“I see. Your daughter didn’t want to bother you with her little problems. It probably just happened: someone poured half a litre of acid into her vagina and she just came home as usual as if nothing had happened. A model of discretion.”
“I don’t know.”
Nothing about her has changed: not the expression, not the posture, but her voice is solemn.
“The pathologists pointed out something else that’s curious,” Camille goes on. “The whole genital area was profoundly affected – nerve endings destroyed, the natural orifices permanently fused and disfigured. Your daughter would never have been able to have normal sexual relations. To say nothing of any other hopes she might have had. But, as I was saying, the curious thing …”
Camille stops, drops the report, takes off his glasses and sets them down in front of him, folds his arms and stares hard at Alex’s mother.
“… is that the urinary tract was crudely ‘patched up’. Because obviously this was a life-threatening condition. With the flesh fused together, she would have died within hours. According to our pathologist, it was botched, brutal: a cannula forced through the meatus to open up the urinary tract.”
Silence.
“According to him, the result is nothing short of miraculous. And an act of butchery. That’s not how he puts it in his report, but that’s the gist.”
Mme Prévost tries to swallow, but her throat is dry; she seems about to choke, to cough, but no, nothing.
“Now obviously he’s a doctor. I’m a police officer. He makes observations; my job is to draw conclusions. And my theory is that this had to be done quickly. To make sure Alex didn’t have to go to hospital. Because they would have asked a lot of awkward questions, like the name of the man who had done this – I’m assuming it was a man – because the extent of the injuries was such that it could not have been an accident, it had to have been deliberate. Alex, brave little girl that she was, didn’t want to make a fuss; you knew her, it wasn’t her style, she was discreet …”
Mme Prévost finally manages to swallow.
“Tell me, Mme Prévost, how long have you worked as a nursing assistant?”
*
Thomas Vasseur bows his head. He has listened to the conclusions of the autopsy report in complete silence. He is now staring at Louis, who has been reading the report aloud, and when Vasseur does not react, he asks:
“Anything you’d like to say?”
Vasseur spreads his hands.
“It’s all very sad.”
“So you know about it?”
“Alex had no secrets from her big brother,” Vasseur says with a smile.
“In that case, you’ll be able to explain exactly how it happened, won’t you?”
“I’m afraid not. Alex mentioned it in passing, that’s all. I mean it was very private … She was very evasive.”
“So there’s nothing you can tell us about it?”
“I’m sorry.”
“You have no particulars … ?”
“None.”
“No details?”
“No.”
“No theory?”
“Well, I suppose … maybe someone got a little annoyed. Very annoyed.”
“Someone … you don’t know who?”
Vasseur smiles again.
“No idea.”
“So you think ‘someone’ got angry … About what?”
“I couldn’t say. That’s just what I gathered.”
It’s almost as though, until now, he’d been testing the water and has finally decided that he likes it. They aren’t being aggressive, these policemen, they’ve got nothing against him, no hard evidence – all this is written on his face. Besides, provocation is in his nature.
“You know … Alex could be a pain in the neck sometimes.”
“How so?”
“Well, she could be stubborn. She threw tantrums, you get the idea.”
And since no-one reacts, Vasseur can’t be sure he’s made his point.
“What I mean is, with a girl like that you’re bound to get angry. Maybe it was not having a father, but there was a side to her that was … defiant. Deep down, I think she had issues with authority. So sometimes, when the mood took her, she’d say ‘no’, and you couldn’t get a thing out of her.”
It almost feels as though Vasseur is reliving the scene rather than recounting it.
“That’s what she was like. Out of the blue, for no reason, she’d kick off. I swear she could really get on your nerves.”
“Is that what happened?” Louis asks in a faint, almost inaudible voice.
“I don’t know,” Vasseur says carefully, “I wasn’t there.”
He smiles at the officers.
“All I’m saying is that Alex was the kind of girl this sort of thing eventually happens to. She’d be pig-headed, stubborn … Eventually you run out of patience …”
Armand, who hasn’t uttered a word in the past hour, is rooted to the spot.
Louis is white as a sheet; he’s beginning to lose his composure. With him, this takes the form of an exaggerated formality.
“But … we are not talking about a common or garden spanking here, Monsieur Vasseur! We are talking about committing cruel, barbaric acts on a child who was not yet fifteen and who had been pimped out to adult men!”
He stresses every word, articulates every syllable. Camille can see how upset he is. Once again Vasseur, who is still perfectly composed, has got the better of him and he’s determined to rub his nose in it.
“If your theory about prostitution is correct, I’d say it was an occupational hazard.”
This time, Louis is flummoxed. He glances round for Camille. Camille smiles at him; he has seen it all and come through it. He nods as though he understands, as though he agrees with Vasseur’s conclusion.
“And did your mother know?” he says.
“About what? Oh, that – no … Alex didn’t want to worry her with her little problems. My mother had her fair share of problems … No, our mother never knew.”
“That’s a pity,” Camille says. “She would have been able to offer advice. Being a nurse, I mean. She would have been able to take emergency action.”
Vasseur simply nods, adopts a hurt expression. “What can you do?” he says resignedly. “We can’t rewrite history.”
