Night

by Bernard Minier

  ‘Shh! Not here,’ said the man, annoyed, looking all around him.

  Close up, he looked older than his build and his gait had suggested: getting on for fifty or more. A senior executive in business or at a bank: he reeked of money earned without getting his hands dirty. As for the boy, his eyes were ringed with shadows and he had a yellowish, waxen complexion, despite the colour the cold air had restored to his cheeks, and Servaz recalled the headmistress’s words: ‘He often missed school – flu, a cold, an upset stomach …’ He turned to Kirsten and they rushed together towards the door, barrelled down the two flights of stairs, and crossed the polished, slippery floor of the entrance. They opened the door to leave the town hall, letting in a few snow flurries, just as the grey Volvo was leaving the square.

  They ran to the car, hoping there was not another way out of the village.

  A bit too quickly, Servaz drove up the street that had brought them to the square, and lifted his foot off the accelerator when they saw the Volvo a bit further ahead. He felt hot, and with his free hand he loosened the scarf around his neck and tossed it behind him, then unzipped his down jacket. He slowed down. He did not know whether the man at the wheel was on his guard, but he supposed that Hirtmann would have given him instructions to that effect.

  Who was he?

  One thing was certain: Hirtmann it was not. Even surgery had its limits.

  Servaz was overcome with a feeling of elation, but also disorientation – the disturbing impression that they were like mice in a maze. And then there was the investigation into Jensen’s death. The synchronicity of the two events – the death of the rapist and the presence of the Swiss serial killer in the vicinity – constantly preyed on his mind. The fact remained that he felt not so much that they were following but that they were being followed – observed, spied on, even guided … Straight into a trap?

  The cop from the General Inspectorate of the National Police was called Rimbaud, like the poet, but Roland Rimbaud had never read any of his namesake’s verses. He did not know that the poet who shared his name had written A Season in Hell. Otherwise he would surely have found the title appropriate for the experience he was about to put one of his colleagues through.

  Sitting in the office of Judge Desgranges, Rimbaud could smell blood. A prize case of misconduct. The disciplinary commissioner, whom some of his colleagues – as keen on poetry as he was – had nicknamed ‘Rambo’, was a famished wolf, tirelessly flushing out crooked cops. Or at least that was how he liked to see himself. Since Rimbaud had been running the regional branch of the policemen’s police, he had brought down a few heavyweights from Public Security and Narcotics, and had dismantled an anti-crime brigade whose members had been indicted for ‘organised gang theft, extortion, and unauthorised acquisition and detention of narcotics’. The fact that he resorted to methods that elsewhere would have qualified as harassment, or that he had based his investigation on the dubious reliability of a dealer’s testimony and that the accusations had been debunked in the meantime, did not seem to overly bother his superiors. You can’t make an omelette without, etc. For Rimbaud, the police was not one indivisible institution but a loose conglomeration of cliques, private domains, rivalries, walking egos – in short, a jungle with its big cats, its apes, its snakes and its parasites. He also knew that you don’t go filing the fangs of a guard dog. You just, from time to time, remind him of the length of his lead.

  ‘What do we know?’ asked Desgranges.

  If anyone resembled a poet, then it was the magistrate, with his too-long hair, his twisted black knitted tie, and his plaid jacket that looked as if it had been to the dry cleaner over a thousand times.

  ‘We know that Jensen, in all likelihood, was shot with a cop’s gun while he was trying to rape a young woman; that for a time he was suspected, then cleared, of the rapes of three joggers and the murder of one of them; that he was electrocuted by catenary during an interrogation that went wrong …’

  He broke off. Up to this point he’d been on solid ground, merely quoting facts. Now, he was about to venture into slipperier, even downright swampy, terrain.

