‘In what regard? Because of the suspect?’
Rimbaud did not reply. Servaz wondered what attitude he would adopt: confrontation or collaboration? They were sitting on either side of the desk, facing each other: confrontation, then.
‘I would like you to tell me what happened on the roof of the railway carriage, and about the night you went to Saint-Martin.’
‘It’s all in my report.’
‘I’ve read it. I was told you spent several days in a coma; how are you feeling?’
An open question, thought Servaz. According to the police manual, ‘open questions encouraged the speaker to talk and give as much information as possible’. Then you moved progressively to closed questions: the tunnel technique. The problem was that offenders were almost as familiar with these interrogation techniques as the cops were. And the problem with the cops from the Inspectorate was that they were interrogating other cops, so they had to be all the wilier.
But that was Rimbaud’s problem.
‘How am I feeling? Do you really want to know?’
‘Yes.’
‘Drop it, Rimbaud. If I need a shrink I’ll find one myself.’
‘Hmm. Do you need a shrink, Commandant?’
‘Ah, is that your thing? To repeat what the other person says?’
‘And you, what’s your thing?’
‘For Christ’s sake! How long are we going to play at this?’
‘I’m not playing, Commandant.’
‘Just drop it …’
‘Okay, fine – what were you doing on the roof? Why did you go up there in the middle of the storm? You could have been burned to a crisp.’
‘I was pursuing a suspect who had fled after threatening us with his gun.’
‘But by this point, some time had passed since he’d threatened you, no?’
‘Do you mean I should have let him get away?’
‘You had your gun in your hand when you went onto the roof, didn’t you? You had it pointed at Jensen?’
‘What? I wasn’t armed! The gun was, er, still in the glove compartment.’
‘You’re telling me that you were pursuing a suspect who was armed and high on drugs and who had already taken aim at you and you weren’t even armed?’
‘You could say that, yes,’ he replied.
‘You could say that?’
‘Are you going to start repeating everything I say again?’
‘Right. So, Jensen shoots you and at the same time gets that fucking electrical shock that turns him into a Christmas tree.’
‘You like metaphors, Rimbaud. It must be because of your name.’
‘Enough bullshit, Servaz. That was damned unlucky, all the same: if only he’d been fried a second earlier, you would have been spared all those days and nights in a coma.’
‘Or he might have fried my brain.’
‘Do you think you’ve changed since you came out of the coma?’
He swallowed. Maybe Rimbaud was more cunning than he seemed.
‘Everyone changes, Commissaire, whether or not they’ve been in a coma.’
‘Did you have visions? Did you see things – your dead parents, anything like that?’
Bastard, he thought.
‘No.’
‘Everything working just like before?’
‘How about you, Rimbaud?’
Rimbaud merely nodded without reacting. He was used to sharp customers; he wouldn’t let himself be rattled that easily. Nor will I, thought Servaz.
‘When Jensen called you late the other night, do you recall the first thing he said to you?’
Servaz thought.
‘“How is that heart doing?”’
‘Right. And then?’
‘He talked about that night on the train carriage … quite a night you had, or something like that.’
‘Right. Go on.’
‘He said that because of me he looked like – I can’t remember who, some name I’d never heard.’
‘Okay.’
‘He said he had seen me that day, in Saint-Martin.’
‘Oh, really? What were you doing there?’
‘Working on a case. At the town hall. A missing child.’
‘Missing children – is that a matter for the crime brigade?’
‘It hardly matters. It has nothing to do with Jensen.’
‘So it doesn’t. Right. How did you react?’
‘I asked him what he wanted.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘He wanted to talk to me.’
Rimbaud gave him a funny look.
‘I asked him what about,’ added Servaz without waiting for the next question, even though he knew he shouldn’t make the job easier for the man sitting across from him.
‘And what did he say?’
‘That I knew.’
‘And was that true?’
‘No.’
‘Right. And then what did you say to him?’
‘That I had other things to do.’
‘And that’s when he mentioned your daughter,’ asserted Rimbaud.
This was what he had been driving at, right from the start.
‘Yes.’
‘How did he refer to her?’
‘All he said was, “Your daughter, I know.”’
‘And was that when you decided to go there?’
‘No.’
‘How did you react when he mentioned your daughter?’
‘I asked him to repeat what he’d said.’
‘Were you angry?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what did he say?’
‘That he would wait for me at midnight outside the thermal baths in Saint-Martin.’
‘Did he mention your daughter again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. What did he say?’
‘“And say good evening to your daughter for me.”’
‘Hmm. Which made you even angrier.’
‘Yes.’
