And yet there is something lost about her; from time to time her eyes dart about the room as though she is out of her depth.
“Madame Lesage,” Camille begins, setting his glasses on the desk, “you know why you’re here.”
“I was told it’s about my brother.”
Her voice, which he is hearing for the first time, is high, shrill even, as though she is defending herself against some accusation. The way she tenderly says the word “brother” speaks volumes. A maternal reflex almost.
“That’s correct. We’re curious about him.”
“He’s got nothing to be ashamed of.”
“That’s something I’d like to discuss, if you don’t mind. I would be grateful for any insights you might have.”
“I said all I have to say to the other officer.”
“Yes.” Camille nodded to the report lying on the desk. “But that’s precisely my point – you don’t seem to have much to say at all.”
Christine Lesage clasps her hands over her knees once more. As far as she is concerned, the interview is over.
“We are especially interested in your trip to the United Kingdom. In …” Camille slips on his glasses and briefly consults the report. “July 2001.”
“We weren’t in the United Kingdom, commandant, we were in England.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Aren’t you?”
“No, actually, I don’t believe you were … at least not for the whole of your trip. You arrived in London on July 2, is that correct?
“Possibly.”
“Definitely. Your brother left London for Edinburgh on the 8th. That would be in Scotland, madame. Which is in the United Kingdom. His ticket confirms he returned to London on the 12th. Is that correct?”
“If you say so …”
“And you didn’t notice that your brother was absent for five days?”
“You said from the 8th to the 12th, that’s four days, not five.”
“Where was he?”
“You said it yourself, he was in Edinburgh.”
“And what was he doing there?”
“We have a contact there. As we do in London. My brother likes to visit our suppliers if he gets the chance. It’s … business, if you like.”
“Your contact there is a Mr Somerville,” Camille said.
“Mr Somerville, that’s right.”
“We have a little problem, Madame Lesage. Mr Somerville was interviewed by the police in Edinburgh this morning and he confirms that he saw your brother, but only on the 8th. According to him, your brother left the city on the 9th. Could you tell me where he was between the 9th and the 12th of July?”
Camille realises straight away that this is news to her. She gives a suspicious, resentful scowl.
“Sightseeing, I assume,” she says finally.
“Sightseeing. Of course. He took a tour of the Scottish highlands: the lochs, the castles, the ghosts …”
“Spare me the platitudes, inspecteur.”
“Commandant, if you don’t mind. Would his curiosity perhaps have taken him as far as Glasgow, in your opinion?”
“I have no opinion on the matter. Nor can I speculate on what he could possibly have been doing there.”
“Murdering young Grace Hobson, perhaps?”
A calculated gamble on Camille’s part. Such stunts have paid off in the past. But Christine Lesage does not seem the least bit disconcerted.
“Do you have proof?”
“Are you familiar with the name Grace Hobson?”
“I read about her in the papers.”
“To recapitulate: your brother leaves London to spend four days in Edinburgh, he stays only one day and you have no idea what he does for the other three days, is that what you’re saying?”
“More or less, yes.”
“More or less?”
“That’s right. I’m sure that he will have no trouble pro—”
“We shall see. Let us jump to November 2001, if you don’t mind.”
“Your colleague already ask—”
“I know, Madame Lesage, I know. I simply need you to confirm what you told him, then we’ll say no more about it. Tell me about 21 November.”
“Do you remember what you were doing two years ago on 21 November?”
“I am not being asked the questions here, Madame Lesage, you are. Tell me about your brother. Does he travel much?”
“Commandant,” Christine Lesage says in the long-suffering tone of one addressing a small child, “we run a business. Antiquarian and second-hand books. My brother buys and sells; he visits private libraries, he buys books at auction, he offers valuations, he buys from colleagues and sells to them, obviously he can’t do all that from behind the counter of the bookshop. So, yes, my brother travels a great deal.”
“Which means you never know precisely where he is …”
“Don’t you think we might save some time? If you could just tell me—”
“It’s very simple, Madame Lesage. Your brother called us and gave us information about a crime.”
“This is what he gets for trying to help …”
“We did not ask for his help – he offered it. Spontaneously. Generously. He informed us that the murders in Courbevoie were inspired by a novel by Bret Easton Ellis. He seemed extremely well informed. His information proved accurate.”
“It’s his job.”
“Killing prostitutes?”
Christine Lesage blushes to the roots of her hair.
“If you have evidence, commandant, I’m listening. Though we both know that if you had any evidence I wouldn’t be here answering your questions. Can I go now?” she says, making as if to get up.
Camille stares at her intently. Meekly, she abandons the halfhearted gesture.
“We were granted a warrant to examine your brother’s desk diaries. He is a very meticulous man, very organised. I have officers going through his meetings and appointments over the past five years. Until now, we have queried only a handful of entries, but it’s astonishing how many inaccuracies we’ve discovered, for such a methodical man.”
