The Circle

by Bernard Minier

  ‘What do you think? What should I do with this?’

  The headmaster’s tone was more annoyed than moved.

  ‘Don’t touch anything,’ answered Servaz.

  ‘But for how long? I don’t think the other teachers will be too pleased.’

  It’s mainly you who isn’t pleased, you heartless git, thought Servaz.

  ‘For the duration of the investigation. It’s a crime scene,’ he replied, with a wink. ‘They are alive, she is dead – that should suffice for them.’

  The man shook his shoulders and opened the door.

  ‘Here we are.’

  He did not seem to want to go in. Servaz went ahead, climbing over the bouquets and candles.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Do you still need me?’

  ‘Not for the time being. I think I can find my way out.’

  The headmaster grunted again. ‘Don’t forget to bring back the key when you’ve finished.’

  Servaz pulled on some gloves and closed the door. A white room. In a huge mess. The desk in the middle was buried beneath a lamp, a telephone, a mountain of papers, elastic-bound folders, colourful Post-it pads, and pots full of pencils and pens. Through the window behind him Servaz saw the two tree-lined playgrounds, one for the regular lycée students and the other for those who were in the prep classes; beyond them were the playing fields and the woods, swept by rain. Three white shelves covered with books and binders ran all along the wall on the right. To the left of the window, in the corner, was a massive and outdated computer. Finally, the entire left-hand wall was covered with dozens of drawings and reproductions of works of art, tacked on the wall at random, occasionally overlapping, creating something like a scaly, many-coloured skin. He recognised most of them.

  Slowly he scanned the room. He went around the desk and sat in the armchair.

  What was he looking for? First of all, to understand the woman who had lived and worked here. Even an office is a mirror of the occupant’s personality. What did he see? A woman who liked to surround herself with beauty.

  ‘Beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all.’

  The sentence was written in big letters on the wall, in the middle of the pictures. Servaz knew its author: André Breton. What had this sentence meant to Claire? He stood up and went over to the books on the opposite wall. Classical Greek and Latin literature (familiar terrain), contemporary authors, drama, poetry, dictionaries – and a great many books about art history: Vasari, Vitruve, Gombrich, Panofsky, Winckelmann.

  Suddenly he recalled his father’s books. So similar to Claire’s …

  A jagged metal edge lodged in his heart. Not deep enough to kill but enough to hurt … How long must a son carry the shadow of a dead father? His gaze settled on the rows of books, but he was looking far beyond. In his youth he thought he had got rid of it; he had believed that this type of memory would fade over time and eventually become perfectly innocuous. Like all the others. But gradually he had come to realise that the shadow was still there. Waiting for him to turn his head. It had eternity on its side, while Servaz did not. It said clearly: I will never let you go.

  He had come to realise you could rid yourself of the memory of a woman you had loved, or a friend who had betrayed you, but not of a father who had committed suicide and chosen you to find his corpse.

  For the thousandth time Servaz saw the bright evening light angling in through the study window, caressing the book bindings, like in a Bergman film, dust floating in the ambient air. He heard the music: Mahler. Saw his father sitting in his armchair, dead, his mouth open, a white froth dripping down his chin. Poison … Like Seneca, like Socrates. It was his father who had given him a liking for that music and those authors, back in the days when he was still a sober professor much liked by his students. His wife had died, or more precisely, had been raped and murdered before his eyes, and he had survived. Survived for ten more years, a slow descent into hell, ten years of punishing himself for not having been able to do anything because he was tied to a chair and was begging them to stop, the two famished wolves who had shown up at their house one July evening. And then one fine day his father had decided to put an end to it. Once and for all. No slow drunkard’s suicide, this time: it would be final, he’d do it the old way, with poison. And the father had arranged it so that the son would find him. Why? Servaz had never found a satisfactory answer to the question. But a few weeks after he had found the body, he quit his studies and took the exams to enter the police.

  He shook himself. Concentrate! What are you looking for here? Concentrate, dammit! He was beginning to get an idea of Claire Diemar’s personality. She was someone who lived alone, but was not a lonely person, someone who cared for beauty, was elitist, original and somewhat bohemian. A frustrated artist, who had fallen back on teaching.

  Suddenly he saw a notebook open before him on the desk. He leaned over and read:

  ‘Sometimes the word friend is drained of meaning, but enemy, never.’ on the first page.

  He turned the pages. They were blank. He raised the notebook to his nose. It was new. Apparently, Claire Diemar had just bought it. Puzzled, he read that sentence again. What had she meant by these words? And for whom were they intended? For herself, or someone else? He wrote it down in his own notebook.

  His thoughts focused on the victim’s phone.

  If Hugo was guilty, he had no reason to make it disappear when everything already pointed to him: his presence in her house, the state he was in, and also his own mobile phone, with the proof of how often he had called her. It was absurd. And if the murderer was not Hugo, and that person had got rid of the victim’s mobile, then they were complete idiots. With or without a phone, in a few hours, the telecom companies would have provided the police with a list of incoming and outgoing calls. And so? Weren’t most criminals imbeciles, fortunately? Except, if one were to suppose that Hugo had been drugged and left there to serve as a scapegoat, and if one were to suppose that a clever magician was hiding in the shadow, that magician would not have made such a mistake.

