Alex

by Pierre Lemaitre

  “We’re agreed on that point. The sums involved are pretty paltry; if she was in this for the money, she’d plan her moves more carefully, choose richer victims. Trarieux’s father was robbed of 623 euros; with Maciak she got a day’s takings; with Gattegno, she spends the balance on his credit cards.”

  “So the cash is just a perk?”

  “Possibly. I think it’s a diversion. She’s trying to throw us off the scent by making it look like a robbery gone wrong.”

  “What then? A sociopath?”

  “Maybe. It’s definitely sexual.”

  The fatal word has been said. Now it’s anybody’s game. The magistrate has his own ideas on the subject. Camille wouldn’t put much money on his sexual experience, but he’s been to university and he’s not afraid to theorise on the subject.

  “She … if indeed it is a she …”

  This has been the magistrate’s shtick right from the start. It’s probably something he does in all his cases: harping on rules, the presumption of innocence, the necessity of relying on hard facts; he positively revels in playing the pedant. When he makes an insinuation like this, reminding them that nothing is proven, he invariably contrives to have a moment of silence so that everyone understands the significance of the subtext. Le Guen nods. Later, he’ll say: “At least we get to deal with him as an adult. Can you imagine what an irritating arsehole he must have been at school?”

  “She pours the acid down the victim’s throat,” the magistrate goes on. “If this were sexual, as you maintain, it seems to me she might have other uses for it. Don’t you agree?”

  An innuendo. A roundabout phrase. Theorising keeps reality at a distance. Never one to miss an opportunity, Camille says, “Would you care to be more precise?”

  “Well …”

  The magistrate hesitates a second too long, Camille pounces:

  “Yes?”

  “Well, the acid … surely she would be more likely to pour it …”

  “… on his prick?” interrupts Camille.

  “Um …”

  “Or his balls maybe? Or both?”

  “Yes, I’m inclined to think so.”

  Le Guen stares up at the ceiling. When he hears the magistrate begin to speak again, he thinks, “Seconds out: round two,” and already he feels tired.

  “You’re still of the opinion that this girl was raped, Commandant Verhœven; is that your point?”

  “Raped, yes. I think she kills because she was raped. I think she’s avenging herself on men.”

  “And her pouring the sulphuric acid down her victims’ throats …”

  “I’m inclined to think it’s related to unpleasant experiences of giving blow jobs. Such things do happen, you know …”

  “Absolutely,” the judge agrees. “In fact more often than one might think. Luckily, not all women who are shocked by the practice become serial killers. Or at least, not like this.”

  Astonishingly, the magistrate is smiling; Camille is a little disconcerted. The man seems always to smile at inopportune moments. It’s difficult to interpret.

  “In any case, whatever her reasons,” Camille goes on, “it’s what she does. Yeah, yeah, I know, if it is a she …”

  As he says this, Camille twirls a finger in the air: the same old song.

  The magistrate, still smiling, nods and gets to his feet.

  “In any case, whether or not it’s that, there’s been something this girl’s found hard to swallow.”

  Everyone is surprised. Especially Camille.

  34

  Alex made one last attempt to duck out.

  “I’m not dressed for it. I can’t go out like this – I’ve brought nothing with me.”

  “You look perfect.”

  And suddenly they’re face to face in the living room. Jacqueline is staring at her, gazing deep into Alex’s green eyes, and nods in a mixture of admiration and regret, as though she is seeing a part of her own life, as though she is saying how marvellous it is to be beautiful, to be young, and when she says, “You look perfect,” she really means it, and there’s nothing Alex can say. They take a taxi and before she realises it, they’re there. The dance hall is enormous. Alex finds this in itself depressing – it’s like the circus or the zoo, the sort of place that immediately makes you feel unaccountably sad, but to make things worse it would take 800 people to fill the place and there are barely 150. There’s a band with an accordion and an electric piano – the musicians are fifty if they’re a day. The band leader’s toupee is slipping from the sweat and looks as though it will wind up down his back. There are a hundred chairs set around the walls; in the centre, on a dance floor gleaming like a new penny, some thirty couples sway to and fro, dressed up as bolero dancers, as wedding guests, as trashy Spaniards, as Twenties Charleston babes. It looks like a broken hearts convention.

