The Circle

by Bernard Minier

  Servaz let out an oath.

  ‘Do you think he was on that recording … that he came into my bank … the man who killed that young woman?’

  The manager’s voice was almost trembling: he was beginning to realise what had happened. He had gone pale. Servaz was in such pain that it was as if someone were ramming a metal bar into his skull. He had to see a doctor. He called the CSI people and asked them to send a team over.

  ‘You can go home,’ he said to the manager.

  Then he left the room and went into the lobby. With every step his shoes squelched with water. From a big cardboard display, a pretty employee gave him a radiant smile. Around her neck she was wearing a scarf with the bank’s colours. Servaz suddenly found himself cursing all those ad men who, with their psychological manipulation, polluted everyone’s daily lives, everyone’s minds, and practically every aspect of existence from birth to death. That evening he was angry with the entire world. He let the doors shut again behind him, and in the shelter of an overhanging balcony he lit a cigarette. No matter how he analysed what had just happened, he always came to the same conclusion: he had let the murderer slip through his fingers.

  It was getting darker and darker. The shadows were lengthening beneath the trees on the square. He looked at his watch. Half past ten. The forensic team wouldn’t get here for a good hour at least.

  His stomach was churning with fear. He was aware that somewhere, not far away, lurked a murderer who did not hesitate to go after the police, acting with terrifying determination and sang-froid. Servaz felt the hair on his neck rise at the thought.

  His mobile buzzed in his pocket. He looked at the number: Samira.

  ‘They’ve identified Thomas999,’ she said. ‘His name isn’t Thomas at all.’

  Suddenly he was miles away from the bank.

  ‘You’re not going to believe it,’ she told him.

  Someone knocked on the door. Margot looked over at her sleeping roommate, then at her laptop on the bed, and checked the time in the corner of the screen. 23.45. She got up and opened the door. It was Elias. His pale, moonlike face – or at least the half that wasn’t hidden by his hair – stood out against the darkness of the corridor.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing in the girls’ dormitory? Don’t you know how to text?’

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get a move on.’

  She was on the verge of slamming the door in his face, but his tone dissuaded her. She went back to her bed, grabbed a pair of shorts and a T-shirt and pulled them on. It was almost midnight, she had been in her bra and knickers, and Elias hadn’t paid the slightest attention to her body, although she knew that in general boys liked it. There were two possibilities: either he really was a virgin, the way some girls said he was, or he was gay, which was what some of the boys said.

  They headed towards the stairs. At the bottom of the steps, in the lobby, two marble busts watched as they opened the door leading out to the garden. Outside, there was a lull in the storm. Between the clouds the moon clawed at the night like a pale fingernail.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘They’ve gone out.’

  ‘Who?’

  He rolled his eyes.

  ‘Sarah, David and Virginie. I saw them go into the maze, one after the other. They must have agreed to meet there. We have to hurry.’

  ‘And what if we run into them? What will we say?’

  ‘We’ll ask them what they’re doing there.’

  ‘Great.’

  They hurried into the shadow. They went past the statue beneath the tall cherry tree and entered the maze, slipping under the rusty chain. Elias stopped to listen. Margot did likewise. Silence. Everywhere the vegetation was shaking in the wind, dripping, anticipating the next shower. This made it difficult to identify any other sounds, but it also hid any that they might make.

  She saw Elias hesitate then turn left. At every turn, she was afraid they would run into the threesome. The hedges had not been trimmed in a long time and now and again a branch scratched against her face in the dark. The cloud cover had returned. She couldn’t hear anything but the sound of the wind, and she was beginning to wonder whether Elias was mistaken.

  Until suddenly they heard their voices. Right nearby.

  Ahead of her Elias stopped and raised his hand, like in war films where commandos lurk in enemy territory. She almost laughed. But deep down she was beginning to feel very uneasy. She held her breath. They were right there, around the next bend. They took two more steps and this time they heard David’s voice, loud and clear.

  ‘It’s scary, bloody horrible,’ he was saying.

  ‘What else can we do?’

  Margot immediately recognised Sarah’s soft, veiled voice. ‘All we can do is wait …’

  ‘We can’t just leave him,’ protested David.

  Margot felt an electric current go through the down on her arms. She had only one desire: to go back to her bedroom. David’s voice was a toneless moan. His speech was approximate, tripping haltingly over certain syllables. As if he were drunk, or high.

  ‘I have a bad feeling about it. There’s … surely there’s something we can do … Shit, we can’t just … We can’t just abandon him.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Virginie’s voice. Sharp as a whip.

  ‘You’re not going to crack now, do you hear?’

  But David didn’t seem to hear. Through the hedge Margot detected a sobbing sound. Like a dull, prolonged moan. Or teeth grinding.

  ‘Oh, shit, shit, shit,’ he groaned. ‘Fuck, fuck …’

  ‘You’re strong, David. And we’re here. We’re your only family, don’t forget that. Sarah, Hugo, me and the others … We’re not going to abandon Hugo.’

