Irene

by Pierre Lemaitre

  “To explain what, monsieur le commissaire?”

  Camille did not correct her.

  “Monsieur Lesage has refused to give any account of his movements and—”

  “When?” the young woman interrupted.

  Camille glanced at Louis.

  “Well, in July 2001, for example, Monsieur Lesage went to Edinburgh—”

  “Absolutely, on July 9. Actually he arrived on the afternoon of the 8th. I arrived to join him on the late flight the following day. We spent three days touring the Highlands and then Jérôme went back to London to join his sister.”

  “It’s all very well for you to tell us this, Mademoiselle Joly. But given Monsieur Lesage’s situation, I fear that your sworn statement will not be enough.”

  The young woman swallowed hard.

  “I realise this is going to sound ridiculous …” she began, blushing.

  “Please,” Camille prompted. “Go ahead.”

  “Maybe it’s the overgrown schoolgirl in me, but I keep a record …” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a large scrapbook whose romantic nature was underscored by its pink cover decorated with blue flowers. “I know it’s silly,” she said with a forced laugh, “I write down everything that seems important. The days on which I see Jérôme, the places we visit. I paste in train tickets and plane tickets, cards from the hotels we stay at, menus from the restaurants where we eat.”

  She offered the scrapbook to Camille, but quickly realising that he was too short to reach across the desk, she turned and handed it to Louis.

  “At the back of the scrapbook you’ll see I keep track of the expenses. I don’t want to be indebted to him, you understand. The rent he pays on my apartment in Malakoff, the furniture he bought for me, everything. This is my current notebook. I have three more.”

  11

  “I’ve just had a visit from Madamoiselle Joly,” Camille said.

  Lesage looked up. Hostility had given way to anger.

  “You really stick your nose into everything, you c—”

  “Stop that right now,” Camille warned. Then, more calmly, “Language like that could well constitute a statutory offence, and that I’d prefer to spare you. We intend to analyse the evidence Madamoiselle Joly has given us. If we consider it probative, you will be released.”

  “And if not?” Lesage said defiantly.

  “If not, I plan to charge you with multiple counts of murder and refer your case to the public prosecutor. You can explain yourself to the investigating magistrate.”

  Camille’s anger was more feigned than real. He was accustomed to being shown some respect and was irritated by Lesage’s manner. I’m too old and too set in my ways to change now, he thought.

  The two men sat in silence for a moment.

  “About my sister,” Lesage said in a more civil tone.

  “Don’t worry. If the evidence is found to be convincing and coherent, it’s covered by judicial confidentiality, meaning it will not be divulged. You can tell your sister whatever you please.”

  Lesage looked up and, for the first time, Camille noticed something akin to gratitude. He went out into the corridor and gave orders for Lesage to be taken back to his cell and given something to eat.

  *

  “I’ll put you through to the maternity unit.”

  This time, Camille had called from the open-plan office. He had been resisting the temptation to call the hospital, preferring to leave another message on the answering machine at home.

  “Do you know if she had her mobile with her?” he asked Élisabeth, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

  “I gave it to her. I brought it in with the suitcase. No need to panic.”

  This was exactly what he had feared. He said nothing, simply nodded.

  “No,” came the woman’s voice at the other end of the line. “As I told you earlier, Madame Verhœven was discharged at around four o’clock. I have the register here in front of me … she left at 4.05 p.m. precisely. Why, is there some problem?”

  “No, no problem. Thanks,” Camille said without hanging up. He was staring into the distance. “Thank you again. Louis, get me a car, I need to go home.”

