The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1)

by Anna Jaquiery

  ‘I know we all want to go home but I want to make sure we’ve covered every angle and that everyone’s up to speed. This is what we know. Armand Le Bellec was last seen in his home town in Brittany three days ago. We have good reason to believe he is back in Paris. We know he had a relationship with Charles Berg – a strong friendship that developed into something more. They fell in love. They carried on in secret until they were found out by Le Bellec’s mother. A deeply religious and conservative woman, by all accounts. A woman people found it difficult to get on with. After she found out what the boys were up to, she took Armand out of school for six months. We don’t know what happened during those six months but we do know that when Armand came back to school he was a different person. He avoided Charles and withdrew into himself.’

  ‘What was Le Bellec doing back in the village?’ Lila asked.

  ‘We don’t know. Maybe he’s feeling the pressure and he’s scared. Maybe he was reaching out to his old friend.’ Morel looked at his team. ‘Anyone want to say anything at this stage?’

  ‘Why the false name?’ Lila said. ‘And if he is guilty, which the false identity implies, I still don’t get what the motive was. What has this Le Bellec got against old women?’

  ‘I’ve thought about that,’ Morel said. ‘When I spoke to my old friend Paul Chesnay last week, he mentioned that the American Baptist preacher Billy Graham had made quite a splash when he visited Moscow in the nineties.’ He shook his head. ‘I was a fool not to work it out earlier. Baptism in the Baptist Church is traditionally by complete immersion.’

  Everyone stared at Morel. Akil was the first to speak.

  ‘You’re saying that the drownings are a kind of cleansing. By performing the Baptist ritual of immersion, the killer, this Le Bellec, is allowing the victims to be born again.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Morel looked at Akil approvingly. ‘I think our friend Armand Le Bellec drowned Isabelle Dufour and Elisabeth Guillou as part of some misguided perception in his head that he is opening a door to a better life for them – a new beginning.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Lila said.

  ‘There are other churches that perform baptism by immersion,’ Morel said. ‘Traditionally the Russian Orthodox Church, for example, practises baptism by immersion. Particularly with infants. But given the language used in Le Bellec’s pamphlet, there is good reason to believe that he is a Baptist.’

  There was silence.

  ‘So when Le Bellec drowned Dufour and Guillou, he was actually baptizing them?’ Lila said.

  Morel nodded. ‘It explains the way the two widows were dressed and the way they were laid in their beds.’

  ‘What about the make-up? Is that a Baptist tradition too?’

  ‘It does seem to be in complete contradiction to the rest,’ Akil said. ‘The purity of the act, followed by the desecration of the face.’

  Morel turned to Akil. ‘You know, there’s something in that,’ he said slowly.

  ‘What?’ Lila asked.

  ‘What Akil said. First the ritual, the immersion of the victim, a baptism of sorts. Then the make-up. The make-up comes after. It’s almost as though Le Bellec himself is undergoing a change as he performs this act.’

  ‘Almost as though he is two people,’ Jean said.

  Morel gave him a sharp look. ‘Exactly.’

  ‘So what does the make-up symbolize?’ Lila asked. ‘Is it a reminder of the victim’s sinful past?’

  They all laughed. But there was confusion on everyone’s faces.

  ‘What about the boy?’ Lila asked.

  ‘We have to do our best to track him down too,’ Morel said. ‘It’s hard to imagine what his part is in all this. But I’m concerned about his welfare.’

  ‘Should we be talking to the child-protection squad?’ Lila asked.

  ‘We may have to at some stage. But at the moment I don’t see how they can help us.’

  Morel stood up.

  ‘We need to find every Baptist organization there is in Paris and its outskirts and run our photo of Armand past them. If he calls himself a Baptist then at some point he must have had some contact with one of these organizations.’

  ‘We’ve been through all that,’ Lila said.

  ‘Then we go through it again. This time we focus on the Baptists. Meanwhile, I’ve asked the school where Armand worked to let us know if he shows up again.’

