Six Months to Kill

by Enzo Bartoli

  It is at this moment that the DJ chooses to change the tune. He’s doing some sort of loop thing with the records. It means that for a few moments – not long – the volume of the music lowers enough for us to pick up on a snippet of a conversation taking place between a client and the barman.

  ‘ . . . need to see Abdou. Is he here?’

  ‘No. And you won’t see him for some time. Fari told me he’s gone to ground for a while. I don’t know where he is. He took a plane out of here this afternoon anyway. He thinks he . . .’

  Abdou . . . It can only be our Abdou Nkomo. Fari must be a nickname for his girlfriend. Farisa Goumi. Chloé can’t help herself. She stops in her tracks. The barman stares at us and I push her forward a bit so that he doesn’t get a good look at our faces. We walk to the exit under the suspicious eyes of the young woman working in the cloakroom and the bouncer on the door. When we get to the car park, Chloé stops again. I try to nudge her towards the car. There are too many people around and I don’t imagine they’d necessarily take our side in the event of a scuffle. I get behind the wheel ready to drive us out of the danger zone and she climbs in beside me, but I haven’t even started up the engine before she starts protesting.

  ‘Don’t, Régis! We need to go back.’

  ‘No way! It’s too dangerous!’

  ‘We’ll go about it carefully! Just leave it to me! I can get the barman to believe that . . .’

  ‘You’ve no chance! What’s got into you? You’ll only have to say a couple of words and Nkomo will be warned that some dodgy woman is looking for him.’

  ‘Dodgy! Thanks a lot!’

  ‘You know what I mean. You’re not the type he usually hangs out with.’

  ‘But we need to know where he’s gone. I’m sure this is our only chance.’

  ‘I totally agree with you. If he’s gone off on his travels, he’ll be a lot less protected than he is at home. A lot less careful, too. And he’s not the sort of person to go unnoticed. We’d stand a better chance of putting him down abroad.’

  ‘But we need to know exactly where he’s hiding out and how long he’s planning on staying there.’

  ‘We can find out. It’s just that there are more discreet ways of doing things.’

  ‘Care to let me in on them?’

  ‘I will. In twenty minutes. That’s how long it’ll take us to get back to Paris. And in the future, remember that I was the one who had some sense here tonight.’

  I leave Chloé in my living room warming her hands on a cup of tea, in the hope that the caffeine will be enough to keep her awake. I also switch on the TV. Some 1980s sitcom is playing. I head through to my office and close the door behind me. I need to spend some time alone on the old Web. I give myself fifteen minutes, but just ten minutes later I’m able to go and fetch Chloé to come and take a look.

  Contrary to expectations, she’s wide awake. I’m actually surprised to find her laughing her head off in front of my huge flat-screen. She turns and looks at me as I enter the room, unable to contain her giggles. ‘I didn’t even know this was still on! I’ve always loved it! I never missed an episode when I was at school.’

  ‘Well, now you know what to do with yourself when we’re done. Are you coming? I’ve found him.’

  She hardly reacts to the news I’ve just given her. She stands but pauses in front of the television for a couple more seconds, trying to catch another gag before switching it off and following me through to my office.

  She leans in to look at my screen and I get the reaction I was hoping for.

  ‘What? “IBIZA. Return. 24 JULY . . .” What is this site? Honestly, I can truly say I’m gobsmacked!’

  Her eyes are glued to the screen, on which appears Nkomo’s parking reservation.

  ‘It’s a confirmation email for his car. He wants it under lock and key.’

  ‘And how come you thought of that?’

  ‘Easy! You know how much care he takes of that thing. There’s no way he’d leave it in your average airport car park. He’d want it in a private facility. Tucked away nice and safe. Somewhere with a taxi service to the airport. There are only two places that offer that kind of thing and they’re both near Roissy. And when you make a booking with them, you need to give them your return flight number. You gave me the password for his account. All I had to do was open his mailbox and it all fell into place.’

