Boizot immediately understood why Sylvie had thought of this story. Africa, the death of a man: the connection was clear.
“And do you still have this girl’s contact information? I’d like to ask her a few questions. You never know.”
Chapter 36
As they left 36 Quai des Orfèvres, Sylvie turned to Boizot. She had a funny look on her face, as if she were simultaneously very happy and very worried.
“Well, we’re gonna have to tell my parents,” she said simply as she slipped her hand into Boizot’s.
He kissed her gently on the tip of her nose. “I’ll go with you; it will be easier.”
The office they were coming out of was located at the end of a dark corridor on the fourth floor. “It’s funny, there’s a sort of old smell to this building,” Sylvie had said.
Vendroux had welcomed them into his lair, furnished with just a metal desk that must have survived the Second World War. Clashing with this antediluvian furniture was a sleek flat-screen computer.
Boizot, who was familiar with the place, paid no attention, but Sylvie seemed disappointed: it seemed like a betrayal to her that the prestigious crime squad had such poor lodgings.
Boizot introduced Sylvie to Vendroux, who directed them to two rickety chairs.
“Well,” he said, immediately addressing Sylvie, “can’t say that you’re not insightful. All the elements that Boizot gave me intersected, and you were right: in all likelihood, your brother Jean-Michel was the victim of a homicide, and everything suggests—contingent, of course, on all the checks that we still have to do—that Charles Plesse, who has since died, ordered the murder.”
Vendroux was surprised at the speed with which his colleagues in Cahors had gotten the ball rolling on his request. In three days, they had checked into it and a fax was waiting for him on Monday morning in his office. He had immediately called Boizot.
“What is going to happen now?” he asked.
“Pff,” said Vendroux, shrugging. “The investigation will continue. In terms of legal action, there won’t be any if it appears that Plesse acted alone in murdering Jean-Michel Flaneau, but this obviously needs to be clarified, as do the motives for the crime. Earlier, Madame Plesse was flabbergasted, really, when I called and mentioned the likely involvement of her husband in a criminal case. Her first question was: ‘But why would Charles do such a thing?’ I, of course, asked if there could have been any emotional reason, but she categorically denied that there had ever been anything between her and Flaneau. And quite frankly, I found her very persuasive. I am therefore convinced that we should look elsewhere, and this elsewhere must lie in the more or less obscure professional relationships maintained between Flaneau and Plesse. Otherwise, we’ll never get to the bottom of it.”
Boizot observed Sylvie out of the corner of his eye as she listened to the policeman. Her face had become increasingly tense and had begun to take on that hard, fierce appearance that had struck him when they had first met.
“So you suspect that my brother did some shady things with his friend Plesse, right?” she interjected abruptly. Vendroux looked surprised.
“No, not at all,” he said with a smile of appeasement, “but you must understand that from the moment it is determined that a crime has taken place, justice cannot close its eyes. At present, as even you must admit, we are faced with a mystery: two longtime friends, one of whom killed the other a year before being killed himself. It is intriguing.”
Sylvie nodded. She seemed to be realizing the implications reopening the case could have.
“What are you going to do?” Boizot asked.
“I’m going to focus on the professional life and love life of both Charles Plesse and Jean-Michel Flaneau. Perhaps that will yield a plausible explanation. Meanwhile, my colleagues in Cahors will do some research to try to determine the identity of the potential saboteur, if it wasn’t Plesse himself. Then they will see if there were any relationships of interest in the region.”
“This will take some time,” said Boizot.
Vendroux agreed with a nod. “You know, we’re not in a rush. We’re dealing with a case that everyone thought was closed, but perhaps it will also allow us to make headway on the burglary in which Plesse was killed. This is something we will have to take into account.”
“You’ll have to question my parents, won’t you?” Sylvie said suddenly.
Vendroux nodded. “It seems inevitable. They do have a right to know.”
“OK, but just give me time to tell them myself, so by the time you see them, I’ll have softened the blow a little. OK?”
“OK,” said Vendroux with a smile.
After driving Sylvie back to Senlis and accepting an invitation to dinner that evening with her parents, who were eager to meet him, Boizot decided, before heading to the newspaper, to drive to Maintenon, where Corneau lived.
En route, he caught himself frequently glancing in the rearview mirror, but his anxiety wasn’t enough to overcome his burning desire to question Ludovic Corneau. The story had started with him, after all. No need to let him know he was coming, Boizot said to himself. He was counting on the element of surprise to coax more out of the man.
In the end, he was not disappointed. When, once again sitting in the guesthouse’s beautiful office, he told Corneau bluntly of the serious suspicions about Plesse, Corneau’s expression shifted.
Boizot had the impression that he was struggling to maintain his composure. Boizot insisted: “Can you think of any reason, even if it seems farfetched or incredibly tenuous, why Plesse would commit such a crime?”
Corneau, head hung low, nervously wiped his hand across his forehead, his eyes closed like a groggy boxer. It took several seconds before he responded: “To be honest, no. But you know, it’s been years since we’ve seen each other. I didn’t know at all that Jean-Michel and Charles stayed in touch.”