“Inaccuracies?” Madame Lesage seems surprised.
“Yes, the diary says he was in such and such a place … when in fact he wasn’t. He has recorded meetings that never took place. That sort of thing. He claims to be with someone when in fact he is not. So we can’t help but wonder.”
“Wonder what, exactly, commandant?”
“Wonder what he has been doing with his time, obviously. What he was doing in November 2001 while a 23-year-old prostitute was being hacked in two, what he was doing earlier this month when two other prostitutes were dismembered in Courbevoie. Does your brother frequent prostitutes?”
“You are an odious little man.”
“What about him?”
“If that’s all you’ve got on my brother—”
“In point of fact, Madame Lesage, those are not the only troubling questions concerning your brother. We have also been wondering what he does with his money.”
Christine Lesage gives the commandant an incredulous look.
“His money?”
“Well, your money, as it turns out. Because from what we understand, your brother manages your fortune.”
“I have no ‘fortune’!”
She spat the word as though it were an insult.
“Well, you have a stocks portfolio, you own two apartments in Paris which are currently rented out, plus the family home. And perhaps now would be a good time to mention that we’ve sent a team of officers to your house.”
“To Villeréal? May I ask why?”
“We are looking for two bodies, Madame Lesage. One large, one small. But we’ll come back to that. We were discussing your fortune.”
“I have entrusted my brother with managing my financial affairs.”
“Then I’m afraid I should tell you that it may not have been a wise decision …”
Christine Lesage stares at Camille for a long
moment. Surprise? Suspicion? Anger? He cannot read what is in her eyes. He quickly realises it is nothing more than steely determination.
“Everything my brother did with my money was authorised by me, commandant. Everything. Without exception.”
2
“So what have you got?”
“To tell you the truth, Jean, I have no idea. They’ve got a pretty weird relationship, these two.”
*
Jérôme Lesage is sitting bolt upright in his chair, adopting an attitude of calm composure. He is going to show he is not a man to be duped easily.
“I’ve just had a chat with your sister, Monsieur Lesage.”
Despite his resolve to show no concern, Lesage’s face flinches perceptibly.
“Why her?” he says, as if requesting a menu or a train timetable.
“The better to understand you. The better to try to understand you.”
*
“She’s backing him tooth and nail. It’ll be hard to drive a wedge between them.”
“Hardly surprising, I suppose. They’re a couple.”
“Of sorts. But more baffling.”
“All relationships are baffling. All my marriages certainly were.”
*
“We’re having a little difficulty accounting for your movements, you see? Even your sister, who knows you better than anyone—”
“She knows only what I choose to tell her.”
He folds his arms across his chest. As far as he is concerned the subject is closed. Camille elects to remain silent.
“Would you kindly tell me what it is you have against me?” Lesage says at last.
“I have nothing against you. I’m conducting a criminal investigation, Monsieur Lesage. I have the issue of a number of dead bodies to account for.”
“I should never have helped you, not even that first time.”
“But you couldn’t help yourself.”
“That’s true.”
Lesage seems surprised by his own response.
“When I read the reports of the Courbevoie murders, I was proud to have recognised Ellis’ novel,” he continues thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t make me a killer.”
*
“She defends him, he protects her. Or vice versa.”
“What have we got, Camille? Cards on table, what exactly have we got?”
“For a start, we’ve got the unaccounted-for gaps in his schedule.”
*
“I’d like you to talk me through the time you spent in Scotland.”
“What do you want to know?”
“What you did between July 9 and July 12. You arrived in Edinburgh on the 8th, had a meeting that day, and didn’t reappear until the 12th. What were you doing in the meantime?”
“Sightseeing.”
*
“And has he been able to account for these gaps?”
“No, he’s playing for time. He’s waiting for us to come up with evidence. He knows that as things stand there’s fuck all we can do. And they both know it.”
*
“Sightseeing? Where?”
“Here and there. I travelled about. Like most people on holiday.”
“Most people don’t murder young girls while they’re ‘travelling about’ on holiday, Monsieur Lesage …”
“I didn’t murder anyone!”
For the first time since the start of the interview, the bookseller’s tone becomes heated. Being openly contemptuous of Camille is one thing, but to risk seeming like a killer is something else entirely.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“No, you didn’t. But I can see that you’re trying to fit me up for murder.”
“Do you write books, Monsieur Lesage? Novels?”
“No. Never. I’m a reader.”
“A voracious reader.”
“It’s my job. I don’t criticise you for hanging around with murderers.”
“It’s a pity you don’t write novels, Monsieur Lesage, because you have a vivid imagination. Why do you invent fictional meetings in your desk diary, with people who don’t exist? What do you do during these so-called meetings? Why do you need so much time, Monsieur Lesage?”
“Sometimes I need a breath of fresh air.”
“You seem to get rather a lot of fresh air. Do you visit prostitutes?”
