Summertime All the Cats Are Bored

by Philippe Georget

  “In this case,” Sebag remarked, “every time we think we’re dealing with a coincidence, Coll is behind it. To help us or to lead us astray.”

  “You think he dug up this patch of earth on purpose, so we’d find this body?”

  “He’s quite capable of that, don’t you think? It’s very clever. He’s killing two birds with one stone: helping us and leading us astray at the same time.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s helping us discover another of his crimes, and at the same time distracting us from our main search. Ingrid isn’t in this yard. The game goes on.”

  “Do you think the man buried here was killed by Coll?”

  Sebag turned toward his colleagues.

  “Do you have any idea how he died?”

  “Absolutely not,” Pagès replied. “You’re asking too much of us for the moment.”

  “I hope we’re not going to find other bodies in this yard,” Castello sighed.

  Sebag shrugged. He was hoping that too, but he didn’t think it was very important. If there were other bodies, they had been dead for a long time. Ingrid, however, was still alive.

  They returned to headquarters. In less than three hours, Claire would arrive. If his work allowed him to, Sebag would go to meet her at the station.

  Before leaving the farmhouse, he’d made a little tour of the yard with Castello, but they hadn’t found anything suspicious: no other patches of earth recently dug. If Coll had other crimes on his conscience, he wanted to keep them secret.

  Raynaud and Moreno had just come back from Canet. Empty-handed. The Hôtel du Sud was fully booked and the manager hadn’t appreciated this police raid on his establishment. At first he tried to oppose it, but Moreno had been able to convince him to cooperate fully. In two hours, everything had been searched: the forty-five rooms as well as the common areas, the kitchen, the stockrooms, and the laundry. With the exception of some rotten food in the fridge and a Moroccan chambermaid without a work permit, they hadn’t found anything in particular. Ménard’s investigations in Argelès had been no more fruitful. The famous casot wasn’t one. It was a small brick building used for gathering meteorological data. Ménard had nonetheless stayed there to explore the surrounding area. He’d discovered two other casots—real ones, this time—that served as public toilets for vacationers and that contained nothing but more or less fresh turds. For the moment the other policemen had also drawn blanks. They had found nothing at the Revels’ home and were now searching, under a leaden sky, the steep slopes of the Collioure vineyards.

  For his part, Sebag was assembling the various bits of information collected regarding Didier Coll’s life in order to put together a personal and familial biography. One fact had very quickly attracted his attention. He was distracted from his work by a phone call from Castello.

  “I’ve just talked to the hospital. It’s over: Coll is dead.”

  Sebag was staggered by the blow. Their only connection with Ingrid had just been broken.

  Time was passing too quickly. Each minute that passed diminished their chances of finding the young woman alive. Sebag felt as if he had a stopwatch perpetually hanging over his head. He’d never liked cop shows in which the action was a race against the clock. Tick-tock, tick-tock. At the last second, the hero always won. Tick-tock, tick . . .

  However, this time he had serious doubts about the hero and he found the suspense unbearable.

  He went into the office that Ménard shared with Llach and Lambert. His colleague had told him that he’d put the file he’d gotten the day before from the archives in the top drawer of his desk. Sebag found it easily and went back to his cave to study it.

  Maurice Coll had disappeared on March 21, 1988. As he did every morning, he’d left the family home around seven o’clock to go to the public works business he ran. Around mid-morning, he’d gone to the bank to withdraw fifty thousand francs in cash—a hefty sum at the time—and then chaired a construction project meeting in Cabestany. He’d left at eleven-thirty. That was the point at which he disappeared. No one had ever seen him again.

  Maurice Coll was a well-known figure in Roussillon. In 1943, at the age of twenty, he had joined the Resistance. Like his comrades in the Resistance, he’d barely escaped being killed in the village of Valmanya. On August 1, 1944, German troops raided that village on the slopes of Le Canigou, and to punish its inhabitants, who supported the Resistance, burned it to the ground. After Liberation came, Maurice Coll had held a few local offices before retiring from political life to devote himself to his business. It was widely rumored that he was a Freemason.

  Maurice Coll had married Juliette Pujol in Perpignan on June 12, 1956. From this marriage was born just one child: Didier, who came into the world on September 5, 1961.

  Sixty-five years old at the time he disappeared, Maurice had been involved for several years in an adulterous relationship with a certain Marie Cardona, a Spanish teacher in a private high school who was fifteen years younger than he. She‘d told the police that she’d had no word from her lover, either, but a few days later she’d left her residence and her job—right in the middle of the school year—to go back to live in South Catalonia, the region from which her parents had come. This sudden departure had convinced the police that Maurice Coll had left his family to live in Spain with his mistress. His disappearance was thus considered voluntary, and the case was closed.

  Sebag wondered whether Maurice Coll’s dental records still existed somewhere.

  He asked Martine to get him Elsa Moulin’s telephone number, entered it into his address book, and called her.

  “Hi, it’s Sebag. How far have you gotten?”

  “We’ve just finished excavating the body. I can confirm the estimates we gave you earlier regarding the height—five-eleven—and the gender. So far as age is concerned, we can now say that he was over sixty.”

