Capestan joined the group while Torrez lurked at the mandatory distance. After a brief catch-up and a summary of the morning’s events, roles were divvied up. Merlot, Évrard, Dax and Saint-Lô were to cover every inch of the area, showing people the e-fit and the photos of Rufus and Melonne. Saint-Lô was delighted by the prospect of roaming the Renaissance quarter, which he had known back in the day when it was “a month’s horse ride from the capital”. The others would take care of the neighbours in the building after examining the apartment. Off they set.
Up on the landing, Capestan lifted the yellow tape and invited her officers to step inside.
“Don’t touch a thing! We have a look, take some notes and then we leave. Let’s hand it back to our local colleagues in the condition we found it, please.”
They did a painstaking lap of the expansive apartment. Old waxed-oak parquet floor, whitewashed walls, exposed wooden beams . . . there was no mistaking that they were in Vieux-Lyon, but it had been renovated to a high spec. too. The elegant furniture seemed to have come straight from the finest antiques dealers. No books or magazines anywhere, just a pile of daily newspapers. Capestan went over to a row of frames hanging on the wall. A black-and-white wedding photograph that must have dated from the 1930s – the victim’s parents, surely. A group of students on a stone bench in front of the buildings of the Université Lyon III. A few other pictures of friends and one of a woman, all from the eighties or nineties. Not one of them featured Alexis. Capestan turned around and quickly glanced across the room. No mirrors either. Velowski could not bear to look at himself. And for the last twenty years, he had not had any regular visitors. A clean break with the past, just like Melonne.
In the big sitting room, a deep, beige, velvet L-shaped sofa faced a flat-screen that belonged in a multiplex. The guy had money, lots of it, but he had not spent it on a flashy villa. Quite the opposite, Capestan thought. Here, all his spending could be done discreetly, reasonable sums or things that could be paid for in cash. The apartment owed its considerable size to the fact it had been merged with the one next door. The commissaire thought back to Jacques Maire, his spendthrift ways and the murky origins of his wealth. The money issue was key.
Only Rufus did not seem to have a hint of a fortune, concealed or not, and he was the only one who was beaten up. Maybe the aim had not been to make him talk, but just to punish him. Maybe his role in the story was different to the other two victims. What was the story here?
A rugged policeman, a generous patron and a tormented sophisticate.
Where had this mishmash of characters met? Who was killing them off? How many more of them were there? Were there others to come, or was this guy the last on the list?
They did not have a serial killer on their hands. There was a numerus clausus, the commissaire was sure of it. But there was every chance that the numerus was seven thousand, and that the killer was wreaking vengeance on the Yellow Pages.
*
“Oh, blimey!” Rosière said with a whistle.
She had just opened a double-door cupboard in the sitting room to reveal an entire shelf’s worth of boxes of Quality Street, all stacked on top of each other.
“If this guy was after a hit, he should have gone straight for heroin – would’ve saved him some space. Come and have a look!”
Rosière grabbed a box at random and gave it a shake. A faint noise issued from the white tin. Rosière whipped off the lid.
“Wow, the old boy really did not like the reds! Check it out, he didn’t throw them away either. If you ask me, he’s gone and filled this box with the leftovers from the others.”
She opened up a few more that no longer had the plastic wrapper round the top.
“Jackpot. I tell you what, you’d need some serious gnashers to munch through all this lot, not to mention a decent bit of wonga. What a waste!”
“In terms of ‘wonga’, the man was hardly short of means,” Orsini said, making no attempt to disguise the bitterness in his voice. “But in terms of taste, his shortcomings are patent. He might have gone to Voisin, Bernachon or any number of fine chocolateries in town. Anything to avoid this mass-produced garbage. Perhaps the man was deprived as a child and chose to heap these forbidden sweets on himself later in life. An urge for revenge, albeit a rather mediocre one.”
“There’s nothing wrong with Quality Street!” Rosière said indignantly. “It’s what my son gets me every year for Mother’s Day.”