  ‘You’re just fabulous!’ She doesn’t give me enough time to savour my moment of triumph before she’s on to the next part of the plan. ‘So, the twenty-fourth of July! That gives us ten days. So tomorrow, or worst-case scenario, the day after tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Don’t forget that we’re slap-bang in the middle of the school holidays.’

  ‘I can still manage it. It’s just a matter of price, isn’t it? And what’s great is that Ibiza isn’t that big a place. And, like you said, he’s hard to miss, but we’ll have our work cut out if we want to know what hotel he’s in.’

  ‘I know where he’s staying.’

  I might be getting above my station, but I’m sure that she’s more than impressed with me this time. I add modestly, ‘The flight is managed by one of those tour operators specialising in all-inclusive clubbing holidays. It’s not the sort of holiday I know a lot about, but basically, you pay for the flight and full board at a hotel and then you get a pass to go to all the clubs and drink your fill. I went on their site and I found the name of the hotel they’ve partnered up with. It’s called Bora-Bora.’

  Chloé seems to have rediscovered the enthusiasm that had deserted her back in the club. I know she’s itching to get into my chair to take over.

  ‘I need to take a look at flights,’ she says, grabbing the mouse out of my hand.

  She’s already opened up three different flight comparison sites before she pauses, her head spinning back to look at me. She frowns.

  ‘You had your last injection a couple of days ago, right? When have you got to see your doctor again?’

  ‘Monday. I’m seeing him on Monday.’

  ‘That means we’re going to have to wait until Tuesday before we can leave. Or we go now, and you nip back quickly to see your doctor and then fly back over to join me. What do you think?’

  ‘I’ll call my doctor. I reckon I can sort it out with him. There’s no need for all the to-ing and fro-ing. Just get whatever tickets you can for tomorrow evening.’

  ‘Are you sure about this?’

  ‘My doctor won’t refuse me a thing. We’re beyond that now.’

  CHAPTER 22

  I’ve jumped ahead of myself a little, though. Professor Lazreg has no problem at all with my request, but I’ll have to wait until he gets back from a seminar in Montpellier and comes to my house on Saturday morning.

  When he arrives, he has sorted it all out in advance and everything is ready for me in a little travel case. On the phone, I explained that I was hoping to go away for a week – ten days at the most – and that I’d only require a single dose of my treatment; but he ends up giving me two syringes and two vials, insisting that I could always stay away a little longer should the desire take me.

  I can read between the lines easily enough. He means for me to live out the little time I have left as independently as possible, before I succumb to the inevitable weakening that awaits me, and my final days in a hospital bed. He gives me a very quick examination, which simply comprises taking my blood pressure and a quick feel around the glands in my throat. I don’t think he even bothers to read the measurement. He is quite clearly going through the motions and not expecting to see the slightest improvement in my state.

  He does, however, spend rather a lengthy amount of time briefing me on the precautions I need to take regarding the illegal injections I’m now in possession of. He starts by handing me a prescription which explains why I have these substances, so that I can get through airport security or a potential customs interview. He then, of course, reminds me again that he doesn’t actually have the right to prescribe this dr
ug and that, should I run into difficulties at any point, it’s probably wise if I don’t actually take the treatment, but rather call a doctor and ask that he or she make direct contact with him. He reiterates this point several times and I have to reassure him that I’ve understood.

  Strangely, although he’s always been more than interested in the comings and goings of my life, he doesn’t ask a single question as to my destination. He’s probably too worried about professional culpability. He leaves in a hurry and again makes a point of insisting that I can reach him at any time, day or night. I suppose this gives me a little comfort, although with the ultimate prognosis being what it is, nothing is really encouraging.

  And on that subject, although I don’t feel any of the symptoms he’s warned me of, I have taken a definite step back from life in general. I’m no longer that interested in what’s happening with the accelerator at CERN. I don’t really have an iota of concern when it comes to what my colleagues have been up to, and I am finding it increasingly difficult to remain focused on what my students are doing. Rain Man has left the building.

