Metot emitted a snort of astonishment. He went to the dresser and picked up the picture, studying it front and back as if it was an entirely different object. ‘You mean this is a warning? There’s a serial killer coming after me?’ He put the picture down and began to pace the room, hands on hips, shaking his head and grunting in disbelief.
‘No,’ Magali said. ‘It’s not a warning. Or it’s not intended as such at any rate. His victims had no idea he’d be coming after them.’ She stood up too. ‘But you are warned now because I’m telling you.’
Metot had recovered from the shock and now seemed almost amused. ‘And when am I supposed to expect him to appear? Tomorrow? Next week? He’ll just turn up and shoot me?’
She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t used a gun so far. Not in the cases I’m aware of. But he appears to be handy with a knife. As for when, I’m afraid that’s impossible to say. In the other cases there’s been a gap of several months between sending the packet and the murder.’
For a moment Metot appeared rattled. Then he put on a face of defiance. ‘I haven’t got a gun either. That puts us on an equal footing.’
No offence, but I very much doubt that. ‘I strongly suspect that he visits beforehand to prepare. Several times, perhaps. But he’s not against taking an opportunity when it comes to him,’ she added sombrely as the vision of Antoine’s body flashed into her mind.
‘So what next?’ said Metot with a hollow laugh. ‘I get round-the-clock police protection for the next six months?’
Magali gestured to the rest of the house. ‘Your wife is absent?’
‘Shopping. For Christmas already,’ he said, rolling his eyes.
Christmas with Metot – a barrel of laughs! ‘Your children are grown-up now, I imagine.’
‘Yes. One in Paris, the other Bordeaux.’
‘Apart from with them, do you have anywhere you can go? For a while, I mean.’
‘A holiday home in St Tropez?’ He jutted his chin. ‘No, I don’t.’
‘No friends that could put you up for a month?’
He drew in his breath. ‘I retired last year. But that doesn’t mean I want to go gallivanting all over the place. What about what I said? Police protection?’
‘They won’t.’ She had the answer ready. ‘They haven’t been following my advice. Which means we’re on our own, I’m afraid.’
‘Why not? You said on the phone you were helping them. They ask you to help and then they ignore what you say?’
She shrugged. ‘I can’t give them orders. They consult me, that’s all.’ She took a step forward, hand outstretched, palm down. The conversation had gone as far as she wanted. ‘I’ve booked a room at the Hotel Concorde, just a few streets away. My contact details.’ She held out the card she’d written before leaving. ‘I’m working hard at persuading the police to listen to me. What you’ve told me – and shown me – will help enormously. I suggest for the moment you don’t mention this to your wife. Stay extremely vigilant and feel free to get in touch with me at any moment, day or night.’
Chapter 27
Magali climbed the narrow stairs of the hotel, tossed her case on to the bed and sat down beside it. The room was a dingy yellow with tall French windows that led on to a tiny balcony. With an effort she yanked the window open and stepped out. The street was quiet, washed with a fine drizzle. She stood for a moment taking it in, then suddenly felt too visible and stepped back inside. The hotel itself appeared to be practically empty.
She’d chosen the Concorde because it was close to Metot’s house, and cheap. Too cheap, she thought now, eyeing the tatty wardrobe and the cracks in the paint. She drew back the covers on the bed. At least the sheets were clean.
How long was she here for? Two nights, she’d told them – it sounded more normal than five months. But she felt as if the room was poised to close the door on her for ever.
She sat at the rickety table and opened the spreadsheet containing what she knew about the murders. She stared at the columns, trying to find a link she hadn’t yet spotted. There was none, ostensibly, between the victims themselves, who appeared to be chosen at random. Or rather according to some elaborate system that involved putting objects for sale online and then, for some reason, damaging them.
Why did he need to do that? Why all the rigmarole? Surely there were simpler ways of choosing someone to kill.
But of course, simplicity wasn’t the aim. He liked the complexity of it. In spite of all her research, she still couldn’t grasp the reality of killing, didn’t know how or why a person could feel the need to kill again and again, but she understood that whoever she was hunting had turned his compulsion into a game.