“Sometimes. No more than you, I expect.”
*
“Then there are the discrepancies in his finances.”
“Significant sums?”
“Cob is going through the books now. There are tens of thousands of euros involved. Almost all cash payments. Five hundred here, two thousand there. It all adds up.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“Five years at least. We don’t have authorisation to go back further than that.”
“And the sister didn’t notice?’
“Looks that way.”
*
“We’re going over your accounts. I think your sister is in for a surprise …”
“You leave my sister out of this!”
Lesage looks at Camille as though for the first time he has let slip a detail that might be considered personal.
“She’s not a well woman.”
“She seemed hale and hearty to me.”
“She’s suffered from depression ever since her husband died. That’s why I brought her to live with me. It’s quite a burden, believe me.”
“One for which you reward yourself handsomely, from what I’ve seen.”
“That’s between her and me – it doesn’t concern you.”
“Can you think of anything that doesn’t concern the police, Monsieur Lesage?”
*
“So, where have we got to?”
“Well, the thing is, Jean, we’ve got a bit of a problem …”
*
“We’ll come back to that, Monsieur Lesage. We have all the time in the world.”
“I have no intention of staying here.”
“That will not be your decision to make.”
“I want to see a lawyer.”
“Of course, Monsieur Lesage. Do you think you need one?”
“I think anyone dealing with people like you would need a lawyer.”
“Just one question. We sent you a list of unsolved murders. I was most intrigued by your reaction.”
“What reaction?”
“Precisely. You did not react.”
“I had already told you I had no intention of going on helping you. So how do you think I should have reacted?”
“I don’t know. You might have spotted the similarities between one of those cases and The End of the Night by John D. MacDonald, for example. But perhaps you’re not familiar with the book.”
“I’m perfectly familiar with it, Commandant Verhœven.” The bookseller suddenly loses his temper. “And I can tell you right now that the case you’re referring to does not relate to The End of the Night. There are too many discrepancies. I checked it against the book.”
“So you did check? Well, well. It’s a pity you didn’t think it pertinent to pass on that conclusion to me.”
“I have already given you help. Twice. And look where it got me. So from now on—”
“You gave the same ‘help’ to the media. Twice. For good measure, I suppose.”
“I’ve already explained that. My comments to the journalist do not constitute a statutory offence. I demand that you release me immediately.”
“Even more surprisingly for a man of your erudition,” Camille carries on as though he has not heard, “among the eight cases, you did not recognise a classic like Gaboriau’s Le Crime d’Orcival!”
“You clearly take me for an imbecile, commandant.”
“On the contrary, Monsieur Lesage.”
“Who said I didn’t recognise it?”
“You did, in so far as you failed to mention it.”
“I recognised it immediately. Anyone would have – anyone except you, obviously. There’s
a great deal I could have told you.”
*
“A problem? Don’t you think we’ve got enough problems as it is, Camille?”
“I was thinking the same, Jean, they just keep coming.”
“So what’s the problem this time?”
*
“What, precisely, could you have told us, Monsieur Lesage?”
“I’d rather not say.”
“That only makes you look all the more suspect, and you’re already on rather shaky ground.”
*
“I talked to him again about our list of unsolved murders. At that point, he clammed up. But you know how it is, we all have our pride.”
*
“What exactly is it that you would rather not say?”
“No comment.”
“Oh, come on,” Camille goads him. “You’re dying to tell us.”
Lesage glowers at him with unconcealed contempt.
“One of your cases … the girl whose body was found in the dredger.”
“Yes?”
“Before she was murdered, had she been wearing a swimsuit?”
“I believe so, judging by the tan lines on her body. What are you trying to tell me, Monsieur Lesage?”
“I think … I think it’s Roseanna.”
3
Periphériques, autoroutes, boulevards, canals, so many tragedies and crimes, so many accidents and fatalities occur on busy thoroughfares. To the naked eye, things are constantly moving, never stopping; but anything thrown here disappears without trace, as though sucked down by the waters of a river. The list of curious objects that do turn up is endless: shoes, aerosols, clothes, money, pens, cardboard boxes, dog bowls and petrol cans.
Even corpses.
25 August, 2000. The Department of Public Works dispatches a bucket dredger to clear silt and debris from the canal de l’Ourcq, scooping foul-smelling mud into a barge.
A crowd soon forms – fishermen, pensioners, neighbours and passers-by – on the Pont Blériot, the bridge above the lock.
At 10.30 a.m. the engine roars and splutters, belching exhaust fumes as black as soot. The collection barge floats like a dead fish in the middle of the canal. A few minutes later the crane is in position beside the barge. The gaping maw of the scoop is trained on the bridge where a dozen people are watching the operation. Standing next to the crane, Lucien Blanchard, the foreman, gives the signal to the operator who flips the lever. There is a dull, metallic rasp. The huge bucket lurches violently. Still facing the bridge, it inches towards the water.
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