  Chloé is the first to notice this change in my behaviour. She is even more perceptive now than she was when I first met her. She worries constantly about my levels of fatigue and knows that I can’t be expected to ‘work’ for long hours at a stretch. She’s not the only one. My neighbours have also become aware of my situation. I’ve only exchanged a couple of words with some of them and I’m fairly sure I didn’t say a thing about my illness. But we mustn’t forget Madame Rodriguez, the concierge.

  Back when there was hope and a taxi would come and pick me up twice a week to take me to the hospital, she grabbed me one day on my way back up to my flat. She ‘bumped’ into me in the entrance hall on the pretext that she had a very important letter to give me. I had to go into her little lodge on the ground floor and sit there and be questioned until I gave her every last detail of my suffering. A suffering that has only worsened. And so she must have shouted it from the rooftops. Well, maybe not quite . . . but she’s certainly spilled the beans to the neighbours, because they’ve all been giving me these heartfelt looks that I can’t stand. Until today, not one of them has ventured forth to ask me anything – because when you live in a bourgeois neighbourhood like mine, people are discreet and rarely venture more than a ‘Good morning’ or a ‘Good evening’. On rare occasions they feel adventurous enough to attempt a ‘How are you?’

  But it’s the former minister (and now doctor) who breaks with protocol and comes to speak to me. He is bold enough to come to the door – in a very professional manner, I might add – to let me know that he is in contact with people in his network and is trying to get me an appointment with a renowned specialist he knows. I thank him warmly, but insist that I feel I’m in very good hands with Lazreg, and that, although I wouldn’t hesitate to consult his colleague should I feel the need, the opinion of a second doctor doesn’t seem necessary . . . given my situation. He has a couple more words of encouragement to offer me, then leaves me to my sofa and television.

  But he’s not the only one who’s intent on bothering me; and this time, it’s somewhat harder to deal with. I get a call from our Major Charvin from the Quai des Orfèvres.

  The phone rings very early in the morning, when I’ve had one of the worst nights’ sleep in a while. He must pick up on this from my voice. In fact, even with my initial ‘Hello’ I sound as weak as a kitten.

  He excuses himself with exaggerated politeness. ‘Monsieur Gaudin, I most sincerely apologise for disturbing you at this ungodly hour. Please believe me that, given the state of your health, if it were in my power to spare you this, I would do so. But I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask that I see you again.’

  ‘No apologies necessary,’ I manage to muster in as cheerful a tone as I can. ‘You’re only doing your job. Do you need me to come in?’

  ‘No. Listen, I’m already embarrassed at having to disturb you like this. Would it be at all possible for me to pop over and see you? I won’t be long.’

  ‘If you want. Just give me half an hour.’

  Exactly thirty-two minutes later and the interphone rings. I buzz him in and when I open the door to my flat, he steps back ever so slightly. It’s almost imperceptible. I know I’m not looking my best. My skin tone is decidedly grey and the bags under my eyes look dreadful. He gets over it quickly enough and I invite him to come in and take a seat on my sofa. I make him a coffee (it’s the done thing, after all) and as I do so he shouts through to me in the kitchen.

  ‘As you’ve more than likely guessed, I’m here to see you about Stéphanie Tisserand. The woman we thought was missing?’

  ‘Thought? Oh! You’ve found her, then!’ I do my best to sound overjoyed at the news – cheered by such a successful outcome. I walk back into the lounge smiling. But . . . the major doesn’t mirror my good cheer.

  ‘Yes. We found her. But we found her dead, unfortunately.’

  ‘Gosh . . .’

  ‘We fished her body out of the Seine just near the Île-Saint-Denis.’

  I need to find something to say here. I manage an ‘I’m sorry’, but it doesn’t sound right to me.

  I don’t think he hears me anyway, because he carries on without acknowledging my words. ‘Stéphanie Tisserand drowned.’

  Of course, I’m dying to ask him whether or not it was an accident, but I know I have to hold back. He answers my question without it having been asked.

  ‘We know she drowned. The autopsy has confirmed as much, but what we don’t yet know is whether it was accidental or foul play.’ It’s at this point that he picks up his espresso from the table and downs it in one. ‘Hmm. That’s very good! Do you have an Italian cafetière?’

