“Chelsea fans,” she said, not bothering to expand.
She had not come here to complain, and definitely not to be consoled.
Paul took the hint. He could read her well. He stirred his espresso for an age, delaying the inevitable for as long as possible. Please don’t mess this up, Anne silently implored him. He took a deep breath and looked out at the pedestrians on rue Rambuteau.
“O.K. I’ll put this bluntly because I can’t think of a way to sugar-coat it. My guess is you’re already investigating it, but you never know. Ramier, the man who murdered my father, is dead. I killed him.”
“How did it happen?”
A police officer’s question. The only thing on her mind was the question Why didn’t you tell me sooner?, yet here she was demanding a detailed confession. Paul did not appear surprised. He had committed to this path and was moving headlong into the tunnel. He just had to grit his teeth until he reached the finish line, and not think too much on the way.
“He was strangling me and I was so short of air that I couldn’t fight back. So I fired.”
Strangulation. Same method as Velowski, Capestan thought to herself. That fitted. Now she needed to figure out why Paul was walking around with a gun.
“Where did you get the firearm?”
“O.K., I know. Let me start from the beginning – that’ll make it clearer,” Paul said, tapping his teaspoon gently on the table twice. “After seeing you, Denis came round to mine. He brought me an envelope that my father had given him for safe keeping ‘just in case’. With his murky past, there can’t have been a shortage of ‘cases’, so it was worth him taking precautions. But because I refused to see him . . . Anyway, you know all that.”
Capestan said nothing. With her arms crossed and her back against the banquette, she was content to listen, eager not to sway his testimony with the slightest reaction. Paul took another deep breath before carrying on.
“In this envelope, there was a card for a sports club, another card with a locker code written on it, and . . . a letter. A short one.”
Paul swallowed and his eyes went more red, but he frowned and continued down his tunnel.
“I went to the club the next day and opened the locker. It contained wads of cash piled up in a collection of shoe boxes. Six of them. I closed it and left. I fretted about it all night – I had no idea what to do with it. I felt that the least I could do was take one box and figure out how much was in there . . . So I went back. And when I did, there was a box missing. I counted and recounted, then checked and searched again. But I was absolutely sure one was missing. Someone had taken it. Who? I immediately thought about Ramier and the marks on my father’s body. He had tortured him to get the code.”
Paul spread his arms wide to show Capestan how evident the matter was.
“I knew he would be back, so I decided to wait for him. But a guy like that, I couldn’t go and talk to him without at least some form of protection. So I got hold of one of my father’s old pistols, one of his ‘phantoms’, as he liked to call his unregistered guns, or so he told me when he was trying to get me interested in his police stuff. He tried to teach me how to clean and fire them too, but I didn’t want to. Anyway, I took the revolver – ”
“Pistol. It was a pistol, we found the cases.”
“Oh,” Paul said, raising his eyebrows. “I took the pistol. Just as a safety measure, I went and tried it out in the middle of nowhere. I didn’t want to find myself face-to-face with a killer holding a rev— a pistol that went ‘click-click’ like in the movies.”
Paul ventured a smile but thought better of it straight away. The woman opposite him was not laughing at all. She was grappling with the extraordinary lack of sense that had set her husband down this path. He had thought himself capable of confronting this man – he had mistaken blindness for courage.
“Did you stop to think about what kind of man Ramier was? He had just murdered three people. How could you risk confronting him? Why?”
“I wanted to know more, that was part of it. Was my father really a bent cop? How bad was he? Had he fired too? Had he killed anyone? If so, when and who? Had Ramier killed him to avenge some betrayal? Maybe Serge had decided to come clean? Nothing in his letter shed any light on their history.”
Paul shook his head with regret. He was only too aware that his quest for the truth had not worked out too well.
“In the end, I just waded into the mess. I was right about one thing: he came back. You had shown me a picture of him on your mobile. I recognised him coming out of the club with a bag over his shoulder.”
He paused, then almost as an aside said:
“I’ve still got it, the bag. It’s yours to do with as you see fit. Anyway, I decided to follow him. When I was a few metres away, I called out to him. He turned round and looked me up and down. I could tell that he recognised something about me. I . . . well, I look like my father, as you know. I confirmed it for him, introduced myself. He came towards me and I was about to ask my first question, but he didn’t give me the chance. He went straight for my throat and started choking me like a maniac.”
Paul’s eyes bulged at the memory of the attack. He was still not over it, still did not understand it.
“I fought back, but at such close quarters and without being able to breathe, I soon realised there was no way I could loosen his grip. I managed to reach into my pocket and bring out the pistol, then I started firing as best I could . . .”
His hand tightened round the spoon, which he still had not put down.
“In the stress of the situation, I must have emptied the whole clip. I was petrified that I’d missed and that he would wrestle the gun off me.”
The shooting champion in Capestan was forced to admit that, at point-blank range like that, lodging two bullets in the nearby trees was an achievement in itself. Looking on the bright side, this would play in his favour.
