“O.K., O.K.… ” Le Guen sighed. “The connection between the cases may not be directly useful.”
“Not directly, no.”
“But that doesn’t mean that this theory of yours about some book …” Le Guen flipped the book over again, clearly unable to remember the title. “The Black Dahlia —”
“No doubt you’ve got a more persuasive theory,” Camille interrupted. “I’m all ears.” He fumbled in his inside jacket pocket. “I’ll take some notes if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t take the piss, Camille,” Le Guen said.
The two men were silent for a moment, Le Guen staring at the cover of the book, Camille staring at his friend’s furrowed brow.
Le Guen had many faults – this was something on which all his ex-wives agreed – but no-one could accuse him of being stupid. In fact, in his day he had been a talented and exceptionally intelligent officer, one who – following the Peter Principle – had been promoted into an administrative role until in due course he rose to the level of his incompetence. The two were old friends and it pained Camille to see him in a position in which his real talents languished. For his part, Le Guen did his best not to mourn a past when he had been so obsessed with his work that it had cost him three marriages. Camille considered the weight his friend had piled on in recent years to be a form of self-defence. He believed Le Guen was arming himself against future marriages, content merely to manage those which lay behind him, and this meant watching his salary slip through the cracks of his life.
The rules by which their arguments were conducted were well established. Le Guen, faithful to his place in the pecking order, would stonewall relentlessly until he was eventually won over by Camille’s arguments. At that point, he would switch from pain in the arse to partner in crime. In either role, he was capable of anything.
This time he was hesitating. Which was not good news as far as Camille was concerned.
“Listen.” Le Guen looked Camille in the eye. “I don’t have a better theory. But that doesn’t mean your theory is right. So, you’ve found some book that describes a similar crime? So what? Men have been murdering women since the dawn of time and they’ve run through every possible scenario. They rape them, they rip them limb from limb, I defy you to find a guy who hasn’t at least thought about it. Even me, but let’s not go there … So it’s obvious that after a while you’re bound to find similarities between cases. And you don’t need to go ferreting about in your library, Camille, you’ve got the whole sad circus of humanity right in front of you.”
He looked at his friend sadly.
“It’s not enough, Camille. I’ll do everything I can to support you, but I’m warning you now that for Juge Deschamps it won’t be enough.”
4
“James Ellroy. Well, obviously it’s a little unexpected …”
“That’s all you’ve got to say?”
“No, no,” Louis protested, “I agree, it is a little …”
“… unsettling? Yes, I know, that’s what Le Guen said. He even elaborated a brilliant theory about men killing women since the dawn of time, you get the picture. I don’t give a damn about that.”
Leaning in the doorway to the office, hands stuffed in his pockets, Maleval was sporting a wearier than usual version of his morning face, though it was not yet ten o’clock. Armand, scarcely visible against the coat rack, was staring thoughtfully at his shoes. Louis, sitting behind the desk since Camille had asked him to read the relevant passages, was wearing a lightweight green linen jacket, a pale cream shirt and a club tie.
Louis’ approach to reading was rather different from the commissaire’s. When Camille gestured to his chair, Louis settled himself comfortably and read fluently, his hand resting on the facing page. The pose reminded Camille of a painting, but he could not remember which.
“What made you think of The Black Dahlia?”
“Difficult to say.”
“So you think that the Tremblay murder was a homage to the book?”
“A homage? The words you come out with … He cuts the girl in two, he guts her, he washes both halves of the body, shampoos her hair and then dumps the corpse on a rubbish tip! If this is his idea of homage, I’d hate to see what happens when this guy starts writing his own parts.”
“No, what I meant was …” Louis blushed furiously. Camille looked at the other members of the team. Louis had begun reading in a calm voice gradually distorted by the nature of the text. By the final pages, his voice had dropped so low they had to strain to hear him. No-one seemed particularly voluble and Camille wondered if this was because of the text itself or because of his theory. An awkward silence lingered in the office.
Verhœven suddenly realised that the atmosphere might have less to do with his theory than with the fact that, like him, everyone on the team had read the article in Le Matin. Copies had probably already done the rounds of the brigade and the police judiciaire, infiltrated the office of Juge Deschamps and even the Ministry itself. Gossip spread of its own accord, like a cancerous cell. What were his team thinking? What had they inferred or deduced? Their silence was not a good sign. If they were sympathetic, they would have mentioned it. If they were indifferent, they would have forgotten it. Saying nothing meant they did not know what to think. That it had been a full-page profile, while certainly not flattering, was good publicity. Did they believe he had been aware of the piece, had actively contributed to it? There had been no mention of his team. Complimentary or otherwise, the article had talked only about Camille Verhœven, the man of the moment, and now here he was with his crackpot theories. The world around him seemed to have disappeared, and that disappearance was met with a silence that was neither censorious nor indifferent. It was merely disappointed.
“It’s possible,” Maleval ventured cautiously.
“But what could it mean?” Armand said. “I mean, what does any of this have to do with what we found in Courbevoie?”