Orsini shrugged indifferently. He was too busy opening drawers, rummaging around the man’s desk, searching for documents and looking for clues to worry about his freewheeling colleague. He stopped and turned round slowly to survey the room. Everything was sleek, clean, empty, regular. Nothing gave them a glimpse of the owner’s true being; the officers were bashing their heads against a brick wall. Even his admin. seemed to have been hoovered up – the victim must have stored everything digitally. According to Capestan, Lyon police had gathered up some tax returns and a few old payslips, but nothing particularly revealing. No accounts. They had also set to work on his computer and tablet, which they had taken in for analysis. The printer was the only thing left, its wires dangling off the side of the desk. Orsini’s expression became even more closed. None of the victims were giving them a handhold. They would not learn anything. Another closed door.
The culprit was all they had. He could explain. If they ever found him.
“Your son gives you Quality Street for Mother’s Day, does he?” Lewitz asked.
“Yes. Flowers, too. And he never forgets,” she said defiantly, “so it’s better than perfume once a decade. And let me tell you, when he brings them round, I’m quicker to unwrap the sweets than I am to fetch the vase.”
Lebreton, one hand in the pocket of his jeans, the other massaging his neck, was standing in front of the shelving unit, suddenly alert to a memory that had come rushing back.
L’Isle-sur-la-Sorgue. The funeral. The man scanning the congregation who disappeared as soon as he made eye contact with Lebreton.
The commandant headed towards Capestan, who was examining a frame on a side table as she tied up her hair.
“Do you have a photo. of the victim?” he asked.
“Yes, the pictures of the body and a copy of his I.D.,” she said, pulling them out of her bag.
Lebreton glanced over them before handing them back.
“The victim knew Melonne. He was at his funeral.”
Spot on, Capestan thought. The strands were getting tighter, even if their material was still unclear.
“Did he know any of the family or friends?”
“No. He was watching, I think, like we were. He didn’t mix with anyone.”
“O.K.,” the commissaire said. “I don’t feel we’re going to find much in the apartment, unless there’s anything linked to Provence
. . . I’ll check the bedroom and bathroom.”
Lebreton nodded and made for the kitchen.
*
Capestan opened the cupboard above the basin, which represented the only mirror in the apartment. No sponge bag, razor or hairbrush. On the flat surface that supported the bowl, there was a glass with a tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. Capestan visualised the body. The man was clean-shaven and his hair was tidy. He must have taken a bag. He may have forgotten his toothbrush, but he must have taken a bag. No two ways about it.
The contents of his chest of drawers seemed to be in order, as did the shelves in his wardrobe, with their neat piles of boxer shorts, shirts, T-shirts and jumpers. He had taken a bag, but he had packed light. And no-one had found it yet.
The breakfast tray and the copy of Le Progrès were still lying on the unmade bed. Bearing in mind how shipshape the whole place was, these signs of a hasty departure spoke volumes about how frightened he was.
Standing in the middle of the corridor, arms crossed over his buttoned-up sheepskin jacket, Torrez was gazing at a painting. The abstract work appeared to be bugging him. Capestan shared her theory wi
th the lieutenant, who nodded back at her, before shaking his head at the canvas and walking off.
“Let’s try by the front door. Maybe he left the bag and slammed the door shut, then realised he was locked out. Either that or the killer swiped it.”
“Yes, that’s the most likely scenario. I don’t know why I’m obsessing over this. It’s just so weird that we can’t find anything personal in this apartment! Five photos, some sweets and a couple of remote controls. Hardly a life story!”
“Have you had a look through the boxes?”
“Yes, Rosière thought of that. Lewitz did it. Nothing.”
Torrez stared at his watch and, in true fashion, jabbed his finger against the face.
“Six p.m. Hungry o’clock,” he said as he opened the door. “See you tomorrow.”
Fine. Always easier to book a restaurant for nine people rather than ten. So long as they accepted dogs. And rats.
