They were getting there. What was it? thought Servaz impatiently. Stehlin reached for something on the desk and Servaz saw a transparent plastic evidence bag with a label.
‘He managed to convey to one of the ambulance drivers that he wanted to write something. He had no lips and no tongue either, by then, so he couldn’t speak. But …’
Stehlin picked up the evidence bag and handed it to Servaz.
‘This is what he managed to write.’
Servaz took it. He looked at the pad in the bag. The wobbly, awkward, feverish handwriting:
Now he could understand why Santos had made the exceptional decision to agree to postpone his hearing. He felt both intense relief and a burning curiosity.
‘Did you dig around in his past?’ asked Stehlin.
Servaz shook his head. He felt dizzy.
‘We dropped the Elvis lead as soon as his alibi turned out to be solid,’ he replied.
‘Then I think it must be a spelling mistake,’ said Stehlin.
‘It should be “Servaz dig in past”, not “dug”,’ said Servaz. ‘Whose past is he talking about? His own?’
‘Probably.’
Servaz felt the wheels of his brain begin to turn.
‘Maybe we dropped the lead too soon. Maybe we should have made sure that Claire Diemar and Elvis Elmaz didn’t know each other.’
‘Martin, you’ve only been on the case for four days. You did what you had to do.’
Servaz understood that this remark was aimed primarily at Santos.
‘And there’s something else,’ added the director. ‘Paris wants results. Above all, they want to clear Lacaze before everything gets leaked to the press and blows up in their face. So they asked us how far we’d got, and this morning they put pressure on the narcs. Your “Heisenberg” is one of their informers and they passed on his identity. For once they were only too eager to help out. Do you think he might have anything to do with the case?’
Servaz nodded. ‘There can’t be that many drug dealers in Marsac, can there? Who knows – maybe he’s the one who provided the dope that drugged Hugo.’
Servaz was overheating by the time he left Stehlin’s office, and it was only ten o’clock in the morning. He hesitated. He now had two new leads to explore. Where should he begin? To go digging in a past as full as Elvis Konstandin Elmaz’s might make him lose time, but the Albanian’s last words before he’d lapsed into a coma were flashing like a neon sign in Servaz’s mind.
A man in his condition, who knew he might not make it out of hospital alive, had deployed his last ounce of strength to send that message. The message had to be of the utmost importance.
And the message was addressed to him, Servaz.
Elvis Elmaz knew who had killed Claire.
And it was the same person or persons who had fed him to his dogs.
He went through the fire door. A group had gathered in the corridor and Servaz realised that it must be something to do with the football. He tried to give them a wide berth, but he couldn’t help overhearing some of their conversation.
‘Martin, what do you think? Do you think France will beat Mexico tomorrow?’
Everyone on the squad knew how much he disliked sports – on television and in general. He caught a few people smiling sardonically.
‘I hope not,’ he said as he went past. ‘That way we’ll be able to talk about something else for a change.’
There was some half-hearted laughter.
Margot walked along the corridors, feeling everyone’s gazes sticking to her like glue. She could tell they were murmuring, exchanging glances behind her back. Fortunately the school year was nearly over. In her ears, Marilyn Manson whispered, ‘I want to disappear’. Oh yes, mate, me too.
She wondered just what they knew. How much was rumour, and how much was facts? Who had spilled the beans? Certainly not her father, or Vincent, or Samira. Was it David? Sarah? As she approached her locker she saw that a note had been taped to it. Here we go … She could just imagine how people’s tongues would wag, spreading the rumour all through the school at the speed of sound: ‘Did you see? Someone left another note on Margot’s locker!’ Shit! You bunch of wankers! There were times when bloody Armageddon seemed like the only solution.
She went straight up to her locker and saw that it wasn’t a note, but a drawing. More precisely, a variation on the famous British army recruitment poster where an old general points and says YOUR COUNTRY NEEDS YOU. Uncle Sam’s head had been replaced by a fairly blurry portrait of Julian Hirtmann.
