‘Promise you’ll call Maly?’ Adèle said.
‘I’ll do it,’ he said.
‘When are you going to move out?’ she called out as he started to cross the road.
‘Soon.’ He raised his hand.
Walking back to the office, he thought about Maly. He liked Karl. Maly had always had a weakness for academics. Karl was one of the more presentable ones she’d latched on to. In her younger days Morel had watched them come and go, a few of them insufferable, more interested in posing as writers and thinkers than in actually producing anything. They let their hair grow long and wore scarves all year round, regardless of the weather. In their back pockets they carried poetry paperbacks, making sure the title was clearly visible. On more than one occasion, as a younger man, Morel had sat and argued with Maly’s boyfriends over a cheap bottle of wine at her flat. Animated discussions where some pseudo-intellectual with Trotsky-like hair and glasses would try to tell him that art without suffering was meaningless. That communism was the future, even when it became apparent that the communists themselves had stopped believing it.
Pompous narcissists, many of them. Entertaining, though. Morel had enjoyed riling them.
How long had it been since he’d last seen Maly? Six, seven weeks? It niggled at him, the fact that he’d let so much time go by. The two of them had been close since their mother’s death. Over the past year they had grown apart. He wasn’t sure why.
He thought about Adèle’s question. When was he going to move out and get his own place?
It was more than twenty years now since his mother’s death. Morel had made the decision then to move back in with his father.
It hadn’t been an entirely selfless decision. Walking back across the Pont-Neuf, Morel thought of Mathilde, his first love, whose memory he couldn’t seem to shake, even now. He’d lived with her for two years, the happiest time of his life, before throwing it all away. Then he’d lost his mother. Frightened at the extent of his despair, he’d retreated to his childhood home.
He had grown used to his mother’s absence, but he still mourned Mathilde, who was living her life without him.
The truth was that, since moving back in with his father he had never seriously contemplated a change. He’d never hankered for his own place.
It struck him as strange now.
As he neared the police headquarters on Quai des Orfèvres, he started to feel anxious. Would he always live with his father? Would he wake up one day and find that they had become two grumpy old men living together, bickering over who had forgotten to turn the lights off before going to bed? His father lost in his books, and Morel seeking some form of resolution to the violence he dealt with each day. It was a bleak prospect, but for now he couldn’t see his way out of it.
Back at his desk, Morel went over his interview with Chesnay and studied the pamphlet. He scanned Lila’s list of religious organizations again and added a couple of names to it, based on Paul’s suggestions. Lila and Marco were out talking to every religious organization that seemed most relevant. Morel made some calls of his own, but drew a blank.
He tried to picture the sort of man who would produce a pamphlet like the one he had before him. A man who seemed to be acting on his own behalf. Chesnay was right. There was no consistency in the message. Morel had the impression that the pamphlet’s author was confused.
Maybe it was a sign of the times, Morel thought. Every day he encountered people who had lost their way. Many who were down at heel and many who had only recently fallen on hard times. Often when he worked nights he saw people brought in looking like they had no clue how they’d arrived here. Once when he’d been working late, it had been a middle-aged woman in a Chanel suit. A couple of the regular girls who worked the Place Dauphine had got into a brawl with her for trying to sell her wares on their patch. Bloody and dishevelled, she’d stayed at the station until her husband was tracked down. When he’d come to fetch her Morel had recognized him as the CEO of one of the larger banks. It was getting harder to predict what you might see, who might come staggering through the door, who might be handcuffed because they were a threat to others or to themselves.
Lila and Marco returned empty-handed. None of the people they’d talked to had seen or heard of the two evangelists described by the widows. His officers looked as discouraged as he felt.
‘We’ll reconvene tomorrow at eight o’clock sharp. Now get out of here,’ Morel said.
He spent another hour in the office, going through the Dufour folder for the tenth time and typing up a brief report for Perrin, which he intended to leave on the other man’s desk.
It was close to 7 p.m. when he finally turned the lights off and left the building. For a moment he was tempted to cancel dinner and head home, but then the thought of Solange reminded him of what he would miss.
It was time to go if he didn’t want to be late. First, he would pick up a nice bottle of wine and some flowers. White, always her favourite.
Morel parked his car in a no-parking spot right outside the entrance to Solange’s building and got out. For a moment he stood under the streetlight, feeling like he had left something behind. But he held the flowers in one hand and the bottle in the other. His wallet and car keys were in his pocket. He pushed the doorbell and waited.
Solange had once told Morel there was something old-fashioned about him that made it seem as though he’d landed in the wrong decade. Maybe even the wrong century. It could have been what drew her to him, Morel thought. Her husband Henri was a relic too. A man twice Solange’s age, who rarely left the house and struggled to face the world outside his lavish home. Most of the time he was cooped up in his expansive sixteenth-century apartment with its barrel-vaulted stone cellars and elaborate staircase.
The door buzzed and Morel pushed it open. He climbed the stairs to the first floor. The apartment stretched over three floors of the five-storey building.
It was lucky, Morel reflected, that Henri was enormously wealthy, thanks to a family inheritance and a portfolio of properties left to him by his father, including a nice little vineyard in the Saumur region where, according to Solange, Henri had proposed to her.