“OK, but what was the Charles Plesse you knew like?”
Corneau opened his eyes and stared blankly at Boizot.
“Charles was, as we say today, a fighter—”
“A killer?” Boizot could not help but interrupt with a small, complicit smile.
But Corneau was in no mood to joke. He continued in the same tone: “He was a guy who had incredible energy. Athletic, too, he had a passion for volleyball. I remember he used to play in Saint-Cloud, and we went to cheer him on a few times. One time, he even said that he wanted to go pro, but you know how that works—you get old enough to start dating and then . . . He gave up volleyball, just like that, practically overnight.”
“And then he stopped playing sports?”
“Completely! I think he had a one-track mind. When he started something, it was all or nothing.”
“Was he a violent person?”
Corneau wiped his hand across his face again and sighed deeply. “I wouldn’t say that, but he was not somebody who hung out in the background or blended into the crowd. He was more of a leader. Like all young men, we often got into fights with other guys over a dirty look or a girl, and Charles was never the last to enter the fray. But violent? I wouldn’t say so. I think he was someone who had very high self-esteem.”
“To be honest,” Boizot said in a sudden moment of enlightenment, “do you think Charles Plesse could have killed Jean-Michel Flaneau over a woman? Take his wife, for example. I am told that Flaneau had a lot of affairs. So why not Madame Plesse?”
Again, Corneau’s eyes wandered, this time focusing on a specific point in the room just past Boizot’s head.
“I wish I could help you, Monsieur Boizot, but quite frankly, I don’t know. There is a huge gulf between the teenagers we were and the adults we have become.”
Boizot, who did not want to admit defeat, nevertheless insisted on continuing. “But in your group, you, Plesse, Flaneau, and—”
“Gercourt.”
“
That’s right, Gercourt—so, in your group, were some of you closer than others?”
“I told you, Charles had the mindset of a leader, and the three others, myself included, followed without asking too many questions.”
There’s not much more I’m going to get out of him, Boizot said to himself.
He concluded with a final question: “How did your group finally break up?”
“I think it happened naturally. When we left Fenelon High School, each with our own dreams and desires, we quickly fell out of touch, myself perhaps faster than the others, since I was the only one who went into the humanities. Jean-Michel was the only scientist among us, and he knew what he wanted to do: study geology in Nancy. The other two studied business.”
Boizot glanced at the garden, which was drowning under a miserable rain.
“Do you mean that you haven’t seen those friends since high school?”
“No, not quite. Three or four years after graduation, when we were all still in college, we got together one evening. If I remember correctly, Charles called each of us and planned an evening in a small restaurant. Personally, I found it rather dull. All we had left to share were old high-school memories, and on top of that, as far as I was concerned, I had just met the woman who would become my wife, and I couldn’t wait to get back to her.”
Boizot nodded, weighing every one of Corneau’s words.
“Monsieur Corneau, how did you learn of Jean-Michel Flaneau’s death last year? I guess the news didn’t make the headlines here in Maintenon?”
For the first time since the beginning of the interview, Corneau conceded a slight smile. “The headlines, no, but an announcement in the obituaries, yes. You know, the obits are what I read first every morning in the newspaper. When you’re involved in the life of a region as a shopkeeper or a hotel owner, it is important to know who has died. Ironically, it’s part of life.”
“So Jean-Michel Flaneau’s family placed a notice in the local newspaper?”
Corneau nodded.
“And did you go to the funeral?”
“No, but it wasn’t a funeral, it was a cremation.”
Boizot stood up and extended his hand. “Monsieur Corneau, thank you. And if you remember anything else, you have my cell phone number. Please don’t hesitate to call.”
“So, what’s new in the Perdiou case today?” asked Magnin.
Boizot followed his boss into his office. He gave him an update but didn’t go into detail about his interview with Claudio Boninsegna.
“So, our friend Perdiou left a farewell note that his boyfriend failed to mention to the police? It keeps getting better and better,” said Magnin, with his customary wry smile.
“Don’t get carried away. Give me some more time. Three or four days, and we’ll find out if it’s the real deal or a fake.”
Magnin looked him straight in the eye. “OK. In any case, I tip my hat to you! I think you’ve been working very well on this case, but still, be careful!”
Back at his desk, Boizot spent fifteen minutes sorting through his inbox and deleting spam. Then he called Nadine Lemeunier. She had her own real estate agency in the fifteenth arrondissement.
“Hello, Lemeunier Agency!”
“Hello, I would like to talk with Nadine Lemeunier. My name is Dimitri Boizot.”
“Speaking.”
“Madame Lemeunier, I am a journalist with L’Actualité, but I am also the boyfriend of Sylvie Flaneau, the sister of—”
“Yes, I know who she is,” interrupted Nadine. She didn’t seem very easygoing.
“I’m investigating the death of her brother,” said Boizot. “And in the course of a recent conversation, Sylvie told me of a discussion that you had with her last year about a file that belonged to you.”
“Excuse me, Monsieur Boizot, but I’m in a hurry. I have an appointment with a client in fifteen minutes on the other side of Paris. If you want to talk to me, would it not be simpler to meet in person? If it’s convenient for you, we can meet tomorrow morning at ten o’clock at my agency.”
