by Michel Bussi
The next second, her hand grabbed hold of the railing, as if she’d suddenly got vertigo. Stupefied, she read the three lines describing the DNA analysis.
46
Little hand on the 12, big hand on the 8
Malone was sitting on the sofa, next to Gouti.
Alexis Zerda had retreated a few steps, so he didn’t frighten the child even more, while Dimitri handed the child the phone and explained for the third time that he was going to talk to his Maman. Just for a little bit, a few phrases, just hello, how are you, I’m fine, and then they would hang up and he would have to be a good boy, a very good boy, and stay with his other Maman, the one who looked after him now. Maman-da. Otherwise, he would never be able to talk to his Maman from before again.
Amanda turned her back on them. Silent. Nose pressed to the windowpane. A round parking lot was the only view. A thin mist was falling over the estate, as if it were all just a bad dream on a bad set. She didn’t even have the strength to conjure up anywhere else. Her planet was confined to this circle of tarmac. In the reflection on the window, she saw the shape of Alexis Zerda.
Before Dimitri came downstairs with Malone, Zerda had casually opened his jacket to get a handkerchief. And to show them the revolver hanging from his belt.
Not that Dimitri had noticed, the fool.
The trap was closing on them. They had sealed a pact with the devil, had let him into their home, into their lives. For a moment, she almost wished to see a police car surging through the mist.
But if that happened, the cops would take Malone from her.
Dimitri dialed the number.
Amanda’s eyes looked up at the frame above the sideboard: the hearts, poems and butterflies. It was all Dimitri’s fault, everything that had happened to them. This succession of misfortunes, each one worse than the last, every time he tried to repair the irreparable.
If they both had to die, her only wish was that Zerda should kill her husband first, so she would have the pleasure of watching his face crumple against the cold tiles and, in the instant after, see those stupid eyes of his go blank forever. As if they still hadn’t understood what was happening.
As if none of it had been his fault.
* * *
The telephone rang a third time. It was on the table in the hallway, next to the coat rack and a picture of the Étretat cliffs. The apartment’s landline. None of the police had dared pick it up yet.
They were all waiting for their captain’s orders. She was still out on the balcony, staring at her mobile.
Suddenly she came back into the flat, walking quickly, and picked up the phone, without even taking the precaution of putting on gloves.
She said nothing, only listened.
“Hello? Hello, Maman?”
A boy’s voice. Very young.
Silence. One second, perhaps? An eternity.
Marianne thought about responding, afraid he might hang up.
“Hello, Maman? Can you hear me? It’s Malone!”
Marianne froze, as if electrocuted. Officer Bourdaine, who was standing two meters away from her, instinctively called out:
“Is there a problem, Captain?”
Then, abruptly aware of his mistake, he clapped his hand over his mouth.
The boy had already hung up.
Marianne just had time to hear a muffled echo, maybe the sound of a gunshot.
Or a falling object? A body?
There was no time to think. Marianne screamed so loud that even the men in the parking lot twelve floors below could probably hear.
“Timo Soler’s girlfriend had a child! And I know who that child is!”
II
AMANDA
47
Havre-Octeville Airport,
Friday, November 6, 2015, 4:25 P.M.
Malone trotted along the corridor in the small airport. He almost had to jog to keep up with Maman, taking three steps to her one.
Gate 1
Gate 2
Gate 3
He held Maman’s hand tightly while he tried to count in his head the planes behind the glass. Ahead of them, people dressed as if they were going to war were marching; all of them men, with close-shaven hair. One of them had an earring and another had tattoos, on his arms and neck. Maman lowered her head as she walked past them, as if she was a bit scared too. Scared that she would be recognized.
As soon as they were far enough away, Maman started saying the same thing, over and over, almost whispering as she leaned close to him:
“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up . . . ”
But he was the one who’d waited for Maman earlier, when they’d gone through the door where they had to take off their watches, belts and glasses, because it had made a noise and Maman had been asked to go through it a second time, after taking off her necklace.
Gate 4
Gate 5
He’d tried to get away then, just after he’d got past the door. He hadn’t gone far—just to the end of the corridor—but when he saw the big poster, at the same moment when Maman called him, he realized that it was a stupid idea.
He had to stay close to Maman, be a good boy, a big boy, a brave boy.
He had to do everything exactly as she said.
Gate 6
Gate 7
Even if he was sad about Gouti. He missed his cuddly toy. It was more difficult to be brave without Gouti. Maman’s hand still held his fingers tightly.
“Hurry up, hurry up, hurry up . . . ”
One, two, three. Thumb, index finger, middle finger of his other hand. There were three planes on the other side of the glass: one white and blue, one white and orange, and the other one completely white. Malone didn’t know which one went to the forest of ogres.
Gate 8
It was the white and orange one. Maman pointed it out to him. People were queuing up outside it.
Maman still didn’t let go of his hand—it wasn’t to make him go faster now, but so that he would stay in the line without moving.