  ‘Seems unlikely. The story’s been in the papers; there’s no way he’s going to waltz into the classroom as if nothing’s happened,’ Lila said.

  ‘I would have thought by now we’d have had a sighting. Given, as you say, that the picture’s been in the papers. Yet no one’s seen him apart from Charles and Amelia Berg. We’ve had dozens of calls, but none of them have given us anything useful,’ Jean said.

  ‘We can only hope that changes,’ Morel said. ‘Maybe we’ll get lucky. I’m also making contact with Moscow,’ he continued. ‘Until now we’ve focused all our efforts on finding Le Bellec. But we need to find out more about the boy. How and where Le Bellec found him, whether the adoption process was legal. And also when and where Le Bellec converted. My feeling is that the more we know about the boy, the closer we are to understanding Le Bellec.’ Morel looked around the room. ‘Any questions?’

  No one spoke.

  ‘Good. Then I suggest we all head home and catch up on some sleep. I’ll see you all here tomorrow morning, bright and early.’

  Morel watched Jean and Marco leave the room while Lila gathered her things. He was completely exhausted. But they were close. For the first time he allowed himself to relax, just a little.

  Maybe tonight he would spare some time for his plans. He was almost at the point where he could begin with the folding. Give shape to the owl.

  Tomorrow, he would track Le Bellec down.

  Lila headed for the stairs and was surprised to encounter Akil, whom she thought had already left. She realized now that she hadn’t once been alone with him. She was annoyed to find herself blushing.

  ‘I’m starving,’ he said, with a smile that made her blush even more. ‘Want to join me for a quick bite?’

  Before he left the office Morel called a number in Moscow. He was surprised when the man answered. He had expected to get the answering machine.

  ‘Good evening, comrade,’ he said.

  The man at the other end of the line laughed. ‘Monsieur Morel, very pleased to hear from you. By the way, you know that word is out of fashion these days.’ His accent was thick but his French was good.

  Morel had met Ivan Golyubov during a three-day international symposium in Paris on policing and security. Morel had warmed to his gruff Russian counterpart and even spent an evening with him, trawling the streets around the Porte Maillot conference centre for a quiet place to drink. They’d ended up in the Russian’s room, drinking into the early hours of the morning. Maybe it was the vodka, which Morel wasn’t used to, but he had ended up talking more openly with the man than he’d done with anyone in years.

  ‘I have a favour to ask of you,’ Morel said now.

  ‘Of course. Happy to help if it is within my capacity.’

  ‘It’s just that I’d like to avoid the paperwork and the bureaucracy.’

  ‘What is it you need?’

  Morel explained the case to Golyubov, who listened carefully and didn’t speak until Morel had finished.

  ‘So, what can I do?’

  ‘I need to know more about the child and the adoption process. Someone must have helped with the adoption. Maybe they can tell me more about Le Bellec and about the boy.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  It was past 10 p.m. by the time Morel turned the lights off and headed to his car. He checked his phone messages and saw he had missed a call from Solange. This was the second call from her in two days and he hadn’t even returned the first.

  I’ll call her as soon as I get home, he thought.

  When Morel arrived at his hous
e he was surprised to find Adèle sleeping soundly on the living-room sofa. For some reason she was wearing a pair of his pyjamas. The lights were still on and there was a half-empty bottle of wine on the table beside her.

  He debated whether to wake her up but she was sleeping so soundly that he decided not to. Instead he carried the bottle of wine to the kitchen and poured himself a glass. In the fridge was some leftover shepherd’s pie. He dished some onto a plate and heated it up in the microwave.

  He returned to the living room with his drink and supper and sat across from his sister. She opened her eyes.

  ‘You’re back,’ she said. She sat up and looked at her watch.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Morel asked.

  ‘Something happened with Dad,’ she said.

  ‘What? What happened?’

  ‘He’s all right now,’ Adèle said. She came over and touched his arm. ‘You look worn out, Serge. Dad just had a funny turn. Augustine found him wandering down the street in his pyjamas this afternoon.’