  I confirm that I do, and he seems to rejoice in the fact.

  He continues. ‘Obviously it’s our job to find out what went wrong, and I won’t bore you with all the details. The only reason I’m here is that I just wanted to clarify a few points. May I?’

  ‘Yes! I mean, that’s why you’re here . . .’

  ‘Very well, then. So, are you still in possession of the hire car we talked about last time?’

  Careful now, Régis. Prudence. ‘Yes. I’m keeping hold of it for the moment . . .’

  ‘That’s what I thought.’

  He clearly knows I haven’t taken it back to Hertz. But why is he still interested in it? ‘Does it have something to do with your investigation?’

  ‘Not really. Not now that we know a little more about what happened. But to be honest, before we found the body, I spent a lot of time down in Auteuil and I didn’t once see you or your Twingo. Have you changed where you like to go for your walks?’

  What a question. I know that I have to be on the ball here and that it’s time to play the cancer card. ‘I wish that was it. But . . .’ I’m ready to get the violins out. ‘I’m going through a particularly difficult period in terms of my treatment. I’m sure you must have noticed that I’m not at all well.’

  His cheeks flush with embarrassment and he makes an awkward attempt to contradict me, but he knows he can’t possibly come across as credible.

  ‘I understand,’ he stammers.

  ‘And so . . . my walks have been reduced to a short circuit across the road in the Jardin du Luxembourg.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  And just to make him that little bit more ill at ease, I allow a loaded silence to fill the room before eventually breaking it. ‘Is that why you wanted to see me?’

  ‘Yes. But not only that.’

  From the way he replies, I know I’ve achieved my aim. He’s feeling out of his depth and I can tell the interrogation won’t be going on for much longer. So he asks his last question – the one I’ve seen coming.

  ‘I wanted to know whether or not you ever go down to Neuilly-sur-Seine . . .’

  He might well be feeling awkward. I know that much, but what I also know is that I’m not off the hook. Maybe for today. But I’m not safe. What h
e took to be a simple coincidence is now fast turning into actual suspicion. Was my car spotted following her, or was it perhaps the waiting staff at the brasserie who have let on that I was hanging around for days and acting oddly? I don’t know what’s going on. I can’t, can I? So I’ll just have to be evasive in my response.

  ‘I go down there on occasion, yes. I’ve been to meetings there. A lot goes on nearby at La Défense. Back when I was working full-time, I found a nice little cafe-bistro type place. It’s on Avenue Charles-de-Gaulle, so I still go there now and again. And back when I was in better shape, I would sometimes go for a run along the Seine. There you go. But . . .’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  I force a smile. ‘I’m a bit surprised that you’re asking me all these questions about where I go and what I do. Am I to conclude that I’m under suspicion for something?’

  ‘Not at all. What on earth makes you think that?’

  This doesn’t ring true at all. He does think I’ve been up to something, but it’s too early in the game for him to let on. I have to keep up with the questions.

  ‘So why am I being asked all this?’

  His reassuring expression is far from believable as he sits there inventing an explanation. ‘Let me clarify and you’ll soon understand. I found you because of the car. That’s all. The registration plate details were in our files, so I ended up at the Hertz agency in Montparnasse and they gave me your contact details.’

  ‘Yes, I know all that.’

  ‘The software we use gives us all the information of the owner of a vehicle. A lot more than you’d think. It tells us straight away if there have been any infractions or parking tickets, etcetera. And the new parking meters are quite advanced now, too. Do you know the ones I mean? The ones where you have to put your bank card in?’

  I’m getting a tight feeling in my throat. My brain is whizzing at the speed of light as I try to think back to whether I’ve ever used one of those machines. I know that the one on Avenue Charles-de-Gaulle wasn’t like that. I always used coins for that. But what did I do with the one in the Bois de Boulogne by the river? How did I pay for my parking on the day I assassinated Stéphanie Tisserand? I can’t remember!