*
The members of the squad were wedged side by side at a long table near a window that was partially covered by a small, red-and-white chequered flag. By some miracle they had got lucky with a reservation at one of Lyon’s best-known bouchons thanks to a last-minute cancellation from a group of businesspeople. As with all the famous ones, the owner treated you as though you owed her a massive favour, all the while making you feel like a pain in her backside. The place was tiny, hot, and full of wonky shelves that just about managed to support an array of copper cooking vessels, local boules trophies and small picture frames with lofty philosophical quotations about credit, patrons and the benefits of wine. The restaurant’s main room looked directly onto the kitchen and straight through into the office, beyond the chaos of the pots and pans being thrashed about on the stoves which added to the already considerable noise.
Capestan was keen to play the local-girl card, warning everyone that the food here was the real deal, proper Lyonnais fare, and that they would need their game faces and plenty of stamina. If any of them did not feel up to the mark, they might as well head home straight away. Merlot had brayed approvingly and ordered three carafes of Côtes-de-Rhône to get things underway, before turning his attention to the menu.
“Ah! The poultry hails from Bresse, dear friends! Now that’ll be a plump bit of chicken, just how we like it,” he said with a wink at Rosière, whose green-eyed glare seemed less than impressed with the compliment.
“What’s tickling your fancy?” he said, turning to Évrard.
“I’m wondering about the magret de canard . . .”
“Prepare to be hoist by your own canard!” he said, puffing out his cheeks and leaning towards his neighbours. “That’ll be one heck of a plateful.”
The capitaine was in his element. This was the sort of place where he could jostle for space, eye up other people’s dishes and stain his shirt with complete impunity. He was a happy man, as he often was.
He alone had come away with anything resembling a result on the e-fit. The baker on rue Saint-Paul had sold three croissants to a similar-looking man, albeit with shorter hair. Instead of adding to his wig collection from one crime to the next, he was taking them off. Or maybe he just let his hair grow long beforehand, showing a true sense of anticipation.
The owner, still in yesterday’s apron, appeared at the end of their table. In her sixties, with short silver hair, she stood there impatiently, pencil and notepad at the ready, jabbing her chin at the diners in a bid to make them hurry up and order. She then spotted Merlot staring at her with an arched eyebrow worthy of the Arc de Triomphe, and realised she had forgotten the third carafe. With a quick sorry, she took a step back to retrieve it from the bar.
Soon after, a succession of platters arrived that the officers passed round the table. Lentils with vinaigrette, pig’s trotters, rosette de Lyon saucisson and cornichons. When the next course arrived – fish quenelles, sausage in brioche and andouillettes – everyone was already stuffed, but they still managed to force it down, with Merlot ordering a fresh round of carafes.
A single street-lamp was lighting this narrow street in the Presqu’Île, the heart of Lyon, and through the fogged-up window the night sky was pitch black. Outside, Rosière and Lebreton smoked a cigarette as they waited for the procession of crèmes caramel and pears poached in wine. Capestan watched the rest of her squad as their chairs groaned under the weight of their charcuterie-laden bodies. The more boisterous members were still talking loudly, while Évrard and Lewitz, who had the absentminded look of people still busy digesting, were simply soaking up the atmosphere. A text message flashed up on Capestan’s mobile. It was Torrez: I’ve found the bag.
*
Capestan met Torrez outside the building where he was waiting patiently beneath the misty halo of a street lamp. He punched in the door code as he explained how it had dawned on him:
“My son used to smoke on the sly and to keep his cigarettes hidden from his parents and sisters, he always stashed them in the cupboard with the E.D.F. meter. Yes, I know, like some horrid little dealer. Anyway, I said to myself, imagine our guy sees his name in the paper, does a runner with something important, then thinks the killer might be waiting outside. So he puts the bag to one side and goes for a look-see downstairs, then comes back to scoop it up. Only he gets killed. So I came to check,” he said, hitting the lights and leaping up the first flight of stairs. Capestan followed him.
He opened the cupboard and pointed at the black canvas bag at the back.