Paul seemed to have reached the end of his story. Now it was up to Capestan to ask the question that had been tormenting her more than any other. She struggled to get the words out.
“Why didn’t you talk to me?”
“I didn’t want to embroil you in it.”
“Is that a joke? Paul . . .”
She and he were embroiled body and soul, down to the core of her every feeling, a link that had slackened for too long but had – on his initiative – only just pulled them back together, snapping them back to their true shape, and he wanted to spare her somehow?
“Knowing all this, knowing your intentions, why did you come and paint that message outside my place? Why?”
Paul looked down. She was right, there was no escaping it. But that was all separate from reason, from sanity. All that mattered there was that they had been together again.
“Because I was only thinking about you. I didn’t calculate anything, I just wanted you to come back. You wanted it too, didn’t you?”
The facts rendered any response pointless. He carried on:
“I’m sorry, I really am. I had to do this alone, without the police, to get proper answers from the only guy who knew. I didn’t expect it to turn out like it did.”
With a sociopath like Ramier, it could not have happened any other way. Paul had allowed himself to be misled by a version of criminals that belonged in fiction. And he had run away instead of coming to her.
“You should have called me straight away. We need to go and log this confession right now. The firearm is always going to be a problem, as is withholding information about a fugitive, but the signs of self-defence at the scene will make things easier. Why didn’t you call me?”
Paul shrugged then slouched back in his seat. He held up his hands, then gave the most honest answer he could muster:
“Well, because it was you. If you had nothing to do with the case, if it had been any other officer, then I would have picked up the phone, I guess. But I wasn’t proud of myself, and when you feel as pathetic as I did, the last person you want to tell is the woman
you love. On the other hand, I wasn’t going to come clean to anyone but you. It was all a muddle, I was in a state, in shock, you know. So I waited.”
Capestan let her eyes drift towards the square. The pigeons had regrouped along the roof of the Atelier Brancusi building. The rain was still hammering down, set in for good in the Parisian sky, making the tarmac even darker as it masked people’s faces, even if it did quench the thirst of the horse chestnuts, the base of whose trunks were clasped by metal grates that funnelled the water into the drains and on to the sewers.
38
For a second, Capestan looked at Paul and considered burying the whole thing, just like that. All she needed was another culprit. Not that there was any shortage of shitbags around – her challenge would simply be to find one who fitted the bill.
But no. She could not live with that. Which was a shame.
Then she thought back to Orsini’s proposal earlier, back in his office.
“I don’t know whether it was for revenge or whether it was an accident,” he had said, “but if necessary, I’d be willing to testify that I was there, that he had called me, and that he acted in legitimate self-defence.”
“That would be perjury, capitaine.”
“Paul committed a crime that I could – perhaps should – have committed myself. It seems reasonable that we share the burden. False testimony and complicity – that should do the job.”
“No. It’s nonsensical, apart from anything else. Let’s not forget that you were with us when the body was discovered, along with half the officers from number 36. You would have been noticed.”
Orsini had lowered his head, his jaw clenched.
“True. Listen, if there’s anything I can do, just let me know – I want to help .”
“Message received. Thank you, capitaine.”
On reflection, maybe Orsini could admit to receiving a telephone call earlier that he had not given due attention. That would clear Paul of at least one charge . . .
No. Capestan had to curb her fears about seeing her husband disappear into the grubby walls of a prison. She had to look at everything with a cool head, as if it were any other homicide. Deep down, Paul was no murderer, and the elements would surely demonstrate that so long as she managed to present them like any other piece of evidence. She needed to give herself some time to think – right now her brain was whizzing all over the place.
Still slumped in his seat with his fingertips resting on the edge of the table, Paul was waiting for the information to register and for Anne to say something.
“What am I supposed to do, from where you’re sitting?” she asked, more to break the silence than anything else.
“Arrest me. I’d want it to be you, unless you’d prefer not to, of course. Either way, I’m not going on the run – too old for that. And besides, people know my face, so I wouldn’t get far. I want to take responsibility for my actions.”
Capestan let slip a sigh as she nodded her head. Responsibility. He had no idea what lay in store. But his sincerity was writ large, lighting up all the space around him. This man swept nothing under the carpet.
“So he left you a letter?”
“Yes.”
Paul undid his thick woollen jacket and carefully removed a piece of paper that was folded in four from his inside pocket. He handed it to Capestan.
“Here, read it.”
Capestan checked her hand as it moved forwards. It was personal. She would have preferred a brief summary instead.
“Read it,” Paul insisted, sliding it across the table. “I really want you to.”
Capestan unfolded the sheet of paper.
Paul,
As you well know, I’ve been a bad husband, a bad father and a bad policeman. Before any of that, I was the bad son of a fierce father, as you also know, but I’m not looking for excuses.
You’ve been a bad husband – just as I predicted – but a good son. I didn’t understand your courage at the time. Playing the funny man, being happy . . . there was no better way to rebel against me. By the time I began to understand, we barely saw each other any more. Too bad, that’s just how things go.
