“Excuse me?”
“Why are you turning?” Claire asked again. “That’s not the right direction.”
Damn . . . At the roundabout, he’d taken the road toward downtown rather than heading straight north toward Espira.
“Sorry, I was lost in my thoughts. Conditioned reflexes! I was going to headquarters.”
“Do you want me to drive?”
“No, don’t worry, it’s all right.”
He was forced to make a long detour before he could get back on the right road. Claire was watching him out of the corner of her eye.
These last few days each evening they had had long conversations on the telephone. They had said over and over that they loved each other, they had talked about everything and nothing, carefully avoiding the touchy subjects. And every evening after the call, Gilles had slept on the couch, a bottle within reach. He’d alternated whiskey, vodka, Cognac, and Armagnac. In drinking, as within a couple, routine had to be avoided at any price.
The routine that was breaking them apart right now was the worst of all. That of insistent questions. A new question had just arisen in his mind which, unfortunately, had recovered its acuity and normal activity. He couldn’t help himself, he had to ask it. He had to know before he could get there.
“Did Fanny know about it?”
“About what?”
“What do you think!”
He heard a long sigh on his right.
“Why would she have? Do you think I shouted it from the rooftops?”
“She might have noticed it.”
“She never gave me any reason to think that.”
The headlights of the cars coming in the opposite direction filled the inside of the car with an almost continuous yellow light. The traffic was heavy, everybody was going to a New Year’s Eve party. Most people were probably happy, or managed to seem happy. If only the year that was ending had never existed . . .
“Don’t make it worse, please,” Claire pleaded. “We were always discreet. There was never anything ambiguous between us at school or elsewhere. Nobody ever suspected anything.”
Gilles bit his upper lip. Was Claire that naïve or was she deliberately deluding herself to alleviate her guilty feelings? How could she think that first the complicity, then the strong . . . attraction that had bound her to . . . the other guy had remained secret? It took so little, a slight touch, a smile, a glance more tender and lingering than others. He knew that strange vibrations danced around people who were attracted to each other. Most people didn’t perceive these vibrations, but they did not escape everyone. Gilles remembered that at police headquarters in Chartres he had been the first to notice the ties between two colleagues. The man was an inspector for public security, the woman worked on the financial fraud squad. They also thought they had been discreet, speaking to each other very little and never being less than twenty centimeters from one another. And yet he had found it out. Long before anyone else. Because everything had ended up being known. The liaison had gone on and the two lovers had finally made missteps. Some ill-intentioned or jealous person had informed the spouses. The woman had gotten divorced, while the man had had himself transferred and tried to reconstruct his marriage far from Chartres. Gilles had never heard how that turned out; perhaps the guy had succeeded.
Workplaces are microcosms buzzing with rumors. If that was true regarding Claire and . . . Simon, the rumors had started to circulate even before their friendship got out of hand.
“You always left in separate cars?”
“In the evening, yes. But at noon, not always, it’s true . . .”
“And Pascale and Véronique, they knew about it, I assume?”
Claire sighed again. Pascale and Véronique were two great friends with whom she played sports, sometimes went out in the evening, going to the movies or the theater when the posters didn’t appeal to Gilles.
“Pascale, yes, but not Véronique. At the time, Véro was right in the middle of a divorce, she was in very bad shape, and I didn’t want to burden her with that.”
Gilles sensed that this was half a lie, and he wasn’t taken in. Last summer, Véronique had just broken up with her husband, who was cheating on her. She wasn’t in the best position to receive that kind of confidence. Claire had probably wanted to avoid being judged, or even condemned.
“And how did you tell Pascale about it? Did you say that you had done something really stupid or that you were having a marvelous time?”
“You know that the truth is that it was a little of both.”
Claire’s voice remained calm, but he discerned a mixture of tension and pain. He had to admit that this mixture did him good.
“I no longer remember what I said exactly,” Claire went on, “but it necessarily revolved around that.”
“Did you tell Pascale right away?”
“Almost.”
“Every time I’ve run into her since, she knew and she didn’t say anything to me . . .”
Despite himself, his tone had hardened. His anger was growing, he had to control it. But it was stronger than he was.
“And what did I look like her, and to your other colleagues, for that matter? The resident asshole? The guy you laugh at when his back is turned? I never want to see Pascale again, not ever!”
“You won’t see her, but I’ll continue to see her. How can you reproach her for not having told you secrets I confided to her?”
“And what did she say when you admitted you were having an affair?”
“I don’t remember. Not much. She, too, cheated on her husband a few years ago. Xavier had already done the same earlier. They were able to talk about it. They are still together today. Maybe even happier than before. You know, it may be unfortunate but that’s the way it is: today, a majority of people have strayed at one time or another.”
“I know, I know the stats.”
