The Awkward Squad
Page 23
“Yann Guénan was a proper job. Professional. But with Marie Sauzelle, you acted hastily. The muted TV, the dead bolt, flowers despite the fact she hated them: everything pointed toward a visitor, not a burglar. You didn’t know her well enough for your presence to fade into the furnishings. You removed the mail so no one would find the invitation to the reunion, without leaving a single other envelope behind. Maybe pity clouded your judgment, too. The cat, for example. Why take the cat? So that it wouldn’t alert the neighbors? Capestan thinks you’re an animal lover: that the cat’s death wasn’t justifiable, and that you only killed out of necessity. But I’m not so sure.”
With that final sentence, Lebreton made out as though the question of the divisionnaire’s temperament was still in the balance, whereas the question of murder was already absolutely settled. He tightened his grip one more notch:
“We’ve taken a sample of cat hair from your son’s sweater. Forensics are checking for a match as we speak.”
The divisionnaire’s lips parted in a faint grimace, and the commandant made a prearranged signal to Orsini, who went off to find Capestan. Valincourt was all hers now.
Capestan had thought long and hard about the motive. Only one theory held water: Valincourt had murdered Marie Sauzelle, Yann Guénan, and his wife, Maëlle Guénan, because the three of them knew something that Valincourt wanted to keep hidden. She just needed to find out what.
But whatever the original error, to go to such lengths Valincourt must have wanted to shield it from someone very important. His son, of course. Gabriel was the key to finding the truth.
As she emerged from the corridor that led to Gabriel, Capestan signaled to the squad to slip away. She walked up to Valincourt with a deadpan expression and took hold of the chair that Lebreton had just vacated. Before she had even sat down, she started speaking in a sharp tone.
“Your son’s not in great shape, Monsieur le Divisionnaire. And mercifully for him, he still hasn’t read this,” she said, throwing the sailor’s journal onto the desk.
Valincourt had gone to Maëlle Guénan’s house to silence her before Gabriel got there, but also to look for any compromising documents, as was obvious from the forced filing cabinet. The journal contained nothing incriminating, but Valincourt did not know that. He had a nasty story to cover up, the sort that seems written on every wall and in every book the moment you stand accused. The divisionnaire clearly felt plenty of remorse. He had saved the cat. He had fixed Marie’s hair. This was a man with a conscience: that was where she had to hit him.
“Do you recognize this notebook? You killed a forty-three-year-old woman to secure it. In doing so, you made her son an orphan. First his father, then his mother.”
Capestan woke up the buzzing computer, turned the screen toward Valincourt, and placed the keyboard in front of him. He recoiled at the movement, then reached out to touch one of the keys before choosing to ignore it. But the temptation to type up a confession had left its mark. Capestan rammed home the advantage.
“You screwed up, Valincourt, and I can see you haven’t cut any corners to cover that up,” she said, resting her hand on the journal. “Now, you know that my colleagues are civilized people. But you also know that I am capable of anything. I’m going to give this notebook to Gabriel. He’ll suffer the shock and he’ll have nothing to dull the pain. And if you insist on refusing to surrender, you will leave your son with the moral obligation to denounce you.”
Capestan would never have stooped so low, but she knew how to make the most of her reputation, which had in no small part been upheld by big shots like the one in front of her.
Valincourt swallowed hard. Was she bluffing or not? His grip was weakening fast. He was witnessing the prosecution’s closing statement before he had had any time to analyze the situation. Having first pushed the image of his son into the foreground, Capestan was now advancing at breakneck speed. So long as his emotions had the upper hand, the need to justify his actions would inevitably follow.
“You’re really not sparing him anything,” Capestan said, withdrawing the journal.
She stood up. Valincourt glanced at the journal and sighed. His shoulders slumped a little and his face seemed to slacken with an immense fatigue. He was coming to terms with his surrender.
“That’s not true,” he said calmly. “I did spare him, in fact . . .”
“Prove it by signing a confession. And talk to him in person, without shirking behind a third party. Or worse, the press.”