  Sebag felt his fingertips tingling.

  “We found something interesting that will help us identify him,” Elsa went on. “There are traces of fractures on the left side of the clavicle. Two fractures. Jean thinks they were caused by bullets. But it’s difficult to be sure, we’ll have to wait for the coroner’s examination.

  “So our man was probably killed, then?”

  “No, we can’t go that far yet. The wounds I mentioned occurred before death. Long before, even. The calcification is complete. He must have had an accident when he was twenty or thirty.

  “Are you practically done there?” Sebag asked.

  “Almost. Jean is just finishing up, and I’m having a beer with the gendarmes. I think we’re going to put a tarp over the site and wait for the coroner.”

  “Could you do something for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “When you searched the house yesterday, did you find any photos? I mean family photos, an album . . . ”

  “Yes. In fact, there were a lot of old photos in a trunk in the attic.”

  Sebag told her about his suspicions and she promised to go—as soon as she’d finished her beer—have a look at the pictures of the papa. After he hung up, he called Castello, who gave him the telephone numbers of a few former members of the Resistance he knew.

  In less than an hour, Sebag was able to collect some precious information, though it was not always very precise. Maurice Coll had been wounded during the last skirmishes with the occupying forces. One of his former comrades in combat recalled having visited him once or twice in the hospital in Perpignan after Liberation. Another had been able to provide additional information: Maurice had been shot in the arm—or maybe the shoulder—by a French militiaman collaborating with the Germans.

  “I can still see him with his arm in sling during a ceremony to award medals,” Charles Jouhandeau told him in a voice that was as emotional as it was quavering.

  “Which arm?”

  “Umm . . . I think it w
as his right arm. Unless . . . oh, I don’t know any more. Is that important?”

  “Yes. It might be.”

  “In fact, I’m not sure. I said it was the right arm because I recall that he found it very difficult to write. But maybe he was left-handed. Because when I imagine the ceremony, it seems to me that the general who decorated him had to slip the medal underneath his bandage. And as you know, medals are always pinned on the left.”

  Sebag thanked him and hung up. He was hot. He was thirsty. He went down to the cafeteria to get a can of Perrier. The clock in the hall reminded him of other things he had on his mind.

  In an hour and a half. Claire. At the Perpignan train station. The center of his universe.

  He went back to his office, opened the can, and called Elsa. She picked up immediately. She’d taken the trunk out of the attic and sat down on the grass in the shade to look at the photos.

  “It’s moving, you know, to dive into the past of a family like that. When you see Coll as a baby, with his curly hair and angelic smile, in his parents’ arms, it’s hard to imagine that he could later become a murderer. It’s crazy! You’d like to know at what point things started to go wrong. When the perfect little boy—he’s very cute, you’ll see, at the age of five with his magician’s outfit—had his first bad impulses. And I think especially about his mother: in most of the photos, she looks totally infatuated with her little kid. Is she still alive?”

  “Yes and no. The body’s still there, but the mind is gone.”

  “Alzheimer’s?”

  “No, just an ordinary case of senility. So, did you find any photos of the father?”

  “Absolutely. A tall man. Slender. Fairly good-looking. Lots of presence. Except I don’t like his mustache.”

  Sebag laughed heartily. He liked Elsa’s spontaneity.

  “So do you think he could be your stiff?”

  “Maybe . . . I found a photo taken in front of the house. That served as a reference point for me: I think daddy Maurice was about five-eleven. That doesn’t mean he’s our man, but for the moment we can’t rule him out.”

  He summed up the information he’d gathered from the veterans.

  “Do you really think Didier Coll could have killed his father?” Elsa asked.

  “I wasn’t around him long enough to be sure.”

  “Why would he have killed him?”

  “I don’t know whether we’ll find out someday, but family hatreds are often the most violent ones. Statistically, you’re more likely to be murdered by a member of your family than by a stranger.”

  “Is that right? Are you sure your numbers are right?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Well! I’m no longer sorry to spend my Sunday working. I’m running fewer risks.”

  They laughed again and hung up. That did him good. He knew no music sweeter than a woman’s laugh. And he wondered if he would someday laugh again with Claire.

  He quickly wrote up his initial conclusions and then e-mailed them to all his colleagues. He printed a version of them and took it to Castello.

  The superintendent read it attentively and approved it in general. However, he regretted that it didn’t advance them. Ingrid Raven was more than ever beyond their reach.

  “Your colleagues are coming back from Collioure soon. I’m going to hold a last meeting for today and then . . . and then there’ll be nothing to do but hope for a miracle.”

  Sebag ostentatiously glanced at his watch. It was 7:00 P.M. Castello understood easily.

  “Claire?”

  “She’ll be at the train station in less than half and hour.”

  The superintendent sighed.

  “Go ahead, old man. I’ll let you know if we have anything new.”

  Sebag thanked him, but Castello cut him off.

  “I’m going to set up an ongoing watch, anyway. Ménard and Lefèvre will stay until midnight. Then Raynaud and Moreno will take over. It’d be good if you could come in at six. You’ll be with Molina.”

