Camille
Pierre Lemaitre
Translated from the French by Frank Wynne
Cover Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Translator’s Note
Glossary
Day 1
Day 2
Day 3
Acknowledgements
About the Author
PREVIOUS CAMILLE VERHŒVEN INVESTIGATIONS
First published in the French language as Sacrifices
by Editions Albin Michel in 2012
First published in Great Britain in 2015
MacLehose Press
an imprint of Quercus
55 Baker Street
7th Floor, South Block
London
W1U 8EW
Copyright © Editions Albin Michel – Paris 2012
English translation copyright © 2014 by Frank Wynne
The moral right of Pierre Lemaitre to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Ebook ISBN 978 1 78206 621 7
Print ISBN 978 0 85705 276 6
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
You can find this and many other great books at:
www.quercusbooks.co.uk
For Pascaline
To Cathy Bourdeau, for her support.
With my affection
We only know about one per cent of what’s happening to us.
We don’t know how little heaven is paying for how much hell.
William Gaddis, The Recognitions
Translator’s Note
The judicial system in France is fundamentally different to that in the United Kingdom and the U.S.A. Rather than the adversarial system, where police investigate, and the role of the courts is to act as an impartial referee between prosecution and defence, in the French inquisitorial system the judiciary work with the police on the investigation, appointing an independent juge d’instruction entitled to question witnesses, interrogate suspects, and oversee the police investigation, gathering evidence, whether incriminating or otherwise. If there is sufficient evidence, the case is referred to the procureur – the public prosecutor, who decides whether to bring charges. The juge d’instruction plays no role in the eventual trial and is prohibited from adjudicating future cases involving the same defendant.
The French have two national police forces: the police nationale (formerly called the Sûreté), a civilian police force with jurisdiction in cities and large urban areas, and the gendarmerie nationale, a branch of the French Armed Forces, responsible both for public safety and for policing the towns with populations of fewer than 20,000. Since the gendarmerie rarely has the resources to conduct complex investigations, the police nationale maintains regional criminal investigations services (police judiciaire) analogous to the British C.I.D, they also oversee armed response units (R.A.I.D.).
Glossary
Brigade criminelle: equivalent to the Homicide and Serious Crime Squad, the brigade handles murders, kidnappings and assassinations, the equivalent of the British C.I.D.
Commandant: Detective Chief Inspector
Commissaire divisionnaire: Chief Superintendent (U.K.)/Police Chief (U.S.) has though he has both an administrative and an investigative role
Contrôleur général: Assistant Chief Constable (U.K.)/Police Commissioner (U.S.)
G.I.G.N.: “Groupe d’intervention de la Gendarmerie nationale”: a special operations unit of the French Armed Forces trained to perform counter-terrorist and hostage rescue missions
Identité judiciare: the forensics department of the national police
Inspection générale des services (I.G.S.): the French police monitoring service equivalent to Internal Affairs (U.S.) or the Police Complaints Authority (U.K.)
Juge d’instruction: the “investigating judge” has a role somewhat similar to that of an American District Attorney. He is addressed as monsieur le juge
Préfecture de Police: the local police headquarters overseeing a district or arrondissement.
Procureur: similar to a Crown Prosecutor in the U.K. He is addressed as magistrat in the same way one might say “sir”, or “your honour”
*
The Périphérique is the inner ring-road circumscribing central Paris, linking the old city gates or portes, e.g. porte d’Italie, porte d’Orleans
Day 1
10.00 a.m.
An event may be considered decisive when it utterly destabilises your life. This is something Camille Verhœven read some months ago in an article entitled “The Acceleration of History”. This decisive, disorientating event which sends a jolt of electricity through your nervous system is readily distinguishable from life’s other misfortunes because it has a particular force, a specific density: as soon as it occurs, you realise that it will have overwhelming consequences, that what is happening in that moment is irreparable.
To take an example, three blasts from a pump-action shotgun fired at the woman you love.
This is what is going to happen to Camille.
And it does not matter whether, like him, you are attending your best friend’s funeral on the day in question, or whether you feel that you have already had your fill for one day. Fate does not concern itself with such trivialities; it is quite capable, in spite of them, of taking the form of a killer armed with a sawn-off shotgun, a 12-gauge Mossberg 500.
All that remains to be seen is how you will react. This is all that matters.
Because in that instant you will be so devastated that, more often than not, you will react out of pure reflex. If, for example, before she is shot three times, the woman you love has been beaten to a pulp and if, after that, you clearly see the killer shoulder his weapon having chambered a round with a dull clack.
It is probably in such a moment that truly exceptional men reveal themselves, those capable of making the best decisions under the worst of circumstances.
If you are an ordinary man, you get by as best you can. All too often, in the face of such a cataclysmic event, your decision is likely to be flawed or mistaken, always assuming you have not been rendered utterly helpless.