  Jacqueline doesn’t see it like that – she’s completely in her element. Just looking at her you can tell she loves the place. She knows a lot of the regulars, introduces Alex: “This is Laura,” she gives Alex a wink, “my niece.” They’re all in their forties or fifties. Here, any girl in her thirties looks like an orphan, and any man looks slightly suspicious. There are about a dozen bubbly, vivacious women like Jacqueline, in their glad rags, their hair and make-up perfect, on the arms of gentle, patient husbands wearing trousers with razor-sharp creases. Loud, jolly women usually described as “up for anything”. They hug Alex as though they’ve been dying to meet her for ages; after that she is quickly forgotten since they are here to dance.

  In fact, the dancing is merely a pretext; the real reason is Mario: this is why Jacqueline is here. She should have told Alex – it would have been easier. Mario is about thirty with a body like a builder’s labourer, a little tongue-tied but undeniably manly. So, on the one hand there’s Mario, the builder, and on the other there’s Michel, in his jacket and tie, who looks like a former company director, the kind of man who tugs his shirt cuffs and wears monogrammed cufflinks. He’s wearing a pale-green suit with a narrow strip of braid down the outside leg; you can’t help wondering where he could wear such a thing other than here. It’s obvious that he’s stuck on Jacqueline, but the problem is that, compared to Mario, he looks very old for fifty. Jacqueline couldn’t care less about Michel. Alex watches this transparent charade. Here, a little knowledge of animal behaviour is enough to understand every relationship.

  To one side of the room, there’s a bar – more of a refreshment room, really – where everybody congregates during less popular numbers. This is where people make small talk and it is here, too, that the men make overtures to the women. At certain moments, there will be a whole crowd in the corner of the room, making the few couples dancing look even more forlorn, like figures on top of a wedding cake. The band leader whips up the tempo to get the song over and try his luck with a different number.

  It’s past 2.00 a.m. by the time the place starts to empty out. A handful of men cling feverishly to women in the middle of the dance floor because there’s not much time left to seal the deal.

  Mario disappears, Michel offers to take them home, but Jacqueline says no, they’ll take a taxi, but before that, everyone kisses everyone goodnight, says how much they’ve enjoyed their evening, promises the moon.

  In the taxi, Alex dares to bring up the subject of Michel with a tipsy Jacqueline, who confides something that is surely no secret: “I’ve always had a thing for younger men.” As she says this, she gives a little pout, as though admitting that she can’t resist chocolate. Both can be bought, thinks Alex, because sooner or later Jacqueline will get her Mario, but one way or the other it will cost her.

  “You were bored, weren’t you?”

  Jacqueline takes Alex’s hand in hers and squeezes. Strangely, they’re cold, these long, wizened hands with their ridiculously long nails. Into this gesture Jacqueline pours all the affection that the late hour and her inebriated state permit.

  “Not at all,” Alex says with conviction. “It was fun.”


  But she has already decided she will leave tomorrow. Early. She doesn’t have a reservation, but it doesn’t matter. She’ll get a train.

  They get back to the hotel. Jacqueline totters on her high heels. Come on, it’s late. They kiss each other goodnight in the hall, making no noise so as not to wake the guests. “See you tomorrow?” Alex agrees to everything. She goes up to her room, fetches her suitcase, comes downstairs again and sets it near the reception desk. Now she has only her handbag. She slips behind the desk and pushes the door into the private sitting room.

  *

  Jacqueline has taken off her shoes and just poured herself a large whisky. Now that she’s alone, left to herself, she looks a hundred years older.

  When she sees Alex appear, she smiles. Did you forget something? She doesn’t have time to say the words before Alex snatches up the telephone receiver and smashes it full force into her right temple. Jacqueline reels from the shock and collapses. Her glass flies across the room. When she looks up, Alex slams the huge Bakelite telephone down on her head, using both hands this time. This is how she kills people – a blow to the head first. Besides, it’s the fastest way when you don’t have a weapon. This time, three, four, five massive blows, swinging her arm as high as possible and she’s done. The old woman’s face is already badly battered, but she’s not dead – this is the second advantage of hitting them across the head: it stuns them but leaves them awake for dessert. Two more blows to the face and Alex realises that Jacqueline is wearing dentures. They’re hanging crookedly half out of her mouth, made of acrylic resin, most of the front teeth broken – there’s not much left. Blood is streaming from her nose; Alex prudently takes a step back. She uses the telephone wire to tie her wrists and ankles so that if the old bitch struggles a bit, it doesn’t matter.