Which did he choose first, the object or the victim? Did he decide to deface a particular item, then wait for someone to buy it, or did he select the victim and deface it just before sending it? The books could be soiled any time, but the photographs of the purse and the picture were obviously taken before he damaged them. How long before, though? Most people would do it in one go: take the photographs and put up the article for sale. But by definition he wasn’t like most people. Perhaps he’d taken the pictures a long time ago, and now had a whole stock of damaged goods, waiting to be sent through the post. Alternatively, before damaging the item, he waited for a suitable victim to get in touch.
But what were his criteria? Until Metot, the only thing the victims appeared to have in common was that they lived in remote areas. She hadn’t visited Wallenheim, where Roncet lived, but according to Roudy, he had no immediate neighbours. The nearest house to the Terrals’ was a good 200 metres away and as for Enzo, it would have been difficult to find a more isolated spot. Given that all three murders occurred in winter, under cover of dark, the chances of being spotted were slim. Was that the main criterion? But now there was Metot, who lived in a quiet street, certainly, but a street all the same. What did that mean? Had the killer changed his habits, become bolder? Or had there been other murders in towns that she didn’t know about?
***
At 7.30 she went out for dinner at a Chinese restaurant nearby. Apart from hers, only two other tables were occupied. She sat at the back, out of sight, deep in her exile and her solitude. The quietness was comforting. She could see without being seen.
The air, she felt, had a certain texture to it – thick with apprehension. The other diners had been carefully placed, extras on a stage designed for her alone. Or else it was nothing but her imagination, whirring away on its own. More than ever, her mind was fractured, she was in two worlds at once: something and nothing would happen, she was and wasn’t being watched, the killer had and hadn’t sent the picture.
She had just ordered when her phone buzzed in her handbag. Metot, she thought, and dived to get it, but the number on the screen was Sophie’s.
‘Magali? Where are you?’
‘Sophie…’ It was good to hear her voice, though it sounded distraught. ‘I’m in Clermont Ferrand. What’s wrong?’
‘What? I was worried… What on earth are you doing there?’
‘Uh… following a lead. Too long to explain. What were you worried about?’
‘No, it was just… I went past your house and the lights were out and a little further on I saw Paul Daveney. It was creepy.’
‘Paul? They’ve released him? Already?’
‘What if he’s escaped?’
‘Sophie, he couldn’t do that,’ she answered firmly. ‘But I’m surprised all the same. Marty said it would take them a while to come to a decision.’
‘Depends how long a while is, I suppose. I just wish I’d known. I thought, oh my God, I’m hallucinating!’
‘There’s nothing to fear from Paul, Sophie. I’m sure of that.’ It wasn’t true, but she had enough to worry about already. ‘How are you, anyway?’
‘Fine, I… Luc’s gone to Nice so I didn’t have anyone to tell. It was just really scary, seeing him all of a sudden in the headlights.’
‘Well, he’s not going to get me
here. It’s true he’s got some sort of fixation about me but if they’ve released him, it’s because they know he’s not dangerous. I’ll speak to him when I get back. What’s Luc doing in Nice?’
‘Meeting with the Matisse museum. He put in a bid to redo their website.’
‘That sounds good.’
‘Fantastic, if it works out. What’s this lead you’re following?’
‘Just… There’s someone here who can help, I think. I’ll be back in a couple of days. Which reminds me, if you get a moment, can you pop round tomorrow and feed Toupie? I filled his bowl before I left but maybe he’ll need some more. The biscuits are in a bin by the studio.’
They chatted a few minutes more, till the world, it seemed, became normal again. As soon as she rang off, though, Magali wondered if she shouldn’t go back to Sentabour. There, at least, she had a tangible problem to tackle: find out exactly what Paul’s situation was and convince him not to do anything to make it worse.
But then she remembered the squiggles of paint on Victor Metot’s picture. And she knew she had to stay.
The streets as she walked back were deserted. She’d been in Clermont Ferrand before, but now it felt like a faraway country, where she was adrift and unknown, free to do as she pleased.
