Where information is concerned, the card players at Luka’s are as good a source as it gets. They spend their days chewing the fat while their wives slave away, their older daughters are on the game and the others are minding the babies. Seeing Camille show up with three officers, they wearily toss their cards down onto the table – this is the fourth time in a month the police have interrupted their game, but this time, they’ve got the dwarf with them. Wrapped up in his coat, hat pulled down over his forehead, Camille looks each of them in the eye, the brute determination in his gaze drilling into their retinas, as though the search is somehow personal. Ravic? Sure, they know him, but only vaguely, they look at each other – “You seen him around?” “No, you?” They give apologetic smiles, they’d like to be able to help, but . . . “Yeah, right,” Camille says, and takes the youngest of them aside, a gangling figure so tall it looks like Camille chose him deliberately, which he did since it means he has only to stretch out his hand to grab the guy by the balls. He looks away as the guy falls to his knees, howling up in pain. Ravic? If he is not saying anything now, it’s because he doesn’t know anything. “Or because his balls have stopped working,” says one of the other officers. The others laugh. Camille, stone-faced, stalks out of the café. “Bring them all in!”
An hour later, bent double, the officers race down a flight of steps into a cellar as wide as an aircraft hangar with a ceiling barely five feet high. Eighty-four sewing machines in serried ranks, eighty-four illegals. It must be thirty degrees down there, they are working stripped to the waist, not one of them older than twenty. Cardboard boxes are stuffed with polo shirts branded Lacoste, the owner tries to explain, but is cut short. Dušan Ravic? This particular instance of local craftsmanship is tolerated, the police turn a blind eye because the owner regularly feeds them information; this time he screws up his eyes, racks his brain – hang on a minute, hang on a minute – someone suggests they call in Commandant Verhœven.
Before Camille arrives, the officers tip out the contents of the boxes, seize the few identity papers they can find and call Louis, spelling out surnames while the workers hug the walls as though trying to disappear into the stone. Twenty minutes later, the heat in the cellar has become intolerable and the officers have hauled everyone outside; lined up in the street, the illegals look either resigned or petrified.
Camille shows up a few minutes later. He is the only one who does not need to crouch to go down the steps. The owner is from Zrenjanin in northern Serbia not far from Ravic’s village, Elemir. Ravic? “Never heard of him,” the man says. “You sure?” Camille insists.
You can tell this is eating him up inside.
*
4.15 p.m.
I wasn’t away very long, too worried I might miss my old friend’s arrival. I’ve spent more than my fair share of time on stakeouts, so I’m not about to make the mistake of sparking up a cigarette or cracking a window to let some air into the car, but if Ravic is planning to show his face, he’d better get a move on, because I’m dead on my feet here.
The cops are moving heaven and earth to track him down, so he’s bound to turn up any moment.
Speak of the devil and who do I see rounding the corner? If it isn’t my old friend Dušan, I’d know him anywhere, no neck, built like a brick shithouse, feet turned out like a clown.
I’m parked about thirty metres from the doorway, about fifty from the corner where he just appeared. I get a good look at him as he shambles towards me, stopping slightly. I don’t know whether he’s got a chick back at the henhouse, but Ravic isn’t looking too good.
Not exactly cock of the walk.
From the clothes (a shabby duffel coat at least ten years old), and the worn-out shoes, it’s obvious he’s flat broke.
And that’s a bad sign.
Because, by rights, given his share of the haul last January, he should be dressed to kill. When he’s got some cash, Ravic’s the kind of guy who buys shiny suits, Hawaiian shirts and crocodile shoes. Seeing him dressed like a tramp is worrying.
On the run with a murder charge and four armed robberies on his back, he’s been reduced to living by his wits. And if he’s been holed up here, he must be on his uppers.
In all probability, he was double-crossed. Just like me. Probably should have seen it coming, but it’s pretty demoralising. Just have to suck it up.
Ravic shoves open the plywood door and nearly takes it off its hinges. He was never subtle, in fact you might say he’s reckless.