  There was a third possibility. Hugo was indeed guilty and the telephone had disappeared for reasons that had nothing to do with the crime. Often in an investigation, a stubborn little detail resembled a thorn in the investigator’s side, until the day they realised it had absolutely nothing to do with all the rest.

  The atmosphere in the room was stifling and he flung open the central window. A wave of moisture caressed his face. He sat down at the computer. The ancient machine moaned and creaked for a moment before the screen appeared. There was no password. Servaz identified the icon for her inbox and clicked on it. This time, a password was required. He looked at his notes, tried a few combinations with her date of birth and the initials, backwards and forwards. Nothing happened. He typed the word Dolls. That didn’t work either. Claire taught classics, so he spent the next half hour testing the names of Greek and Latin poets and philosophers, the titles of works, the names of gods and mythological characters, and even terms such as ‘oracle’ or ‘Pythia’, the name given to the oracle at Delphi. Every time, he got the message ‘incorrect login or password’.

  He was about to give up when once again he glanced at the wall covered with pictures, and the sentence displayed there. He typed André Breton and the mailbox opened at last.

  Empty. A white screen. Not a single message.

  Servaz clicked on ‘Sent’ and ‘Trash’. Same thing. He flopped back into the armchair.

  Someone had emptied Claire Diemar’s mailbox.

  Servaz knew he was right to think this business was not as simple as it seemed. There was a blind spot. There were too many elements that did not fit. He took out his mobile and dialled the technological tracking service. A voice answered on the second ring.

  ‘Was there a computer at Claire Diemar’s?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes. A laptop.’

  It was now routine to go through every victim’s communications and hard drives.

 
; ‘Have you examined it?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said the voice.

  ‘Can you take a look at the e-mail program?’

  ‘Okay, I’ll finish what I’m on and look right away.’

  He leaned over the old PC and disconnected all the plugs one by one. He did the same with the landline telephone, after lifting a mountain of papers to follow the trajectory of the cable, then he took a plastic evidence bag from his jacket and slipped the open notebook into it.

  He went to the office door, opened it, went back to pile the landline telephone and notebook on top of the computer, and lifted the entire pile. The computer was heavy. He had to pause twice.

  Out on the steps, he put his load down once again, removed the electronic key from his pocket, unlocked the Cherokee from a distance, and then hurried over, watching as raindrops fell onto the waterproof bag where the notebook was sealed. He would take the computer and telephone the technological tracking service and have the notebook examined by the criminal records office. Once he had put everything on the back seat, he stood up straight and lit a cigarette.

  The storm was soaking him but he didn’t feel it. He was far too deep in thought. He puffed on his cigarette, and the stimulating caress of the tobacco made its way into his lungs and his brain. The music … He could hear it again. The Kindertotenlieder … Was it possible?

  He looked all around him – as if Hirtmann might be there – and suddenly something caught his eye.

  There was someone there.

  A silhouette. Wrapped up in rain gear, his head shadowed by a hood. Servaz could make out the youthful lower half of the face.

  A student.

  He was watching Servaz from a little hillock a dozen or so metres away, beneath a grove of trees, his hands in the pockets of his plastic cape. A faint smile hovered over his lips. As if they knew one another, thought the cop.

  ‘Hey, you!’ he called.

  The young man turned away and began walking unhurriedly towards the classrooms. Servaz had to run after him.

  ‘Hey, wait!’

  The student turned round. He was slightly taller than Servaz, his blond hair and beard glistening in the outline of the hood. Large, clear, questioning eyes. A wide mouth. Instantly, Servaz wondered if Margot knew him.

  ‘Excuse me? Are you talking to me?’

  ‘Yes. Morning. Do you know where I can find Professor Van Acker? Does he teach on Saturday morning?’

  ‘Room 4, the cube over there … but if I were you, I would wait for him to finish. He doesn’t like to be disturbed.’

  ‘Oh …’

  The boy’s smile spread wider. ‘You’re Margot’s father, aren’t you?’

  Servaz was briefly surprised. In his pocket his mobile vibrated but he ignored it.

  ‘And who are you?’

  The young man took his hand out of his cape and extended it.

  ‘David. I’m taking the prep classes. Glad to meet you.’

  Servaz reasoned that he must be in the same class as Hugo. He squeezed his hand. A frank, strong handshake.

  ‘So, you know Margot?’

  ‘Everybody knows everyone, here. And Margot doesn’t exactly go unnoticed.’

  The same words Hugo had used.

  ‘But you know that I’m her father.’

  The young man trained his golden gaze on Servaz’s.

  ‘I was there the day you came with her for the first time.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘If you’re looking for her, she must be in class.’

  ‘Did you have Claire Diemar as a teacher?’

