Irene
Page 18
“If our theory is correct, there has to be some link.”
Ballanger frowned for a moment, then said: “Maybe your killer just happens to like those books.”
Camille couldn’t suppress a smile, and Ballanger smiled too.
“I hadn’t thought of that,” Camille said finally. “Stupid of me.”
“When it comes to taste, readers can be very eclectic.”
“Murderers less so. They tend to be more logical. Or at least, they have their own twisted ‘logic’.”
“This might be in bad taste.”
“Spit it out.”
“I’d say that in each case he’s chosen an exceptionally fine book!”
“Good,” said Camille, smiling, “I’d much rather hunt down a man of taste. It’s more fulfilling.”
“Your … your killer … is obviously well read. He’s something of an expert in the genre.”
“He would seem to be. He’s definitely one sick bastard. But we still have one crucial question: how far back does this thing go?”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” Ballanger said.
“We know about all the murders that he ‘signed’. If we’re lucky, we can work out where this ends. But what we don’t know is which novel started the whole thing off, and where. And when.”
“I see …” Ballanger said, though plainly he did not.
“There may be other murders dating years before the one in Glasgow,” Camille said. “His scope is vast, his plan is grandiose. The novels we’ve already managed to identify, would you say they’re classics?”
“Well, they’re all pretty well known. I’m not sure I’d call them ‘classics’, at least, not in terms of the literary canon.”
“If that’s the case, I have to say I’m a little surprised.” Camille appeared heartened by Ballanger’s response. “Because if he wanted to pay homage to crime fiction, it would be logical to begin by re-enacting what you might call a ‘classic of the genre’, would it not?”
Ballanger’s curiosity was piqued.
“You’re right. That would make good sense.”
“So, in your opinion, how many ‘classics’ could we be talking about?”
“Oh, I don’t know. The list would be pretty long,” Ballanger said, thinking, “Well, maybe not that long. In crime fiction, what constitutes a ‘classic of the genre’ is moot. Personally, I think the choices are sociological and historical rather than strictly literary.”
Camille looked at him quizzically.
“Sociological in the sense that the reading public often consider certain books to be masterpieces in the teeth of critical opinion. Historical in the sense that a classic is not necessarily a masterpiece. Lieberman’s City of the Dead is a masterpiece, but it’s not considered a classic. The opposite is true of Christie’s And Then There Were None. Now, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is both a masterpiece and a classic.”
“I need you to be categorical, Professeur Ballanger,” Camille said. “If I were a professeur of literature I’d be happy to sit here quibbling about semantics, but I’m a detective investigating a series of cases in which young women have been horribly murdered. So, how many masterpieces, classics, call them what you will, how many are there, roughly?”
“I’d say about three hundred. Roughly.”
“Three hundred? Could you draw up a list of titles and give me some idea where we could find synopses for them? That way we can try to cross-reference cold cases with plot elements from these novels.”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because I need someone who not only has the requisite knowledge but is capable of refining it, condensing it. It’s not going to come as a surprise to you that we don’t have too many literary experts down at the brigade criminelle. I had considered asking a specialist bookseller.”
“Not a bad idea,” Ballanger said.
“We know one, but he’s not exactly … cooperative. I’d prefer to entrust the task to – how should I put it? – one of the eminent educationalists in the service of the Republic.”
Ballanger seemed to think this was a nice touch. The grandiloquent term made it hard for him to refuse; it appealed to his sense of honour and decency.
“Yes, I suppose I could do it,” he said. “The list wouldn’t be too difficult to compile, though I warn you, the choices will inevitably be subjective.”
Camille indicated that he accepted this.
“I’m bound to have a number of monographs and papers on the subject lying around. And I could ask some of my students to lend a hand … Two days?”
“Perfect.”
4
The interest senior officers take in high-profile cases can be measured by the resources they allocate to investigating officers. That afternoon, Camille discovered that he had been allocated a large squad room in the basement. With no windows.
“Damn,” he said to Le Guen. “One more murder, and they’d probably have given us a room with a view.”
“Probably,” Le Guen said, “but one fewer murder and you wouldn’t have had those computers.”
Technicians were setting up a bank of five computers while workmen installed cork-boards, flip-charts, a floor-standing water cooler that also dispensed hot water for instant coffee, office desks and chairs and several phone lines. Juge Deschamps had called Camille on his mobile to arrange the first briefing. They settled on 8.30 a.m. the following morning.
By 6.30 p.m, the whole team had assembled. Not all the chairs had been delivered, but this did not matter since, in keeping with tradition, the first team meeting was held standing up.
“Let’s start off with the introductions,” Camille began. “I’m Commandant Verhœven – call me Camille, it’s simpler. This is Louis, he’ll be coordinating the team. Any leads you come up with go straight to him. He’ll also be assigning duties.”
The four newcomers looked silently at Louis and nodded.
“This is Maleval. On paper, he’s called Jean-Claude, but everyone calls him Maleval. He is in charge of resources. If you need computers, cars, equipment, whatever, talk to him.”
Maleval gave the new recruits an awkward wave.
