Crimes of Winter

by Philippe Georget

  “I’m well aware that you prefer Gilles,” Jacques said, pretending to be disappointed. “But that passion is hopeless, my love, and you know it well. Gilles is a married man and a faithful husband . . . Two defects I don’t have. Or rather . . . one I no longer have and one I never really had!”

  “Charming . . . I find that really tempting. Excuse me, I’ve got work to do!”

  She turned back toward the bathroom. Her young assistant was still going through the room. Sighing, Molina put on the cap and turned to Ménard.

  “Do you want an outfit, too?”

  “No, I prefer to stay here. I’ll observe from the door.”

  “Regulations, regulations . . . We’ll never be able to change you! You guys from the north really take things too seriously.”

  “I’m not from the north!”

  “I know, you’re from Picardy, capital Amiens! You’ve told me that often enough. Seen from here, it’s the same thing. For us Catalans, once you’ve passed Salses, you’re already in the Great North.”

  “I’m not the only one who repeats himself! How many times have I heard that one! Coming from a guy like Llach, okay, he’s a real, and authentic Catalan; but you don’t even speak the language . . .”

  Molina growled: “I understand it, and that’s enough for me.”

  Although he was proud of the part of France where he had grown up, Jacques often made fun of the militant supporters of Catalan identity, like their colleague Joan Llach. He had always thought that learning the language of his ancestors was a waste of time and energy: in the age of globalization, English was the only language that mattered. To avoid remaining one of the poorest departments in France, Pyrénées-Orientales had to open up to the world and not withdraw into an excessively restrictive Catalan identity. It was a question of survival!

  He went into the pale-blue room and cautiously bent over the woman’s dead body. She had fallen in a sitting position and remained jammed between the wall and the bed. Her head was still resting on the edge of the mattress, and her glasses had slipped down her nose. Her dark, empty eyes now looked nowhere except inside. Her skirt, hiked up by her fall, bared a birthmark in the shape of a heart on her left thigh. A bullet had penetrated her heart; death must have been instantaneous. A good shot or a lucky one, Molina said to himself. He got up and inspected the bedsheets. He saw nothing and was not surprised. “Adulterous couple = protected sex.” In matters of love, that equation was as unavoidable as “two + one = a shitload of problems.”

  “It’s all here,” Elsa shouted to him from the bathroom.

  She was holding in her gloved hands a plastic bag containing a used condom carefully knotted at one end.

  “He threw it in the wastebasket.”

  “In the wastebasket? Yuck . . .”

  “Well, what do you do? Do you throw it in the toilet?”

  “Of course!”

  “You realize that it’s latex and doesn’t break down. It’s not good for the environment and can stop up your pipes.”

  “Tell me about it . . . I promise that when I’m at your place, I’ll put them in the wastebasket.”

  “I didn’t know you were so religious . . .”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Apparently you now believe in miracles!”

  Molina smiled. He liked this verbal ping-pong game with his pretty young colleague. But he was aware that he was walking a tightrope, because he had the ability to annoy people. An innate talent that he had taken pleasure in cultivating.

  “Otherwise, what can you tell me about this case?”

  She gestured toward the lifeless body.

  “She was killed instantly. A single bullet was fired, a .22 long rifle, in my opinion. The shooter hardly entered the room and probably opened fire immediately. There were no questions, no dialogue. The guy knew exactly what he was doing . . . And what she had done!”

  “The case seems as clear to you as it does to me.”

  Molina glanced at François Ménard, who was following their exchange from the doorway to the room.

  “A tragedy of jealousy . . . Get your hands on the husband and the case will be solved!”

  “In her purse on the table there you’ll find, among other things, her mobile phone and her pocketbook. Her name was Christine Abad, maiden name Lipart. Her husband’s first name is Stéphane. She was forty-seven years old and lived in Pollestres. There is also a photo. It shows three people: her, a guy her age, and a young man in his twenties. They’re smiling. A happy family. Up until now.”

  “Yeah. Sad but commonplace. The husband must have wanted to spare himself the cost of a divorce.“

  “That’s not very clever!”

  “I was joking. In any case . . .”

  He stopped; he was about to start down a slippery slope. But he went on anyway:

  “My own divorce cost me an arm and a leg.”

  “And you regret not having killed your wife?”

  “Maybe . . .”

  “However, after what you told me a little while ago, she was the one who would have had reasons to kill you.”

  “Yeah, sure . . . A few casual fucks . . . Women don’t kill for so little!”

  Elsa didn’t reply and went about her work: putting plastic bags in sterile boxes, putting labels on these boxes, and then putting them in the case. Jacques had an irresistible desire to continue teasing her.

  “By the way, do you have a boyfriend?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Is he the jealous type?”

  Elsa sighed loudly. Jacques persisted:

  “I ask because when we sleep together, I’d like to know if I need to keep my gun handy.”

  “Don’t worry, that won’t happen.”

  “Ah, so he’s not jealous?”

  “It won’t happen that we sleep together!”

