Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  Once outside, I lift my head to the sky. It’s dark grey with heavy, menacing clouds, which doesn’t bode well for the rest of the day.

  In exchange for my reservation code, I get the ticket I’ve pre-booked on my phone out of a machine. Departure is in ten minutes and I can already see the train waiting at the platform. I board it and settle down into my first-class seat. I would never ordinarily allow myself this kind of luxury, but I need the peace and quiet today. I can’t be dealing with any bothersome people at the moment.

  CHAPTER 17

  There aren’t many people in my carriage, but there are enough to get on my nerves. Two men and two women in impeccably tailored clothing are particularly annoying. They’re probably part of some sales team, off to an important conference or something equally dreadful. They’re talking too loudly, especially the older man who I bet is the team leader, maybe even the commercial director or some other meaningless title. Whoever he is, the other three all force out extra-loud laughs whenever he makes a joke. They must be the only ones who get his wit, because everyone in the carriage can hear him and they’re managing to contain themselves. We’ve only been on this train for ten minutes and I’ve already had enough.

  The woman sitting next to me is just as exasperating. She’s beautiful, but she knows it. She pretended to be not quite strong enough to put her bag up on the luggage rack. She obviously thought it completely natural that I would want to help her, and hardly thanked me when I did. Since we left the station, she has done her best to look elsewhere whenever I’ve lifted my eyes from the paper I’m marking. She’s definitely one of the sorts I know I won’t miss when I shed this mortal coil.

  The sales team makes its way towards the bar, I assume, guffawing at nothing every step of the way. It’s grotesque. One of the men must have doused himself in cologne this morning. It’s coming off him in waves. He hits my elbow on his way past. He’s one of the thoroughly irritating people I was hoping to avoid by paying more. He doesn’t even apologise.

  I wait a couple of minutes. I don’t even bother gathering my belongings together. I just leave all my papers on top of my laptop, along with my phone, and follow them.

  The bar is two carriages down from mine and, as I expected, there stands the little sales group. The boss guy is paying for two beers and two fruit juices, which the stewardess is placing down on the counter with a fake smile. One of the women struggles to carry the drinks over to a table. The other two are laughing at her as she tries to keep her balance. The big boss pockets his change and turns to join in the fun. ‘Let’s hope your sales figures go up, because I can’t see you being much cop at a crappy waitress job!’

  From behind her counter, the stewardess rolls her eyes slightly. She must see men like him and hear their tedious remarks day in, day out. I imagine it washes over a person eventually.

  ‘What would you like, sir?’ she asks, her selling smile back on her face.

  ‘I’d like to kill that sorry excuse for a man’ is what immediately comes to mind, but instead I order a beer.

  ‘Cashews? Cookies? We’ve got a meal deal with . . .’

  She goes through the motions of reciting everything. No doubt she works on commission. I think I’ll leave her a tip. I decline her suggestions and she puts my can of beer down alongside a plastic glass.

  I nod my head in the direction of the foursome to my left and whisper, ‘Are all your customers that charming?’

  ‘Ha! I don’t take any notice these days. Especially not of him.’

  ‘Do you know him?’

  She leans in and whispers too. ‘He makes a return trip every Thursday. He’s always trying to chat us all up. He’s a real old perv. When we receive our timetables for the week, it’s always the first thing we look at – who’s going to have to put up with this guy!’

  ‘So it’s hard going?’

  She lowers her voice even further. ‘I have a colleague who was thinking about going to the police about him. He put his hand up her skirt. Management convinced her not to do it, to avoid a scandal.’

  Two other customers have just turned up and are waiting behind me. I thank the young woman and leave her the change from my €10 note. She looks very surprised and checks that I haven’t made a mistake. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done that; she’ll remember me now. And if anything should happen on this train . . .

  I move away from the counter and take a few steps towards the carriage wall and the windows. I pretend to be reflecting on the stark countryside whizzing past at 280 kilometres an hour and watch the old pervert in the reflection of the glass. I’m also listening to him. He’s bragging to his colleagues about how he made the new trainee girl all hot and bothered as they left their meeting this afternoon. He really is a disgrace.

  The conversation then moves on to how it’s the company anniversary soon and how they’ll all be going out to celebrate at Paradis Latin. This sad little man goes on and on about how he can get any woman he wants at this club, and how much he loves the place. I’m just about to leave him to it when – and there’s no such thing as chance in this life – this lovely little snippet reaches my ears: ‘She’s safe, at least. I wouldn’t touch a black girl with anyone’s barge pole! I’d have to be gagging.’

  I don’t need to know who he’s referring to. Two of his colleagues are openly giggling. One of the women isn’t sharing the general hilarity, but isn’t exactly protesting either. He goes on to add, ‘I reckon I’d rather be queer than sleep with a nigger.’

  Just for a moment, and even though I’m hardly what you’d call an expert on the subject, I’m wondering whether he’s trying out some alternative comedy; but no – the man’s sincere enough.

