The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  He dressed, combed his hair and put on his watch. Back in the kitchen he laid out two croissants in a basket, butter and jam, a plate and a knife. He poured the coffee into a large bowl and sat down at the table. As he ate his breakfast, he looked around the room. There was no sign of his apartment being disturbed, but there was no shortage of places in which a camera could be hidden. Manfred was tempted to get up and start squinting at the light fittings and air vents. But it would be impossible to institute a search thorough enough to convince himself there were no devices in the apartment, and, in any case, would the very fact that he was searching for them not be interpreted as a sign of guilt?

  It was 8.07. Manfred forced himself to finish his breakfast at his usual pace and left the apartment, as he always did, at 8.15. He paused at the bank of mailboxes in the foyer. Some leaflets were sticking out of the slat of Alice’s box. It was curious that they had only once encountered each other in the morning. Manfred was quite sure he would have noticed her. And now it appeared that Alice’s mailbox had not been emptied. Probably there was a quite innocent explanation. Perhaps she had gone away or had simply grown tired of discarding the accumulated junk mail.

  Outside, Manfred scanned the street for Alice’s sports car. He had not noticed what make it was, but he was sure he would recognise it. Instead of turning right and walking towards the bank, Manfred retraced the route he had followed the morning he had met Alice. Most likely she always parked her car behind the building. Perhaps residents even had designated parking spaces, but Alice’s car was not there. Manfred reprimanded himself for snooping around in this way. Still, as he headed towards the bank, he could not shake the thought that it was strange that he had never once seen Alice before he found her blouse in the dryer. The more Manfred thought about how they had met, the more suspicious it seemed. The fact that he had happened to bump into her only days after the incident in the laundry room seemed too much of a coincidence. Then there was the absurd charade of her finding his gauche conversation amusing. Manfred cursed himself for having been taken in. He had even secretly congratulated himself on being in possession of a certain charm. What a vain, naive fool he was! And worse, he had actually begun to harbour feelings for her. Since they had met, his mood had lightened at the thought of her. And that all this had occurred while the business with Gorski was going on had not caused Manfred even a moment’s pause. When one pieced the thing together it became quite clear that Alice must have been planted by the police in order to inveigle her way into his confidence. Gorski must have a very low opinion of him if he thought he would fall for such an obvious set-up.

  Despite this, as he walked to the bank, Manfred could not resist the temptation to scan the streets for Alice’s car. Part of him still wanted to catch a glimpse of her. A brisk breeze rattled the papery leaves of the trees which lined the street. Manfred buttoned his raincoat. To the east, the sky was darkening. The aspirin had had no effect on his headache. Manfred kept his eyes trained on the pavement and quickened his pace. At the bank, he was greeted by silence. The staff made no pretence of continuing their conversation. Perhaps they had assumed he would not appear that morning and that the next they would hear of him would be from the front page of L’Alsace. Manfred did not bother to bid them good morning. He called Carolyn into his office and had her bring him some coffee. It was an aberration from his routine. Normally he waited for her to bring him a cup midway through the morning, but in the current circumstances, it seemed a trifle.

  Carolyn looked at him with concern and asked if he was all right. Manfred snapped that he was fine and immediately regretted his harsh tone. When the girl returned with his coffee, he apologised and explained that he had a headache. Carolyn nodded and slunk out of the room as if she was afraid to turn her back to him.

  Manfred spent the morning staring blankly at the documents on his desk. It must have been quite obvious that he was not doing any work. Manfred reminded himself of his resolve to act naturally, but his thoughts about Alice had thrown him off kilter. The more he thought about it, the more bloody-minded he felt. He went over and over their encounters in his head and the more he reflected, the more he concluded that it could be nothing other than a conspiracy. The timing and details – the fact, for example, that she had been wearing the pale blue blouse on the morning he had met her – and most of all the idea that a woman like Alice Tarrou would be interested in him, all contended against his desire to believe that she was unconnected to the investigation. Manfred had come across such plots in many a novel. It seemed an unlikely tactic for a provincial police force to employ, but the evidence spoke for itself. His headache increased. Everything he had said to Alice would have been reported back to Gorski, including his ill-judged comments about Juliette. Despite his previous resolve to follow his routine, he decided that he should not have come to work. What would have come of it? What if he had disappeared just as Adèle had done? The bank would still have opened. After a few days, head office would send someone to replace him. There would be some gossip, then it would all be forgotten. He would be forgotten.

  At lunch, Pasteur did not look up from behind the counter when Manfred entered the Restaurant de la Cloche. Dominique arrived at his table and Manfred ordered the andouillette as he always did. Most of the tables were occupied, but there was little of the normal hubbub of a lunchtime service. Was the curiously subdued atmosphere on account of his presence? He was sure the eyes of the room were upon him, but whenever he looked up from his food no one was looking in his direction. Nevertheless, Manfred sensed that the occupants of the restaurant would breathe a collective sigh of relief when he left. Pasteur did not glance in his direction for the duration of the meal and when he paid his bill, no reference was made to the events of the previous evening. It was the proprietor’s part in his exclusion from the game that most wounded Manfred. He had always thought of Pasteur as an ally. It was true that he did not greet him with any special warmth or favour him over other customers. But he had on occasion shot Manfred a conspiratorial look when Lemerre was behaving unpleasantly. It was a meagre foundation upon which to construct a friendship, but Manfred had, nevertheless, thought of Pasteur as his friend.

