They chatted a few minutes more, till the world, it seemed, became normal again. As soon as she rang off, though, Magali wondered if she shouldn’t go back to Sentabour. There, at least, she had a tangible problem to tackle: find out exactly what Paul’s situation was and convince him not to do anything to make it worse.
But then she remembered the squiggles of paint on Victor Metot’s picture. And she knew she had to stay.
The streets as she walked back were deserted. She’d been in Clermont Ferrand before, but now it felt like a faraway country, where she was adrift and unknown, free to do as she pleased.
And yet she was trapped. All she could do was wait. And although the future was big and uncertain, she felt as if she was in a tiny space, made just for her, a winding passage that was taking her step by step towards the end of her journey.
As she entered her room, she remembered, back in August, how cheerfully she and Antoine had set out, and the bright sun at Mannezon. She had no idea then that a few months later he would be dead and she’d be all alone in the stifling quiet of a winter evening, waiting for an end to her ordeal.
She flopped on to the bed, exhausted. She wanted to sleep but her brain wouldn’t let her. She tried to watch television but she couldn’t concentrate. She understood the words that were spoken, but not the level above, the connections that turned the sentences into a story. On the news a factory was closing. The workers threw stones at riot police and thick black smoke rose up from burning tyres. In Syria, the relentless killing continued.
She switched off the television and stood by the window, watching the drizzle in the streetlamps. Orange reflections glistened on the road. From time to time a solitary car swished by.
***
She woke at a quarter past one – or perhaps she hadn’t been to sleep at all. The room was too hot and the radiator knob was stuck. She opened the window and drank in the air. Then she turned back inside and switched on her computer.
She Googled the name Coussikou. She’d already done this and then, finding that it was the pseudonym of a woman in Montreal, she’d given it no further thought. But unlike Bambi, Coussikou was distinctive – no one would pick on it by chance, because their eyes, perhaps, happened to alight on it in a magazine. The killer had chosen Coussikou by design. But why?
There seemed to be no possible link between Coussikou, serial killer, and a ‘fun-loving ball of fire into parties, sport and nature’. That was how the Canadian Coussikou, real name Christie Suki, twenty-three years old, described herself on Instagram, where she’d posted 306 pictures going back over two years. Magali clicked at random – smell the roses, badass gear, winter fashion – distracted for a while by the whole new world she was discovering. The selfie generation, posting their lives online, gathering comments and likes: love the shades ... what a cutieee!!! ... omg amazing!
But did this bubbly, outdoorsy girl, with her overflowing heart and her pampered terrier Maple, actually know the killer? Magali imagined jabbing her phone. Vincent? Run a check on a Christie Suki, will you? Canadian, lives in Montreal. Then she returned to reality. She was on her own in this.
New shoes from Chinese Laundry! … Bbq’d myself a little dinner … Maple having a couple of casuals! And then, posted in September, one that made Magali frown: Group pic of the speleo club. It took her a while to make the connection. Speleo. A pseudonym she’d seen on La Rue du Bazaar. She went back through the pages. There it was again, posted on January 18th: Me in my speleo outfit. Four months before Michel Terral bought the purse.
Coincidence? She opened another page and on La Rue du Bazaar searched for speleo. 512 responses, mostly for house rentals near caving sites. But there amongst them was the item she’d seen before, when she’d been randomly searching for pseudonyms. A pair of bronze vases, 150 euros, put up for sale by Speleo in October.
Returning to Instagram, she scoured the more recent pictures. How long before he chose his victims did the killer start posting items? When did he choose his pseudonyms? Hanging out by the bridge with my family ... Sometimes you just need a best friend :-) ... Maple’s driving all drunk again ... Photo booth fun! ... A real maestro, huh? And then, on October 20th, the one that confirmed her worst suspicions: Maple and Bambi up to tricks.
In Canadian Coussikou’s world, Bambi was her neighbour’s Siamese cat. But 5,000 miles away, another Bambi was making plans to murder Victor Metot.
So now it was perfectly clear. And if no one believed her, Magali would have to stay in Clermont, watching Metot’s house, for however long it took. Five months? By which time she’d be known all round the neighbourhood. Have you seen that crazy woman that lives in her car? Honestly! I don’t know why she hasn’t been put away.
At 8 a.m. she was hoisted up from a deep black well of sleep by the shrill, persistent ring of her alarm. It took her a couple of seconds to remember why she’d set it. Then she sat up in bed and called Metot. ‘I’m sorry to ring so early. I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘Go on.’ Whether it was due to the early hour, she had no idea, but he sounded none too pleased.
‘I’m calling to say I have confirmation.’
‘Of what?’
‘What I said yesterday. Bambi is targeting you. I was up a part of the night trying to find where he gets his pseudonyms from. It’s a website in Canada, a young woman’s photos. I don’t know why, whether he knows her or what, but they’re all there – Coussikou, Speleo, Bambi. The question now is when he’ll turn up at your house. He’s bound to visit once at least to –’
‘I’ve been looking too.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘On the Internet. Not for Bambi. For you.’
