It was as if, all of a sudden, he was rewinding the film. Was it possible? Good God, yes, it was!
He had never prayed in his life.
But now he prayed.
He prayed as he pressed his foot to the floor and headed off again full speed along the bypass. He prayed among the concert of insults and horns blowing that accompanied his sudden exhilaration, as he zigzagged in and out of the cars towards insane hope.
* * *
He left the car in the courtyard of the police station and ran flat out to the forensic science lab, which was off to one side. He burst in through the doors as if his life depended on it, bumping into an indignant employee, then headed towards the biology unit.
She was there, Catherine Larchet, the scientist who headed the unit. She was the one whom, a few months earlier, he had asked to analyse the DNA from Marianne’s heart. She had got it for him in record time – twelve hours – because she knew how much it meant to him. She had watched as he went to pieces, knocking over a desk, screaming with pain, when she told him the terrible truth.
‘Martin?’ she said now, when she saw him rush towards her like a rugby player hurtling towards touchdown.
‘The DNA,’ he began, breathless.
She immediately understood which DNA he was referring to, and she was on her guard: she knew his story, she had heard about his depression, and his stay at the centre.
‘Martin…’
He shook his head.
‘Don’t worry, I’m fine. The DNA,’ he said again. ‘Where did you get it from?’
‘What?’
‘Which DNA did you use for your analysis?’
She frowned.
‘Are you questioning my competence?’
He waved his hands, then bowed very low, as if in a Japanese greeting.
‘Catherine, you are the most competent person I know! I just want to know: you did a parental test, right? Ascending/descending?’
‘Yes. You wanted me to compare it to her son Hugo’s DNA. It was definitely Marianne’s blood, Martin: there could not be the slightest doubt. Mitochondrial DNA is transmitted intact from mother to child; all human beings inherit their mitochondrial DNA exclusively from their mother.’
Servaz recalled the insulated box – Marianne’s heart bathing in congealed blood, the diabolical gift from Hirtmann to his favourite cop …
‘The blood, you said?’
‘Yes, the blood. Obviously, the blood. Blood, along with sperm, contains the most DNA. Moreover, need I remind you, you were in a great hurry – you wanted the results as quickly as possible. So we took a sample of intracardiac blood with a syringe. It was the best way to do it quickly, and there was no reason to do it any other way.’
He felt as if his own heart was about to go flying.
‘And you didn’t look any further?’
Once again, she blushed, and gave him a questioning glance.
‘Why should we? The result was positive.’
‘And do you still have the heart?’
‘Of course – it’s evidence for an ongoing investigation. It’s stored at the Forensics Institute. Martin, listen, you should—’
The Forensics Institute was part of the University Hospital Centre at Rangueil, to the south of Toulouse. He looked at her.
‘Could you do a new test?’ he said. ‘This time with cells from the heart itself?’
She stared at him.
‘Are you serious?’ He could see she was thinking. ‘You don’t honestly believe that … Oh, for Christ’s sake! If it’s true, it would be a first. If it’s true, it will be all over the forensic journals!’
She hurried to her desk and picked up the telephone, looking at him.
‘I’ll call them right away.’
* * *
In the dim light of the dress circle, Denise was smiling. Down below her, the soprano Natalie Dessay was singing her farewell to the opera stage. The same stage where she had begun twenty-five years earlier: the Théâtre du Capitole in Toulouse.
Denise put her hand on her belly. The fifth month. The month for travelling. Tomorrow they would fly off to Thailand. A honeymoon, in a way, even though they were not married. Denise looked at Gérald, sitting next to her. She had got him, in the end. All to herself. She observed him, serious and absorbed, his glasses reflecting the lights from the stage. He would be a good father and a good husband – oh yes, of that there could be no doubt. But it wasn’t exactly what she had dreamed of. For a start, in bed he was a bit … dull. Not like ‘little’ Yannis, the new intern. Dark as an Eastern prince, with long eyelashes, a body to die for, white teeth and a pirate’s smile. But she was carrying Gérald’s child. And she loved him. Yes, of course she loved him: she hadn’t done all this for nothing. Except that she could see the way young Yannis looked at her … and how he managed to be alone with her as often as possible, and showered her with compliments so bold they made her blush. And she was not someone who blushed easily. She tried to concentrate on the opera, but she just couldn’t. She could not stop thinking about Yannis – his body, his jeans, his tanned, tattooed arms. Yes, she was going to be a mother, she was expecting Gérald’s child: she had got what she wanted, hadn’t she?
As for all the rest, wait and see. When the time came … They were off to Thailand the next day, for an entire month: she was already eager to get back.