Fucking morons! Didn’t they have anything better to do?
She tore off the paper, crumpled it into a ball and threw it on the floor. Then she opened her locker. There was another note inside. She recognised the handwriting. Elias, you little twat, how did you get into my locker? The note said, ‘I think I’ve found the Circle.’
Servaz hunted for an aspirin in his desk drawers, to no avail. He went into Samira and Vincent’s office and opened Vincent’s drawer. Paracetamol, ibuprofen, codeine, tramadol … Vincent and his chemicals.
When he returned to his office he saw that the message button on his desk phone was flashing. He looked at the number, but didn’t recognise it. Servaz dialled, and a woman’s voice answered: ‘Suzanne Lacaze.’
He frowned. ‘Good morning, Madame Lacaze. Have you been trying to get hold of me?’
A moment of silence.
‘Yes.’
Her voice was even thinner than usual. A murmur stretched like elastic on the verge of snapping. Servaz was uncertain how to behave, but she left him no time to think.
‘It’s about my husband.’
There was tension in her voice. Extreme tension. The kind that accompanies a significant act. He felt his pulse beat faster.
‘Yes, go on.’
‘He lied to you the other night … about his alibi.’
Servaz swallowed. Another moment of silence.
‘My husband wasn’t at home the evening that woman was killed. And I don’t know where he was. If I have to, I will say as much before the judge. And I hope you find the person who did it. Goodbye, Commandant.’
She had hung up. He let out a long breath. Fucking hell! He was going to have to make a few phone calls. He could just imagine the expression on the face of the prosecutor in Auch, and all of a sudden he felt that his day was actually improving.
31
Heisenberg
Servaz enjoyed the feeling that he was getting closer to his goal; the pieces were beginning to fall into place. There was a sound like a snare drum in his chest. The noise of victory. He sped down the motorway, his foot on the accelerator, the air so hot it trembled in mirages on the horizon.
He thought again about Santos and his summons. He knew that if he could solve this case quickly, the general inspectorate would have to take it into account. But what would happen if he sent the media darling Paul Lacaze to jail, the future head of the ruling party, the man who must not be touched? Wouldn’t they be tempted to make him, Servaz, pay for it? They certainly would. And he had given them his head on a platter, back there in the car park. But for the moment, he didn’t care. All that remained was the hunter’s excitement when he sees the fox caught in the trap.
The fox had a nasty look about him. Lacaze gave Servaz one of those smiles that only he could give, but it changed into a grimace that didn’t extend to his eyes. He listened to Servaz without moving, not expressing the slightest emotion in the face of his spouse’s betrayal.
‘You were at school in Marsac yourself, Commandant,’ said the MP. ‘Isn’t that what you told me? Courses in the classics, is that right? Those were my favourite.’ Lacaze was playing with a letter opener, feeling the tip with his forefinger. ‘So I’m sure you’re familiar with the notion of hubris.’
Servaz merely stared at Lacaze, unmoving. It was yet another alpha male confrontation, always the same things at stake. But this time Lacaze knew he had lost, and he was just trying to save face.
/> ‘Those who tried to rise too high exposed themselves to the jealousy and anger of the gods. It would seem the gods have chosen my wife as their avenger … I must say, women are unpredictable.’
Servaz agreed with Lacaze on that point, but he did not show it.
‘Has your wife told me the truth?’ he asked, with a certain solemnity.
Once again they were sitting in the ultramodern house deep in the woods. Once Servaz had got through to him, they had come back here, at Lacaze’s request. But this time there was no sign of Madame. The sun was coming in through the blinds in the picture windows, leaving stripes against the walls covered in photographs that glorified the master of the house.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you kill Claire Diemar?’
‘I suppose I ought to remind you that you cannot accuse me unless I am in custody, which means a prior withdrawal of my immunity – and also that I must call my lawyer – but, to answer your question: no, Commandant, I did not kill her. I loved Claire – and she loved me.’
