The atmosphere is oppressive. Camille leaves a long silence. Behind the one-way glass, his colleagues can finally see what Camille is getting at. Mentally, they all have their fingers crossed.
“Your mother is on remand for the murder of Carole. To the cops, it looks like irresistible impulse, no-one thought to dig any deeper. It’s not as though Rosie fits the profile of a serial killer, everyone is happy to believe it was a moment of madness. But seen in a different light, if you look at her motive, ask the right questions, rake through the past, it’s not hard to piece things together. It’s a bit like your mortar shells . . . all it takes is a little planning.”
Camille smiles loftily.
“You leave, she panics, she drags you back home, she can’t live without you. You try to leave, but you can’t live without her either. You know what she has done to keep you there, you know her better than anyone, you never talk about it, but you know what it is that connects you, what binds you two each other, this pact of silence. At first, you dare not say anything. Later, things spiral out of control, and that’s what brought Rosie to where she is today. So, ever the dutiful son, you’ve come to rescue maman . . .”
Camille falls silent, he and Jean both stare at the floor. What is there to say? Exhausted, Commandant Verhœven slips down from his chair. He studies Jean’s hands for a moment, the hands that trembled like leaves in the presence of his mother.
“When all is said and done, you’re a good son. And maybe Rosie scares you. Hellcats can be like that . . .”
Silence.
“But it’s now or never, Jean. You’ve caused a lot of damage, but so far nothing irreparable, right now you don’t have any deaths on your conscience. When the day comes, a decent lawyer will be able to play the jury like a violin with tales of an abusive mother, they’ll think you’re a victim, and they won’t be entirely wrong. If you give up now, you can kill two birds with one stone. You will finally be free of Rosie – it’s high time – and you won’t get dragged down with her. You have been here for twenty-four hours. If the authorities had any intention of giving in to your demands, they would have done it by now. But they won’t cave. And, with the case we are currently building against Rosie, she’ll never be released. You have one last chance to get out of this. You meet with the juge, you make a deal, you tell us what we need to know, and you’re back on track. Look at me, Jean.”
Jean does not flicker an eyelash.
“Look at me, Jean.”
Camille’s voice is low, gentle.
Eventually, Jean looks at him.
“Rosie is batshit crazy, you know that, don’t you? She will never be released, it’s a losing battle. Think about yourself. You did everything you could for her, and that’s good, anyone can understand, everyone will understand. But it’s over now.”
Jean nods. Camille ponders for a moment: act now or let this sink in. There is too much at stake, he has to act fast.
“Are you ready to talk to me, Jean?”
Jean shrugs. He is ready. He blinks nervously, as though there were a spotlight trained on his eyes.
“Good,” Camille says. “That’s the right decision.”
Jean nods again. Camille sits down, takes out his pen, closes the case file, he will make notes on the cover.
“Where should we start, Jean? I’ll let you decide.”
“With the ransom.”
Camille freezes. From where he is sitting, he thinks he can hear panicked gasps behind the one-way mirror.
Jean Garnier does not give them time to catch their breath.
“Yeah, the ransom. I said I’d be prepared to accept three million. But that was yesterday. Now it’s four million or no deal.”
8.56 p.m.
Camille is devastated by this setback. He cannot understand. How could he make so many mistakes, how could he have orchestrated such a fiasco? He can hardly believe it himself. Petrified with fear, he appears before the juge and the director of the police judiciare for a debriefing.
They are all gathered in the incident room, but the Other, the man from the ministry, does not bother to wait, he is already out in the corridor, whispering into his mobile phone, reporting back to his superiors.
From this moment, every one of them will remember the sequence of events.
Those who checked the time will have clearer memories, because it was at precisely 9.07 p.m. that the telephone rang.
The juge gave an exasperated shrug.
Louis stepped forward, lifted the receiver, listened, replaced it and shot the juge a look that stopped him in mid-sentence, and announced.
“An explosion has just completely destroyed a kindergarten in Orléans.”
9.00 p.m.
Just as he always opens a minute or two after the official time, Marcel would dearly like to close the park a minute or two early. But it is impossible. Sometimes it is lovers canoodling in a corner, and by the time they are ushered out, dragging their feet, it is three minutes past nine. Sometimes it is teenagers hanging around, or showing up with cans of beer, he has to lay down the law and by the time they leave it is 9.05 p.m. Sometimes it’s worse than that. He has tried everything, announcing closing time fifteen, even twenty minutes early, but it makes no difference, when it comes to closing time, he is cursed.
Except tonight. Who knows why, but it is the first time since . . . the first time in ages because it is so long ago that he cannot remember. Incredulous, he makes a final check. It is not quite nine o’clock, and the little park is deserted, as it should be.
