The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

by Graeme Macrae Burnet

  The door opened. A young woman in a blue medical smock entered.

  ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. Monsieur Paliard is not able to receive visitors for long. It exhausts him.’

  Paliard jerked his thumb towards the nurse. ‘She likes to talk about me as if I’m not here.’

  Gorski smiled thinly.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve wasted your time. I came on a whim. I’m sorry for disturbing you.’

  Paliard waved away his apology. ‘Not at all. I’ve found our talk quite stimulating. Feel free to call again. Only…’ He was interrupted by another fit of wheezing.

  The nurse walked across the room and stood proprietarily behind her charge.

  ‘Inspector,’ she said firmly.

  Gorski nodded and stood up. He bid the spluttering Paliard good day and saw himself out. Despite Paliard’s derision, he was glad he had paid the visit. Although nothing concrete had come of it, he was at least engaging with the investigation. And there was something in the atmosphere of that tomb-like room which he felt he was missing. He thought of Ribéry’s dictum to look for what was not there. His footsteps crunched down the gravel exactly as they had twenty years before. There was a heavy aroma of laburnum. Then he remembered there had been a boy, a teenager. He turned and half-ran back up the driveway. The front door was not locked. The maid appeared in the passage at the rear of the hall.

  ‘Inspector, you can’t…’

  Gorski ignored her. The drawing room door was open. Paliard was still on the sofa, an oxygen mask now attached to his face. He was struggling even to catch the shallowest breath, one craggy hand gripping the arm of the sofa, the other over his chest. The nurse was fussing around him. She saw Gorski in the doorway and ordered him out.

  Eighteen

  MANFRED HAD ALWAYS HATED SATURDAYS. During the week, even if one hated one’s job, one went to work because one had to, because there was no choice in the matter. People congregated in their work places with a sense of communal resignation. It was relatively easy to give the appearance of being a normal member of society. Weekends were different. One was expected to enjoy oneself, to take part in healthy outdoor pursuits, family or social events. Manfred had never enjoyed such activities. If he read books or went to the cinema, it was not so much because he enjoyed doing so, but because it filled the hours. He dreaded Monday mornings when the staff at the bank would regale each other with tales of how packed with activity their weekends had been. Each seemed determined to be the one who had eked the most pleasure out of their hours of liberty. Without fail, when she brought in his coffee, Carolyn would ask her boss if he had had a pleasant weekend. Manfred always assured her that he had. If pressed, he sometimes said that he had been to the cinema in Strasbourg. This seemed to satisfy the girl’s curiosity and she would then recount her weekend’s activities for as long as Manfred would tolerate. He barely listened and often sat imagining what she would say if he told her in a matter of fact way that he had visited a disreputable club where he had committed a sexual act with a girl of about her age whose name he did not even trouble to ask.

  On this particular Saturday, however, there was no question of Manfred visiting Simone’s. The prospect of that part of his routine coming to Gorksi’s attention was not appealing. On top of that, since his evening with Alice, the seedy allure of Simone’s had dissipated and Manfred felt a sort of shame in ever having visited the place. His weekend required some thorough reorganisation.

  He began by telephoning his grandmother to tell her he would not be coming for lunch on Sunday. She made no attempt to conceal her disappointment. Manfred explained that he was meeting a friend.

  ‘A friend?’ Mme Paliard repeated. ‘What kind of friend?’

  Manfred had expected her to be pleased to hear this news. Instead her tone was one of incredulity.

  ‘A woman who lives in my building,’ he explained.

  ‘I see,’ she said, as if the phrase was some kind of euphemism. ‘Couldn’t you meet this friend some other time? Your grandfather will be upset. He hasn’t been well. You know how your visits cheer him up.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it,’ Manfred said, immediately regretting his harsh tone. He knew, of course, that it was his grandmother who was disappointed not to see him. ‘Perhaps I could come during the week. Thursday, perhaps?’ If he visited on that evening, he could avoid a repeat of his exclusion from the card game.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘We’ll see you next Sunday.’