* * *
Cordélia handed her ticket and passport to the flight attendant, who ushered her through priority boarding, and smiled when she saw Anton sleeping on his mother’s back in his padded sling. She walked up the closed air bridge, dragging her little red wheeled suitcase behind her, ignored the steward when he greeted them with a broad smile, then headed towards her seat in the middle of the cabin. She felt nervous.
As she did every time she took a plane. Which had only happened three times in the nineteen years of her life. In less than fifteen minutes she would have left Moscow behind her. The people who had greeted them when they disembarked – and who had made Marcus disappear – had let her choose her next destination. They had paid for the tickets for her and her child. They even paid for her brand-new luggage. They got her all the documents she needed. There was only one condition: she had to go far, far away. She knew that Anton’s father was dead. And even if he had prepared her for that possibility, and had told her over and over that men like him did not live long, the prospect of being a single mother at the age of twenty in an unfamiliar country, without a job and only €15,000 to get started, was not an appealing one.
But she was tough, and she hadn’t given up yet. During her stay in Moscow she’d got rid of her piercings and had spent one quarter of the €20,000 hidden in her suitcase to have some of the more visible tattoos removed by laser – just the black ones, the ones in colour were virtually indelible. She’d bought some clothes that were simple but classy (including the grey suit she was wearing today). She had adopted the hairstyle and make-up typical of business-class passengers and luxury-hotel guests who referred to glossy magazines when it came to taste. Of course she would have preferred to be travelling business, in the event that some well-heeled sucker might be sitting next to her: she wouldn’t find her sugar daddy in economy. Before departure she had picked up some documentation at the embassy of the country she was heading to, and she was already starting to study it. Lists of companies that provided nannies, cleaning women and babysitters to a wealthy clientele. In her luggage she had a CV and references, all fake of course. Not that she had any intention of doing housework or looking after any snotty little brats other than her own for long. But it could be a gateway to a brighter future. All she needed was a sucker or two … She pressed her head back against the seat and closed her eyes when she felt the thrust of the jets vibrate through her. Life had not been kind to her, so why should she be kind to others?
* * *
Guy Steinmeyer was smiling as he got out of his sporty, ecologically friendly Fisker Karma that had set him back more than one hundred
thousand euros. Today he had gone for a walk through the streets of Toulouse and three people recognised him and asked him for an autograph. They had called him ‘Monsieur Dorian’. Of course. If they had called him Steinmeyer he didn’t know whether he would have recognised his own name. He had been Guy Dorian for so long. Wouldn’t he always be known, under that name, as one of the pioneers of French television and radio?
He unlocked the American-style mailbox on a post ten metres from their lovely home. He took out the letters. And his eye was immediately drawn to a brown envelope with his name on it, with neither stamp nor address. He unfolded the sheet inside. Letters cut out of the newspaper, and glued together to form the words.
You are going to commit suicide. You don’t know it yet, but you’re going to do it.
The letter was unsigned.
* * *
She came in person to give him the results. He wasn’t in his office. Catherine Larchet, head of the biological unit at the forensics lab, looked everywhere for him and eventually found him in Espérandieu’s office, leaning over his assistant’s shoulder and staring at a screen. She gave a quick knock. He turned around, and before she had even said a word, he understood.
It wasn’t hers. It wasn’t her.
Servaz opened his mouth: he’d been right.
‘You were right,’ she confirmed. ‘It was her blood, but it was another woman’s heart. There was even a tiny hole, where he had injected Marianne’s blood.’
Servaz stood there for a long time, not moving, dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do, what to say, how to react. Something was expanding in his chest, and it wasn’t joy, or even relief, but it might be hope. An infinitesimal but real hope.
Hirtmann, that bloody fucking bastard.
He rushed past her, straight to the lift, out through the lobby and into the warm, buttery summer light. He needed to be alone. He began walking along the canal under the dusty trees. Instinctively, his hand reached for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, and took it out. He placed one cigarette between his lips and this time he lit it.
The poison went slowly, deliciously, down into his lungs. Hope – as he was well aware – was just as lethal a poison.
He thought about the man who had sent him that gift, the former prosecutor from Geneva, the erstwhile inmate at the asylum Institut Wargnier. He won’t show his face but he’s out there, somewhere, maybe thousands of miles away, maybe not far at all, but one thing is certain, Martin: he never stops thinking about you. He is wearing a perfect disguise, he does not know what pity is, but he does know love, in his way. And he loves you. Otherwise, he would have put her real heart there instead. This gift, this offering, is an invitation.
He walked on, oblivious of everything around him; sun and shadow slipped over his face, his mouth was dry, his mind was ablaze.
