Camille

by Pierre Lemaitre

  Suddenly he feels the urgent need to call, for no reason, as though he is afraid he cannot handle the situation without her, without Anne . . .

  And once again he remembers that she is not Anne. Everything that name once signified is meaningless. Camille feels distraught, he has lost everything, even her name.

  “You O.K.?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” Camille tries to look preoccupied, it is the best thing to do when you need to throw someone off the scent.

  “Her file, her medical file,” he says, “where is it?”

  Anne disappeared the night before, so all the paperwork is still up on the ward.

  Camille thanks the receptionist. When he gets upstairs, he realises he has no idea how to play this, so he takes a moment to think. He stands at one end of the corridor, next to the waiting room that is now a junk room where he and Louis did their first debriefing on the case. He watches as the handle slowly turns and the door reluctantly opens as though a child is afraid to come out.

  When he appears, the child turns out to be close to retirement: it is Hubert Dainville, the consultant, the big boss. His grey mane is perfectly blow-dried, it looks as though he has only just removed his curlers. He flushes scarlet when he sees Camille. Usually, there is no-one in the junk room, it has no purpose and leads nowhere.

  “What the devil are you doing there?” he snaps officiously, ready to bite.

  I could ask the same of you. The retort is on the tip of Camille’s tongue, but he knows that is not the way to go about things. He looks around distractedly.

  “I’m lost . . . [Then, resigned:] I must have taken the wrong corridor.”

  The surgeon’s blush has faded to pale pink, his awkwardness forgotten, his personality reasserts itself. He strides off as though he has just been summoned to an urgent case.

  “You no longer have any business here, commandant.”

  Camille trots after him, having been caught off-guard, his brain is whirring feverishly.

  “Your witness absconded from this hospital last night!” Dainville growls as though he blames Verhœven personally.

  “So I heard.”

  Camille can think of no other solution, he thrusts a hand into his pocket, takes out his mobile and drops it. It clatters across the tiled floor.

  “Shit!”

  Dainville, who has already reached the lifts, turns and sees the commandant, his back towards him, scrabbling to pick up the pieces of his mobile. Stupid prick. The lift doors open; Dainville steps inside.

  Camille gathers up his mobile, which is actually in one piece, and pretends to put it back together it as he walks back towards the junk room.

  Seconds pass. A minute. He cannot bring himself to open the door, something is holding him back. Another few seconds tick by. He must have been mistaken. He waits. Nothing. Oh, well. He is about to turn on his heel, but changes his mind.

  The handle turns again, and this time the door is briskly opened.

  The woman who bustles out, pretending to be preoccupied, is Florence, the nurse. Now it is her turn to blush as she sees Camille. Her plump lips form a perfect O, he hesitates for a second and by then it is too late to create a diversion. Her embarrassment is clear as she pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and, staring at Camille, she closes the door calmly, deliberately – I’m a busy woman, I’m focused on my job, I have nothing to feel guilty about. Nobody believes her little performance, not even Florence herself. Camille does not have to press his advantage, it is not really in his nature . . . He hates himself for doing it, but he must. He stares at Florence, tilts his head quizzically, increasing the pressure – I didn’t want to interrupt you during your little tryst, see how tactful I am? He pretends he has just been standing here fixing his mobile, waiting for her to conclude her tête-à-tête with Dr Dainville.

  “I need Madame Forestier’s medical file,” he says.

  Florence walks ahead of him, but makes no attempt to lengthen her stride as Dr Dainville did so blatantly. She is not mistrustful. And there is not an spiteful bone in her body.

  “I’m not sure . . .” she says.

  Camille squeezes his eyes shut, silently imploring her not to make him say it: maybe I should have word with Dr Dainville, I suspect he . . .

  They have come to the nurses’ station

  “I’m not sure . . . if the file is still here.”

