I lean forward.
He’s right there. I’m convinced that the stocky silhouette walking behind his colleagues is indeed that of Vermillon.
There are five of them. They walk around the building and into the car park. I race into the small alley behind me and wave at the taxi driver I’d asked to wait there. His beat-up yellow Peugeot approaches and I jump in.
‘Head over to the exit of that car park there.’
The driver does as he’s told. The first two vehicles leave. I try to see if Vermillon is in the driver’s seat, but can’t see him until I spot him in the third car. He’s in a Peugeot too, and the shape of his balding head is unmistakable.
We follow from a safe distance as he turns towards the airport. He stops twenty minutes later, after some pretty brutal driving. He must have sounded his horn more than a dozen times. We’re between Avenue Echouhada and Rue Ahmed Chaouqi. I can’t believe this. Vermillon lives only a few kilometres from La Mamounia.
I pay for the taxi, get out and make a mental note of the entrance to Vermillon’s house. He lives in rather a chic building that doesn’t face directly onto the street.
There’s no letterbox. I’d love to know if he’s married or has children.
I spend a few days watching him as he goes about his business, but learn nothing more about him, except that this man is alone and desperate.
16.
Monday, 9 February 1987
There is no one out there more alone and desperate, in fact, than Pascal Vermillon. Nobody lives with him. He has no friends. His life is empty of meaning or any kind of contact with others, other than through his work.
He leaves in the morning. He spends the day at the SMB offices. Sometimes he heads out for a few hours to a construction site. He goes home. He dines alone. Sometimes he leaves the house for an evening constitutional. He walks from Avenue Houmane El Fetouaki to the souk and then on to Place Jemaa el-Fnaa. In the midst of the hesitant tourists, he politely refuses all advances from sellers trying to convince him to buy a bowl of fresh snails, stating how good they are for one’s digestion. Then he has mint tea from a stand before going home and carrying on with his pitiful little life.
I take a closer look at his face and recognise now some of his features. I can’t be certain if this is the man I saw in Nice at the start of the year, but I’d be prepared to take a bet on it. So this really is Hector.
But is it? Can this truly be Hector? He doesn’t look like much of a man. I even pity him slightly.
I was expecting an Atlas with incredible pecs. I imagined an enemy that was frightening, someone diabolical with the mind of a genius and a hunger for revenge that has taken decades to mature. I want an opponent capable of making me quiver in my boots. I want someone who will force me to re-evaluate my own resources. It was a Trojan War that I wanted, not an everyday scrap with some pathetic little man.
Pascal Vermillon the adult is not dissimilar to Pascal Vermillon the child. As a kid, he was so timid that he became almost invisible. I was somewhat like him, it’s true, but I learned how to make the most of myself. Thanks to my art, I have skills that others don’t possess. I have transformed myself into a seasoned professional. I have gained confidence, and in so doing, I’ve become well off. I accepted my dark side and exploited it to the full.
Not to blow my own trumpet, but I’ve made a proper success of my life. I’m not frustrated in any way. I have enough money to last more than a lifetime, a beautiful young partner, opportunities for travel throughout France and the rest of the world. Those who know me find me to be sensitive, charming, sociable and outgoing.
Vermillon is exactly the same as he ever was. The years have not been kind to him physically. He’s still small, of course, but he’s so hunched now that you get the impression that his shoulders will collapse into his chest. He’s gone bald, but instead of trimming the scattered strands surrounding his face, he’s just left them. He clearly neglects himself. Black tufts stick out in all directions behind his ears, and it’s so grotesque that he attracts attention even here, where not everyone even has a mirror to examine themselves in the morning.
When we were kids, we were mediocre, and Pascal Vermillon still is.
I know what you’re thinking, my future canvas . . . Now that we know each other, you’ve painted a picture that suits your idea of me, and you think I might be underestimating him? I’m really not. Vermillon doesn’t know I’m here. He has no idea that I know him to be behind the murder in Montpellier. I’m observing him in his typical, everyday environment. He is what I’m seeing right now, devoid of any artifice. This total loser, dragging his sorry carcass along the dusty streets of Marrakech, is the real Pascal Vermillon.