  Manfred put the phone down feeling angry towards his grandmother, but he was glad she had not accepted his offer to visit during the week. His routine was disordered enough as it was. He decided to do his laundry this afternoon. Even Gorski could hardly interpret anything untoward in an alteration to the time at which Manfred carried out this task. Alice had agreed to call for him at two o’clock the following afternoon to ‘do something together’. Manfred had little idea what doing something together might entail, but certainly it was at least possible that it would carry on into the evening, when he would normally do his washing. Manfred did not expect this to be the case. Nevertheless it was prudent to be prepared for such an eventuality. He felt uneasy as he took the back stairs down to the scullery with his sack of washing. He did his washing on Sunday evenings precisely because the laundry room was always empty at that time. Perhaps on a Saturday morning it would be teeming with residents with whom he would be obliged to exchange pleasantries. The room was empty. The other residents of the building were most likely busy eking pleasure out of their Saturdays.

  Manfred hurriedly pushed his shirts and undershorts into one machine and his socks and other garments into a second. He sat down as he always did on the plastic chair by the door and opened his book, but he could not concentrate. He was concerned that Alice might come in. He had no wish to witness the spectacle of her sifting through her underwear, but he could hardly withdraw if she arrived. They would be forced to engage in conversation for the hour or so it took the machines to do their work, exhausting topics of conversation that might be required the following afternoon. Alice would in all likelihood take such a situation in her stride, but the scenario alarmed Manfred. He decided to go upstairs to his apartment and return when the cycle was over. It was not uncommon for people in the building to leave their washing unattended. Machines were often running when he came down and clothes sometimes seemed to have been left in them for hours. Manfred disapproved of this practice, and had on occasion left anonymous notes to this effect, but the circumstances were exceptional. He would return as soon as the cycle was over and remove his washing from the machine. He spent an hour pacing restlessly around his flat. He decided that he would, after all, spend the evening in Strasbourg. Since he often told Carolyn he went to the cinema, that was what he should do. He took it as read that Gorski was fully appraised of his movements and he would place some negative interpretation on any deviation from his routine. In any case, he had no desire to spend the evening cooped up in his apartment.

  Manfred returned to the laundry room just as the machine was ending his cycle. A man was loading his washing into one of the free machines. He was in his sixties and Manfred had often seen him walking his little terrier around the play park behind the building. He suspected that his dog might be responsible for the faeces that had recently been found in the stairwell, but, as he had no real evidence to back up his suspicions, he did not mention it. The space was too cramped for them both to move around, so he was obliged to loiter in the doorway while the man finished loading his machine. Neither of them said anything. The man turned on his machine and, to Manfred’s relief, left the room. Contrary to his normal practice, Manfred bundled his wet clothes into his laundry sack and took them back to his apartment. There was an old clothes horse on the balcony. Manfred unfolded it and pegged up his shirts. In an hour or so the sun would reach the balcony and they would be dry in no time. Manfred leant for a moment on the metal balustrade. Alice’s car was parked below.
Manfred was tempted to wait there on the balcony just for the opportunity of seeing her come out and get into her vehicle. It would be quite normal to wave and call out a greeting to her. Of course, he would do no such thing. He would press his back to the wall of the balcony for fear of being spotted spying on her. Children were playing noisily in the park. A group of Arab women sat gossiping on a bench. One of them turned and looked up towards the balcony. Manfred retreated into the kitchen.

  When Manfred went to the station to catch the 17.35, Alice’s car had gone. He wondered what she might be doing. Perhaps she was seeing her repellent ex-husband. Manfred purchased his ticket and arrived at the platform a little earlier than usual in order to ascertain whether he was being followed. It was a pleasant evening. To the east, the sky above Basel was already taking on a pinkish hue. A smartly dressed man in his mid-thirties was standing on the platform holding a folded newspaper in his right hand. Manfred was not sure if he had already been on the platform when he arrived. He walked across his eye line and continued to the end of the platform. There were few other people around, but the man appeared to be consciously avoiding looking in Manfred’s direction. As he approached the man for a second time, he turned and raised his eyes to the departure board. The Strasbourg train was due in two minutes.

