“En garde!” he shouted.
The Chelsea fans might not have understood the words but they soon grasped the meaning. Something in Saint-Lô’s eyes made them think twice about taking the piss, but it did not check their advance. Before they even noticed it move, the crutch thumped into the chest of the first supporter, whose eyes rounded with shock as he fell to the ground winded. Next it struck the second man full in the throat, sending him spluttering to his knees. The third man was left to fend for himself, his nerve weakened but his pride keeping him in place. With a sharp movement, he pounced at Saint-Lô, hoping to fight him man to man. The capitaine nimbly dodged aside, grabbed his opponent by the arm, sent him off-balance, spun him round one hundred and eighty degrees, took one step back and jammed the point of the crutch plumb between his eyes.
“A thrust worthy of Nevers, my friends!” Merlot said, not surprisingly a devotee of nineteenth-century swashbuckling novels. “Of course the rubber stopper loses a bit of penetration, but still, the aim was true!”
The man had had his fill and sprinted off down rue des Lombards. But the sea of football shirts was showing no signs of abating, either in number or drunkenness. Saint-Lô tossed the crutch back to Lewitz and unhitched the dagger from his ankle. Before Capestan could protest, he calmed her with a wave of the hand – the blade would remain in its leather holster and serve only as a sort of prod.
Diament alerted the agile capitaine to his presence with a roar, holding his arms out in a gesture that suggested he wanted to get things over and done with. Like a J.C.B. on a beach, he gathered up armfuls of thugs and rammed them into each other. Coming in the other direction, Saint-Lô stung them with his dagger, popping in and out of view at lightning speed. The combination of the grizzly bear and the hornet succeeded in herding the beer-soaked beasts together.
Merlot chose this moment to turn to Ratafia:
“Go! Go and help them, little Rata!”
The rodent shot to the musketeer’s aid. No longer content with nibbling ankles, it boldly climbed up trouser legs and bit into the men’s thighs. The fans screamed and began thumping their baggy tracksuits to get rid of the stealthy beast that had come out of nowhere.
Mimicking Saint-Lô and Diament’s sandwich strategy, Pilote rushed forward and started sinking his teeth into the bums of Rata’s victims, who were now at a loss as to where to throw their fists.
“Higher, Rata! Higher!” his master howled, goading him on.
With his muzzle pressing forward and his sharp claws digging into the skin, Ratafia managed to gain ground. The onlookers could see the outline through the folds of the material as he made it to the groin area, followed by tell-tale rings of blood that stained the pale cotton. Grown men fell to their knees and wept.
“Yes, go on, my dear ratty! Attack, attack!” Merlot shouted, jolting up to a standing position.
He turned to Capestan:
“I trained a police rat! I trained a police rat!”
“Shh, stop that, not so loud,” the commissaire replied.
Just wait for the headline writers to get hold of that – police-trained rats deployed to emasculate football fans. Buron was going to be ecstatic.
Soon after, the throng that had invaded the Fontaine des Innocents dispersed. The mass of fans not so much charged as hobbled towards Châtelet and beyond, wounded and bent double, eager to reach the plastic seats in the stands that for many would be even less comfortable than normal.
The combined efforts of the squad’s two newest recruits (three, counting Ratafia) had given them the upper hand over the barbarians.
“Victory! We won! Veni Vidi Victory! And all thanks to my rat!”
Merlot was over the moon. Although his black eye had swollen to double its size; although he was going to need an expensive trip to the dentist; although his battered colleagues barely had a limb intact between them; although Torrez, Lebreton, Dax, Saint-Lô and Diament – the last men standing – were limping towards them with a dog and a red rat at their side, Merlot was acting as if this was his Austerlitz.
“You know, whatever it is they were looking for, I think we might have ruined their evening,” Évrard said, smiling in spite of everything.
All around, the jubilation began to prevail over any dents to their pride. Merlot, still beside himself, tickled the rat’s neck, bloodying his nails as he did so.