‘That isn’t what Hugo Bokhanowsky said. According to him, Claire was getting ready to leave you.’
‘And why should that be?’
‘Claire and Hugo were lovers.’
Lacaze looked at him in surprise.
‘You can’t be serious?’
‘I am.’
Servaz saw Lacaze crease his forehead in doubt. ‘The kid is nuts … Claire never mentioned him. And we were making plans for the future together.’
‘However, you did tell me last time that she didn’t want you to leave your wife.’
‘Exactly. As long as she wasn’t sure what she wanted. And also, as long as Suzanne was … in this state.’
‘You mean, alive.’
A black shadow veiled the politician’s gaze.
‘Lacaze, had you been spying on Claire over the last few weeks? Did you have any doubts about her?’
‘No.’
‘Were you aware of her affair with Hugo Bokhanowsky?’
‘No.’
‘Were you with her on Friday evening?’
‘No.’
Three firm responses.
‘Where were you on Friday evening?’
Again the smile, and the empty gaze.
‘That, I – I can’t tell you.’
Lacaze said this with a smile full of irony, this time, as if he were aware of the comical side of the situation. Servaz let out a sigh.
‘For Christ’s sake, Lacaze! I’ll have to call the judge and he will in all likelihood request a withdrawal of your immunity if you refuse to cooperate. You’re in the process of destroying your own career.’
‘You don’t understand, Commandant: if I do tell you then my career will be destroyed. Either way, I’m trapped.’
Espérandieu was listening to what he considered one of the best rock albums of 2009, West Ryder Pauper Lunatic Asylum, by Kasabian, when someone knocked on the passenger window.
He turned down the sound before opening the door.
‘There’s someone we have to see,’ said Servaz, climbing into the adjacent seat.
‘What about Margot?’
‘There’s a gendarmerie van at the entrance.’ Servaz pointed to the blue vehicle parked by the side of the road. ‘Samira is keeping watch at the rear, and Margot is in class. I know Hirtmann. If he’s going to act, he’ll take no chances. Particularly not the chance of returning to jail.’
‘So where are we going?’
‘Just drive.’
They entered the town and Servaz gave Espérandieu directions. The meeting with Lacaze had dissolved all his enthusiasm. He couldn’t understand why the MP was so obstinate in his refusal to say where he had been that night. Something wasn’t right. He had sensed that Lacaze had good reasons to stand his ground. It wasn’t the attitude of someone who has committed murder.
But perhaps Lacaze was simply very good at this game. He was a politician, after all, which meant an actor and a professional liar.
‘Here we are,’ said Servaz.
The university residence, on one of the hills overlooking the town, was a series of five identical buildings. They went through a small gate where a sign indicated PHILIPPE-ISIDORE PICOT DE LAPEYROUSE STUDENT RESIDENCE. They parked beneath the trees; the lawns were deserted. Unlike the lycée in Marsac, the semester at the faculty of science was over, and most of the students had left for the summer. The residence seemed abandoned. From the outside, the long four-storey building looked handsome enough with its rows of big windows, which ought to have made the rooms light and pleasant, but the moment they came in the entrance they understood that something was awry. There were banners hanging on the walls: ‘WE PAY RENT, WE DEMAND THE MINIMUM’, ‘WE ARE FED UP WITH COCKROACHES’, or even ‘STUDENT WELFARE OFFICE = FILTH’. There was no lift. As they walked up the stairs, they soon realised that the banners were justified: the plastic strips on the ceiling were coming loose, the yellow paint on the walls was peeling, and on the door to the showers hung a sign that said OUT OF ORDER. Servaz even caught a glimpse of some insects scurrying along the floor. The narcs had told them room number 211. They stopped outside. There was music coming through the door, full blast. Espérandieu knocked and put on his most youthful tone of voice.
‘Heisenberg, you there, mate?’
