“Say you were sick and someone had to replace you at the drop of a hat …”
“Always fit as a fiddle, boss.”
“Not first thing in the morning, from what I’ve seen.”
Maleval had smiled.
“Some guy once said there are two types of order, vital order and geometric order. I go for vital order.”
“That would be Bergson,” Louis said.
“Mathieu Berson, who plays for Aston Villa?”
“No, Henri Bergson, the philosopher.”
“If you say so,” muttered Maleval.
Camille had smiled.
“Not everyone at the brigade has a partner who can quote Bergson.”
Despite his quip, that evening Camille had consulted an encyclopaedia to see what there was about the Nobel prizewinning writer of whose work he had never read a word.
*
“So where’s Louis?”
“Some brothel,” Armand said.
“Doesn’t sound like Louis.”
“I mean he’s interviewing Manuela Constanza’s former colleagues.”
“I suppose you’d prefer to be down the brothel instead of stuck here tracking down wallpaper suppliers?”
“Not really. When you’ve seen one brothel …”
“O.K., I’m going to Glasgow on Monday so there’s no way I can be home late tonight. I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything …”
“Camille!” Armand called as he reached the doorway. “How’s Irène doing?”
“She’s exhausted.”
“You should head home. I mean, we’re not making much progress here.”
“You’re right, Armand. I think I’ll knock off now.”
“Give her my love.”
Before he left, Camille stopped by Louis’ office. Everything was filed, neatly ordered. He stepped into the room. The Lancel desk tidy, the Mont Blanc fountain pen … And, classified by subject, his files, his notes, his memos. Even the photographs of the victims from Courbevoie and Tremblay were pinned to a cork-board, precisely aligned like pictures at an exhibition. Louis’ desk did not have the meticulous neatness of Armand’s; it was logical and orderly, but not obsessive.
As he turned to leave, something caught Camille’s eye. He scanned the room again and, unable to put his finger on whatever it was, left the office. But like a word in an advertisement or a name in a newspaper that rings a faint bell, the feeling continued to nag at him. He strode down the corridor, but still he could not shake the notion that he had missed something, and the thought of leaving the station without knowing what was intolerable. It was infuriating. He retraced his steps, and this time he saw it. He walked over to the desk. On the left-hand side lay Louis’ list of men with the name Jean Haynal. He ran his finger down it, looking for the one he had fleetingly noticed earlier.
“Jesus Christ!” he shouted. “Armand! Get in here now!”
3
With lights and sirens blaring, it took them less than ten minutes to reach the quai de Valmy. The two men arrived at the offices of S.O.G.E.F.I. a few minutes before it closed at 7 p.m.
The receptionist did her best to stop them, first waving, then calling out, but they strode on resolutely and she was forced to trot after them.
They burst into Cottet’s office. It was empty. His secretary was hard on their heels.
“Messieurs …” she began.
“Wait here.” Camille raised a hand to stop her.
He walked over to Cottet’s desk and sat in the absurdly expensive leather desk chair.
“Must be good to be the boss,” he mused aloud, leaning back against the headrest and staring straight ahead. His feet did not touch the ground.
Angrily, he jumped down from the chair, clambered up and knelt on it, then, dissatisfied with this position, he stood on the chair and a sardonic smile lit up his face.
“Your turn,” he said to Armand, getting down. Not knowing what was going on, Armand circled the desk and settled into the director’s chair.
“No doubt about it,” he said with sudden satisfaction, staring out of the window that faced the desk: there, beyond the line of the rooftops, was a large neon sign – one of the letter “A”s had given up the ghost – that would have read: Transports Haynal.
“So, where exactly might we find Monsieur François Cottet?” Camille articulated each syllable.
“Well, that’s the thing, actually. No-one knows where he is. He hasn’t been seen since Monday night.”
4
The first two cars screeched to a halt in front of Cottet’s house, in the process Armand accidentally knocking over a bin that had been left out on the pavement.
The man’s definitely loaded. This was Camille’s first thought as he looked up at the imposing three-storey mansion, the grand flight of steps leading from the front door into extensive grounds separated from the road by an ornate wrought-iron fence. One of the officers in a third car got out and opened the gate. The cars roared up the driveway to the steps and even before they had come to a stop, four men including Camille had jumped out. The door was opened by a woman who, despite the fact that it was early evening, looked as though she had been woken by the sirens.
“Madame Cottet?” Verhœven said, climbing the steps.
“Yes …”
“We’re looking for your husband. Is he at home?”
The woman’s face suddenly brightened in a vague smile as though she had only just noticed the horde of police officers descending on her house.
“No,” she said, stepping back from the door, “but you’re welcome to come in.”
Camille remembered Cottet well, his appearance, his age. His wife, a tall, slender woman who had clearly been a beauty once, was at least ten years older than her husband and not at all as Camille had imagined her. Though her looks had faded somewhat, her manner and poise marked her out as a woman of taste – in fact she was almost chic, which could not be said of her husband, who had the charm and charisma of a jumped-up salesman. Though dressed in a pair of slacks that had seen better days and a very ordinary blouse, her languorous manner and a certain slowness in her movements made her the embodiment of what people call “noble bearing”.
