Maybe a little excursion into the beautiful nineteenth-century building would be something nice for him, reminding him of home.
They entered the cool interior. The smell of incense wafted through the air and the church was half full of people standing as the priest officiated. On closer inspection the pastor saw that an infant was being baptized. The mother was holding the child and nearby was a large receptacle full of water.
He gestured to the boy to remain with him at the back of the room so as not to intrude on the ceremony. While the priest spoke words the pastor didn’t understand, he looked around the cathedral. The golden icons, the candelabras and the liturgy overwhelmed him. So much gilt and pomp. It was nothing like the simple, unadorned rituals he was used to and had grown to love over the decades. He felt bloated and wished he hadn’t eaten the pelmeni. It sat in his stomach like a brick.
When the priest undressed the infant, the pastor felt the boy stiffen next to him. He turned to find him staring wide-eyed at the naked baby. His hands were fists, the knuckles bled of all colour.
‘What’s wrong?’ the pastor asked, worried that perhaps the pelmeni didn’t sit well with the boy, either. What a stupid choice.
The boy shook his head. He didn’t stop, just kept shaking it. His hand gripped the pastor’s arm so hard he had to remove it gently. A moan escaped from the boy’s lips, loud enough for the people nearest to them to look their way.
‘Ssshh. What’s wrong? Shall we go outside?’ The pastor tried to lead the boy out but instead he was being tugged forward, towards the infant who had started to cry, a thin wailing that seemed to add to the boy’s distress. The pastor began to panic. The child’s strength, fuelled by a strange determination, was surprising.
‘Stop it!’ the pastor hissed. He was about to berate the boy but then something happened.
The priest faced the crying infant forward and plunged her once, twice, three times into the water, immersing her completely.
There was a tense silence, or was it the tension coming from the quivering boy at his side?
Then a wail like nothing the pastor had ever heard rose through the church and bounced off the walls. Everyone turned to look at them. Even the singing stopped.
Keeping his eyes lowered to the ground, the pastor dragged the boy shrieking and trembling down the aisle and out into the street.
As soon as they found a place to sit, an unoccupied bench, the pastor forced the boy to sit next to him. For several minutes neither of them moved. The boy had stopped wailing but his body still shook. His eyes were restless, shifting from the pastor to the street as though expecting something to happen.
The pastor looked down at his arms. Despite the heat he had goose-bumps.
‘Perhaps you should tell me what happened in there,’ the pastor said.
Nothing.
Struck by inspiration, the pastor dug in his pocket and pulled out a notepad and a pen.
‘Perhaps you can write it down for me,’ he said. The boy looked at him then. He seemed to be hesitating.
While he waited, the pastor rubbed his chest to ease the stinging sensation there. Heartburn.
Those damned dumplings, he thought, before automatically mouthing a silent apology for his use of profanity.
Now the pastor was running, leaving behind the words scribbled on his notepad and the one who’d written them down for him. How innocent words were, until they were strung together into sentences and armed with meaning. Then they could fell you as effectively as any weapon and rob you of your power.
He ran, oblivious to the mounting tension in his body. Sweat poured down his face, blinding him. He didn’t try to wipe it away.
The pastor was only a hundred metres or so from the faculty. He could see the tall gates in the distance and the whitewashed building which he called home. As he ran, the words began to fade, the fateful sentences decomposing in his mind until he forgot their meaning.
Without warning, his heart clenched. Like someone was squeezing it hard. The sensation was so acute he cried out, scaring a well-to-do young woman with a designer pram whom he’d been about to overtake.
She too let out a shriek and swerved out of his way as he fell to the ground, fighting for breath through a miasma of pain.
Dear God, he prayed.
He wasn’t ready for this.
SEVENTEEN
Morel knew most of the journalists in the room. He liked very few of them. There was a hubbub of noise and activity as people greeted each other and got comfortable on their chairs. The camera crews positioned themselves along the side of the table where Perrin sat.
Morel would have preferred to stay away from the podium but that wasn’t an option. Reluctantly, he took a seat next to Perrin. His boss could barely contain his excitement. At last, the audience he pined for. Morel didn’t mind so much; it was a nice change from Perrin’s daily haranguing about the case.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming at such short notice. We know how busy you are but we are at a crucial stage of our investigation and hope that you will assist us in speeding things up. Time is of the essence.’
The first of many clichés to come, Morel thought. The same well-worn expressions he’d heard a hundred times from Perrin. He made a silent bet with himself to see how many the commissaire would come up with over the course of this briefing. He guessed ten, at least.
Thanks to a projector installed earlier at the back of the room, the drawing of the man and the boy who’d visited the widows’ homes appeared up on the wall directly behind Perrin.
‘This is a composite sketch of two people we believe may be able to help us with our enquiry. We know that the two women who were killed were visited by these people a week or so before their death.’
A murmur went around the room.
‘Two women have been killed. Are we dealing with a serial killer, then?’ a man asked from the second row. Morel recognized the France-Soir reporter. A weaselly-looking character whose stories always stank.