“So when you found out this had happened, you didn’t want to press charges?”
Vasseur looks at Camille in surprise.
“But … against whom?”
What Camille hears is “But, why?”
58
It is 7.00 p.m. Night drew in so stealthily that no-one has realised that for some time now the interview has been taking place in a half-light which makes everything seem unreal.
Thomas Vasseur is tired. He struggles to his feet, as though he’s just spent the night playing cards, puts his hands on his hips, arches his back and heaves a sigh of relief, stretching his stiff legs. The officers remain seated. Armand looks at the case file to give an impression of calm. Louis cautiously brushes the desk with the back of his hand. Camille also stands up; he walks to the door, then turns back and says wearily:
“Your half-sister Alex was blackmailing you. Why don’t we pick up from there, if it’s alright with you.”
“No, sorry,” Vasseur yawns. His expression is apologetic: he’d like to help, would be happy to oblige, but it’s not possible. He rolls down his shirt sleeves.
“I really have to get home now.”
“You could just call …”
Vasseur waves his hand as though refusing to stay for one last round.
“Honestly …”
“You have two options, Monsieur Vasseur. Either you sit down and answer our questions, which should only take an hour or two …”
“Or … ?” Vasseur puts his hands flat on the table.
Head bowed, he looks up, the heavy-browed stare of a movie hero about to pull a gun, but here it falls flat.
“Or I arrest you, which all
ows me to keep you in custody for at least twenty-four hours. We’d probably be allowed to hold you for forty-eight hours – the magistrate is a big fan of victims; he wouldn’t have any problem letting us keep you a little longer.”
Vasseur stares, wide-eyed.
“Arrest me … on what charge?”
“It doesn’t matter – aggravated rape, torture, procuring, murder, acts of barbarism, whatever you like, personally, I don’t give a toss. But do say if you’ve got a preference …”
“But you’ve got no proof! Of anything!”
He explodes. He’s been patient, very patient, but that’s all over now. The police are abusing their authority.
“Fuck you! I’m out of here.”
At this point, everything happens very quickly.
Vasseur says something that no-one catches, grabs his jacket and before anyone can move he has dashed to the door, flung it open and has one foot outside. The two uniformed officers standing guard in the corridor immediately intervene. Vasseur stops, turns back.
“I think,” Camille says, “that perhaps it would be best to arrest you. Let’s say for murder. Alright with you?”
“You’ve got nothing on me. You’re just busting my balls, that’s it, isn’t it?”
He closes his eyes, prepared once more to tough it out, shuffles back into the office. He’s realised he’s fighting a losing battle.
“You have the right to make one telephone call to a relative,” Camille advises him, “and to see a doctor.”
“No, I want to see a lawyer.”
59
Le Guen informs the magistrate about the arrest and Armand takes care of the formalities. It’s always a race against time since police custody is limited to twenty-four hours.
Vasseur does not object to anything; he wants this over and done with. He needs to square things with his wife, blame everything on these arseholes. He agrees to remove his shoelaces, his belt, lets them take his fingerprints, his D.N.A. – let them take what they want – all he cares about is that this is handled quickly. He refuses to speak while he waits for his lawyer. He will respond to administrative questions, but otherwise he’s not saying anything; he is waiting.
And he calls his wife.
“It’s work – nothing serious, but I can’t get away right now. Don’t worry. I’ve been unavoidably detained.”
In the circumstances, the choice of words seems unfortunate; he tries to think of something, but he’s not prepared, he’s not used to having to justify himself. So having no excuses, he adopts an overbearing tone that clearly says: stop bugging me with these trivial questions. On the other end of the line there is embarrassed silence, a refusal to understand.
“I already told you, I can’t get away right now!” Vasseur shouts. He can’t help himself. “You’ll just have to go on your own.”
Camille wonders whether he hits his wife.
“I’ll be home tomorrow.”
He doesn’t say what time.
“Right, I have to go now … Yeah, me too. Yeah, I’ll call you later.”
It is 8.15 p.m. Vasseur’s brief arrives at 11.00, a forceful energetic young man none of them has met before, but he clearly knows his stuff. He has half an hour in which to confer with his client, tell him how to behave, advise prudence, prudence at all costs, and wish him luck – because without seeing the case file, in thirty minutes there’s not much more he can do.
Camille decides to go home, shower, change. A few minutes later, the taxi drops him outside his place. He takes the lift; Camille has to be utterly exhausted to decide not to take the stairs.
The parcel is waiting outside his door, wrapped in brown paper, tied up with string. Camille knows what it is at once. He grabs it and goes into his apartment. Doudouche gets only the most perfunctory pat on the head.
It gives him an odd feeling, seeing Maud Verhœven’s self-portrait. Eighteen thousand euros.
It has to be Louis. He was out of the office this morning, didn’t get in until two o’clock. To Louis, spending 18,000 euros on a painting is nothing. Still, Camille feels uncomfortable. In situations like this it’s difficult to know what’s implicitly owed to the other person, what’s expected, what to do. Accept, refuse, say something? What? Gifts always imply some form of quid pro quo – what is Louis expecting to get in return? As he undresses and gets into the shower, Camille reluctantly returns to his worries about what to do with the proceeds of the auction. The idea of donating it all to good causes is terrible – it’s a gesture that says to his mother I want nothing more to do with you.
