was impossible for him to identify her.

  He had a sudden thought. Vincent! He was parked somewhere, keeping watch over the entrance to the lycée. Servaz pulled into the verge. He already had his thumb on the call button.

  ‘Martin! What’s up?’

  ‘There’s a car coming into the car park,’ he shouted. ‘Do you see it? I have to know who the driver is!’

  Silence.

  ‘Wait … yes, I see it. Just a minute. She’s getting out. A student … blonde. Judging by her age, she must be in the prep classes.’

  ‘Go up to her – I absolutely have to know who it is!’ he cried. ‘Make something up, anything. Tell her the police have been watching the lycée ever since her teacher was murdered. Ask her if she’s noticed anything. Tell her she shouldn’t be walking around alone with what’s going on. Exaggerate if you have to … And ask to see her ID card.’

  He saw Espérandieu get out of the car; he didn’t close the door but walked quickly over towards the other figure, who was now heading towards the entrance.

  Servaz glanced at his dashboard.

  The binoculars.

  He leaned over and opened the glove box. They were in there, along with his torch, his notepad and his gun.

  He grabbed the binoculars. Espérandieu was striding across the grass to catch up with the young woman. She still hadn’t noticed him. Servaz trained the binoculars in their direction.

  ‘Let her go,’ he said suddenly, into his mobile.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Don’t let her see you. It’s pointless. I know who it is.’

  He saw Espérandieu come to a halt and look in every direction before he noticed his superior at last. He ended the call, lowered the binoculars, and wondered feverishly about the significance of what he had just seen.

  Sarah …

  Margot made sure her door was locked and went back to her bed with its damp sheets. She looked for a moment at the empty second bed, and felt her heart contract. Her roommate had asked to be switched to another room after the news had gone round the lycée that Margot was the target of a threat.

  She realised that, in spite of the lack of shared interests and their difficulty in communicating, she really missed Lucie. She’d taken all her belongings, and stripped the wall of all her family photographs. That side of the room looked sad and abandoned.

  Sitting cross-legged on the bed, Margot began to reflect on the topic Van Acker had set them, but her mind was empty. Her homework was entitled: Find seven good reasons never to write a novel and one (good) reason to write one. Margot supposed that Van Acker wanted to open the eyes of all the aspiring writers in the class to the difficulties that lay ahead. Margot had already found the following reasons never to write a novel:

  1. There are already too many novels. Every year a pile of new novels are published, not to mention the thousands that are written and will never be published.

  2. Writing a novel requires a considerable amount of work for very little recognition.

  3. Writing doesn’t make anyone rich. At best the author can earn enough to go out to eat or pay for his holiday, but authors who can actually live from their work are an endangered species, like the snow leopard or the pygmy hippopotamus.

>   She dropped the last two comments; she could already picture Francis Van Acker dripping with sarcasm: ‘Do you mean to imply that half the geniuses of our literature should have abstained from writing, Mademoiselle Servaz?’ And besides … besides, she was drawing a blank. Her mind was focused on what was happening elsewhere, outside. Was he out there, somewhere in the woods, looking for her? Was Julian Hirtmann really hanging about or were they all just imagining things, like a bunch of lunatics? She thought back to the note that Elias had left in her locker that morning. ‘I think I’ve found the Circle.’ What the fuck did he mean by that? She had tried to speak to him, but Elias had stopped her, saying, ‘Later.’ Shit, Elias, you piss me off.

  Her gaze fell upon the little black device on the bed. A walkie-talkie. Samira had given it to her and shown her how to use it, saying, ‘Don’t hesitate, you can call me any time.’

  She liked Samira, with her alternative look and her wild clothes. Margot glanced again at the walkie-talkie. Finally, she reached for it.

  ‘Samira?’

  She let go of the button, the way they had told her to, so that Samira could answer.

  ‘Yes, babe. I’m here. What’s going on?’

  ‘Uh … I … it’s just …’

  ‘You feel kind of alone in your room since your roommate left, is that it?’

  Bull’s eye.

  ‘That wasn’t too cool of her …’ A crackling sound. ‘It’s getting really itchy over here. It’s full of fucking horrible bugs. And besides, I’m kind of thirsty. I have two cold beers in a cooler. What do you say? We don’t need to tell the headmaster or your father – after all, he told me to keep a close watch on you …’