Her name, she thought as she lay awake trying to restore some calm to her mind, would soon be going viral. Fake detective, charlatan therapist, thieving cashier.
She went downstairs and switched on the computer. Into the search bar she typed Internet damaged article.
There were a lot of articles bought over the Internet that were different from what was expected and a lot of advice on what to do when that happened. Telephones and computers that were different models from what had been ordered, furniture that never arrived, a pair of boots that were black, not blue, bulbs that didn’t work, a bathroom mirror that was broken.
She kept on searching. Roncet’s emails to Coussikou had stopped after his angriest. Had he then gone somewhere else to complain? Had Michel Terral or Enzo asked for advice from a forum?
Doggedly she typed in various combinations of search terms, but found no link to any of the victims. Then she typed online sale rip-off damaged item. Among the links, causing her heart to accelerate, was a forum thread, posted by a certain Victor56: Vandal deliberate damage. It was dated just three days before: A picture I bought on an Internet site arrived deliberately defaced. I’m an experienced buyer but it’s the first time I’ve come across this. I know I can complain and I may even get my money back. But this is more than dishonesty – it’s a form of vandalism and should be treated as such. Any suggestions?
There was only one reply, which suggested beating the living daylights out of the seller. Magali scoured the forum to see if there was any way of identifying Victor56. Finding none, she replied, rather more helpfully, she hoped: Please contact me urgently. I have some important information about this seller. She added her phone number and leant back, rubbing her eyes.
She went back to bed. It was 4.24 in the morning. There was nothing she could do but wait.
Chapter 26
It was getting dark when Magali arrived in Clermont-Ferrand, where Victor Metot lived. He’d called her just before lunch and asked what she knew about the seller. Not a lot, she said, but it wasn’t the first time it had happened, and she was committed to finding out who was behind it. If he didn’t mind, she’d like to see the damaged article herself.
‘Are you a police officer?’ said Metot.
‘Helping them, shall we say.’ Magali moved on swiftly. ‘Now, what’s your exact address?’
Before setting out, she’d called Vincent, which in retrospect was unfair. An opportunity, she’d naïvely thought, to do something together. Vincent, though, couldn’t mix business with pleasure, at least not with someone whose approach to the business was so different. It’s fine for you to have fun, Magali, but surely you don’t expect me to join in? I’ve got a serious job to do, you know. What he actually said, after a moment’s hesitation, was, ‘That’ll be awkward, I’m afraid. I’ve got the boys coming down.’
Ah, yes. Julien and David. Teenagers in need of a father’s guiding hand. She wondered how they could be coming down when they lived with their mother in Tours and the Christmas holidays were still a fortnight away. The more the merrier. A chance for me to get to know them. But in the end she let him off the hook. ‘Never mind,’ she said breezily. ‘Enjoy your time with them, won’t you?’
So now she was here on her own, at the front door to a comfortable property, 18 rue des Lilas, in a residential district of Clermont. She rang the bell. The door was opened by a man of about sixty with grey hair, glasses and a trim, tidy moustache.
‘Monsieur Metot? I’m Magali Rousseau. I spoke to you on the phone about the damaged painting you bought.’
He eyed her for a moment, then nodded cautiously, opening the door wider.
The house was quiet, even a little gloomy, she thought. It was well-furnished but without ostentation. In the hall was a pair of women’s shoes but their owner made no appearance.
Victor Metot led her into the sitting room, as tidy and spotless as a museum. ‘There it is.’ He pointed to the picture he’d bought, lying flat on a dresser of gleaming oak. ‘Exactly as described except for…’ His voice trailed into a puff of annoyance. To point out the part that hadn’t been described was superfluous: two thick squiggles from corner to corner crossed in the middle, obliterating much of the picture. And Magali saw another link which caused her to shiver: the squiggles had been sprayed with an aerosol can. One black, one red.
‘Vandalism indeed,’ she said, peering closely at the picture. It was a small rectangular watercolour of a group of jazz musicians. ‘Lionel…’ she tried to make out the signature.
‘Gourlas,’ Metot supplied. ‘I’ve got a few of his. It’s nothing stupendous but they’re well done and he’s making a bit of a name for himself. This one was quite a bargain. Huh! So I thought.’
‘Where did you buy it?’
‘A website called Bonboutik. It’s like La Rue du Bazaar, you know? Only smaller. A seller by the name of Bambi.’
Magali raised her eyebrows. Very different from Coussikou. Behind any one of the thousands of pseudonyms she’d come across a murderer could be hiding. Bambi. She shook her head at the grotesqueness of it.
On the other hand, you couldn’t expect him to advertise himself as Bluebeard.
‘Can I see the ad?’ she asked.
Metot led her into a study which, unlike the sitting room, showed some signs of being lived in. There was a newspaper open at a half-finished crossword and a plate with some biscuit crumbs. On the wall was a large photograph, taken some years ago, of Metot, his wife and their two children in the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles.
