When they arrived the shop seemed deserted, but at the tinkle of the bell above the door a tall man appeared as if from nowhere. Dressed in drab blue trousers and a matching cardigan, he was about forty and had a serious, almost anxious face on which was perched a pair of half-moon glasses. He exuded a smug self-confidence. “This is my demesne,” his tall, thin frame seemed to say, “I am lord of all I survey. I am a specialist.”
“How may I be of service?” he asked.
He approached Camille, but maintained a certain distance as though unwilling to come too close so that he wouldn’t have to look down.
“Commandant Verhœven.”
“Ah, yes …”
He turned to fetch something, and handed Camille a book.
“I read the article in the newspaper. In my humble opinion, there can be no doubt in the matter …”
A paperback. The bookseller has marked a passage in the middle of the book with a yellow bookmark. Camille studies the cover. The illustration is a low-angle shot of a man with a bright red tie, wearing a hat and a pair of leather gloves and holding a knife. He seems to be in a stairwell.
Camille takes out his glasses and reads the title page:
BRET EASTON ELLIS
AMERICAN PSYCHO
He turns the page.
COPYRIGHT © 1991
TRANSLATION © 1992
There is a preface by Michel Braudeau:
Bret Easton Ellis was born in 1964 in Los Angeles […] His literary agent managed to secure an advance of $300,000 for him to write a novel about a New York serial killer. When the manuscript was delivered, the publisher wrote off the advance and refused to publish the book. Horrified. Vintage Books, however, did not hesitate. Despite (or perhaps because of) the scandal triggered by the release of a few excerpts in galley proof, it defied public opinion and feminist activists […] Ellis was obliged to hire a bodyguard; he received truckloads of hate mail and death threats. He also sold thousands of copies of American Psycho in the United States.
Louis does not read over his boss’ shoulder. He wanders around the bookshop while the owner, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, stares out at the street. Camille feels something akin to excitement welling inside him.
At the passage indicated by the bookmark, there are horrors indeed. Camille begins to read, silent, focused. From time to time he shakes his head and murmurs, “It’s not possible …”
In the end Louis succumbs to temptation. Camille holds the book slightly to one side so that his assistant can read along with him:
Midnight. The conversation I have with the two girls, both very young, blond hardbodies with big tits, is brief, since I’m having a difficult time containing my disordered self.
“I marked them with a cross,” the bookseller says, “the passages I thought were significant.”
Camille is not listening, or he does not hear. He reads on:
… it starts failing to turn me on […]
Torri awakens to find herself tied up, bent over the side of the bed, on her back, her face covered with blood because I’ve cut her lips off with a pair of nail scissors. Tiffany is tied up with six pairs of Paul’s suspenders on the other side of the bed, moaning with fear, totally immobilized by the monster of reality. I want her to watch what I’m going to do to Torri and she’s propped up in a way that makes this unavoidable. As usual, in an attempt to understand these girls I’m filming their deaths. With Torri and Tiffany I use a Minox L.X. ultra-miniature camera that takes 9.5mm film, has a 15mm f/3.5 lens, an exposure meter and a built-in neutral density filter and sits on a tripod. I’ve put a C.D. of the Traveling Wilburys into a portable C.D. player that sits on the headboard above the bed, to mute any screams.
“Shit …” Camille says to himself. His eyes move from one word to the next. He is reading more slowly now. He tries to think. But he cannot. He feels sucked in by the letters dancing before his eyes. He needs to concentrate, a thousand ideas suddenly crowd into his brain.
Then, turning her over again, her body weak with fear, I cut all the flesh off around her mouth and …
Camille looks up at Louis and sees the reflection of his own expression.
“What on God’s earth is this book …” Louis says, struggling to understand.
“Who on God’s earth is this guy?” Camille says, and goes back to reading.
With the blood from one of the corpses’ stomachs that I dip my hand into, I scrawl, in dripping red letters above the faux-cowhide paneling in the living room, the words I AM BACK …
6
“I’ve got just one word for you: Bravo.”
“There’s no need to mock …”
“I’m not, Camille,” Le Guen reassured him. “To be honest I didn’t have much faith in your theory. Look, I hold my hands up … But just tell me one thing.”
“Go on,” Camille said, clicking his mouse to download his e-mail.
“Tell me you didn’t send a request to the European database without getting authorisation from Juge Deschamps?”
Camille pursed his lips. “I’ll sort it out …”
“Camille,” Le Guen groaned wearily, “don’t you think we’ve got enough shit on our plate? I’ve just had her on the phone. She’s furious. On day one, there you were on television, there was that profile of you in the paper on day two and now this. It’s as if you’re doing it deliberately. I’m sorry, Camille, but I’ve done all I can for you.”
“I’ll sort things out with her. I’ll explain …”
“From her tone of voice, you’ll have your work cut out. Besides, I’m the one she holds responsible for your cock-ups. There’s a crisis meeting at her office tomorrow morning first thing.”
