“Boizot, Dimitri Boizot.”
“Please come in, Monsieur Boizot. So you’re also vacationing on the Wild Coast?”
As he spoke, Perdiou closed the door and led Boizot into a fairly large living room. Boizot immediately noticed the outline of the burglar drawn on the floor.
“Yes, here’s where it all happened,” said Perdiou. “Why not have a seat at the table? It’ll be more comfortable for you to take notes. Can I offer you something to drink?”
The guy had recovered his composure remarkably quickly, Boizot noticed. He immediately accepted Perdiou’s offer: sharing a drink would probably loosen his host’s tongue.
“Is Calvados okay?”
“Absolutely.”
After a quick sip, Boizot got down to business: “Monsieur Perdiou, how long have you been in Batz on vacation?”
“I arrived yesterday from Paris. The parliamentary session just ended.”
“And will you be spending your time here by yourself?”
“No, my press secretary should be coming to join me tomorrow morning. I mean, this morning.”
“Could you tell me what happened?”
“Well, I was woken up by a noise coming from the first floor. I got out of bed, grabbed the gun I keep in my nightstand, and went downstairs.”
“What kind of gun is it?”
“A Manurhin, for which I obviously have a license. In politics, as soon as you’re even a little bit famous, you immediately have more enemies than admirers.”
“I see. So you went downstairs.”
He nodded. “I walked into this room here and saw a man trying to break into a chest of valuables.”
“So, he had his back to you?”
“Exactly. I switched on the light and yelled something along the lines of ‘What are you doing?’ as I pointed my gun at him. That’s when he suddenly turned around and shot at me. I didn’t stop to think. I fired back without aiming and somehow shot him directly in the heart. It’s unbelievable.”
Boizot did not take his eyes off Perdiou’s face. He noticed the man’s unnatural pallor was gone, replaced by a healthier shade.
It’s as if retelling the tale allows him to snap out of it, Boizot thought as he began to take notes. “And what happened then, Monsieur Perdiou?”
“Well, it’s a bit silly to admit, but I initially thought that the man was only pretending to be dead, and it was only after a few minutes that I dared to approach him. What’s more, I was afraid that there might be more accomplices in the house. So I just stood there for a while, heart pounding.”
Boizot, who had just downed his Calvados, saw his chance to try something.
“Monsieur Perdiou, there is one detail that bothers me. You know, I’m an insomniac. I was sitting out on the patio of the villa next door earlier tonight, just a couple hundred feet away, tops.”
He paused to let Perdiou fully understand what he was saying. A moment later, the deputy’s face suddenly closed off, as if he had guessed what was coming next.
“Yes,” continued Boizot. “The two houses are quite close together. Well, would you believe that at exactly 1:14 a.m., I thought I heard a gunshot? Then I heard a second one exactly ten minutes later. Strange, right?”
Perdiou shrugged his shoulders a little too emphatically.
“Perhaps what you heard was, I don’t know, a motorcycle backfiring. At that point, the burglar would have still been casing my place.”
Boizot did not press the matter, but he felt that he had managed to sow anxiety in Perdiou’s mind.
“You are quite right, especially since I was getting ready to go to bed at that point, and was perhaps in a state of semi-sleep. In any case, Monsieur Perdiou, let’s return to your story. So, after a minute or two of watching the burglar on the floor, you approached him and determined that the man was dead.”
“Yes, that’s exactly what happened. So then I got my cell phone and called the police to explain what had just happened.”
Sitting at the other end of the table, his face lit by an ugly pendant lamp, Perdiou seemed to regain his strength with each passing second.
“Forgive me for asking you this, but are you covered by parliamentary immunity?”
This time, there was almost a fleeting smile on Perdiou’s face.
“You know, Monsieur Boizot, the term ‘parliamentary immunity’ covers two very different concepts. On the one hand, you have non-responsibility, which concerns parliamentarians within the context of their profession and their office. That has nothing to do with our topic of conversation: what we’re talking about here is inviolability.”
Boizot, both annoyed and admiring, listened in silence. He predicted Perdiou was about to give him a sort of lesson in civics, and he turned out to be right. The guy was certainly not short for words. “So what’s inviolability?” Perdiou asked. “Inviolability concerns the actions of a deputy as a private citizen and seeks to prevent the deputy from being arrested or placed under judicial control without permission from the National Assembly. But this concept does not apply here because the parliamentary session ended yesterday. And in any case, both the police and the judge are in agreement: this is a clear-cut case of legitimate self-defense. My attacker tried to kill me, and I acted accordingly. The initial investigations have confirmed my version of the story. So there is no need to invoke inviolability. But tell me, Monsieur Boizot, do you plan to publish a big article in L’Actualité?”
Boizot was surprised that Etienne Drichon had listened to the whole story without interrupting him. It must have demanded a superhuman effort on his part, because he usually resembled an overexcited kid, one who couldn’t help finishing other people’s sentences whenever he thought that they were wasting his time.
“Fine,” he had said when Boizot reached the end of his tale. “I’ll give you three thousand characters and five columns, with a banner headline on the first page of the society section and an inset for your interview with Perdiou. Do you have anything to add in terms of images?”