But I also know that this man becomes Hector. This slug mutates into a creature of terrifying cunning.
And there’s no way I’m not going to face him head-on.
Until now, I was hesitant about what to do when Hector and I came face to face. A sudden conflict is not necessarily desirable. I’m not some nut who roams around committing random acts of violence. I’m a measured person who makes plans and follows them to the letter. Each time I act, I work meticulously so as not to be caught out.
So what would happen in the event of a full-blown battle? Would we take out our knives and bleed each other dry? No, and besides, I’m unarmed. Patroclus is still in Grasse. I don’t want that. I’m more of a poisoner, or maybe I’d send someone else in to despatch him. I can only handle blood when I’m creating something.
But this man . . . no . . . this little nobody is not to be feared. I find it hard to understand how such an insignificant person could have developed such a fiendish strategy. I really can’t imagine him coming back to France and slaying Caroline Berthier in cold blood.
But it seems he did. And since Vermillon’s life seems as regulated as a bus timetable, he’ll be back in the same place tomorrow. All I have to do is go and say hello.
‘Pascal?’
He doesn’t react.
‘Pascal? Is that really you?’
Vermillon frowns. He makes small head movements from left to right as if he’s trying to place me.
Let me start again.
‘Pascal? It’s me – Achilles . . . Achilles Clazay.’
‘Achilles?’
‘Yes! How are you? I just can’t believe it! Fancy meeting you here! Are you on holiday?’
Don’t underestimate him. Really. Don’t. His reaction confirms that he’ll be a formidable opponent. Vermillon really does seem surprised, and indeed it’s logical that he should be surprised, although I was convinced, when he saw me here on Place Jemaa el-Fnaa in the midst of this crowd, that he was going to panic.
He’s just found out – this very instant – that I know. The man he’s been tormenting – me – has identified him. But Hector is keeping his cool.
‘So you’re here on holiday then?’
‘No, no. I . . . I live here.’
‘Really? And how long has it been then? Forty years, maybe? Mind if I join you?’
I sit on the bench without waiting for a response. The waiter acknowledges me, and I ask for mint tea.
‘Forty years, Pascal! But I recognised you straight away – you haven’t changed one bit!’
Silence. I like how uncomfortable he looks.
‘So you live here?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And what do you do?’
‘I’m in construction. We build houses and tower blocks.’
‘Great! And have you been here long?’
‘A few years. Achilles . . . uh . . . are you on holiday down here?’
‘Holiday? No, I’m working. I’m here on business. How’s your father, Pascal?’
‘He died six years ago.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry for your loss. These things happen. Death happens. Doesn’t it?’
He doesn’t answer.
‘People die, don’t they? Don’t they, Pascal?’
‘Yes . . . Yes,
of course . . .’
There’s another silence that I relish as I pour the burning tea down my throat.
As someone who normally avoids direct confrontation, I must admit that I feel in my element. Of course, there’s no way our little discussion is going to turn into a fist fight. Not here. There are too many people around, and neither of us would have anything to gain by revealing our game too soon.
‘So, Pascal, how are you? Are you married? Do you have children?’
‘Achilles, I’m going to have to go now . . . It was good to see you again, but I . . .’
He’s pretending to get up so I grab him by the elbow, not violently but firmly.
‘Pascal, Pascal! Are you joking? I just found my old childhood friend! You can’t leave like this . . .’
‘I have to get up early tomorrow.’
‘Ah, no! No, no, no, Pascal, you’re going to have at least one more tea with me. You really must.’
I beckon the waiter, and with my left hand press on Pascal’s arm, forcing him to sit down again.
‘Come on, Pascal, just five minutes of your time. Tell me a little more about yourself!’
‘Well, there’s nothing to tell, not much anyway. And you, you’re . . .’
