Camille has driven past two or three times in each direction and at different speeds. The last time he drove past, one of the lights on the first floor is turned off. No point waiting any longer.
He parks at the far end of the street. On the corner is a minimarket, the only shop for miles around in this deserted wasteland. Standing on the doorstep, an Arab man of about thirty who looks as though he has just stepped out of a Hopper painting is chewing a toothpick.
Camille turns off the engine at precisely 7.35 p.m. He slams the car door. The grocer raises a hand in greeting. Camille waves back and heads down the rue Escudier, past identikit houses differentiated only by an occasional dog growling half-heartedly or a cat curled up on the wall. The streetlights cast a yellow glow on the potholed pavement, the dustbins have been put out for collection and other cats – the waifs and strays – are fighting over the spoils.
The steps leading up to number 15 are about fifteen metres from the wrought-iron gate. A garage door on the right is padlocked.
Since he passed, another light on the first floor has been turned out. Only two windows are lit up, both on the ground floor. Camille presses the buzzer to the right of the gate. But for the time of day, he could be a sales rep hoping to find a warm welcome. The door opens a fraction and the figure of a woman appears. With the light behind, it is impossible to tell what she looks like, but her voice sounds young.
“Can I help you?”
As though she does not know, as though the ballet of lights flickering on and off is not clear evidence that he has been spotted, that he is being watched. If this woman were in an interrogation room, he would tell her: you’re not very good at lying, you’re not going to get very far. She turns back to someone inside, vanishes for a moment, then reappears.
“I’ll be right there.”
She comes down the steps. She is young, but she has the sagging belly of an old woman and her face is slightly swollen. She opens the gate. “A vulgar whore who had copulated with half the city by the time she was nineteen,” was how Buisson described her. To Camille she seems ageless and yet the one thing that is beautiful about her is her fear, he can see it in the way she walks, in the way she keeps her eyes lowered, there is nothing submissive about her, it is pure calculation because her fear is courageous, defiant, almost aggressive, capable of withstanding anything. This woman could stab you in the back without a moment’s hesitation.
She walks away without a word, her every movement radiating hostility and determination. Camille crosses the patio, climbs the steps and pushes the door which has begun to close. The hallway is bare, with only an empty coat rack on the wall. In the living room to the right, sitting in an armchair, his back to the window, is a terrifyingly gaunt man, his eyes are sunken, feverish. Even indoors, he wears a woollen cap that accentuates the perfect roundness of his head. His face is pale and drawn. Camille immediately notices how much he looks like Armand.
Between two men of long experience, there are many things that go unsaid, to voice them would almost be an insult. Hafner knows who Verhœven is; there are not many policemen of his height. He also knows that if Camille were coming to arrest him, he would have done it differently. So it must be something else. Something difficult. Best to wait and see.
Behind Camille, the young woman stands wringing her hands, she is accustomed to waiting. “She must get off on being beaten, I can’t see why else she would stay . . .”
Camille hovers in the hall, caught in a vice between Hafner, sitting, staring at him, and the woman behind. The heavy, pointed silence makes it clear that they will not easily be taken in. But he also knows that to them, the unprepossessing little officer has brought chaos into their midst. And given the lives they lead, chaos means death.
“We need to talk . . .” Hafner says finally in a low voice.
Is he talking to Camille, to the woman, perhaps only to himself?
Camille takes a few steps, never taking his eyes off Hafner. He can see none of the savagery described in the police reports. This is not unusual, Camille has often noticed that, excepting those few minutes when they are intent on their violent activities, robbers, thugs and gangsters are much like everyone else. Murderers are just like you and me. But there is something else too: disease and the looming spectre of death. And this silence, this mute menace.
Camille takes another step into the room, which is lit only by the dim bluish glow of a standard lamp. He is not particularly surprised to find the room tastelessly furnished with a large flat-screen T.V., a sofa covered with a throw, a few knick-knacks and a round table covered with a patterned oilcloth. Organised crime often goes hand in hand with very middle-class tastes.
