The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1)

by Anna Jaquiery

  The room Morel shared with his team was dingy, but large enough to accommodate three desks. Morel’s desk was separated from the other two by a Song-era Chinese folding screen, a wedding gift from his paternal grandfather ten years ago. Morel’s marriage to Eva had lasted less than two years but he still treasured the screen. He’d moved it to the Quai des Orfèvres the day he was promoted to the position of team leader. His father had thrown a fit.

  ‘Have you gone mad? Do you know what this thing is worth?’

  ‘Well, no one’s likely to steal it at headquarters, are they?’

  This priceless object had the advantage of providing Morel with some much-needed privacy. People thought twice before disturbing him when he was in his lair out of sight.

  ‘Real coffee. I hope you’re grateful.’ Jean was standing before him, holding a takeaway cup.

  ‘Thanks,’ Morel said. ‘How’s it going?’

  To Morel’s regret, the older detective was tied up with a warehouse burglary and homicide that had occurred over the weekend. He wouldn’t have much spare time, though Jean was trying his best to be two people at once.

  ‘It looks pretty straightforward. We’ve got footage showing the guys coming in and leaving shortly after our victim arrived for work. They look like they’re in a real rush. We shouldn’t have too much trouble with this one,’ Jean said.

  ‘Good. Hopefully we can close it fast. I’d like you on this new case,’ Morel said.

  Jean nodded. ‘Did the Guillou woman come in?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘She told the same story as Marie Latour and Irina Volkoff, the two you spoke to,’ Morel said.

  ‘Have you heard back from Martin? About the body, I mean,’ Jean said.

  Morel took a sip of his coffee. ‘Not yet. Lila and Marco are at the morgue, they should have some news when they get back.’

  Jean sat down and glanced at the line of origami figures on the desk before him. A paper crow was at the head of a marching avian column that included a pelican and a flamingo. Morel had been busy.

  ‘Where’s Vincent?’ Jean asked.

  ‘I haven’t heard from him yet,’ Morel said.

  The two men exchanged a look. With Vincent’s wife dying of breast cancer, no one wanted to comment on his frequent absences from work.

  ‘You’re going to have to talk to him,’ Jean said eventually. ‘I know he has to spend a lot of time at home and in the hospital right now but we need that extra pair of hands. So if he’s not going to be fully active anytime soon then we need to get someone in. At least temporarily.’

  Morel nodded. ‘I’ll have that conversation eventually,’ he said. ‘But I don’t want to worry him with it right now. I don’t want him thinking he’s being pushed aside. He’s got enough—’

  Before he could finish his sentence, he heard Marco and Lila come in.

  Morel stood up. ‘Let’s hear whether there’s any news,’ he said.

  ‘So what has the great Richard Martin got to say?’ Morel asked. He sat on the edge of Lila’s desk, looking at the two younger officers in his team.

  Lila frowned. Morel knew she would be foul-tempered for at least the next hour. Richard Martin had that effect on women.

  ‘Did Martin behave himself?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Lila said while Marco pulled a face at Morel, a warning not to pursue the subject further.

  Morel had known the forensic pathologist for seven years now. The two had stepped into their current roles around the same time. He knew that Martin was as driven as he was and that, like him, he’d worked hard to get to where he was now. But the resemblance ended there. While Morel kept his private life under wraps, Martin had become notorious for his ability to make women squirm. Two of his female colleagues had tried and failed to make sexual harassment cases against him. Another had simply resigned. The fact that Martin was considered by many to be the best in his field had kept him in his position, so far at least.

  ‘According to our eminently sleazy pathologist,’ Lila began, ‘Isabelle Dufour died sometime between five and six in the morning. She was drowned. Martin couldn’t find any signs of a struggle. She was a frail old woman so perhaps she didn’t get an opportunity to fight her opponent. He could easily have held her underwater till she ran out of breath.’

  The room was silent, while everyone considered this.

  ‘How does he know she drowned?’

  ‘The size and shape of the lungs,’ Lila said. ‘And crepitus.’