When you have reached a certain age, or when a similar event has already destroyed your life, you suppose that you are immune. This is the case with Camille. His first wife was murdered, a tragedy from which he took years to recover. When you have faced such an ordeal, you assume that nothing more can happen to you.
This is the trap.
You have lowered your guard.
For fate, which has a keen eye, this is the ideal moment to catch you unawares.
And remind you of the unfailing timeliness of chance.
*
Anne Forestier steps into the Galerie Monier immediately after it opens. The shopping centre is almost empty, the heady smell of bleach heavy in the air as shop owners open their doors, setting out stalls of books, display cases of jewellery.
Built in the late nineteenth century towards the lower end of the Champs-Elysées, the Galerie is made up of small luxury boutiques selling stationery, leather goods, antiques. Gazing up at the vaulted glass roof, a knowledgeabl
e visitor will notice a host of Art Deco details: tiles, cornices, small stained glass windows. Features Anne, too, could admire if she chose, but, as she would be the first to admit, she is not a morning person. At this hour ceilings, mouldings, details are the least of her concerns.
More than anything, she needs coffee. Strong and black.
Because this morning, almost as if it were destined to be, Camille wanted her to linger in bed. Unlike her, Camille is very much a morning person. But Anne did not feel up to it. Having gently fended off Camille’s advances – he has warm hands; it is not always easy to resist – and forgetting that she had poured herself some coffee, she rushed to take a shower and so by the time she emerged and padded into the kitchen towelling her hair, she discovered that the coffee was cold, and rescued a contact lens that was about to be washed down the drain . . .
By then it was time for her to leave. On an empty stomach.
Arriving at the Galerie Monier at a few minutes past ten, she takes a table on the terrace of the little brasserie at the entrance; she is their first customer. The coffee machine is still warming up and she is forced to wait to be served, but though she repeatedly checks her watch, it is not because she is in a hurry. It is an attempt to ward off the waiter. Since he has nothing to do while he waits for the coffee machine to warm up, he is trying to engage her in conversation. He wipes down the tables, glancing at her over his shoulder, and, moving in concentric circles, edges towards her. He is a tall, thin, chatty guy with lank blond hair, the type often found in tourist areas. When he has finished with the last table, he takes up a position close to her and, hands on hips, gives a contented sigh as he stares out the window and launches into pathetically mediocre meteorological musings.
The waiter may be a moron, but he has good taste because, at forty, Anne is still stunning. Dark-haired and delicate, she has pale green eyes and a dazzling smile . . . She is luminously beautiful, with exceptional bone structure. Her slow, graceful movements make you want to touch her because everything about her seems curved and firm: her breasts, her buttocks, her belly, her thighs . . . indeed everything so exquisitely shaped, so perfect it would unsettle any man.
Every time he thinks about her, Camille cannot help but wonder what she sees in him. He is fifty years old, almost bald and, most importantly, he is barely four foot eleven. The height of an eleven-year-old boy. To avoid speculation, it is probably best to mention that, although Anne is not particularly tall, she is almost a whole head taller than Camille.
Anne responds to the waiter’s flirtation with a charming smile that eloquently says “fuck off” (the waiter acquiesces and returns to his work) and she, having hastily drunk her coffee, heads through the Galerie towards the rue Georges-Flandrin. She has nearly reached the exit when, slipping a hand into her bag to get her purse, she feels something damp. Her fingers are covered in ink. Her pen has leaked.
For Camille, it is with the pen that the story really begins. Or with Anne deciding to go to a café in the Galerie Monier rather than somewhere else, on that particular morning rather than another one . . . The dizzying number of coincidences that can lead to tragedy is bewildering. But it seems churlish to complain since it was a dizzying series of coincidences that led to Camille first meeting Anne.
The pen is a small dark-blue fountain pen and the cartridge is leaking. Camille can still picture it. Anne is left-handed and holds her pen in a tortuous grip, writing quickly in a large, loping hand so that it looks as if she is furiously dashing off a series of signatures yet, curiously, she always buys small pens which makes the sight the more astonishing.
Seeing the ink stains on her hand, Anne immediately worries about what damage has been done. She glances around for some way to deal with the problem and sees a large plant stand, sets the handbag down on the wooden rim, and begins to take everything out.
She is quite upset, but her fears prove unjustified. Besides, those who know Anne would find it hard to see what she might be afraid of since Anne does not have much. Not in her bag, nor in her life. The clothes she is wearing are inexpensive. She has never owned an apartment or a car, she spends what she earns, no more, but never less. She does not save because it is not in her nature: her father was a shopkeeper. When he was about to go bankrupt, he disappeared with funds belonging to some forty associations to which he had recently had himself elected treasurer; he was never heard of again. This may explain why Anne has a rather detached relationship to money. The last time she had money worries was when she was single-handedly raising her daughter Agathe, and that was a long time ago. Anne tosses the pen into a rubbish bin and shoves her mobile phone into her jacket pocket. Her purse is stained and will probably have to be discarded, but the contents are unaffected. As for the handbag, although the lining is damp, the ink did not bleed through. Perhaps Anne decides to buy a new one, after all an upmarket shopping arcade is the perfect place, but it is impossible to know since what happens next will make any plans superfluous. For now, she dabs at the inside of the bag with some wadded Kleenex and when she has done so sees that both her hands are now ink-stained.