And yet she was trapped. All she could do was wait. And although the future was big and uncertain, she felt as if she was in a tiny space, made just for her, a winding passage that was taking her step by step towards the end of her journey.
As she entered her room, she remembered, back in August, how cheerfully she and Antoine had set out, and the bright sun at Mannezon. She had no idea then that a few months later he would be dead and she’d be all alone in the stifling quiet of a winter evening, waiting for an end to her ordeal.
She flopped on to the bed, exhausted. She wanted to sleep but her brain wouldn’t let her. She tried to watch television but she couldn’t concentrate. She understood the words that were spoken, but not the level above, the connections that turned the sentences into a story. On the news a factory was closing. The workers threw stones at riot police and thick black smoke rose up from burning tyres. In Syria, the relentless killing continued.
She switched off the television and stood by the window, watching the drizzle in the streetlamps. Orange reflections glistened on the road. From time to time a solitary car swished by.
***
She woke at a quarter past one – or perhaps she hadn’t been to sleep at all. The room was too hot and the radiator knob was stuck. She opened the window and drank in the air. Then she turned back inside and switched on her computer.
She Googled the name Coussikou. She’d already done this and then, finding that it was the pseudonym of a woman in Montreal, she’d given it no further thought. But unlike Bambi, Coussikou was distinctive – no one would pick on it by chance, because their eyes, perhaps, happened to alight on it in a magazine. The killer had chosen Coussikou by design. But why?
There seemed to be no possible link between Coussikou, serial killer, and a ‘fun-loving ball of fire into parties, sport and nature’. That was how the Canadian Coussikou, real name Christie Suki, twenty-three years old, described herself on Instagram, where she’d posted 306 pictures going back over two years. Magali clicked at random – smell the roses, badass gear, winter fashion – distracted for a while by the whole new world she was discovering. The selfie generation, posting their lives online, gathering comments and likes: love the shades ... what a cutieee!!! ... omg amazing!
But did this bubbly, outdoorsy girl, with her overflowing heart and her pampered terrier Maple, actually know the killer? Magali imagined jabbing her phone. Vincent? Run a check on a Christie Suki, will you? Canadian, lives in Montreal. Then she returned to reality. She was on her own in this.
New shoes from Chinese Laundry! … Bbq’d myself a little dinner … Maple having a couple of casuals! And then, posted in September, one that made Magali frown: Group pic of the speleo club. It took her a while to make the connection. Speleo. A pseudonym she’d seen on La Rue du Bazaar. She went back through the pages. There it was again, posted on January 18th: Me in my speleo outfit. Four months before Michel Terral bought the purse.
Coincidence? She opened another page and on La Rue du Bazaar searched for speleo. 512 responses, mostly for house rentals near caving sites. But there amongst them was the item she’d seen before, when she’d been randomly searching for pseudonyms. A pair of bronze vases, 150 euros, put up for sale by Speleo in October.
Returning to Instagram, she scoured the more recent pictures. How long before he chose his victims did the killer start posting items? When did he choose his pseudonyms? Hanging out by the bridge with my family ... Sometimes you just need a best friend :-) ... Maple’s driving all drunk again ... Photo booth fun! ... A real maestro, huh? And then, on October 20th, the one that confirmed her worst suspicions: Maple and Bambi up to tricks.
In Canadian Coussikou’s world, Bambi was her neighbour’s Siamese cat. But 5,000 miles away, another Bambi was making plans to murder Victor Metot.
So now it was perfectly clear. And if no one believed her, Magali would have to stay in Clermont, watching Metot’s house, for however long it took. Five months? By which time she’d be known all round the neighbourhood. Have you seen that crazy woman that lives in her car? Honestly! I don’t know why she hasn’t been put away.
At 8 a.m. she was hoisted up from a deep black well of sleep by the shrill, persistent ring of her alarm. It took her a couple of seconds to remember why she’d set it. Then she sat up in bed and called Metot. ‘I’m sorry to ring so early. I hope I didn’t wake you.’
‘Go on.’ Whether it was due to the early hour, she had no idea, but he sounded none too pleased.
