I drink a glass of water and wipe it clean. I crush my cigarette butts into an ashtray and then wipe that down. I looked at some documents, didn’t I? I wipe down those I think I’ve touched.
The corpse smells of urine and it’s making me feel ill.
I’m going back to Bordeaux. There’s a long way to go before I reach Nice.
I was scared before I left. I’m still scared now.
PART FOUR
The end justifies the means
27.
Wednesday, 23 December 1987
I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop. I’ve learned to live with the threat, but its weight is so heavy that each passing second seems to compress the bones in my neck ever further. I can feel them cracking.
Hector exists. I didn’t dream all this. Caroline Berthier and Montpellier are real. Even if there are some parts that still escape me, I know I wasn’t at the crime scene that day. The print from my shoes found by the police, the one that identifies The Artist as the murderer, is real. I am real.
Collateral damage? Their names are Pascal Vermillon and Sébastien Destrien, but that doesn’t matter. There are always casualties in war. And I am at war.
Well, I don’t have the panache and beauty of the Achilles of mythological fame, but at least I’m still alive. For the time being. I wavered for a moment back there – and the consequences can be seen all over my body, and not just on my heel. But for now, I’m still here, and I’m still at the mercy of Hector.
He knows so much about me that his advantage is undeniable.
I took a few disinterested glances at the Charente-Maritime regional daily press following the death of Destrien, but the case disappeared from the columns after a few short days. It’s a problem, dying in the middle of summer in a tourist area: the media play into the hands of the authorities and do their best not to scare away any visitors. Before leaving that gloomy little house in which a man and woman died because of me, albeit several years apart, I took care to break a few things and steal the meagre savings I found – just a handful of notes. The police concluded that it was a burglary gone wrong. I imagine some local delinquent will take the rap.
Christmas and its whole procession of old-fashioned religious traditions is fast approaching. It’s a complicated period for lovers of off-the-beaten-track aesthetics like me. When you have a penchant for blood, the magic of the season becomes syrupy and boring.
I’ve been thinking a great deal about the problems I’ve had in coming to terms with the idea that somebody somewhere – Hector – has been playing with me, and if you add to this my thirst for art, which is beginning to embrace me once again, then the result is explosive. It’s as though I’m sitting on a powder keg just waiting to go off. Dynamite is clogging up my belly, and I feel more and more lost each day.
I have permanent goosebumps. I’m avoiding meetings with clients at the moment. There are no properly unfortunate consequences as my business remains on track, but let’s be honest here, there isn’t any growth in that area either.
I’m going to have to get down to work – kill – and I don’t even feel capable of it right now, although I know for a fact that I have no choice. Time is running out and I still haven’t identified my next victim.
In theory, I should choose a city far away, Brest, for example, and then I’d have to camp out somewhere nearby – Nantes maybe? I’d need to find some professional excuse to justify my presence there, and then work out exactly where I would kill and wander the streets in search of the one whose skin texture meets my pre-defined criteria. I would also have to find a monument that gives me inspiration. Actually, I have a great fondness for the American Naval Monument, the Tour Rose, in the Cours Dajot in Brest. I would first have to take a polaroid of that.
If Hector follows to observe me, I’m more likely to notice him if I’m on the move than if I skulk around at home as I’m doing right now.
For just a moment I even thought about striking here in Nice – in my own town. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to work where I live. After all, The Artist has never done anything around here, whether that be in Marseille or Toulon, and the investigating officers might find it odd that I’ve completely avoided this region of France. Deducing that this is where I live would be a small step from there.
Let’s see now, I’ve killed in Cannes and Béziers – but the police didn’t link those murders to The Artist. I’ve also killed in Bayonne, Les Sables-d’Olonne, Lyon and Lille, as well as in Montpellier as far as the police are concerned. Why not add Marrakech and La Rochelle, while you’re about it . . .
So, Brest or Nice?
Yesterday, I went to Grasse to dig up the backpack containing my stuff. I sat in the forest for three whole hours on a carpet of disintegrating leaves that stuck to my buttocks, fretting about my fate while looking for some way out, but there isn’t one.
I brought the backpack back to Nice and stashed it in the bedroom wardrobe while Claire was taking a shower.
That is a heresy in and of itself. Hiding the weapon that has killed several women along with the shoes that incriminate me in my own home is such an act of sheer recklessness that I’m starting to think I deserve to be caught. Maybe, unconsciously, I’d quite like some bright detective to come and cuff me.
Should I find myself in a putrid cell behind the door of some prison, Hector would no longer be able to get to me. And I will have won.
Back to the job in hand. Before deciding whether my next masterpiece will be Breton or Mediterranean, I need to settle a couple of little things. There’s this confectioner in Aix who makes luxury sweets and I’ve been neglecting him of late. I was supposed to contact him again so we could renew our contract, but I haven’t done so.
I’m alone in the apartment at Cimiez. Claire’s on the other side of town. She is babysitting children to help out a friend whose nanny has gone home to her family in Alsace for the Christmas holidays.
I dial my client’s number. After just two rings, I hear a voice with a strong southern accent.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello? Monsieur Raniéri? It’s Achilles Clazay. How are you?’