  ‘During the interrogation, he shot Commandant Martin Servaz from the Toulouse crime unit, who got a bullet to the heart and spent several days in a coma; this same commandant suspected him of murdering one Monique Duquerroy, sixty-nine years of age, in her home in Montauban in June. I should add that this policeman, Servaz—’

  ‘I know who Servaz is,’ interrupted Desgranges. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Hmm … Jensen’s lawyer wanted to sue the police: he has asserted that Servaz, er, threatened his client with a gun and forced him to climb onto the roof of the railway carriage, even though he knew full well that Jensen was at risk of being electrocuted …’

  ‘And he wasn’t?’ retorted Desgranges. ‘If I’m not mistaken, he was there, too, on that roof. And Jensen did shoot him, didn’t he? He too was armed, so it would seem …’

  Rimbaud saw a deep triple crease take its place among the already numerous wrinkles on the judge’s brow.

  ‘In fact, Jensen’s counsel maintains that Commandant Servaz tried to kill his client by electrocuting him,’ he asserted.

  The magistrate coughed.

  ‘Surely you aren’t going to credit such statements, are you, Commissaire? I know you give greater credence to the words of a dealer than to those of a policeman, but still …’

  Rimbaud was outraged. Desgranges went on looking at him without flinching. Then the policeman took out a folder and shoved it across the judge’s desk.

  ‘What’s this?’ the judge asked.

  ‘The gendarmerie has drawn up a facial composite of the man who shot Jensen, from the testimony of Emmanuelle Vengud, the young woman who nearly got raped.’

  Desgranges honoured him with a grunt. He reached for the drawing: a face with regular features, partly hidden by a hood. Only the mouth, nose and eyes were faintly visible. There wasn’t much to get your teeth into.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said, handing the drawing back to Rimbaud.

  ‘Don’t you think it looks like him?’

  ‘Excuse me? Like who?’

  ‘Servaz.’

  Desgranges sighed. His face turned purple.

  ‘I see,’ he said softly. ‘Listen, Commissaire, I’ve heard about your methods. I’ll have you know I don’t approve of them. With regard to the anti-crime brigade that you dismantled, it would seem that my colleagues are beginning to reconsider elements of the case: the testimony on which you based your investigation for the prosecution is unreliable, to say the least. What’s more, some officers in other departments have sent a letter to the regional director of Public Security to denounce what they call harassment on your part. Take my advice: take it easy this time.’

  Desgranges had not raised his voice. But the threat was there, not even veiled.

  ‘However, I won’t have it said that I cover up these kinds of incidents if they occur. Carry on with your investigation, within the limits I have just set out. If you bring me something concrete, real, tangible, whether it concerns Servaz or not, justice will prevail, I promise you.’

  ‘I would like a letter of request for ballistic analysis,’ continued Rimbaud, remaining calm.

  ‘Ballistic analysis? Do you know how many cops and gendarmes there are in this département? You want to analyse all their weapons?’

  ‘Only Commandant Servaz’s.’

  ‘Commissaire, I told you—’

  ‘He was in Saint-Martin-de-Comminges that night!’ said Rimbaud. ‘The night Jensen got shot, a few kilometres from there. It says so in the report he filed!’

  He took a bundle of papers from his folder and handed them to the judge.

  ‘It says here that Jensen called him in the middle of the night! He told Servaz he’d seen him earlier in Saint-Martin. He also refers to that famous evening when he was electrocuted on the railway carriage, and he blames him for fucking up his life. Then he asked to speak to him face to face, and wh
en Servaz refused, he made an allusion to his daughter.’

  Desgranges suddenly perked up, interested.

  ‘What sort of allusion?’

  Rimbaud checked his own copy of the report.

  ‘He didn’t say much. But it was enough to get Servaz hopping mad and he charged over to Saint-Martin in the middle of the night. If it’s true, the transmitter will have picked up his mobile signal at the entrance to town. After that … this is where it gets juicy.’

  The cop glanced at the judge, who was staring at him coldly. He did not seem the least bit perturbed. But Rimbaud knew that what was coming would take him down a peg or two.

  ‘Servaz asserts that someone was hiding in the gardens of the thermal baths in Saint-Martin and that when he tried to get closer, they ran away. He went after them but they disappeared into the forest. Servaz didn’t dare go any further, or so he says. He went back to his car, and found a note on his windscreen.’