“Tadaaa!”
Capestan stooped down to remove the bag from under the meter. As she had suspected, it contained very few clothes and a half-empty sponge bag. And an enormous manuscript. Velowski had not bothered with the computer – he had a printout.
“That’s quite a find, José,” the commissaire said, weighing up the thick document. “I wonder what on earth this is going to tell us.”
*
Capestan woke with a start from a nightmare dominated by children with sunken eyes. She sat up straight and took a slow, deep breath to calm down her heart, which felt ready to burst out of her chest. In her head, she sang the first Joe Dassin track that came to mind, as loud as she could, to chase away the images. Then she took in the white walls, the beige curtains, the impersonal decor. Capestan succumbed to the strange loneliness that you often get from hotel rooms, then started thinking of her own children, the ones she did not have.
When she was younger, like all her contemporaries she had teased other people about having to go on holiday with noisy, tiresome children . . . Then bit by bit, the jokes had worn thin. Now, her silent concerns had given way to all-out anxiety. Capestan was not keeping an eye on the clock, but every time she tore a page from her calendar, it did remind her that her best chances might be behind her.
After taking a shower and slinging on some clothes, the commissaire sat on the edge of her bed and turned on the T.V. She flicked through the channels and stopped on “Friends”, an episode from a season she knew by heart. This would do the job. She watched, leaning towards the screen, giving it her full attention, until the grey fug subsided and her brain could function normally. By the third episode, she was ready to go down and join Torrez at the buffet.
The lieutenant was already working his way through the groaning plate of croissants and cold cuts in front of him. He was negotiating it methodically, keeping his poise. As his mouth was full, he had to lift up his butter knife to greet his colleague.
“Sleep well?” she asked him.
The lieutenant attempted to swallow his mouthful so he could respond, but the task was impossible in the time available, so he settled for an affirmative “Hum hum”, followed by an interrogative “Hum?” back at her.
“Very well too, thank you. I’m going to find myself a coffee and some grub. Can I bring you back anything?”
Torrez was too busy with his croissant to answer, and a moment later Capestan set down her plate of bread, butter, jam and fruit, as well as a cup of coffee, before taking her seat and unfolding her napkin.
>
“At home, I never eat in the morning,” she said, “but as soon as I see a hotel buffet I can’t help filling my boots.”
“Same here. You know I’m happy I came,” Torrez said. “The kids have been taking it in turns playing with a stomach bug. I don’t even know how my wife managed to pick up the phone when I called this morning.”
There was definitely a hint of compassion, but there was a stronger hint of glee that he had escaped the madhouse. Torrez tried to cover his tracks.
“No, I’m only joking. It’s over now anyway. Those bugs are worrying as hell. When my eldest ended up in hospital, I tell you, I wasn’t laughing then. It lasted four days. Changed my life,” he said, deep in thought, albeit still chewing. “Suddenly the earth shifts beneath you and you realise that it’s constantly moving. Your whole existence, everything you’ve spent years building up, now hinges solely on the health of a single being. Makes your head spin. After, you’re shaking all the time. In fact, until you’ve had a child, you don’t know what fear is.”
“What about the fear of not having one?” Capestan said into her plate.
Torrez did not react for a fraction of a second, then looked down.
“Yes, yes, of course,” he said.
He sliced some ham and laid down his cutlery.
“Actually no,” he said. “In that case, the despair can be real. But fear . . . fear is abstract. The thought of losing them – that’s real terror.”
Capestan looked into the lieutenant’s kind eyes set in the midst of his shaggy beard and hair. The one time she lets out an iota of weakness, she ends up being put straight. Had she given in to self-pity? Possibly. She would have done well to boot the matter into touch and fire back a comment about not being allowed a little whinge, but she could see Torrez was already squirming, embarrassed by his lack of tact. He was unsure what to say next, fidgeting with his knife and fork in his bearlike mitts. Just as he was about to chow down the last of his ham, he said:
Stick Together Page 11
