The Circle

by Bernard Minier

  ‘Hmm. What is Marsac like?’

  ‘A small town. Quiet. I suppose they still have the same student pubs. Why did you choose Marsac rather than Toulouse?’

  ‘Because of Van Acker. The lit prof.’

  Even after all this time, Van Acker’s name elicited a reaction, like an electrical impulse stimulating a long inactive zone in his heart. He tried nevertheless to keep his voice neutral.

  ‘He’s that good?’

  ‘He’s the best in 500 kilometres.’

  Margot knew what she wanted. No doubt about that. He recalled the words of his daughter’s married lover, the only time he had met him, on the place du Capitole, a few days before Christmas: ‘Beneath her rebellious exterior, Margot is a wonderful girl, brilliant and independent. And a lot more mature than you give her credit for.’ A difficult conversation; bitter, full of reproach, but which in the end had made him conclude that he did not know her very well at all.

  ‘You could have made more of an effort with your clothes.’

  ‘Why? It’s my brains they’re interested in, not my clothes.’

  That was Margot all over … Still, he wasn’t sure her argument would carry much weight with the staff. They had driven through the vast Marsac forest, which went on for miles, with its bridle trails, footpaths and car parks, then they had entered the town by way of the long straight avenue lined with plane trees which Servaz had gone up hundreds of times in his youth.

  ‘You don’t mind being a boarder from Monday to Saturday?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’ She was looking out of the open window. ‘I haven’t given it much thought. I suppose I’ll meet interesting people here; it’ll be a nice change from those idiots at the other lycée. What was it like when you were here?’

  The question had caught him unawares. He didn’t feel like talking about it.

  ‘It was good,’ he said.

  There were a lot of bicycles on the streets, mostly with students perched on the saddle, but also a few professors with leather panniers stuffed with books over their rear wheels or in front of the handlebars. Marsac had several faculties: law, science, humanities … The town seemed to have yielded to its preference for youth. Except during the holidays, half the population was under twenty-five.

  They drove north out of town. A green meadow, with a dense line of trees in the distance.

  ‘Here,’ he announced.

  There was a long, tall building on the right, a short way from the road, at the end of a broad meadow. It looked very old-fashioned, with its roofs clustered with chimneys, its facade with mullioned windows. Around it there were several low, modern concrete buildings, set down upon the lawn like incongruous dominoes. Memories assailed him. He saw once again the pensive statues, the pools with green water, the copses colonised by mistletoe, the tennis courts overrun by dead leaves in November, the running track, the little woods where he liked to go for walks, which led to a high, gently sloping hill and the view it offered over the undulating hills as far as the Pyrenees, white from autumn to spring.

  It was as if a cold fist had squeezed his heart, causing a rush of nostalgia.

  He hadn’t realised it, but his fingers were gripping the steering wheel. He had dreamt for so long of a second chance, and had eventually understood that there wouldn’t be one. He had missed his chance. He would finish his adult life the way he had begun it: as a cop. In the end, his dreams had turned out to be as transient as clouds.

  Fortunately the sensation only lasted a second, and the next instant it was gone.

  They left the road to head up the paved driveway. It led between a white gate, which separated them from the broad meadow and the main building on their left, and a row of old oaks beyond a ditch to their right. Horses were frolicking in the meadow. He couldn’t help but think of his investigation during the winter of 2008.

  ‘Follow your dreams,’ he said suddenly.

  His voice was stifled.

  Margot turned to look at him, surprised. He wished he could have hidden the fact that his eyes had misted up.

  ‘This preparatory class is very demanding. It is meant for students who are very motivated and who are not afraid to work hard. The two years you are going to spend with us will be an opportunity for you to bloom and make the most of your education, not to mention the unprecedented experiences you will have. The knowledge we pass on to you does not neglect the human side. Unlike other establishments, we are not obsessed with statistics,’ explained the headmaster with a smile.

  Servaz was certain the opposite was true. Behind the headmaster, the window was open. He could see ivy and hear the sound of a lawnmower, and someone hammering. He knew that the headmaster’s office was at the top floor of a circular tower, and that his window overlooked the rear of the building: Servaz knew the place like the back of his hand.

  ‘No pupils are kept down the first year, except in the event of an accident or serious illness. However, the difficulty of the entrance examinations to the institutes of higher education often necessitates repeating the second year. This possibility is open to all students who have shown the required qualities during their two years here.’

  A beam of sunlight fell upon the folder with Margot’s name on it when the headmaster opened it and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  ‘Let’s take a look now at the choice of options. This is a very serious matter. You must not choose lightly, young lady, because even if your choice for the exam is only finalised at the beginning of the second year, it will depend on what you choose in the first year. And I advise against increasing the options simply to, shall we say, cover all eventualities … The workload is considerable, and such a decision would inevitably be detrimental to the quality of your work.’

  He counted on his fingertips.

  ‘In first year, you already have five hours of French, four hours of philosophy, five of history, four of living languages 1, three of classical languages and culture, two of geography, two of living languages 2 and two of physical education, and—’

  ‘I’ve already chosen my options,’ interrupted Margot. ‘Speciality units Latin and Greek, level confirmed. And drama. As my living language number 1, I’ll be taking English. Living language number 2, German.’