  Manfred positioned himself behind the man, in the doorway of the little brick waiting room. He had no doubt that the man was aware that Manfred was now watching him. He enjoyed the idea that he had turned the tables. He was quite sure his actions would be noted and reported back to Gorski: that he had not been at all cowed by the fact that he was being watched; indeed, that he had behaved like a man who had nothing on his conscience. When the train pulled in to the platform, the man had no choice but to get on first, clear evidence that he already knew where Manfred was heading. Manfred was tempted for a moment to stand on the platform and watch the train pull away with the detective aboard. He imagined the cop leaping to his feet and banging on the door to be let out and then having to shame-facedly inform Gorski that he had lost his quarry. Amusing though the idea was, it would ruin the carefully constructed illusion that Manfred was behaving exactly as he normally would. Besides, would it not seem peculiar if, having bought a ticket only a few minutes before, he failed to board the train?

  The man had taken a seat at the end of the carriage. He gave every appearance of being engrossed in his newspaper. Manfred sat at the opposite end of the carriage and took his book from the pocket of his raincoat. The man did not once raise his eyes from his newspaper. But why should he? He already knew Manfred was on the train.

  As the train sped through the countryside, Manfred realised there was a flaw in his plan for the evening. He would be observed going to the cinema. That in itself was not a problem. It would be easy enough to recount, if required, the actors and narrative of the film he went to see. But, as his trip was intended to give the impression that he was in the habit of going to the cinema in Strasbourg, he might be asked what other films he had seen on other occasions, at what time, in which cinema and so on. Such information could easily be checked. On top of that, there was a cinema in Saint-Louis not five hundred metres from Manfred’s apartment. Why would he travel eighty minutes by train to go to the cinema when he could do the same thing on his own doorstep? Manfred resolved to buy a newspaper in the station to ensure he did not see a film that was showing in Saint-Louis.

  Manfred imagined the questioning that would ensue:

  You bought a newspaper when you reached the station?

  Yes. I wanted to check which films were showing.

  So you didn’t know which film you were going to see before you took the train to Strasbourg?

  No.

  Why not go to the cinema in Saint-Louis?

  I didn’t want to see any of the films that were showing there.

  What films were showing?

  And, thus, he would be found out. Instead, he should make directly for a cinema – the little one on Rue du 22 Novembre that showed obscure foreign films – and buy a ticket for the first film that was on. If there was time to kill, he would have a glass of wine or something to eat in a nearby café. What could be more normal than that?

  By the time the train pulled into Strasbourg, Manfred was feeling quite pleased with himself. The man with the newspaper was first to leave the carriage. Manfred followed him off the train. The man walked rapidly along the platform onto the concourse, not once looking over his shoulder. He appeared to be in a hurry. He dropped his folded newspaper into a litter bin without breaking his stride. It seemed a strange thing to do. Why, if he had finished with the newspaper, had he not left it on the seat of the train? Perhaps, knowing that he had been spotted, it was a pre-arranged signal to another operative waiting at the station. Quite spontaneously, Manfred decided to follow the first man. He almost broke into a run so as not to lose him as he strode across the concrete expanse of Place de la Gare. For a moment, Manfred felt quite exhilarated. He was in control of events. The man crossed into Rue de Maire Kuss and continued to walk briskly. At no point did he look over his shoulder.

  Manfred kept about twenty metres back. The man was not difficult to follow. He was taller than average and was wearing a light linen suit. He was, in fact, rather conspicuous. After a few minutes he entered a brasserie. An attractive woman sitting at a table in the window stood up. There was a glass of wine on the table in front of her. They greeted each other with a kiss on the lips before the man sat down at the table and summoned the waiter. Manfred stood dumbly observing this vignette from the pavement outside. The waiter arrived and the man ordered a drink. Then he glanced out of the window and saw Manfred on the pavement outside. A puzzled expression flitted across his face as if he was trying to place him, but his gaze did not stay on him for more than a second and he quickly returned his attention to his companion. Manfred suddenly felt ridiculous. He could hardly remain there spying on them. And to what end? He turned away abruptly and bumped into a woman walking in the opposite direction. She muttered a derogatory comment under her breath.