  ‘Which said?’

  ‘“Were you afraid?” That’s what he says it said.’

  ‘Did he keep the note?’

  ‘The report doesn’t say.’

  The magistrate was staring at him ever more sceptically.

  ‘So, he claims he was in touch with Jensen the night Jensen was killed, is that it?’

  ‘Killed by a cop’s gun,’ insisted Rimbaud.

  ‘Or by a weapon stolen from a cop. Did you enquire if anyone had reported their gun missing?’

  ‘Enquiries are being made as we speak.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Jensen was killed at three o’clock in the morning up in the mountains, and Servaz asserts he went to Saint-Martin at midnight. And what, in your opinion, happened in between?’

  ‘Maybe he lied. The transmitters will tell us. Or there could be another possibility: he’s no fool, he knew his telephone would betray him. Or that someone might have seen him in Saint-Martin. So he went back to Toulouse, dropped off his telephone, and returned to the scene …’

  ‘Did you find out what Jensen was doing around midnight?’

  ‘We’re looking into that now.’

  This was a lie, Rimbaud already knew. According to all the witnesses, Jensen could not have been in Saint-Martin at around midnight: at the time, he was in the refuge with the others. Unless he had gone back out when they were all asleep. But there was one other hypothesis: that Servaz had made it all up. And that one way or another he’d found out where his victim was. He’d made a return trip so that his phone would trigger the towers in both directions. Before going back to the scene without a telephone … A somewhat twisted alibi, but if you’re a cop you would know not to have your phone with you if you were about to commit a crime.

  He picked up the facial composite. True enough, you couldn’t see much, but it could easily be Servaz.

  Or not.

  The gun.

  The gun would tell. Provided Servaz didn’t come out and say he’d lost it. He thought about the footprints in the snow.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Desgranges, crossing his hands under his chin and rubbing both thumbs against his lower lip. ‘I get the unfortunate impression that you are following only one lead.’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, everything points to him!’ protested Rimbaud, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘He was there on the night of the murder! And he has a motive!’

  ‘Don’t speak to me as if I were an idiot!’ scolded the judge. ‘What motive? To carry out justice on his own? I know Servaz; you don’t. That’s not his style.’

  ‘I’ve already questioned some of his colleagues: they say he’s changed since his coma.’

  ‘All right, I’ll grant your request. But under no circumstances is he to be fed to the press, is that clear? It doesn’t take much for a leak. Get a ballistic analysis for the entire crime unit, drown the fish.’

  Rimbaud nodded briefly, a big smile on his lips.

  ‘I want to interview him, too, along with his superiors and the members of his investigative team,’ he said.

  ‘You can call them as witnesses,’ said the judge, decisively.

  He stood up to indicate that the meeting was over. They shook hands, without warmth.

  28

  The Chalet

  The road wound its way along the icy mountainside, marking a deep groove in all the immaculate whiteness. Servaz was tense. If they went on like this, the only spot of colour against this white wilderness, they would be noticed.

  They seemed to be alone on the little road, apart from the Volvo. They saw it turn into a village perched on the mountainside; there was only an abandoned sawmill at the entrance to the village, thirty-odd houses, a few shops, and a hotel. When Servaz emerged from the tight bend on the way out of the village, in front of the hotel, he slowed abruptly: less than three hundred metres from there, after a broader bend, the Volvo had stopped outside a big Alpine chalet that overlooked the entire valley. The road went no further.

  He parked below the deserted hotel terrace. They turned to look at the two individuals getting out of the Volvo, their plume-like breath at their lips. The chalet was luxurious, covered with rough wood, with several terraces and balconies, of the kind you saw in Megève, Gstaad, or Courchevel. It could house quite a number of people, but the garage was open and Servaz saw only one other car inside.

  A couple? Was this really where Gustav lived? With this man? Who else?

  Servaz saw them go inside. He opened his car door.

  ‘Care for a coffee?’ he said.

