Night

by Bernard Minier

  ‘Hirtmann left it in his cabin before he cleared off. Let’s suppose it is his son.’ Zehetmayer hesitated: he still couldn’t accept the idea that the Swiss killer might have a son. ‘Why wouldn’t he take the photo with him?’

  ‘Maybe he had others.’

  The musician gave a sniff of annoyance.

  ‘Or perhaps he wanted someone to find it. To send all the police on the planet down the wrong trail. Because in actual fact the kid is miles away from there.’

  The conductor reached for a little pear-shaped vaporiser on the dresser – a bespoke eau de Cologne he’d had made by an esteemed French perfumer.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ asked Wieser, pinching his nostrils when the musician squeezed the pear and the sweet-smelling cloud spread through the room.

  Zehetmayer studied him disdainfully. How had this imbecile become a billionaire when he seemed incapable of making even the slightest decision?

  ‘We’ll find the kid,’ he said. ‘We’ll start by putting his photograph on the website. Then we’ll use all our resources.’

  12

  Evening 2

  ‘Martin,’ said Stehlin, ‘I’ve given it some thought. In the end, I think I’ll ask someone else to take over.’

  Servaz wondered if he’d misheard.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘If it really is Hirtmann behind all this, you’re in no fit state to—’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said the Norwegian policewoman suddenly. ‘No one knows this man better than Commandant Servaz, and he’s the one who’s in the photographs. Why?’

  ‘Well, um … Commandant Servaz is convalescing.’

  ‘But he’s recovered, hasn’t he? Since he is back at work.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course, but—’

  ‘I want to work with Commandant Servaz, if you don’t mind,’ she declared firmly. ‘It seems to me that he is the most competent person to deal with this matter.’

  Servaz smiled when he saw Stehlin scowl.

  ‘Fine,’ he said reluctantly.

  ‘How many days did your superiors give you?’

  ‘Five. After that, I go home. Unless, of course, we find something.’

  Servaz wondered what he was going to do with this Norwegian policewoman. He didn’t feel like playing tour guide, or spending his time jabbering in English trying to make himself understood. It was already complicated enough to be back at work and prove to everyone that he was up to it. By burdening him with this foreign officer they were putting him on the sidelines, that was the truth of it. Yet he was the one who was in the photographs. And the thought that Hirtmann himself had taken them made his blood run cold.

  ‘Of course, if by some unlikely chance you do find something significant, I want to be informed at once,’ said Stehlin.

  By some unlikely chance … Servaz contemplated his words.

  ‘And what if, “by some unlikely chance”, the photograph of the kid was meant to lead us up the garden path?’

  Kirsten and Stehlin stared at him for a moment.

  ‘Do you mean the photograph is meant to send us in the wrong direction?’ said Kirsten.

  He nodded.

  ‘So he left the photograph of the kid lying around on purpose? Of course, we did think about that,’ she added, narrowing her eyes. ‘It seems a bit too obvious, don’t you think?’

  ‘And what else have you come up with?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Regarding the photograph.’

  ‘There might be some other information we can get from it.’

  Now they both had their eyes glued to him, Kirsten with a mixture of curiosity and bewilderment, Stehlin looking as if he was waiting for him to finish so they could move on to something else. That had been the predominant sentiment in the meeting room, too, by the time everyone got to their feet. Even Vincent and Samira had seemed only moderately interested, and after enquiring after his health had been in a hurry to get back to outstanding business.

  ‘Why would Hirtmann try to send us in the wrong direction when he can simply hide – with the child – anywhere in the world? What would be the point?’ asked Stehlin.

  ‘I’m listening,’ Kirsten said.

  ‘I know him too well to believe he would use such crude subterfuge. However, one thing does seem obvious: between the photographs of me and your name on the scrap of paper, his purpose has been to bring us together. The question is, why?’

  She put the chain on the door and walked over to the bed, laid down her suitcase and opened it.