The woman has disappeared; Camille did not notice her leave the room. For an instant he pictures her sitting on the stairs holding a pump-action shotgun. Hafner does not move from his chair, he is waiting to see how things will go. For the first time, Camille wonders if the man is armed – the thought had not occurred to him before. It doesn’t matter, he thinks, but even so, he moves slowly and deliberately. You never know.
He takes his mobile from the pocket of his coat, turns it on, brings up the picture of Maleval and, stepping forward, hands the device to Hafner who simply grimaces, clears his throat and nods – I get it now – then gestures to the sofa. Camille chooses a chair instead, pulls it towards him, lays his hat on the table. The two men sit facing each other as though waiting to be served.
“Someone told you I would be coming . . .”
“In a way . . .”
Logical. Whoever Buisson forced to give up Hafner’s address and his new identity will have wanted to cover his own back. But this does not change anything.
“Shall I recap?” Camille says.
From another part of the house, he hears a distant, high-pitched wail and then hurried footsteps upstairs and the crooning voice of the woman. Camille wonders whether this new factor will complicate matters or simplify them. He jerks his chin at the ceiling.
“How old?”
“Six months.”
“Boy?”
“Girl.”
Someone else might have asked the girl’s name, but the situation hardly lends itself to such familiarity.
“So, last January, your wife was six months pregnant.”
“Seven.”
Camille indicates the woollen cap.
“It must make being on the run more difficult. And on that subject, do you mind if I ask where you’ve been having your chemo?”
Hafner pauses for a moment.
“In Belgium, but I’ve stopped treatment.”
“Too expensive?”
“No. Too late.”
“And therefore too expensive.”
Hafner gives the ghost of a smile, it is almost imperceptible, just a shadow that plays on his lips.
“So back in January,” Camille continues, “you knew you didn’t have much time to make sure your family were provided for. And so you organised the Big Stick-Up. Four armed robberies in a single day. The jackpot. Most of your usual partners were out of circulation – and maybe you even had qualms about fucking your old friends over – so you hired Ravic, the Serb, and Maleval, the ex-cop. I have to say, I didn’t know armed robbery was Maleval’s thing.”
Hafner takes his time.
“He spent a long time trying to find his way after your lot tossed him out,” he says at length, “He was doing a lot of cocaine.”
“So I heard . . .”
“But, actually, he’s really taken to armed robbery. It suits his personality.”
Ever since the penny finally dropped, Camille has been trying to picture Maleval holding up a shop, but he cannot seem to manage. His powers of imagination are limited. And besides, Maleval and Louis will always be part of his team, he cannot picture them in any other context. Like many men who will never have children, Camille has a paternal instinct. His height has a lot to do with it. And he created two sons for himself: Louis, the perfect son, diligent, fau
ltless, who makes everything worthwhile, and Maleval, violent, generous, sinister, the son who betrayed him, the one who cost him his wife. The son who carried evil in his very name.
Hafner waits for Camille to finish. Upstairs, the woman falls silent, she is probably rocking the baby.
“In January,” Camille goes on, “everything goes according to plan – but for the niggling exception of a murder. [Camille is not so naive as to expect a reaction from a man like Hafner.] You planned to double-cross everyone and disappear with the cash. All the cash. [Once again, Camille points to the ceiling.] Hardly surprising, a man with a sense of responsibility would want to ensure his loved ones are provided for. In a sense, the proceeds from the four armed robberies were to be your legacy. I’m no lawyer, so tell me, would that be taxable?”
Hafner does not so much as blink. Nothing will shift him from his planned course. He is not about to vouchsafe a smile, a confession, to the harbinger of doom who has finally flushed him out.
“Morally, I suppose, your position is unassailable. You’re doing what any good father would do, making sure that your family don’t go without. But for some reason, your partners in crime are unlikely to see it that way. Not that it matters, since you have everything planned. They may try to find you, but you have anticipated their every move, you’ve bought yourself a new identity, cut all ties with your old life. I’m a little surprised that you didn’t decide to go abroad.”
At first, Hafner says nothing but, sensing that he may well need Camille’s help, he throws him a crumb.
“I stayed for her sake . . .” he mutters.
Camille is not sure whether he is referring to his wife or his child. It comes to the same thing.
Outside, the streetlights suddenly flicker off; they must be on timers, or there has been a power cut. The light in the living room dims a little. Hafner is framed in silhouette like an empty carcass, spectral, menacing. Upstairs the baby begins to cry quietly, there is another patter of footsteps and whispered words and the wailing stops. Camille would be happy to stay here, in this half-light, in this silence. What is there waiting for him elsewhere, after all? He thinks of Anne. Come on, Camille.
Hafner crosses and uncrosses his legs, he does so infinitely slowly as though wary of frightening Camille. Or else he is in pain. Come on.
“Ravic . . .” As Camille says the name he realises that he has dropped his voice to a muffled whisper, in tune with the atmosphere of the house. “I didn’t know Ravic personally, but I’m guessing he didn’t much appreciate being double-crossed and left without a red cent. Especially since he came away from the robberies with a murder charge hanging over him. I know, I know, it’s his own fault, he should have held his nerve. But even so, he’d earned his share of the loot and you just took off with it. Did you hear what happened to Ravic?”
Camille thinks he sees Hafner stiffen slightly.
“He’s dead. His girlfriend – or whatever she was – got off lightly: a bullet to the head. But before he died, Ravic saw his fingers hacked off one by one. With a hunting knife. Personally, I think a guy who would do something like that is a savage. I know Ravic was a Serb, but France has always been a safe haven for refugees. And chopping up foreigners is hardly good for tourism, wouldn’t you say?”
“I would say you’re a pain in the arse, Verhœven.”
Camille inwardly heaves a sigh of relief. Unless he can jolt Hafner out of his self-imposed silence, he will not get any information out of him. He will be forced to listen to his own soliloquy when what he needs is dialogue.
“You’re right,” he says. “Now is no time for recriminations. Tourism is one thing, armed robbery is something very different. But then again . . . So let’s talk about Maleval. Now he’s someone I used to know very well, in the days before he went in for dismemberment.”
“If I were you, I’d have killed the fucker.”
“That would have suited you, wouldn’t it? Because even if Maleval has become a brutal, bloodthirsty bastard, he’s still as cunning as he ever was. He didn’t appreciate being double-crossed either, and he’s been doing his best to hunt you down . . .”
Hafner nods slowly. He has his own informants, he will have been following the progress of Maleval’s search from a distance.
“But you managed to change your identity, you cut yourself off completely from everyone and everything, you had a little help from those who still admire you – or fear you – and although Maleval has moved heaven and earth to find you, he doesn’t have your contacts, your resources, your reputation. Eventually he was forced to accept that he might never find you. And then he came up with a brilliant idea . . .”
Hafner looks at Camille, puzzled, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“He got the police to do his searching for him.” Camille spread his hands wide. “He entrusted the task to your humble servant. And he was right to, because I’m a pretty decent cop. It would take me less than twenty-four hours to track down someone like you, if I was motivated. And what better to motivate a man than a woman? And a battered woman at that, I mean I’m such a sensitive soul, it was bound to work. And so, a few months ago, he arranged an introduction, and at the time I was flattered.”
Hafner nods. Though he realises that his time is up, and senses that very soon he may have to fight for his life, he cannot but admire Maleval’s ingenuity. Perhaps, half hidden in the shadows, he is smiling.
“In order to persuade me to track you down, Maleval organised an armed robbery, being sure to give it your M.O., your panache, for want of a better word: a jeweller’s, a sawn-off shotgun and a helping of brute force. Everyone at the brigade criminelle was convinced that the raid on the Galerie Monier was your work. And I panicked. I was bound to – the woman I cared about was beaten half to death on her way to pick up a present for me, the whole set-up was designed to ensure I would be a loose cannon. I did what I had to do to ensure I was assigned the case, and since I’m not as dumb as I look, I succeeded. My suspicions were confirmed when this woman, the only witness, formally identified you, though she had only ever seen you in a photograph Maleval showed her. You and Ravic. She even claimed to have recognised a few Serbian words. So now we’re certain that you were behind the job at the Galerie, there’s not a shadow of a doubt.”
Hafner slowly nods again, seemingly impressed by the preparation that has gone into the plan. And realising that in Maleval he has found a formidable adversary.
“And so I set out looking for you on Maleval’s behalf,” Camille says. “Unwittingly, I become his private detective. The more he piles on the pressure, the faster I work. He appears to try to kill the witness, so I redouble my efforts. You have to admit, he made the right choice. I’m a good cop. To find you, I had to make a particularly painful sacrifice, a . . .”
“What sacrifice?” Hafner interrupts.
Camille looks up. How can he put it into words? He thinks for a long moment – Buisson, Irène, Maleval – then gives up.
“I . . .” Camille says almost to himself, “I had no score to settle with anyone.”
“That’s not true. Everyone has . . .”
“You’re right. Because Maleval has an old score to settle with me. In feeding information to Buisson, he was guilty of serious professional misconduct. So he was arrested, humiliated, banished, his name was all over the papers, the scandal, the trial, the verdict. And he spent time in prison. Not long, I’ll grant you, but can you imagine what it’s like for an officer to be inside? And so this is the perfect opportunity to get his revenge. Two birds with one stone. He gets me to track you down and in doing so he makes sure that I will be fired.”
“You did it because you wanted to.”
“Partly . . . It’s too complicated to explain.”
“And I don’t give a flying fuck.”
“Well, you’re wrong there. Because now I’ve found you, Maleval will be paying you a visit. And he’s not just going to want his share. He’s going to want everything.”
“I’ve got nothing left.”
Camille pretends to weigh up the merits of this answer.
“Yes,” he says. “You could try that, I mean, nothing ventured . . . I’m guessing Ravic tried the same spiel: I’ve nothing left, I spent it all, I might have a little left, but not much . . .” Camille smiles broadly. “But let’s be serious. You’ve put that money aside for the time when you won’t be here to provide for your family. You’ve still got it. The question isn’t whether Maleval will find your savings, only how long it will take him to do so. And, incidentally, what methods he’s prepared to use to get that information.”
Hafner turns towards the window as though expecting Maleval to appear wielding a hunting knife. He says nothing.
“He’ll pay you a visit. If and when I decide. All I have to do is give your address to his accomplice and Maleval will be on his way. I’d give it an hour before he blasts your front door open with his Mossberg.”
Hafner tilts his head to one side.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Camille says. “You’re thinking that you’ll be waiting, that you’ll take him down. Well, no offence, but you don’t seem in such great shape right now. Maleval has got twenty years on you, he’s trained and he’s cunning. You made the mistake of underestimating him once before. You might get a lucky shot in, of course, but that’s your only hope. And if you want my advice, make sure you don’t miss. Because he’s not exactly your biggest fan right now. If you do, you’ll regret it, because after he’s put a bullet between the eyes of that pretty little wife of yours, he’s liable to take a knife to your kid, to her little hands, her little feet . . .”
“Don’t talk shit, Verhœven, I’ve dealt with guys like him dozen of times.”
“That was the past, Hafner, even your future is behind you now. You could try to send your family into hiding with the cash – assuming I give you enough time – but it won’t make any difference. If Maleval tracked you down for all your cunning, finding them will be child’s play. [Silence.] I’m you’re only hope.”
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