‘Oh...’ She was disconcerted. ‘Really?’
‘So it’s good you called because now I can tell you directly. Show up at my place again or try to get in touch with me, by email, by phone, whatever, and I’m calling the police.’
Chapter 28
So this is what they mean by an assignment.
Sitting in a car, freezing to death, doing nothing. Noting anything suspicious, which turns out to be everything, because otherwise you die of boredom.
By the time she’d drifted back to sleep, woken up in a panic, grabbed some breakfast, got herself ready, bought a couple of sandwiches (one ham, one tuna) and found a suitable spot, it was almost half past ten. And already by lunchtime, overcome with drowsiness, Magali’s enthusiasm for the task was starting to plummet.
Verney would be pleased, though. So, Madame Rousseau, you’ve finally understood what a private investigator does. Now you can write a proper report, perhaps.
She didn’t try speaking to Metot again. He thought she was out to trick him. He’d been suspicious straightaway, he said, but he’d heard her out all the same. After she’d left, though, he did some research and discovered she was a charlatan. It didn’t take a genius to realise that the story she’d told him was a bunch of lies, she was working with whoever sent the picture and their sole aim was to scare him into leaving the house so they could burgle it at their leisure. Any further harassment, he repeated, and she’d have the police on her tail. When he’d told his wife all about it, she’d wanted to call them immediately.
10.41: Man in his forties, overcoat and hat, gets into grey Volkswagen, registration 3570 YJ 63, drives off. 10.53: Elderly woman carrying dark red umbrella walks past with dog (Pekingese) on lead. 11.02: Young woman, mid-twenties, in a hurry, black jacket and jeans, telephone to her ear.
At 11.40, Madame Metot appeared, carrying a small shopping basket. Peroxide hair cut in a bob around a leathery face. She turned left out of the house, then left again to rue Bergson. At 12.18 she was back, a pair of leeks poking out of the shopping bag.
Magali took photographs of everyone. At first she had the camera on automatic, then she put it on manual and played with the settings. If nothing else, she could at least learn about photography. She tried listening to France Inter, but the sound of voices discussing Afghanistan disturb
ed her already fragile concentration, so she switched to classical music, a soft, comfortable furnishing in the background. She realised she was missing an essential prop of detective vigils, the thermos flask of coffee.
With every passing hour, her commitment diminished. It was, in any case, weakened by doubt from the outset: realistically, she couldn’t keep this up for long, a week or two at the most, whereas the killer might not strike for several months. But she reasoned there was a chance, if she could last a fortnight, say, that he might make a preparatory visit to stake out the neighbourhood and discover Metot’s routine. Apart from Antoine’s, all the murders she knew of had surely been meticulously planned, which meant he must have observed his victims once, if not several times. He’d need to know what they looked like, how easy it was to arrive and depart without being seen, and whether anyone else lived there. Not that he was ready to spare them – as Lucie Terral found out – but it would make a difference to his plans. If Magali was right, when he called on the Terrals that night, he knew very well he’d be cutting two people’s throats.
A whole month could go by, though, before he showed up. And now that he knew she was on to him, would he really come straightaway? Perhaps, on the contrary, he would leave it even longer. But from what she’d read of serial killers, the urge could become an addiction, apt to return at ever decreasing intervals. Which meant there was nothing to prevent him being in Clermont already, and now that she was watching Metot’s house, the feeling that she herself was being watched was stronger than ever. She no longer had the portrait she’d drawn, but when she looked at the photos of the men who walked past, a worryingly large number of them seemed to fit it.
From where she was parked, next to a kindergarten in an adjoining street, she had a good view of the house. But there were still several angles uncovered and if, as she feared, it wasn’t Metot’s movements he was watching but her own, there were any number of places he could be. She tilted the mirror to see as far as possible behind her, but she kept forgetting to check it. Sometimes, to her shame, her mind was distracted and she realised that for a number of minutes she hadn’t been watching anything at all. Every so often, she got out and checked the neighbouring streets for men engaged in the same operation as her, fighting boredom behind the wheel of a car.
She had the ham sandwich for lunch and the tuna sandwich for supper. Four times she went to the nearest café, ten minutes away, where she knocked back an espresso and availed herself of the toilet before hurrying back to the car. The high point of her day, causing her to reminisce and ruminate, was the parents picking up their children from the kindergarten. She didn’t go back to her hotel till ten o’ clock.
The following day, she managed to get there in time to see the children being dropped off. She still didn’t have a thermos, but to the sandwiches (egg and tomato, liver pâté) she added a banana and an apple. She debated at length with herself on what combination to have for lunch, settling finally on liver pâté and apple. At 2.47 the Metot couple came out together and walked straight past her car without noticing her. They returned at 5.24. Nothing else of interest happened.