  I look down at my watch. We’ll be in Paris in a little under twenty minutes. I still have the other syringe that Chloé prepared. It’s in my pocket. Why did she bother to make two of them anyway? I can feel it between my fingertips. It’s ready to go. The temptation is strong. I hesitate for a few seconds longer but then get it out and slip it carefully up my sleeve. What happens next is up to him. If he goes for a pee, he’s dead. If his bladder is as big as a bucket, he’ll be allowed to carry on with his pathetic little existence – which would be a shame. I have high hopes. He’s definitely the type to think about the practicalities of things. I can tell. He won’t want to get a sudden urge when he’s on the Métro or in a taxi.

  The minutes go by and it doesn’t look like anything’s going to happen. I think about getting another beer because I need a reason to be hanging around here; I’ve been in the bar a while now. But then, I should be getting back to my stuff – particularly my mobile. They’re looking down at their watches too, but the women both have their handbags already and the men their briefcases. I imagine they left nothing back at their seats.

  Our train slows down and the first high-rises of the northern suburbs of Paris are coming into view. It’s now or never.

  ‘I’m dying to take a slash! Wait here for me.’

  The sheer elegance of his words only serves to reassure me. My initial judgement was right. This man doesn’t deserve to survive me. Why should I pass over to whatever comes next while he gets to stay here? He may well be around for decades to come. There’s no rhyme nor reason and I need to remedy it.

  He crosses the bar and steps into the toilets, which are situated at the far end of the adjacent carriage. I don’t think he’s the sort who washes his hands afterwards – I mean, everything else about him is disgusting. He won’t be in there long. I’m standing in front of the door now. It just looks as though I’m waiting my turn. I’ve taken the needle from my sleeve and it’s in my hand. I hear him flush the loo and the lock on the door opens within seconds. What did I say about hand-washing?

  I have just enough time to pull off the little plastic tip at the end of the needle. A quick look left and then right. There’s nobody in very close proximity. I slam the door into the bastard’s head and push him with all my weight so that he’s stuck behind it. He shouts ou
t a little, but the sound is drowned out by the racket of the train slowing down. I add more pressure. I’m hurting him now. His left leg is totally jammed, and stretched out towards me. I stab the needle into his thigh, straight through his suit trousers.

  I spot the first signs almost immediately. His body stiffens as he tries to let out whimpers of protest, but these soon turn into laboured breathing. There’s no way he can even attempt to defend himself. I step away from the door a little. He is bathed in sweat and trying desperately to undo the knot in his tie. He doesn’t manage it before his head bangs down into the stainless-steel washbasin.

  I hope I can trust whatever it is I’ve just injected him with. Chloé did boast of its merits, but I could maybe have asked more questions. There’s bound to be an autopsy and I hope that it establishes cardiac arrest as the cause of death.

  I walk back in the direction I came and right past what has now become a trio. I overhear a snippet of their discussion which amuses me somewhat.

  ‘Do you think his prostate is playing up?’

  Spineless idiots. No sooner is his back turned than they . . . Well, I don’t think they’re going to miss their boss all that much.

  When I get back to my seat, it’s as if my high-maintenance neighbour is waiting for me to help her get her case back down. I pick up my papers and my phone and totally ignore her. I can sense that she isn’t taking this too well. I think I actually hear her mutter something along the lines of ‘That’s nice’, but I’m completely impervious. If she had any inkling as to what I’ve just done, she’d be a little more careful right now.

  As I alight the train at Gare du Nord and cross the main hall with a spring in my step, I know I’ve done what needed to be done. In fact, I believe this little stunt has done me some good. The shiver that went down my spine as I stuck the needle in and watched him keel over was really something. It truly is the simplest of pleasures and one I regret not having more time to repeat regularly. The only thing I’m a little concerned about is working out what to say to Chloé when she asks me for the second syringe back. Oh, I’ll improvise. I’m more than capable of justifying my actions if it comes to it.

  Actually, this all feels quite refreshing. I’m not in the same mood at all as when I left Lille. I prove this by not thinking twice about rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi and getting on the Métro to make my way home.

  When I exit Saint-Sulpice station, I feel as though all the Parisians have upped and left during my absence. It’s a warm evening and I walk up Rue Bonaparte until I reach my flat. As I meander along, I’m overtaken by a few joggers who are building up a sweat around the streets of the Luxembourg district, but it’s nowhere near as crowded as usual. I arrive outside the heavy door that leads to the indoor courtyard and type in the code, which lets me through to the entranceway and all the letterboxes. I open mine up, not expecting to find anything other than the odd bill. Wrong. There’s some sort of official-looking envelope with a seal, but no stamp. I rip it open with my stomach churning. The letterhead reads National Police Headquarters and I’m immediately shaken. It’s an appearance notice. I have to go and see a certain Major Charvin on Monday for ‘an affair that concerns me’. This is going to ruin my entire evening.

  CHAPTER 18

  It’s a long evening indeed. Very long. I pass a restless night, alternating between periods of sleep and interminable periods of insomnia, despite the sleeping tablet I take. At around 6 a.m., I finally accept that I’m not going to drift off again, so I get up and wait until I can call this Major Charvin. I get through to the station at 8 a.m. I’m told that he won’t be there for at least another hour, but that a message will be passed on to him and that he’ll be back in touch at his earliest convenience. It turns out that that’s five minutes later. The fact that he calls me so soon makes me fear the worst.