The ad was brief and to the point. ‘The Quintet’, Lionel Gourlas (signed). Watercolour, 25 x18, unframed. 80 euros. There was a photograph of the picture itself, unblemished, and another, close up, of the signature. ‘No phone number,’ she said.
‘No. I sent a message through the website giving my own number. He got in touch straightaway.’
She clicked on the pseudonym and Bambi’s profile came up but it told her nothing. The age was given as forty-four, the place of residence Lyons.
‘And you sent a cheque?’
‘He said I could wait till I received the article if I wanted. So of course I didn’t. I trusted him.’
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, he’s unlikely to cash it.’
Metot looked across at her, frowning. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s the way he operates. He’s not interested in money.’ She folded her arms, ignoring his expression of bewilderment. ‘Where was the parcel posted from?’
‘Where he lives. Lyons.’
‘Or where he went to post it. On a high-speed train link. He could live anywhere from Paris to Marseilles. Further.’
For the first time, Metot displayed a hint of annoyance. ‘Look, do you mind telling me what this is all about?’
Magali took a deep breath. All the way in the car she’d thought through different approaches, from the truth to the wildest of lies. I’m a private research agent. Detective, if you prefer. The police give me a call when they need my particular area of expertise. Serial killers.
But she’d already lied enough, lied her way into this whole situation, right from the very start. ‘I don’t know if you remember,’ she said, ‘a little while ago, a man was murdered in the village where I live. Sentabour. The Hosepipe Killer, they said in the papers. It happened at my house.’
Metot narrowed his eyes. ‘Magali Rousseau. I knew I’d heard it before.’ They went back into the sitting room, where he motioned to an armchair. ‘What’s the connection with the picture?’
‘I believe the man who committed that murder has committed several others. Three that I know of, maybe more. I’ve been working on all three and I can describe each one to you in detail if you like. But the main point in common to them all is that some time before they were killed, each of the victims ordered an article on the Internet. And when it arrived, the article was damaged. Or rather, as you put it, vandalised.’
Metot stared at her for a while, his eyes widening. �
��Are you suggesting…?’
‘As I said, he’s not after money. I’m afraid it’s far worse than that.’
Metot emitted a snort of astonishment. He went to the dresser and picked up the picture, studying it front and back as if it was an entirely different object. ‘You mean this is a warning? There’s a serial killer coming after me?’ He put the picture down and began to pace the room, hands on hips, shaking his head and grunting in disbelief.
‘No,’ Magali said. ‘It’s not a warning. Or it’s not intended as such at any rate. His victims had no idea he’d be coming after them.’ She stood up too. ‘But you are warned now because I’m telling you.’
Metot had recovered from the shock and now seemed almost amused. ‘And when am I supposed to expect him to appear? Tomorrow? Next week? He’ll just turn up and shoot me?’
She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t used a gun so far. Not in the cases I’m aware of. But he appears to be handy with a knife. As for when, I’m afraid that’s impossible to say. In the other cases there’s been a gap of several months between sending the packet and the murder.’
For a moment Metot appeared rattled. Then he put on a face of defiance. ‘I haven’t got a gun either. That puts us on an equal footing.’
No offence, but I very much doubt that. ‘I strongly suspect that he visits beforehand to prepare. Several times, perhaps. But he’s not against taking an opportunity when it comes to him,’ she added sombrely as the vision of Antoine’s body flashed into her mind.
‘So what next?’ said Metot with a hollow laugh. ‘I get round-the-clock police protection for the next six months?’
Magali gestured to the rest of the house. ‘Your wife is absent?’
‘Shopping. For Christmas already,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Christmas with Metot – a barrel of laughs! ‘Your children are grown-up now, I imagine.’
‘Yes. One in Paris, the other Bordeaux.’
‘Apart from with them, do you have anywhere you can go? For a while, I mean.’
‘A holiday home in St Tropez?’ He jutted his chin. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘No friends that could put you up for a month?’
He drew in his breath. ‘I retired last year. But that doesn’t mean I want to go gallivanting all over the place. What about what I said? Police protection?’
‘They won’t.’ She had the answer ready. ‘They haven’t been following my advice. Which means we’re on our own, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not? You said on the phone you were helping them. They ask you to help and then they ignore what you say?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t give them orders. They consult me, that’s all.’ She took a step forward, hand outstretched, palm down. The conversation had gone as far as she wanted. ‘I’ve booked a room at the Hotel Concorde, just a few streets away. My contact details.’ She held out the card she’d written before leaving. ‘I’m working hard at persuading the police to listen to me. What you’ve told me – and shown me – will help enormously. I suggest for the moment you don’t mention this to your wife. Stay extremely vigilant and feel free to get in touch with me at any moment, day or night.’