  The head’s pen scratched across the paper.

  ‘Very good. You are bound by your choices for the entire year, you realise that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He turned to Servaz with a delighted smile.

  ‘Here is a young person who knows what she wants.’

  8

  Music

  Servaz went back into the interrogation room. It was half past two in the morning. Hugo’s features were drawn, and Servaz sensed that the atmosphere had changed. So much pressure, so much fear. The time had come for confessions. Spontaneous confessions, fake confessions, truthful confessions, fantastical confessions, extorted confessions … I confess, because it relieves me of the burden of my guilt; I confess because I’ve had enough, because I’m exhausted and helpless, because I have an irresistible desire to go for a wee; I confess because that stupid bastard won’t stop blowing his stinking breath in my face; I confess because he’s driving me crazy, screaming at me, and because he frightens me; I confess because that’s what they all want, basically, and because I’ll end up having a heart attack, coronary thrombosis, hypoglycemia, kidney failure, epilepsy … He lit a cigarette and handed it to Hugo, in spite of the pictogram on the wall. The young man took it. He inhaled his first puff with the gratitude of a shipwreck survivor who has been handed a flask of fresh water, and he allowed the poison to flow slowly down his throat and into his lungs. Servaz noticed that he didn’t inhale, but he definitely seemed to feel better afterwards. Hugo observed him in silence. Outside, the rain drummed noisily on a row of dustbins.

  They were alone – as was always the case, once it became clear that one member of a team of investigators had a better rapport with the detainee than the others did. It didn’t matter whether i
t was the leader of the team or a subordinate: the main thing was to get the detainee talking.

  ‘Would you like another coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘Something to drink? Another cigarette?’

  The young man shook his head.

  ‘I had stopped smoking,’ he said.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Eight months ago.’

  ‘You don’t mind if we go on?’

  He gave Servaz a worried look.

  ‘I thought we had finished.’

  ‘Not quite. There are a few things to clear up,’ said Servaz, opening his notepad. ‘Would you like to postpone it until later?’

  Once again, Hugo shook his head.

  ‘No, no. It’s fine.’

  ‘Good. Another hour or two and you’ll be able to get some sleep.’

  ‘Where?’ Hugo asked, his eyes widening. ‘In prison?’

  ‘In a custody cell for the moment. But we’re going to have to take you back to Toulouse. From now on the investigation will be under the jurisdiction of the regional police force.’

  He saw the boy’s expression wilt.

  ‘I’d like to call my mother—’

  ‘We’re not obliged to let you. But you’ll be able to call her as soon as we’ve finished, all right?’

  The young man leaned back in his chair, his hands behind his neck. He stretched his long legs under the table.

  ‘Try to remember if anything seemed strange to you that evening.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I don’t know, anything … a detail … Something that might have made you feel uneasy, for example. Something that wasn’t where it belonged. Just tell me everything that goes through your head.’

  Hugo shrugged. ‘I really can’t think of anything.’

  ‘Make an effort, it’s your hide that’s at stake.’

  Servaz had raised his voice. Hugo looked at him, surprised. Outside, the thunder rumbled once again.

  ‘The music …’

  Servaz looked at him closely.

  ‘What music?’

  ‘I know it seems ridiculous, but you asked me to—’

  ‘I know what I asked you. Well? What music?’

  ‘When I regained consciousness, there was music coming from the stereo.’

  ‘That’s it? What was so unusual about that?’

  ‘Well …’ Hugo was thinking. ‘Claire did use to put music on when I was there, but … never that kind of music.’

  ‘What kind of music was it?’

  ‘Classical.’

  Servaz looked at him. Classical … He felt a tremor go down his spine.

  ‘She didn’t generally listen to classical music?’

  Hugo shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge … She put on jazz, or else rock. Even hip-hop. But I don’t remember ever hearing classical music at her house until that evening. I remember that at the time, when I woke up, it immediately seemed … weird. This sinister music coming from downstairs, the house wide open and no one answering my calls. It really wasn’t the sort of thing she’d do.’

  Servaz began to feel a gnawing anxiety welling up inside. Something vague, diffuse.

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘No.’

  Classical music … He had an idea but he banished it; it seemed too far-fetched.

  When he went back to Claire Diemar’s house, he found everything still in upheaval. Now the street was cluttered with vehicles, and the media had joined in the fray as well, despite the late hour – or early, depending on your point of view – with their microphones, cameras and professional agitation. Judging by the presence of a van fitted with a satellite dish, football commentary was not the only subject about to occupy the day’s news. But Servaz felt sure that the murder of the classics professor would be relegated to a spot long after the pitiful showing of the national team.

  He pulled up the collar of his jacket, which had more or less been reduced to a dishrag, and crossed the slippery cobblestones, masking his face with his hands when the cameras flashed.

