by Enzo Bartoli
‘So, we know that you parked not far from where we presume the drama took place and probably at about the right time. It’s come from the machine.’
‘Oh,’ I say, as if I couldn’t care two hoots. ‘You know where it all happened, then?’
‘We’re not sure, but we know that she regularly went for a run on the Île de Puteaux, and that’s very nearby. And she was wearing running gear when we found the corpse.’
Why is he saying ‘corpse’? Who says that? Why can’t he just say ‘body’ like everyone else? It sounds nowhere near as sinister. And seeing as he’s sitting in front of someone who’s on his way out, it might be nice if he’d choose his words a little better. Don’t they teach them these things at police school? Oh, I don’t care. There’s so much going on. They have so many bits of information to sort out. There’s no way I can be the main suspect. I thought I’d been clever. That’s the problem here. I think I’m so bright with my super IQ and academic qualifications. But I’m not. I put my blasted bank card in a parking meter. I’m no better than a common criminal. I’m going to have trouble getting out of this. It might not even be possible. I’ve got to try, at least. I might be able to buy myself some time.
‘Remind me what date we’re talking about here,’ I try.
‘It was the twenty-first of June.’
‘Maybe . . . yes . . . I think I remember being in La Défense that week at the Grande Arche. There was a video game exhibition there. I used to play a heck of a lot as a youngster and I thought it might be good fun to go and take a look at some of the older consoles. And I remember going down to have a bite to eat at that place I told you about. The cafe place. But I went there on foot. And I left my car somewhere around there. Parking is a nightmare. But I can’t guarantee it was on the date you’re talking about. I have online banking, though. I can check what I spent on that day and where I was.’
I’m already on my feet and heading to my office to check my account details. I need to show willing here.
He stops me, though. ‘Don’t worry. If the head of the investigation or the judge deems it necessary for you to prove your whereabouts, it is within our power to do what’s required. Your accounts will be checked. In the meantime . . .’
He stands to shake my hand. He wants to put my mind at ease with his words and gestures, but I’m not fooled. I know I’m suspect number one here, and all he’s doing is waiting for me to slip up.
He confirms my fears with his final query. ‘You’ve not planned to go anywhere over the next few days, have you?’
Chloé has already booked our tickets to Ibiza. Does he know? ‘Not really. I have a friend who wants me to go away with her on a mini-break, but to be honest I don’t think I’m really up to travelling at the moment. Not right now. But if I change my mind, is that going to be an issue?’
‘I wouldn’t imagine so. But if you do decide to go, I’d be ever so grateful if you could give me a quick call to let me know when you’re leaving and when you expect to come back. It’s just that I’ll need to know what to say to my superiors if they do want to look into this any further. Do you still have my number?’
‘Yes, I have your card.’
‘I won’t stay here bothering you any further, then. I’ll let you get on. You take the time you need to look after yourself. That’s the most important thing.’
I show him out. As we’re walking to the door, I have an odd thought. I think of how much I will miss my flat if I wind up in the nick. Banged up. Inside. Or whatever the cool thing is to say these days.
CHAPTER 23
The Air Iberia A320 is waiting its turn at the end of the runway at Charles de Gaulle. It’s a very busy time of year and the captain announces that we’re sixteenth in line for take-off. We’ve been taxiing for twenty minutes already. How much longer is this going to take? Another half an hour? Another thirty minutes of sitting terrified in my seat, my nails digging into my palms with Chloé sitting beside me doing her best to keep me calm? The flight attendants must have made up their minds a while ago that I’m some sort of country bumpkin who’s never left the farm.
The atmosphere on board isn’t doing much in the way of helping my already shattered nerves either. It’s the holidays. Everyone is talking too loudly and getting into the party mood. Most of the passengers are half-soaked on airport booze. Others have their headphones plugged into their mobiles or tablets and are doing their best to ignore the security demonstrations. And the flight is an hour and a half. This is going to be a long trip.
I called Major Charvin from the departure lounge just before the final call. I pretended that my friend had decided to surprise me at the last minute, and hadn’t wanted to give me the chance to resist. He spoke to me very formally, telling me to enjoy my time abroad, as the judge had not deemed it necessary to look into me any further for the moment. He was very civil and matter-of-fact about it, and even stated that he hoped I’d make a full recovery. I thought about asking him how the investigation was progressing, but I decided against it. I know he is absolutely convinced of my involvement in the death of Stéphanie Tisserand, and so I’d be better off showing no interest in the whole affair. There’ll be time enough for that later – because I haven’t heard the last of him.
It’s our turn now. We’re lined up. The engines start to make a lot of noise. Too much noise. I press myself into the back of my seat as hard as I can and Chloé strokes my hand, which is now gripping the armrest. The skin has whitened with the effort. The passenger on my left is a young Spanish boy travelling on his own with a label around his neck. He is giggling at the sight of me in my panicked state. What an annoying little brat he is.
I don’t come back into the real world until my feet have touched ground on the other side. I’m still dazed, though. I pick up the wrong bag from the conveyor belt. My brain must have just disconnected from reality during the flight. I don’t even remember the landing. It’s all quite fortunate, really.