  “You’re right: I prefer younger women . . . How old are you, by the way? Over thirty, no?”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “OK, OK. You’re a little quick-tempered today, you wouldn’t be on the . . .”

  “Oh, no, stop! Not that one, please, you’re better than that. And no, I’m not on the rag.”

  Jacques realized that he’d gone too far. But he couldn’t help it, he liked to exasperate people. In the rugby scrums, he was better than anyone at teasing the opponents. He’d often taken a few hits for doing that, but he’d given some back, too.

  “I was just trying to relax the atmosphere,” he said, pointing to the still-warm cadaver.

  “And you think you succeeded?”

  “Uhh . . . I’m not so sure about that.”

  He noticed that she kept smiling. Exasperating and funny at the same time, that was him all over. He reached out to take Christine Abad’s purse and cautiously opened it. Leaving aside the usual everyday women’s items, he removed only the mobile phone and the pocketbook. He trusted Elsa; if there had been anything unusual in this purse, she would have spotted it before he did. He opened the pocketbook and took out the family photo and took it to Ménard.

  “Can you show this to Grandpa Jordi so he can confirm that the man he saw is in fact the husband?”

  “OK. And what are you going to do with the telephone?”

  “Find the husband’s number and figure out who the lover is.”

  “You’ll wait until I get back to call them?”

  “Don’t worry.”

  While Ménard was walking away down the corridor, Molina examined the telephone. Recent calls, favorite numbers, text messages. He had no difficulty in locating the messages from the lover, even though Christine had taken the precaution of putting them in her contact list under the feminine first name “Pascale.” Only one SMS was in fact addressed to him—all the others must have been prudently erased after being sent—but it was explicit
: “I can’t wait to feel you inside me. See you soon.” He ran through the other messages but found nothing interesting, much less spicy. But he noticed a number that recurred often. That of a certain Brigitte. Not another lover but a close friend, probably. Maybe a confidante.

  “It’s OK, the owner recognized the husband.”

  Molina looked up. Ménard was already back.

  “What about you, what did you find?”

  Molina showed him the SMS sent to the lover.

  “We’ll call the husband first,” Ménard suggested.

  Molina took out his own mobile. He was surprised to have received an SMS; he hadn’t heard his telephone beep. It was a message from Sebag.

  “Gilles says he’s on his way,” he told Ménard. “His message was sent about ten minutes ago.”

  “He didn’t tell you where he was?”

  “No.”

  “So we don’t know when he’ll be here . . .”

  “True.”

  Molina typed in the husband’s number and got an answering machine. He left a message. “Hello, Monsieur Abad. This is Lieutenant Molina of the Perpignan police. I’m calling you about a matter of the greatest importance: something has happened to your wife, something serious. Please contact me as soon as possible at this mobile number. You can also reach me by landline at police headquarters. See you very soon.” After ending the call, he said to his colleague:

  “This case is so clear that I almost wanted to tell him: please come turn yourself in, and don’t forget to bring the weapon used in the crime so the technicians can examine it.”

  Ménard granted him a smile.

  “I think that’s what he’ll understand in any case. So, should we call the lover now?”

  Molina put away his own phone and picked up the victim’s.

  “This might be fun,” he said.

  He pressed the icon corresponding to the name “Pascale.” As soon as he heard the ring, he turned on the speaker. At the third ring, someone answered. Pascale was in fact a man, with a soft, suave voice.

  “Hello? Do you miss me already? Are you at home?”

  “Sorry, sir. I am not Christine Abad but Lieutenant Molina of the Perpignan police.”

  The interlocutor remained silent, but his uneasy breathing could be heard.

  “This is in fact the police calling you, sir. It’s not a practical joke or a trap. I’m calling you with Christine’s mobile because she’s had an accident, and we’d like to see you as soon as possible.”

  “An accident? Is it serious? A car accident?”

  “I’m not at liberty to tell you at this time, not on the phone. Can you come to police headquarters?”

  “Now?”

  “As soon as possible.”

  “Uhh . . . I don’t understand. Why me? I’m only a . . . a friend.”

  “We know about your relationship with Madame Abad, and we know that you are not merely a friend.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yes, you do, you know very well. Once again, this is neither a joke nor a trap, sir. This is not Stéphane Abad who is calling you, it’s really Lieutenant Molina. What is your name, by the way?”

  Another silence followed this question. Then the low voice was heard again. It was less suave.

  “And how do I know that you are really a . . . police officer?”

  Molina was beginning to get impatient, but he had to recognize that in his situation, the lover was very right to be careful.

  “I can’t in fact prove that to you. So here’s what you’re going to do: You’re going to go immediately to police headquarters in Perpignan, where you will say that you have an appointment with Lieutenants Molina and Ménard. And then you’ll see very clearly that this is no joke.”

  “But that’s not possible, not right away! I can’t, I’m at work, I can’t leave just like that!”

  “But that’s exactly what you’re going to do!”

  Molina sensed that he was going to have trouble remaining polite.