When Camille did not reply, he added:
“Did you hear me, Camille? First thing tomorrow. Camille, are you there?”
*
“I received your fax, Commandant Verhœven.”
Camille immediately registered Juge Deschamps’ curt, brittle tone. There was a time when he would have been prepared to bow and scrape. On this occasion, he simply walked around his office since the printer was too far away for him to reach the page he had just printed out.
“I’ve just read the extract of the novel you sent. It would appear that your theory is correct. As you can imagine, I will have to meet up with the procureur. And, to be blunt, that is not the only thing I intend to discuss with him.”
“Yes, I can imagine, the divisionnaire just phoned me. Listen, madame le juge —”
“Madame la juge, if you don’t mind,” Deschamps interrupted.
“My apologies.”
“You have little flair for procedure, certainly. I’ve just had confirmation that you used my authorisation to submit an inquiry to the European database. As you are no doubt aware, this was—”
“A gross error of judgment?”
“It was egregious misconduct, commandant ! And I will not stand for it.”
“I’ll sort things out, madame la juge …”
“You don’t seem to realise, commandant, that I am the one to ‘sort things out’! You seem to forget that I have the power to grant you authorisation.”
“I haven’t forgotten. But the thing is, madame la juge, though procedurally I may have been in the wrong, technically I was right. In fact, I think you would be wise to sanction the request as quickly as possible.”
There was an ominous silence on the other end of the line.
“Commandant Verhœven,” Deschamps said ultimately, “I think I may have to ask the procureur to remove you from this case.”
“That is within your power. But when you do ask him to replace me,” Camille said, rereading the slip of paper he was holding, “could you mention that we have a third crime on our hands?”
“Excuse me?”
“In response to the European inquiry authorised by you, I’ve received a response from Detective …” Camille took a moment to find the name at the top of the e-mail. “… Timothy Gallagher, Gl
asgow C.I.D. They have an unsolved murder case dating from July 2001, the victim was a young woman. On her body they found a fake fingerprint identical to the one we submitted in our inquiry. Whoever takes over the case from me should really call him as soon as possible …”
After he had hung up, Camille went back to his list: Tremblay = Black Dahlia = Ellroy, Courbevoie = American Psycho = Ellis. To this, he now added: Glasgow = ? = ??
7
Since the detective inspector was not there, Louis’ call was put through to his superior, Superintendent Smollett, a pure-blood Scotsman, to judge by his accent. The superintendent told Louis that Scotland had only recently joined the P.J.C. – the Police and Judicial Co-operation in Criminal Matters programme – and that explained why they never received the earlier request concerning the fingerprint left at the Tremblay crime scene.
“Ask him which other countries have only recently joined the programme.”
“Greece,” Louis repeated, listening to the superintendent, “and Portugal.”
Camille made a note to send a request to the police forces of both countries. Following his instructions, Louis asked if they could have a copy of the case file, and requested that Detective Inspector Gallagher call him as soon as possible.
“Ask him if Gallagher speaks any French.”
Covering the receiver, Louis translated the reply with a respectful, slightly sardonic smile: “You’re in luck, his mother is French.”
Before hanging up, Louis chatted for a moment with the superintendent and then burst out laughing. Camille looked at him quizzically.
“I was asking whether Redpath had recovered from his injury,” Louis explained.
“Redpath?”
“The Scottish scrum-half. He was injured in the match against Ireland a couple of weeks ago. If he’s not fit to play on Saturday, Scotland have no chance of beating Wales.”
“And?”
“He’s fit to play,” Louis said with a satisfied smile.
“You’re a rugby fan?”
“Not particularly,” Louis said, “but since we need the Scots, it’s not a bad idea to speak their language.”
8
Camille headed home at about 7.30 p.m. Worried. He lived on a quiet street in a lively neighbourhood. He thought again about what his father had suggested. Perhaps moving on would not be such a bad idea. His mobile rang. He checked the screen: Louis.
“Don’t forget flowers …” Louis said simply.
“Thanks, Louis, you’re one of a kind.”
This was what Camille’s life had come to: expecting his assistant to remind him to think about his wife. Having walked straight past the florist without even noticing, Camille now angrily turned on his heel and in doing so headbutted a man in the chest.
“I’m sorry …”
“Don’t worry, commandant, no harm done.”
He recognised the voice even before looking up.
“So you’ve taken to stalking me now?” Camille snapped.
“I was trying to catch you up.”
Camille kept going without a word. Buisson had little difficulty keeping pace.
“Aren’t you beginning to find this farce a little repetitive?” Camille said, stopping suddenly.
“Got time for a quick drink?” Buisson said, nodding to a nearby café with a winning smile as though they were old friends delighted by this chance meeting.
“You might, but I don’t.”
“There’s another thing that’s getting a little repetitive. Listen, commandant, I apologise for the article. I saw red, as they say.”
“Which article would that be, the first or the second?”
The two men had stopped in the middle of the rather narrow pavement, making it difficult for pedestrians to pass as they hurried to buy groceries before the shops closed.