At the top of the stairs, the door was open and Solange stood waiting for him, wearing a green silk dress he hadn’t seen before.
‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ he said. The dress with its clingy material and low décolletage left little to the imagination. His eyes travelled back to her face. She was flushed and seemed happy to see him.
‘You look beautiful, Solange.’
She smiled and opened the door wider to let him in.
‘Come in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get Henri.’
He watched her climb the stairs.
‘Morel is here,’ she called out to her husband.
‘Good,’ Morel heard Henri say. ‘I’ll be right there.’
Solange came back down the stairs and walked up to Morel. She touched his shoulder, her face close to his.
‘He’s on his way,’ she said.
Soon Henri de Fontenay came into the room with a broad grin on his face. The two men embraced.
‘It’s good to see you. Solange got you a drink?’
‘I was about to.’
‘Let me do it. What will you have, Morel? And you, darling?’
‘You choose,’ Solange said. Henri’s question was rhetorical. He had already picked out and uncorked the wine, and he poured it now, telling Morel he was in for a treat.
‘It’s a 1982 Château Margaux. I saved it for you,’ he said, handing a glass to Morel.
Morel took a sip, letting the liquid roll around his tongue while Henri watched approvingly.
‘How’s your father?’ he asked.
‘He seems well.’
‘Tell him he should pick up the phone once in a while.’
‘You know what he’s like.’
‘I do. He’s becoming a hermit in his old age.’
‘He always was. Just had to work, that was the difference.’
Henri laughed. He and Morel’s father had gone to school together before going their separate ways, Morel senior pursuing a diplomatic career and Henri taking over the family’s real-estate empire, which he managed from the confines of his home. The two had remained close.
Henri had married Solange on his sixty-fourth birthday. She had been twenty-five then. ‘They met at the chemist,’ Philippe Morel had told his son, with a look of disbelief. ‘She was a pharmacist, or maybe not, just an ordinary shop girl. He liked the look of her and instead of just sleeping with her he decided to get married.’
‘He’s a romantic,’ Morel said.
‘Bloody stupid, you mean. What can they possibly have in common?’
Yet eight years on Henri and Solange seemed perfectly happy with each other. They had the sort of partnership that some couples seemed to manage, open and affectionate, each leaving the other to pursue their interests and, in Solange’s case, occasional affairs.
Since the wedding, Henri and Morel’s father had lost touch. Without saying it openly, Henri clearly felt it was because Morel Senior disapproved of his young wife. Morel thought it had more to do with his father’s increasing reluctance – or was it inability? – to socialize.
Thinking of his father now, he wondered what the old man would say if he knew about his son’s involvement with Henri’s wife. It was unthinkable. The funny thing was that Henri knew and accepted Morel’s involvement in his wife’s life. There was no way of knowing what went on in the old man’s head, whether his generosity was altruism or whether he was getting his kicks out of the situation. Knowing his wife enjoyed being screwed by another man. Morel chose not to dwell on it.
They ate at the bench in the kitchen, where the couple liked to have their meals. The dining table was reserved for dinner parties. Solange had prepared a dinner of cold lobster, poached salmon and salad. She ate very little. Most of the time she sipped at her drink, resting one arm on the counter. The dress, like the lobster, was expensive. It allowed him to see her almost as he would if she were naked. With Henri in the room, he tried not to stare at her too blatantly.
Henri didn’t give him much time to feel self-conscious. After dinner, they had another glass of wine together, and Henri made coffee. Then he excused himself, saying he would have his coffee in his study. He gave Morel a kiss on the cheek. Not for the first time, Morel felt he was receiving the older man’s blessing. In the early days it had confused him, but he accepted it now without any reservation.
‘I have some work to do, and an early start tomorrow. I’ll leave you two now.’ He kissed his wife tenderly, one hand stroking the back of her neck.
Solange and Morel moved together to the sofa. Solange sat opposite him. Neither one of them said a word. For a while they listened to Henri’s footsteps above. Her gaze never wavered from his.
‘Long day?’ she said.
‘Very.’
Morel reached over and pulled down the straps of her dress. It fell easily around her waist. She wasn’t wearing a bra. He sighed as he sat back and stared at her.
‘I’ve been wanting to do that since I walked through the door.’
She leaned back, letting her hands rest on the sofa and the dress fall further down her hips. He could tell there was nothing else on her, besides the thin silk dress.
‘What else?’ she said, while he let his eyes travel from her breasts down to the curve of her hips. ‘What else have you been wanting to do?’
Later they got dressed and she offered him another drink. His mouth felt dry and he didn’t really want another glass of wine but he took it anyway. After sex, Solange seemed to shed one skin in favour of another, more self-assured.
Out on the balcony the air was barely any cooler. Down below there was a shout, and Morel thought there might be trouble. Perhaps a fight had broken out. But then there was laughter. Still, it made him edgy.
Solange touched his arm. The pressure of her hand was proprietorial. She left it there, unmoving. Gradually, his breathing slowed down. He found himself looking out at the night without trying to guess what it might conceal.