  Not once does she turn to look at him, she pulls opens a drawer of patient files and promptly takes out one marked “FORESTIER”, a large manila folder containing the C.A.T. scan, the X-rays, the doctor’s notes. To hand this over to someone, even a policeman, is a serious breach of nursing protocol . . .

  “I’ll bring over the warrant from the juge d’instruction this afternoon,” Camille says. “In the meantime, I can issue a receipt.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she says hurriedly, “I mean, as long as the juge . . .”

  Camille takes the file. Thank you. They look at each other. Camille feels an almost physical pain, not simply because he has resorted to such an ignoble ploy, extorting information to which he has no right, but because he understands this woman. He knows that her botoxed lips are not an attempt to remain young, but stem from an overpowering need to be loved.

  *

  1.00 p.m.

  You go through the wrought-iron gates, along the long path. The imposing pink building rises up before you, tall trees tower above your head. You might be forgiven for thinking you have arrived at a mansion; it is difficult to believe that behind the graceful windows, bodies are lined up and dissected. Here, livers and hearts are weighed, skulls are sawn open. Camille knows this building like the back of his hand and cordially loathes it. It is the people he likes, the staff, the assistants, the pathologists, Nguyên above all. The many shared memories, most of them painful, have created a bond between them.

  Camille makes his usual entrance, waving to this person or that. He can tell there is a certain chill in the air, that rumours about the case have preceded him, it is obvious from the awkward smiles, the diffident handshakes.

  Nguyên, inscrutable as a sphinx as always. He is not much taller than Camille, thin as a rail and last smiled in 1984. He shakes Camille’s hand, listens attentively, takes Anne’s medical file and reads it. Guardedly.

  “Just a quick once-over,” Camille says, “in your spare time.”

  In this context, “Just a quick once-over” means: I need your advice, something doesn’t feel right, I want your honest opinion, I won’t say any more because I don’t want to influence your opinion, oh, and if you could do it a.s.a.p.

  “In your spare time” means: this is not official, it’s personal – implying that the rumours that Verhœven is up shit creek are true. Nguyên nods, he has never been able to refuse Camille. Besides, he is not in any trouble and cannot resist a mystery, he has a nose for inconsistencies, an eye for detail – he is a pathologist.

  “Give me a call around five o’clock,” Nguyên says and locks the file in his desk drawer; this is personal.

  *

  1.30 p.m.

  Time to head back to the office. Knowing what awaits him at the brigade, Camille is reluctant to go, but he has no choice.

  From the way his fellow officers greet him in the hallway, it’s obvious the atmosphere is fraught. At the morgue, the tension was muted; here it is palpable. As in any other office, three days is more than enough time for a rumour to circulate widely. And it is a natural law that the more vague the rumour, the more it is blown out of proportion. His colleagues’ expressions of sympathy sound more like condolences.

  Even if he were asked point-blank, Camille has no desire to explain himself, to anyone; besides, he would not know what to say, where to start. Luckily, only two of his team are there, the other officers are all out working on cases. Camille gives a vague wave. One of his colleagues is busy on the telephone, the other barely has time to turn around before Camille disappears into his office.

  Minutes later, Louis
appears and, without bothering to knock, steps into the commandant’s office. The two men look at each other.

  “A lot of people are looking for you . . .”

  Camille looks down at his desk. An order to appear before Commissaire Michard.

  “I can see that . . .”

  The meeting is scheduled for 7.30 p.m. In the meeting room. Neutral territory. The memo does not state who else will be in attendance. It is an unusual request. An officer suspected of misconduct is not generally summoned to explain himself, since this would be tantamount to acknowledging that his actions might warrant investigation by the I.G.S. This means that it does not matter who will be there, it means that Michard has got tangible evidence of misconduct that Camille no longer has time to neutralise.

  He does not try to anticipate what might happen. It is not exactly pressing. 7.30 seems a thousand years away.