“I’ve no idea, Armand! We’ve got an eighteen-month-old murder case where every detail seems to come out of a book, that’s all I know.”
When this was greeted with a resounding silence, Camille added, “You’re right, it’s a stupid idea.”
“So,” Maleval said. “What do we do now?”
“We go and get a woman’s point of view.”
5
“I have to agree, it is curious …”
Bizarrely, on the phone Juge Deschamps’ voice did not have the sceptical tone Camille had been expecting. She said the words as though she were thinking aloud.
“If you’re right,” the juge went on, “the Courbevoie murder should also show up in Ellroy’s book, or in some other novel. It’s worth checking …”
“Not necessarily,” Camille said. “Ellroy’s book is inspired by a real murder case. A young woman called Betty Short was murdered in precisely this way in 1947 and the novel is a fictionalised account of a case that would have been notorious in America. He dedicated the book to his mother, who was murdered in 1958 … There are a number of possibilities …”
“Yes, that does throw a different light on things.”
The juge took a moment to think.
“Listen,” she said at last, “there’s a risk that the procureur’s office won’t take this lead seriously. I agree that several details in the two cases tally, but I can hardly suggest a bunch of hard-nosed detectives read the collected works of James Ellroy and turn the brigade criminelle into a reading room …”
“No indeed,” Camille agreed, realising that he had had no illusions as to her response.
Juge Deschamps was fundamentally a good person. From her tone of voice Camille could tell she was disappointed not to be able to suggest something further.
“Look, if this theory is backed up later by other evidence, then we’ll see, but right now I’d be grateful if you could pursue … more traditional lines of inquiry, do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“You have to admit that these
are … exceptional circumstances. If it were just you and me, we might use this theory as the possible basis for the investigation, but we’re no longer alone …”
“Here it comes,” Camille thought. His stomach was in knots. Not because he was scared, but because he was afraid of being hurt. Twice now he had been blindsided. First when the boys from identité had had the dumb idea of carrying out body bags right in front of a mob of journalists, and the second time by one of those journalists who had wormed his way into Camille’s private life at just the wrong moment. Camille didn’t much like being a victim, he didn’t much like denying blatant cock-ups when he made them, which meant right now he didn’t much like what was happening, as though suddenly he’d been side-lined. No-one – not Le Guen, not the juge, not even his team – gave his theory any credence. But Camille felt strangely relieved at not having to follow up a lead which was so far beyond the scope of his usual procedure. No, what hurt were those things he could not talk about. The words from Buisson’s article for Le Matin still rang in his head. Someone had been poking their nose into his private life, someone who had talked to his wife, to his relatives, someone had mentioned Maud Verhœven, had talked about his childhood, his studies, his sketches, had told the world that he was about to be a father … This, he felt, was grossly unfair.
*
At around 11.30 a.m., Camille took a call from Louis.
“Where are you?” Camille asked, irritably.
“Porte de la Chapelle.”
“What the hell are you doing there?”
“Paying a little visit to Séfarini.”
Camille knew Gustave Séfarini – he ran a “multi-client advisory service”. He advised gangsters about easy targets in exchange for a small consideration. In the planning stages of major crimes, Séfarini did location scouting and his talents had earned him a reputation; he was the archetypal gentleman thug. After twenty years in the game, his police record was almost as pure as his love for his disabled daughter Adèle. He doted on the girl and his selfless devotion to her was touching – if such a word could apply to a man who had spent twenty years organising armed robberies that had left four people dead.
“If you’ve got a minute, it would be useful if you could stop by.”
“Is it urgent?” Camille checked his watch.
“Yes, it’s urgent, and I don’t think it will take too long.”
6
Séfarini lived in a little house overlooking the Périphérique; its filthy front garden juddered constantly under the twin assaults of the eight-lane motorway and the métro line that ran directly beneath its foundations. From the state of the house, and the beat-up Peugeot 306 parked outside, you had to wonder where Séfarini’s money went.
Camille walked right in as though he owned the place.
He found Louis and his host in the 1960s Formica kitchen, sitting at a table covered with a wipe-clean tablecloth whose pattern had long since been worn away, sipping coffee from Duralex mugs. Séfarini did not seem particularly happy to see Camille. Louis, for his part, did not react, but went on toying with a mug whose contents he clearly had no desire to drink.
“So, what’s going on?” Camille said, pulling up the only empty chair.
“Well, as I was just saying to our friend Gustave here,” Louis said, staring hard at Séfarini, “it’s about his daughter, Adèle.”
“Oh, yes,” said Camille. “Where is Adèle, by the way?” Séfarini gestured to the first floor with a mournful glance, then looked down at the tablecloth.
“I was just telling him,” Louis went on, “that there have been rumours.”
“Uh-huh,” Camille ventured warily.
“I’m afraid so … Gossip is a terrible thing. I was just telling our friend that we’re worried about Adèle. Very worried.” Louis shot Camille a look. “There’s been talk of inappropriate behaviour, of abuse, of incest … Though I hasten to add that we lend no credence to these persistent rumours.”
“Of course not …” Camille was beginning to see where Louis was going with this.