  His voice is, however, fairly reassuring. ‘Monsieur Gaudin, first of all let me thank you for contacting me so quickly. It saves us both having to waste time waiting until Monday, doesn’t it?’

  ‘You’re m-more than welcome,’ I stammer.

  ‘You don’t live far from our offices, I believe. Would it bother you to pop over and see me this morning? If you’re free, of course.’

  ‘That’s no problem at all. What time would suit?’

  ‘Whenever is best for you. Now, if you like.’

  ‘Yes, I can do that.’

  ‘Righty ho, then. You need to come to 36 Quai des Orfèvres and tell my colleague on reception that you have a meeting with Major Charvin from the crime unit. You’ll need a piece of ID.’

  ‘Understood. But . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can you tell me what all this is about, please?’

  ‘I’d rather explain everything face to face, but don’t worry – it’s probably all just a formality. See you shortly.’

  I hang up, feeling just a little bit better.

  The police officer at the entrance to the building is very young. He has a way of looking at my ID card that makes me imagine what my face looks like when people go on at me for not eating organic food. He holds it between his thumb and forefinger and taps it on the desk while he uses his other hand to phone Charvin.

  ‘Major? It’s Berthoud down at the desk. I’ve got a Monsieur Gaudin who says you’re expecting him.’

  I can’t hear the reply.

  ‘That’s fine. I’ll send him up.’

  He puts my ID card into a pigeonhole and explains, ‘You need to take off anything metallic you have on you: keys, telephone, change . . . and then walk through the detector. Then cross the hallway. At the back, on the left, take the big staircase up to the second floor and someone will come and collect you. When you’ve finished, don’t forget to come back and pick up your ID card. All sound good?’

  ‘Err, yes . . . I think so.’

  It’s an intimidating place. I don’t think I’ve ever even picked up a crime novel or watched Poirot on TV or anything like that, but there’s something fascinating about 36 Quai des Orfèvres. The old stone walls, the inner courtyard, the monumental staircase with its worn-looking black lino . . . There’s a solemn air throughout the building, not to mention the plain-clothes police whose mere presence is very imposing. I really hope that I’m not expected to be here long.

  There’s another reception desk of sorts at the top of the staircase. I start to approach it when I hear my name being called out.

  ‘Monsieur Gaudin?’

  He’s plump with balding white hair and I imagine he can’t be far off retiring. He’s wearing jeans and a grey tailored jacket over a white shirt, but no tie. I notice a huge signet ring on his right hand. In my heightened state, I start imagining how much it would hurt if he were to give me a beating . . .

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Major Charvin. Come with me.’

  He unlocks a barrier and I walk through with him. Once we’re on the other side, he turns back towards me and shakes my hand. The smile he gives me is bordering on warm.

  ‘Thank you for coming to see me. Follow me. We’ll chat in my office.’

  I walk behind him as we make our way up an open staircase to the fourth floor and then down a labyrinth of narrow corridors leading to cramped offices. As I look up at the ceiling, I see dozens and dozens of uncovered electric cables smothered in years’ worth of dust. The walls are yellowing and it’s all pretty bleak. For such a prestigious address, I’m genuinely taken aback at its state of disrepair.

  The major looks over his shoulder as he speaks. No doubt he’s used to receiving people here and having to explain the condition of the building. ‘People are always a little shocked when they first come to see us here. You wouldn’t think that this is where some of the best police officers in France work, would you? I’m not talking about myself, of course. We’re supposed to be moving in a few months.’

  We arrive at a doorway. He pushes down on an old copper handle, the likes of which I haven’t seen since I was knee-high.

&nbs
p; ‘Come on in and sit down. My desk is just there on the right.’

  The floor has a slight gradient and the space is poorly lit by a minuscule window up towards the ceiling. There are two other desks in the room, but neither is occupied. I take a seat, as requested, in front of the one on the right. The major walks behind it and sinks down with a sigh. He switches on one of those flexible desk lamps. I’m half expecting him to shine it in my eyes, but he turns it towards a pile of folders on his desk before taking the top one and opening it up.

  ‘Monsieur Gaudin,’ he begins, with kindness in his voice, ‘we’re currently looking into the worrying disappearance of someone and I have a few questions to ask you. I hope that’s all right?’

  Disappearance? So he doesn’t want to see me about Reimbach, then. Maybe Stéphanie Tisserand? But that would mean her body hasn’t yet been discovered. That’d be a bit of good luck for me.

  ‘Of course it is . . .’ I say falteringly. ‘I’m all ears.’

  He gets out a sheet of paper from the folder and studies it before showing it to me.

  ‘Could you please confirm that since the twenty-seventh of June you’ve been in possession of a rented Renault Twingo with the registration plate CE 247 BR, and that you got this vehicle from the Hertz agency at Paris-Montparnasse?’

  So, it is about Stéphanie Tisserand. I’ve been spotted.

  Keep your cool, Régis, and think about what questions might crop up next.

  ‘Yes, that’s right. I’m renting a Twingo at the moment from Hertz. I’m not sure about the registration, though. It must be what you’ve said.’