  He hangs up his coat, slips a hand into one of the pockets and extracts a plastic bag which he handles as delicately as if it were nitroglycerine, careful not to touch the contents with his bare fingers. He sets the mug down on his desk. Louis walks over and, bending down, reads the inscription in a low voice: Мой дядя самых честных правил . . .

  “It’s the first line of ‘Eugene Onegin’, isn’t it?”

  For once, Camille knows the answer. Yes. The mug belonged to Irène. He does not say this to Louis.

  “I need you to have it dusted for prints. Quickly.”

  Louis nods and re-seals the plastic bag.

  “On the docket, I could say it’s evidence in . . . the Pergolin case?”

  Claude Pergolin, the transvestite found strangled in his own home.

  “That sort of thing.”

  It is increasingly difficult for him to carry on without explaining the situation to Louis, but Camille is reluctant, partly because it is a long and complicated story, but mostly because if he knows nothing, Louis cannot be accused of misconduct.

  “Right,” Louis says. “Well, if you want these results immediately, maybe I should take advantage of the fact that Madame Lambert is still in the lab.”

  Madame Lambert has a little crush on Louis; like Verhœven, if she could, she would adopt him. She is a militant trade unionist committed to fighting mandatory retirement at sixty. Madame Lambert is sixty-eight, and every year she finds some new ruse to carry on working. She will carry on the struggle for another thirty years unless someone defenestrates her.

  Despite the urgency of the job, Louis has not moved. Holding the plastic evidence bag, he stands in the doorway brooding, like a young man steeling himself to propose.

  “I think I may have missed a few episodes . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” Camille smiles. “So did I . . .”

  “You decided to keep me out of the loop . . . [Louis raises his hand in submission.] That’s not a criticism.”

  “Oh, but it is a criticism, Louis. And you’re bloody right to point it out. But right now . . .”

  “It’s too late?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Too late for criticism or too late for explanations?”

  “Worse than that, Louis. It’s too late for anything. Too late to understand, to react, to explain . . . And probably too late for me to emerge with my honour intact. It’s pretty grim.”

  Louis nods towards the ceiling, towards the powers that be.

  “Not everyone seems to have my long-suffering patience.”

  “I promise you, Louis, you’ll get the scoop,” Camille says. “I owe you that at least. And if everything goes according to plan, I might have a little surprise for you up my sleeve. The greatest honour any serving officer can dream of: the chance to shine in front of your superiors.”

  “‘Honour is . . .’”

  “Oh, come on, Louis! Give me a quote!”

  Louis smiles.

  “No, don’t tell me, let me guess,” Camille says. “Saint-John Perse! Or even better, Noam Chomsky!”

  Louis turns to leave.

  “Oh, by the way . . .” He turns back. “I’m not sure, but I think there’s a message for you under your desk blotter.”

  Yeah, right.

  A Post-it note bearing the unmistakable scrawl of Jean Le Guen: “Bastille métro station, rue de la Roquette exit, 3.00 p.m.”, which is much more than simply a meeting.

  When the contrôleur général feels obliged to leave an anonymous message under a desk blotter rather than calling him on his mobile, it is a bad sign. Le Guen is unambiguously saying: I’m being careful. He is also saying: As your friend, I care about you enough to take the risk, but meeting with you could put an end to my career, so let’s try and be discreet.

  Given his height, Camille is well used to being shunned, sometimes he only has to take the métro . . . But finding himself under suspicion by his own colleagues – though hardly a surprise, given everything that has happened in the past three days – comes as a bitter blow.

  *

  2.00 p.m.