“Well, I have my digital camera. I can take a picture of the house. Getting it to you will be a different story.”
“Don’t you have a laptop with you?
“A laptop? Are you kidding me? First of all, I don’t have one. Second of all, let me remind you that I am on vacation and what I’m doing now is overtime.”
“Fine. Don’t get all worked up. Is there an Internet cafe in the area?”
“Here, no, but I can go to Saint-Nazaire or Nantes later this morning. I’ll get you everything by two at the latest.”
As they said good-bye and hung up, Boizot smiled. Putting that pretentious Etienne in his place gave him so much pleasure. But it wasn’t going to pay the bills. Now he had to get to work. Those three thousand characters weren’t going to write themselves. More importantly, he had to resolve something that was still bothering him: Where had a mysterious burglar, with no ID or distinguishing features, come from? Few people these days wandered around without any keys or a cell phone.
It was as if the man’s pockets had been picked.
As he saw it, there were two possibilities. Either the guy had arrived with an accomplice in a car or on a motorcycle, and by now, that man had fled far, far away; or, he’d acted alone, in which case there might be an abandoned vehicle in the area.
He checked the time on his phone. It was just past ten. The day promised to be gorgeous, and he thought a little stroll through the neighborhood might bring some leads.
He dressed, putting on a tank top and shorts, and stashed his camera, a tiny Minolta he took everywhere with him, in his pocket. He looked like what he had been, up until the previous night: a tourist wanting to see the sights, stick his nose into everything, and take his time wandering around.
He debated where to go first. If he had to park a car discreetly, where would he leave it? His first
thought was near the beach. With everyone coming and going all the time, no one would notice an extra vehicle.
Boizot decided his first destination would be Le Pouliguen, another beach town nearby. It was still early enough for the roads to be fairly empty. He knew this would greatly help him in his task.
As he passed parked cars on foot, he looked at their license plates to see where they were from. Then he glanced inside discreetly, looking for the slightest clue.
He did this for a good mile, without any success, before turning back. He decided to try a different approach. After all, in the middle of the night, the burglar probably wouldn’t have parked so far away: a fifteen-minute walk at that hour, with cop cars patrolling regularly, would have meant taking the unnecessary risk of being seen. If there was a vehicle, perhaps it was more likely to be closer to Perdiou’s house.
He passed Perdiou’s and continued on toward Le Croisic. He quickly realized that he had a nose for these things: about forty feet away, after a bend in the road that made it invisible from the house, a moped sat parked on the shoulder.
Boizot walked up to the moped and, leaning over it, deciphered the label affixed to it: “Cycl-Ocean, rentals, Avenue Maréchal de Lattre de Tassigny, La Baule.”
Satisfied, he nodded, convinced that he had found the means of transport that had allowed the burglar to get to Perdiou’s.
He walked around the moped, took some pictures, and then returned to Dédé’s villa. He glanced at his watch: eleven fifteen.
Passing Perdiou’s house again, he noticed a Jaguar with Paris license plates parked in the driveway. If the car belonged to his press secretary/lover, then baby wasn’t short on money.
Strange, in any case, that Perdiou had arrived by himself last night only to have his boyfriend come now. Unless the deputy had wanted an evening to himself, for reasons that only a thorough investigation would make clear.
Not that many investigators seemed to be hanging around: they seemed all too happy to close the case quickly. Boizot returned to the villa and stationed himself behind the hedge in the hope of eavesdropping on a midmorning conversation. But he heard only whispers from the neighboring garden, nothing audible.
Chapter 5
At 10:49 a.m., the TGV from Paris arrived at La Baule-Escoublac station. Of the few travelers who got off, Claudio Boninsegna was among the most noteworthy: at about six foot two, with thick black hair, an olive complexion, a brilliantly white smile, and a perfectly proportioned build, he was a man who turned heads.
But this morning, he wasn’t thinking of pleasing; he was anxious. For several reasons.
First, he’d had a poor night’s sleep: he was a night owl in his late twenties, and in his mind, catching a train at seven thirty in the morning constituted an almost superhuman feat.
Then, for several hours on the train, he’d dwelled on an agonizing question: Why had Lionel insisted on going to the Batz villa on his own the day before? Was there somebody else down there? And, if so, what would become of Claudio?
Claudio was well aware of what he owed his lover: before meeting and moving in with Lionel, he’d been scraping by, a pizza maker in a crummy Italian restaurant in the fifteenth arrondissement. He hadn’t even been making enough money to live on his own. Instead, he’d been living with his parents in Saint-Denis.
Now, he lived in a luxury apartment on Ile Saint-Louis and didn’t have to worry about such sordid financial issues.
So what was going on? He had been living with Perdiou for almost two years. Sure, Lionel wasn’t always faithful, but Claudio didn’t ask him to be. All Claudio wanted was to maintain and strengthen his position as the favorite. Waiting hand and foot on his “boss,” his roles had included confidante, housewife, mistress—in this field, he had gained a lot of experience—along with many others, depending on Lionel’s mood.
He couldn’t figure out what more he could do, and that was what worried him.