  ‘In his pyjamas?’ Morel said.

  ‘She brought him back and now he’s asleep. It was lucky she found him. That it was her rather than a complete stranger, I mean.’

  Yes, because appearances matter above all else, Morel thought.

  ‘How come no one called me?’

  ‘Augustine called me instead. She was worried about disturbing you at work.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘No,’ Morel lied.

  ‘He needs to see a doctor,’ Adèle said.

  Morel looked at his shepherd’s pie. All of a sudden he didn’t feel so hungry any more. He set the plate on the table and poured more wine into his glass.

  ‘Serge.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you hear what I said? I can take care of it if you like. I can see you’ve got a lot on your mind at the moment. This case you’re working on—’

  ‘It’s fine. I’ll take care of it. I’ll call Dr Roland in the morning and make an appointment.’

  ‘Dad hasn’t been to see him in years. He always reckons he’s the only healthy one in the family. You know he’s going to be difficult about it, don’t you?’ Adèle said, smiling for the first time since he’d walked in.

  ‘Nothing new there,’ Morel said, before emptying his glass as if all it contained was water.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Once he left the Moscow Lycée and started teaching at the local school, Armand lost contact with most of his former French colleagues in the city. It was just as well. Better to make a fresh start, after all, untainted by the rumours that he knew must be circulating about him. Neither Olivia nor Amir ever attempted to contact him.

  At times, he missed their company, particularly Olivia’s. Even though she had betrayed him, there had been a real connection there. He tried not to dwell on it and kept himself busy, waiting for the moment when he would be able to take the boy back to France with him. There were a few more formalities to process, and he would be on his way.

  He saw more of Nina and Volodya. Nina told him she had recently converted to the Baptist faith and asked whether he might like to come to a service with her on Christmas Day.

  It wasn’t that he was lonely. Soon, he would have the boy. But weekends were empty and long. On Christmas morning he accompanied Nina for lack of anything better to do.

  She drove him through deserted streets to a draughty assembly hall in a school building. The hall was filled with elderly people bundled up against the unseasonably cold weather. As they came in they took off their coats and scarves and hung them on hooks along the walls. Conversations were subdued and the floor was slick with melted snow.

  ‘Meet Mike,’ Nina said, and Armand found himself shaking hands with a man whose long blond hair and beard gave him the look of a prophet. Pale blue eyes, pale skin. Bloodless lips. He must have been in his early thirties. A modern-day Jesus in jeans and a check shirt.

  ‘Welcome,’ was all he said. Armand watched him move away, shaking hands with people as they came in, holding back all the while as though he didn’t want to occupy the centre of the room, when in fact he was the focus. Everyone’s eyes were on him.

  Later, Armand would find out that Mike was from Louisiana and that he’d been born again in a state prison halfway through a seven-year sentence for aggravated assault. God had helped him overcome a drug and alcohol problem, Nina said.

  Meanwhile the dreamy-eyed American shook hands and smiled at everyone he made contact with. He might have given up drugs but he still looked spaced out, Armand thought. He watched Mike get on stage and pick up his guitar. A fat woman in a red hat and a red dress two sizes too small for her shook a tambourine, swaying from side to side. The people standing before them swayed too, as if mesmerized. Up on stage there was a makeshift altar with a candle burning, the words ‘The Lord Is Thy Light’ inscribed on it. A tacky souvenir, that’s all it is, Armand thought. He felt ashamed for these people and their readiness to join in. Were they so lonely and afraid that they needed an ex-convict from Louisiana to give them hope?

  Mike stopped strumming and the woman placed her tambourine on the stage. You could have heard a pin drop. Then Mike looked around him and spoke up.

  ‘The question is this: if you are a believer, where is your faith? If you are a Christian,’ the man said, raising his voice, ‘then where are you serving Christ?’ The ‘where’ resonated with meaning. A ripple of words ran through the listeners. ‘Today, we come together to serve Christ in this assembly hall, our church, humble as it may be.’ He spread his arms and the woman in the hat did the same.