It’s because he has a short fuse that we’re in this mess, if he hadn’t put a couple of 9mm slugs into that jeweller in January . . .
I slink out of the car and get to the door a few seconds behind him, I can hear his lumbering footsteps somewhere to my right. There’s no bulb in the hall, so the only patches of light come from the open doors off the corridor. I tiptoe up the stairs after him, first floor, second, third, Jesus the stink in this place, stale piss, hamburgers, weed. I hear him knocking and I wait on the landing below. I suspected there would probably be other people here, which might make the job a little difficult, depending on how many of them there are.
Above me, I hear a door open and close, I creep upstairs, there is a lock, but it’s an old model, easily picked. I carefully press my ear against the wood, I hear Ravic’s hoarse croak – too many cigarettes. It’s a strange feeling, hearing his voice again. It took a lot of effort to track him down, to flush him out.
Ravic doesn’t sound happy. There’s a lot of crashing and banging coming from the apartment. Eventually, I make out a woman’s voice, young, soft-spoken, crying, though not very loudly, whimpering more like. I keep listening. Ravic’s voice again. I want to be sure there are only two of them, so I stand there for several minutes listening to my heart pounding. O.K., I’m pretty sure there’s just two of them. I pull on my cap, carefully tuck my hair under it, slip on a pair of rubber gloves, take out the Walther, rack the slide, shift the gun to my left hand while I pick the lock and shift it back as soon as I hear the last pin click and push the door open. I see the two of them, they have their backs to me, bent over something or other. Sensing someone behind them, they straighten up and turn; the girl is about twenty-five, dark-haired, ugly.
And dead. Because I put a bullet between her eyes, watch them grow wide in surprise as though someone has just offered to pay three times her usual fee, as if she’s just seen Santa Claus show up in his underpants.
Ravic immediately reaches for his pocket, I put a bullet in his left ankle, he leaps into the air, hops from one foot to the other like he’s on hot bricks, then crumples to the floor with a howl.
Now that we’ve dealt with the pleasantries, we can get down to more serious discussions.
The apartment is just one room, albeit a very large one, with a kitchenette, a bathroom, but everything about it is dilapidated and the place is filthy.
“Not much of a cleaner, that girl of yours.”
At a glance I spotted the coffee table strewn with syringes, spoons, and tinfoil . . . I hope Ravic didn’t squander all his cash on smack.
When the 9mm slug hit her, the girl collapsed onto a grubby mattress laid on the floor. The veins in her bony arms are riddled with track marks. I had only to lift her legs and she was laid out on her bier. The jumble of clothes and blankets beneath her was like a patchwork, it looked very original. Her eyes were still open, but her earlier shocked expression is more serene now, she seems to have come to terms with her fate.
Ravic, on the other hand, is still wailing. He is hunkered on the ground, balanced on one buttock, one leg stretched out, reaching towards the shattered ankle pissing blood, babbling “Oh fuck, oh fuck . . .” Nobody gives a shit about noise round here, you can hear T.V.s blaring, couples fighting and probably guys playing the drums at 3 a.m. when they’re off their faces . . . But even so, I need my Serbian friend to concentrate, if only so we can talk in peace.
I pistol whip-him with the Walther, one smack straight to the face just to focus his at
tention on the conversation; he calms down a little, he’s still hugging his leg, but he stops yowling and whimpers softly between clenched teeth. It’s progress, I suppose, but I’m not sure I can count on him to stay quiet, he’s not discreet by nature. I pick a T-shirt off the floor, roll it into a ball and stuff it into his mouth. And to make sure I get some peace, I tie one hand behind his back. With his other hand, he’s still trying to staunch his bleeding ankle, but his arm is too short, he bends his leg under him, contorts himself, writhing in pain. Though you wouldn’t think it to look at it, the ankle is a very sensitive part of the body, it’s full of tiny, fragile bones – simply twisting your ankle on a step can leave you hobbling in pain, but when reduced by a 9mm slug to a bloody pulp of muscle and shattered bone and connected only by a few tendons, it is sheer agony. And seriously incapacitating. In fact, as I put a second bullet into the splintered remains of his ankle, I can tell he is not faking it, he really is in excruciating agony.