‘I think that’s mine.’
I look down and see a young woman in her early twenties. She’s staring at me crossly. I’ve no doubt as to her motivation for visiting the island. Her low-cut top reveals everything she has and it’s clear she’s here for a good time. A hen party or something, probably. I stare back at her for a few seconds as her words sink in. She’s right. The bag I’m holding has a big sticker on it that reads: ‘I’m famous.’ And I’m not. So I hand it back to her, muttering an apology.
‘Have a good one!’ she says before flouncing off to join her friends, who are all laughing. Have a good one? It’s phrases like this that I just never use. I know she’s telling me to enjoy my stay, but the way people speak to one another now has really changed since my day.
Over on the other side of the conveyor belt, I can see Chloé is also amused. She points to my bag as it comes around. I pick it up and we leave the airport. The sun hits us hard on the way out of the doors. It’s quite the welcome.
We take a taxi to the hotel, which she explains she booked at the last minute. Chloé does her best to cheer me up with her zest and enthusiasm – but to no effect. It’s not just this trip and all the partying that’s bound to be going on until all hours that’s filling me with dread. I know that this is going to be a hotel from hell, full of incredible loud-mouths of limited intelligence screaming into the night. But if I force myself, I might even be able to join in the revelries. And it’s not the highly anticipated killing of Nkomo that’s bothering me either. I’m not really feeling the emotional impact of that at all. If I’m honest, it doesn’t affect me one way or the other.
What I’m worried about is the major. It’s like the sword of Damocles is hanging over me and I just can’t relax. What’s exasperating about it is that Chloé doesn’t know a thing. And that’s for the best. I think that’s what I fear the most – her finding out about it. How will she react when she discovers how little care I took? And that I’ve attracted the attention of the investigating officers? Oh, well. It doesn’t really ma
tter. She’s bound to find out at some point . . . but it’ll be at a point when there’ll be little I can do about it anyway. That’s the real problem, I think. I’m actually scared. I have a cold and insidious feeling of dread. I’m afraid of dying unhappy. Alone. In a bare hospital room. I’m not feeling very brave at all. Should I just consider this another phase in my insipid little life? But that’s no longer how I feel. I want to give it my all now. I want a final crack at living. I didn’t think I was like other people . . . but I am. I’m having so many contradictory feelings these days.
It’s worse than that, though. I find myself having inner debates at the strangest of times. I tell myself that I’ve spent forty-four years complaining about my life, moaning about having to live side by side with people who disgust me and belittling their selfish ways and mediocrity. I sometimes hope that all the catastrophes that climatologists have warned us of will happen sooner rather than later and that I’ll be sorry not to see it. Then, on other occasions, I realise that I’m now at the point where I’m about to leave them all and instead of rejoicing as I should I daydream about it all being some big mistake. That it’s just a nightmare. This constant battle is exhausting.
Our taxi driver is getting on a little. Every thirty seconds or so he moves his cigarette from one corner of his mouth to the other, pulls it out again and then spits out of the window. It’s fascinating. We stop outside what I assume is our hotel. It’s a humongous white building standing eight storeys high with a balcony at every window. A shiver runs down my spine as I read the sign above the door. Hard Rock Hotel. I’m terrified.
We’re basically staying in a nightclub. Good choice, Chloé. She couldn’t have ruined my last few days of existence any more if she’d tried. She notes how taken aback I look. In fact, my initial reflex is to just refuse to move from the taxi and make a getaway straight back to the airport. She has an apologetic look about her as she smiles weakly and assures me that, despite the name, it really is just a hotel and that it was the only room she could get us at such short notice in the same resort as Abdou. She also adds that, given the price, I should just desist with my grumbling.
Once we’re inside, I have to admit that the place does seem fairly upmarket. There’s a stunning pool in the centre of the building surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows and with views over the gardens behind. If I wanted to parade around in my swimming trunks, this might be a great spot to do it. Plus, the whole place is virtually deserted. There can’t be any more than three or four swimmers in there this afternoon. But does that mean that the hotel sleeps during the day and comes to life at night? I bet it does. To the left of the reception desk I can see a huge ballroom with a massive stage and the biggest speakers I’ve ever seen. There’s a technician tampering with them. Fingers crossed he can’t get them working. Oh, I’m not going to sleep a wink tonight. I can feel it in my bones.
The bedroom itself is exactly what I expected when I walked into the place. There are top-of-the-range gadgets, a flat-screen, and lights above the bed that change colour. Yes – the bed. It’s a quadruple king-size (just guessing) but we’re going to be in very close proximity to one another. There’s a happy thought indeed.
‘I’ll get undressed in the bathroom and we can put some pillows between us if you want.’
This woman can always read my mind. It’s frightening.
Like a little old couple, we choose our sides of the bed and set about unpacking our cases. Straight after this, Chloé heads to the bathroom and comes out in a swimming costume with a towel draped loosely around her.
‘Coming to the pool?’
She asks the question knowing in advance what the response will be. There’s not a chance in hell I’d exhibit myself in front of her, let alone perfect strangers.
‘Go ahead. I’ll stay here with the remote.’