  All the same, as Manfred walked back to the bank, his mood lightened a little. It was a bright day and no one so much as glanced at him. It was not, Manfred told himself, because people were avoiding his gaze, but simply because there was nothing exceptional about him. His headache had subsided and his earlier thoughts about Alice seemed silly. It was absurd to think that Gorski would have gone to so much trouble to entrap him. He had met Alice only the day after Gorski had first visited him in his apartment. Manfred smiled at how ridiculous the idea that Alice was working for the police had been. Of course, there had been a degree of chance to their encounters, a degree of chance which could, when one enumerated it, make the whole thing seem highly improbable, but was that not always the case when two strangers met?

  In his office Manfred took the telephone book from the bottom drawer of his desk. There was no harm in setting his mind to rest once and for all. All he had to do was call all the stationery firms in town and ask for Alice Tarrou. If Alice’s story was not true, there would be no entry for her company in the directory. It was as simple as that. Manfred flicked through the pages. There were no stationery companies listed in Saint-Louis. He found two printing companies. That was almost the same thing. Manfred picked up the receiver, then hesitated before calling the first number. He did not know if Tarrou was Alice’s married or maiden name. Perhaps she still used her ex-husband’s name at work. He would just ask for Alice. He would recognise her voice if she came on the line. Then he could just hang up.

  He dialled the first number. It rang for some time before a gruff male voice answered.

  ‘May I speak to Alice?’ said Manfred.

  ‘Alice who?’ the man said.

  Manfred hesitated. ‘I’m not sure of her second name,’ he said. ‘I wrote it down, but I seem to have lost the slip
of paper.’

  ‘You’ve got the wrong number, pal,’ said the man. ‘There’s no Alice here.’

  Then he hung up.

  Manfred replaced the receiver. His heart was beating a little faster. He tried the second number. This time a young woman answered and told him that no one called Alice worked there. Manfred apologised for troubling her. He ran his hand over his chin. It had the texture of sandpaper. Was it possible, after all, that Alice had concocted the story of the stationery company? He realised that she had not said that the firm was located in Saint-Louis. He looked again in the directory. Two stationer’s and three printing firms were listed in Mulhouse. Manfred dialled the first number. A girl answered.

  ‘I wondered if I could speak to Alice,’ said Manfred.

  ‘Alice isn’t here,’ said the girl. ‘Can I help you?’

  Manfred paused. He could hardly ask the girl what Alice’s surname was. ‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s a personal matter. Will she be back later?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said the girl. ‘If you give me your number, I’ll get her to call you.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Manfred, ‘I’ll try again later.’ Then he put the phone down.

  He spent what was left of the afternoon going over the conversation in his mind. There was nothing distinctive about his voice, but the girl was sure to mention that a man had called. Would Alice guess it was him? Perhaps she would think nothing of it, but Manfred did not wish her to know he had been snooping on her, that he had called her office in order to verify what she had told him. That was not how normal people behaved. On top of that, the whole exercise had been futile. Unless he did call back, which he had no intention of doing, he had no way of knowing that it was the same Alice. It was a common enough name.

  Manfred asked Mlle Givskov to close up the bank and left early. He was tempted to nip round to Le Pot for a quick glass, but the thought of running into Lemerre deterred him. He could not think of another suitable establishment. Instead he stopped off in a grocer’s shop and bought two bottles of red wine. Apart for his usual nightcap, which he took only to help him sleep, he did not make a habit of drinking in his apartment. There was something wretched about drinking at home. The bottles clanked noisily in the brown paper bag in which the grocer had placed them. Manfred removed one of them and slipped it into the outer pocket of his raincoat.

  As he approached the apartment building, he was surprised to see Gorski emerge from the entrance. He looked around, as if to ascertain whether anyone had seen him, and started to walk in Manfred’s direction. Manfred did not know what to do. It was too late to cross the road and there was no suitable place to conceal himself. In any case, he would not want Gorski to think that he was trying to avoid him. He had no choice but to keep going. The detective gave no indication of having seen him. Then, when they were no more than five metres apart, Gorski nodded curtly and walked straight past him. Manfred continued to his apartment. If Gorski had not wished to speak to him, what was he doing in the apartment building? Manfred placed the two bottles on his kitchen table. He opened one and poured himself a glass. He stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the play park. Alice’s silver sports car was parked in its usual place.

  Seventeen

  GORSKI WAS SITTING in the communal area of the station behind the reception window, leafing through his interview notes. He didn’t like to closet himself in his office. It gave the impression that he was aloof and he did not like the idea that the other cops might be talking about him. Some of his colleagues still resented Gorski’s status as Ribéry’s protégé. All that had been twenty years before, but his reputation for currying favour with authority had stuck, at least with the older members of the force.

