Sebag picked up his phone and made a call.
“Hello, Ménard here.”
“Hi, it’s Gilles.”
“How’s it going? I read your synthesis at noon. The scenario seems valid. Which doesn’t mean that it’s the only possible one.”
“I agree with you, it’s a starting point. Apart from that, I was calling especially about the owner of the Volvo. Didier Coll. I’d like to know precisely what he said to you about me.”
“Meaning?”
“Did he tell you that he knew me?”
“Yes.”
“And that he’d had dealings with me, professionally?”
“No, he didn’t go into detail. He asked me to give you his greetings.”
“That’s all?”
“Not entirely. He added that you were a good policeman.”
“He said that?”
“More or less, yes. I can’t guarantee that those were his exact words, but that’s what he meant.”
Sebag fell silent and thought. If he’d been merely the owner of a stolen car, logically Coll should have complained to Ménard that Sebag had brushed him off a few days earlier. On the contrary, he sent his greetings and praised his qualities as a policeman.
“Were his compliments ironic?”
“No, not at all. Why?”
Sebag didn’t answer.
“Does this have something to do with the investigation?” Ménard asked.
“Nothing at all,” Sebag lied. “Yesterday I was preoccupied with other things when you came to talk to us about that conversation and I didn’t react. It’s true that I met the guy, but I’d forgotten. Thanks for the further explanations.”
“No problem, Gilles . . . We work as a team, as you know very well.”
The last words showed that he hadn’t been taken in by the lie. Sebag didn’t like playing a solo game, but Ménard was too devoted to the rules to be taken into his confidence.
Sebag opened the Internet phone directory site.
“If Coll is in fact our man,” he explained to Molina, “he must have another address. He can’t be holding Ingrid in his downtown apartment.”
Coll was a fairly common Catalan name, but the directory had only two listings with the first name Didier. The first was on La Fusterie Street, the second in the Les Fenouillèdes area. Sebag felt his pulse speed up.
“I might have something. In Fenouillèdes. I’ll call the mayor’s office right now.”
However, the lead he was hoping he’d found didn’t pan out.
“No dice,” he said as he hung up. “According to the records in the mayor’s office, that Coll is a wine grower. Married, two children. He’s fifty-four.”
“Why didn’t you call the phone company right away? He might have an unlisted number.”
Molina grabbed his phone. It took him only a few minutes to get an answer. Also negative.
“Coll might have rented a house,” he suggested.
“That’s possible. But if we have to contact all the real estate agencies, it’ll take us all day.”
“Not to mention that quite a few rentals are not handled by the agencies . . . ”
“Great!”
Molina was trying to finish off one by one the crumbs that were still lying in the pizza carton. Then he put his finger on a drop of tomato sauce and licked it.
“If you want my opinion,” he said, “there’s only one thing to do.”
“Namely?”
“Follow him. If he’s holding Ingrid somewhere, he has to go see her every day . . . ”
“I’m afraid it’s a little early to tail him: he mustn’t suspect anything.”
“I’ll be careful.”
“Why you?”
“He doesn’t know me.”
“He saw you the other day here, at headquarters.”
“That’s true. So let’s say that he knows me less than he knows you.”
“It’s risky . . . ”
“No doubt, but I’ll be very cautious. I’ll follow him at a distance, and if I lose him, too bad: I’ll find him again later at his workplace or his home.”
Molina was right. They couldn’t limit themselves to investigating from their office. And then it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad thing if the kidnapper realized that they were investigating him. It might even please him. The thrill of the game . . . The essential point was that he never guess that he had become their main suspect.
“Okay,” Sebag finally said. “You go to his office, wait until he comes out, and then follow him. Let’s hope he’s still taking us for idiots and isn’t on his guard.”
“What about you, what are you going to do?”
“Investigate without moving out of this chair and remain in permanent contact with you.”
“Cool!”
“I’d rather be in your place.”
“Waiting for hours in an over-heated car until Mr. Coll has finished sending out pay slips and a few dismissal notices? That would surprise me!”
As soon as Molina was gone, Sebag contacted the tax office. Didier Coll did in fact pay property tax and residence tax, but only as the owner and occupant of a two-room apartment in Perpignan.
Then he looked at the real estate agencies. There were dozens of them in the department. He sighed. What else could he do while he waited?
He kept at it for at least two hours. Made about fifty calls, often having to wait to speak to a boss, then negotiating, deceiving, threatening, whining, sometimes inventing some outlandish fiction. Some agencies gave him the information without hesitation, but others protested and demanded an official request. By the middle of the afternoon he’d made little progress.
At least he’d tried.
It occurred to him to try an Internet search for the name Didier Coll. Two persons came up often, a Didier Coll who was an artist, and another who was a hairdresser. He also got some weird hits. He noticed that the search engine had selected almost 400,000 sites and decided to reformulate his search. Using quotation marks judiciously, he managed to limit the results to 2,000 sites. But they were still confused, “Coll” being understood by the search engine as an abbreviation of “collection.”