  Fernand is a decent guy. He may be a fuckwit, but he’s biddable. The restaurant was closed, but he opened up again just for me. I’m hungry, so he whips up an omelette with some wild mushrooms. He’s a good cook. He should have stayed in the kitchen, but what can you do, a little guy always dreams of being the big boss. Now he’s up to his eyes in debt, and for what? For the pleasure of being “le patron”. Fucking moron. Not that I’m complaining; morons are very useful. Given the exorbitant interest rate I’m charging him, he owes me more money than he will ever be able to repay. For the first year and a half, I bailed out the business almost every month. I’m not sure that Fernand realises it, but his restaurant belongs to me. I can click my fingers and “le patron” will find himself penniless and on the streets. Not that I ever mention this to him. He is much too useful. I use him as an alibi, a mailbox, an office, a witness, a guarantor, a cash machine, I’m slowly drinking his wine cellar and he feeds me when the need arises. Last spring, when we staged Camille Verhœven’s brief encounter, Fernand was perfect. In fact everyone was perfect. The scene went off without a hitch. In the nick of time, my favourite commandant stepped in, he got up from his dinner and did what he does best. My only worry was that someone else would try to intervene, because she’s a very beautiful woman. Well, not anymore, obviously, what with the scars and the broken teeth and her face swollen up like a beach ball. If we staged the scene in the restaurant today, there wouldn’t be many men rushing to rescue her, but back then she was pretty enough to make a man want to take on Fernand. Pretty, and cunning, she managed to give just the right looks to just the right person. She reeled Verhœven in without him even knowing.

  The reason I’m thinking about all this is because I’ve got time on my hands. And because this is where it all began.

  I’ve left my mobile on the table, but I can’t help checking it every five minutes. Subject to the end results, I’m pretty happy with the way things have gone so far. I’m just hoping the pay-off is big enough, because otherwise I’m liable to get a little angry and to rip the nearest person limb from limb.

  In the meantime, I savour the first breather I’ve had in the past three days. God knows, I deserve it.

  Fundamentally, manipulation is a lot like armed robbery. It takes a lot of preparation and a skilled team to carry it off. I don’t know how she managed to manipulate Verhœven into letting her leave the hospital and taking her to his little house in the country, but she pulled it off.

  She probably went with the hysterical crying routine. That’s always a winner with the more sensitive man.

  I check my mobile.

  When it rings, I’ll have my answer.

  Either I’ve done all this work for nothing, in which case we might as well all go home.

  Or, I’ve hit the jackpot, and if that’s the case, I don’t know how much time I’ll have. Not much, certainly, I’ll need to act fast. But now I’m so close to the finish line, I have no intention of missing my prey. I ask Fernand for a glass of mine
ral water, this is no time to piss about.

  *

  In the medicine cabinet, Anne found some plasters. She needed to use two to cover the scar. The pain from the wound is still excruciating. But she doesn’t regret removing the stitches.

  Next, she picks up the envelope he tossed her, the way a keeper might throw a circus animal a hunk of meat. She can feel it burning her fingers. Carefully, she opens it.

  Inside is a wad of notes – two hundred euros – a list of phone numbers for local taxi companies, a map of the area and an aerial photograph in which she can make out Camille’s house, the path, the outskirts of Montfort village.

  In full and final settlement.

  She sets her mobile on the sofa next to her.

  And waits.

  *

  3.00 p.m.

  Camille is expecting Le Guen to be foaming at the mouth, instead he finds him shell-shocked. Sitting on a bench outside Bastille métro, he is staring at his shoes, looking utterly despondent. There is no bollocking. The only criticism sounds more like a plea.

  “You could have asked for my help . . .”

  Camille notes the use of the past tense. For Le Guen, some part of this case is already over.

  “For an intelligent man,” he goes on, “you really know how to pick them.”

  And he doesn’t even know the half of it, Camille thinks.

  “Asking for the case to be assigned to you was pretty suspicious. Because I don’t believe this story you cooked up about having an informer, it’s bullshit . . .”

  And that’s not all. Le Guen is about to find out that Camille personally helped the key witness in this case to leave the hospital and thereby to evade justice.

  Camille does not even know the real identity of the witness, but if it turns out that “Anne” is guilty of a crime, he could well be charged with aiding and abetting . . . If that happens, he could be charged with anything: armed robbery, kidnapping, accessory to murder . . . And he will have a hard time convincing anyone of his innocence.