‘Monsieur Clazay? It’s been a while since we’ve heard from you. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, yes. I’ve had some personal problems, but I’m fine now. How is business, Monsieur Raniéri?’
‘Well . . . It’s fine, just fine . . .’
‘Good! We should meet again soon. We need to renew the contract.’
‘Well . . . it’s too late for that now . . .’
‘Don’t worry . . . The previous contract is no longer valid, but all you need to do is sign a letter to extend it. It’ll only take a minute. When can you—?’
‘That’s not the problem, Monsieur Clazay. We’ve signed with someone else.’
‘What?’
‘No offence, but we haven’t heard from you for a long time – we did try calling you though . . . And then someone came to see us and said he was a friend of yours, so we thought you wouldn’t mind if we signed with him instead. Didn’t he tell you about it?’
‘Who? Didn’t who tell me about it? What’s his name?’
‘Jean-Paul Malanceau.’
I hang up.
The bastard. I really did think that man was my friend. Colleagues don’t steal each other’s customers. It’s not the done thing. Of course, technically, Jean-Paul and I are competitors, but in practice, we’ve always acted more like partners. Jean-Paul decided to come back into my life just like that. I didn’t seek him out. What I deduce from that is that he only got in touch with me for financial gain. It was all about business . . .
I’m on edge now. The truth of it is that losing Raniéri is no big deal, but it’s a matter of principle. There’s no way I can let this go. It’s sheer provocation! For the time being, I’m not going to take Jean-Paul’s affront as an outright declaration of war, but we’re going to need to have a little chat. I’ll contact him tonight. I have other th
ings on my mind right now, but there’s no way I’m just brushing this episode to one side.
I head for the kitchen. The coffeemaker hums when I turn it on. I grab my pack of cigarettes. It’s empty. I switch off the machine and put on my jacket.
My trembling hands are giving me a clear message. I need nicotine.
The pavements are frozen. Cimiez is the most upmarket neighbourhood in Nice, but the roads are very up and down, and I struggle to maintain my balance. The people all around me look radiant. Every person that I pass appears quite infected with the most ridiculous euphoria. The atmosphere practically hums with goodwill.
Everyone loves one another.
I’m having trouble with this unjustified euphoria. The hypocrisy of it makes me sick. It won’t last long. Human beings are selfish by nature, and all the kisses and the joy and the promises of December will do nothing to change this fact. As soon as the glitter is swept away, my naive compatriots will return to what they have always been: sad, lost, desperate, self-righteous little beings.
There are just a couple more days to go. To me, Christmas feels like nothing more than a stubborn case of gastroenteritis.
In the tobacconist at the end of the street, I buy a carton with ten packets of Marlboro along with a box of cigars from H. Upmann; they’re not the best, but I appreciate their particular flavour, and their advantage is that they’re readily available.
I’ve barely stepped back out onto the street when the glowing end of a cigarette is already hanging from my lips. I drag myself home, my free hand buried under a jacket that’s not quite thick enough for the season.
Once I’ve taken refuge in the soft and benevolent cocoon that serves as my home, I grab my suitcase. It never gets much of a rest. In my dressing room, I prepare my clothes and toiletries. I pack enough to last one or two weeks.
In general, in my profession, if you want to be as efficient as possible, you need to be second to none in terms of organisation and anticipate appointments well in advance. Those who improvise don’t make old bones in the world of commerce – they’re rank amateurs. I always know exactly where and when I’ll have to follow up with a customer or place a new order, which allows me to book hotels without worrying that they might be full. No dithering.
This is the very first time I will ever get into my vehicle and drive at random without a plan in place.
I need to shake things up a bit. If I stay here, just waiting for Hector to slip up or finally get in touch with me, I’m going to lose the plot – in fact, I wonder if I’ve already lost it. I need a trip. I need to choose roads at random. I need the angst I’m feeling to move on to someone else, and fast.
I scribble a little note on a piece of paper, just to inform Claire that I’m on the move: ‘Sorry – emergency at work! I’m off on the road again. Call you later. Kisses.’
I cross out the word ‘kisses’. I’m in no mood for banter . . .
I take the motorway towards Marseille and then head north, concentrating on my driving while listening with one ear to the deluded babble of some pretentious presenter on the radio. It stops me from thinking of the Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I completely get truck drivers and why they’d want to spend most of their time hurtling up and down the roads of France, thereby avoiding all the worries of everyday life. Just go. Forget it all. Eat up the kilometres.
I turn off at Valence and head towards Grenoble. I’ve acted on impulse there. It took me less than a minute to choose this as a destination. I have a cake supplier in Grenoble I haven’t seen in nearly a year. A visit, even impromptu, is essential, don’t you think?
Strangely enough, I’m quite proud of myself. I like improvising in this way. The control freak, the king of careful preparation, might just be cured.
Grenoble it is . . .
The murçon charcuterie is tasty, the potatoes are melt-in-the-mouth, and the Chardonnay, although not a great vintage, works well with the flavours of the Dauphinois region that are bursting on my tongue. This typical dish from the Matheysin is one of my favourites. I always choose the local specialties when I travel, but often get some nasty surprises. That is not the case in this restaurant, which is frequented at lunchtime by travelling salesmen types like me, and in the evening by couples, often without children, looking to have a good time.