But from a distance and without you knowing, I wanted to remain your father, to act like one. I took an unconventional measure to find a way to finance your career in Paris. You would definitely have managed without me, but I wanted to do my bit. I saw it as a duty.
The money that wasn’t used then will serve as your inheritance today. These funds came via dishonest means, yes, but over the years I’ve been able to convert the francs into euros, and they’re clean. It’s all stashed in a locker at a sports club – you’ll find the address and code enclosed.
From your father, who is sorry, but could not have been any different. Good luck with everything.
Papa
Anne folded up the sheet, keeping quiet about the reflections that this show of remorse, as belated and curt as it was defiant, inspired in her. One thing had irked her too much to ignore, however.
“You haven’t been a bad husband.”
“Of course I have. He was right. I wasn’t cut out for the role.”
Capestan slowly shook her head. The least she could say was that she had had ample time to pore over their relationship since Serge’s death. Ultimately, she had behaved like her father-in-law. She had shut herself away and stifled even the smallest glimmer of joy around her. She had let her fury smoulder without any reprieve, just under the surface, like a threat, to avoid talking about anything.
“No-one could have coped, Paul. Because I wouldn’t have wanted them to. You leaving was just a formality. It was justified. Your father was wrong – you were an excellent husband.”
Capestan returned her focus to the pigeons, the passers-by, the square, the wind, the rain. Then she looked back at Paul. She had to back up her good faith with solid evidence.
“Did you keep the weapon?”
“Yes, I’ve got everything: the gun, the bag, the card for the club, my muddy shoes . . .”
All of a sudden, Capestan thought about the marks around her own neck. She leaned forward:
“May I?”
He lowered his roll-neck to reveal several large, bluish marks that were already starting to turn yellow in places. It was clear as day – Ramier had had no intention of loosening his vicelike grip. They had no time to lose.
From a strictly factual point of view, the scenario was credible: the killing was an act of self-defence. The marks were unambiguous. The fact he was carrying a weapon, along with his desire to act alone, could be put down to shock at his father’s death, quickly followed by the news of his corruption. After that, he confessed of his own free will, the delay owing to the emotional complexity of the situation: his ex-wife was involved in the inquiry and they had only just patched things up when he confronted Ramier. Disturbed and traumatised, he had not known what to do in the heat of the moment. But as soon as he came to his senses, he had given himself up willingly before returning the stolen money to the authorities.
That held water.
Either Rosière or Merlot would track down the details of the police service’s least favourite lawyer, one of those hotshots that ekes out months of gruelling work with the aim of freeing the kind of rogue that they would never want to bump into in public themselves. Some handy opportunist or other.
It held water.
Capestan took out her mobile, flicked through her contacts and hit the call button.
“Hello, doctor, this is Commissaire Capestan. Might you be available for a consultation? It’s urgent. At the commissariat. Thank you, doctor, see you shortly.”
Capestan stowed her telephone away, gathered her things and invited her husband to do likewise.
“I’m placing you under arrest, Paul. It won’t be me questioning you, as you can imagine. But don’t worry – stick to the truth and it will all be fine.”
Everything was going to sort itself out. They just had to move forward.
39
Lyon, Minerva Bank, 4 August, 1992
Serge handcuffed Ramier, took him outside and flung him onto the pavement. He was gripping the pistol so tightly in his pocket it was as if he might pulverise it. With his left hand, he yanked the scumbag by the collar so he could hiss into his ear. Sweat was pouring into the man’s eyes:
“Fucking hell, what came over you? You’re sick! You’re a piece of shit! Why did you shoot the woman and the kid?”
“It was Velowski’s fault – he didn’t manage to cut his meeting short. Plus that no good, small-town, bastard banker said my name when I came into his office. It was his fault; he killed them. All I did was fire.”
Serge struck him hard on the nose with the butt of his pistol.
“You’ve got us all in the shit. I can’t let you go now, no-one would believe it. We’d all be caught red-handed and never see the money again. So listen to me, dickhead. For the others, we’re sticking to the plan. I let Jacques go and Alexis gives a false testimony. We’ll keep your cut for you. Shut your mouth, do your time, and you’ll get it when you come out. Understand? Do you understand?” he said, shaking him.
Through his own sweat, Rufus’s, and the blood gushing from his nose, Ramier managed to summon a wicked smile.
“Understood. See you then. I’ll be in touch just before.”
Rufus shook him again then let him fall to the ground.
The wailing sirens levelled out and doors began to slam. Rufus felt the rush of activity around him as his colleagues took charge of the scene. It was doable. Tight, but doable.
40
Like a pride of lions prowling the savannah, or killer whales patrolling the ocean blue, the wheelie cases were dominating their natural habitat, the very one they had been designed for: the smooth linoleum of Roissy-Charles-de-Gaulle. After crashing across the city’s tricky cobbles and rough pavements, they could finally glide along in blissful silence.
The police officers at their helm were considerably more noisy. Rosière, the flamboyant figurehead, was striding ahead, occasionally raising her arm to bid the rest of the fleet to follow her, like a tourist guide making a beeline for the “Mona Lisa”.
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