“Well, it’s probably best that ‘chick’ of yours is dead, you wouldn’t want her seeing you in this state.”
Maybe it wasn’t true love, but whatever the reason, Ravic doesn’t seem bothered about the fate of the girl. He seems to care only about himself. The air in the place is unbreathable, what with the stench of blood and the smell of gunpowder, so I go over and crack open a window. I hope he got a good deal on the rent, the only view is a blank wall.
I come back and crouch over him, the guy is sweating buckets, he can’t sit still, he’s twisting and turning, clutching his leg with his free hand. His head is bleeding. Despite the gag in his mouth, he manages to drool. I grab him by the hair, it’s the only way of getting his attention.
“Now listen up, big boy, I don’t plan to spend the whole night here. So I’m going to give you a chance to talk and, for your sake, I hope you’re planning to be cooperative because I’m not feeling especially patient right now. I haven’t had a wink of sleep in two days, so if you care about me at all, you’ll answer my questions and we can all get off to bed, me, you, your chick here, O.K.?”
Ravic’s French was never very good, his conversation is peppered with errors of syntax and vocabulary, so it’s important to communicate in a way he understands. Simple words accompanied by persuasive gestures. So, as I carefully choose my words, I plant the hunting knife into the remnants of his ankle, the blade cuts clean through and embeds itself in the floorboard. Probably leaves a hole in the parquet floor, the sort of damage that will cost him when he tries to get his deposit back, but who cares? Ravic manages to scream through the gag, he struggles and squirms like a worm, his free hand fluttering like a butterfly.
I think he understands the seriousness of the situation now, but I give him a moment or two to think about it, to let the information sink in. Then I explain:
“The way I figure it, you and Hafner planned to double-cross me from the start. Like him, you thought that a three-way split was less attractive than sharing the loot between two. And it does make for a bigger share, I’ll grant you that.”
Ravic looks up at me, his eyes are filled with tears – of pain, rather than sorrow – but I can tell I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“Jesus, you’re thick as pigshit, Dušan! You’re a fucking moron. Why do you think Hafner picked you? Because you’re a moron. Do you get it now?”
He grimaces, his ankle really is giving him grief.
“So, you help Hafner to double-cross me . . . and then he double-crosses you. Which confirms my initial analysis: you’re as thick as two short planks.”
Ravic does not seem to be overly preoccupied with his I.Q. right now. He is more worried about his health, about keeping count of his limbs. It’s a sensible preoccupation because the more I talk the angrier I feel.
“My guess is you didn’t go after Hafner – the guy’s too dangerous, you weren’t about to settle scores with him, you haven’t got the balls and you know it. Besides, you had a murder charge hanging over you, so you decided to lie low. But the thing is, I need to find Hafner, so you’re going to help me track him down, you’re going to tell me everything you know: every detail of your little agreement and everything that happened afterwards, are we clear?”
It sounds like a reasonable proposition to me. I remove the gag, but Ravic’s rather volatile temperament gets the better of him and he starts screaming something I can’t understand. With his one good hand, he makes a grab for my collar. The guy has a powerful fist, but by some miracle I manage to dodge him. This is what I get for trusting people.
And he spits at me.
Under the circumstances, it’s an understandable reaction, but even so, it’s a little uncouth.
I realise that I have been going about things the wrong way. I have tried to behave in a civilised fashion, but Ravic is a peasant, such subtle nuances go right over his head. He is in too much pain to put up any serious resistance so I lay him out with a couple of kicks to the head and, while he struggles to remove the knife pinning his leg to the floor, I go to find what I need.
The girl is sprawled across the bed. Never mind. I grab one corner of the filthy duvet and tug hard, sending her rolling onto her stomach, her skirt rucked up, revealing her thin, pasty legs and needle marks on the backs of her knees. Even if I hadn’t hurried things along, she was living on borrowed time.