“But even if we don’t believe them,” Louis said, “Social Services may take a different view. After all, we know Gustave, we know he’s a good father, but what can they do? They’ve had letters.”
“Letters like that can screw up a man’s whole life.”
“You’re the ones trying to screw me!” Séfarini shouted.
“Now, now, Gustave!” Camille said. “When you’ve got children, you need to learn to mind your language, fuck’s sake!”
“So, anyway” – Louis’ voice was sorrowful – “I was in the area and I thought, why don’t I pop in and have a quiet word with Gustave, who, by the way, is friends with Lard-ass Lambert … And, I was just explaining to Gustave, Adèle would have to be taken into care. Until his name was cleared. I mean, it’s no big deal, it shouldn’t take more than a couple of months. I’m not sure they’d get to spend Christmas together, but maybe if we put in a good word …”
Camille’s antennae began to quiver.
“Come on, Gustave, why don’t you tell Commandant Verhœven everything. I’m sure there must be something he can do for Adèle – right, boss?”
Camille nodded, “I’m sure we can sort something out.”
During this exchange Séfarini’s dim intellect had been working overtime. He kept his head down, but his brow creased and his eyes darted about as he racked his brain.
“Go on, Gustave, tell us about Lard-ass Lambert …”
So Séfarini told him all about the hold-up in the Toulouse shopping centre that had taken place on the same day Manuela Constanza was murdered in Tremblay-en-France. Hardly surprising … after all, he was the one who had spotted the loopholes in the security system, drawn up the plans and managed the operation.
“Why should I care about any of this?” Camille said.
“Because Lambert wasn’t there. I know that for a fact.”
*
“Lambert must have had a motive for confessing to a crime he had nothing to do with. A pretty powerful motive.”
Standing on the footpath beside their cars, the two men stared out at the bleak landscape. Louis’ mobile rang.
“That was Maleval,” said Louis when he had hung up. “Lambert’s been out on parole for the past two weeks.”
“We have to move fast. We have to move now.”
“I’m on it,” Louis said, keying a number into his phone.
7
Rue Delage, number 16, fourth floor, no lift. How would his father manage a few years from now, when Death began to prowl? It was a question that often occurred to Camille and he always shrugged it off, clinging to the hope – the fantasy – that it would never come to pass.
The stairwell smelled of wax polish. Camille’s father had spent his whole life in a dispensary that smelled of drugs and medicines, his mother smelled of turpentine and linseed oil. Camille distinguished his parents by their smell.
He felt sad and weary. What did he have to say to his father? Was there anything to be said, or was it enough to watch him live his life, keep him close like some talisman whose true purpose will forever remain mysterious?
After his wife’s death, Camille’s father sold their apartment and moved to the 12th arrondissement, near Bastille, where he discreetly and conscientiously cultivated the manner of a modern widower, a subtle combination of structure and solitude. His father opened the door and, as usual, the two men embraced awkwardly. Their awkwardness was due to the fact that, contrary to the norm, this father was still taller than his son.
*
A peck on the cheek. The smell of boeuf bourguignon.
“I bought a bourguignon …”
His father was a master at stating the obvious. They sat opposite each other, sipping an aperitif. Camille invariably sat in the same spot, set his glass of fruit juice down on the coffee table, folded his arms and asked, “So, how have you been?”
“So,” said Camille, “how have you been?”
&nb
sp; The moment he stepped into the room, Camille had noticed a copy of Le Matin lying on the floor next to his father’s armchair.
“About the article, Camille” – his father nodded to the newspaper – “I can’t tell you how sorry I am …”
“Don’t worry about it”
“The reporter just showed up. I tried to call you.”
“I’m sure you did, Papa, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter.”
“… but your phone was engaged. And we got talking and he really seemed to like you, so I wasn’t suspicious. I’m going to write a letter to his editor! I’m going to demand a right of reply!”
“Don’t be silly, Papa, there’s nothing in the article that isn’t true. The most he could be accused of is a skewed point of view. Legally speaking, a right of reply is very different. Honestly, let it go.”
He almost added, “You’ve done enough damage already,” but bit his tongue. His father seemed to sense the reproach.
“I’m sorry … This whole thing is bound to cause trouble for you …” he muttered and fell silent.
Unsure whether his father was apologising for the trouble his thoughtlessness had caused or for being gullible enough to be taken in by the reporter, Camille simply smiled and changed the subject.
“So, I hope you’re planning to stick around to meet your grandson?”
“You really seem determined to wind me up …”
“It’s not me, it’s the ultrasound … And if you’re going to be angry just because we’re having a boy, you’re not much of a father.”
“No,” his father protested, “I’m happy. I’m happy for you both. It’s just that – I don’t know why – but I got it into my head that I was going to have a granddaughter. Maybe it’s because it’s been so long since there’s been a woman in my life.”
Camille had a sneaking suspicion that there was a woman in his father’s life. For some years now, he had been going out more often, he would go away for several days and was always evasive about the reasons for these trips. Camille had long since assumed his father was seeing someone.
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