He’s a little old to be thinking like this, but when it comes to parents, you’re never done – look at Alex. He towels himself off, reaffirms his decision. He’ll do it calmly. Giving up the money is hardly disowning his mother. It’s just a means of closure.
Am I really going to do this, give everything away?
The self-portrait, on the other hand, he plans to keep. He looks at it as he gets dressed again; he has propped it up on the sofa opposite him. He’s happy to have it back. It’s a magnificent work. He’s not angry with his mother – surely this is what wanting to keep the painting means. For the first time, this man who has always been told he takes after his father sees in the painting a resemblance he himself has to his mother. It comforts him. He is sorting his life out. He doesn’t know where this is heading.
Just before setting off again to the brigade, Camille remembers Doudouche and opens a tin of cat food.
*
As Camille arrives back at the office, he runs into the lawyer, who’s just finishing up. Armand called time on the client briefing. Thomas Vasseur is still in the main office. Armand has opened the windows to let some air in. The place feels rather chilly now.
When Louis appears, Camille gives him a nod of complicity, but Louis looks at him puzzled; Camille signals to him that they’ll talk about it later.
Vasseur looks to be rather ill at ease; his five o’clock shadow seems to be developing at an alarming rate, like some ad for fertiliser, but there’s still the flicker of a smile on his face that says You want to send me down, but you’ve got nothing on me and you’ll get nothing. You want war? Bring it on. You must think I’m a complete idiot. His lawyer advised him to wait and see – always the best tactic – to weigh his words, do nothing rash. For Vasseur, the race against time works the other way: he needs to stall, to drag things out. The lawyer said in order to prolong the detention period, they’ll have to go back to the magistrate with something new and they won’t have anything. Camille can see it all in the way Vasseur’s mouth opens and closes, the way he puffs out his chest; he’s doing breathing exercises.
People say that the first minutes of any encounter encompass the whole relationship in miniature. Camille remembers that the first time he met Vasseur, he hated him on sight. This has had a significant bearing on how he has conducted this case. And Vidard knows this.
Deep down, Camille and the magistrate are not so different. This is a depressing realisation.
Le Guen told Camille that Vidard approved of his strategy. Wonders will never cease. Right now, Camille’s feelings are complicated. Now that the magistrate has come down firmly on his side, Camille needs to rethink how he’s going to play this. It’s irritating.
Armand begins by noting aloud the date and time, the names and ranks of those present, like the chorus in a Greek tragedy.
Camille takes the lead.
“Before we get started, we’ll have no more of your crap about ‘theories’.”
Change of tactics. As he says this, Camille marshals his thoughts, checks his watch.
“So, Alex was blackmailing you.”
There’s a tension in his voice. It is as if he is worried about something else.
“Talk me through that,” Vasseur says.
Camille turns to Armand who, caught off guard, flicks his way through the case file, which seems to take an age. Post-It notes and loose sheets of paper flutter everywhere; you have to wond
er whether the French Republic has put its faith in the right men. But he finds it: Armand always finds what he’s looking for.
“A loan from your employer Distrifair for 20,000 euros on February 15, 2005. Your house was already mortgaged to the hilt, you couldn’t go to the bank, so you asked your boss. You’re paying the loan back monthly as a percentage of your earnings.”
Vasseur looks doubtful.
“So what?”
Camille gestures to Armand, the loyal dogged detective, who takes over.
“Your bank confirms that you deposited a cheque from your employer to the value of 20,000 euros on February 15, 2005 and drew out the same sum in cash on February 18.”
Camille closes his eyes, silently cheering. He opens them again.
“And why exactly might you need 20,000 euros in cash, Monsieur Vasseur?”
A moment’s hesitation. Even when you’re expecting it, the worst can still come back and bite you on the arse; this is what’s written on Vasseur’s face. They’ve been to see his boss. He’s been in custody for five hours, and there are nineteen hours to go; having spent a career in sales, Vasseur isn’t trained to withstand shocks. He’s taking a hammering here.
“Gambling debts.”
“You gambled with your sister and you lost, that it?”
“No, it’s nothing to do with Alex … it was someone else.”
“Who?”
Vasseur is having difficulty breathing.
“Let’s save time, shall we?” Camille says. “The 20,000 euros was clearly intended for Alex. When we found her body in the hotel room, she still had a little less than 12,000 euros. We recovered your fingerprints from several of the plastic security strips.”
They’ve gone this far. Just how far back have they gone? What do they know? What do they want now?
Camille can see these questions in the wrinkles on Vasseur’s forehead, in his eyes, in the tremor of his hands. It’s deeply unprofessional, and Camille would never admit it to anyone, but he loathes Vasseur. He despises him. He wants to kill him. He wants to kill him. He had that same thought about the magistrate a couple of weeks ago. You’re not in this job by accident, he thinks; you’re a potential killer.
Alex Page 28