  The young man paused. ‘Yes, why?’

  Servaz showed him his warrant card. ‘I’m in charge of the investigation into her death.’

  ‘Bloody hell, you’re a cop?’

  He said it without animosity. It was more that he was stunned. Servaz could not help but smile.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘We’re all devastated. She was a really wonderful teacher, we all liked her. But …’

  The young man lowered his head and looked at the toes of his trainers. When he looked up again, Servaz could read a familiar glow in his eyes. The one he often saw in the gaze of people who were close to the accused: a mixture of nervousness, incomprehension and disbelief. A refusal to admit the unthinkable.

  ‘I can’t believe Hugo did it. It’s impossible. It’s not him.’

  ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘He’s one of my best friends.’

  The young man’s eyes had misted over. He was on the verge of tears.

  ‘Were you with him at the pub last night?’

  David’s gaze was unwavering.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you remember what time he left?’

  David looked at him more cautiously this time. He took the trouble to think before replying.

  ‘No, but I remember he didn’t feel well. He felt … weird.’

  ‘Is that what he said to you? Weird?’

  ‘Yes. He didn’t feel right.’

  Servaz held his breath.

  ‘Did he say anything else?’

  ‘No. Just that he really wasn’t well and he … he wanted to go home. We were all … surprised. Because the match … the match was about to start.’

  The young man had hesitated over his final words, realising that what he said could make things worse for his friend. But Servaz saw it quite differently. Had Hugo used this as a pretext to get away and go to Claire Diemar’s – or was he really sick?

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘He left and you didn’t see him again?’

  Once again, the young man hesitated.

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  He saw that David looked concerned, worried about how his words might be interpreted.

  ‘He didn’t do it,’ he said suddenly. ‘I’m sure he didn’t. If you knew him as well as I do, you would know that too.’

  Servaz nodded.

  ‘He’s really brilliant,’ the boy insisted, as if it could help Hugo. ‘He’s enthusiastic, full of life. He’s a leader, someone who truly believes in his destiny and who knows how to share his passions. He really has everything. He’s a loyal friend. This isn’t like him at all!’

  As he spoke his voice trembled. He wiped away the raindrops dripping from the end of his nose. Then he turned around and walked away.

  For a moment Servaz watched him go.

  He knew what David meant. There was always someone like Hugo at Marsac: an individual who was even more talented, more brilliant, more outstanding and more sure of himself than anyone else, someone who caught everyone’s eye and had a flock of admirers. In Servaz’s day, that person had been Francis Van Acker.

  He looked to see who had called him. The tracking service. He called them back.

  ‘Her password is on file,’ said the voice. ‘Anyone could get at her mailbox. And someone emptied it.’

  12

  Van Acker

  He stopped by the concrete cube and leaned against a tree as he took another cigarette from the pack. The voice reached him through the open windows. It hadn’t changed in the last fifteen years. As soon as you heard it you knew that you were dealing with someone who was smart, formidable and arrogant.

  ‘What I have here is nothing more than the excretions of a group of adolescents who are incapable of seeing beyond their tiny little emotional world. Priggish pedantry, sentimentalism, masturbation and acne. For God’s sake! You all think you’re so brilliant – wake up! There isn’t a single original idea in any of this.’

  Servaz clicked the lighter and lit a cigarette – the time it would take for Francis Van Acker’s declamatory prose to come to an end.

  ‘Next week we are going to study three books side by side: Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina and Effi Briest. Three novels published between 1857 and 1894, which established the form of the novel. Might there, miraculously, be one of you who has already read all t
hree of them? Does that rare bird exist? No? Does anyone at least have an idea what these three books have in common?’

  Silence, then a girl’s voice said, ‘They’re all stories about adulterous women.’

  Servaz shuddered. Margot’s voice.

  ‘Exactly, Mademoiselle Servaz. Well, I see there is at least one person in this class whose reading is not limited to Spider-Man. Three stories about adulterous women, another common thing being that they were written by men. Three masterly ways to deal with the same subject. Three absolutely major works. Which goes to show that Hemingway’s sentence, according to which one must write what one knows, is hogwash. As are a good number of other sayings by dear old Ernest. Good. I know that some of you have plans for the weekend and that the school year is more or less over, but I want you to have read these three books before the end of next week. Don’t forget that your essays are due on Monday.’

  A scraping of chairs. Servaz hid round a corner of the building. He did not want to run into Margot now; he would go and see her later. He watched her walk away amongst the other students. He emerged from his hiding place just as Van Acker was coming down the steps, opening his umbrella.

  ‘Hello, Francis.’

  Van Acker was briefly startled. The umbrella pivoted.

  ‘Martin … I suppose I should have been expecting your visit, given what’s happened.’

  His blue eyes were still just as piercing. His nose was fleshy, his lips were thin but sensual and his beard was carefully groomed. Francis Van Acker was just as Servaz remembered him. He literally radiated charm. Only a few grey hairs were visible in his beard and in the lock of chestnut hair that swept over his brow.