She could go back to the brasserie, but the prospect of having to deal with the same waiter is depressing. Even so, she is steeling herself to do so when she spots a sign indicating a public toilet, an unusual facility in a small shopping arcade. The sign points to a narrow passageway just beyond Pâtisserie Cardon and Desfossés Jewellers.
At this point, things begin to move faster.
Anne crosses the thirty metres to the toilets, pushes open the door and finds herself face to face with two men.
They have come in through the emergency exit on the rue Damiani and are heading towards the Galerie.
A few seconds later . . . it seems ridiculous, and yet it is true: if Anne had gone in five seconds later, the men would have already pulled on their balaclavas and things would have turned out very differently.
Instead what happens is this: Anne pushes open the door and she and the two men suddenly freeze.
She looks from one man to the other, startled by their presence, their behaviour, by their black balaclavas.
And by their guns. Pump-action shotguns. Even to someone who knows nothing about firearms, they look daunting.
One of the men, the shorter one, lets out a moan or perhaps it is a cry. Anne looks at him; he is stunned. She turns to the other man whose face is harsh and angular. The scene lasts only a few seconds during which the three players stand, shocked and speechless, all of them caught unawares. The two men quickly pull down their balaclavas, the taller one raises his weapon, half turns and, like an axeman preparing to fell an oak tree, hits Anne full in the face with the butt of his rifle.
With all his strength.
He literally shatters her cheekbone. He even gives a low grunt like a tennis player making a first serve.
Anne reels back, her hand reaching out for something to break her fall only to find empty air. The blow was so sudden, so brutal, she feels as though her head has been severed from her body. She is thrown almost a metre, the back of her skull slams against the door and she flings her arms wide and slumps to the ground.
The wooden rifle butt has smashed her face from jaw to temple, breaking her left cheekbone, leaving a ten-centimetre gash as her cheek splits like a ripe fruit, blood spurts everywhere. From outside, it would have sounded like a boxing glove hitting a punchbag. To Anne, it is like a sledgehammer swung with both hands.
The other man screams furiously. Anne only dimly hears him as she struggles to get her bearings.
The taller man calmly steps forward, aims the barrel of the shotgun at her head, chambers a round with a loud clack and is about to fire when his accomplice screams again. Louder this time. Perhaps even grabs the tall man’s sleeve. Anne is too stunned to open her eyes, only her hands move, flailing in an unconscious reflex.
The man holding the pump-action shotgun stops, turns, wavers: firing a gun is a sure way to bring the police running, any career criminal would
tell you that. For a split second, he hesitates over the best course of action and, having made his decision, turns back to Anne and aims a series of kicks to her face and her stomach. She tries to dodge the blows, but she is trapped. There is no way out. On one side is the door against which she is huddled, on the other, the tall man balancing on his left foot as he lashes out with his right. Between salvoes, Anne briefly manages to catch her breath; the man stops for a moment, and perhaps because he is not getting the desired result, decides on a more radical approach: he spins the shotgun, raises it high and starts to hit her with the rifle butt as hard and as fast as he can.
He looks like a man trying to pound a stake into a patch of frozen ground.
Anne writhes and twists as she tries to protect herself, she slithers on the pool of her own blood, clasps her hands behind her neck. The first blow goes awry and lands on the back of her head, the second shatters her interlaced fingers.
This change of tactic does not go down well with the accomplice, since the smaller man now grabs his arm, preventing him from continuing. The tall man, unfazed, goes back to the more traditional method, aiming brutal kicks at her head with his heavy military-style boots. Curled into a ball, Anne tries to shield herself with her arms as blows rain on her head, her neck, her arms, her back; it is impossible to know how many, the doctors will say at least eight, the pathologist says nine.
It is at this point that Anne loses consciousness.
As far as the two men are concerned, the matter has been dealt with. But Anne’s body is now blocking the door leading to the arcade. Without a word, they bend down; the smaller man takes her arms and drags her towards him, her head thumping against the tiles. Once there is space to open the door, he drops her arms which fall back heavily, her languid, broken hands coming to rest in the oddly graceful pose of a painted Madonna. Had Camille witnessed the scene, he would immediately have noticed the curious resemblance between the position of Anne’s arms, her abandon, and a painting by Fernand Pelez called “The Victim”, something he would have found devastating.
Camille Page 1