  The words rose to a torrent of noise. Mike came down from the stage and moved among the people. Armand took a step back, but the man’s gaze rested on him. Armand’s thoughts were all over the place, jumping from fascination to repulsion, and back again. He could not see or feel what these people saw and felt, yet he envied them their easy acceptance. How convenient it was to simply believe!

  Mike obviously had no clue what Armand was thinking. He came up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘You know, we don’t just open our doors to anyone who wants to join,’ Mike told Armand. ‘But I can tell by your eyes that you’re one of us. You belong right here.’

  Armand could have told him he wasn’t the joining type. But Nina was standing by his side and he didn’t want to disappoint her. Not after what she’d done for him.

  So he smiled and nodded. It was easier than starting an argument about faith. He could tell this Mike a few things about what religion did to a person. His own mother, for example. But looking at the man before him, caught up in his comforting little daydream, he knew there was no point.

  When Nina finally suggested they go he was relieved. He thought he would never go back there again.

  Until the following Sunday, when she knocked on his door and asked whether he would like to join her. He thought for a while before agreeing. This time, he told himself, he would explain a thing or two to Mike about faith and forgiveness.

  Gradually, in his own time, Armand became a convert. Not in the mindless, gaping sense that he attributed to others. He would not sway and weep, nor would he nod at every word the American preacher uttered or sang, as though pearls of wisdom fell from his lips.

  There was nothing Mike could tell him that he couldn’t work out for himself. He would follow his own way.

  Armand and the boy left Russia and arrived in Paris in early summer, a day before the boy’s seventh birthday. They booked into a hotel room in Montmartre for a week. On Dima’s birthday, Armand took him out for breakfast, at a cafe on Rue des Abbesses. Armand watched as Dima gobbled up his croissant and emptied his cup of hot chocolate in one gulp. With his pale face and wide eyes and his cropped black hair, he drew stares. There were shadows under his eyes and he was too thin. He looked like he’d been in hospital and was convalescing.

  After breakfast Armand took Dima for a walk along the river.
He bought clothes for the boy. Two pairs of jeans and five long-sleeved shirts, to cover the boy’s arms. Sneakers and a baseball cap. The boy was completely taken by the cap. He looked at his reflection in the mirror for a long time while Armand paid for the things he’d bought.

  Wherever they went after that, the boy wore the cap.

  It rained often but that didn’t stop Armand from taking Dima out each day to introduce him to his new surroundings. He bought a toy sailboat and they watched it float across the fountain at the Jardin du Luxembourg. At the Jardin d’Acclimatation amusement park they rode a boat along the magic river, through a landscape of reeds and weeping willows. They ate candy-floss and Armand won a blue teddy for Dima by knocking down three milk bottles in a row. The boy’s face never changed but he wanted more. Insisted on going on the merry-go-round six times, changing his ride each time from a rocket to a car to something else, before Armand was able to drag him away. Dima rode a pony with his back ramrod-straight, both hands on the animal’s neck. Not like he felt the need to hold on but like he was discovering the feel and shape of its hide and bones. When Armand urged him once to choose a toy in a shop and Dima chose a fluffy white dog, he ran his hands over it again and again with the same thoughtful gesture.

  From the beginning, Armand spoke to the child in French. He wanted to make sure the boy would be ready for his new life. Classified as an idiot by the orphanage because of his muteness – despite the fact that he was in no way mentally retarded – the boy had not received any education.

  Beneath the expressionless gaze Armand could see Dima’s mind at work. Intensely processing every new thing that came his way. At times the light seemed to hurt his eyes. He ate every meal as though it were his last and Armand had to hold him back, beg him to slow down.

  Armand had never walked so much. It was the boy who insisted, his skinny little legs infused with unexpected strength. The left leg determined to keep up with the right. The boy walked as though he was making up for a lifetime of immobility.

  Armand was the one with blisters on the soles of his feet at the end of the day. The boy did wear himself out, though. He fell asleep within seconds each night, his face and arms pressed tight against the fluffy dog.