“Yes. He shouldn’t have?”
“No. But if that convinced you to come talk to us, his mistake did some good. Why did you want to speak to a woman? Why not address Lieutenant Drancey directly?”
“Because what I’m going to reveal is private. I know it’s stupid, since I’m going to sign my statement, which will then become public.”
“I understand. Then again, do you have any objection to my recording this?”
“No, you can go ahead. It won’t last for hours.”
Géraldine Borteau settled into the middle of her chair. She felt ill. She was going to display her private life in front of this stranger. She was going to sully a man she had still revered two hours earlier. But did she really still revere him? She hadn’t thought twice when her instincts ordered her to tell her story. She took a deep breath and looked at the policewoman, who was looking back at her patiently. She gathered up her courage and began.
“My name is Géraldine Borteau, I’m forty-five years old, I have a master’s in history, and I serve as secretary for the Old Diocese Museum. I of course carry out the administrative tasks, but I also organize all the events that relate to our museum’s activities. I’ve assisted Arsène Boisregard since he took on his duties as curator, and our collaboration has gone very well—extremely well.”
So Antoine Dupas was right, thought the policewoman. She kept her talking. “I imagine it was that excellent relationship you wanted to speak to me about.”
“Yes. I’ll get right to the point.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’m single, and men like me. Until I met Arsène—that is, Professor Boisregard—I always loved the chase, helping myself to whoever I found attractive, breaking it off when my interest waned. I’ve always loved sex. Basically, I dominated the men I chose.”
Nadia observed the historian. She was deep in her story. She derived neither glory nor embarrassment from what she was telling. She was factual.
“When Boisregard arrived, I immediately wanted him in my bed. He was a rather handsome man and reserved. In spite of everything, I sensed a mysterious side to him. When I told a few of my girlfriends about it, it made them laugh. I won’t go into the patience I had to have in order to achieve my goal. I’ve never expended so much energy to this day. In fact, never had a man resisted me for so long, married or not, for that matter. That resistance piqued my curiosity. It was six months before we slept together. We were at a conference in Nice. While I was getting ready to take the lead on the operation, I discovered in him another man. He metamorphosed, and in one night, I became his creature. He did with me what he wanted. I agreed to everything he asked of me, even the most demeaning. I never would have thought it possible to obey a man to that extent, and I never experienced such an orgasm.”
“So in one night you plunged into sadomasochistic relations. He in the role of master, and you in that of slave?”
“That’s right. I—how do I say this—revealed myself sexually within a few hours.”
“And him?”
“By the next morning, he went back to being the same man. Even with me. When we made love, he was sure of himself. As soon as we left the bedroom, he was the same quiet, almost timid Boisregard everyone knew.”
“And when it was just the two of you in his office?”
“He was very professional and imperturbable. It was really surprising.”
“Surprising or frightening?”
“Surprising. But really, he was the master who dictated how we had to conduct our relationship . . .” Géraldine Borteau paused and looked at the police officer. “You must take me for a deranged woman or a whore, don’t you?”
“No. Everyone can have the sexuality they like, as long as it doesn’t endanger their partner.”
“Thank you. I’ll continue, since I’m not just here to tell you about my escapades. Over time, Arsène became more and more demanding, more and more violent.”
“Did you rebel?”
“No, I kept asking for it, too. I didn’t understand myself any longer; I just knew I always wanted more. He’d quickly started to practice bondage.”
“The art of playing with rope—Kinbaku.”
The historian stopped and asked the police officer, flabbergasted, “Have you had this type of experience?”
“No. But I’ve looked into that lifestyle.”
“So what I’m telling you doesn’t shock you?”
“I’m not here to be shocked or to pass judgment, Madame Borteau. But I interrupted you. Continue, please.”
“These last few months, that wasn’t enough for him anymore. He proposed a different type of game: scarification. It scared me at first, but I agreed, and I entered the universe of his fantasies.”
“What instrument did he operate with?”
“A scalpel. And he was extremely gifted. The scars faded quickly. But during our last encounter, it was unusually brutal.”
Géraldine Borteau checked that no one could see them, got up from her chair, and lifted her skirt. Her thong revealed a scar that was still very red and astonishingly deep. She dropped her skirt again.
“It was the first time the pain surpassed the pleasure I got out of it.”
“Did he have the same aptitude as usual?”
“At first, yes. But I quickly noticed he wasn’t worrying about me.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“Our relationship was based on pain. He loved to make me undergo humiliations, to make me suffer. But he always knew how to control his acts so that I got pleasure out of it. He had a sort of instinct. That wasn’t the case last week.”
“How frequent were your sexual relations with Boisregard?”
“Around twice a month. At my place, or in hotels. Occasionally at his place.”
“Had you already noticed such fits of violence in your partner?”
The secretary didn’t hesitate long. “Once, three years ago. I thought I was going to die. I wanted to break it off, but he managed to apologize convincingly. And I was addicted.”
“Do you remember the date?”
Surprised by the question, the secretary took a little time to reflect.
“It was in March.”