Rimbaud’s eyes had narrowed to slits. Servaz remained impassive, but he felt insulted. He viewed Rimbaud’s very existence as a personal offence.
‘We checked the times your phone indicated your position on the transmitters between Toulouse and Saint-Martin. Some minor calculations enabled us to determine that you were driving well above the speed limit that night, Commandant. What did you have in mind as you went tearing down the motorway like that to Saint-Martin?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing?’
‘Nothing in particular. I just wanted to see him face to face and tell him to stay away from my daughter.’
‘So, you intended to threaten him?’
Servaz could see very well where Rimbaud wanted to get him, the same way fish can sense where the net is dragging them – but by then it’s already too late.
‘I wouldn’t use that word.’
‘And what word would you use?’
‘Warn. I wanted to warn him.’
‘About what?’
‘That if he went any closer to my daughter, he would be in trouble.’
Rimbaud seemed to savour the expression, giving a faint smile, transcribing something into his notebook before typing on his keyboard.
‘What sort of trouble?’
‘What’s the point of speculating, since I didn’t actually see him?’
‘What sort of trouble were you thinking of, Commandant?’
‘Don’t wear yourself out, Rimbaud. I mean legal trouble.’
The commissaire nodded, clearly unconvinced.
‘Tell me about Saint-Martin. What happened there?’
‘I already told you everything.’
‘What was the weather like? Was it snowing?’
‘No.’
‘Was the sky clear? Was there a moon?’
‘Yes.’
‘So, you could see as if it were broad daylight?’
‘No, no, not broad daylight. But it was a fairly clear night, yes.’
‘Okay. Tell me: if the ni
ght was that clear, why did you not recognise Jensen, with his bloody burned mouth that made him look like Freddy Krueger?’
‘That’s it, that’s the name.’
‘What?’
‘When he said that it was my fault he looked like someone, that was the name he mentioned.’
Rimbaud shook his head, looking annoyed, and Servaz suppressed a smile.
‘Fine, fine. The fact remains that you didn’t recognise him.’
‘He was standing under the trees, a good thirty metres away. If it was him.’
‘You’re not sure?’
‘How could he have been there and at the refuge at the same time?’
‘How indeed? So, you don’t think it was him?’
‘It seems obvious, no?’
‘And do you have any idea who it could have been?’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘You have to admit it’s a strange business, Servaz.’
He didn’t reply.
‘And so the voice on the telephone, who was it?’
Servaz hesitated.
‘At the time, I thought it was Jensen. But thinking back, it could easily have been someone else. After all, everything they said was in the newspapers.’
‘Hmm. Who would want to do that, that’s what I find so hard to grasp.’
Servaz felt the anger spreading through him. He wanted to explode, but he knew that if he did, Rimbaud would use it against him.
‘Where were you that night at around three o’clock in the morning?’
‘In my bed.’
‘In Toulouse?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did your daughter hear you come back?’
Rimbaud knew more than he was willing to disclose.
‘No. She was asleep.’
‘So, you came back from Saint-Martin, and you went to bed?’
‘Correct.’
‘What size shoe do you wear, Servaz?’
‘What?’
‘Your shoe size …’
‘Forty-two. Why?’
‘Hmm. Fine. No more questions for the time being. As for your weapon, you can pick it up here in a few days. We’ll keep you informed.’
Rimbaud stood up.
‘Servaz …’
Rimbaud had spoken so softly he almost didn’t hear him. He turned around.
‘I don’t believe you for one second. And I will prove that you have been lying.’
Servaz looked at the cop from the Inspectorate, almost said something, thought better of it, shrugged and went out.
30
A Strange Pair
‘They’re a strange pair, your Labarthe couple.’
He was sitting on the terrace at the Café des Thermes, on the boulevard Lazare-Carnot, with Lhoumeau, the cop from the anti-procurement brigade. After delivering his neat judgement, Lhoumeau raised his beer to his lips. His habit of going out after sunset to ‘sniff’ the pavements, or to keep an eye on the all-night bars in the Matabiau-Bayard-Embouchure sector, had resulted in an ashen complexion and huge bags under his eyes. His hollow cheeks and bony nose – where Servaz could make out a network of tiny veins that was no doubt due to his penchant for strong drink – further enhanced his appearance as a night owl. His feverish gaze was constantly on the lookout.
‘We caught them more than once, propositioning whores.’
‘Both of them?’
‘Both of them. The woman was doing the choosing.’
Servaz knew that there were roughly 130 women working as prostitutes in Toulouse, most of them Bulgarian, Romanian, Albanian and Nigerian. Almost all of them belonged to a network. And they moved from one city to another, or even one country to another. ‘The Europe of Sex’, as Lhoumeau put it. He took a drag on his cigarette to get warm.
