Summertime All the Cats Are Bored

by Philippe Georget

  Their eyes met defiantly for a few seconds. Then Sebag shook his head. He was mad at himself for getting angry. But he was tired, and Lefèvre was really being an asshole.

  “Don’t get upset, Gilles, and don’t make things more complicated,” Castello said. “This is not an interrogation, but it is important to find out why the kidnappers contacted you. You and not someone else. The answer is probably in your recent or distant past.”

  He paused before going on:

  “We’re going to have to conduct a little investigation.”

  “Of what precisely am I suspected?”

  “That’s enough, Gilles,” Castello said, annoyed. “You’re not suspected of anything, and you know that very well. It’s one of the few leads we have, and we can’t neglect it. Period.”

  “And who is going to follow this lead?”

  The superintendent looked him straight in the eye.

  “You know that, too. We have the good luck to have here a policeman who doesn’t know you and knows nothing about the cases you’ve solved here, or about the individuals you’ve made it possible to arrest. He will conduct the investigation with complete objectivity, I hope.”

  This time it was the young superintendent from Paris whom Castello stared at.

  “That goes without saying,” Lefèvre snickered.

  “Good,” Castello concluded provisionally. “You will discuss all that together a little later.”

  They remained silent for a moment. The superintendent slowly roused himself. Bits of conversation reached them from the corridor, despite the closed door. Castello began to speak again.

  “The sum they’re demanding is insane! A hundred and fifty million euros, a billion francs.”

  “The Moluccan Resistance Movement may not keep close tabs on the exchange rate for the euro,” Sebag said bitterly.

  Castello didn’t react to the jibe. Lefèvre pretended he hadn’t heard anything. He got up and pointed to the letter.

  “I suppose you’re going to have it examined in every way by your technical team. I’d like to make photocopies of it first. I’ll fax some to a colleague in the National Security Service. I’d like to have his . . . expert opinion.”

  When Lefèvre had gone out, the boss turned to Sebag.

  “I’ve got a job for you, Gilles, or rather two jobs. I’ve already spoken to you about the first one, and I want you to answer precisely all the questions Cyril Lefèvre asks you.”

  Sebag nodded to signal his willingness to do what his boss asked.

  “The second job will be easier for you. After your interview with Cyril, I want you to go home and rest. You look tired to me. You haven’t slept much, I suppose?”

  “Two or three hours.”

  “I want you in top form when you come back tomorrow. It’s important. Because our mysterious correspondents have chosen you as their contact, you will need to be as available as possible over the coming days. As a good marathon runner, you know that to go the distance, you have to know how to economize your strength.”

  The house was still silent but it was no longer empty. Claire was sleeping in their bed. He tiptoed into the bedroom and lay down at her side. Sunlight was coming in around the shutters. She rolled over and nuzzled up against him. Her body had the soft warmth of the bed. Her green eyes flickered, then settled on Gilles.

  “Didn’t you sleep at all?” she asked him gently.

  “A few hours. How about you?”

  “I don’t know. What time is it?”

  “About eleven.”

  “Then I almost got my usual seven hours,” she said, stretching.

  She tapped her pillow and sat up. He took the opportunity to move away from this body that was burning his skin.

  “What was the middle-of-the-night emergency? Nothing serious, I hope?”

  He told her about his adventures that night. The ones that began with waking up hung over. He had hardly finished when she asked him the question. The one he’d be asked constantly throughout this investigation, and to which he hadn’t even the beginning of a hypothetical answer.

  “Why was the letter addressed to you?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  She remained quiet for a few moments. Then she suggested:

  “Maybe he knows you.”

  “Who?”

  “The kidnapper.”

  “Why the kidnapper? Why not the kidnappers?”

  “I don’t know. Did I say the kidnapper?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “You must have said it yourself. Or from the way you presented the facts, it seems there could be only one kidnapper.”

  He thought about that remark for a while. He realized that in fact he was beginning to prefer the singular.

  “You don’t believe this demand, either?” he asked.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you don’t believe it,” she replied with cheerful candor. She’d always shown more confidence in his abilities as an investigator than he himself did. That had often troubled him, sometimes even embarrassed him. But this time he found her confidence reassuring.

  It was after two when he got up. Claire was taking a sunbath alongside the pool. She’d waited for him to eat lunch.

  Her purse lay half-open at the foot of the bar. He could see her cell phone. He had only to pick it up, turn it on, and look at the last numbers she’d called. If she’d erased the last calls, that would already be a confession.

  He hesitated.

  The doubt was disturbing. Worrisome. Anguishing. It was rotting his mind. But the truth might turn out to be worse. Cruel and even more upsetting. And then above all he couldn’t make up his mind to use his police methods against his own wife. What if, after he’d lowered himself to using such methods, he ultimately found nothing at all? He would feel ridiculous in his own eyes and he wouldn’t necessarily feel reassured for all that. The absence of a proof of guilt cannot constitute an absolute proof of innocence.