  Standing on the platform, Sebag waited. The train wasn’t going to be late. In ten minutes, Claire would be getting out of it. He’d soon know. He’d act in accord with his feelings. His cop’s instinct had never failed him. Why not let his man’s instinct guide him this time?

  A loudspeaker crackled, then a familiar female voice droned the usual announcements. The train from Marseilles was coming into the station; travelers were asked to stand back from the edge of the platform, please.

  The train stopped with a great deal of hissing and clanking. The passengers got out one by one. The platform was already almost deserted when he finally saw her.

  She was scanning people like a worried doe. She was wearing a short skirt and white T-shirt that set off her tanned skin.

  She was beautiful.

  Her dark, curly hair danced around her face as she was looking for him. She’d had her hair cut, not too much, probably in the ship’s beauty salon. Her earrings sparkled in the sun. Two garnet teardrops on white gold hoops. She’d long dreamed of having earrings like that. He’d given them to her for their tenth anniversary.

  Claire’s blue eyes lit up when she saw him.

  Words can lie, he thought. Not that look.

  A second later, she was in his arms. When she’d run toward him, dropping her suitcase, her arms had spread all by themselves and she’d plastered herself against him. Thigh to thigh, belly to belly. Their lips smashed together in a passionate kiss.

  Words can lie. Not bodies.

  She caressed his tired-looking face with her fingers.

  “I missed you,” she said.

  “Is that lie true?”

  “It’s not a lie.”

  She put her lips on his scratchy cheek.

  “So, did you miss me, too?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  She pretended to be offended.

  “Is that lie true?”

  He put his hands on her cheeks and looked into her eyes.

  “It’s true . . . yes. It’s true that it’s a lie.”

  On the way home in the car, she asked him about his investigation. He recounted the latest developments in the case. Identifying Coll, surrounding the house, discovering the body in the yard, and so on. He didn’t hide his anxiety about Ingrid.

  “That’s a horrible story . . . The poor girl. I understand why you look so tired. It must be awful to feel so powerless that way. You really don’t have any idea where she might be?”

  “Not the slightest, no.”

  He parked the car in the driveway. As she got out, Claire glanced at the yard.

  “I can see that it has been hot. I’ll water in a little while.”

  “I was planning to do it but then I didn’t have time.”

  “I understand,” she said. “For the moment, I’ll take care of the watering. I’m going to have a shower. It was warm in the train.”

  He took her suitcase out of the trunk of the car and carried it into the bedroom. So everything was going to return to normal. He felt a cowardly relief. He didn’t know if that was the right solution. What he did know was that for the moment, that solution made him happy.

  The water was running in the shower. He opened the bathroom door a little way.

  Claire was soaping her body. The suds made her skin glow. He was fascinated. He liked every part of her body. She noticed that he was looking at her.

  “What about you, weren’t you too hot at work today?” she asked.

  “No more than other days, why?”

  “You smell . . . ripe.”

  “Ah,” he said, a little annoyed.

  “You should take a shower,” she said, with a risqué twinkle in her eyes.

  He didn’t have to be asked twice. In a moment, he was naked. His saber at attention, he got into the shower.

&nbs
p; After they got out, they had dinner on the terrace. Since the children weren’t there, no one complained about the tomato salad. Moreover, it was excellent. Claire had garnished it with hard-boiled eggs and tuna. Gilles had insisted on spicing it with marjoram leaves from the garden. After the meal, they smoked a cigarette together.

  Then they went swimming naked without waiting for midnight.

  They made love alongside the pool. With less eagerness than the first time, but still with great appetite. Gilles felt that Claire was forcing herself not to cry out.

  They went to bed around eleven. In the dark, Sebag listened to Claire’s breathing. He heard it slow. In less than a minute, she fell asleep.

  He remained awake.

  Sleep eluded him, despite his fatigue. He lifted the sheet to look at Claire’s body. Other eyes had admired it recently; other hands had probably been put on it. That evil thought irritated his wounded soul. He’d have to live with that. It was possible. The pain had already turned into a prickling sensation. Like a backache, it would return to haunt him from time to time. To remind him of the fragility of these small happinesses, which are never so threatened as when we think they are not.

  Life could go on.

  When he thought about it, he hadn’t been guided by his instinct, but by his heart. He had long believed that this apparent resignation was a bad sign for their relationship. Watching Claire sleep, he realized that he’d been wrong.

  He didn’t love his wife less: he loved her better.

  He got up as discreetly as he could and went into the dining room to pour himself some whisky. The thermometer still read 80 degrees. He sat down naked on the sofa and stroked the old tanned leather with the flat of his hand.

  The leather was old but in good condition. The whole family’s buttocks had polished it over the years. It had suffered the children’s shoes, sometimes served as a gymnastics mat or even a trampoline, and absorbed, on certain evenings, a furious thumping. Sebag ran his hand over an armrest. Léo had scratched it a few years before with the sharp steel of a toy pistol he’d received as a Christmas present. His finger passed lightly over the old scar. It was smooth, like the rest. Like all the scrapes. Time had covered it over with a patina that was inimitable. Inestimable. This sofa told the story of their lives. There was no other like it anywhere.