While Armand and two other officers dashed about the house, throwing open doors and wardrobes, searching every room, Madame Cottet poured herself a glass of whisky. An oft-repeated gesture, perhaps, and one that had hastened her decline, that much was etched into her face.
“Could you tell us where your husband is, Madame Cottet?”
She stared at Camille in amazement. Then, finding it awkward to be looking down from such rarefied heights at such a short man, she settled herself comfortably on the sofa.
“With his whores, I presume. Why?”
“When was he last at home?”
“Truth be told, I have no idea, Monsieur …?”
“Commandant Verhœven. Let me put the question another way: when did you last see him?”
“Let’s see … what day is today?”
“Friday.”
“Already? In that case Monday, at a guess. Yes, I believe it was Monday.”
“But you’re not sure?”
“I’m certain it was Monday.”
“Four days ago. You don’t seem worried.”
“Oh, I’m afraid if I were to worry every time my husband ‘went for a wander’ … That’s what he calls it.”
“And do you know where he usually does his ‘wandering’?”
“Not being in the habit of frequenting brothels with him, I have no idea.”
Camille looked about him, taking in the cavernous drawing room, the colossal fireplace, the carved wood tables, the paintings, the rugs.
“And you’re alone here?”
Madame Cottet gestured about her vaguely. “What do you think?”
“Madame Cottet, your husband is wanted for questioning in connection with an ongoing criminal investigation.”
She looked at him more attentively and Camille th
ought he saw the hint of a Mona Lisa smile.
“And while I appreciate your irony and your detachment,” Camille said, “we are investigating the deaths of two young women who were hacked to pieces in an apartment rented out by your husband, so you’ll understand why I need to talk to him urgently.”
“Young women, you say? Whores?”
“Two prostitutes, yes.”
“As far as I know, my husband prefers to visit them,” she said, getting up and pouring another Scotch. “He doesn’t entertain them at home. At least, not as far as I know …”
“You don’t seem to know very much about your husband’s movements.”
“True,” she said curtly. “If he does dismember young women when he goes wandering, he has not confided as much to me. It’s rather a pity, mind you, I might have found it amusing.”
Quite how drunk she was Camille would have been hard-pressed to say. She spoke clearly, articulating each syllable, which might mean that she was attempting to allay his suspicions.
Armand came downstairs with the other officers. He waved for Camille to join them.
“If you’ll excuse me for a moment …”
Armand led Camille to a small study on the first floor: a handsome cherry-wood desk, a state-of-the-art computer, a few files and folders, some bookcases lined with law books, real estate brochures and four whole shelves of crime novels.
“Telephone forensics, get in touch with the lab,” Camille said, as he made for the stairs. “And call Maleval and tell him he’s to be on the scene while they’re here. And tell him I’ll need him to stay here overnight. Just in case …”
He went back to the drawing room.
“I think, Madame Cottet, that we need to have a little chat about your husband.”
5
“I’ll be gone two days at the most.”
Camille looked at Irène, beached rather than seated on the living-room sofa, her belly heavy, her knees splayed.
“So you brought me the flowers to celebrate your little trip?”
“No, I meant to bring them yesterday.”
“By the time you get back, you might well have a son.”
“I’m not going away for three weeks, Irène, I’ll be gone a couple of days.”
Irène went to look for a vase.
“What’s really frustrating,” she said, smiling, “is that I want to get angry, but I can’t. They’re really pretty, your flowers.”
“They’re your flowers.”
She walked as far as the kitchen door and turned back to Camille.
“The reason I want to be angry is that we’ve talked about going to Scotland twice, you’ve spent two years thinking about it, and now you’ve decided to go without me.”
“I’m not going on holiday, you know that.”
“I wish it was a holiday,” Irène called from the kitchen.
Camille went to join her. He tried to hug her, but Irène refused. Gently, but she refused.
At that moment, Louis telephoned.
“I just wanted to say … don’t worry about Irène. Tell her she can call me anytime while you’re away.”
“Thanks, Louis, you’re a good guy.”
“Who was that?” Irène asked as he hung up.
“My guardian angel.”
“I thought I was your guardian angel,” Irène said, pressing herself against him.
“No, you’re my matryoshka doll,” he said, laying a hand on her belly.
“Oh, Camille,” she said, and began to cry quietly.
Saturday, April 12 and Sunday, April 13
1
The team met up at 8.30 a.m. on Saturday morning. Even Le Guen.
“Have you been in touch with the brigade financière?”
“You’ll have the information within the hour.”
Camille began to allocate the workload. Maleval, who had spent all night in Saint-Germain, wore his usual shop-soiled expression. Armand was tasked with combing through Cottet’s contacts, his address book, his e-mails – business and personal – and with ensuring that Cottet’s description had been circulated to local squads the night before. Louis was to look into his bank accounts – business and personal – his cash inflow and outflow, and his calendar.