“Oh, I’d say! Didn’t we just!”
He paused for a moment before clutching Évrard’s arm and adopting his most sincere tone:
“Nothing worse than having your knackers knackered.”
36
“No. I don’t believe you. It’s not him.”
Capestan was determined to block out what Orsini was saying.
They were in the capitaine’s office. His cravat had been studiously retied. As with the rest of the squad, the two of them were covered in plasters, bandages and antiseptic cream. The bathroom at the commissariat had been transformed into a makeshift field hospital, with Rosière taking charge of boosting the troops’ morale. A doctor had arrived and asked them to wait in line on chairs in the corridor before examining them in turn and putting them in order of priority. Évrard and Lewitz had been sent to hospital for precautionary X-rays, while the others had only needed patching up. The doctor had also assessed Ratafia, who was remarkably unscathed. The team congratulated each other with hearty pats on the back, and Dax even shed a little tear at the scale of everyone’s gratitude. Capestan had only been able to appreciate the camaraderie for a few short seconds before finding herself in this seat listening to Orsini’s nonsense.
“It is, commissaire. All the signs point to it.”
“I’m telling you it’s not.”
“Listen . . . I understand. I’ll leave you with my findings and let you reach the same conclusion for yourself,” Orsini said, his voice far softer than usual.
On the spotless glass table, he set down, one after the other, the piece of card with the code, a D.V.D. containing surveillance footage, a club membership card and a file. Then he left in silence, taking care not to let the door slam.
*
Capestan gazed at the objects. She was battling against reason, but Orsini’s line of argument was nonetheless making gains. The plausible reality was creeping into the tangle of her mind despite her efforts to keep it at bay. Bit by bit, her denial was being worn away, giving way first to anger, then to despondency. What next? What was she to do next?
So Orsini had not murdered anyone. He had not avenged his wife, nor his son.
But Paul – Paul had avenged his father.
The father he had never loved, the father he had not seen for years. The father whose legacy to his son was violence and lex talionis.
Or maybe it was an accident. Yes, an accident. Albeit one he had gone looking for.
Capestan stared into nowhere for a long while, until the whole room became blurry, until her pupils dried up completely.
She did not understand.
Was her husband a killer? He did not fit the profile. There was not an ounce of the malcontent about him. What had led him to behave in a manner that was so out of character? Animal instinct? Association? A sense of duty? Or maybe it was simply a desire to prove to his dead father that he was made of the same stuff, a final appeal to the timeless need for parental acceptance, for love and approval, that no amount of neglect or cruelty can dampen in a child. Paul alone could answer these questions.
Capestan also could not help wondering how her husband could have committed a murder at the very moment that they had finally been reunited. Not exactly before her eyes, but in a way that was bound to show up on the radar of her investigation. How could she ignore the giant red dot that had suddenly started flashing along with the tone of a flat-lining heart monitor?
She would have to analyse everything in the cold light of day. This awful sense of personal waste would have to be put aside in favour of a professional eye.
Paul must have lost faith in her inve
stigation and decided to act alone. He had manipulated her. But why? Did he think she would not realise it was him? That he could get away with this hideous lie, sitting pretty on their sofa for the rest of his days? Or did he reckon that it would be all too easy for his wife, a police officer, to bungle the investigation and let him off the hook? Keeping the personal to one side was not going to be easy. Or maybe he was planning to turn himself in and confess to the murder? Capestan was tempted to wait and see.
To wait. For once, Capestan had no urge to act. She wanted to let life decide for her, let herself bob along any which way, like a desperate dog scrabbling to get out of a stream. For everything to sort itself out for her. For someone to come up to her and say: “Don’t worry, it’s all under control.”
But that wasn’t how it was going to be. Orsini had been meticulous.
947091. A backwards date, as he had eventually realised. July 19, 1949.
He had then gone through the case notes of all the murders with a fine-toothed comb, page by page. Nothing. It was only when he studied Rufus’s H.R. file that he found a match. July 19, 1949 – his wife’s date of birth. The brute did have a shred of sentimentality. Or was he just being practical?