  Morel had seen it before. The lungs inflated like water wings; crepitus, evidenced by the crackling sound the lungs made when you squeezed them. It wasn’t conclusive but along with the circumstantial evidence it painted a pretty convincing picture. Dufour’s hair, as well as the bath surface, hadn’t been completely dry.

  ‘If she drowned accidentally, that means someone else took the time to doll her up and tuck her in,’ Lila said.

  ‘Any signs of sexual assault?’

  ‘None.’

  Morel glanced at Marco. He was looking at the floor and Morel found himself growing irritable, as he often did with the young policeman.

  ‘Anything else, Marco?’ he said.

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Not really or no?’

  ‘No,’ Marco said. Morel saw him blush and wondered, not for the first time, whether the young man really had it in him to work murder cases. He wasn’t assertive enough. You couldn’t work a crime case the way he did, by being timid and hesitant.

  Maybe it wasn’t entirely Marco’s fault. He was a decent person, eager and good-natured. He just didn’t fit in to this team and would be better off in another department.

  ‘Let’s move on,’ Morel said. ‘But first, I need to catch up with our illustrious chief. Let’s reconvene when I get back.’

  THREE

  ‘I didn’t hear from you yesterday,’ Perrin said. He didn’t offer his subordinate a seat, which suited Morel well as it meant the meeting would be brief.

  ‘Sorry. I thought I’d wait until I had something to tell you. How was the dinner party?’ Morel, who was significantly taller than Perrin, towered over the small man sitting before him. He saw Perrin register this, saw the look of regret on his face as he realized he should have told Morel to sit down. Too late now.

  ‘Don’t try small talk with me, Morel,’ Perrin said, giving him a dark look. ‘Small talk is not your forte. So tell me. What have you got?’

  Morel looked at his boss. No matter how hard he tried to look suave, Perrin never quite managed to pull it off. Today he had put gel in his hair to shape it into a slick side parting which gave his skull a flattened look. He’d trimmed his beard and cut himself shaving. A bloodied piece of tissue, clearly forgotten, had dropped from his cheek and landed in the wiry hair around his jaw. His tie and shirt were expensive but his skin was grey and he looked like he was in pain, though he tried his best to hide it. Must have been a late night, Morel thought. He guessed that Perrin was nursing a stiff hangover.

  ‘We’ve spoken to three women – Elisabeth Guillou, Marie Latour and Irina Volkoff. All three reported the evangelists’ visit, said they wanted to lodge a complaint for harassment. Going by their description, it sounds like these are the same guys who knocked on Isabelle Dufour’s door days before she died. A man and a boy. These women have something in common with Dufour. They’re widowed and live by themselves, which may explain why they found the experience unsettling enough to call us in. Our main focus is to bring this pair in, so we can talk to them.’

  Perrin scratched at his beard absently, and the piece of tissue fell from it like an injured bird from its nest. He looked at it, puzzled at first, then angry when he realized it had been on his face the entire time.

  ‘OK, so bring them in. The sooner the better. And if we’ve got a solid description let’s get it out there. I think a press conference might be in order.’ Morel could see Perrin’s face brighten at the thought of a media briefing. U
nconsciously, his hand drifted over his shiny hair and his face took on a grave and pompous expression Morel had seen him use before, whenever there were cameras nearby.

  ‘That may be premature,’ Morel said. ‘I think we can track them down without that. If we call a briefing, there’s a risk that if they’ve got something to hide, they’ll go underground.’

  Perrin looked put out. ‘Do it, then,’ he said. ‘But if you don’t find them fast, we’ll do the briefing. Every minute counts. There’s no time for hesitation.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Morel said, and turned to leave before Perrin could come up with another platitude.

  After his meeting with Perrin, Morel returned to the others. By then it was 11.40 and the office was like a sauna. The weather forecast had announced a high of 42 degrees. It felt like more. Morel looked at his team. None of them looked particularly fresh or motivated.

  ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Let’s see a bit of enthusiasm.’ A collective sigh like a deflating balloon greeted his comments. ‘Before we start, Vincent hasn’t showed up yet. We haven’t heard from him but I’m guessing he won’t be in today.’

  No one said anything. Vincent was hardly a presence in the office these days. When he did turn up he was a ghostly version of himself.

  ‘So where were we?’ Morel said. He pulled his chair up and looked expectantly at the three sweaty officers.

  ‘Marco, what about the neighbours? What have they got to say?’

  ‘Not a whole lot,’ Marco said.

  ‘Did you talk to everyone?’

  ‘Every living thing,’ Lila answered.

  She told Morel how they’d canvassed the neighbourhood where Isabelle Dufour lived. They’d talked to people in the neighbouring residential building, and at the newsagent’s and cafe across the street.

  ‘The general gist is that no one knows anything about any unusual visits to Dufour’s flat,’ Lila said. ‘No one heard anything that night. The only neighbour who lives on Dufour’s floor is eighty-nine years old. At 8 p.m. he watched the news with his earphones on because he’s deaf and needs the sound right up. Then he took a sleeping pill and went to bed. Other than that, a couple of the neighbours have seen Dufour’s son, once or twice, as well as her daughter-in-law and the kids.’

  ‘So that ties in with what the concierge told us.’ Morel turned to Marco. ‘Anyone in the building had a couple of bible-bashers knocking on their door?’

  ‘Nope. And the concierge insists she sees everyone who enters and leaves the building.’

  ‘Yes, well, we know that isn’t the case. Anything else?’

  Marco looked at his feet. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Can you be a bit more specific than that?’ Morel said, trying not to let his irritation show.

  ‘Well, the guy who owns the newsagent’s opens up early – around six – and he says he doesn’t remember seeing anyone enter or leave the building. But then he wasn’t paying any particular attention. No one in the building saw any strangers walking in or out. But few of them would have been up and about that early.’

  ‘OK. And anything from the cafe? Anyone see anything out of the ordinary early that morning?’

  ‘No. No one had anything interesting to contribute,’ Marco said.

  A bit like you, Morel thought, and turned back to Lila, who was chewing her nails.

  ‘What do we know about Isabelle Dufour?’

  Lila unfolded her legs and opened her notebook. Morel noticed she wore black leather trousers. Leather trousers, in this heat. He nearly admired her for that. Her hair, usually worn straight down her back, was tied up in a knot. Strands of hair clung to her neck. She looked miserable. Morel knew how she felt.

  ‘Isabelle Dufour. Eighty years old,’ Lila said, turning the pages of her pad.

  Morel knew she didn’t need her notes, her memory was prodigious. He knew a few things about Lila Markov. She had an IQ of 174 and did not suffer fools gladly. She could be short-tempered. Very. As far as Morel could tell, she hadn’t made many friends in the department since she’d joined his team. Maybe her cleverness made people uncomfortable. Or maybe they just didn’t like her manners.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Her neighbours say she went out every day for lunch, like clockwork, at a place around the corner. Usual place, standard menu. She always ordered the same thing and she ate on her own. Her son Jacques lives with his wife and two children in Neuilly, just two blocks away,’ she said.

  Morel had reached Jacques Dufour on his mobile phone the previous day to inform him of his mother’s death. He’d been in London with his wife and younger child. He was due back today, Morel remembered.

  He turned to Jean, who was sharpening a pencil with intense concentration. Jean was two years from retirement. He was fifty-eight but looked about ten years older. His life revolved around his job, a fifteen-year-old son resulting from a four-month relationship with the lead singer of a band he’d played guitar in, and a passion for heavy metal – the sort of bands that now drew titters from people too young to remember when they were considered daring. The only sick day Jean had ever taken, as far as Morel knew, was after a Deep Purple concert when someone had thrown an empty bottle of beer his way and knocked him out.

  ‘Jean. Your two widows. Give us a run-down.’

  Jean flicked through the pages of his notebook and read out loud.