  12

  At 6.18 p.m., Camille was scrambling up the stairs to their apartment, mobile still pressed to his ear. He was still expecting Irène to answer as he pushed the half-open door. Curiously, he could hear her mobile ringing in the distance and, ridiculous though it seemed, he kept his own to his ear as he stepped through the doorway and headed for the living room. He did not call out, did not shout “Irène, darling?” as he often did when he came home and she was in the kitchen or bathroom. He listened. By now the call had gone through to her voicemail. As Camille listened to this greeting, whose every syllable, every inflection he knew by heart, he moved through the living room. Irène’s suitcase, the neat little suitcase she had packed ready for the clinic, was lying on the floor, contents spilled everywhere. Nightdress, toiletries, clothes.

  “You’ve reached the voicemail …”

  The table had been upturned and books, magazines, even the wastebasket were strewn across the rug as far as the green curtains, one of which had been ripped from the rail.

  “… of Irène Verhœven. Here you are, calling me, but sadly I can’t pick up right now …”

  Mobile still pressed to his ear, gripped by a muted panic, Camille went into the bedroom, where the bedside table had been overturned. Drops of blood formed a long path that led him to the bathroom.

  “It’s little things like this that remind you that fate is foolishness …”

  There was a small, a tiny pool of blood at the end of the bathtub. Everything from the shelf beneath the mirror had been scattered onto the floor and into the bath.

  “Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you …”

  Camille raced back through the bedroom and the living room and stopped dead in the doorway to the study. Lying on the floor where it had been tossed, Irène’s mobile whispered softly, “… as soon as I can.”

  Standing frozen in the doorway, staring at the floor, Camille dialled a number without even realising, hypnotised by Irène’s voice.

  “Speak soon.”

  His own words were still echoing in his head – “Call me back, darling, call me back, please …” – when he heard Louis answer.

  Only then did Camille fall to his knees. “LOUIS!” he howled, his voice clotted with tears. “Louis, come quickly. Please, Louis, you have to come …”

  13

  Within six minutes the brigade criminelle had arrived in force. Three squad cars, sirens keening, shrieked to a halt outside. Gripping the banister, Maleval, Mehdi and Louis took the stairs four at a time with Élisabeth and Armand following behind. Le Guen, panting, brought up the rear, stopping on each landing to catch his breath. Maleval kicked the door open and rushed into the apartment.

  They knew what had happened the moment they entered and saw Irène’s eviscerated suitcase on the floor, the curtain dangling from the rail and Camille slumped on the sofa, clutching his mobile phone, staring around as though seeing the place for the first time. Louis knelt next to Camille and prised the phone from his hands as slowly and as gently as one might prise a toy from a sleeping child.

  “She’s gone …” Camille said, utterly devastated. With a bewildered look, he nodded towards the bathroom.

  “There are traces of blood in there.”

  The sound of footsteps echoed around the apartment. Maleval grabbed a dishcloth from the kitchen and began carefully opening doors one by one while Élisabeth put in a call to identité judiciaire.

  “No-one touches anything!” Louis roared, seeing Mehdi opening cupboards with his bare hands.

  “Here.” Maleval tossed him another dishcloth. “Use that.”

  “I need a forensics team down here, NOW …” Élisabeth said, and rattled off the Verhœvens’ address.

  “Here, give me that,” Le Guen said, flushed and breathless, snatching the
phone from her. “This is Le Guen. I want a team from identité judiciaire here within ten minutes. Prints, photos, trace evidence, everything. And I want Team 3 down here too. Every last officer. Tell Morin to call me immediately.”

  Then, fishing his own phone from his jacket pocket, he punched in a number, his expression grim.

  “Divisionnaire Le Guen, put me through to Juge Deschamps.

  *

  Well get her off the phone and get her to call me back. Right now.”

  “The place is clear,” Maleval muttered, coming back to stand next to Louis.

  A roar came from Le Guen. “Which bit of ‘right now’ don’t you fucking understand?”

  Armand sat on the sofa next to Camille, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Camille, who had collected himself somewhat, got slowly to his feet and everyone turned to look at him. What was going on in his head and in his heart at that moment even Camille would never know. He glanced quickly around the room, looking at each member of his team in turn, and something whirred into action, something born of discipline and rage, of professionalism and powerlessness, some heady combination that can stir in the best of men the worst of impulses and which, in others, sharpens the senses, hones the vision and triggers a brutish single-mindedness. Something that might be called terror.