Despite the fatigue, I don’t bother with a second coffee, but hurry to pay the bill, then continue on my way towards Grenoble.
Gratien Pelleray owns a small, old-fashioned factory on the outskirts of Isère. I first met him more than ten years ago. At first, I visited him every quarter, but when my client portfolio grew and I had to prioritise operations, I only came to see him once a year. Nevertheless our partnership is solid, and even without regular contact we’re both satisfied with the results of our respective efforts.
It will be the first time I’ll impose myself without prior appointment, but I’m sure Pelleray will be happy to see me.
I park in the staff car park and hunt through the boot for a bottle of Pic Saint-Loup. Every time I meet someone in a professional capacity, whether a buyer or supplier, I offer them a product from my catalogue. I’ve done this since the very outset and have no regrets. It’s the small gestures . . .
My luck’s in. The lady at reception, a large woman of fifty-odd with a blonde bun on top of her head, tells me that Gratien is in the building. I wait about ten minutes, and when the dragon informs me that I can go in and see the boss, I jog on down the corridor, because I know the place well.
‘Achilles! How are you?’
‘I’m great, thanks, and how are you, Gratien? All well in your world?’
‘Yes! All well . . . I wasn’t expecting you. Did we have an appointment?’
‘No, but I was passing by, and since we haven’t seen each other for an age . . . I’m not disturbing you, am I?’
‘No, no, I’m delighted to see you . . .’
I give him the Pic Saint-Loup and he hides it away in a cupboard behind a bookcase. He offers me a drink, but as I’ve just had lunch, I abstain.
We chat about the weather before getting down to business. I explain to him that the turnover I’ve been making with his products is stable, but that a group of buyers in the east might well be interested in picking up an intermediate range, and that we therefore have good reason for optimism over the results in the coming months.
‘Excellent . . . I’m glad there’s a possibility to step things up a little, Achilles . . . It’s just that we’ve been working together for a long time, and I know you salespeople . . . When things are in place, you tend to rest on your laurels, right?’
This is said without any hint of hostility. We’re used to taking inconsequential little digs at each other. Normally I would say to him that I’m delighted that he and his company are working on some innovations, but I just smile and nod.
‘It’s true what you say, Gratien. Sales reps do get more involved when they have new products to work with – that’s only to be expected. You need to create flow in a business. But you know how much I love your products. I have never neglected them. Even if one of your competitors were to contact me with better rates, I’d still turn them down. It’s called loyalty.’
‘Oh, I know! And I appreciate that, Achilles, truly I do. Loyalty works both ways. When your colleague called us and asked if we’d work with him, I refused. His offer wasn’t bad at all, but I work like they used to, back in the day. Once I’ve given my word, I don’t go back on it. If we forget our—’
‘Wait . . . My colleague?’
‘Uh . . . yes . . . You don’t know about this?’
‘No – so who contacted you?’
Pelleray’s thick eyebrows contort into a frown.
‘Well . . . This bloke called me a few weeks ago. He told me he was calling on your behalf. We made an appointment. He told me you had too much work and were delegating some of your contracts. I don’t know . . . Maybe I didn’t understand him properly . . . but I was led to believe
that you had so much work on that you’d given him your consent to take some of your clients onto his books, and he was in the area, going around and discussing it with some of the directors of the companies concerned . . . Wait, Achilles, don’t tell me he was trying to get one over . . . ?’
‘That’s right. Why didn’t you call me?’
Gratien falls back into his wickerwork chair, which creaks under his weight.
‘Well . . . the whole point was that he’d come to tell me how busy you were, so I didn’t want to disturb you.’
‘Was it Jean-Paul Malanceau? Was that his name?’
‘Uh . . . yes, that’s right . . .’
‘And he actually came here to see you?’
‘Yes, like you . . . He was passing through the area. He was here for . . . what . . . a quarter of an hour, no more. He explained his background and told me about the new customers he could get me. I wouldn’t budge though.’
‘Why?’
‘Well . . . I don’t know . . . He seemed a nice enough man. He made a good impression, but you know, I don’t have much time for all the admin stuff you need to do when you make a big change like that, and as I told you, I’m the loyal type. I’m not the kind of person who puts a lot of pressure on people all the time, you know?’
‘So he didn’t insist?’
‘No, not really. We had a lot of orders coming through at the time. He came and then left and we carried on with business as usual. I forgot all about him, to be honest. I don’t mind telling you now though that I was a little offended you hadn’t even taken the time to call to tell me you were considering passing on the contract to one of your associates, but it wasn’t really a big deal.’
My breathing quickens but I keep my mouth shut. Fulminating will just make me lose face and that’s not how I behave.
‘Thank you, Gratien. Look, I think my colleague actually played a bit of a dirty trick on me.’
‘Do you know him well, this Jean-Paul Malanceau?’
‘Yes. To be honest, I hadn’t seen him in years, but he got back in touch recently. I’m going to ask you a favour, Gratien. Would you mind?’
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