  A silence. Margot wondered what Virginie was talking about. David came from a well-known family: his father was the CEO of the Jimbot group. By greasing palms at every level, by making a fuss over the deputies and financing their electoral campaigns, he had landed the vast majority of contracts for motorways, public works and regional development in recent decades. David’s older brother had studied in Paris and at Harvard and had gone on to run the family business with their father. David hated them, Hugo had told her one day.

  ‘We have to call an urgent meeting of the Circle,’ said David suddenly.

  Another silence.

  ‘We can’t. The meeting will be held on the seventeenth, as planned. Not before.’

  Virginie’s voice again. Full of authority.

  ‘But Hugo is in prison!’ moaned David.

  ‘We won’t abandon Hugo. Ever. That cop will eventually get the picture and, if we have to, we’ll help him …’

  Margot felt the blood draining slowly from her face. The way Virginie had spoken about her father sent a chill down her spine; there was something shockingly brutal about the girl’s voice.

  ‘That cop is Margot’s father.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Exactly what?’

  Silence. Virginie did not answer.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll keep an eye on him,’ she said finally. ‘And his daughter, too.’

  ‘What you talking about?’

  ‘I’m simply saying that we have to make that cop understand that Hugo is innocent … one way or the other … and as for everything else, we have to be careful …’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed lately that every time you turn your head she’s there?’ said Sarah. ‘Always hanging about wherever we happen to be …’

  ‘Who is?’

  ‘Margot.’

  ‘Are you implying that Margot is spying on us? That’s absurd!’

  That was David. Elias gave Margot a questioning look in the darkness. She blinked nervously.

  ‘What I mean is, we have to be careful. That’s all.’

  Sarah’s voice, fluid as an icy stream. Margot suddenly felt it was time to get out of there.

  Suddenly her smartphone rang out from her p
ocket, quietly but clearly, the sound of a harp. Elias cast her a furious glance, his eyes as round as saucers. Margot’s heart flipped over.

  ‘I’ll talk to her if you want—’ David began.

  ‘Shh! What was that noise? Didn’t you hear?’

  ‘What noise?’

  ‘It sounded like … a harp, something like that … there … just nearby.’

  ‘I didn’t hear anything,’ said David.

  ‘I heard it too,’ said Sarah. ‘There’s someone here!’

  ‘Run,’ murmured Elias in Margot’s ear. He grabbed her hand and they began to sprint towards the way out, not even trying to hide their presence.

  ‘Fuck!’ screamed David. ‘There was someone there!’

  They heard him take off after them, followed by the other two. Elias and Margot were running as fast as their legs could carry them, taking the corners as quickly as possible, brushing against the hedge as they went by. Behind them, the others were running too, and Margot could hear the pounding of their footsteps. She felt as if her blood were trying to burst through her temples. As if the corners and lanes of the maze would never end. When they scrambled underneath the chain at the entrance, the rusty sign scratched her back and she winced with pain. She wanted to go the way they had come, but Elias yanked her back.

  ‘Not that way!’ he muttered in rebuke. ‘They’ll see us.’

  He pulled her in the opposite direction, dodging into a narrow space between two hedges she hadn’t been aware of, and they found themselves in complete darkness under the trees. They zigzagged between the tree trunks and emerged in front of the large windows of the semi-circular amphitheatre. They went around the side to a little door she had never noticed. She saw Elias rummage in his pockets, then, to her great surprise, insert a key in the lock. A second later they were inside, their running footsteps echoing down the deserted corridors.

  ‘Where did you get that key?’ she asked as she ran behind him.

  ‘Later!’

  A staircase. It wasn’t the one they had taken. This one was older and narrower and it smelled of dust. They climbed up to the floor where the dormitories were. Elias opened the door. Margot couldn’t believe it: they were just outside the girls’ dormitory. The door to her room was only a few metres away.

  ‘Hurry!’ he murmured. ‘Don’t get undressed! Get in bed and pretend you’re asleep!’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t worry about me, run!’

  She obeyed and hurried to her door, opened it, and looked behind her: Elias had disappeared. She closed the door and was beginning to unbuckle the belt of her shorts when she remembered his words. She lifted the sheet and slipped underneath.

  A few seconds later her pulse went wild when she heard rapid footsteps coming down the corridor; and when someone turned the door handle she froze with fear. She closed her eyes and left her mouth slightly open like someone who’s sleeping, trying to breathe deeply and calmly. Through her closed lids she could sense the light from a torch playing over her face. She was sure that from where they were standing they must be able to hear her heart pounding wildly, and see the sweat on her forehead and the blush on her skin.

  Then the door closed, the footsteps faded away and she heard Sarah and Virginie go into their room.

  She opened her eyes in the dark. White spots were dancing before them.

  She sat up in bed. She was trembling from head to toe.

  21

  Roman Holiday

  The radio was switched on. The voice in the speakers was deep and steady. ‘What does an MP’s job consist of? Spending one’s time on charitable committees, at neighbourhood meetings and departmental assemblies, applauding speeches, inaugurating supermarkets, being an expert on local boxing, shaking hands and knowing when to say yes. Above all when to say yes. Most of my colleagues do not believe that the evils of society can be resolved by any particular legislation, nor do they believe that promoting social progress is part of their job description. They believe in the religion of privilege, the creed of greed and the dogma of perks – for themselves, naturally.’