In the contemporary world, life could now be summed up only in figures. The sales of Kleenex, the frequency of sexual intercourse, the price of natural gas, the number of sexual partners before, after, and during marriage, popularity ratings, the efficiency of the police. Would there someday be a Richter scale to qualify the intensity of distress?
Gilles felt like the last of the Mohicans.
“In fact, I’m the one who’s to blame, the black cat: I should have cheated on you!”
Claire turned to him and put her hand on his arm to calm the storm.
“Please stop, Gilles. Listen to your heart, listen to my love, and above all, don’t listen to your pride. Otherwise we’re done for.”
He tried to breathe more normally. She was right, so right: it was easier to get over a sorrow in love than a wound to one’s pride.
The party at the Chambruns’ turned out to be a crashing bore. When a middle-school teacher meets another middle-school teacher and a primary-school teacher, what do they talk about? Stuff that is mortally tedious! Especially for a cop. The reform of the middle schools and the school calendar, the wretched salaries, the lack of recognition, conflicts with the students, the parents, and often both. Kindly, as she served the cheese course Fanny tried to reorient the conversation toward Gilles.
“And you, what are you working on at the moment? An exciting case? Do you have any juicy information to reveal to us?”
Well, no, he didn’t have anything interesting to recount. For an instant he was tempted to tell them in great detail about all the cases he was currently working on, about all these couples whose marriages were turning into tragedies. To provoke in that way a debate on adultery in the world and in France, here and now. A petty revenge taken on Claire and a way of testing Fanny and Érick. He knew he was capable of discerning, in their words, their glances, and their tone, what they really knew.
He decided not to do it: He might end up being the only one to suffer from that pointless discussion.
Fanny offered Gilles a second opportunity:
“What about the Benitez case, anything new?”
“No, it’s dead quiet and there’s no prospect of new investigations.”
“So the case will remain a mystery?”
“Probably.”
Ah, the infamous Benitez case . . . 10 A mother and her daughter, a candidate for the title of Miss Roussillon, had mysteriously disappeared two years earlier, a few days before the celebrated beauty pageant. The father and husband, Francisco Benitez, a member of the French Foreign Legion, had waited two weeks before reporting their disappearance to the police. An extremely strange thing to do. He had therefore very quickly become the main suspect. The only one, in fact. And under the pressure of the police and the media, the man had spectacularly committed suicide: after having recorded a video proclaiming his innocence, he had hanged himself from a window at his barracks. Without bringing forth any conclusive proof, the investigation had afterward continued to assemble evidence all of which pointed to Francisco’s guilt. Information, some of it sordid, was leaked almost every day to the national and local press. The case had become a veritable TV serial that the French, and first of all the people of Perpignan, followed with fervor. At that time, Gilles was having great success at dinners, including the ones attended solely by Claire’s colleagues.
Since Gilles did not take advantage of this second opportunity, the discussion returned to the next school year, the summer vacation that was almost over, and the Christmas vacation, which was never very restful for either teachers or students. “It’s going to be a long time until February!” they all lamented in unison.
Midnight finally arrived. The Chambruns uncorked the champagne. People embraced, they drank, and then it was time to go.
Oof.
When Gilles and Claire got home they found the house empty. Séverine and Léo were sleeping at their friends’ houses. If they ever did go to sleep . . . They went to bed in silence and lay there, each on his or her own side.
Since they’d left the Chambruns’ house, they hadn’t said a word to each other. Claire had wanted to drive, and he hadn’t insisted. Two cocktails, wine, and champagne, he’d had his dose.
The silence continued. Gilles moved over to curl up next to his wife. Their bodies fit together perfectly. An accident of nature or the force of habit. They had matured together, perhaps they had shaped themselves with relation to each other.
And what about the other man, how was it with him? Gilles succeeded in setting the question aside.
He put his hand on Claire’s hip and whispered in her ear:
“When you’re with me, like that, pressed against my body, I can’t think of anything but us. But as soon as you go away, even a few centimeters, I can’t help it: I think about the two of you.”
10An actual case (2013). Cf. https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Affaire_Benitez
CHAPTER 20
François Ménard got to headquarters early. He felt fresh and rested, because he had gone to bed early the night before to recover from the excesses of New Year’s Eve. As usual, he greeted with a quick nod the woman cop who was on the front desk the day after the holiday.
“Happy New Year, Lieutenant Ménard!” she cried.
He froze. Behind her desk, Martine had risen, she was expecting something. Ménard hesitated, took a few steps toward her, and held out a limp hand.
“Happy New Year . . . Martine. Thanks. And especially good health, huh?”
The woman cop shook his hand.
“Yes, for sure, especially good health.”
She grabbed a Post-it that she’d stuck to the edge of the desk.
“Here, by the way, someone called a few minutes ago. A young man who wanted to speak to two lieutenants, a man and a woman, but he wasn’t able to give me their names. They questioned him a few days ago . . .”