Chapter 27
Magali climbed the narrow stairs of the hotel, tossed her case on to the bed and sat down beside it. The room was a dingy yellow with tall French windows that led on to a tiny balcony. With an effort she yanked the window open and stepped out. The street was quiet, washed with a fine drizzle. She stood for a moment taking it in, then suddenly felt too visible and stepped back inside. The hotel itself appeared to be practically empty.
She’d chosen the Concorde because it was close to Metot’s house, and cheap. Too cheap, she thought now, eyeing the tatty wardrobe and the cracks in the paint. She drew back the covers on the bed. At least the sheets were clean.
How long was she here for? Two nights, she’d told them – it sounded more normal than five months. But she felt as if the room was poised to close the door on her for ever.
She sat at the rickety table and opened the spreadsheet containing what she knew about the murders. She stared at the columns, trying to find a link she hadn’t yet spotted. There was none, ostensibly, between the victims themselves, who appeared to be chosen at random. Or rather according to some elaborate system that involved putting objects for sale online and then, for some reason, damaging them.
Why did he need to do that? Why all the rigmarole? Surely there were simpler ways of choosing someone to kill.
But of course, simplicity wasn’t the aim. He liked the complexity of it. In spite of all her research, she still couldn’t grasp the reality of killing, didn’t know how or why a person could feel the need to kill again and again, but she understood that whoever she was hunting had turned his compulsion into a game.
Which did he choose first, the object or the victim? Did he decide to deface a particular item, then wait for someone to buy it, or did he select the victim and deface it just before sending it? The books could be soiled any time, but the photographs of the purse and the picture were obviously taken before he damaged them. How long before, though? Most people would do it in one go: take the photographs and put up the article for sale. But by definition he wasn’t like most people. Perhaps he’d taken the pictures a long time ago, and now had a whole stock of damaged goods, waiting to be sent through the post. Alternatively, before damaging the item, he waited for a suitable victim to get in touch.
But what were his criteria? Until Metot, the only thing the victims appeared to have in common was that they lived in remote areas. She hadn’t visited Wallenheim, where Roncet lived, but according to Roudy, he had no immediate neighbours. The nearest house to the Terrals’ was a good 200 metres away and as for Enzo, it would have been difficult to find a more isolated spot. Given that all three murders occurred in winter, under cover of dark, the chances of being spotted were slim. Was that the main criterion? But now there was Metot, who lived in a quiet street, certainly, but a street all the same. What did that mean? Had the killer changed his habits, become bolder? Or had there been other murders in towns that she didn’t know about?
***
At 7.30 she went out for dinner at a Chinese restaurant nearby. Apart from hers, only two other tables were occupied. She sat at the back, out of sight, deep in her exile and her solitude. The quietness was comforting. She could see without being seen.
The air, she felt, had a certain texture to it – thick with apprehension. The other diners had been carefully placed, extras on a stage designed for her alone. Or else it was nothing but her imagination, whirring away on its own. More than ever, her mind was fractured, she was in two worlds at once: something and nothing would happen, she was and wasn’t being watched, the killer had and hadn’t sent the picture.
She had just ordered when her phone buzzed in her handbag. Metot, she thought, and dived to get it, but the number on the screen was Sophie’s.
‘Magali? Where are you?’
‘Sophie…’ It was good to hear her voice, though it sounded distraught. ‘I’m in Clermont Ferrand. What’s wrong?’
‘What? I was worried… What on earth are you doing there?’
‘Uh… following a lead. Too long to explain. What were you worried about?’
‘No, it was just… I went past your house and the lights were out and a little further on I saw Paul Daveney. It was creepy.’
‘Paul? They’ve released him? Already?’
‘What if he’s escaped?’
‘Sophie, he couldn’t do that,’ she answered firmly. ‘But I’m surprised all the same. Marty said it would take them a while to come to a decision.’
‘Depends how long a while is, I suppose. I just wish I’d known. I thought, oh my God, I’m hallucinating!’
‘There’s nothing to fear from Paul, Sophie. I’m sure of that.’ It wasn’t true, but she had enough to worry about already. ‘How are you, anyway?’
‘Fine, I… Luc’s gone to Nice so I didn’t have anyone to tell. It
was just really scary, seeing him all of a sudden in the headlights.’
‘Well, he’s not going to get me here. It’s true he’s got some sort of fixation about me but if they’ve released him, it’s because they know he’s not dangerous. I’ll speak to him when I get back. What’s Luc doing in Nice?’
‘Meeting with the Matisse museum. He put in a bid to redo their website.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘Fantastic, if it works out. What’s this lead you’re following?’
‘Just… There’s someone here who can help, I think. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Which reminds me, if you get a moment, can you pop round tomorrow and feed Toupie? I filled his bowl before I left but maybe he’ll need some more. The biscuits are in a bin by the studio.’
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