The music stopped. They waited at least thirty seconds, wondering whether ‘Heisenberg’ had escaped out of the window, when the door opened to reveal a thin girl wearing a tank top and shorts. Her hair was sticking up and its blonde colour was no more natural than her black roots. Her arms were so thin that her bones and veins were visible beneath her tanned skin. She was blinking in the half-light of the room, the blinds almost completely down, and her pale eyes studied them one after the other.
‘Is Heisenberg around?’ asked Vincent.
‘Who’re you guys?’
‘Surprise!’ exclaimed Vincent joyfully, waving his warrant card and pushing past her to enter the room.
The walls were almost entirely papered with photographs, posters and flyers. Espérandieu recognised Kurt Cobain, Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix. The moment he stepped in the room, he identified the faint odour that lingered: THC, tetrahydrocannabinol; in its most common form: hashish.
‘Is Heisenberg here?’
‘What you want with him?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ said Espérandieu. ‘Are you his girlfriend?’
She gave them a look full of hatred.
‘What the fuck is it to you?’
‘Answer the question.’
‘Get the fuck out.’
‘We won’t leave until we’ve seen him.’
‘You’re not the narcs,’ she said.
‘No, crime squad.’
‘Call the narcs, you can’t lay a finger on Heisenberg.’
‘What would you know? Is he your boyfriend?’
She didn’t answer, her big pale eyes darting from one to the other with an evil glow.
‘Okay, well, I’m out of here,’ she said.
She started to walk towards the door, and Espérandieu reached out and grabbed her wrist. Immediately, like a cat striking back, she spun round and dug her nails into his forearm.
‘Ouch! Fuck, she scratched me!’
He grabbed her other wrist and tried to control her while she lashed out and struggled like a tiger.
‘Let me go, you filthy cop! Get your dirty paws off me, fucking pig!’
‘Calm down. Stop right now or we’ll take you in.’
‘I don’t give a damn, you bastard! You have no right to treat a woman like this! Let me go!’
She wriggled, hissed and spat like a frenzied animal. Just as Servaz was about to come to Vincent’s assistance, she banged her head violently against the wall.
‘You hit me,’ she screamed, a gash in her forehead. ‘I’m bleeding! Help! Rape!’
Espérandieu tried to gag her with his hand to stop her screaming. She would rouse the entire building, even if it
probably was three-quarters empty. She bit him. He shuddered as if he had received an electric shock, and was about to slap her when Servaz blocked his wrist.
‘No.’
With the other hand, he locked the door. The girl calmed down a little, evaluating the situation, her sunken eyes shooting sparks of hatred when she realised she was trapped. Her forehead was bleeding. She rubbed her wrists, where there were red marks from Espérandieu’s fingers.
‘All we want is to speak to Heisenberg,’ said Servaz calmly.
The girl sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at them, dabbing at her bloody forehead with a corner of her tank top.
‘What do you want to tell him?’
‘We have questions for him.’
‘I’m Heisenberg.’
Servaz and his assistant looked at each other. For a split second they wondered if she was bullshitting them again, then Servaz understood she was telling the truth. The narcs had deliberately not told them that Heisenberg was a woman, probably relishing the surprise and difficulties that lay in store for them.
‘You can take me in, but I won’t answer your questions. I have a deal with your colleagues. They even wrote it down somewhere.’
‘We don’t give a toss about your deal.’
‘Oh, really? Well too bad, but it doesn’t work like that, guys. I only talk to the narcs. You’ve got no right to grill me!’
‘Well, let’s just say the rules have changed. Call your contact if you like. Go ahead. Ask him. We want answers. You’ve got no more protection, you’re stark naked. Either you talk to us, or you go to jail.’
Her pale green gaze watched them, trying to determine whether they were bluffing.
‘Call your contact,’ said Servaz again. ‘Go ahead.’
She inclined her head, defeated.
‘What do you want?’
‘To ask you some questions.’
‘What sort of questions?’
‘Such as: is Paul Lacaze one of your clients?’
The Circle Page 31