This is so astonishing, that it makes him a little uneasy. Could he have missed something?
Unable to stop himself, Marcel makes another round, but no, there is nobody.
By the time he finally closes the gate, wedging it shut with the piece of cardboard, it is 9.04 p.m.
9.40 p.m.
It is as though the blast could be heard as far away as Paris. Everywhere is in turmoil. The minister’s office requests information, there are concerns about the media, about widespread panic, senior police officers meet in conclave. There were no victims, but the school was literally blown to smithereens. Thankfully, it is late, the morning newspapers are putting their early editions to bed, but there is still a little time. And they will need it, because no-one knows what is happening.
The emergency services are on the scene, the Securité civile has already confirmed that the details of the explosion correspond to the blast on the rue Joseph-Merlin.
The police are baffled.
The experts believe that when setting the timer, Garnier confused 9 a.m. and 9 p.m.
As a hypothesis, it seems scarcely credible.
Camille asks Basin whether such a mistake is possible.
“Perfectly possible. After all, the guy is an amateur – we’ve seen stupider mistakes. Why do you think so many bombers wind up blowing themselves to kingdom come? Garnier is a dangerous man, but if he’s also careless, then all bets are off. There are still four shells unaccounted for, but if he’s been sloppy in setting them, even he can’t help us.”
In the frantic bustle and the cacophonous jangle of telephones, Louis glances over at Camille.
Moments ago, he was tense, now he seems relaxed, pensive, he looks as though he’s about to go home after a hard day’s work. He gets to his feet and, still calm and focussed, walks through the incident room, along the corridor, down two flights of stairs, takes a right turn, passes the uniformed officer outside the interview room where Jean is sitting, goes into the observation room next door.
He takes a seat, as though about to watch a movie.
Through the one-way mirror, he sees Pelletier from Counterterrorism working on Jean with two other officers. Standing with his back pressed to the wall, heels together, hands on his head, Jean’s head sways as he struggles to keep his eyes open, looking as though he might collapse at any moment.
“You planning on killing more people?” Pelletier barks. “How many people are you prepared to kill to save th
at bitch of a mother of yours?”
“As many as it takes . . .”
Camille reaches over and turns off the sound. He concentrates on the image. The nursery school, the bomb set to explode at 9.00 p.m., it doesn’t add up. The facts are there, but he scans Jean’s face for something else, something he has missed until now. He feels heartened that his hunch about Rosie proved correct: maybe she is an impulse killer, but she seems to feel the impulse pretty frequently.
Until now, events have forced the police to think logically.
According to a logic imposed by Jean.
To find the solution, he needs to think outside the box.
But how?
Camille spends almost an hour observing Garnier, watching his lips move, the officers come and go, the pressure mounting.
He breaks off for only a minute to read a text message from Anne: Are you suddenly invisible or have we broken up and you forgot to tell me?
11.00 p.m.
Camille takes Louis to one side.
“Routine maintenance visits to telecoms stations, are they scheduled in advance?”
“I’ll have to look it up, but I think they operate on a three-monthly timetable . . .”
Louis does not ask why.
“Can you show me?” Camille nods towards the computer monitor.
Day Three
1.45 a.m.
“No,” says the juge indignantly. This is also the response of the commissaire divisionnaire, but he knows Verhœven well enough to realise there is no point taking offence. “No,” snaps the préfet de police, who seems unsurprised by the suggestion and treats it as an oddity, as though he has just been asked whether he wants salt in his coffee. There is no point even asking the officers from the Counterterrorism Unit . . .
Louis pushes back his fringe, he was expecting this, as was Camille. The Other acted surprised and pretended not to understand.
“Release Jean Garnier? Are you winding me up?”
For the first time, he gives Louis a condescending look; it is always a relief to find a chink in a rival’s armour.
"Any other suggestions? Maybe you think we should award him the Légion d’honneur while we’re about it?”
And he gives a scornful snigger. Cheap jokes intended to humiliate are not things one should use against a man like Camille Verhœven.
“You’re a moron.”
The Other looked him up and down, but Camille does not give him time to react.
“You’re a moron because you are incapable of understanding anything you cannot feel. You take everything Jean Garnier says literally because he seems naïve, but it is your logic that is flawed. You look at him but you don’t see him. You don’t understand him, you label him. Jean Garnier is a dangerous young man, but not because he has planted bombs. In fact, he has done everything in his power to ensure there is no loss of life, only material damage. But despite his best efforts, no-one can be sure that all of the mortar shells will prove to be relatively inoffensive. There are too many unknowns, too many unpredictable factors. On the rue Joseph-Merlin the scaffolding could have collapsed on a passer-by. In Orléans, the blast could have killed someone out walking their dog . . . Sooner or later, there will be a death toll. When you think about it, there is only one thing to do. If we release Jean and his mother, there will be no deaths. I guarantee it. If we keep them in custody, it’s more than likely there will be carnage. It’s up to you.”