After spending an hour on the Net, he’d found only one site that mentioned “his” Didier Coll. That of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry in Pyrénées-Orientales, which presented the organizational chart of the company the suspect worked for. Sebag had the painful feeling that he’d wasted his afternoon.
He decided to allow himself a little break, and took out of his drawer a news magazine he’d bought that same morning. It contained a series of articles about the Sanch. That traditional procession on Good Friday fascinated him. He’d gone several times to watch the parade of penitents, hidden under their caparutxe, a long, conical hood that before he came to Perpignan he’d associated exclusively with the American Ku Klux Klan.
His cell phone rang, putting an end to his break. It was Molina.
“Barry White got off work twenty minutes ago. He went by scooter to the Mailloles quarter where he’s gone into a retirement home.”
“He’s probably visiting his mother. You didn’t have too much trouble following his scooter in your car?”
“Do you take me for a greenhorn? It’s in the manual. I took precautions. I’ve got a pal who sells used motorcycles. He lent me one.”
“Congratulations!”
An idea suddenly occurred to him. An idea they should have had a long time ago.
“Your cell phone takes photos, doesn’t it? Could you take a picture of Coll that we could show to Anneke?”
“The problem is that I’m not going to get too close to him. And a long-distance photo taken on a cell phone won’t be very good.”
“We can always try.”
“Okay. How about you, are you getting
anywhere?”
“No, I haven’t found any trace of a house. But that doesn’t prove anything. I hope you’ll be luckier than I’ve been.”
“Let’s hope!”
“Hello, is this the Joffre retirement home in the Mailloles quarter, Perpignan?”
“Yes. What can I do for you, sir?”
“Let me introduce myself: my name is Damien Gourrault. I work for the Ray Barreto Institute, and the Ministry of Senior Citizens has asked us to conduct a study of family care for retirees. I’d like to speak with the head of the home, please.”
“Please hold on, I’ll see if Mrs. Raynald is available.”
She was available.
“Hello, madam. This is Damien Gourrault of the Ray Barreto Institute. We have been asked to conduct a study for the Ministry of Senior Citizens in the context of the plan for coping with extreme heat. To make families more aware of the needs of old . . . uh . . . Senior Citizens, we are looking for children, sons or daughters who care particularly well for their relatives who have been placed in retirement homes. We would like to honor one family in each department of France. That’s why I’m calling you. I am currently making the rounds of retirement homes in Pyrénées-Orientales to ask each establishment to name one or two persons who might be candidates for the title of “Super Son” or “Super Daughter.” The exact title hasn’t yet been decided upon, but the principle is to give a prize. Deserving children will win a trip for two, on the assumption, of course, that they will travel with their mother or father.”
“That seems to me to be an interesting idea,” the directress said politely.
“Thank you. Could I ask you then if you might have a few people to propose to us?”
“Certainly, yes, we have residents whose children visit them daily. But you’ve caught me somewhat unprepared. I’ll have to think about the matter.”
“I realize that. I don’t need an immediate response. I can call you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Yes, I know, that’s quick, but the ministry is in a hurry. We have to be able to award the prizes before the end of the summer. Above all, don’t waste time contacting the families, we’ll take care of that ourselves. Is tomorrow possible?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Wuhnnderful! One last thing before I let you go. We already have many women candidates, and since we’d like to present a rather broad spectrum of winners, we are especially looking for a man. The ideal person would be a bachelor in his forties who holds a position of responsibility. Do you think that’s possible?”
“Maybe, yes . . . I already have an idea of who that might be.”
“Wuhnnderful. So, I’m counting on you. Until tomorrow, Mrs. Reynald.”
Sebag hung up. He wasn’t sure what his initiative might produce but he was smiling like a kid who has just made a good joke.
The little hand of the clock on his desk was now almost pointing to the eight. Molina hadn’t called back yet. Did that mean that Coll was still at his mother’s bedside? He glanced at the screen on his telephone to be sure that his colleague hadn’t tried to call him. There was no message.
Sebag decided it was time to eat dinner. He put his computer on standby and left the office. The reception area was empty, with the exception of an old alcoholic who was chatting quietly with Ripoll.
Sebag crossed the street and went into the Carlit. Behind his bar, Rafel Puig was reading El Punt, a weekly published in South Catalonia. Sebag ordered ‘un entrepas amb pernil i formatge’ (“a ham and cheese sandwich”). And a pastis to drink while he waited. In the bar, near him, two men in their thirties were talking in Catalan about regional politics. He recognized members of a small regionalist party to which the owner of the Carlit also belonged. The bar was where they held their cell meetings.
A few minutes later Sebag left to return to headquarters, his meal under his arm and the veins in his brain delightfully irrigated with anise.