He’s like an unwanted older brother, a sort of Cain. He does horrible things, and he’s got Marianne … Because she’s alive. You know she is alive. One day, one morning, you will get up and in your mailbox there will be another sign: he won’t leave you alone. She is waiting for you, because you are all she has. Seven billion human beings, and only one who can save her.
A bicycle bell roused him from his reverie. He gave a start, spun around and looked, full of emotion, at the dazzling light coming through the leaves, and he almost knocked over the cyclist, who swerved just in time. He could feel waves of warmth, and hear the rumbling of the boulevard. His face contorted in a silent laugh. His eyes were shining. The miracle of life, once again.
Marianne …
Acknowledgements and Principal Sources
All my thanks to Messrs. Christophe Guillaumot, Yves Le Hir, José Mariet and Pascal Pasamonti, from the Toulouse Regional Criminal Investigation Department; and to André Adobes, sparring partner; they have all given generously of their time. None of them should be held responsible for my mistakes or my opinions.
While doing research to give a certain authenticity to this fiction, I found the following books to be an enormous help: Femmes sous emprise et Le Harcèlement moral, la violence perverse au quotidien by Marie-France Hirigoyen; Les manipulateurs sont parmi nous by Isabelle Nazare-Aga; La Perversité à l’oeuvre; Le harcèlement moral dans l’entreprise et le couple by Jean-Paul Guedj; Une Française dans l’espace by Claudie André-Deshays and Yolaine de La Bigne; Carnet de bord d’un cosmonaute by Jean-Pierre Haigneré and Simon Allix; L’Exploration spatiale by Arlène Ammar-Israël and Jean-Louis Fellous; Almost Heaven, the Story of Women in Space by Bettyan Holtzmann Kevles; À leur corps defendant: Les femmes à l’épreuve du nouvel ordre moral by Christine Détrez and Anne Simon; Toulouse hier, aujourd’hui, demain by Fernand Cousteaux and Michel Valdiguié; L’Opéra ou la Défaite des femmes by Catherine Clément; Tout l’opéra, de Monteverdi à nos jours by Gustave Kobbé; Cinq grands opéras by Henry Barraud; Dictionnaire amoureux de l’opéra by Alain Duault; Russian Criminal Tattoo Encyclopaedia.
Caroline Sers helped me improve the text, as did Gwenaëlle Le Goff.
My warmest thanks for their remarkable work to the team at Éditions XO and Pocket, starting with Bernard, Caroline and Édith, my first readers.
Any errors are my own. My characters are pure invention. Regarding Servaz’s musical taste, once again I am grateful to Jean-Pierre Schamber for having guided me along the thorny path he takes more frequently than I do; and here I must add the contribution of the eminent Georges Haessig regarding those marvellous fragments of piano-roll recordings that Mahler himself performed.
Also by Bernard Minier
The Frozen Dead
The Circle
About the Author
BERNARD MINIER grew up in the foothills of the French Pyrenees. He had a career as a customs official before publishing his first novel, The Frozen Dead, in 2011. The novel has been translated into a dozen languages and has garnered critical acclaim as well as several literary prizes in France. Minier lives in the Essonne, south of Paris. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Overture
Act I
1: Curtain Raiser
2: Score
3: Chorus
4: Baritone
5: Concertato
6: Soloist
7: Vibrato
8: Melodrama
9: Intermission
10: Soprano
11: Crescendo
12: Leçon de Ténèbres
13: Opéra bouffe
14: Coloratura
15: Duet
16: Recitative
17: Walk-on
18: Verismo
19: Tenor
20: Operetta
21: Ensemble
22: Lakmé
23: Leitmotiv
24: Voice
25: Counterpoint
26: Synopsis
27: Diva
28: Intermezzo
29: Libretto
30: Opera Seria
31: Grand Opera
32: Boos
Act II
33: Queen of the Night
34: Drame Lyrique
35: Encore
36: Dress Circle
37: Accessories
38: Exit the Stage
39: Pit
Act III
40: Aria da capo
41: ‘Sola, perduta, abbandonata’
42: Finale
Epilogue
Acknowledgements and Principal Sources
Also by Bernard Minier
About the Author
Copyright
This i
s a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DON’T TURN OUT THE LIGHTS. Copyright © 2014 by XO Éditions. Translation copyright © 2016 by Alison Anderson. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Our e-books may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at (800) 221-7945, extension 5442, or by e-mail at [email protected].
First published in France under the title N’eteins pas la Lumière by XO Éditions
Previously published in Great Britain by Mulholland Books, an imprint of Hodder & Stoughton, an Hachette UK company
First U.S. Edition: December 2016
eISBN 9781250106063
First eBook edition: December 2016
Don't Turn Out the Lights Page 43