‘At least tell me if you’re married!’
‘No, and no children.’
‘How did you end up here?’
‘By chance. My father knew the boss of the company I work for, and that was that . . .’
‘And do you like it here?’
‘Well . . . it’s no worse than anywhere else.’
‘And do you go back to France now and again?’
‘Not really, not since my father died. I don’t have many people to see back home these days. I sometimes go back to do admin stuff – things I can’t sort out over here. So what about you?’
‘I live in Nice, but then you may already know that?’
‘What? No. How should I know?’
‘Oh, I don’t know! Maybe you’ve kept in touch with a schoolmate? Someone who knows what I do. Or maybe we ran into each other by chance?’
‘No, Achilles, we haven’t seen each other since we were kids.’
I sigh. ‘We were great friends back then, weren’t we, Pascal?’
‘Yeah, but it’s been a long time. We’re not getting any younger either.’
There you go – one of the most banal clichés in the book. ‘We’re not getting any younger’, ‘Pigs might fly’, ‘So long as you’ve got your health’ . . . It’s through obsolete sayings like this that I judge people. I’m not surprised he talks like this, on the other hand.
‘No, good point, Pascal. It was indeed forty years ago, and, no, we’re not getting any younger. You’re quite right about that.’
Vermillon doesn’t notice my sarcasm as he sips his tea. The green liquid is boiling hot, but he forces himself to drink it and grimaces every time his lips come in contact with the bowl. Might my enemy be in a rush to finish it?
‘So, Pascal, you’re really living the life, aren’t you?’
‘I can’t complain. What about you?’
‘Life’s good. I’m in sales. I sell products all over the world. Do you think you’ll end up back in France?’
‘No, I don’t think so. We’ll see.’
‘You like the routine here, do you?’
‘I suppose, but it’s not really a routine, you know. It’s very tiring. I’ve been coming here for years for tea and the kids still treat me like a tourist. They ask me for money every single night. It’s wearing.’
‘Poor you. I feel for you, I really do.’
‘Well, I’m going to have to go. Thank you for the tea, Achilles, and it was nice to see you again.’
I can see everything behind the mask, believe me . . .
‘Wait, Pascal. I’m here for a few days. How would you like to get some food one night?’
‘That’s kind, but I’m really busy right now. It’s a real shame, but—’
‘Come on, Pascal – it’s me, Achilles! Your old friend . . . Bloody hell! We can’t just leave it like this!’
‘It’s just that—’
‘I’m still here for a couple of days. Let’s have dinner together tomorrow night. My treat.’
‘I don’t know if—’
‘Oh, Pascal! You’ll hurt my feelings! Come on, a nice bit of food and we can talk about the good old days!’
‘All right.’
He looks as though he’s just agreed to join the army and we’re heading out to resolve the conflict on the border between Chad and Libya. His face stiffens – from his forehead right down to his neck. I’m gloating on the inside. He’s so uncomfortable.
‘Where do you want to meet?’ he asks.
‘I don’t know. Shall I pick you up at your place? Give me your address.’
‘I’m staying with a friend.’
‘What? I thought you lived here?’
‘No. Do you want to meet me at the restaurant instead?’
‘If you want, Pascal. Give me the phone number of your friend’s house. I’ll call you tomorrow before you go to work and let you know where we’re going, OK? I’ll make a reservation as soon as I get back to my hotel.’
Vermillon scribbles a series of numbers on a piece of paper and hands it over to me. I shake his hand. It’s soft and clammy. We go our separate ways.
I’m the only one smiling.
17.
Wednesday, 11 February 1987
I just can’t stop smiling. Although I haven’t forgotten that Pascal Vermillon becomes Hector and that my vigilance must not be lulled into a false sense of security by the unkempt appearance of my opponent, I’m feeling far more confident in the likely outcome of the forthcoming battle.
After leaving him yesterday, I booked a table for two in Le Kechir, a high-end restaurant on the main avenue towards the north of the city, just next to the Majorelle Garden.