Having linked the code to Serge Rufus, all Orsini needed to do was figure out its significance.
If Ramier had kept it on his person, it must have been of some use to him.
The money.
A left luggage code, perhaps? Orsini had called all the railway stations, but none of them had a six-digit system. Then he had dug deeper into Rufus’s paperwork: was he a member of any clubs – sport, cards, that sort of thing? Or an ex-police officer’s association? Was it for an old pigeonhole at number 36? A locker at the shooting range? Nothing. Orsini had come up short.
Until the murder in the Bois de Vincennes.
Since there was nothing to link Ramier to the Vincennes, maybe Rufus had some connection with it. As he was scouring the roads running near the park, the capitaine struck upon a gym. It was one of those fitness clubs where there is just an automatic barrier that opens when you present your membership card, paid for in cash more often than not. Guaranteed discretion. Open daily from 7.00 a.m. to 11.00 p.m.
After forcing a cleaner to let him in, Orsini had tried the code on every locker. One of them had opened. Empty.
Later, the video footage taken from that room had played for hours on the capitaine’s desktop. On four separate occasions, Ramier’s hazy black-and-white profile appeared after a cautious glance from side to side. On November 28, December 14, December 22 and, last but not least, December 25, the morning of his death, he left the centre with a large bag slung over his shoulder. That must have been his final pick-up before scramming for good, so he chose a day and a time where no-one would disturb him. December 25, 10.00 a.m. On three separate occasions, a different hazy black-and-white profile, this time belonging to Paul Rufus. December 21, 22 and 25. The first time, he went into the fitness room and left a few minutes later. Same drill the following day. On Christmas Day, Paul spotted Ramier exiting the club, visibly hesitated for a few seconds, then eventually followed him towards the park, until the two of them were out of shot.
Capestan gathered her thoughts. It was December 20 that she saw Denis and told him that Serge Rufus was dead. Did Denis have a message for Paul in the event that his father passed away? Possibly. Serge and Denis had managed to see eye to eye in a way that the father and son had not. Serge, what with his love of the old-school, might have given Denis a letter or a package “just in case” something happened to him. Except Denis was not really up to speed with the former commissaire’s health: it had taken his chat with Capestan to gee him into action.
And Paul had not said a word to Anne.
Not on the night of the réveillon, and not on Christmas morning.
She had left his apartment at 8.00 a.m. feeling giddy with happiness. Two hours later, Paul was tailing Ramier into the Bois de Vincennes.
Bucketfuls of sadness in Capestan’s head were snuffing out the flames of her rage, only for the embers to rekindle straight away. She was yet to know which of the two emotions would engulf her.
Did she feel a glimmer of understanding? No – that would be a sign of weakness. Yet there was still a strong temptation to dodge the issue with some bogus reasoning, to let him off the hook and reprieve herself in the process.
In his shoes, would she have pulled the trigger?
No, not for a man like Serge.
*
There was a knock at the door and Orsini poked his head in.
“Telephone. For you.”
“Couldn’t they try me on my mobile?”
“Well yes, but that’s in the sitting room too.”
Capestan instinctively patted her pockets before admitting that he was right. She sighed, then realised it might be Paul. She searched for an answer in Orsini’s eyes, but he narrowed them slightly to tell her that it was not.
“Buron.”
Capestan let out a huff. Buron. The last thing she needed now was flak from the directeur. Reluctantly, she heaved herself up.
*
Avoiding eye contact with her colleagues, she picked up the telephone on her desk and turned to take the call.
“Monsieur le Directeur?”
“Hello, Capestan. I’m calling with regard to the mass brawl that broke out by the Fontaine des Innocents . . .”
“Yes, O.K., O.K. Listen, we did the best we could. We’re sorry – there you go. As much as we love being reprimanded, it does seem to happen an awful lot for an anonymous squad like ours.”