Capestan was hammering it home, eager to clinch the moment. She jabbed her chin at the keyboard.
“Take responsibility for what you did,” she said. “In return, I’ll let you have two hours one-on-one with your son. I won’t contact Buron till afterward; then it’ll be up to him to contact the public prosecutor. Two hours.”
Capestan left a pause, enough to make Valincourt aware of the stakes, then brought their talk to a close, the harshness gone from her voice:
“It’s over for you. But not for him. He’s only just beginning.”
Valincourt pulled the keyboard toward him in silence. Before typing, he simply said:
“He has a fiancée. Manon. I’ll give you her number. I’d be grateful if you called and asked her to be here in two hours’ time. Gabriel will need her.”
45
It was time. Alexandre Valincourt had spent the last twenty years of his life dreading this moment. A moment that every single decision in the last twenty years had sought to delay, to avoid. All those murders just for twenty measly years wrenched from the truth. And now here he was, on a wobbly armchair in this degenerate commissariat, typing out his confession on a worn-out keyboard. In two minutes he’ll have to see his son and tell him, tell him . . . How was he supposed to tell his son?
The situation was looking very bleak for him. Valincourt pushed the keyboard back toward Capestan, who printed off the document. She waited over by the printer, then handed the sheets to him without reading them. He took a pen from his suit jacket and scrawled his signature. He stood up, put his pen back in his pocket, and followed Capestan to the office where Gabriel was being held. She knocked and signaled to the two lieutenants to leave before stepping aside to let the divisionnaire in.
He now felt a tremendous calm, a sort of infinite peace that must have been like death, or something similar to death. Capestan closed the door behind him.
“Hello, Gabriel,” Valincourt said, without moving too close to his son. “They’re going to let you go.”
He was reaching for his next words, but nothing at all convincing came to him, so he had to make do with the raw facts.
“I, however . . . I have to stay. I’m giving myself up. I have killed some people. I had no choice. It was . . . It was the only way for you to grow up in peace.”
There was no need for him to ask Gabriel to let him speak, to not interrupt him: his son was sitting bolt upright, not even daring to tremble. One of the braids on the armrest had come loose, and the young man was tugging at it vacantly with his right hand. His feet were planted on the ground. He looked sprightly, ready to pounce. Valincourt took a breath, grabbed a chair from against the wall, sat down at the edge of it, and continued:
“I can explain—”
“It’s the boat, isn’t it? Something happened?” Gabriel cut in, desperate to be wrong.
“Yes,” Valincourt said.
He rubbed his eyes. He was struggling to concentrate. The memory of the shipwreck came flooding back and made his head throb. Alexandre Valincourt was assailed by cries that got louder and louder, the useless blast of a foghorn, and passengers barging their way past him. He shook his head roughly to wake himself up and confront his son, who was staring right at him, but he could not hold his gaze.
“You fled without waiting for Maman?”
“No,” Valincourt murmured.
For her last few hours in Florida, Rosa had chosen to wear a light, turquoise cotton dress over her slim body. She had gone ahead to the
boarding deck with the children, pointing Alexandre in the direction of the ticket inspector. Alexandre was looking at her as he handed their booking details to the man, an enormous American in a sweat-soaked T-shirt. He could read the sadness etched across his wife’s melancholy face. She resented him for uprooting her all over again. It was the only possible option, but she still resented him for it. When she turned to gaze across the sea, her son Antonio yet again took the chance to escape her watchful eye. He snuck off toward a parrot that had been caged up by its owners for the journey. The boy hit the bars with his palms, causing the poor animal to flap its wings and squawk in terror.