“Last but not least, Armand. He and I are the senior officers here. You’ll never meet a more meticulous officer. If you’ve got any doubts about a line of inquiry, talk to him. He’ll be happy to help out. He’s an exceptionally generous man.”
Armand stared at the floor and blushed.
“Right, now, the newcomers.”
Camille fished a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
“Élisabeth …”
A fifty-something woman of ample proportions with an honest face dressed in a trouser suit of indeterminate vintage.
“Hi,” she said, raising a hand. “Good to be here.”
Camille liked her straight away, the way she spoke, her easy manner.
“Welcome, Élisabeth. Have you worked on any other major cases?”
“I worked on the Ange Versini case …”
Everyone at the brigade remembered the case of the Corsican man who had strangled two children and evaded capture for eight weeks, before being gunned down at point-blank range on the boulevard Magenta after a high-speed chase that had created a lot of front-line damage – and a few front-page headlines.
“Good work. I hope we’ll add to your list of credits.”
“I hope so too.”
She seemed anxious to get to work. She glanced over at Louis and gave him a friendly smile and a nod.
“Fernand?” Camille asked, looking down at his list.
“That’s me,” said a man in his fifties.
Camille quickly sized him up: the solemn, slightly vacant expression, the rheumy eyes, the pasty complexion of an alcoholic. Ever the pragmatist, Le Guen had already tipped off Verhœven: “I suggest you use him in the mornings. After that, there’s no-one home …”
“You’ve been seconded from Vice, is that right?”
“Yeah, I don’t know
much about the brigade criminelle.”
“I’m sure you’ll prove your worth here,” Camille said with a confidence he did not really feel. “You’ll be working with Armand.”
“By a process of elimination, I assume you must be Mehdi?” Camille turned to a young man of about twenty-five. Despite the jeans and the T-shirt no doubt worn to show off his a gym-toned body, despite the iPod headphones that dangled around his neck, Mehdi had a serious and alert expression that Camille found charming.
“That’s me. I’m with the 8th Brigade. Well, obviously I haven’t been there long.”
“This will be good experience for you, kid. You’ll be working with Maleval.”
Mehdi nodded at Maleval, while Camille instantly regretted referring to a fellow officer as “kid”. He was clearly getting old.
“Finally, this is Cob,” Camille said, stuffing the piece of paper back into his pocket. “We know each other, but we’ve never actually worked together …”
Cob looked over at Camille.
“Not until now.”
“Cob will be our technical genius.”
Cob greeted the ripple of recognition with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.
“If there’s anything more you need, Cob, just tell Maleval and he’ll sort it.”
Thursday, April 17
1
“For now, we’ve found nothing to contradict our initial assessment. We’re dealing with a profoundly misogynistic sociopath.”
Deschamps’ first briefing had begun on time at 8.30 a.m. Dr Crest, having set his briefcase on one of the desks, was addressing the assembled company from notes scrawled in his tall, sloping hand.
“The letter Commandant Verhœven received from the suspect has done much to round out the clinical profile I have been working up, but in no way refutes my preliminary findings. The suspect is educated, cultured and arrogant. Aside from his interest in crime fiction, he is extremely well read. He will most likely have a degree in the humanities – philosophy, history, something of that nature. Sociology, possibly. His pretentiousness is obvious from the fact that he feels the need to flaunt his knowledge. What is immediately apparent in the letter is the cordiality of his tone. He needs you to admire him, commandant. He clearly likes you, and he knows you.”
“Personally?”
“Not necessarily, though anything is possible. I’m more inclined to think that he knows you in the sense that he’s seen you on television, or read about you in the papers.”
“That’s a relief,” Camille said, and for the first time, the two men exchanged a smile. And the first smile between two men is either a sign of respect or a sign of trouble brewing.
“That little advertisement of yours was cleverly worded,” continued Dr Crest.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. Brief and to the point, careful not to address him personally. You invited him to talk about ‘his work’ and I believe that this is why he responded. He feels a need to explain himself, so was bound to seize on any opportunity. You gave him that opportunity. The worst thing you could have done would have been to ask what makes him tick, as though you didn’t understand him. From the way you phrased your question, you implied that you already knew, that you understood him, making him feel – how shall I put this? – as though you shared a particular worldview.”
“Actually, I didn’t really think about what I was saying.”
Crest allow Camille’s words to hang in the air for a moment
“You must have been thinking about it subconsciously,” he went on. “That said, I don’t really believe that we have learned much about what motivates him. The letter indicates that he considers himself to be working on ‘his masterpiece’, which, for all his false modesty, he feels he should rank alongside the great writers that he has chosen to emulate.”
“But why?” Élisabeth asked.
“That’s a very different question.”
“A frustrated writer?” she suggested, voicing a possibility each of them were contemplating.
“It’s one possibility, certainly. In fact, it may be the most plausible hypothesis.”
“If he’s a frustrated writer, he’s probably written a couple of novels,” Mehdi said. “We could talk to agents and publishers?”
No-one was surprised by the young officer’s naivety. Camille gave a little sigh and rubbed his eyes.