As he left the station, he spotted the Jaguar parked in the square, just as Lionel had told him. This struck him as a strange way of doing things: it was only a ten-minute drive from the station to the villa. Who’d dropped off the car at the station? Had the same individual spent the night or part of the night in the villa before catching the train in the morning and leaving the car?
Angry and stressed, he threw his suitcase in the trunk, sniffing the Jaguar as he got in. No use: he was unable to detect any particular smell, and that worried him even more.
In ten minutes, he would see Lionel, who had left him less than twenty-four hours earlier. He knew he’d have to put on a happy face and act as if nothing were the matter. As usual, he’d act a little ditzy, as Lionel preferred. That reassured Lionel: the man always needed to feel that he was smarter than everyone else. Yet a few months earlier, Lionel had cried on Claudio’s shoulder like a baby after finding out that he would not be part of the new government.
When Claudio arrived at the house, he opened the gate and parked the Jaguar in the driveway, at the foot of the steps. The blue sky seemed to taunt him, but he just shrugged his shoulders and took his bag out of the trunk.
At that moment, Lionel appeared at the front door wearing a polo shirt and blue jeans. Seeing his dark and brooding face, Claudio immediately understood that something was wrong. He forced himself to smile and ran up the stairs that separated them.
In an overly cheerful tone, he shouted, “It’s so good to see you! I missed you!” And he placed a kiss on Lionel’s lips that was meant to be both soft and light.
“Did you have a good trip?” Perdiou asked, already turning to go back inside the house.
“Excellent!”
He put his bag down in the hall.
“Come, I have to tell you something,” mumbled the deputy, leading him to the patio in the back.
Claudio gulped: his worst fears seemed to be coming true.
Fifteen minutes later, reassured, he smiled at Lionel. “Anyway, you can’t blame yourself for anything: it was him or you . . . and I’m glad it was him. Could you imagine if, when I got here, I was told by the police that you were dead?”
He took his lover’s hand in his own and caressed it gently, a gesture his mother had used to console him when he was a little boy.
“It’s true, you’re right,” said Perdiou. “But it’s still terrible admitting to yourself that you killed someone.”
Claudio stood up, pulling Perdiou by the arm, and led him back to the bedroom. In ten minutes, all his troubles would be forgotten.
At the same time, in the prosecutor’s office in Saint-Nazaire, Captain Tworkowski and Judge Brigitte Le Guen were giving a report on the investigation.
“We actually found fresh footprints on Dr. Prédault’s lawn. He lives in the villa behind Lionel Perdiou’s. You can also see clearly that someone climbed the fence. On the other hand, we didn’t find any fingerprints on the door of the kitchen. But there were some on the chest and the weapon.”
Captain Tworkowski observed his companions. The judge looked out the window, emotionless, and the prosecutor took notes, like a good, hard-working student.
“In fact, Monsieur Perdiou’s statements all check out,” said the judge, returning her attention to the captain. “There’s only one thing that’s unusual: the complete lack of ID on the thief.”
The prosecutor was silent for a moment; he seemed to be reading his notes.
“And the press?” he said at last.
“Obviously not aware at present,” said Brigitte Le Guen. “With the exception of a Parisian journalist who is staying right now in a nearby villa and to whom I said as little as possible.”
“Which newspaper?”
“L’Actualité.”
“Annoying,” said the prosecutor. “Is it possible to ask him to withhold this information for a few days in the interest of the investigation?”
The judge shot
an inquisitive look at Tworkowski, who frowned: “Under what pretext?”
“That we first need to ID the burglar.”
“You want me to bring him in for a little talk?” asked Tworkowski.
“He still has to give a statement as a witness, right?” said the prosecutor.
The captain nodded. “Yes. But I can’t make any promises.”
Chapter 6
Boizot parked his beat-up old Renault in front of Cycl-Ocean, the moped rental place. On the sidewalk, bikes, mopeds, scooters, and even electric scooters were awaiting customers.
Inside, behind a wooden desk cluttered with papers, a middle-aged woman was engrossed in some very complicated calculations, judging by the care and attention she was devoting to her task.
She looked up after a few seconds. “Hello!”
“Hello,” Boizot said, with a smile that was meant to be engaging.
The woman had a big, square face framed by short brown hair, which gave her an almost masculine appearance. She looked a little surprised to see a client who looked unlike most of the people who walked through her door. Boizot had put on beige linen pants, a crisp white shirt and a dark tie—one he’d managed to find in Dédé’s closet. He hoped it would give him the appearance of someone who was working. She returned his smile, clearly wary.
He launched into the spiel he’d invented on the drive over: “I’m with the regional police in Rennes. Last night, there was an accident in Batz involving a moped rented from your store. The driver fled the scene, abandoning his vehicle.”
The owner’s plastered-on smile disappeared and her features froze. In her eyes, Boizot could see the full range of emotions cross her face: concern mixed with mistrust, resentment, and confusion.
“We noted your business’s number listed on the moped . . . I was wondering if you could give me the customer’s full name.” As he spoke, he continued to smile and approached the desk.
Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1) Page 3