  Manfred felt a sudden and vicious desire for alcohol. Not for his usual glass of wine, but for something that would provide swifter inebriation. He turned into an alley where he was sure he could find a suitable watering hole. He almost burst through the door of the first suitable establishment, a dimly lit place where alcohol was consumed in the candid pursuit of intoxication. Such was his relief at reaching the counter, he could not for a moment decide what to order. The barman looked at him impassively.

  ‘Monsieur?’ he said.

  ‘A whisky, please,’ Manfred said. The barman indicated with a gesture of his arm the array of bottles behind the bar.

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, trying to keep his voice even. ‘Anything.’

  The barman nodded, selected a bottle and poured the drink at a leisurely pace. Manfred fidgeted at the counter. His hands were shaking. He wanted to yell at the barman to hurry up. The barman placed the drink in front of him and, without any thought for decorum, Manfred downed it in one swig. He breathed out slowly, eyes closed. The whisky warmed the back of his throat and worked its way down to his stomach. When he opened his eyes, the barman was watching him impassively.

  ‘Another?’ he asked.

  Manfred nodded gratefully. He downed the second whisky as he had the first, then a third. He found himself a stool and sat down. The fourth he nursed for a while. What an idiot he was. This whole trip to Strasbourg was a charade, enacted for an audience of one. Yet there was no one to witness his performance, no one to report back to Gorski. It mattered not if he went to the cinema, to Simone’s, or sat here in this dive or any other getting blind drunk. Nobody was watching him. Nobody cared where he was or what he was doing. Not even the barman, who was plainly unperturbed by Manfred’s determination to get sozzled. His actions were not going to be called before a court of law and picked over. What Manfred chose to do was of no consequence to anyone other than himself. And yet, even as
he realised this, had he not sought out a bar without windows in a secluded street where he could not be seen?

  Manfred swivelled around on his stool and took in his surroundings for the first time. The place was dingy and brown. Until that moment, he had thought he was the only customer, but, in fact, the place was well populated by grim-faced men in various stages of inebriation. As Manfred surveyed the room, none of his fellows so much as glanced in his direction. He had become invisible. He drank down his whisky and ordered another. He felt giddy.

  At a certain point Manfred made an attempt to engage the barman in conversation. He was a young chap with an open, pleasant face. He did not seem averse to conversation, but Manfred had difficulty following his responses and the exchange soon fizzled out. Later, a man took the stool next to Manfred’s at the counter and ordered a pastis. He was wearing a three-piece suit with a lilac handkerchief in the breast pocket. He clumsily placed a briefcase on the floor at his feet and struggled to pour the water from the little jug into his glass. He was well on his way to oblivion. Manfred made a comment to this effect. The man turned his head towards the source of the sound, took some time to focus and then returned his attention to his drink without a word. Manfred repeated his remark, this time accompanying it with a sharp prod to the man’s upper arm.

  The man looked round, steadying himself on the bar.

  ‘Do I know you?’ he said.

  Manfred grinned at him. ‘The name’s Baumann, Manfred Baumann.’

  The man looked blankly at him. Manfred thought of inviting him to accompany him to Simone’s. He seemed like the kind of fellow with whom one might enjoy a night on the town.

  Nineteen

  GORSKI SPOONED THREE SUGARS into his coffee. Céline looked on disapprovingly. She did not drink coffee and she never tired of telling Gorski his sugar intake would lead to diabetes. It was eight o’clock. He was sitting in his shirtsleeves, his jacket slung over the back of his chair. The coffee stimulated Gorski’s desire for the first cigarette of the day, but he did not dare light up over the breakfast table. Not that either of them ate breakfast. Gorski’s stomach always felt unsettled in the morning. Usually he bought a croissant or a pain au chocolat at the bakery on Rue de Mulhouse and ate it at the station midway through the morning. Céline poured out her tea and sat down. They had barely seen each other since the evening of her event at the shop.