  Alex is always careful to protect her nose and her face – she works at arm’s length, grabbing a fistful of hair. It’s just as well, because when the acrylic resin comes into contact with the sulphuric acid it bubbles dramatically.

  As her tongue, her throat and her neck fuse, the hotelier lets out a raucous, animal cry, and her stomach distends like a helium-filled balloon. The cry is probably just a reflex – it’s difficult to tell. But, even so, Alex hopes it’s pain.

  She opens the window onto the courtyard, and half opens the door to create a through breeze then, once the air is breathable again, she closes the door, leaving the window open. She looks for a bottle of Baileys, doesn’t find one, tastes the vodka which isn’t bad, then settles on the sofa. One eye on the old woman. Dead, she looks completely dislocated, and that’s nothing compared to the face – or what’s left of it. The flesh melted away by the acid has released a torrent of Botox to create a revolting pulp.

  Ugh.

  Alex is exhausted.

  She picks up a magazine and starts on the crossword.

  35

  They’re getting nowhere. The magistrate, the weather, the investigation, nothing’s going right. Even Le Guen is in a state. And then there’s the girl, about whom they still know nothing. Camille has finished up his reports; he’s hanging around. He never really feels like going home. If it weren’t for Doudouche waiting for him …

  They’re working ten-hour days, they’ve taken dozens of witness statements, reread dozens of reports and charge sheets, correlated information, checked details, times, questioned people. And come up with nothing. It makes you wonder.

  Louis pops his head round the door, then comes in. Seeing the papers scattered on the desk, he gestures May I? to the commandant. Camille nods. Louis turns the papers around; they’re portraits of the girl. The E-FIT created by l’identité judiciaire is good enough for witnesses to be able to identify her, but it’s lifeless, while here, from memory, Camille has transformed her, brought her completely to life. This girl may have no name, but in these sketches she has a soul. Camille has drawn her ten, twenty, maybe thirty times as though he knew her intimately. Here she is sitting at a table, probably in a restaurant, hands clasped under her chin as though listening to someone telling a story, her eyes bright, laughing. Here she’s crying, looking up at the viewer – it’s heartbreaking; it looks as though she’s lost for words, her lips seem to tremble. Here she is walking down the street, arching her back as she turns round – she’s just seen something in a shop window, and the glass reflects her expression of surprise. In Camille’s sketches, she is startlingly alive.

  Louis feels like saying how good he thinks they are, but he says nothing, because he remembers that Camille used to sketch Irène like this. There were always new drawings on his desk – he would doodle them while he talked on the telephone; it was like an unwitting product of his thinking process.

  So Louis says nothing. They chat for a bit. Louis says he’s going to stay late, not too late – he’s got some things to finish up. Camille understands, gets to his feet, slips on his coat, takes his hat and leaves.

  On the way, he runs into Armand. Camille is surprised to see him in the office at this hour. Armand has got two cigarettes tucked behind each ear, and the top of a four-colour pen is sticking out of the pocket of his threadbare jacket. This is a clear sign that there’s someone new working on the floor. A situation Armand unfailingly turns to his advantage. A rookie can’t take two steps in this building without running into the nicest old colleague you could meet, ready to show him round the maze of corridors, to fill him in on the stories and the rumours, a guy who wears his heart on his sleeve, who really gets young people. Camille loves it. It’s like a music hall act where the hapless audience member who goes up onto the stage is relieved of his watch and his wallet without noticing. In the course of the conversation, the rookie will find himself relieved of cigarettes, pen, notepad, street guide to Paris, métro tickets, luncheon vouchers, parking permit, small change, newspaper and crossword magazine. Because afterwards, it’s too late.