NINE
Elisabeth Guillou closed her book and yawned. She looked at her watch. It was still only 8.30. She would usually be ready for bed around 9.30, but it had been a particularly tiring day. Her son had come for lunch with his wife Clare and their two children. The boy had just turned six and was never still; forever looking for an opportunity to do the things he should not. Clare had spent most of the afternoon barking at him while he ignored her with an air of such complete indifference that his grandmother found something to admire in it, though the child’s mother clearly did not. Meanwhile Elisabeth Guillou’s own son sat there like a sack of potatoes, grinning like a lunatic at some joke only he was privy to. She’d looked at him and wondered when exactly his face had lost its shape and character. It was as inexpressive as a loaf of bread. He and Clare, they were both that way. They both dressed, too, as though appearance no longer mattered.
Elisabeth Guillou yawned again. She wondered what it was about her son’s family. She had raised two children herself and could not remember it being as exhausting as they made it out to be. The pair of them looked as though they’d lost their spirit and the children were not much better. Well, the boy was quite lively. He had spent an hour bouncing up and down on the trampoline, so gleeful it had gratified her. Though it wasn’t long before she started wondering how her grandson filled his days to get such manic delight from a trampoline. The girl said little and spent her time drawing stick figures with oversized heads. She had a mild form of autism, her father said. Something Syndrome – Elisabeth couldn’t remember. Nowadays everything had a name.
She stood up and found herself swaying for a moment. This happened to her when she’d been sitting for a long time, and when she took her glasses off. Her doctor had told her this was quite normal, nothing to do with age, just an adjustment of perspective.
She headed towards the bathroom. It was warm but she didn’t like to leave the windows open. Since her husband’s death, many years had gone by but still she had not got used to living alone. She did a good job of hiding just how fearful she was. The truth was she only felt safe in her own house, with the windows shut and the door locked. She thought of the inspector whom she had sat with the day before, the handsome one with the dark, thoughtful eyes. She had felt safe with him too.
An attractive and elegant man. Just because she was old didn’t mean she couldn’t tell a good-looking man when she saw one. Was that why she hadn’t been entirely truthful with him? During their meeting, she hadn’t given him any indication that she was scared. She hadn’t wanted to appear weak.
Foolish old woman, she told herself. Trying to impress a man half her age.
As she walked past the window where the curtains had been left open she sensed rather than saw something. It made her pause and take a few steps back. She put her glasses back on and turned the light off.
After a moment’s hesitation, she moved towards the window and looked out at the garden. It was dark but there was a full moon and it lit up the sky like a fluorescent beam. The gardener had recently been to mow the grass. The trees seemed as attentive out there as she was inside, looking for the thing that had caught her attention a moment ago.
There. She hadn’t imagined it.
There was someone sitting on the trampoline.
TEN
Morel left Solange at 2 a.m. and drove home. He was probably over the limit but he chanced it anyway. He didn’t like to leave his car on the street.
He went straight to bed, but then he woke up at 4.30. He’d dreamed of Mathilde for the first time in months.
He tried to read for a while but found he couldn’t focus on the pages. Lila had lent him the book; the first he was reading in maybe a year. He’d liked the start but now he found he couldn’t remember the first twenty pages he’d read the day before. He set the book aside and found himself thinking instead about his conversat
ion with Paul. He was quite sure he’d overlooked something that his old friend had said, something important.
At 5 a.m. he gave up trying to sleep and ended up sitting at his desk. He began working on the plan that had started to form in his head, since visiting Isabelle Dufour’s apartment.
There were many owl designs out there, quick-and-easy versions that he’d made, but this one was going to be exceptional, if he could just get the mapping right. He thought about Isabelle Dufour’s bronze owl and began to draw, sketching each detail with care. The feathered wings and tail; the large, expressive claws; the expression of the face, which he could picture in his mind, but was still trying to figure out how to convey on paper. It couldn’t be rushed.
The magic would happen when the design accounted for exactly the right amount of paper to be deployed for each feather, the half blink of an eye, the curve of a claw. Every inch of paper would be used rather than tucked away. That was the elegance Morel strove for. It was the opposite of disorder and wastefulness, which was the natural order of things.
In a design like this, a lot of the paper was hidden, layers that contributed to the final product while remaining invisible. As far as Morel was concerned, the art of origami lay in one’s ability to visualize the unseen parts. As he folded, he retained a mental picture of the layers beneath.
He was so engrossed in what he was doing that, when the alarm went off, it took him a while to realize it was morning and time to get ready for work. There was no sound from upstairs but Morel knew his father would come down before him.
Setting his drawings aside, Morel got undressed and stepped into the shower. He turned his mind back to the Dufour case. Here too there were unseen layers that would help form a complete picture, if only he could see them.
ELEVEN
Getting to work turned out to be a nightmare. It took Morel an hour to get across town. What had possessed him to drive? The whole city seemed to be on the march. At Place de la Concorde, he remained stuck in his car for what felt like an eternity. A young man on roller blades zigzagged through the stalled traffic, selling drinks and sandwiches.
The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) Page 7