  She took out shirts, skirts, trousers. Two jumpers, a toilet bag, a make-up bag and her pyjamas: flowery flannelette bottoms and a T-shirt. She spread them on the bed. Then the lace lingerie she had bought at Steen & Strøm. Underwear from Agent Provocateur and Victoria’s Secret. She knew that no one would see the little panties with their delicate satin bow at the back, but she didn’t care: what she got a kick out of was hiding this provocative finery beneath the austerity of her external appearance, like a treasure reserved for whoever was bold enough to explore further. As she put things away in the wardrobe, she wondered if such an intrepid individual might make himself known to her during her stay in France.

  She had noticed Vincent Espérandieu’s gaze and immediately categorised him. Bisexual. Kirsten had a sixth sense for such things. On the shelf in the bathroom she set out her day cream, perfume, shampoo (she didn’t trust hotel shampoos) and toothbrush. Looking at herself in the mirror, she nodded. What she saw was a handsome face that nevertheless betrayed an excess of control and a tendency to be obstinate. In short, a woman in her forties, serious and a bit uptight. Perfect. What she saw was what she wanted others to see …

  Two men at the same time: that could be an interesting experience, she thought, removing her make-up. In Oslo, it was unthinkable. One way or another it would get back to her colleagues and be round the department in no time. But here, far from home …

  She also took out the toy. She had found it at the back of the Kondomeriet on Karl Johans gate, opposite the arcades of the bazaar, amidst a crowd of couples, women her own age, and very young women giggling and nudging each other. One of the women among the couples had slowly placed her hand around an impressive sex toy as if to masturbate it. At Oslo-Gardermoen airport she had waited for the reaction of the man sitting at his screen, scanning her carry-on baggage. She caught him turning his head to look at her as she took the bag from the conveyor belt, once it had come out of the scanning tunnel.

  She felt a sudden pressing desire. Hurrying into the bathroom, she thought about Servaz. Definitely not an easy man to figure out. Heterosexual, beyond a shadow of a doubt. But there was something about him that defied analysis. Something fragile, but also strong. And then there was that Samira woman – so ugly and so sexy at the same time. She, too, was difficult to figure out.

  She pushed her knickers and tights down around her ankles.

  She sat down and reached for her mobile.

  Then dialled the number she shouldn’t have known.

  The boy was watching the way the moonlight shone on the freshly fallen snow. The first of the season. And he saw that an animal had left deep prints that went around the barn and off into the woods.

  The mountains on the other side of the valley formed an almost impassable frontier, which the boy vaguely perceived as a rampart, the guarantee that his safety and the cosy world of his childhood would be preserved forever. The boy did not watch the news, but his grandfather did, and from time to time the boy saw images on the screen. So, despite his youth, he could imagine the wars and battles that took place beyond these peaceful, protective mountains. He was only five years old, it was all quite confusing, but like a young animal he could sense danger.

  And the boy knew the danger could come from outside the valley, from strangers who lived there. Grandfather had told him: never speak to strangers, never let strangers or even the tourists at the ski resorts speak to you. And anyway, outside of school, the boy saw al
most no one, apart from his doctor and his grandparents. He didn’t have many friends, and the ones who did come to the house had been hand-picked by his grandfather.

  The little boy went back to the farm and was immediately greeted by an enveloping warmth. He shook the snow from his shoes onto the doormat, leaving little white crusts in his wake, then removed his shoes, hat, quilted jacket and scarf, which was damp with saliva and melted snow, and hung it on a peg. He could hear the fire crackling in the fireplace, and when he went closer, waves of heat caressed his bright red face.

  ‘What were you doing outside again at this time of night, Gustav?’ said his grandfather from his armchair.

  ‘I was looking at a wolf’s pawprints,’ he replied, going over to Grandfather to let him pick him up with his big hands and sit him on his lap.

  Grandfather didn’t smell very good: he didn’t wash enough, and rarely changed his clothes, but Gustav didn’t care. He liked to stroke his beard, and he liked it when Grandfather read him a story.