  Camille and Armand leave the brigade together. Camille greets Louis with a handshake every morning, but never in the evening. He and Armand shake hands in the evening, but never say anything.

  Though everyone knows, no-one ever mentions that Camille is a creature of habit, and constantly accrues new habits which he imposes on everyone.

  In fact they’re more than habits, they’re rituals. Rituals that make it possible for them to recognise each other. With Camille, life is a perpetual celebration, except nobody knows what they’re celebrating. And it’s a language. With Camille, even the simple act of putting on his glasses is far from simple: it can mean I need to think, Leave me alone, I feel old, or Roll on the next ten years! The manner in which Camille puts on his glasses is the equivalent of the way Louis brushes back his hair, a system of coded signs. Maybe Camille is this way because he’s short; he needs to feel rooted in the world.

  Armand shakes hands with Camille and dashes for the métro, leaving him standing there, at a loose end. Though Doudouche is very sweet, and does everything she can to be companionable, when that’s all there is to go home to in the evening …

  Camille once read somewhere that it’s just when you’ve given up hope that the signal comes that may save you. It happens now, in this very moment. The thunderstorm, which a moment before seemed to have abated, now whips up worse than ever. Pressing his hat to his head against the driving wind, Camille heads for the taxi rank. There are two men ahead of him, clutching black umbrellas, irritated. They stare into the distance, leaning out into the street like passengers impatiently waiting for a delayed train. Camille checks his watch. The métro. He does a U-turn, takes a few steps, turns back again. He stops and watches the scene playing out at the taxi rank. A car passes slowly outside the reserved lane, in fact it’s moving so slowly that it looks like a proposal, a discreet, unobtrusive invitation, the window is rolled down … And suddenly, Camille is convinced he’s found the answer. Don’t ask him why. Maybe because he’s exhausted all other possibilities. It couldn’t have been a bus because of the time, the métro would have been too risky �
�� too many C.C.T.V. cameras everywhere and too much chance of being noticed, given it would have been deserted. Same problem with a taxi: no better way of making sure someone remembers you.

  So.

  So, this is how it happened. He doesn’t think it through any further, he slaps his hat on his head and, muttering an apology, steps in front of the man just moving forward, leans into the open window of the car.

  “How much to the Quai de Valmy?”

  “Fifteen euros?” suggests the driver.

  Eastern European, but which country … ? Camille has never been good with accents. He opens the back door and gets in. The car pulls away, the driver winding up the window. He’s wearing a wool cardigan with a zip that looks hand-knitted. Camille hasn’t seen one in ten years, not since he threw out his own. Minutes tick by, and Camille closes his eyes, relieved.

  “Actually, I’ve changed my mind. Could you take me back to the Quai des Orfèvres?”

  The driver looks in the rear-view mirror and sees Commandant Camille Verhœven’s warrant card.

  *

  Louis is just leaving, pulling on his Alexander McQueen coat, when Camille reappears with his prey. Surprise, Louis.

  “Got a second?” Camille says, but doesn’t wait for an answer. He puts the cab driver into an interrogation room and perches on a chair facing him. This isn’t going to take long, a fact Camille points out to the guy.

  “Like-minded people always end up getting along, don’t you think?”

  The concept of “like-minded people” proves a little complex for a fifty-year-old Lithuanian. So Camille resorts to more tried and trusted methods, to cruder and consequently more effective explanations:

  “We – the police – can make your lives hell. I can get a squad together to seal off every train station, the Gare du Nord, the Gare de l’Est, Montparnasse, Saint-Lazare, even Les Invalides for the cabs running to Roissy airport. We’ll pick up two-thirds of the gypsy cab drivers in Paris within an hour and the rest of them won’t be working for at least two months. The ones we pick up, we’ll bring here, go through the drivers with no papers, forged papers, expired papers, and slap them with a fine equal to the price of their car – but obviously we’ll impound the car. Yeah, sorry about that, it’s the law, nothing else we can do, you get it? When we’re done, we’ll put half of you on planes back to Belgrade, Tallinn, Vilnius (don’t worry, we’ll pick up the tab!) and toss the others in the slammer for two years. So, what d’you think?”