Balland stared at him, first with astonishment, and then with a glimmer of defiance. He seemed to have no doubt, not about his own reaction, but about his wife’s behavior. Molina also deciphered this look and said to himself that husbands who were too sure of themselves were either lucky or fools.
Considering Sebag’s question once again off the subject, Ménard resumed the thread of the interrogation:
“What time did you leave the hotel?”
“Shortly before two o’clock.”
“And why did Christine stay longer?”
“First, because she had the time . . . I would have liked to stay, too, but I was expected back at work. And then because she liked to linger a few minutes in the room. I often left her a cigarette that she quietly smoked.”
His tone had become graver as his answer developed and the last syllables were lost in his throat. Balland bit his lips and sniffed. Ménard asked a few more unimportant technical questions and the interview came to an end.
The two lieutenants stood up and Balland imitated them. They said goodbye and exchanged a few further remarks without interest, but the lover couldn’t make up his mind to leave. Uneasy, he shifted his weight from one foot to the other. A question was bothering him that he finally managed to express:
“Do you think that all this could remain . . . discreet?”
Understanding, Ménard frowned.
“It’s a murder, and the press is certainly going to talk about it,” he said, nonetheless.
“But all the details won’t necessarily be given? All the names, either?”
Ménard scratched the end of his nose.
“We don’t control communication, you know. In general, we don’t talk with the press. As for the prosecutor, he’s not very talkative either. But the information will be in the local newspapers tomorrow, there may be leaks. The lawyers are not bound by the secrecy of the investigation. And neither are the other witnesses.”
Perpignan is a small town,” Molina warned in his turn. “Your escapades were undoubtedly not a secret for everybody. Some of your colleagues may have noticed things, and also other people in your yoga class. You probably talked about this relationship with friends, and Christine, too. If you imagine that no one knew about it, I can guarantee you that you are mistaken. Perpignan, as I said, is a small town, a very small town.”
“We’ve been as discreet as possible.”
Molina sniggered.
“Yeah, I thought so, too . . . That worked for a while.”
“In any case, we’re going to arrest the husband,” Ménard added. There will be a trial, and you will necessarily be called as a witness. I have no advice to give you, but in your place I’d try to get ahead of the curve and tell my wife everything this evening.”
“This evening already?”
“Why wait?”
“Tomorrow is . . . is Christmas Eve.”
Molina put his paw on Balland’s shoulder. He felt like crying “Merry Christmas” to him, but ended up being more indulgent. He’d experienced this, too. Recalling Sebag’s skepticism when Balland claimed that he’d never cheated on his wife before, he reassured the lover:
“Be honest about Christine . . . But you’re not obliged to tell her about the others . . .”
Balland bowed his head, muttered a final farewell, and left. Molina turned around and noticed at that moment that Sebag was no longer in the room. Jacques hadn’t seen him leave.
“So, are you feeling better?”
Sebag didn’t move, despite the question. He was standing at the window, watching the traffic calm down on the Avenue de Grande-Bretagne. Night had fallen some time before, and the office workers had almost all gone home. Molina sat down at his desk. He was eager to leave, but his workday wasn’t yet over, and might not be anytime soon.
“OK, apparently you’re not feeling any better.”
He dialed a number on his telephone. Sebag’s mobile immediately rang on his desk. Gilles grabbed it, looked at the screen, and then looked up at his colleague.
“Are you stupid, or what?”
“You don’t answer me when I ask questions in person, so I’ve found it more effective to call you. And you see, it works.”
“So what was your question?”
“Forget it, I’ve already got the answer.”
Sebag didn’t pursue the issue.
“Your guy didn’t say anything else as he left?”
“‘Your guy’—it sounds like you don’t feel very involved in this case.“
“Do you find it exciting?”
“It’s been a long time since I found this job exciting.”
“Now, that’s news!”
“What, that I’m no longer excited by it?”
“No, that you ever were!”
“Very funny . . .”
“Thanks. I think so, too.”
Molina noticed that his partner had perked up. He thought this might be the right time to mention something that had surprised him.
“What was it with all those stupid questions you asked Balland during the interview?”
“Don’t know. They just popped out.”
Molina frowned. Not much of an explanation. After a short pause, Sebag continued:
“The guy was just getting on my nerves. He mourned for about three minutes before he started thinking about himself, about saving his family life, when he was the one who’d put it in danger . . .”
Sebag suddenly fell silent. Then he changed the subject.
“What about the husband, any news?”
Before going up to their office, Jacques had reviewed the situation with Joan Llach, who was also working on this investigation.
“No, still nothing. He’s not at home, and not at work, either. Joan sent his car’s license plate number to all the teams in the field. If he’s still in this area, we’ll pick him up soon.”
“Did you try geolocating his mobile?”
“Yes, but nothing came up.”
“Too bad . . . How about the son? Did someone tell him?”
“Julie took care of that.”
“That’s good. Julie’s tactful . . .”
Molina had no trouble acknowledging that: transferred to their department and promoted a few weeks earlier, Julie had already proven to be an effective and subtle psychologist.