  ‘There aren’t any wolves around here,’ said Grandfather.

  ‘Yes there are. They’re in the forest. They come out at night.’

  ‘Did you see them?’

  ‘No. Just their prints.’

  ‘And you’re not afraid they’ll eat you?’

  ‘They’re not nasty. And they like me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because they guard the house.’

  ‘Oh, I see. Would you like me to read to you?’

  ‘I have a tummy-ache,’ said the boy.

  For a moment Grandfather didn’t say anything.

  ‘A bad tummy-ache?’

  ‘Sort of. When is Papa coming?’ he asked, suddenly.

  ‘I don’t know, son.’

  ‘I want my papa.’

  ‘You’ll see him soon.’

  ‘When is soon?’

  ‘You know Papa can’t do as he pleases.’

  ‘And Maman?’

  ‘It’s the same for Maman.’

  The little boy suddenly felt like crying.

  ‘They never come.’

  ‘That’s not true. Papa will come soon. Or we’ll go together to see them.’

  ‘Both of them?’ said the boy, suddenly hopeful.

  It had been so long since he had seen his papa and maman together.

  ‘Both of them, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep,’ said a stern voice from the door to the kitchen.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ said the grandfather, his tone irritable.

  ‘You’re only putting ideas in his head, poor lad.’

  Grandmother dried her hands on her apron, hands covered in veins as thick as roots. Gustav looked away, fascinated by the flames licking the logs in the fireplace. Didn’t they look like snakes, the way they wound themselves around the logs – or maybe dragons, dancing, pulling away, then rolling around the logs again? He tried not to pay attention to what Grandmother had said. He didn’t like Grandmother. She spent her time complaining and criticising Grandfather. He knew she wasn’t his real grandmother. He wasn’t his real grandfather, either – but he loved Gustav, whereas Grandmother hardly even pretended. The boy was not fully aware of all this – he was far too young – it was, rather, a vague feeling. The boy felt a great many things without really understanding them; it was simply an instinct he had developed, like a wolf cub’s.

  ‘You mustn’t be afraid of who you are, Gustav,’ his papa had told him one day, and Gustav hadn’t exactly understood that either, and yet he knew what Papa was trying to tell him.

  Oh, yes.

  13

  Dream

  It was half past nine in the morning when he was woken by the sun filtering through the blinds. He had not fallen asleep until around four in the morning, and then he had dreamt about the boy, Gustav. In his dream he was standing at the top of a huge dam in the heart of the Pyrenees. An arch dam. The child had climbed over the railing and was standing at the edge of the void. Just beyond his toes was a vertiginous abyss of over one hundred metres, where the most solid thing was air.

  Servaz stood about five metres away on the other side of the railing.

  ‘Gustav,’ he called.

  ‘Don’t come near me, or I’ll jump.’

  A few snowflakes fluttered through the icy night, and the dam, like the mountains, was white with snow and ice. Servaz was petrified. The concrete edge where the child was standing was covered with a thick layer of ice. If he let go of the handrail, he could slip and fall into the void. He would be crushed against the rocks 100 metres below.

  ‘Gustav …’

  ‘I want my papa.’

  ‘Your papa is a monster,’ he answered, in his dream.

  ‘You’re lying!’

  ‘If you don’t believe me, just read the newspaper.’

  Servaz was holding a copy of La Dépêche, and the wind, blowing harder and harder, tried to rip it from him. The paper was wet with snow and the ink was beginning to run.

  ‘It says so, in here.’

  ‘I want my papa,’ said the child again, ‘otherwise I’ll jump. Or my maman …’

  ‘Your maman – what’s her name?’

  ‘Marianne.’

  The mountains around them, almost phosphorescent in the moonlight, seemed to be waiting for something. A denouement. Servaz’s heart was pounding fit to burst. Marianne …

  Another step.

  And another.

  The child had his back to him and was looking into the abyss. Servaz could see his graceful neck and the fine, rebellious blond hair dancing around his ears in the raging wind.