So Malone didn’t move. He just concentrated on gathering his courage. He had to do everything he’d been told, as Gouti had taught him, as his Maman before had asked him to.
His Maman before, not the one who was holding his hand.
People were starting to get on the airplane. The moment had come.
Malone repeated in his head the words he didn’t really understand, even after saying them hundreds of times, in secret, in his bed, before going to sleep, and remembering them every day when he woke up.
It’s a prayer, it’s your prayer. You must never forget it.
It’s very simple. You can do it.
Just before you get on the airplane, you have to say a sentence, a sentence you’ve already said a thousand times, but you have to say it at exactly that moment.
Even if it’s not true. They have to believe you.
He tugged on Maman’s sleeve.
Even if it’s not true. They have to believe you.
“Yes, sweetie, what is it?”
Four hours earlier
48
Little hand on the 12, big hand on the 10
Malone was sitting in the back of the car. There was no booster seat, like there was in Maman-da’s car, and because of that he couldn’t see outside, only a bit of roof with some foam and the gray dish that looked like a flying saucer that had flown too low and hit a chimney. The seat belt covered his face, from his left eye to the right side of his chin, like a big pirate’s eye patch.
He clutched Gouti to his chest. Sometimes, in Maman-da’s car, he would put a seat belt on Gouti too—the middle one—even if it annoyed Maman-da because it wasted time. But today, he was holding Gouti instead, the two of them sharing the same seat belt. Because he was a bit scared.
Maman-da seemed a bit scared too. She sat up front
and kept turning around to him and winking at him, saying: “You’re going to have to be brave, my pirate. You’re going to have to be very brave.”
Zerda had not raised his voice. He had put them in the Ford Kuga in the parking lot, just like any father in a hurry to get back to work.
Jacket buttoned up to his neck, he had bent down to Amanda.
“You take care of the kid. Make sure he doesn’t do anything that will get us noticed. I’ll be there in a minute.”
He had stood up, taken a step forward, then bent down to the Ford Kuga again.
“Wait for me in the car! Don’t try anything, if you care about the kid.”
This time he had headed straight for the house, crossing the gravel driveway in three strides, without turning around.
As soon as the door of the house closed behind him, Amanda had scrambled into the driver’s seat. She had to bite her lip to stop herself screaming. She bit it so hard, she drew blood. She had to keep quiet so as not to make Malone any more frightened than he already was.
No key in the ignition!
For a brief moment, she thought about undoing Malone’s seat belt, taking him by the hand, and running away, losing themselves in this labyrinth of thuyas, opening the first gate she found and releasing the dogs; or simply running to Dévote’s house, across the road, and barricading themselves in.
But only for a brief moment . . .
She stared into Malone’s eyes.
Her life didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was her child’s life.
* * *
Dimitri looked up and wiped the corner of his lips. His right hand froze, the glass of whisky paused midway between the table and his mouth. The glass, three-quarters full, shook perilously; he felt like a ridiculous little kid who, as soon as his parents’ backs were turned, had stolen a whole handful of sweets.
Alexis Zerda was silent, as if hesitating.
Dimitri stammered: “What were the cops doing at Timo’s place? Fuck, do you think they’ve caught him? Or found his corpse?”
Zerda undid three buttons of his jacket.
“That was a stupid idea of yours, Dimitri, making the phone call. Another stupid idea.”
Dimitri sniggered and took a long, defiant swig of Glen Moray.
“You agreed with me, didn’t you? Maybe you know more about child psychology than I do? Did the Romanian give you a few lessons before he went up in smoke?”
He drained his glass while Zerda undid the last few buttons of his jacket.
“You’re in the shit, Alex. Not me. I’ve no connection with Timo Soler or any of your problems. I just did you a favor. Full stop.”
Zerda walked across the living room and stood in front of the only window, the one that looked out over the estate. Amanda and Malone were still waiting inside the Ford. There was no one else in the parking lot or the gardens that surrounded it. He had to act quickly now.
“You’re an idiot, Dimitri. Even at Bois-d’Arcy, you were the stupidest guy in the entire prison. I actually felt sorry for you. That’s probably how you managed to find a woman. And a kid.”
He put his hand on the windowpane.
“You don’t deserve them, Dimitri.”
Zerda abruptly pulled the curtains shut. The room fell into darkness, as if the sun had fallen on its face.
Dimitri slammed the whisky glass down on the living room table.
“What are you doing?”
“You realize you’re responsible for the death of a child?”
“The kid’s not dead.”
“For Amanda, he is.”
Dimitri licked his whisky-soaked fingers, then stared through the dim light, trying to follow Zerda’s slow movements. One hand in his pocket, the other near his belt.
He rubbed his index finger over his gums and giggled. The forty percent alcohol anaesthetised the urge to cry out. Alexis was right. He was an idiot. Even now, when Zerda was about to point a gun at him, he was incapable of reacting as he should have done. He had no idea what Alexis wanted to hear, what he was searching for. His terror transformed into another giggle.