“The boy is in business school in Toulouse,” Jacques added. “He was on a ski vacation in Font-Romeu. Now he’s on his way back and Julie will talk with him in a little while. It would be good for someone to stay with her . . .”
Molina had put the ball in his partner’s court and was waiting for him to respond. After all, it was his turn to work a little bit.
“I can do that,” Sebag said with apparent relief. “And when we’re finished with the son, we’ll try to get hold of the father again.”
Jacques got up without giving Sebag time to change his mind or for his stomach problem to kick up again. Suddenly he was impatient.
“Great . . . So I can take off?”
“You can.”
That morning, Molina had brought a clean shirt and pants to work with him. He took them off the coatrack and started undressing.
“The gentleman is going out this evening . . .” Gilles observed.
“It’s impossible to hide anything from you.”
“What’s she like?”
Molina smiled at the memory of his latest conquest. He’d met her during a wine tasting at the BBC, a trendy bar.
“Young, redheaded, and English.”
“How young?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Oh, of course . . . you don’t deny yourself anything.”
“When women like you, what can you do?”
“And he’s modest, too!”
“I admit it.”
&nbs
p; After taking off his shirt, Molina removed his shoes and then dropped his pants.
“Uhh . . . now . . . if you don’t mind . . . I’d like to change my boxer shorts.”
Sebag turned and faced the wall, where he had hung a relief map of the department of Pyrénées-Orientales, a gift from Séverine and Léo on his last birthday.
“I didn’t know you were so concerned about your personal hygiene,” he said, talking to the wall. “And I thought rugby players weren’t so prudish in the locker room.“
“We’re not in a locker room. And you’re not a rugby player!”
“True. Would you also like me to stand guard at the door to be sure nobody comes in unexpectedly?”
“It’ll be all right.”
Jacques had finished putting on his clean shorts. He put the others in his desk drawer.
“OK, you can turn around now.”
Sebag did as he was told and allowed himself a slightly mocking smile.
“Did your British girl give you those?”
“Yes, my dear,” Molina replied in English. He felt himself blush. He pulled out the elastic band around his belly. On it was written “Thursday.”
“And I have a complete set for every day of the week,” he explained.
“Nice gift.”
“It is, isn’t it? Cindy’s working part-time in a clothing store.”
“And useful . . . You’re finally going to know all the days of the week in English.”
“Do you think that’s why she gave them to me?”
“What else?” Gilles replied in English.
Molina was all dressed again. An apple-green shirt with cobalt-blue pants. He let out a sigh of relief.
“I’ve wondered if the goal wasn’t to make sure that I changed my boxers every day.”
“Oh . . .”
Jacques smiled at the joke he was about to make: “Just between you and me, I’d have preferred another set of shorts! A series of twelve.”
“I sense something’s coming.”
“Shorts with ‘January,’ ‘February,’ etc. written on them . . . They’d be less work on a daily basis and they’d save on laundry detergent!”
Sebag laughed loudly and between two chuckles managed to get out a disgusted “yuck!” Molina put on his jacket and left the office, satisfied that he’d given his partner the first and only laugh he’d had all day.
CHAPTER 7
Finally alone . . . alone, goddammit.
He was done pretending, done talking, smiling, and especially trying to concentrate on an investigation that didn’t interest him at all and only kept reminding him of his own worries.
Bad luck, all the same! Having to deal with the murder of an adulterous wife by a jealous husband—the very day that he learned that Claire had cheated on him. It was better to laugh about it than to cry over it . . .
Gilles Sebag couldn’t do either one.
He stood in front of the open window in his office. He was smoking. Usually he smoked only four or five cigarettes a day. Sometimes more, sometimes less. Since early evening, he had far exceeded his daily ration. The wind outside was blowing the smoke back into the room. Too bad. By tomorrow, nobody would smell anything. And then Molina wasn’t going to complain about that.
Across the street from police headquarters, the Carlit’s owner was lowering the shutter of his bar-restaurant, making a metallic clatter that disturbed for a few seconds the calm of the Avenue de Grande-Bretagne. Rafel was lingering on the sidewalk, talking with two regulars. Gilles recognized activists in a left-leaning group that supported Catalan identity. They were lighting a last cigarette and no doubt talking about the independence movement that was growing on the other side of the Pyrenees. A year earlier, an unofficial referendum, contested by the government in Madrid, had ended with a big victory for the advocates of independence, and the upcoming regional elections represented the next stage in the struggle. The northern Catalans were following attentively and eagerly the battle begun by their cousins beyond the Pyrenees.
Sebag closed the window and sat down at his desk. It was quiet in the headquarters building. The room he occupied with Molina was on the third floor, far from the offices of the watch.
A bottle of whiskey was standing next to the telephone, as straight and proud as a soldier on his first July 14. Sebag grabbed it. He had gone to buy it at a little corner grocery store just before it closed. He’d bought the cheapest kind. A bad malt. The awful stuff raked his throat and burned his stomach, but it calmed his mind. The dark thoughts had lost their clarity and ardor, and they were now running through his mind at a slower pace. Even the words he’d read that morning on Claire’s mobile were gnawing at him less voraciously.