‘I’m calling to say I have confirmation.’
‘Of what?’
‘What I said yesterday. Bambi is targeting you. I was up a part of the night trying to find where he gets his pseudonyms from. It’s a website in Canada, a young woman’s photos. I don’t know why, whether he knows her or what, but they’re all there – Coussikou, Speleo, Bambi. The question now is when he’ll turn up at your house. He’s bound to visit once at least to –’
‘I’ve been looking too.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘On the Internet. Not for Bambi. For you.’
‘Oh...’ She was disconcerted. ‘Really?’
‘So it’s good you called because now I can tell you directly. Show up at my place again or try to get in touch with me, by email, by phone, whatever, and I’m calling the police.’
Chapter 28
So this is what they mean by an assignment.
Sitting in a car, freezing to death, doing nothing. Noting anything suspicious, which turns out to be everything, because otherwise you die of boredom.
By the time she’d drifted back to sleep, woken up in a panic, grabbed some breakfast, got herself ready, bought a couple of sandwiches (one ham, one tuna) and found a suitable spot, it was almost half past ten. And already by lunchtime, overcome with drowsiness, Magali’s enthusiasm for the task was starting to plummet.
Verney would be pleased, though. So, Madame Rousseau, you’ve finally understood what a private investigator does. Now you can write a proper report, perhaps.
She didn’t try speaking to Metot again. He thought she was out to trick him. He’d been suspicious straightaway, he said, but he’d heard her out all the same. After she’d left, though, he did some research and discovered she was a charlatan. It didn’t take a genius to realise that the story she’d told him was a bunch of lies, she was working with whoever sent the picture and their sole aim was to scare him into leaving the house so they could burgle it at their leisure. Any further harassment, he repeated, and she’d have the police on her tail. When he’d told his wife all about it, she’d wanted to call them immediately.
10.41: Man in his forties, overcoat and hat, gets into grey Volkswagen, registration 3570 YJ 63, drives off. 10.53: Elderly woma
n carrying dark red umbrella walks past with dog (Pekingese) on lead. 11.02: Young woman, mid-twenties, in a hurry, black jacket and jeans, telephone to her ear.
At 11.40, Madame Metot appeared, carrying a small shopping basket. Peroxide hair cut in a bob around a leathery face. She turned left out of the house, then left again to rue Bergson. At 12.18 she was back, a pair of leeks poking out of the shopping bag.
Magali took photographs of everyone. At first she had the camera on automatic, then she put it on manual and played with the settings. If nothing else, she could at least learn about photography. She tried listening to France Inter, but the sound of voices discussing Afghanistan disturbed her already fragile concentration, so she switched to classical music, a soft, comfortable furnishing in the background. She realised she was missing an essential prop of detective vigils, the thermos flask of coffee.
With every passing hour, her commitment diminished. It was, in any case, weakened by doubt from the outset: realistically, she couldn’t keep this up for long, a week or two at the most, whereas the killer might not strike for several months. But she reasoned there was a chance, if she could last a fortnight, say, that he might make a preparatory visit to stake out the neighbourhood and discover Metot’s routine. Apart from Antoine’s, all the murders she knew of had surely been meticulously planned, which meant he must have observed his victims once, if not several times. He’d need to know what they looked like, how easy it was to arrive and depart without being seen, and whether anyone else lived there. Not that he was ready to spare them – as Lucie Terral found out – but it would make a difference to his plans. If Magali was right, when he called on the Terrals that night, he knew very well he’d be cutting two people’s throats.
A whole month could go by, though, before he showed up. And now that he knew she was on to him, would he really come straightaway? Perhaps, on the contrary, he would leave it even longer. But from what she’d read of serial killers, the urge could become an addiction, apt to return at ever decreasing intervals. Which meant there was nothing to prevent him being in Clermont already, and now that she was watching Metot’s house, the feeling that she herself was being watched was stronger than ever. She no longer had the portrait she’d drawn, but when she looked at the photos of the men who walked past, a worryingly large number of them seemed to fit it.
One Green Bottle (Magali Rousseau mystery series Book 1) Page 20