‘We do believe there is a connection between the two murders. However, I am reluctant to use the words serial killer,’ Perrin said, making ‘reluctant’ sound a great deal like ‘eager’. ‘All I can say is that at this stage we are treating them as the work of a single person.’
‘Do we know why they were targeted?’ a woman asked. Her name was Laure Rousset and she had been with Le Monde ever since Morel had known her. They had dated for a while, nothing serious, but he liked and respected her.
‘We are still looking into that,’ Perrin said.
‘Are these the ones who killed the two pensioners?’
‘How big is your crystal ball?’ Perrin said while Morel cringed. ‘It would be great if we could be that certain. At this stage it’s too early to draw such conclusions. But we think they – the man in particular – can help us solve these murders. It’s crucial that we find them.’
There were more questions. Morel had a feeling Perrin would sit here all afternoon if he could, but after a while even he saw that it was time to end the briefing. Several of the journalists were looking at their watches. He stood up and called the briefing to a close.
‘Time to let us get on with our work,’ he barked. ‘Thank you for coming.’
As the camera crews gathered up their equipment and the room slowly emptied, Laure came up to Morel.
‘Have you got a minute?’
‘Sure.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘How are you, Laure?’
‘Well. I expect you’re pretty busy with this going on.’
He nodded, waiting to hear what might come next. She hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. He figured her sudden interest in him had more to do with the dead widows than with any nostalgia about their brief encounter.
‘Any chance we could catch up over a drink?’
Morel gave her a rueful smile. ‘In other circumstances, I’d be delighted. But I don’t think Perrin would be too happy to see us huddling over drinks together while this investigation
is open.’
‘Well, maybe when this case is closed,’ Laure said, looking around the room, perhaps for someone else who might buy her a drink. ‘Any idea how close you might be to catching your killer?’ she asked, turning to him again. He saw her feign an interest she did not feel, hoping no doubt to sway him.
‘I’d like to say we’re close. But you know I can’t talk to you about it.’
‘Fair enough. I had to try,’ she said. She touched his arm. ‘Keep in touch, OK?’
‘Sure,’ Morel said.
No one else was there just yet when he returned to his desk. Making the most of his time alone, he dialled Solange’s number and arranged to meet her after work.
An evening with beautiful, kind-hearted Solange was just what he needed.
At lunchtime Morel’s team watched the midday news in the office. They were joined by Patrick Sergeant, whose team Perrin had assigned to provide support in Morel’s investigation.
As expected, the faces of the two they were looking for loomed large on the TV screen. It was the lead story. A number flashed across the bottom of the screen for people to call if they had any useful information to pass on.
‘Let the madness begin,’ Sergeant said. He was referring to the flood of calls they would undoubtedly be getting from every Tom, Dick and Harry who thought they might have seen the pair or who simply wanted their two minutes of fame, to be part of the story.
Sure enough, the phones started ringing shortly after. A team had been set up to deal with the incoming calls and forward those that seemed genuine and vaguely promising. Every call that wasn’t put through would still be logged in detail, for Morel’s people to review at the end of each day.
By 6 p.m. they had received 120 calls from people claiming they had sighted the man and the boy shown on television. Several, Morel found out when he checked the log book, were from self-dubbed mediums who had apparently managed to talk to both Elisabeth Guillou and Isabelle Dufour beyond the grave. Morel had dealt with five callers personally. One seemed promising, a man who claimed to have met the two evangelists at a Baptist convention in the US state of Louisiana. Morel felt his pulse quicken until the man declared he himself had recently been born again after wandering for years in the desert. When he finally confided that he was Jesus Christ, Morel thanked him politely and hung up.
By 7 p.m. Morel started packing up. Only Lila was still there, sitting with her feet propped up on the desk. Neither felt much like talking.
‘I’m getting out of here. You should do the same,’ he told Lila.
‘Marie Latour,’ Lila said. ‘She attended the Russia exhibition.’
‘Bingo,’ Morel said softly.
‘I’ll give Guillou’s children a call,’ Lila said. ‘They might be able to tell us whether she attended the exhibition too. You never know. She might have gone with her son or daughter, or told them about it.’
Morel nodded.
‘Marco is on his way back from Versailles, by the way,’ Morel said. ‘They’ve agreed to be a little bit cooperative. One of their guys will be on night watch.’
‘He’ll be happy to hear it,’ Lila said.
‘And Marie Latour is staying with her daughter for a few days. So I won’t have to rely on our colleagues in Maisons-Laffltte any more.’
‘Good.’
‘Are you OK?’ Morel asked. He couldn’t see Lila’s face but he could tell by her stiff posture that something was on her mind.
‘Fine. Just tired, that’s all.’
‘Go home.’
‘OK, OK.’
Lila grabbed her jacket and headed down the stairs. She found her car and drove it towards Neuilly with her window rolled down. The sun was setting and while the traffic flowed reasonably well, the footpaths were crowded, mostly, she guessed, with people from out of town. Along the Champs-Élysées, they ambled down the side lanes converted into pedestrian zones, past luxury shop fronts and cinemas. There was a constant flow of people coming up the steps from the Métro stations and the cafes and restaurants were doing a brisk trade.