It had become bearable. He took a gulp from the bottle.
Before going out to buy the whiskey, he’d helped Julie interview Maxime Abad. When he learned what his father was suspected of doing, the boy had been shaken—as anyone would have been—and almost fainted. Julie had just managed to catch him, and then laid him down on the floor. They’d called the emergency medics—nothing serious—and then the boy’s maternal uncle. The kid mustn’t have to face this tragedy alone. His mother dead and his father the killer: there was no good way to become an orphan, but this was one of the worst. Parents who were both guilty and victims, turn by turn, as if in league to ruin his life.
How could he get over all that?
Time dulls all pains, all pains, Sebag had said, annoyed to be thinking about himself as he said it. For a moment, he had been satisfied with himself: He didn’t know how he would recover from Claire’s infidelity, but he would never plunge his children into such a melodrama.
But that didn’t last long.
Between two sobs of pain, Maxime had confirmed that his father owned a .22 long rifle that he used at the shooting range. Then, before leaving, supported by his uncle, he had called his father without receiving an answer. He’d left messages full of love and dignity on Abad’s mobile and on the landline at their home.
After the interview, Sebag had decided not to go home. He hadn’t really decided, it just forced itself on him. If Claire had been alone, they could have talked; he wanted to, he needed to. To talk to her, to touch her, to convince himself that she loved him. That they loved each other. To draw strength from that. But Léo and Séverine were at home and he didn’t think he was strong enough to pretend in front of them. He was saving himself for the next day.
That damned Christmas Eve!
He also needed to think. Was he going to leave Claire or would he try to resume the normal course of their lives despite this misstep? Deep down, he knew the answer. But he also knew that nonetheless, he mustn’t try to evade the question. He had to determine how serious it was and weigh the pros and cons in his soul and in his conscience.
Around 8 P.M., he had sent Claire an SMS to tell her that he wouldn’t be coming home that night. She had immediately replied. “I understand. I’d so much like to be able to tell you I’m suffering too but you might find that indecent. I can only remind you again that you are the love of my life and that I don’t want to lose you. I hope you’ll be home tomorrow night. Don’t make any hasty decisions. Give us a chance. Give me, the two of us, and the four of us a chance.”
He’d read this SMS at least a dozen times since the beginning of the evening. He read it again. Then he looked up. In the windowpane, he saw his father’s face. Yes, that pointed face, that straight nose, those long, black eyebrows, that slightly mocking smile. All that he’d gotten from his father. The older he got, the more he resembled him.
He didn’t like that at all.
He immediately stopped smiling, put his elbows on his desk, and joined his hands in front of his mouth, as it to pray.
Shit! That, too, was one of his father’s favorite positions. Gilles abruptly stood up and yelled:
�
�Gérard Sebag, get out of my body!”
He reopened the window to light a cigarette. Rafel and his activist buddies had gone away, and the street was quiet. He took a long puff, and the wind blew it back in his face. He breathed in the air full of tobacco smoke. Double benefit, double use, immediate recycling, a good point for the environment.
The whiskey was making his head spin. Damn, it was good! His body was heavy, his mind light. Finally!
“Papa, you have a message.”
He didn’t flinch. He knew who it was. He’d received the first SMS early in the afternoon, when he was in the hotel room. Since then she had been sending him one every hour. Always the same: “Don’t forget that I love you.”
It was true that she loved him. He had no doubt about that. She loved him, he loved her, they loved each other, that was the important thing. He had to repeat it to himself like a mantra, focus on that simple idea and prevent all the rest from burdening his mind. Yes, they loved one another . . .
But then why did all this happen? Why all this shit, why this misstep, and why did he hurt so much, why was it so hard for him to accept it?
So hard to forget . . .
The words he’d intercepted on Claire’s phone remained engraved on his memory, letter by letter. They made this escapade painfully concrete. He couldn’t forget, that would never be possible. It was pointless even to try. What he had to struggle to do was pardon it, not forget it. Pardon it and live with it. Love again, go on loving despite this feeling of betrayal deep in his heart.
That was possible.
Some people became violent—Abad had killed his wife—while others just separated—like Jacques and his wife, for example. But there were also others who continued, despite everything, to go on living or to survive. Yes, but who? Not a single name occurred to him. Those who manage that feat usually do so with the greatest discretion. As soon as people find out what happened, the decisions are no longer made by feelings, but by pride.
People mustn’t find out.
Nobody . . . Ever.
Through the open window he heard voices, then car doors closing, then someone coming up from the parking lot. He leaned out the window and saw a patrol car drive off at high speed. The car passed the lifted barrier, turned left onto the avenue, and headed for the Arago Bridge. A little burst of siren to get across the intersection, and then it disappeared into the night. This sudden departure probably had nothing to do with their case. Franck Sergis, the officer on watch, knew that Sebag was spending the night in his office. If there had been anything new regarding Abad, he would have informed him.
Crimes of Winter Page 5