  “Otherwise, I’ll send a patrol car—flashing light, siren, the whole shooting match. That always really impresses people, I assure you. But given your situation, a little discretion might be preferable, no?”

  The silence that followed was not as deep as Molina had hoped. His diatribe had fallen flat. He’d forgotten an essential element that his interlocutor quickly pointed out to him:

  “And seeing that you don’t know my identity, where are you going to send your patrol car?”

  This time, Molina exploded. The guy was asking for it and he was going to get it!

  “It’s true that I don’t have your name, Monsieur What’s-his-name, Monsieur Thingamabob, Monsieur Asshole. But I have your phone number and in less than fifteen minutes I can have your name, your address, your boss’s employer number, the color of your children’s eyes, and the size of your wife’s waist. I advise you not to force me to make this search, because I’m already in a very bad mood . . .”

  He paused before striking the fatal blow: “I am presently in room 34 of the Hôtel du Gecko, and I am always in a very bad mood when I’m investigating a murder!”

  After making that blunt declaration, he cut the conversation short and looked up. François Ménard, Elsa Moulin, and her assistant had all interrupted what they were doing to listen to this stormy phone conversation. They were staring at him. Molina smiled at them.

  “Now I can assure you that Monsieur Asshole is about to shit his pants. As soon as he’s washed them out, he’s going to go straight to police headquarters with his tail between his legs and we will soon be able to have a conversation with a nice little lapdog.”

  He handed the mobile to Elsa Moulin. The head of the forensic team put it in a labeled plastic bag.

  “If I understand correctly, you are finally going to get out of my crime scene?” the young woman said. “Great . . .”

  “We’re off to headquarters, yes,” he replied before turning to Ménard. “We also have to put out a notice that we’re looking for the husband.”

  He went out on the landing, took off his shoe covers, his gloves, and his cap, which he threw into the room. Before he left, Elsa stopped him:

  “It will take us only a few more minutes, so if you see Gilles, will you send him to me right away?”

  Ménard made a face. Molina sniggered:

  “If it’s about a date for tonight, my dear, I warned you: he won’t call you!”

  “Molina, do you know what?”

  “I have a vague idea.”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “That’s just what I was thinking. Come on, François, we’ll go together. It’s so much more fun when two are doing it!”

  CHAPTER 5

  The perfect crime.

  Finally!

  His plan had worked.

  From his observation post, he had seen everything, better than on TV. The couple’s arrival, the man’s departure, then the husband going in and coming out, and finally the arrival of the useless emergency vehicles and the police. First the forensic team, then the investigators. He hadn’t understood very well why the two lieutenants had lingered so long in the street before deciding to go into the hotel. From where he sat, he couldn’t understand everything.

  But that didn’t matter.

  A funeral home’s black hearse came up Rue des Augustins. Metal barriers along the narrow street prevented any vehicle from parking in front of the hotel. The hearse found a precarious place only on the little Place des Poilus, just in front of him. Two men in dark suits got out and headed for the hotel.

  They were going to take the body away.

  Poor Christine . . .

  She was not necessarily the most guilty, but fate had decided things that way, she’d married an impulsive man, it was the fault of bad luck. At th
e same time, if she’d behaved instead of cuckolding her husband for weeks on end, none of this would have happened.

  He saw one of the undertakers leave the hotel with a cop in uniform. The forensic team had probably not yet finished in the “mortuary chamber,” he’d have to wait. The guy from the funeral home offered the policeman on guard a cigarette, and lit one for himself. As they smoked, they exchanged a few words, probably commonplaces. They looked bored. You had to admit that there were terrible dead times in their trade.

  He smiled at his joke.

  At least in his own job it was like a reality show on TV: something was always happening. Usually not very exciting things, but from time to time, a few nuggets of truth.

  He’d never loved his job as much as he had these last few weeks.

  A fat gypsy woman walked in front of the hotel. Wearing a black skirt and blouse, with a simple cardigan over her large shoulders, she was strolling casually along in slippers, despite the winter weather. She was having an animated conversation on her telephone. He couldn’t understand what she was saying, but he could tell that she was speaking Catalan. The gypsies of Perpignan were the last who were still using that language on a daily basis. Once her conversation was over, the Woman in Black put her mobile back in her blouse, between her ample breasts.

  He took a deep breath. Life could be beautiful once again.

  He’d succeeded, he’d taken his revenge.

  A perfect crime, yes.

  He experienced this result as a kind of liberation. He no longer felt that immense weight on his shoulders, that bitter knot in his stomach. Finally, he was breathing normally. This evening, he would go home with his mind at ease and his soul serene.

  For the first time in such a long time.

  He was getting ready to leave his observation post when he saw another policeman arriving, one he knew. My God, he looks completely shot! he said to himself with compassion, before smiling at his further joke, which was unintended this time. Christine must look shot, too . . .

  He saw the policeman glance in his direction, but he wasn’t worried. The cop couldn’t see him. And he would never trace this back to him.