  ‘Marie Latour. Born in 1928 in Chamonix. Moved to Paris when she married her late husband Hector Latour. She’s been living alone since his death. She has a son and a daughter, who live in Paris. She sees them once a month or so.’

  ‘What else?’ Morel said.

  ‘Latour says she’s never set foot in a church. She was upset when the man and the boy showed up on her doorstep. She’d never seen them before. The man insisted on giving her a couple of pamphlets. Wouldn’t leave until she agreed to take them.’

  Morel nodded. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Irina Volkoff. Russian-born. Seventy-six years old. Quite a looker, actually.’

  ‘A bit past the expiry date, no?’ Lila said.

  Marco laughed.

  ‘All right, get on with it,’ Morel said.

  ‘Her husband Sergey died shortly after the two of them arrived in France with their son. She was only twenty-four when Sergey died and she never remarried. The son lives on a houseboat, not far from here as it turns out. Growing up in Soviet Russia, she didn’t get much in the way of religious education, as you can imagine, and she’s not interested in starting now. She says her two visitors – a man and a boy who was mute – made her uncomfortable enough to call us, but she couldn’t explain why. Just said she doesn’t like people knocking on her door.’

  One of the pamphlets, the one received by Elisabeth Guillou, lay on Morel’s desk. He fetched it and returned to the chair at Lila and Marco’s desk.

  ‘Let me give you a quick summary of what Madame Guillou had to say this morning. It’ll sound familiar.’ He briefed his team, then held up the pamphlet.‘This was at Guillou’s house. It’s the same one that was found at Isabelle Dufour’s apartment, and the same one Marie Latour and Irina Volkoff felt obliged to take, to get rid of their unwanted visitors.

  ‘One thing that bothers me is that Isabelle Dufour lived in Neuilly but the three others all lived in the outer suburbs and nowhere near each other. The fact that they live so far apart suggests they might have been singled out,’ Morel went on.

  ‘I thought of that too,’ Jean said.

  Morel sat up in his chair. ‘By the way, how did she know about the boy?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Volkoff. How did she know the boy was mute? Just because he didn’t speak?’

  Jean flicked through his notes.

  ‘Her visitor,’ he said. ‘The man told her.’

  ‘Right.’

  So they had had a personal exchange, Morel thought. The man had engaged with the woman, talked about the boy accompanying him. To gain sympathy?

  ‘Did she say anything else? About the boy
?’

  ‘She said he wouldn’t look at her. Oh and another thing. She thought he might be Russian.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘She said he looked Russian. Whatever that means. And the only time he looked at her was when she spoke a few words of Russian. He looked like he knew what she was saying.’

  ‘And the man? Did she say anything else about him?’

  ‘That he was well dressed.’

  Morel thought about it. A seemingly innocuous visit, the sort of thing people were subjected to all the time. A knock on the door and something to sell. A newspaper subscription, a new gas or electricity supply, a new religion. The promise of something better. So what was it about this pair that had upset these women? Morel considered Madame Guillou again. Describing her visitors to Morel, he had seen, for just an instant, the fear in her eyes. Yet nothing in her account had stood out.

  Morel fidgeted in his chair. He was hungry.

  ‘All right. I want to talk to the neighbours where Elisabeth Guillou, Marie Latour and Irina Volkoff live. I know it’s going to be time-consuming,’ he added, seeing the expression on Marco’s face – ‘but we need to find out whether they have had the same people turn up on their doorsteps. If it was just those three women, then we’ll know they were targeted. Jean, any chance you’ll have some spare time to help us out?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Thanks. Can you find out whether any fingerprints turned up on the pamphlets at Dufour’s house. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It’s worth a try in any case.’

  Jean grabbed the keys to his motorbike and stood up. ‘I’ve got to go. But I’ll call the lab on my way out and I’ll be free this afternoon to help interview neighbours.’

  ‘Before you go, can you leave the transcripts of your interviews with the two widows on my desk? I want to run them against Guillou’s deposition. Maybe something will stand out. Let’s see if between the three of them they’ve given us enough to go on in terms of our guys’ physical descriptions.’