  Servaz leaned closer and turned up the volume, not taking his eyes from the road. The voice filled the car. This was not the first time he had heard it. With his insolence, youth, and gift for soundbites, the speaker had become the darling of the media. The one who got invited to all the talk shows and morning radio programmes, the one who gave his listeners a hard-on.

  ‘Are you referring to your political opponents or those who are on your side?’ asked the presenter.

  ‘Weren’t you listening? I said “most of”. Have you heard me talking in a partisan manner?’

  ‘Well, I just hope you realise you won’t be making friends by saying things like that.’

  Another pause. Servaz could still feel the sharp pain throbbing like a vein at the back of his skull. He checked the screen of his GPS. The forest whizzed by in the beam of his headlights. There were white fences, lampposts every fifty metres, and the sides of the road were carefully maintained. Behind the trees he could make out spacious modern houses.

  ‘Voters elected me so I would tell them the truth. Do you know why people vote? For the illusion that they are in control. Control is as important to humans as it is to rats. In the 1970s researchers showed that by giving electrical shocks to two groups of rats, the ones that had the means to control the shocks had more antibodies and fewer ulcers.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s because they received fewer shocks,’ joked the presenter lamely.

  ‘Well, this is what I do and what I want to go on doing,’ continued the voice, unruffled. ‘To give control back to my constituents. And not just the illusion of control. That is why they elected me.’

  Servaz slowed down. Hollywood. That’s what all these illuminated houses among the trees made him think of. Not a single one smaller than 300 square metres. Straight out of the pages of a home decoration magazine, with vintage wines in the cellar and jazz turned on low.

  ‘We have one representative for every 100 inhabitants in this country, and one doctor for every 300. Don’t you think it ought to be the other way around? A certain sum is allocated, up there at the top, at the very top, to be used for this or that purpose, and then – how should I put it? – the money … trickles down … and at every level in between a part of the total evaporates. By the time it gets to the bottom, and reaches the people or purpose for which it was intended, most of it will have vanished in operating costs, salaries, contract awards, and so on.’

  ‘You’re just saying this because the left won almost every region last March,’ said the presenter dryly.

  ‘Of course. Still, you pay taxes, don’t you? I am willing to bet that—’

  Servaz turned the sound off. He was almost there. The programme may have been recorded, but there was no guarantee he would find his prey at home. However, this was where he wanted to meet him. Not back at the precinct. He hadn’t informed anyone of his plans, other than Samira and Espérandieu. Vincent had simply said, ‘Are you sure you haven’t got things the wrong way round?’

  What had the honourable member just said? Control is as important to humans as it is to rats … Well, it is indeed, he’d buy that, and that’s why he wanted to keep control over his own investigation.

  Servaz left the road. The drive led straight ahead for a dozen metres or so, ending in front of a building that gave onto the woods and which was just the opposite of Marianne’s house: it was modern, one storey, all concrete and glass. But it was certainly no bigger than Marianne’s house. After the north shore of the lake, this neighbourhood nestled among the trees was the most elegant in Marsac. Besides, Marsac was one of those towns that broke all the laws regarding low-cost housing quotas. And for good reason: there was hardly anyone who could afford to live there. Sixty per cent of the population was made up of university professors, executives, bankers, airline pilots, surgeons, and engineers from the aerospace industry in Toulouse. Which explained the t
wo golf courses, the tennis club and the two-star Michelin restaurant. Marsac was a sort of chic suburb for the region’s elite, a place where people kept to themselves, far from the turbulence of the big city.

  Servaz switched off the ignition. He stared at the illuminated building and at the night falling with stifling slowness. Horizontal lines, a flat roof, large glass surfaces intersecting at right angles along an elevated terrace. The rooms – an ultramodern open-plan kitchen, lounge areas, corridors – were all completely visible, in spite of the Venetian blinds. It looked like something Mies Van der Rohe might have designed. Servaz told himself that Paul Lacaze, the rising star of the right, believed in his celebrity status to the point where he followed their taste in architecture. He opened the car door and got out. Someone was watching him through one of the picture windows. A woman … He saw her turn her head and speak to someone behind her.

  Suddenly his telephone buzzed.

  ‘Martin, are you all right? What’s going on?’

  Marianne … He looked for the woman in the picture window. She had vanished. A man’s silhouette had replaced her.

  ‘I’m all right. Who told you?’

  ‘The director of the bank is a friend …’ (Of course, he thought. Marianne herself had told him she knew everyone here.) ‘Listen …’ he heard her sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I’m sorry about last night … I know you’re doing what you can. I – I would like to apologise.’

  ‘I have to go,’ he said. ‘I’ll call you back.’

  He turned his attention to the house. One of the glass doors had slid open and the silhouette was now standing on the terrace.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Commandant Servaz from the crime squad,’ he said, taking out his warrant card and starting up the stairs. ‘Paul Lacaze?’

  Lacaze smiled.

  ‘Who do you think? Don’t you ever watch television, Commandant?’