  Another step.

  He held out his arm. And then the child turned around. It wasn’t him. Not Gustav’s innocent face. A woman’s face. Big, frightened green eyes. Marianne …

  ‘Martin, is that you?’ she said.

  How could he have confused them? He was sure he had seen Gustav. What sort of evil spell was this? She was already letting go of the handrail to turn around and reach out to him, but she slipped, and her green eyes grew bigger and bigger with terror, her mouth open on a silent cry as she fell backwards.

  That was when he woke up.

  He looked around the room streaked with sunlight, his heart going at a hundred miles an hour, his chest covered in sweat. What had Xavier said about dreams? ‘When you wake up, and the memory of your dream is still very vivid, you are astonished by the force of it, and how it seemed so … real.’

  Yes, that was it. So real. He had seen that boy. He hadn’t merely dreamt about him.

  He shivered with cold; the sweat on his chest was icy. With fear and sadness, too. He threw back the sheet and got up. Who was that child? Was he really Hirtmann’s son? The very thought of it was terrifying in itself, but another thought had formed in his mind, even more appalling, and his dream had reflected it: what if Marianne actually was his mother?

  He went into the kitchen. Margot had left him a note on the countertop. Running. In English. What was this fashion of English words tirelessly invading their everyday life? For every old word that was left out of the dictionary, ten new ones barged in. Then he returned to the persistent sense of unease the discovery of the photographs had given him. A child. What was he looking for now? An evil killer or a child? Or both? And where should he look? Nearby, or further away? With his coffee cup in his hand he walked over to the bookshelf and let his mind wander at the same time as his gaze, until it came to rest on a title. An old edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s stories, translated by Charles Baudelaire. He sat back down at the kitchen table and drank his coffee.

  The sound of the front door. Margot appeared, flushed from running. She smiled, went over to the sink, poured a big glass of water and drank it almost in one go.

  Then she sat down opposite her father. In spite of himself he felt slightly annoyed. He liked to eat breakfast on his own, and this was the first time since Margot’s arrival he’d had the opportunity to do so.

  �
�How do you spend your days?’ he asked her suddenly.

  She seemed to understand immediately what he was getting at and was instantly on her guard.

  ‘Does my presence here bother you?’ she asked. ‘Am I in your way?’

  Margot had always been very direct – and sometimes unfair. She was of the opinion that she must always tell the truth, but there were times when there was more than one truth, and his daughter was incapable of grasping this notion. You always had to stick to your position. However, he was ashamed and denied it vehemently.

  ‘Not at all! Why do you say that?’

  She observed him, but did not smile. She could see right through him.

  ‘I don’t know. Just an impression I’ve been getting for a while. I’m going to have a shower.’

  She got up and left the room.

  14

  Saint-Martin

  Servaz was browsing through the 440 when Kirsten came into his office. The 440 was a newsletter fed daily by the telegrams that circulated nationally for each case. Most of the cops in the crime unit consulted it every morning. Servaz didn’t know who had named it the 440, but the name derived from the musical note A and its frequency of 440 Hz – the pitch standard used for tuning the instruments of an orchestra. (Servaz knew that the practice had evolved, however, and that most orchestras now tuned to 442 Hz.) In the same manner, the 440 newsletter served to circulate information and keep the various departments in harmony.

  He had found nothing special. He certainly didn’t expect to find any mention of Hirtmann in there, he was simply getting back into his old routine. Now he gave a shudder. He couldn’t rid himself of the uneasy sensation the dream had left him with, that one way or another, the past was about to resurface. For months, after he’d found out that the insulated box did not contain Marianne’s heart, he had tried to trace her, along with Hirtmann. He had laboriously worked on his English, sent hundreds of emails to cops all over Europe, made just as many phone calls, spent many a sleepless night going through reports his colleagues sent to him, searched through piles of national and international files, and regularly checked online for even the most trivial news item that might bear the stamp of the Swiss killer. In vain. He had not turned up a single thing.