“I may have lost one kid, but I found her another one. Better than the first one! You’ve seen Amanda, you know it’s true. She prefers this one.”
Alexis Zerda took out his pistol as casually as if he were reaching for a handkerchief. In the darkness, all Dimitri could see was an arm with a long, narrow shape at its end. He thought he could recognize the weapon: the Zastava, that Serbian pistol that Alexis had bought from a half-mad soldier who’d come back from Kosovo nearly fifteen years ago.
Zerda whispered as he took a step forward.
“You see, Dimitri, I’d regret having to get rid of Amanda. Very much so. But you? Not at all . . . ”
Dimitri had stopped giggling now. Laughing in the face of death, Dimitri realized, was not going to help him out of this situation. Nor would turning his back on it.
He stood up, staggering slightly.
“Stop messing around, Alex. What good would it do you to kill me? I don’t know anything about the loot, or about the kid. I don’t know anything about anything.”
“The cops will be here in a minute or two. You’ll hold them up for a while. Like the shrink has. I’m like Hansel and Gretel, dropping bodies behind me instead of breadcrumbs. Big bodies blocking the path, that take time to move, which gives me time to vanish.”
Dimitri continued to stare at the barrel of the Zastava. He could see it clearly now. It was lit by a single shaft of light coming through a gap in the curtains, like a theater spotlight. According to the lunatic soldier who’d sold it to Alexis, that gun had killed dozens of Bosnians; men, women, and children.
He stammered: “I’d delay them a lot longer if I were alive, Alex. You go off with the kid, and I’ll keep them busy. I can talk for hours if I have to. I’m good at that. You’ll have time to go wherever you want.”
“I know. And you’re right. You are good at bullshitting. So let’s just say that I’m doing this for the pleasure of it.”
Bang.
The ten-millimeter bullet went straight between Dimitri’s eyes. He collapsed on the carpet, knocking over the table, the glass and the bottle of Glen Moray.
Alexis looked at him for less than two seconds, just enough time to check he wasn’t going to get back up, then headed over to the window.
Opened the curtain.
And shuddered.
Amanda was standing there, looking at him.
Zerda’s first reflex was to look past her. He exhaled with relief. The kid was still in the car, seat belt on. His eyes were drawn back to Amanda’s face.
The two of them stayed like that, staring at each other, separated only by the dirty window.
Alexis could read fear on Amanda’s face. No pain, no sadness, no compassion for the body stretched out on the carpet in a pool of alcohol.
Just fear.
Stranger yet, he thought he could see what looked like the ghost of a smile on Amanda’s lips. As if she were relieved. Maybe even attracted to him. Yes, that was what Zerda thought when he went over the moment in his mind afterwards as he was driving the Ford Kuga: that this determined little woman, who was still almost pretty if she put her mind to it, if you took the time to look deep into her eyes, asked her to put on some make-up and wear nice clothes; that this woman, while she might have been terribly scared of the man standing opposite her, with a gun in his hand, couldn’t help admiring him too.
When Amanda’s lips moved behind the window, almost imperceptibly, leaving a small circle of condensation on the glass, he thought he could lip-read what she was saying. Two words.
Thank you.
49
The police car emerged onto Avenue du Bois-au-Coq.
“Manéglise, 17 kilometers, 18 minutes,” indicated the GPS fastened under the rear
-view mirror. Officer Cabral was hoping to get there in half the time. He accelerated again, siren wailing, overtaking the tram on his left. In the distance, the corrugated-iron village stood out against the aluminium-colored sky.
Marianne yelled into the phone:
“Don’t bother going through the files now, JB! Just grab a basket—or a cardboard box, or a bin liner or whatever—and throw all of Dragonman’s dossiers into it. I want to know everything he might have heard, written or guessed about Malone Moulin. The kid’s drawings, the shrink’s notes, bring me everything! If you hurry up, you can meet us in Manéglise in less than fifteen minutes. You can do a presentation!”
“Wouldn’t it be better if I . . . ” Lieutenant Lechevalier stammered.
“We’ve been barking up the wrong tree this whole time, JB. Just before Malone called his mother at Timo Soler’s apartment, I received the DNA test results on that cup the kid drank from. The analysts compared the boy’s saliva with Dimitri Moulin’s genetic fingerprint, and they’re certain: Dimitri Moulin is not Malone’s biological father! They pulled the wool over our eyes, JB. We’ve been playing ping-pong between two cases when in reality this was always one case. So get a move on.”
Officer Cabral entered the roundabout almost without slowing down. The traffic was denser now. Other vehicles swerved out of the way as the police car snaked in and out, like a rude child pushing its way through a long queue.
Marianne now called the station. Lucas Marouette, the intern, was on duty. He would have a fresh eye on this whole business. He’d know where to look; he’d already proved that.