Everything matched up. They’d found Laure Déramaux’s body in March.
“Thank you for your testimony, Madame Borteau. It sheds new light on Arsène Boisregard. I’m quite afraid his real personality is that of the ‘master’ and not the timid curator. I imagine coming to see us wasn’t easy for you.”
“It’s okay. I’m surprisingly relieved.”
“We’re going to put your deposition on paper. I’ll ask you to come back to sign it at the end of the day.”
“I think my day has already been disturbed enough. I’m going to wait outside, and I’ll sign it immediately.”
The two women stood up, and Nadia escorted the historian to the door. “Do you have a place to sleep other than your apartment? A place he doesn’t know about?”
“Do you think that . . . ?”
“I don’t know how he might react. I’d prefer to know you’re safe.”
“I have a cousin in Lyon who would probably be willing to take me in.”
“Then go there tonight. Could you also leave me your phone number? We may have to contact you for the investigation.”
Géraldine Borteau wrote down her contact information on a slip of paper and handed it to the police officer. Between the secretary’s testimony and that of Hélène Guyancourt, which Étienne had quickly reported to her, Nadia told herself Sartenas and Boisregard really had teamed up, to the great misfortune of those who crossed their path. Nadia opened the door for Géraldine Borteau, who left the office.
Borteau passed Drancey in the hallway as she was leaving. In the space of an instant, her eyes drilled into his. Drancey turned
around and watched the sway of the departing woman’s hips.
“Rodolphe!”
The policeman jumped, abruptly woken from his dream. He saw Nadia smiling mockingly.
“Avoid her in the coming weeks. Your relationship and your health wouldn’t stand a chance.”
Chapter 64: Kill Count
4:45 p.m. The briefing room had been transformed into a hive of activity. The incessant comings and goings of the policemen who had just received instructions or were bringing the latest information created an impression of perpetual motion. Captain Stéphane Rivera discreetly stifled a yawn and stretched. The fatigue was starting to accumulate, but he knew from experience the nervous tension would allow him to continue keeping long hours. He gave his orders: all the police brigades in Isère were now on the lookout for the curator’s black X6. It wasn’t the most inconspicuous of vehicles, and he had high hopes sightings would be reported.
Rivera had a team of five people taking all the phone messages. Since the systematic posting of Sartenas’s picture on the walls of the city and in the newspapers, they’d received more than a hundred calls. Except for the most far-fetched, such as the one who had seen Sartenas vanish in a disc of light, they’d forced themselves to check all of them out. It was a continual race. One of those witnesses seemed to corroborate the fact that Sartenas had been in Grenoble. A group of three high schoolers had seen a strange man, probably wearing a wig, whose face vaguely resembled that of the picture on display. They’d encountered him at the Place Victor-Hugo, and the look in his eyes had scared them. If only they’d contacted the police at the time.
Rivera decided to join Nadia Barka, who was in the midst of talking with the Dupas family. He sat back down, though, to look at the file that had just landed on his desk. The two words written in felt-tip pen on the cardboard sleeve had stopped him: “Boisregard/disappearances.” His colleague’s suspicions had little by little sunk in—what if Boisregard was directly implicated in the murder of Laure Déramaux? He grabbed the file and pulled out about fifty pages—newspaper articles, police depositions. The compiler had created a summary of his research. Good work! Rivera took the document, settled back in his chair, put his feet up on the table, and read it.
Arsène Boisregard had lived in Grenoble for the past seven years after eight years spent in Bordeaux. Prior to that he’d lived in Paris; he’d gone to the capital just after being expelled from medical school. That had happened forty years ago. Rivera already knew the historian’s official CV, but he agitatedly read the rest of the note. Then he threw himself on the newspaper articles, compared the dates, carefully combed through the police reports. Fifteen minutes later, he closed the file, incredulous. He thought about it—he shouldn’t let himself be guided by a feeling, a sort of interior voice. He had to base his actions on facts. But he didn’t have time to piece together the facts one after the other.
“What’s the reason for your meditation, Rivera?”
“Oh, it’s you, Commissioner!” Rivera said, startled. “What I’ve just read is extremely troubling.”
“Explain.”
“This morning Captain Barka put forth the hypothesis that Boisregard could have taken part in the murder of the Déramaux girl.”
“I know Nadia took that case very much to heart, and even though she’s an excellent cop, it’s not necessarily the case . . .”
“Let me finish, Commissioner. Déramaux’s murder three years ago. The body is found still warm, not far from the village of Chapelle-en-Vercors. Another disappearance, also in Vercors, six years ago. A young Breton tourist. The police finally closed the case, but her parents were always convinced she had been abducted and killed. A skeleton was found three months ago, once again in Vercors. I’ve just made the connection with that disappearance, and I’m going to request DNA analysis.”
“We can’t pin every missing persons case in the Grenoble region on this guy, though.”
Rivera continued his list, without taking his superior’s commentary into account.
“During the eight previous years, Boisregard was teaching in Bordeaux. In May 2002, a hiker found the corpse of a twenty-year-old girl in Soulac-sur-Mer, in a bunker along the beach. The body had been lacerated with an instrument the medical examiners identified as a scalpel. A gypsy man was arrested and put in prison. But he always denied being the killer.”