That child was poisonous. Not only poisonous, but pampered by his mother, who utterly adored him and forgave him everything because he had grown up without his father. A father who was surely no better himself, but who Rosa continued to revere for obscure political reasons. He was just another guerrillero who reveled in his courageous deeds in battle yet ignored any responsibility toward his family. He had abandoned Antonio, leaving the miniature Attila to be raised by Alexandre, who had to watch the little tyrant like a hawk the moment he went near Gabriel, his beloved son, the apple of his eye, the wonderful embodiment of his love for Rosa. Gabriel was sweet, charming, and smiley. He wasn’t even two years old, but already he had nothing in common with his stupid, barbaric half brother, the beast who had bitten off his ear lobe.
From a distance, Alexandre saw Attila grab Gabriel’s hand and shove it against the cage, then try to slip it between the bars so the parrot could bite him. Alexandre dropped the luggage and sprinted toward the children. He lifted Attila up with one hand and with the other he gave him an almighty smack. Rosa let out a scream. Seconds later she was standing in front of Alexandre, berating him furiously. As had happened so many times before, in spite of their boundless love for each other, Rosa and Alexandre were flung into a violent argument sparked by the child rolling around at their feet. Attila would always lie between them, like a tick blighting their perfect happiness, a parasite whose only purpose was to hijack Rosa’s love.
As she sidestepped the commotion, the old lady they had chatted with back at the terminal directed a disapproving glare at them. Such a nice-looking family, tearing itself apart like that. By that point, the ferry was casting off from the jetty and the crew members were at their posts, inviting passengers to head to the bar or the vast, blue-carpeted cabins. The skipper was putting out to sea, unconcerned by the dark, relentless winds blowing in from the ocean.
“Did you abandon her? Is that what happened? What did you do, Papa, tell me,” Gabriel begged, his voice cracking.
Valincourt tried to muster his strength and return to the room where his son was imploring him. He had never spoken to him of Antonio. The boy did not share his name; he did not appear anywhere. But now Gabriel had to know.
“You had a brother.”
A glimmer of joy passed over Gabriel’s face. With a regretful shake of his head, Valincourt made it disappear straightaway.
“A half brother. You never liked him,” he said, as if to console him.
“Where is he?”
Valincourt took another deep breath. The waters of the Gulf of Mexico were starting to lap at his heels, and a thin drizzle clung to his face, blurring his vision.
After their argument, Rosa had gone straight to the bar on the upper deck. On her own. In spite of her fury, she had entrusted both Antonio and Gabriel to Alexandre’s care. Maybe it was a punishment, or perhaps she was putting his sense of duty to the test. Duty. Nobody was more attuned to this quality than Alexandre Valincourt.
The three of them were all together on the lower deck. The boys played as Alexandre sat pensively in his deck chair. A violent gust of wind suddenly set a halyard flapping against the hull of the ferry. There was a storm brewing. While the weather forecasts might not have expected the hurricane to hit for another day or two, the swell told a different story. As soon as the first drops fell, the deck became slippery and the people started heading below. Alexandre stood up: it was time to get the children inside. The waves were crashing against the rail and the ferry was starting to pitch more and more dramatically.
Seconds later thick, black clouds completely obscured the afternoon sun, and the heavens opened.
Cries of panic started spreading around the boat. Part of Alexandre’s jacket had gotten stuck in the deck chair and he tugged at it impatiently, blindly resisting the sensible option of leaving it behind. On his feet but off balance, he bellowed at the children, who couldn’t have been more than three yards away. Finally Alexandre managed to free the garment. He looked up to see Gabriel edging toward him uncertainly, holding out his arms to keep steady. A sudden jolt shook the boat. As Gabriel was flung forward, Attila, terrified, trampled over him to reach the safety of Alexandre’s arms. Lying flat on his face, Gabriel was now sliding toward the edge of the deck, drenched by the water lashing against the boat. His eyes were round with horror and when he tried to call out, he swallowed his first mouthful of water. A shot of adrenaline coursed through Alexandre, who raced toward his son and clung on to his sweater in one hand. Attila, really panicking now, was trying to clamber up his stepfather’s body. When he reached Alexandre’s torso, the boy started hindering his movements, causing Gabriel’s sweater to slip out of his grip. In that moment, Alexandre was overcome by a cold fury that wormed its way through his fear. An unbelievable opportunity was presenting itself: the chance to do away with the little brat once and for all, that child who took such pleasure in torturing his son. Perhaps this storm would solve everything.