  Claire’s telephone rang. A brief beep. There was a message. Just as he was yielding to his curiosity and reaching for the phone, his own cell phone rang. He went to get it out of his jacket pocket. It wasn’t a message but a photo. Léo, all smiles, riding a quad. Sebag took the telephone to Claire.

  “Your son is doing very well, apparently.”

  They ate lunch together in the living room. It was too hot on the terrace. Claire told him about her night out. Her scene. After the restaurant, they’d decided not to go to a movie. The film they’d chosen seemed too serious, and Véronique needed a change in atmosphere. So they’d decided to go to a night club. The Maracas in Saint-Cyprien. 1970s disco ambiance. They’d had as much fun as kids. Especially Véro.

  “Did you get hit on?”

  “What do you think?” she asked with a mischievous smile.

  He took the time to contemplate her. Pretty green eyes that nascent wrinkles made even more sparkling, a slender, pointed nose, a saucy mouth. His eyes moved lower. The blue T-shirt she’d thrown on after her sunbath revealed the roundness of her breasts.

  “You got hit on,” he repeated in the affirmative mode this time.

  She laughed.

  “So?” he went on.

  “So what?”

  “So?”

  Her smile slowly faded away. With her right hand, she fluffed up his hair.

  “You idiot.”

  She kissed him tenderly to put an end to the conversation.

  The afternoon was spent between the sun and the pool. His cell phone rang as he was getting ready to barbecue their dinner. Superintendent Castello gave him a summary of what had happened in the late afternoon. The anonymous letter had been closely examined. On the envelope, only Ripoll’s fingerprints had been found, but in the upper left corner of the letter, there was anoth
er print. It had been compared to the one the Dutch police had just sent them. There was no doubt. It was Ingrid Raven’s. The same fingerprint had been found on the passenger-side door handle of Lopez’s taxi.

  The first information provided by the National Security Service confirmed Sebag’s view. French counter-espionage had never heard of a Moluccan Resistance Front. In any case, the Parisian colleagues did not think it likely that such a movement—if it in fact existed—would be capable of undertaking any action whatever on French soil, where it had no known connections. However, the Security Service had contacted the Dutch counter-espionage service. Its primary interlocutor in Perpignan would be Lefèvre.

  “We’ve come to a standstill. Our only lead is this BW, the notorious customer. Maybe he’s your mysterious friend,” Castello said.

  Sebag replied drily.

  “I don’t have any friends who like to kidnap young women.”

  “I was joking, Gilles, just joking. Do these initials really mean nothing to you?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Castello, having sensed Sebag’s annoyance, tried to conclude the conversation on a more agreeable note.

  “How are things going at home?”

  “Fine, thanks. The children have gone on vacation. It’s quiet, and that’s nice for a change.”

  “Take my advice, old pal, and don’t miss the opportunity. You and Claire are alone together like lovers. It’s a precious moment. A new honeymoon.”

  Sebag did not reply. He wasn’t Castello’s “old pal,” and he didn’t want his advice. There was nothing worse than a boss who tried to play marriage counselor. Especially when he’d screwed up his own marriage.

  CHAPTER 16

  Robert hesitated, holding his watering can in his hand, in front of his potted banana tree.

  Usually, it was his friend René who took care of the yard in the summer. He came by two or three times a week to water the lawn and the flowers. Did he water the banana tree each time?

  Robert had always had trouble making decisions. Not only regarding the major choices in life but also about the smallest daily dilemmas. He relied on Solange. Gossips used to say that she wore the pants in the house. So what? She had good judgment! Even today, he still asked his wife’s opinion. And sometimes she answered. She was the one who had advised him to leave the Oleanders and return to their little house in central France. Once again, she’d been right: he felt better since he’d come back.

  Robert decided to water the flowers first. He had to fill the watering can three times. When only a few drops remained, he gave them to the banana tree.

  He and Solange had bought the house in the early 1970s. At that time a worker’s family could still afford a comfortable house. All you needed was a small down payment. Afterward, inflation would gradually reduce the monthly payments. The house wasn’t very spacious but it had three bedrooms. At first, Solange didn’t work. Then as the children grew up she started working as a cleaning lady, and without being well off, they finally had enough to get along easily. It seemed to Robert that the children had lacked for nothing. Neither love nor money. They’d been able to get the education they wanted: a short one for Paul and Gérard, who didn’t like school, a longer one for Florence, who had earned a Master’s degree in language and literature before taking a job teaching French in a middle school. They had all been happy in this house.

  Then Solange died. The illness had carried her off in a few months. A simple routine visit to the doctor, and their whole life had been turned upside down. Complicated and painful treatments, prolonged stays in the hospital; their quiet happiness had ended long before she was on her deathbed. A few days before she died, he’d taken her home. Against the doctors’ advice. It might have been the only decision he’d ever made all by himself. He was proud of it. She’d died at home. In this house where he hoped to die when his turn came.

  He thought about that often.

  The nights were difficult to endure. During the day, he had things to do. Housework, errands, the yard, crossword puzzles, walks along the Loire, a glass of white wine at Eugène’s bar. And then television in the evening. His little habits kept him going.