I turn back just as Ravic manages to prise the knife out of his ankle. The guy is strong as an ox.
I put a bullet in his knee and his reaction, if you’ll pardon the expression, is explosive. He literally launches his whole body into the air and howls, but before he has time to get his bearings, I manage to turn him over, throw the duvet over him and sit on it. I try to find the best position: I don’t want him to suffocate, I need Ravic, but I need him to focus on my questions. And I need him to stop screaming.
I pull his arm towards me. It feels strange, sitting on him as he bucks and bridles like a fairground ride or a rodeo bull. I grab the hunting knife, force his hand flat on the floor, but he’s strong. I’m pitching and reeling like a big-game fisherman reeling in a 200-lb marlin.
I start by cutting his little finger off at the second phalanx. Usually, I would take the trouble to make a clean cut at the joint, but such refinements are wasted on Ravic. I simply hack it off, which is irksome to an aesthete like me.
I’m prepared to bet that within fifteen minutes, Ravic will have told me everything I need to know. I continue to ask questions, but this is simply for form’s sake: he is not concentrating yet and besides, what with the duvet and me on top of him, to say nothing of his ankle and his knee, he is having trouble stringing a coherent sentence together.
I continue my work, moving on to the index finger – it’s incredible how much he struggles – and I think about my visit to the hospital.
Unless I’m very much mistaken, in a few minutes my Serbian friend is going to break the bad news to me. In which case, the only solution is to put pressure on the woman in the hospital. Logically, by now she should be prepared to be cooperative.
I hope so, for her sake.
*
5.00 p.m.
“Verhœven?”
Not even a courtesy “commandant”. The commissaire is obviously livid. No pleasantries, no extraneous chit-chat. Commissaire Michard has so much to say she does not know where to begin.
“I’m going to need a detailed report . . .” is her first reflex.
Bureaucracy is the last refuge of the uninspired.
“You assured the judge that this was to be a ‘targeted operation’, you spin me some story about ‘three known suspects’, then you turn the whole city upside down. Are you deliberately trying to piss me off?”
On the other end of the telephone, Camille opens his mouth to speak, but Michard cuts him off.
“To tell the truth, I don’t give a shit. But you’re going to stand down your men right now, commandant, call off this little show of force, it’s a waste of time.”
A clusterfuck. Camille closes his
eyes. He was on the final sprint, only to be overtaken a few yards from the finishing post. Next to him, thin-lipped, Louis looks away. Camille jerks his thumb to let him know the operation is dead in the water, and waves for him to round up all the officers. Louis immediately begins punching in the numbers on his telephone. From the look on Verhœven’s face, he knows how things stand. All around, the other officers hang their heads, feigning disappointment, they will all be bawled out tomorrow, but at least they had some fun. As they head back to their cars, one or two flash a complicit smile, Camille responds with a fatalistic gesture.
The commissaire divisionnaire is giving him time to digest the information, but her pause is expressly melodramatic, insidious, pregnant with menace.
*
Anne is standing in front of the mirror again when one of the nurses appears. Florence, the older nurse. Though she is not exactly old . . . She is probably younger than Anne, but her desperate attempt to look ten years younger prematurely ages her.
“Everything alright?”
Their eyes meet in the mirror. As she records the time on the clipboard at the end of the bed, the nurse flashes her a broad smile. Even with those lips, I’ll never be able to smile like that again, thinks Anne.
“Everything alright?”
What a question. Anne does not feel like talking, especially not to Florence. She should never have let herself be persuaded by the other nurse, the young one. She should have walked out of the hospital, she feels in danger. And yet she cannot quite make up her mind, there seem as many reasons to stay as to go.
And then, there is Camille.
The moment she thinks of him, her whole body starts to tremble, he is alone, helpless, he will never manage to do it. And even if he does, it will be too late.
Camille Page 15