In any event, if he were to strengthen his grip and secure Gabriel, Alexandre would need to get Attila off him. So he did.
In the same way you detach a crab that’s pinching you, Alexandre coldly pried away the boy’s arm, dislodging him in the process. The force made Antonio’s hands slip apart, and the boy was sent flying overboard. He thrashed his arms and legs to find something to cling on to, but his cries were lost in the waves and he fell without an echo.
Alexandre clasped Gabriel against him, then leaned over the railing. Attila had disappeared. Alexandre blinked as the loudspeakers spat out inaudible instructions. A waterway on the poop deck had split open and the hold was being flooded by a continual flow from the sea, and a nauseating stench of diesel was choking the air. Alexandre stroked Gabriel’s hair and turned toward the inside of the boat. The sight of Rosa rooted him to the spot.
She was standing at the entrance to the cabins, her face a mask of stunned, petrified distress. A split second later, the mask slipped to reveal scorn, pure hatred. She threw down her bag and sprinted for a life belt, grabbing it, and—without a moment’s hesitation—hurling herself into the inky water to save her son. Alexandre could have done nothing to catch her. He heard a man’s voice booming out to stop the woman, but it wasn’t his own. It belonged to someone else, a sailor who was standing just behind him. The sailor had been there for a few moments already, and he would never forget what he had seen.
“During the shipwreck, your half brother fell in the water. Your mother dived in to save him, but she drowned. There was nothing I could do. I couldn’t let go of you and dive in after her.”
Rosa, swallowed up by the sea. Rosa, who had not known why, who had not understood. Rosa, who had taken him for a monster. Rosa, drowned. And with her drowned any hope of a happy life for Alexandre and his son. He had never managed to forgive himself. He had not been able to save Rosa. And things would never be the same. Attila had poisoned them to the very end.
“But . . . ,” Gabriel started. He did not understand. “So it was an accident?”
“Yes,” Valincourt said, not daring to believe he could escape so easily.
Gabriel shook his head, causing his curly hair to flop onto his forehead.
“So why kill the Guénans?”
Why indeed? This version was not going to be enough. He was going to have to let the truth out—just hopefully not the whole truth.
Guénan had seen him get rid of the boy. But he had no idea what Valincourt’s name was: he was just another passenger among hundreds of others. In the chaos that followed, the panic had concentrated the passengers into a few small groups. When the rescue operation finally began, the ferry had already keeled over, ending the lives of dozens of men and women. The boats and helicopters had a tough time evacuating the survivors, and the passengers ended up being scattered. Valincourt and his son had managed to get away and travel back to France without any further trouble.
But Valincourt was afraid there would be repercussions. He had discovered the sailor’s name and tracked him down the moment he set foot in Paris. The idea of murdering Guénan disgusted him: he would only do it if it were absolutely necessary. There was a chance that, in the mayhem of the accident, the sailor might have erased the memory. For peace of mind, Valincourt kept him under close surveillance. And when Guénan started making his rounds of the French survivors, Valincourt felt he had no other choice. If Guénan came across his face on a list, he would have been tried for infanticide and sent to jail for many years; Gabriel would have been placed in a foster home, at the mercy of God knows what kind of maniac. The idea was unacceptable—Alexandre could not have run the risk of that happening. He had analyzed the situation and waited for the opportune moment. All he needed for the rest was to keep a cool head.
“Blackmail? But . . .”
Gabriel’s train of thought was going faster and further than he would have liked. Valincourt could see it pull up at Sauzelle, an old lady, and more questions came rushing out. Without him even realizing, the boy’s feet returned to the wooden floor, pressing down to test their steadiness. He was now holding the braid of the armchair in his clenched fist. Deep down, Gabriel was craving a way out, but with a look of determination he forced himself to carry on: