She brusquely withdrew her hand and looked offended.
“Oh, please!”
The waiter brought the starters. Gilles filled their wine glasses. He’d ordered a Roussillon rosé, a light and fruity wine that Catalan winemakers had recently been marketing in an attempt to adapt to consumers’ new tastes.
“Anyway, on your boat there won’t be many young people.”
Claire was to leave the following afternoon from Marseilles.
“The way you said that . . . ‘your’ boat. Are you really that angry with me for leaving?”
He shrugged.
“I can’t ask you to spend the month of July at home waiting for me to come home at night. You have time off and I don’t. You should do what you want . . . ”
“In short, you’re angry with me.”
“A little, yes,” he finally admitted.
Gilles put a big forkful of salad in his mouth so he wouldn’t have to say more. The heart has its rancors that reason has to ignore. It had been a pleasant day. No point in ruining it. He’d made a choice: he didn’t want to know. Not now. Later, after the cruise, they’d see. And rather than listing the grounds that might justify his concerns, he wanted to attend only to the signs of tenderness and love with which Claire continued to shower him, despite her absences. She could allow herself a sexual parenthesis, after all, so long as she continued to love him. Let her do what she wanted with her body on her damned boat, provided that when she came home she made love to him with the impatience and passion of a woman in love.
But Claire didn’t let up on him: she wasn’t a police inspector’s wife for nothing.
“In fact, you seem to be jealous,” she said, as if she were talking to herself.
Gilles forced himself to smile in an attempt to put her off the scent.
“You’re jealous,” she repeated, with a broad smile.
He frowned.
“It’s all right, okay?”
The waiter came to change the plates. Sebag took advantage of this to change the subject.
“What time does ‘the’ boat leave, exactly?”
“At six P.M. But we have to be on board at least two hours earlier.”
“And your first stop is still Bonifacio?”
“Yes, and then Naples, Palermo, Tunis, Palma de Mallorca . . . ”
Claire deliberately left out the last stop in Barcelona. Ever since they’d been living in Perpignan, they’d been talking about spending a weekend in the capital of South Catalonia, but had never done it.
“I’ll be back on July 22,” Claire concluded. “Two weeks away: just long enough for you to miss me a little.”
Gilles spoke in a low voice like a crooner’s and adopted his most romantic tone.
“You know, when you’re away for a few hours I already miss you.”
“That’s a nice thing to say,” she said with a serious smile. “But you know very well that it’s no longer true. Not entirely.”
Gilles’s eyes narrowed. His brown eyebrows fused into a single line under his forehead.
“What do you mean?”
She put her hand on his.
“Nothing in particular. But when people have known each other for twenty years, as we have, a little time apart can’t do any harm, can it?”
Gilles didn’t answer. He recalled their long period of separation at the time of his transfer. Fifteen months in all. He’d arrived in Perpignan in April for a temporary assignment and had been given official notice of his new posting only in November. Claire and the children had already started a new school year in Chartres, and had remained there until summer vacation, while Gilles scoured the department of Pyrénées-Orientales looking for a house. He went home only once a month. After ten years of living together, they’d rediscovered the bittersweet pleasure of missing one another. Their separation had rekindled the already lukewarm embers of desire. And when they were together, there were passionate caresses and sex; they made love by mixing the eagerness of the early days with the experience of each other they’d acquired. If her return home after two weeks on a cruise ship was going to be like that, Sebag said to himself, let her go as soon as possible. And especially let her come back to me.
The waiter brought the next course. The lamb chops were juicy and well grilled. Claire announced that she was delighted with the fish.
“In any event, with your investigation you won’t have time to get bored.”
They’d discussed Gilles’s work at great length during their hike. Sebag liked to review with Claire the cases that posed problems for him. For her to understand, he had to explain everything, start from the beginning and not omit any details. In presenting the facts to Claire, he began to see them in a different light himself. That had often led him to re-examine elements that the whole team had too quickly considered settled. Especially when they had a lead or even a suspect. Building a case for the prosecution and for the defense was the biggest farce in the French justice system. Thesis, antithesis, specious . . .
“And this young policeman who annoys you so much, what exactly is it you don’t like about him?”
“I don’t know. When he doesn’t say anything, his silence irritates me. And when he opens his mouth, it’s even worse. You know, he’s the kind of guy whose whole life must be centered on his job. He’s a cop 24/7, and that necessarily makes him a jerk.”
“That’s how you were when you started. Have you forgotten that?”
Claire had touched a sore spot. It was true that at the beginning, Sebag had devoted himself to the police, heart and soul. At that time, he saw his work as a mission. She had often complained about it.
“You were able to cure me . . . ”
She smiled. A veil of sadness fell over her eyes.
“I’m not the one who cured you. It was the children.”
He couldn’t disagree. It was only after Léo was born that he’d been able to distance himself a little from his work. His mission as a father had completely absorbed him.
A few tables away from them, an elderly couple were arguing in low voices. Gilles couldn’t hear what they were saying, but the tension in their faces left no doubt that they were angry with each other.
“They must be in their seventies, don’t you think?” he asked Claire.
“At least . . . ”
“It’s rare to see an old couple quarreling like that. Usually their differences of opinion arouse more irritation than anger.”
“Do you think it’s a good sign that they’re still fighting with each other at that age?”
“Yes, probably.”
“It won’t end well . . . ” she commented.
“It’s when you give up that anger turns into irritation.
“Give up on what?”
“On changing what’s wrong in the relationship.”
“What would you like to change in our relationship? What’s irritating you the most right now, for instance?”
The question caught him off guard. He should have seized the opportunity. But he didn’t want to spoil these last moments with Claire.
“Point-blank like that, it’s hard . . . I’d say, for instance, vacations! And you, are there things you’ve given up hope of changing in our relationship?”
“Yes, of course.”
“What?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“The length of your cock, for instance.”
“Very funny. Does that annoy you a lot?”
“No, it excites me.”
CHAPTER 22
The next day would be a big one. Finally.
He’d been imagining it for a long time. He’d organized it, planned it, and then waited. The great game was about to begin. Up to now, it had all been preparation.
The most dangerous part was to com
e this evening. The work he had to do required coolness, discretion, and rapidity. He’d scouted out the site, rehearsed his moves, timed his actions. He mustn’t allow himself to be surprised by obstacles.
He felt ready.
The house was silent. All that could be heard was the birds singing outside. A magpie and chickadees. The pair of turtle doves that had filled the yard with their stupid cooing had left. He’d been able to drive them away. With his sling. He wasn’t as good with it as when he was a child, and he’d been unable to hit them. But he’d scared them enough.
He closed his eyes. Breathed slowly.
He had to summon his strength. The night would be long and tiring. But the police were in for a real surprise.
He wished he knew how far they’d gotten. He’d done what was necessary to confuse them. It wasn’t going to be easy for them to figure things out. Maybe he should help them after having led them astray.
He’d counted on the press to keep him up to date on the police’s investigation. He’d even given the reporters a hand, but the summertime torpor had quickly overcome them again. Nothing about the police’s work had come out. Only the murder in Argelès had been given any attention in the papers.
Deep in his heart, he felt a kind of jealousy.
CHAPTER 23
Jesus, what a shitty fucking job!”
His head in a city trash can, digging around among the garbage, Gilles Sebag was furious. He threw an empty pizza carton on the ground, along with a half-eaten apple, plastic bags containing God knew what, and a condom whose content was only too obvious.
“What a stupid way to make a living!”
Passersby gave him hostile stares. Only the word “Police” on his red armband prevented them from expressing their disgust more clearly. Soon everything in the trash can was on the sidewalk. Sebag continued his search. In the open air, this time.
The message had arrived around 3:00 P.M. A boy, a gypsy about ten years old, had brought the usual envelope. Llach had questioned him while the rest of the team met in the superintendent‘s office. Castello himself had opened the envelope. Then he’d read the letter out loud. A single sentence and a proper name. The name made everyone turn and look at Gilles.
A trash can, Place de Catalogne. Inspector Sebag.
“Clearly, they really like you,” Superintendent Castello commented.
Sebag already had a broadcasting radio. An earbud and a microphone attached to the collar of his jacket. He would be alone in his car, with Ménard and Molina following him at a distance of less than five hundred yards. A big blue-and-black sports bag sat prominently in the middle of the room. Lefèvre opened it to show the inspectors what was in it. It was full of crumpled newspaper.
“Why the bag, since it has been decreed from on high that we’re not paying?” Llach asked.
“To make it look like we’re playing the game,” the Superintendent said, shrugging.
The tension in the meeting room had risen another notch. The inspectors nodded gravely, wondering what the precise rules of this sinister game might be. And especially what the kidnappers’ reaction would be in the event that the trick failed.
Sebag conscientiously put all the garbage back in the trash can. He hadn’t found anything that could be considered a clue or a new message. He straightened up and looked around the Place de Catalogne. In front of the prestigious building of the Dames de France, a dozen fountains made the paving stones heated by the sun seem cooler. He wiped his sweat-covered forehead. At the other end of the esplanade he saw, next to a newsstand, another trash can.
“A sucker’s job, for sure!”
He left his car double-parked and crossed the esplanade. The news seller, who seemed to have been observing his activities, watched him approaching. He greeted him with a broad grin:
“Is it lots of fun being a cop?”
“It’s vacation time. We keep busy however we can.”
“What are you up to, anyway?”
“Playing hide and seek. But the trash can over there was too small. I’m going to try to get into this one. Do you mind if I make a bit of a mess in front of your newsstand?”
Without waiting for an answer, he started emptying the new trash can. After going through fistfuls of damp and fetid trash, he finally pulled out a white envelope. Just like the earlier ones, except that it had a lovely grease stain on its back. Sebag went up to the newsstand and waved the envelope under the merchant’s nose.