The Other is affronted, but he is also a professional.
In ministerial terms, a professional is someone who passes information up the chain. This nugget of information rises through the ranks. Then it comes back down again. The answer is still no.
“They don’t believe me,” Camille says.
It will take him twenty minutes to make his decision.
And thirty seconds to say to the juge: “O.K., it’s all down to you now. If you have no objections, I’m heading home, I’m completely shattered.
2.10 a.m.
Paris is deserted, traffic is flowing freely. Camille takes advantage of a green light to fish his mobile phone from his pocket. At the next traffic light, he writes a text message to Anne: Is the invitation for (the rest of) tonight still open? At the third set of lights, he receives her reply: The door has been open since last night. Usually this is the last traffic light, but Camille is forced to pull over when he receives another message. It is from the juge: Camille, you’ve been summoned to the Hotel Matignon to see the premier ministre, should I send an escort?
– Sorry darling, I’ve been summoned by the prime minister.
– That’s the most pathetic excuse you’ve come up with.
– Sadly, it’s true, I’m on my way there now.
– Are you spending the night with him?
– Probably not. Unless he asks – I can hardly refuse. He is the premier ministre.
– Can you ask him for a rent-controlled apartment for me? In the seventh arrondissement . . .
– “O.K., but what do I do if he asks me to stay the night?”
– If the apartment is the fifth, the sixth or the seventh, let him have his wicked way with you. Anywhere else, and you come back here and fuck me instead.
– Deal.
2.30 a.m.
The prime minister is not remotely sexy. They never are. If fact, it seems to be a criterion. But he is charming and polite, he gets to his feet, warmly shakes Camille by the hand (“A pleasure, Commandant”), gestures to a chair. There are eight or nine other people in the vast office. When Camille sits, everyone else takes a seat. Monsieur le premier ministre indicates the tape recorder on the coffee table.
“I have been made aware of your hypothesis, Commandant, but I would be grateful if you could talk me through it.”
“Up until now – and despite appearances – Jean Garnier has done everything possible to ensure he did not kill anyone. The bomb on the rue Joseph-Merlin was planted after the scaffolding was erected, and he planted the shell where it would cause the minimum amount of damage. In Orléans, he only pretended that he had made a mistake, the bomb was deliberately set to go off when there was the least danger to human life. As for us finding bomb number five, this was not a happy accident: the maintenance schedule is freely available online. Garnier chose this particular telecoms station knowing there would be a routine visit yesterday, that we would find and disarm the device. From the start, his whole strategy has been to make us believe he is dangerous. So far, there have been three bombs. The first shocks us, the second terrifies us, the third sends us into a tailspin . . . And that’s as it should be, because we are sitting on a powder keg. He has planted seven devices, we have dealt with three, the rue Joseph-Merlin, the nursery school in Orléans, and the telecoms station beneath the cinema; there are four still out there. We know they are set to go off sometime this week, and I’m betting that he has done his best to make sure there will be no loss of life, but even if I’m right, there is no way of knowing whether our luck will hold. We’re completely at the mercy of his manipulations, the materials he’s used and the accuracy of his calculations. He is organised and resourceful, but he’s an amateur. And if he has made even a single mistake, we are the ones who will pay. Very dearly.”
Camille hesitates for a moment, then drives the point home.
“Curious as it may seem, Monsieur le Premier ministre, Jean Garnier is not a murderer.”
Silence.
“But, by my calculations, he is about to become one in spite of himself. Sooner or later, something will go wrong with one of the four remaining bombs, it’s inevitable. And there will be fatalities.”
The prime minister puckers his lips to indicate that he understands.
“And when that happens, we’ll only have ourselves to blame. Especially since he’s given us a clear warning.”
He leans forward and, without asking permission, presses a button on the tape recorder.
“No (the voice is that of Jean), that’s not the way it was . . .”
/> Camille presses Fast Forward and then Play.
“You’re right about the first bombs,” Jean says. “I didn’t want to have to kill anyone. But the last one, well, that’s different . . .”
“Different how?”
“The thing is, if the last bomb explodes, then it means that I’ve failed. That this whole plan has been a fiasco. I’ll have nothing to lose. So, for the last bomb, I’ve planned something . . . lethal.”
Silence
“Something devastating . . . Please believe me, Commandant, you have to believe me.”
Camille stops the tape.
“What are you proposing?” asks one of the suits – Camille does not know who he is.
“That we release them, him and his mother, in exchange for the location of the remaining devices. I don’t think they’ll go very far . . .”
Rosy and John Page 9