  A moment later, Kirsten and Servaz were sitting on the terrace at the hotel, like two tourists on a recce; he had a double espresso, she had a Coke Zero (she’d tossed the ice out of her glass, as if they were in one of those countries where you can’t drink the water). It was freezing cold, but the sun shone on the sparkling snow and warmed them up a little. Hiding behind his sunglasses, Servaz stared at the chalet, on the lookout for the slightest movement.

  Suddenly he motioned to Kirsten, who turned around. A tall blonde woman had come out on one of the balconies, wearing a beige jumper and brown trousers. They were too far away to tell exactly how old she was, but Servaz would have guessed in her forties. She was slim, even slender, her hair pulled up in a ponytail.

  When the manager came back out, even though there were no other customers on the terrace, Servaz motioned to him.

  ‘That big chalet, there – do you know if it’s to let?’

  ‘No. It’s not. It belongs to a professor from the university in Toulouse.’

  ‘And they live there just the two of them?’ asked Servaz, pretending to be full of admiration and envy.

  The manager smiled.

  ‘There are three of them. They have a child. Adopted. I know, some people have what it takes …’

  Servaz hesitated to ask any more questions. He did not want to attract attention for the time being.

  ‘And do you have rooms to let?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘What did he say?’ asked Kirsten when the manager had gone.

  He translated.

  One hour later, the man with the goatee left the chalet with Gustav to take him back to school. Clearly, the professor was not working in Toulouse that day. They’d been sitting on that terrace for an hour. It was time to move, if they didn’t want to attract attention.

  ‘We’ll get a room, go for a walk, and come back this evening,’ he said, in English.

  ‘One room or two?’ she asked.

  He looked at her. Clearly she had no intention of picking up where they had left off last night. She was beautiful in the light, with her close-fitting polo-neck jumper, and her big sunglasses hiding her face. He felt a sudden pang in his stomach. He didn’t know exactly what had happened between them, still less what was going to happen now. It was hard to make her out. Had it merely been a reaction to the rush of adrenaline and fear? Or had Kirsten simply needed a presence in her bed at that moment? She had just alluded very clearly to the fact that she did not want to take
things any further.

  He decided to drop the subject for the moment.

  ‘The guns of the entire crime unit?’ repeated Stehlin incredulously.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And Judge Desgranges has authorised this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Stehlin raised his coffee cup to his lips to give himself time to think.

  ‘Who is going to be in charge of the ballistic analysis?’ he asked.

  ‘Is it a problem?’ answered Rimbaud.

  ‘No. But I’m wondering: are you going to put all the guns in a bulletproof truck at the same time? And head for Bordeaux? All those weapons on the motorway? Seriously?’

  Rimbaud wriggled in his chair, leaning towards Stehlin’s imposing desk.

  ‘We won’t disarm all your men at the same time, and the guns will not leave the premises: the analysis will take place here in your lab, under our supervision.’

  ‘Why the crime unit? Why not the gendarmerie, or Public Security? What makes you think the culprit is here? I don’t think any of my men could be mixed up in the case,’ said Stehlin, not without a fleeting thought for Servaz.

  ‘In chess, the bishops are the ones closest to kings,’ said Rimbaud cryptically.

  They had spent the afternoon wandering around L’Hospitalet and Saint-Martin, coming up with various theories, drinking so much coffee that Servaz felt nauseous. As soon as the light began to fade they went back to the hotel, on the pretext that they were tired, and shut themselves in the room. There were two beds, a double and a single, which seemed to both of them to be a sign. Servaz hadn’t wanted to attract attention by asking for two rooms. He had been prepared to sleep in an armchair if there was one, but this settled the matter.

  His problem, however, was that they had not planned to find themselves in the same hotel room after what had happened the night before, and that to be forced by events to do so made the situation even more embarrassing. He could tell that Kirsten felt just as awkward as he did. Every movement she made in the small space seemed as controlled as that of an astronaut on board the International Space Station. And there was only one window – which meant they could not avoid bumping into each other, and that they were so close he could almost feel the heat coming off her body, or the perfume from her neck and wrists.