“I do indeed remember that story,” remarked Mazure.
“And finally, in October 1998, in a forest next to Biscarosse, a hunter unearthed the corpse of a woman in her thirties whose body also bore evidence of torture by knife. There, too, a vagrant was arrested. He had worked for that woman as a gardener, then had left. The date of his departure closely matched that of the victim’s murder. The file was sketchy, but so was his lawyer—he was convicted.”
“But there’s no proof against Boisregard.”
“Absolutely none, Commissioner, absolutely none . . .”
“But it’s troubling, isn’t it?”
“It is indeed very troubling, especially after the deposition Géraldine Borteau just made to Captain Barka.”
“Géraldine Borteau?”
“Boisregard’s secretary, at the Old Diocese Museum.”
“What did she say?”
“I’m going to play an excerpt from her deposition.”
Rivera woke up his computer, then grabbed a USB drive sitting next to the keyboard. He plugged it in, then selected a file. He handed a pair of headphones to Mazure, who put them over his ears.
“I just learned about this fifteen minutes ago. It goes on for five minutes. I’ll let you listen to the deposition.”
Five minutes later, Mazure took off the headphones. “I’ve heard enough. We still don’t have any proof, but I have enough suspicions to launch the operations. I’m contacting the prosecutor.”
Commissioner Mazure left the room. He looked for a calmer place, took out his phone, and called the prosecutor. The conversation lasted for several minutes. Then Mazure hung up and went back into the room, visibly frustrated.
“So, Commissioner, what’s his opinion?” asked Rivera.
“He doesn’t follow. He believes the proof isn’t solid enough to put out a warrant for Boisregard. ‘Out of the question to throw his name to the wolves.’ That’s what he said to me.”
“But the wig we found at his place, the text from the Italian monk, the original of which we found in his office, and the endpaper at Sartenas’s? That isn’t enough for the fucker?”
“No, he doesn’t want to do anything official.”
“Fuck, there’s a life on the line!”
“I know. But nothing prevents us from sending out the gendarmes and the police on his tail. I’m covering everything!”
“Good, Commissioner.”
“Ah, and still no idea where he could have gone?”
“We’re pushed to the limit, Commissioner. But we have, for the moment, found no second residence in Boisregard’s name, nor one belonging to close family. We’re investigating vacation spots or favorite getaways, but that takes time.”
“And we don’t have any—”
“We’re aware of that, Commissioner. The only clue we have, but it’s weak, comes from a declaration by Antoine Dupas, the father of the latest missing girl. Boisregard apparently spoke of a manor once. So we’re grabbing on to that, but at this point we’ve located two hundred thirty-seven manors within a thirty-mile radius of Grenoble. And again, the definition of the word manor varies from person to person. In any case, you can be sure of one thing: we’re on it.”
“I know, Rivera.”
Chapter 65: At the Diocese
5:15 p.m. Julien Lombard hurtled down the stairs and was confronted by the intense heat, a lead weight covering the city. He had to act on his own. The discussion that had just taken place with Captain Barka and Sophie’s parents had convinced him. The
last information he’d collected before leaving had only expanded the fog the police were trying to see their way through: a black BMW X6 had been spotted around 2:30 p.m. in Saint-Martin d’Uriage. Two men were in the vehicle. The news had been reported at five o’clock. Captain Rivera had immediately commanded the gendarmes on the scene to look for Sophie’s car. They’d found it ten minutes later, empty. Sophie had vanished.
The police had hoped that a GPS antitheft system would allow them to locate the BMW. But if Boisregard had installed such an alarm, he’d since deactivated it. Julien couldn’t content himself with waiting for a miracle to put them on Sophie’s trail. He was well aware that Sartenas didn’t keep his prey for very long. Monica Revasti and Camille Saint-Forge had been killed during the night following their abduction. If he did nothing, Sophie would suffer the same fate.
He hurried toward the Diocesan Residence. If one person could give him information, it was his mother. Of course, that seemed stupid: I have an informant in the great beyond. But she’d already helped him. He had to talk to her. And to do that, he had to see Lucienne Roman again. And only Father Bernard de Valjoney could take him to her.
The two previous murders had taken place around three o’clock in the morning. If that wasn’t just a coincidence, he had fewer than ten hours to save the woman he loved—and no one knew where she was. But he’d decided to put all his energy into looking for Sophie, and not to waste a single minute lamenting the situation.
He heard the sound of running behind him. He turned around.
“Julien, I’m coming with you.”
Blinded by the sun, it took him two seconds before he recognized Captain Barka.
“You’ll probably need my help to open doors for you.”
“Captain Barka, I think I can handle this on my own. Besides . . .”
The woman seized him firmly by the arm. “Julien, don’t be stupid. You’re not going on a crusade. Even if this case touches you deeply for multiple reasons, it concerns a woman’s life and taking down two criminals. I missed Sartenas once, but he won’t escape me a second time.”
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