  Inside the house only a narrow passage, marked off by the forensic team’s tape, had been preserved between the front door and the French windows leading to the garden. Servaz spotted the stereo, but some men were already working on it. He decided to go over the garden in the meantime. The dolls had vanished. Technicians were planting numbered signs in the grass, among the trees, wherever there were hypothetical clues. The pool house was open and brilliantly lit. Servaz went up to it. Two technicians in white boiler suits were crouched down inside. He saw a sink, folded deck chairs, shrimping nets, games, and big bottles of products for treating the swimming pool.

  ‘Have you found anything?’

  One of them looked at him, his gaze enlarged by the lenses of his thick orange glasses, and shook his head.

  Servaz walked around the swimming pool. Slowly. Then he crossed the waterlogged lawn towards the forest. It formed a compact wall of greenery where the lawn came to an end. There was no fence, but the vegetation was thick enough to serve as a natural barrier. He did notice two small gaps, however, and went closer. It was dark in there, and the rain splashed noisily on the foliage overhead without reaching him. The first gap led to a dead end within a few metres. He made his way back, then tried the second gap. This one seemed to lead further. It was no more than an almost indiscernible breach between the trunks and the hedges, and he had to lean this way and that to make his way through, but the breach led stubbornly on into the darkness like a seam of silver in rock. The trees almost completely blocked the rain and Servaz’s torch grazed the branches, which seemed to want to hold him back. He stumbled over a bed of leaves and dead wood, and he went for a dozen metres or so without the passage ever getting any wider. Eventually he turned round and promised himself he would come back in daylight. He had nearly reached the way out when in almost total darkness he saw something white on the ground, and he aimed the beam of his torch in that direction.

  A little pile of light cylinders, on the leaves and the dark ground.

  Cigarettes.

  He leaned closer. Cigarette butts. At least half a dozen.

  Someone had stayed here smoking for quite a while. Servaz raised his head. From where he was standing, he could clearly see the side of the house that gave on to the garden – the French windows and even inside the living room, lit by the projectors. Through one upstairs window he could see furniture. An ideal lookout post …

  The fine hairs on his neck rose. Whoever had waited here was familiar with the place. He tried to convince himself that it must be a gardener. Or even Claire Diemar herself. But that didn’t make sense; he could see no valid reason to lurk in the undergrowth smoking one cigarette after another, if it were not to spy on what the young woman was doing.

  Hugo had entered through the front door and left his car on the street. Why would he have spied on Claire from the woods? He had admitted coming here several times: would he have felt the need to play the voyeur on other occasions?

  Servaz suddenly got the unpleasant impression that he was watching a magic trick, where the entertainer draws your attention one way while what is actually significant is happening elsewhere. One hand in the light for the spectators, the other hand acting in the shadow. Someone wanted to make them look in the wrong place … That person had set the scene, chosen the décor, the actors, and perhaps even the spectators … Servaz thought he could see a hidden shadow moving behind the drama and his anxiety returned, stronger than ever.

  Frowning, he went back into the house. He wiped his soaking feet on the doormat. In the little living room, the technicians had finished with the stereo.

  ‘Do you want to take a look?’ one of them asked, handing him some latex gloves, shoe covers, and one of those ridiculous caps which made all the cops in the crime squad look as if they were customers at a ladies’ hairdresser’s.

  Servaz took them and slipped them on before
lifting the tape.

  ‘There’s something weird,’ said the technician.

  Servaz looked at him.

  ‘We found the kid’s mobile in his pocket. But there is no trace of the victim’s. And yet we searched everywhere.’

  Servaz pulled out his notepad and wrote this down. He underlined the word telephone twice. He remembered they had found eighteen calls to the victim on Hugo’s mobile. Why would he have got rid of Claire Diemar’s and not his own?

  ‘And did you find anything on this?’ he asked, gesturing towards the stereo with his chin.

  The technician shrugged.

  ‘Nothing special. Fingerprints on the player and on the CDs, but they’re the victim’s.’

  ‘No CD in the player?’

  The technician looked at him, not understanding. He was clearly wondering why that should matter. On a piece of furniture there was a small pile of transparent sealable plastic bags, waiting to be taken to the lab. The man picked up one of them and handed it to Servaz wordlessly. Servaz grabbed it.

  He looked at the case inside the bag.

  And recognised it.

  Gustav Mahler …

  The Kindertotenlieder, ‘Songs on the Death of Children’. The 1963 version conducted by Karl Böhm, with Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau. He had exactly the same one.

  9

  Whiteness

  Hugo had mentioned music. But he hadn’t said exactly which music. Music that sent Servaz back to the investigation in 2008. Snow, wind, whiteness. Above all whiteness, outside and in. In the East, the colour of death and of mourning. The colour, too, of rites of passage. And it had been such a rite on that December day in 2008 – when they had gone up the valley buried in snow, among the fir trees, beneath the indifferent gaze of a sky as grey as a blade.

  And the place. Isolated. The Wargnier Institute. Stone walls typical of that early twentieth-century mountain architecture, used in that era for hotels and hydroelectric power plants alike. An era where things were built to last, and where people believed in the future. Deserted corridors, armoured doors and biometric security locks, cameras, guards. Although there were not so many guards after all, considering the dangerous nature and number of inmates. And the mountain all around: enormous, hostile, disturbing. Like a second prison.