“The first … the second was purely informative.”
“Exactly, Monsieur Buisson, you seem to be a bit too well informed.”
“What sort of journalist would I be if I weren’t? You can hardly criticise me for that. No, the person I feel badly about is your father.”
“I doubt you lost any sleep over it. You obviously go for easy prey. I hope you managed to sell him a subscription while you were at it.”
“Come on, commandant, let me buy you a coffee. Five minutes.”
Camille had already turned to go. But since the journalist continued to dog his step, he said:
“What exactly is it that you want, Monsieur Buisson?”
By now his tone was more weary than angry. This was probably how the reporter usually got his way: by wearing his victims down.
“Do you really believe this hypothesis of yours about the novel?”
“Honestly, no.” Camille did not take the time to think. “It’s an unsettling coincidence, nothing more. One possible lead, that’s all.”
“You do believe it!”
Buisson was more perceptive than Camille had given him credit for. He made a mental note not to underestimate this man. They had now arrived at the doorway to his building.
“I don’t believe it any more than you do.”
“Have you found any more evidence?”
“If we had found anything new,” Camille said, punching in the keycode, “do you really think I would confide in you?”
“So Courbevoie being a scene right out of American Psycho, is that just another ‘unsettling coincidence’?”
Camille stopped dead and turned to face the reporter.
“I’ll make a deal with you,” Buisson said.
“I’m not a hostage.”
“I’ll keep that nugget of information to myself for a couple of days so you can get on with the investigation.”
“And in exchange?”
“When anything else happens, you give me a heads-up. A couple of hours, that’s all. It’s a fair deal.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Oh, commandant.” Buisson feigned a heavy sigh of regret. “Surely we can come to some arrangement?”
Camille stared into the man’s eyes and smiled. “Goodbye, Monsieur Buisson.”
Tomorrow morning was already off to a bad start. A very bad start.
“Shit!” he muttered as he opened the door to his apartment.
“What’s the matter, darling?” Irène called from the living room.
“Nothing,” Camille called back, remembering the flowers.
Friday, April 11
1
“Did she like them?” Louis said.
“Did she like what?”
“The flowers.”
“You have no idea …”
From Camille’s tone, Louis knew something had gone awry but did not ask.
“Have you got the papers, Louis?”
“They’re in my office.”
“Have you read them?”
Louis simply pushed his hair back with his right hand. “I have to be in Deschamps’ office in twenty minutes, so just give me a quick summary.”
“The Courbevoie–American Psycho connection is all over the papers.”
“Bastard!”
“Who’s a bastard?”
“Oh, the world is full of bastards, Louis, but that hack from Le Matin, Buisson, is leagues ahead of the rest.” Camille told Louis about his encounter the previous evening.
“So, not content just to publish the information, he’s passed it on to his fellow hacks,” Louis said.
“What do you expect? The guy’s all heart. Could you order a car for me? No point me being late on top of everything else.”
*
It was only on the way back, in Le Guen’s car, that Camille finally flicked through the papers. The juge had only briefly referred to the matter. Now that he saw the headlines, he could understand why she had been incandescent.
“Jesus, I’ve screwed this whole investigation,” he said, scanning the front pages.
“I’m not sure how else you could have gone about it,” Le Guen muttered.
&nb
sp; “Thanks for the support, boss. I’ll bring you back a kilt.”
The papers had already given the killer a name: The “Novelist”. The first glimpse of glory.
“As I see it, the killer will probably be thrilled,” Camille said, putting on his glasses.
Le Guen turned to look at him in surprise.
“You seem to be taking this pretty calmly, all things considered. You’re threatened with suspension for failing to follow police protocol, you’ve been warned that you could be taken off the case for breach of judicial confidentiality, and you seem to be able to laugh it off.”
Camille let his hands fall onto the crumpled newspapers. He took off his glasses and looked at his friend.
“It’s killing me, Jean,” he said, suddenly overwhelmed. “It’s really killing me.”
2
At the end of the shift, Camille stepped into Armand’s office just as he was coming off the telephone. Before looking up at Camille, Armand took his IKEA pencil – now worn down to a stub a few millimetres long – and painstakingly crossed out a line on a vast computer printout that spilled over the sides of his desk and onto the floor.
“What’s that?”
“A list of wallpaper shops. Specifically those that stock the Dalmatian print.”
“How far have you got?”
“Number thirty-seven.”
“And?”
“And, I’m about to call number thirty-eight.”
“Obviously.”
Camille glanced over at Maleval’s desk. “Where’s he got to?”
“Some shop on the rue de Rivoli. A salesgirl there says she remembers selling a Ralph Lauren suitcase to a man three weeks ago.”
Maleval’s desk was always a mess: folders, reports, photographs spilling out of case files, old notebooks, and among these, decks of cards, racing magazines, betting slips. It resembled a teenager’s bedroom during the summer holidays. There was something of the obstreperous teenager about Maleval. When he had first come to the department, Camille had remarked that he might do well to keep his desk tidier.
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