There was a brief silence at the other end of the line before Buron resumed:
“Actually no, commissaire, I was calling to congratulate you. Your intervention might have run contrary to procedure, not to mention prudence, but it was a fine act of bravery that certainly prevented a lot of damage. I must say, the local inhabitants appear to have been mighty impressed by the sight of police officers engaging so courageously despite being heavily outnumbered.”
“Oh, right. Thank you,” Capestan said, somewhat apologetically. “That’s nice to hear. And good of you to pass on the compliment.”
“Of course, the very same inhabitants are berating the C.R.S. for being so slow to respond, as well as the city council for being so poorly prepared on match days. And there were even some stories about hordes of blood-soaked animals trained to kill. Does that ring any bells?”
“The poor preparation?”
“The blood-soaked animals trained to kill.”
Capestan was holding a biro, the tip of which she was rotating on the wooden surface of her desk.
“We might have had a bit of help from Rosière’s dog and Merlot’s rat.”
“I see. Everything all right, Capestan?” Buron asked, a note of genuine concern in his voice.
“Yes, fine, Monsieur le Directeur,” she said. “Everything’s fine. We’re just recovering from our injuries.”
“Good. Call me back when you’re less the worse for wear.”
Lebreton was waiting in the long queue for the counter at the charcutier-traiteur on rue Montorgueil. He served himself some grated carrot and pork rillons, before deliberating whether to try the potato salad, which had chunks of ham in it. Then he dropped in at the greengrocer’s to buy a couple of apples.
The commandant, as had become his custom ever since meeting Pilote, could not resist looking at the little dog minding its own business a few metres away from the rotisserie chicken stand. With his resplendent white coat and glassy eyes, he was no longer a puppy. Around his neck he wore a collar with a silver medallion that had no fewer than three telephone numbers engraved on it. This mutt was long past the age of bolting from its owner – but someone clearly could not face the thought of losing him.
37
“Anne, I need to talk to you.”
In the end, he did call.
*
Sitting beneath an outdoor heater on the terrace of Le Cavali
er Bleu, Capestan charted the steady, hypnotic motion of the heads ascending the long tubular escalator of the Centre Pompidou. She was very fond of this package of colourful cylinders that her grandmother, a fierce opponent of the project, used to refer to as the “Cultural Colon”.
On the damp pavement, the hundreds of droppings courtesy of the square’s army of pigeons were being washed away in the drizzle, lulling the tourists into a false sense of cleanliness. With the school holidays still in full swing, the Parisians were nowhere to be seen. Only one other table was occupied on the broad terrace at the corner of the rues Saint-Martin and Rambuteau, so there was no danger of them being disturbed. Capestan had not been able to face the thought of meeting at either of their apartments, so Paul had suggested a café that was close to both the commissariat and Anne’s place. A nice show of consideration for a man who was about to confess to a murder.
She saw him at a distance walking down rue Saint-Martin, his hands in the pockets of his navy blue sailor’s jacket, his shoulders hunched to protect his neck from the cold. His grey beanie, unable to tame his unruly barnet, had let slip a few strands of blonde hair that the rain had drenched. Capestan wondered if she would ever stop being blown away by his beauty. Maybe in ten minutes’ time, if he proved incapable of saying what needed to be said.
He hesitated for a split second before kissing her on the cheek, then sat down across the table from her, hands still in pockets. The waiter appeared out of nowhere, his thumb and index finger jiggling the purse in his waistcoat pocket as Capestan ordered a coffee.
“I’ll have one too,” Paul said, more to dismiss the question than because he wanted to drink anything.
“How are you? Lovely Christmas weather, hey,” he said, keen to engage Capestan.
He was waiting for the coffees to arrive and the waiter to leave before turning to more serious matters.
“What happened here?” he asked with a hint of concern, indicating the bruise on her neck and the plaster on her forehead, before nodding his thanks to the waiter.
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