This morning, when I dialled the number Pascal gave me, I got a message in Arabic that obviously meant the number didn’t exist or wasn’t assigned. No need to speak the language to understand that.
I expected it. I can see his game. Why is Vermillon trying to avoid me? I have to keep thinking like him to better anticipate what his next move will be. I took him by surprise yesterday and he had no time to think, but now he knows that if I’m here, it’s because I know what he’s playing at. I’m not here by chance, and so he may as well get on with it.
Unless he wants to catch me off guard. I may as well admit that I spend the day watching my back and speculating on what might happen in the future. This is shaping up into a masterful and memorable game of chess – somewhere between an aggressive Morphy-style attack and an adapted, balanced Nimzowitsch Defence. I wait for his next gambit and prepare my answer, not forgetting that we are playing a fool’s game. This will be a long confrontation, where the first to lose his nerve also loses his king. I have in mind the legendary clashes between Botvinnik and Smyslov between 1954 and 1958; Hector and I will enter the arena with the same hunger.
I spend part of the day wandering around the souk, then head back to La Mamounia in the middle of the afternoon after buying a flick knife – something not too conspicuous. I take a shower and prepare myself as a communicant might before sharing the body and blood of Christ.
I take a taxi to SMB and I wait.
A few seconds after 6 p.m., Pascal Vermillon makes his appearance. I call out to him.
‘Hey, Pascal! Hi, how are you?’
‘Achilles?’
‘Yeah! You must have made a mistake when you wrote down your number for me. I tried to call you this morning, but the number wasn’t right, so here I am.’
‘But . . . how did you know I worked here?’
‘That wasn’t too hard – I asked the guy who made us the tea yesterday. You told me the locals always treat you like a tourist, but he just said “SMB” when I asked where I could find the friend I’d had a drink with. I called the switchboard and the
y confirmed you work here and that you finish at 6 p.m. So there you have it! What a stroke of luck.’
Vermillon is as taken aback as he was yesterday. I’ve been a little rude, but he forces a smile.
‘Yeah, lucky. I was just wondering why you didn’t call me this morning.’
I gaze at him with a mutinous look that I imagine emphasises the crow’s feet at the corners of my eyes. ‘So let’s have a drink and then I’ll take you out to dinner?’ I say in a playful tone.
‘I’d like to go home and take a shower. Have you made a reservation somewhere? Because if not, we can postpone it. I’m a little tired, to be honest, and if you—’
‘No, no, I have a reservation. Let’s do it tonight, Pascal. I’ll be going back to France soon. I have business there – you know that.’
‘How about tomorrow?’
‘No, no, tonight. Meet me at Le Kechir. Do you know the place?’
‘Uh . . . sure.’
‘That’s all settled then.’
‘If you want—’
‘I’ll see you there at eight.’
I walk away and raise my hand to hail another taxi.
‘Hey, Pascal!’
‘Yes?’
‘Remember, at eight. Don’t forget, or I’ll have to come and get you!’ I say in humorous tones, laughing at him as I give a little wave of my hand.
He doesn’t laugh back.
I’m half an hour late by the time I get to Le Kechir. A zealous waiter bows twice and removes the light canvas jacket that I’ve carelessly slung over one shoulder.
Everything is under control. To keep him waiting like this for thirty minutes, when I was the one who insisted that he come tonight, is a gentle but effective means of torture. He must be stewing in his own juices, wondering if I’m actually coming.
I need to direct my opponent where I want him to go. Everything is in place. His ordeal is multiplied tenfold by the apprehension shared by anyone who realises that a situation is running away from them. I want him to think I might be waiting for him in an alley on the way home, a dagger in my hand ready to slit his throat.
The maître d’ guides me to a table for two. Pascal’s already sitting there, of course. If he hadn’t come, then he’d have scored a point, and I would have fallen into his trap, but calling my bluff is a dominant strategy and Vermillon is anything but an alpha male.
A Killer's Game Page 12