  But at night . . .

  In the darkness and silence of the bedroom, the anxiety that had lurked all day in the pit of his stomach regained its hold on him. He couldn’t sleep without taking two or three sleeping pills and drinking a couple of glasses of white wine. The mixture was dangerous.

  His sleep remained fitful. Full of bad dreams. He often woke up. And each time, he realized that reality was even worse than the most atrocious of his nightmares. Some of his nights were so terrible that he no longer awoke at 4:00 A.M.

  He put the watering can in the garage alongside the garden tools. It was 5:00 P.M., time for the regional news. He went back into the house and sat down in his armchair. His neck on the head-rest, his legs on the ottoman, he absent-mindedly watched the images flit by. It was always more or less the same thing. The same tone, the same rhythm, the same words. Only the voices changed. The voices he was used to were on vacation.

  The telephone rang right at the end of the news broadcast. Florence. He sought to reassure her. “Yes, yes, I’m feeling better.” He weighed his words, trying to sound credible. “A little better.” He told her once again that he’d made the right choice in deciding to go home, that he felt better in their house, that it would soon be all over and forgotten. He was already sleeping again.

  “Just imagine, Flo . . . This morning I woke at seven o’clock.”

  He hoped he was convincing. He didn’t want to worry his daughter. Florence was the baby, the daughter they’d so much wanted after having the two boys. He hadn’t noticed that she’d grown up. She still seemed to him so fragile and vulnerable.

  “How about you, is everything going well? Your pregnancy isn’t tiring you out too much?”

  It hadn’t been a long time since she left home. She’d studied in Orléans, held her first teaching job in Montargis, but didn’t really become independent until she got married. Her departure for Paris had been very difficult. For him and for Solange.

  “Maybe I’ll come back down to see you before summer is over,” he said.

  She seemed to believe him. For a few moments, he allowed himself to be deceived by the power of the words. He was feeling better; he might get over it and he would go back to Argelès, if not during the summer, at least in the fall, as if nothing had happened. But after he’d hung up, he suddenly felt dizzy. A shrill and harsh laugh drowned out Florence’s gentle voice. Robert was forced to sit down on the cool floor tiles in the entry hall. His vision got blurry. Two blue eyes were looking at him. They were no longer those of his daughter. He could make out a face surrounded by bloody blond hair, a face that was laughing despite the horrible absence of its mouth.

  Robert knew he’d never get over it.

  CHAPTER 17

  At 6:00 A.M., Sebag slipped silently out of the bed, leaving Claire to sleep on. He donned his running clothes. A storm had come up during the night. The air was humid, the wind cooler. Without eating breakfast, he ran through the countryside for an hour. In the distance, the first rays of the sun were touching the summit of Le Canigou.

  He thought again about the talk he’d had with Lefèvre before leaving the headquarters the preceding day. The interview had gone off without a hitch. The young cop had made an effort: he hadn’t spared rhetorical precautions to ensure that their conversation didn’t resemble an interrogation. It had rung false most of the time, but Sebag had also shown his good will. They should be able to put up with one another so long as this investigation was going on.

  Provided that it didn’t last too long.

  On the way home, he stopped at the bakery to buy two baguettes.

  He put breakfast on the terrace. A big cup of black coffee for himself, a small cup and a tea-bag for Claire. Bread, butter, ho
ney. The jar of strawberry jam was almost empty. He added a line to the shopping list. Claire would see to it this morning.

  He turned on the radio. This first week of July was predicted to be calm in France and abroad: the first forest fires on the Côte d’Azur, the perennial traffic advisories and public health checks regarding restaurants and bodies of water. The summer routine. Plus a few car bombs in Baghdad. Nothing likely to disturb a vacationer’s peace and quiet.

  He was driving tranquilly to police headquarters when his eyes fell on a poster hung on the window of a news agent. A headline from Le Parisien-Aujourd’hui en France shouted in bold-face type:

  PERPIGNAN: Series of attacks on young Dutch girls

  He double-parked and got out, paying no attention to the insults heaped on him by unhappy drivers.

  “That’s going like hotcakes,” the news seller told him with satisfaction.

  He got back in the car and found a parking place a few dozen yards farther on. There was nothing concerning Perpignan on the front page, but he found the article on page four.

  The daily’s regional correspondent had connected three events that had recently occurred in the department: the murder of a twenty-three-year-old Dutch woman on the beach at Argelès in mid-June; the attack on a nineteen-year-old co-ed, also Dutch, on the streets of Perpignan two nights earlier; and finally the puzzling disappearance of a third young woman—clearly the reference was to the Raven case, even though no name was given. The article mentioned certain similarities between the cases, especially between the last two, describing in fact the attack in Perpignan as a “failed attempt at a kidnapping.” The reporter had cleverly avoided concluding that a serial attacker was involved, but he more than hinted at that hypothesis.

  At the Perpignan police headquarters, everyone was on full alert.

  “The superintendent is waiting for you in the meeting room,” Martine told him at the reception desk. “He’s already up there with the policeman from Paris and another one from Montpellier.”