‘Ha! You and your telly! I won’t be long anyway. I just want a bit of an energy boost and I’ll be right back. Then we can get straight down to talking business.’
She disappears out into the corridor and I climb into bed, fully clothed, and start flicking through the channels. I’ve also just spotted the mini-bar and know I have six cool beers to keep me company. I take four of them out. It almost feels like being back at home.
Chloé didn’t lie to me. I haven’t even managed to drink half a can and she’s back. Her wet hair is stuck to her forehead. She is still dripping and crosses the room on tiptoe to the bathroom, leaving watermarks on the carpet in her wake. When she comes back out, she’s dressed and looking a bit more with it. She sits down at the foot of the bed, leans forward and helps herself to a beer from the bedside table, before downing most of it in just a few gulps. I’m not going to tell her about the two others in the fridge.
We get straight down to work.
‘How should we get things moving, then?’ she starts.
Something has shifted this time. I wasn’t in the driver’s seat with Guy Brison; it was all sorted out beforehand. But it seems that I have the starring role with Abdou Nkomo and that Chloé is counting on me to have all the ideas. I think if she had even an inkling about the bother I’m in with the major or my extra-curricular activities on the train, she’d be a lot less enthused.
‘We’re going to take our time. We have to start by visiting his hotel, looking into what he does with his days and nights, and then decide on a place and get it done at the last minute.’
‘At the last minute? What does that mean?’
‘Just before our flight back. We’re on an island here. There aren’t many ways of getting off it and it’ll be better if we’re long gone when his people in France learn of his death.’
‘But say the opportunity arose and we had a quick way of getting out of here, we could get straight down to it, couldn’t we? Get it done more quickly.’
This surprises me. She’s usually so careful. She prepares every last detail and has so far shown herself to be infinitely patient. I’ve never known her to be like this. I tell her as much and she looks embarrassed. I have to ask her to explain herself several times before she’ll give me an answer.
‘Well . . . I was just worried about how ill you are. I’m sorry . . . but it’s like the clock’s ticking. I thought we might have time for one last little adventure after this one. I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t count on it.’ I know I sound harsh, and she looks upset. I wait for her to question my attitude, but she doesn’t. I continue. ‘Listen, you know how hard it is to get flights during the summer. Everything’s full. So our only option is to wait for the one we’ve booked. And don’t forget that in two days I have to inject myself and then I’ll be in a sorry state for a while. Not long . . . but it does reduce how much time we have available to us. Also . . .’
I pause at this point for emphasis. I want her to really take in what I’m about to say and have no doubt as to my sincerity and determination.
‘Nkomo will be the last person I kill. I’m tired. I’m going to die in a few weeks and I want some time to myself. I want to be alone and prepare for this in peace.’
I expect these words to carry a certain weight and to trigger in Chloé the sense of compassion that they rightly deserve. But no. I forgot that she’s as stubborn as they come.
She grins and says, ‘Can I just tell you who I’ve got in mind?’
‘Thule, I imagine?’
‘Thule?’
I’m shocked that I have to refresh her memory. ‘Yeah! The kid-killer! The one your soldier friend bungled?’
‘Oh, him! No, there’s no point worrying about him. There were complications with his surgery and he’s not going to make it. I’d give him a couple of days at most. It’s someone else.’
‘I won’t be changing my mind.’
‘Don’t speak too soon.’
OK. So her confidence works as the perfect bait and I allow her the pleasure of giving me further details. ‘Come on, then. Out with it – but it won’t change a thing.’
‘We’ll soon see.’
She’s good at the whole suspense thing. She licks her lips, ready to savour my surprise, and leaves me hanging a few moments longer. Finally she comes out with it.
‘I was going to suggest we kill Lionel Boucher.’
Lionel Boucher? How does she know about him? How on earth did she manage to find him again and how does she know about his involvement with me? Because he messed me up for a long time. He made my life a misery, in fact. It was back in high school when I first got to know him. I was the new boy at the beginning of the year; my parents had only just moved to the area. He was the top dog in the class. Everyone liked him, and all the girls were madly in love with him. Obviously. You know the type. But that’s not all he was. Almost as soon as I showed up, he decreed that I was an oddball, to be ignored by everyone. I was a gibbering wreck for months. Years, even. It was harassment and physical abuse on a different level. I wasn’t allowed to communicate with anyone. Not a soul. Even chubby Alain Gazon with his permanent acne wasn’t permitted to talk to me. I bet he was just pleased that he was no longer the main target.
It didn’t stop after high school. We went to the same university. I had to continue to see the cretin in the student union and around the lecture halls. His aggression towards me knew no bounds. I had (somehow) managed to ask one of the girls who lived in my halls out for a coffee. And he took her off me when he found out. He didn’t really want anything to do with her and dumped her the first chance he had. He just wanted to bring me down a peg or two when I wasn’t even up a peg. He couldn’t just let me have my first little date with a girl.
Maybe I would have forgotten about him if it had stopped there. But we had a few acquaintances in common and on the odd occasion would end up at the same gathering. He would delight in humiliating me in front of an audience, always pretending that it was just innocent fun, but his behaviour was destructive. It destroyed me.