“Our killer needs three things. Time – something that Cottet, being his own boss, has lots of. He needs money, which Cottet clearly has. You only have to look at his company, his house. Even if not all of his property developments have made a profit. Thirdly, he needs organisational skills. Something else our man must have.”
“Aren’t you forgetting motive?” Le Guen said.
“Motive is something we can ask him about when we’ve tracked him down. Louis – any news on Lambert?”
“Nothing. We’ve still got teams watching the three locations he visits most regularly. No sightings so far.”
“We’re not going to get anything from the surveillance, are we?”
“I don’t think so, no. We’ve kept things low key, but word is bound to have got about by now.… ”
“Lambert, Cottet … I’m finding it difficult to see a connection between the two. That’s something we need to look into. Louis, you deal with that.”
“That’s likely to be a lot of work.”
Camille turned to Le Guen. “Louis says it’s a lot of work.”
“If I had a bunch of officers standing idle, you’d know about it.”
“O.K., Jean. Thanks for your support. I suggest we organise raids on Lambert’s known associates. Maleval, you’ve got the upto-date list?”
“I’ve counted eleven close contacts. If we’re going for simultaneous busts, we’re looking at four teams at least to make sure no-one slips through the net.”
“Jean?”
“I can allocate four teams for tonight, but only to conduct the raids.”
“I’d suggest a coordinated action at 22:00 hours. That way we’ll have space in the holding cells for everyone. Maleval, I’ll need you to sort out the logistics. Armand, you liaise with him so we can set up the interviews.” Camille glanced around the team. “In the meantime, I’ll stay here and sort through whatever information came through last night.”
*
By mid-morning, Camille had managed to piece together most of François Cottet’s career.
At twenty-four, having graduated without distinction from a second-rate business school, he joined S.O.D.R.A.G.I.M., a real estate development company founded by its current C.E.O., Edmond Forestier. Cottet managed a small department dealing in private housing. Three years later, he got his first big break when he married the boss’ daughter.
“I was … we were forced to get married,” was how his wife had put it, “but that proved to be a false alarm. As things turned out, marrying my husband was a faux pas twice over.”
Two years later, Cottet had his second stroke of luck: his father-in-law was killed in a car accident in the Ardennes. Before he turned thirty, Cottet was C.E.O. of the company, which he immediately restructured to become S.O.G.E.F.I., creating a number of satellite companies to deal with various other market sectors. By the time he was forty, he had managed the extraordinary feat of taking a perennially profitable company and plunging it into the red, something that spoke volumes about his gifts as an entrepreneur. There were several bail-outs from his wife, who had inherited a fortune sufficient to compensate for her husband’s incompetence, an inheritance that – given his propensity for financial blunders – would sooner or later be exhausted.
To say his wife despised him would be an understatement.
“You met the man, commandant, so I hardly need to tell you: my husband is a man of appalling vulgarity. Though I suppose in the circles he frequents, that may well be seen as a virtue.”
Madame Cottet had initiated divorce proceedings eighteen months previously, but interminable financial complications and applications by lawyers meant that the divorce had not yet been granted. One interesting fact: Cottet had had a brush with the law in 2001. He had
been arrested on October 4 at 2.30 a.m. in the Bois de Boulogne. Having beaten up a prostitute, punching her in the face and the stomach, Cottet had been set upon by a gang of bruisers working for her pimp. He had escaped with his life only thanks to the intervention of a passing patrol car. He spent two days in hospital, and then was tried and given a two-month suspended sentence for indecent assault and actual bodily harm. Camille leafed through the files and checked the dates. The Edinburgh killing – the earliest of the murders – had taken place on 10 July, 2001. Had Cottet’s arrest taught him to plan his crimes more carefully? Or did his wife’s constant references to “his whores” stem from the fact that she loathed him and would be only too happy to get him into trouble?
Camille reread Dr Crest’s provisional report and decided that, so far, Cottet’s character was consistent with the profile he had been given.
2
The preliminary case conference took place at 12.45.
“The forensics team finished their work at the Cottet house this morning,” Camille announced. “It will take two or three days to get results back on the fibres from Cottet’s clothes and shoes, hair samples and so forth. But even if the results are positive, they’re not worth much until we manage to locate the man himself.”
“I’ve no idea what goes on inside Cottet’s head,” Armand said when Camille nodded for him to speak, “but his wife was right, he’s definitely into prostitutes. There’s shitloads of porn on the guy’s computer, his browser history is full of links to escort sites … Given the number of girls he tagged, it would have taken up a lot of his time. And,” Armand could not resist adding, “I’m telling you, it must have cost a packet.”
Everyone smiled.
“There are no prostitutes in his address book. He obviously arranges his hook-ups online. On the other hand, there’s a ton of business contacts, so it’ll take a while to sort through them for anyone who might be of interest. But there’s certainly nothing to connect him with anything we already have on the cases.”
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