If Morel knew where she was heading, he’d have a fit, she thought.
In Neuilly, Lila found Jacques Dufour’s house and parked outside. She rolled a cigarette while she waited. She was sitting outside their home for the second night in a row, waiting for him to do something. During the first interview with the Dufours, she had watched Jacques closely. He’d been twitchy. She was certain she’d recognized the signs. The way he pinched his nostrils and wiped at his nose. All his little ticks. The dilated pupils.
The twitchiness, the latent anger. It fit together.
Anne had been equally twitchy during their second interview yesterday, though clearly for different reasons, and Lila hadn’t for a moment believed her when she’d said Jacques would be away for the week. The previous night, nothing unusual had happened, he had returned from work around eight and not gone out again. Not out with the mistress, then. She was fine with that. But she knew it was just a question of time before he revealed himself.
She was rolling her second cigarette when his car passed her and turned into the Dufours’ driveway. The gates closed and it went dark and silent again.
An hour later the gates opened and Dufour drove his car out again. He turned in the opposite direction from the one he’d come from earlier, and turned left onto Avenue de Neuilly before heading towards the motorway.
‘You’re making it too easy for me, Jacques,’ Lila said.
For all she knew, he could be heading out for a game of bowling with some work mates. But if he had anything to conceal, she would find out what it was and shove it in his face at the earliest opportunity.
Morel lay naked on his back, enjoying the feel of Solange’s fingers against his chest. He had no intention of moving for the next seven hours or so.
When his phone rang, he looked to see who it was. He recognized the number as police headquarters and answered.
‘I’ve got a woman on the phone, says she has something to share regarding the two suspects,’ the duty officer said.
‘Put her on, then,’ Morel said, too tired to argue that the call was probably a waste of time.
‘Morel speaking.’
‘Hello?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘My name is Amelia Berg. I have something to tell you regarding the man whose portrait you broadcast on television. I would have called earlier but I only saw it just now. By chance, in fact, as I don’t watch the news every day.’
‘What is it you want to tell me, madame?’ Morel prompted, thinking that otherwise it would be a while before she got to the point.
‘It’s an incredible likeness. Whoever drew the picture has a real gift. Anyway, he and my son went to school together.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Armand Le Bellec,’ she said.
‘Where does he live?’ Morel said, gesturing to Solange to get him something he could write with. He watched her step across the room naked and return with pen and paper.
‘I’m not sure. But I can tell you he was just here, in my garden.’
Morel frowned. ‘Where are you calling from?’
She named a village in Brittany Morel had never heard of.
‘Listen to me carefully, Madame Berg. I need you to hang up and call the gendarmes,’ Morel said.
To his amazement, he heard the woman laugh. ‘For what? I’ve known Armand since he was a child. I have nothing to be afraid of.’
He was about to speak when she continued. ‘To tell you the truth, I’m more worried about him.’
Morel looked at his watch. ‘Would you mind leaving me your details? I’d like to be able to call you back. We’re going to have some questions.’
‘Certainly.’ She gave him her address and phone number and told him she would be home all week.
After he hung up, Morel turned to Solange. He hugged her and tenderly kissed each of her breasts.
‘I’m sorry but I have to go,’ he said.
‘Somehow I knew you were going to say that,’ she said.
EIGHTEEN
When they said Russia, at first he baulked. He had never travelled outside France. First the village, then university in Rennes, only an hour from home. He was expected to catch the bus back every Friday afternoon and spend the weekends with his mother. There was no money to do anything else, in any case. He knew so little of life. Russia seemed like a place where he might get lost and never be found.
But he had to get away.
He packed one suitcase. He had so few belongings. His books stayed behind, with his mother. He gave his notice at the dorm where he lived during the week and on the last night took his mother out for dinner. She’d wanted to cook for him but he felt more comfortable going out somewhere where she couldn’t make a fuss. When the time came to leave the restaurant, she offered to put him up for the night. They could drive back to the village together, and she would drive him back in the next day, in time for his flight. Wouldn’t that be nicer than to spend the night before his departure alone in town? He could see she was hurt by his response, could feel it as he walked away from her. But he knew he couldn’t face the house and his old room.
There was no one else to say goodbye to. He flew Air France days after the airline ended its strike. Normally he didn’t drink but on the plane he had two small bottles of wine. It was a mistake. Afterwards he had to throw up in the toilet. He spent the rest of the flight in a stupor, staring at the picture on the screen of a toy plane drawing a line across a map of Europe.
As the plane circled Sheremetyevo airport he heard the hostess say the temperature was minus twenty on the ground. Minus twenty! He closed his eyes and tried to imagine what that was like. All he could picture was a pointless immensity, a silence you could drown in.
How dreadfully anxious he’d been, during those first, wintry months! How tempting, to take the first flight back and bury himself in a small town somewhere. But he didn’t. And after a couple of weeks it became a lot easier than he’d imagined. He found that he was a good teacher and that his students liked him. They weren’t a bad lot. Precocious for the most part, privileged and pampered, but also a hell of a lot more mature than kids that age back home, the ones he’d gone to school with.
The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) Page 13