At 7.48 she took the car key from her pocket and clutched it in her hand, the solid feel of temptation in her palm. Dear me, Madame Rousseau, not doing very well, are we? Only day two and you’re skiving off already. You need to be more focused, you know, this is no good at all. Magali heaved a grumpy sigh, folded her arms and pushed herself deeper into the seat.
At 8.03, temptation won. ‘Sod you, Verney,’ she muttered as she slotted the key in the ignition. And leaving the egg and tomato sandwich untouched, she drove off in search of a restaurant.
The next day she told the hotel she’d be staying for another week. They registered the booking and she asked them to lend her a thermos, filled with coffee, which they happily provided.
She had to change places a couple of times before finding a decent spot, next to a tree, more or less hidden from anyone walking on the pavement. She started the day resolute, but by mid-morning was in full assessment of the pointlessness of the exercise. What was the hurry, in any case? The killer was only just starting to make his plans. Before Metot’s life was truly in danger, she’d have plenty of time to persuade Balland she was right – why, maybe she could even persuade Vincent.
On the other hand, that supposed they were amenable to persuasion.
She was running these questions through her mind, pouring herself some coffee, when her phone rang.
She let out a yelp of pain as the coffee spilled on her leg. She grabbed the phone. ‘Sophie?’
‘Magali…’ Her voice was soft, almost a whisper. ‘Are you still in Clermont?’
‘Yes.’ A flutter of apprehension rose in her guts. ‘Is anything wrong?’
‘I thought I should let you know,’ began Sophie in a voice both steady and tense, as if she was trying to hold back an animal straining on the leash. Magali began to imagine the worst: Daveney running amok, committing some dreadful atrocity. ‘The post arrived not long ago. There was a parcel addressed to me. A book.’
Magali held her breath. ‘And?’
‘The inside was smeared with jam.’
Not Daveney, no. Far worse. Magali’s gaze encompassed the streets that now were so familiar to her, and she saw them paved with the wasted effort and foolishness of her quest. He was always going to be one step ahead. She’d walked right into his trap. ‘Where was it posted from?’ she said calmly.
‘Le Puy en Velay. Yesterday.’
Le Puy. An hour or so south of where she was. What was he doing in Le Puy? Did he live there? Or had he been passing through on his way to Clermont Ferrand? Or to Sentabour? If the whole set-up with Metot been intended to throw her off the track, he could be in Sentabour right now, watching Sophie’s every movement, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
‘Is Luc back from Nice?’ she said.
‘No. He gets back tomorrow.’
The killer would have seen that. She’s on her own in the house. Had he been waiting for her to open the book? Could he see her now through the window, first the bewilderment, then the horror as she realised what it meant?
‘Where’s your car?’ said Magali.
‘Outside.’
‘How far?’
‘Just by the gate.’
‘You’re going to get out of that house, Sophie. He could be watching you right now. Put the phone in your pocket, grab a kitchen knife and go to the car. Take nothing with you but the knife. Be ready to use it. Drive to the police station and stay there. Call me as soon as you can. I’m on my way.’
As soon as she put the phone down, Magali let out a howl of fury and despair. She started her car and lurched away from the kerb. She tried not to think about Sophie but it was impossible. She’s in the kitchen, she’s got the knife, she’s running to the door. Opening it a crack, peering out. Stepping outside, knife at the ready, sizing up the situation before dashing those thirty yards to the car.
Had she said the right thing? Would it have been better to lock all the doors and windows and barricade herself in? But the killer, for all she knew, could be inside already.
Now! Run for it! Don’t bother locking the door – did she tell her that? Did she tell her not to turn round and fumble with the door key? Run for it, Sophie, please! Get to that bloody car!
Eight minutes passed. What was taking so long? In Magali’s mind, the scene played out on a loop, again and again, with the only variation the hiding place of the killer. The settee, the door, the garden hedge – each time she imagined him springing out, and the deadly flash of a Stanley knife, and a sickness churned in her belly. Nine minutes. Ten. When she stopped for a traffic light, Magali reached for her phone with a sense of dread. She was just about to return the call when the phone lit up. ‘I’ve just arrived at the station. What’s going on? First Clermont Ferrand, now Sentabour…’ Her voice began to crack. ‘Why’s he coming after me?’
Magali’s body sagged with relief. ‘I
wish I knew. Oh, God… You took ages to call!’
‘I couldn’t find the car key. I was petrified! I didn’t even dare to call when I got to the car. It was like one of those horror films, you know? Where he’s hiding behind the seat?’
‘He’s playing with us. I haven’t a clue where he is. But he could be in Sentabour now and you’re going to stay at that station until I arrive, OK? Tell them exactly what happened. I’ll phone Marty. Maybe there’ll be prints on that book but I doubt it. The address was typed? A label stuck on to the envelope, like the others?’
‘Handwritten. But in capital letters, as if he was trying to disguise it, you know?’
‘So he didn’t have access to a printer. Maybe it was more of an impulse. Whatever he was doing in Le Puy, my guess is he doesn’t live there. Jam, did you say?’
One Green Bottle Page 22