His cell phone rang while he was in the stairway. It was Séverine. She was on her way back from PortAventura, where she’d had “loads of fun.”
“Are you back in Calella, then?”
“Yes, we went to the beach today.”
“That’s something new and different.”
Sebag opened the door to his office.
“Isn’t it? Have you heard from Léo?”
“He’s ecstatic,” he said, moved that Séverine cared about her big brother.
“He’s planning to go to Toulon with a friend after his camp is over. He’ll probably stay there until the end of the month.”
“So, do you and Mama have plans for August?”
“Non, we haven’t talked about it again.”
“Huh,” Séverine said, without trying to hide her disappointment.
“I’ve got a lot of work just now,” he said to justify himself. “You see, I’m still at work this evening. And then I’m not sure if your mother will have things she particularly wants to do after her cruise.”
“What about you, do you have things you particularly want to do, apart from running and loafing around?”
The signal for another incoming call sounded in his ear. Molina was trying to reach him.
“No, not really,” he replied anyway, “I haven’t really thought about it.”
“You should.”
“Think so?”
“I think it would please Mama if you proposed something. Not necessarily something big, but a little trip in France that you cooked up just for the two of you.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t want to go with us, then?”
He heard Séverine sigh at the other end of the line and realized he hadn’t understood what his daughter was trying to tell him. She’d matured a great deal these last months, but he wasn’t prepared to see her play the role of marriage counselor. Did she suspect something?
“No, as I told you, I’d rather stay in Saint-Estève. But think about what I said regarding the month of August, that would really please Mama.”
Annoyed, he said to himself: Why should I please her? But he didn’t want to let his daughter see anything.
“I’ll think about it,” he managed to say.
The signal for an incoming call sounded again.
“Somebody’s trying to reach me. I’ve got to let you go. Love you.”
“I love you too, Papa.”
Séverine’s tone had the sweetness of acacia honey. Molina’s was more like rotten ketchup.
“Nice of you to let me cool my heels here. Was your mouth full? I hope I’m not disturbing you too much?”
Sebag looked at his untouched sandwich lying on the desk between the lamp and the computer mouse.
“I’m sorry, I’m here now. Anything new?”
“What do you think . . . if I’m calling you?”
Sebag took care not to reply.
“Coll left his mother’s retirement home ten minutes ago. He stopped to buy bread in a bakery and then went home, on La Fusterie Street. What should we do now?”
“What do you think?”
Sebag knew very well what they should do, but he preferred to let Molina make the decision himself.
“He might decide to go see Ingrid at any time. We can’t let up on the surveillance.”
“All night?”
“If necessary, yes.”
Sebag let a few seconds go by as if he were weighing the pros and cons.
“Fine. You’re undoubtedly right. Do you have a good place to wait?”
“Are you kidding? It’s a pedestrian zone!”
Sebag translated: Molina couldn’t do the stakeout in his car.
“Is there a bar nearby?”
“Fifty yards away, on the Place Rigaud. But I can’t see the door to the building from there.”
“That doesn’t sound
good! Do you have a drainpipe to lean on, at least?”
“A fairly large carriage entrance about ten yards away.”
“Oh, terrific!”
“Don’t worry too much about it, okay?”
“I can cover for you tonight.”
“That wouldn’t be prudent.”
Sebag knew Jacques was right, but he had reservations. Even in the summer, nights could be long under a carriage entrance.
There was a silence. Sebag thought the line had gone dead.
“Are you sure it’s him?” Molina finally asked.
“I think so.”
“You think it’s him or you think you’re sure?”
“We have to follow this lead all the way to the end; it’s the best one we have.”
“You can say that again. It’s the only one.”
“It’s the right one, you’ll see.”
Sebag would have liked to be more convincing but his own conviction hadn’t been fed for several hours and he could feel it fading. He had to find something tangible very soon. A little fuel for the machine. Molina’s motivation wouldn’t last through a long, fruitless night.
“Did you get the photo?”
“Yes, but it’s not good. Even I would have difficulty recognizing him.”
“Stay there, I’m coming.”
He had an idea for relieving his colleague, for an hour at least . . . I want to play too, he said to himself as he left headquarters.
In Dalle Arago, the restaurant terraces were buzzing with activity. A gypsy was making his way among the tables vigorously strumming his guitar, but there were only a few English tourists to listen to the lamentations of his strings. Sebag strode rapidly across the square and entered the narrow pedestrian streets of the city center.
He easily located the entrance to Didier Coll’s apartment building, and then some ten yards away, on the same side of the street, the carriage entrance where Molina was waiting.
Molina was wearing a clean shirt—without a pizza stain—shorts, and leather sandals. A yellow sun hat completed his disguise. Sebag passed in front of the carriage entrance without saying anything and stopped a few yards farther on. Molina waited a moment before joining him. Sebag frowned.
Summertime All the Cats Are Bored Page 32