“Did you see anyone throw this away?”
“If I had to keep an eye on everyone who threw stuff in the trash can . . . ” the merchant replied, not repressing a look of disgust.
“But you seemed to have time to take an interest in what I was doing.”
“You have to admit that it was funny.”
Sebag took a business card out of his wallet.
“If by any chance your memory returns and you still feel like joking, don’t hesitate to call me.”
Gingerly, the news agent took the card and read it before putting it in his shirt pocket.
“Is it a now a crime to throw envelopes in the trash can?”
“It might become one . . . In any case, this is not the best way of sending a message. I know that public services don’t work as well as they used to, but all the same . . . ”
“In any case, that envelope was delivered, wasn’t it?”
He leaned over the counter to see better.
“Moreover, it doesn’t even have a stamp on it. What efficiency! Maybe all mail should be handled that way.”
Sebag left the news agent to reflect on a reform of the French postal system and returned to his car. It was 4:24 P.M. Paying no attention to the bus honking its horn behind him, he tore open the envelope and read the message out loud.
Bus stop no. 27, Avenue Poincaré.
A shiver ran down his back. He moved out into traffic, went up the Boulevard des Pyrénées, then the Boulevard Mercader, and stopped his car in a spot reserved for buses. Very near the place where Anneke Verbrucke had been attacked. An old lady waiting at the bus stop looked at him ill-temperedly.
“Young man, how do you expect the bus to stop if you park there?”
He just pointed to the police armband around his bicep. He looked all around the bus shelter but didn’t see anything unusual. No letter, no envelope. Just a graffito bluntly asking a girl to do a favor for one of her classmates.
“How long have you been waiting here?” he asked the old lady.
“About ten minutes,” she mumbled through her mustache.
“And you haven’t seen anything unusual?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“An impolite policeman who’s preventing the bus from stopping.”
Sebag tried to take a deep breath.
“Thank you for your valuable help, Madam,” he finally said, giving her a frankly hypocritical smile.
He went around the shelter again. Nothing. His eyes then fell on line 27’s schedule. There was a bus every twenty minutes from 6:00 A.M. to 10:00 P.M. One bus had been crossed out with a red pen: 4:40 P.M. He looked at his watch. It would be that time in two minutes.
“I haven’t found anything so far,” he said, speaking to his jacket collar. “I’m continuing the search.”
“Roger,” Castello answered. “We’ll wait.”
Sebag parked his car on the sidewalk a little further down the street.
“Disgraceful,” the old woman admonished him when he rejoined her.
A bus was already coming down the avenue. The 4:40 bus; so there was one at that time. It stopped at the shelter. The doors belched air and opened. The old lady got in.
“Good-bye, dear lady!” Sebag shouted.
She did not deign to answer him. The bus drove off, leaving him alone on the sidewalk.
He turned arou
nd and looked at the schedule again. It was taped to a sheet of glass. Underneath it was another schedule. Identical, but without the crossed-out bus. He tore off the sheet of paper. On the back, a sentence was typed. He read it, gulped, and then read it out loud:
Oleanders Telephone booth 5:45 P.M.
“Son of a bitch!”
That night, going over the day in his head, Sebag could no longer remember whether it was he who had uttered this oath or if he’d heard it resound in his earbud. The Oleanders—that could only be the campground in Argelès, the one where Josetta had stayed before she was killed. They had thus come full circle. The Avenue Poincaré and Anneke Verbrucke, the Oleanders campground and Josetta Braun. This message was the missing link that bound the three cases together. It wasn’t possible, Sebag said to himself. He couldn’t have made such a stupid mistake. He would have sworn that these three cases had no connection.
He pulled up the collar of his jacket and asked:
“What shall we do, boss?”
Superintendent Castello’s voice reached him through his earbud. Sebag could sense his disappointment.
“You head for Argelès, obviously. Molina and Ménard will continue to follow you at a distance. Don’t drive too fast. I’m sending Raynaud and Moreno: they have to be in position before you get there.”
Sebag returned to his car and set out for Argelès. He saw Menard’s and Molina’s gray vehicle down the avenue. He didn’t know what to think. The parts of the puzzle were beginning to fit together. How could he have gotten so far off track? He could imagine Lefèvre’s face at this point. His smile of satisfaction making a triumphal dimple appear on his clean-shaven cheeks. He was glad he didn’t have to see it. His jaw tightened and he heard his teeth grinding.
The earphone crackled:
“I’ve informed the gendarmes in Argelès that we need to carry out an operation on their territory,” Castello explained.
Sebag took his foot off the accelerator: he was driving too fast.
Traffic was moving smoothly on Departmental 914. At this time of day, the tourists were all at the beach. Sebag went around the hilltop town of Elne, whose square bell tower overlooks hills covered with vineyards and fruit orchards. He left the departmental highway and took the smaller road that led to the Argelès beaches. In the rearview mirror he could see that Ménard and Molina were still following him.
Summertime All the Cats Are Bored Page 20