  “She left the hospital at 4.05 p.m.,” he said, his voice so low that the team shuffled imperceptibly towards him, listening intently. “She obviously came back here.” Camille nodded towards the suitcase everyone had been cautiously circling. “Élisabeth, you check out the rest of the building,” he said suddenly and grabbed the dishcloth Maleval was still holding.

  He went over to the desk, shuffled through the papers and took out a recent snapshot of himself and Irène taken on holiday the previous summer. He handed it to Maleval.

  “We’ll need copies. There’s a copier in my office. Just press the green button.”

  Maleval hurried into the study.

  “Mehdi, you and Maleval go downstairs and ask around outside. She’s well known in the neighbourhood, but take the photo anyway. Irène is highly pregnant so he could not have taken her without arousing suspicion. Especially if she’s … injured or something. Armand, you take a copy of the photo and go back to the clinic, check at reception and with every department on every floor. As soon as the rest of the team get here, I’ll send backup. Louis, you go back to the brigade, coordinate the various teams, bring Cob up to speed and make sure he keeps a line free. We’re going to need him.”

  Maleval came back with two copies of the photograph and gave the original back to Camille, who stuffed it into his pocket. Everyone disappeared in an instant, the thud of their footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

  “You alright?” Le Guen said, coming over to Camille.

  “I’ll be fine once we find her, Jean.”

  Le Guen’s mobile rang.

  “How many officers have you got on shift?” he asked Morin. “I’ll need all of them. Yes, all of them. I want them down here now. You too. At Camille’s … You’re telling me … Now get your arse in gear.”

  Camille took a few steps and knelt once more before the open suitcase. With the tip of a pen, he gently lifted a piece of clothing and let it fall, then stood up and crossed to the ripped curtain and stared at it for a long moment.

  “Camille,” Le Guen said, walking over to him, “I need to tell you something …”

  Camille whipped around. “Let me guess …”

  “Look, you know what I’m going to say … Deschamps is categorical, we have to take you off the case. I’ll have to ask Morin to take charge.”

  Camille nodded slowly.

  “Morin’s a good officer. You know him. It’s just that… you’re too personally involved, Camille. It wouldn’t be right.”

  From outside came another wail of sirens.

  Engrossed in his thoughts, Camille did not even flinch.

  “You need someone else to take over the case, that’s what you’re saying, right?”

  “I’m sorry, Camille, but yes. We need someone who’s not so involved. It’s not that I don’t trust—”

  “In that case, I want you, Jean.”

  “What …?”

  The stairwell rumbled with the beat of running footsteps, the door flew open and Bergeret was the first into the apartment. He came and shook Camille’s hand and said simply:

  “We’ll be in and out before you know it, Camille. I’ve got every available forensic officer on the case.”

  Before Camille could even reply, Bergeret had turned and was giving orders to his team even as he strode through the rooms. Two techs set up spotlights and the apartment was bathed in a blinding glare as they were trained on the areas to be examined first. Meanwhile, three other technicians wordlessly shook Camille’s hand, pulled on latex gloves and opened their field kits.

  “What the hell are you on about?” Le Guen turned back to Camille.

  “I want you on the case. It’s well within the rules and you know it, so don’t try to fob me off.”

  “Look, Camille, it’s been too long since I was a serving detective. I don’t have the reflexes, you know that. It’s crazy to even ask me.”

  “It’s either you or it’s no-one. So?”

  Le Guen scratched the back of his neck, then stroked his chin. His eyes belied any notion that he was thinking. They flashed with stark terror.

  “No, honestly, Camille, I don’t th—” “It’s you or no-one. Are you up to taking the fucking case or not?” Camille tone was peremptory.