“Mehdi, half the population of France are frustrated writers. The others are frustrated artists. There are hundreds of editors in Paris, and every one of them is sent thousands of manuscripts each year. Even if we were only to cover the past five years …”
“O.K., O.K. I get it.” Mehdi held up his hands in surrender.
“Do we have any idea how old he might be?” Élisabeth said, coming to the young man’s rescue.
“Between forty and fifty.”
“Social class?”
“I’d say upper middle class. In his desperation to prove just how clever he is, he overplays his hand.”
“Like posting the letter from Courbevoie?” Louis said.
“Precisely!” Crest answered, surprised at this observation. “That’s exactly what I mean. It’s melodramatic. He tries too hard. And that could be useful to us. This killer is careful, but he’s so self-important that he runs the risk of making a mistake. He has a desperate need for approbation. And yet he is deeply solipsistic. This goes to the heart of, is the crux of his conflicted personality. Though it is not the only one.”
“Meaning?” Camille said.
“Obviously, there are still a lot of things we do not know, but one in particular troubles me. I don’t understand why he went to Glasgow to carry out the murder from McIlvanney’s novel.”
“Surely because that’s where the murder is supposed to take place!” said Camille.
“I’ve thought about that. But in that case, why re-stage the crime from American Psycho in Courbevoie rather than New York? After all, that’s where the novel takes place, is it not?”
Camille was forced to acknowledge that he had not considered this discrepancy.
“Similarly,” Crest went on. “the Tremblay murder should have taken place in …”
“Los Angeles,” Louis said.
“You’re right. It doesn’t makes sense,” said Camille, shrugging. “But what we need to do now is think about the next ad I place.”
“I agree. I’ve been giving it some thought. It’s crucial that we gain his trust. If you question his motives, you’ll only destroy your good work so far. You need to treat him as an equal, he needs to believe you understand him, admire him even. You’ll have to flatter him.”
“What do you suggest?”
“Don’t address him personally. You might ask for details about one of the other murders. After that, we’ll see.”
“The magazine comes out on Mondays, which means leaving a week between ads. That’s too long.”
“There is a way we could speed things up.” Cob spoke for the first time. “The magazine has a website. I checked it out. You can submit a classified ad online and it would appear by tomorrow.”
Camille brought the meeting to a close and he and Dr Crest together discussed the wording of the second ad, which Verhœven then ran by Deschamps. It consisted of just three words: “Your Black Dahlia?” Like the first, it was signed simply “C.V.”. Cob was tasked with submitting it to the website.
2
The list supplied by Fabien Ballanger ran to a hundred and twenty titles. At the bottom Ballanger had scrawled “Synopses to follow. In five or six days …” One hundred and twenty titles set over two columns – enough reading matter for two years, maybe three. An authoritative introduction to crime fiction, perfect for someone curious to investigate the genre, but utterly useless in the context of a criminal investigation. Camille could not help but check to see how many he had read (there were eight) and how many he had heard of (which took his total to sixteen). He felt a brief pang of regret that the killer was not a connoisseur of art
instead.
“How many of these have you heard of?” he asked Louis.
“I’m not sure,” Louis said, scanning the list. “Thirty, maybe …”
Ballanger had brought all his expertise to bear, which was precisely what had been asked of him, but such an extensive list made investigation impossible. Camille realised that it had been a good idea only in theory.
On the telephone, Ballanger sounded pleased with himself.
“We’re busy putting together the synopses. I’ve got three of my students working on it. They’re completely obsessed.”
“It’s too much work, Professeur Ballanger.”
“Don’t worry about them, they don’t have much on this term.”
“No, I meant the list: a hundred and twenty titles is unworkable.”
“How many can you handle?”
From the professeur’s tone it was apparent that they lived in different worlds, Camille in the murky, mundane lowlands where murder was commonplace, and Ballanger in the lofty towers of art and literature.
“To be honest, Professeur Ballanger, I have no idea.”
“Then how the devil am I supposed to know?”
“Assuming that the murderer is picking titles based on his personal tastes,” Camille said, ignoring Ballanger’s tetchy remark, “the list I asked you to draw up will be useless. Given what we already know, this man is not a rookie, he clearly knows everything there is to know about crime fiction. But it would be surprising if his personal list didn’t include at least one or two classics. These are the books we need to identify. And that’s how you can help.”
“I’ll draw up a new list myself.”
Camille’s thanks fell on deaf ears; Ballanger had already hung up.
Friday, April 18
1
Armand and Fernand were an ideal pairing. Within two hours of meeting, they were behaving like an old married couple: Armand had already “borrowed” his new colleague’s newspaper, his pen and notepad and shamelessly helped himself to cigarettes (even slipping a few into his pocket for later); in exchange, he pretended not to notice Fernand’s frequent absences or the way he always came back from the toilets sucking a mint. At Louis’ instruction, they had given up researching the long list of wallpaper manufacturers and were now focused on housing developments the killer might have visited while looking for an apartment in Courbevoie. Mehdi had headed off to the post office in Courbevoie on the outside chance of finding someone who remembered the killer. Maleval was making inquiries about recently bought chainsaws and Minox cameras. Meanwhile, Louis, armed with a warrant, went to the offices of Nuits Blanches magazine to request their list of subscribers.