“What’s his name?”
Martine examined the note.
“Abad. Maxime Abad.”
Ménard was suddenly interested.
“Apparently the name means something to you,” Martine remarked. “Are you the one who questioned him?”
If Ménard remembered correctly, Gilles and Julie had met the young man the evening of the murder.
“I’m also working on this case, yes. What was the call about?”
“The boy just told me he had important information to give you. He left his telephone number. Do you want it?”
She handed him a Post-it that he immediately put in his pocket.
“Tell me, Lieutenant . . . This young man, is he the son of the woman who was killed by his father? I mean . . . by her husband. I mean her husband but his father.”
“He’s the one.”
“He’s young?”
“About twenty, I think.”
“He doesn’t have brothers or sisters?”
“No.”
“Oh, pobret.11 So he’ll be left all alone . . . If that isn’t too bad!”
Ménard cut her lamentations short and left to call Maxime, who answered after the first ring.
“Thanks for calling me back so fast, Lieutenant,” the young man said politely. “Could you stop by to see me today? I have something to show you.”
“What is it?”
“I think you’ll be interested. It’s photos. But I’d prefer not to say more. I’ll be home all day. You can come to Pollestres whenever you want.”
Ménard didn’t have to think about it long. He didn’t have much to do and could thus take advantage of the opportunity. The future belongs to those who get up early, they say. And in the police, fortune sometimes smiles on those who get to headquarters early.
Like most of the communes on the Catalan plain, Pollestres is smothered in a web of residential subdivisions. Ménard wandered around for a long time in a pitiless labyrinth of streets, circles, and dead ends before he finally spotted a young man. Maxime was waiting for him on the sidewalk.
“You’re not the only one who struggles in this area . . .”
Ménard followed the young man into the house. In the middle of the living room, the television was on, simulating a presence in the empty dwelling.
“Would you like some coffee?” Maxime asked.
“I’d rather have tea, please.”
As the young man disappeared into the adjoining kitchen, Ménard took off his jacket and sat down on a comfortable L-shaped couch. The insipid images of an all-news channel were appearing over and over on the television screen. He took the remote and hit the mute button.
A few minutes later Maxime Abad returned to the living room and put two steaming cups on the solid wood coffee table. But he remained standing.
“You aren’t the one who questioned me the other evening at the police station . . .”
“No. But I’m the one who’s conducting this investigation, in fact. I took part in the initial examination and conducted the interrogation of your father and of . . . of Monsieur Balland.”
Ménard’s blunder caused Maxime to raise an eyebrow.
“My colleagues who talked with you are not available today.”
Maxime seemed to hesitate, but finally took an envelope out of a drawer in the big bookcase that decorated the living room.
“I found this among my father’s things.”
Ménard looked at the envelope without touching it. On it was written Stéphane Abad’s name and the address of his company. It was postmarked December 20. François made a quick calculation: Christmas was a Thursday, so the 20th must have been a Saturday, three days before the tragedy.
“Was the envelope already open?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Did you handle it much?”
“Uhh . . . yes. And I even showed its contents to my aunt and uncle. They’re the ones who advised me to call you.”
&nbs
p; “OK.”
Ménard picked up the envelope and took out three series of photos that he spread on the table. They had been taken in quick succession. The first series showed Christine Abad and Éric Balland entering the Hôtel du Gecko together. In the lower right corner was a time stamp: 12:33. The other two series showed the lover and then the wife coming out separately, Balland at 1:56 and Christine at 2:07. On the back of one of the photos, a handwritten note read: “Every Thursday and sometimes on Tuesday. You know how to reach me.”
Ménard shook his head and examined the photos again. Especially the ones showing Christine. She had a light step and a smile on her face. The photographer was talented: you could even see a spark of happiness in Christine’s eyes. She’d just left her lover and she was radiant, blooming. It was enough to make a jealous husband furious and violent.
“Should we not have touched them?”
Lost in his thoughts, Ménard took a few seconds before looking up.
“Pardon?”
“I was saying that perhaps we should not have touched the photos and the envelope. Because of the fingerprints . . .”
Ménard dismissed this regret:
“That doesn’t matter. We would have tried to lift prints, but we wouldn’t have found any. These days nobody is stupid enough to send anonymous letters with his fingerprints all over them.”
“The note was written by hand. That can help you too, can’t it?”
The policemen shrugged his skinny shoulders.
“Maybe . . . If we test the handwriting of everybody living in the area!”
“But when you have a suspect, that could help you.”
“A suspect . . .”
Ménard sipped his tea. It was good and strong but already a little cold. He drank it up in three swallows before turning back to Maxime.
“These photos suggest that someone knew about the affair your mother was having with Monsieur Balland and that he informed your father. Why? Probably in order to take revenge on one or the other of them.”
“Or to take revenge on my father!”
“Perhaps . . .”
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