  “Look … I don’t know … I swear, I don’t think—”

  “Yes or no?”

  “Yes, but …”

  “But what, for fuck’s sake?”

  “O.K., fine, I’ll do it. And, while we’re on the subject, screw you!”

  “Right,” Camille said quickly. “So you’ll take the case. Problem is, you’ve got no hands-on experience, your reflexes are shit, you’ll be completely out of your depth.”

  “Jesus Christ, Camille! Isn’t that what I just said?” Le Guen yelled.

  “In which case,” Camille looked him in the eye, “You’ll need to delegate to an experienced officer. I accept. Thanks, Jean.”

  Le Guen did not even have time to react before Camille turned and strode away.

  “Bergeret! Let me show you what I want you to do.”

  Le Guen stuffed a hand into his pocket, dug out his mobile and dialled.

  “Divisionnaire Le Guen, put me through to Juge Deschamps. Right now.”

  Waiting for the call to be connected, he glowered at Camille, who was deep in conversation with the boys from identité judiciaire.

  “Crafty little sod,” he muttered.

  14

  Morin’s team turned up a couple of minutes later. In order not to disturb the techs, a quick briefing was held on the narrow landing which had room only for Le Guen, Camille and Morin. The five remaining officers perched on the lower steps.

  “I’ll be leading the investigation into the disappearance of Irène Verhœven. Having consulted with Juge Deschamps, I’ll be delegating policy decisions to Commandant Verhœven. Any comments?”

  The tone in which Le Guen conveyed this news brooked no criticism. An awkward silence followed, one that Le Guen deliberately allowed to drag on to reiterate his determination.

  “They’re all yours, Camille,” he said at length.

  Camille gruffly apologised to Morin, who held up his hands in resignation, then the two of them divided up the teams and everyone headed back down the stairs.

  The technicians from identité judiciaire raced up and down several floors carrying aluminium flight cases, field kits and a large trunk. Two officers stood on the landings above and below Camille’s apartment, keeping track of the neighbours’ comings and goings. Le Guen posted two more officers on the street outside the front door.

  “Nothing,” Élisabeth explained. “Between 4 p.m. and now, only four apartments were occupied. Everyone e
lse is at work.”

  Camille stationed himself on the landing, toying with his mobile phone and turning back every now and then to stare at the wide-open doorway of his apartment. Through the frosted glass window intended to allow a little light into the stairwell, he could see the fitful ballet of blue lights from the cars parked on the street.

  The apartment building was about twenty metres from the corner of the rue des Martyrs. Roadworks to lay new pipes had made the opposite side of the street impassable for more than two months and though the workers had long since finished the stretch in front of Camille’s building and were now digging some three hundred metres away where the street joined the boulevard, barriers preventing parking opposite the building were still in place. Though no work was being done on this stretch of road, it was used as a parking space for earthmovers and dump trucks and for three Portakabins where tools were stored, one of which also served as a makeshift canteen. Two police cars were parked crossways on the street to cordon it off. The remaining squad cars and the two vans from identité judiciaire had made no attempt to park, and were now lined up down the middle of the street, attracting the attention of passers-by and the residents of neighbouring buildings, who leaned out of their windows.

  Camille had never especially noticed before, but now, as he stepped out onto the pavement, he took a long moment to consider the street and the road works; he crossed the street to study the alignment of the barriers, turned to look back at the doorway to his building, glanced to the end of the street, then up to the windows of his apartment, then back to the barriers.

  “Of course …” And then he ran to the corner of the rue des Martyrs while Élisabeth, clutching her bag to her chest, struggled to keep up.

  He knew the woman though he could no longer remember her name.

  “Madame Antonapoulos,” Maleval said, gesturing to the shopkeeper.

  “Antanopoulos,” the woman corrected him.

  “She thinks she saw them,” Maleval went on. “There was a car parked outside the building and Irène got in.”