“No problem,” said Boizot before hanging up. The woman was rather forthright. Even better! He could get straight to the point without wasting time.
Chapter 37
Nadine Lemeunier had just folded the newspaper in which she had been checking the real-estate listings—a professional obsession—when Josephine’s voice came over the intercom. “Madame, Monsieur Boizot is at the reception desk.”
“You can send him in, Josephine.”
She was curious to see what Sylvie’s boyfriend looked like. She was disappointed when he walked in, but she hoped she disguised it well under her imperturbable smiling mask. She stood up, shook her visitor’s hand, and then motioned for him to take a seat.
“Monsieur Boizot, I am delighted to meet you. So you live with Sylvie Flaneau? How is she? Forgive me if I was a little abrupt on the phone yesterday, but I was terribly pressed for time; I hope you won’t hold it against me.”
Boizot sat in a comfortable chair designed to put clients at ease, a little stunned by this voluble welcome. He waited for Nadine Lemeunier to catch her breath before he said, “No, not at all, I understand, and Sylvie is doing well, thank you.”
“Have you known her for a long time?”
“Not really,” Boizot said elusively, not wanting to see the conversation stray from its path.
Nadine Lemeunier was a woman of classic elegance, almost old-fashioned, which Boizot figured must inspire confidence in her clients. Sylvie had told him that she was almost forty. Behind her desk, the woman was still smiling. “If I understand, you are investigating the death of Jean-Michel, correct?”
“Correct! By sheer chance, it’s come to light that his death was not accidental, as the police had initially thought, but that the car he was driving had been sabotaged.”
Boizot took the time to explain in detail everything he knew about the supposed murder to help Nadine Lemeunier feel more at ease before he started questioning her.
“Well, that’s a crazy story,” she said when he finished.
“Yes, but let’s get back to this infamous file: Sylvie only remembered it this weekend.”
“The story of the file is also very strange, Monsieur Boizot. I’ll tell you, I’m not sure it has any connection to Jean-Michel’s murder, but that’s for you to decide. The file is an autopsy report written by my father, Gilbert Lemeunier. He was a doctor. He died ten years ago at sixty years old, after having spent the last fifteen years of his life in Africa. He left my mother and me for some Zairian woman—I have no idea how he met her. But no matter, the result was that he settled down in a small village in the region of Lehili. It’s located near the border between what’s now the Democratic Republic of Congo, Uganda, and Rwanda. He lived in a small village called Kalongwi. One day, the corpse of a white man who had spent a few days in the village washed up along the shores of the river. But the poor man hadn’t drowned: his chest showed signs of bullet holes. The villagers who had discovered him brought him to my father, who then conducted a full autopsy. He discovered the man had been shot three times at almost point-blank range. He even took photos of the body. He then had the man buried outside the village, completed his report, and forgot about it.”
Boizot was astonished.
“Yes, I know it’s strange, but that’s how it is,” she said. “I’ll explain, Monsieur Boizot. My father—I know because he wrote about it in his letters to me—had totally changed in Africa, and the father who left me when I was thirteen transformed into an old man who had found his place in a rural village. He asked nothing of anyone. When the body was brought to him, he did his job, but that’s it. Because the unknown man had no ID on him, my father did not try to find out anything more. After he died, I received a package with all his papers, his only legacy. That’s how I found out about this file, which I shoved into a bo
x in the basement and quickly forgot about. Two or three years later, I met Jean-Michel Flaneau. He had moved to Paris to work for Palonnier and was looking for an apartment. That’s how I met him, and we lived together for a good year. Jean-Michel often traveled to Africa for his job, and one day he told me that he was heading to Lehili for an inspection. That’s when I told him about my father and the strange file on the murdered man. I found it in the basement and showed it to Jean-Mi. When he opened the file, I saw the look on his face change. He said, ‘I don’t believe it! I know that guy!’ I asked him who it was, and he replied that he was not one hundred percent sure, but he wanted to find out if it was who he believed it was.”
“Who did he think it was?”
“Well, I never found out. In the days that followed, I asked Jean-Michel once or twice, and eventually he told me that he had been mistaken. He said that the man in the photos simply looked like a colleague of his who had recently died.”
“And what happened next?”
“Well, a few weeks later, we split up—it wasn’t meant to be—and I haven’t seen my file since.”
“Is it possible that the file no longer exists?”
“Maybe, or it’s with someone else—but who?”
During the interview, Boizot had been feverishly scribbling notes in his notebook. He quickly re-read them before asking, “Madame Lemeunier, if I understand you correctly, Jean-Michel Flaneau thought that this file had something to do with someone from Palonnier, correct?”
“That is what I believe, yes.”
“By chance, you wouldn’t remember when your father prepared this report?”
Nadine Lemeunier smiled and, looking up to the ceiling, shook her head. “I’m sorry, but I don’t recall any of the dates. All I can say is that it was in 1993, but what day, what month, I’m not so sure.”
Mortal Ambitions (A Dimitri Boizot Investigation Book 1) Page 21