  Schmitt was manning the desk. He had a newspaper spread in front of him on the counter. Gorski had on a number of occasions requested that he refrain from reading his newspaper in view of the public, but Schmitt simply ignored him and eventually he had let it drop. By the time Gorski joined the station, Schmitt had already been confined to desk duties due to some ill-defined medical complaint. He made no secret of his disdain for the young detective. Gorski for his part would have dearly loved to get rid of him. He fantasised at length about forcing him into retirement. He had the power to do so, but he lacked the appetite for confrontation. In any case, such an action would only provoke further resentment among the fraternity of older officers.

  Without looking up from his paper, Schmitt said, ‘There was a call from Strasbourg. They pulled a floater out of the river.’ He mentioned it as if was a matter of no consequence which had simply slipped his mind.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Gorski. He had been in the station twenty minutes before Schmitt decided to share this piece of news.

  ‘They said they fished a body out of the Rhine.’

  ‘What kind of body?’ said Gorski. He made no attempt to hide his irritation. It was not uncommon for bodies to be found in the Rhine, but even Schmitt could hardly have failed to register the potential importance of the information.

  ‘A female, they didn’t say much.’

  ‘No age, no description, no cause of death?’

  Schmitt shrugged. ‘I got the impression they’d only just pulled her out.’

  ‘But you didn’t ask?’

  Schmitt exhaled noisily through his moustache, as if the thought hadn’t crossed his mind.

  ‘They left a number.’

  He made a show of searching for it amid the debris on the counter. He found it on a scrap of paper and held it up. Gorski snatched it and went to his office to make the call. He sat down and went through what he would say. He disliked calling the stations in the city. Even the receptionists never failed to make him feel like a provincial bumpkin. Not that anything was ever said. It was a matter of tone. But there was no getting around making the call. A woman answered.

  ‘Inspector Gorski of Saint-Louis calling for Inspector Lambert.’

  And there it was: ‘Sorry, from where?’

  ‘Saint-Louis, Haut-Rhin,’ Gorski repeated.

  The receptionist connected him to the extension. Gorski had met Lambert on a number of occasions, but he never seemed to remember him.

  Lambert picked up. ‘Georges, how are you?’

  Gorski could not help feeling gratified that he remembered his first name and had greeted him in a friendly manner.

  ‘I hear you’ve got something I might be interested in,’ he said.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Lambert.

  ‘Do you have any further information about the remains?’ Gorski regretted the formal manner in which he phrased this. It ruined the affable tone with which the conversation had begun.

  ‘Young female, that’s all. They only pulled her out a couple of hours ago. She’s on a slab in the mortuary. Come up and take a look if you like.’

  Ten minutes later Gorski was heading north on the A35. He was excited. He was no expert in such matters, but he understood that it took a few days for gasses to form in the stomach of a corpse and bring it to the surface. The fact that the body had been found one hundred kilometres downstream meant nothing. Bodies often drifted great distances before they snagged on a branch or caught a current and washed up in the shallows. Gorski was equally pleased by the way Lambert had spoken to him and immediately invited him to accompany him to the mortuary to view the body. All being well, by the end of the day, he could have a time and cause of death, perhaps even some other forensic evidence.

  The landscape between Saint-Louis and Strasbourg was flat and monotonous. The road was quiet and Gorski used the drive to gather his thoughts about Adèle. Until Alex Ackermann had turned up, she had remained an enigma to him.

  That first night, the couple had crossed the border to Basel where they had gone to a bar, well known to Gorski’s Swiss colleagues as a haunt of the alternative scene. Ackermann admitted he had taken Adèle there in an attempt to impress her. They had a few drinks and he bought a small quantity of hashish from a man whose name he claimed not to re
member. Gorski had not pressed him on the point. He was not interested in a small-time dope dealer and he wanted the boy to feel that he could speak freely. Once the youth had confessed this transgression, he visibly relaxed. He explained that it was because of this that he had not come forward sooner. The Adèle that Ackermann described was quite different from the sullen waitress of the Restaurant de la Cloche. While she had revealed little about herself, she was talkative and worldly. Ackermann confessed that he had felt a little out of his depth. It was hard to reconcile the two pictures of Adèle, but Gorski reminded himself how little he knew about what his own daughter got up to when she was out with her friends. Perhaps she too went to disreputable bars and smoked marijuana. Ackermann had struck him as a pleasant enough young man whose primary concern was that his parents did not hear about his activities. Had he met him in the company of Clémence, he would not have been overly concerned.

  Gorski negotiated the one-way system around the station in Rue de la Nuée Bleue with some difficulty, eventually leaving his car a few streets away. Lambert came down to the foyer without delay and shook Gorski warmly by the hand. He was a tall handsome man with sandy hair and pale blue eyes. He was wearing an expensive well-cut suit. For once, Gorski was pleased to be smartly turned out.