‘One of the girls eventually filed a complaint: against her wishes she had ended up at an S&M party, where she was allegedly abused. But she withdrew her complaint. Since then, the pair have been lying low in the country.’
‘I know,’ said Servaz, his tone sinister.
‘Why are you interested in them?’
‘They’ve turned up in a case.’
The cop shrugged his skinny shoulders.
‘Right. You can’t tell me anything more, I understand. But you should know that the Labarthes are as twisted as they come. I’ve always thought that the crime unit will have to deal with them some day.’
‘Why’s that?’
Servaz had put Labarthe’s book on the table between them. The sky hung low and grey over Toulouse. In the December light, Lhoumeau’s avian face looked almost like a mask.
‘The parties they organised were violent. Sometimes very violent. The Labarthes had a lot of connections in the sex trade in Toulouse, and both they and their rich guests were eager for new experiences, new sensations.’
Servaz thought about similar parties Julian Hirtmann used to organise at his villa on Lake Geneva, back in the days when he was a prosecutor there. Yet another connection.
‘How do you know all this?’
Lhoumeau shrugged, but avoided Servaz’s gaze.
‘It’s my job to know these things.’
‘In what way violent?’
‘The usual stuff. But sometimes it would go a bit too far. Some of the girls wanted to file a complaint, but they were dissuaded.’
‘By who?’
‘By money, for a start. The Labarthes’ guests had a lot of it. They even paid an entry fee. And there were powerful people there: magistrates, politicians, even cops.’
Always the same rumours, thought Servaz. This city loved rumours. He narrowed his eyes, the better to study Lhoumeau.
‘Could you be a little more precise?’
‘No.’
Lhoumeau’s attitude was beginning to exasperate him. He suspected he didn’t know as much as he was implying. He looked at a young couple kissing, not five metres from them: the boy was leaning against a car, the girl was leaning against him.
Then he turned his attention back to Lhoumeau and suddenly he twigged: Lhoumeau had been a participant. He would be neither the first nor the last cop to frequent such clandestine events, or gambling circles, or orgies.
‘The woman was the worst,’ said Lhoumeau suddenly.
‘Why?’
‘She’s a dominatrix, you know the type. But it wasn’t just that. The moment she sensed that a girl was vulnerable, she homed in. And she would arouse the men, provoke them. Sometimes there would be more than a dozen of them around the girl. And the more terrified the girl was, the more excited this woman became. She was scary, all right.’
‘Were you there?’
Lhoumeau cleared his throat. He looked as if he were about to throw up.
‘Once, yes. Only once. Don’t ask me what the fuck I was doing there.’
He saw Lhoumeau gulp and give him a strange look.
‘That woman, take it from me – keep away from her.’
‘And what about him?’
‘He’s an intellectual. Takes himself very seriously. Arrogant, smug, but servile around the more influential guests. He thinks he’s in charge but she’s the one wearing the trousers.’
What a charming pair, thought Servaz, crushing his cigarette. On the boulevard, the young couple had moved apart. Suddenly the girl slapped the boy in the face and walked away.
He thought about Margot. The girl in the young couple was a few years younger but looked a little bit like her. And obviously she had just as much of a temper. On his way here he had decided he would go and see his daughter. But now he wondered how she’d take it when he told her he wouldn’t be staying. Badly, no doubt. Suddenly he realised he no longer had the courage to deal with yet another crisis.
He was back by the end of the day, although the sun had already vanished behind the peaks a while earlier. Above the mountains the sky was red, and the snow itself had a pinkish tinge, while the water of the stream he was driving alongside looked like copper leaf. Then he left the valley to start up towar
ds the mountaintops, and snowflakes came to greet him, downy and whirling. Clearly the snowplough had not been through there, and he had to drive extremely cautiously all the way to the hotel. Once or twice he got a fright when his rear wheels skidded at the edge of a fairly steep slope and by the time he parked the car, his legs were trembling slightly.
As on every evening, everything was veiled in shadow, and the valley below them was drifting slowly into the mist. The little lights of the villages were coming on and twinkling through the fog. The manager had hung red and yellow Christmas lights beneath the eaves.
He found Kirsten at the bar, chatting with the manager. She had caught the sun, and her hair was even lighter because of it. She sat drinking a hot chocolate. She is beautiful, he thought. And they were going to have to spend another night together.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘It’s been dead calm. The woman took Gustav to school this morning and brought him back at noon. In the afternoon a woman came to do the cleaning. Gustav made a snowman and went sledging. No sign of the guy since this morning. He must be in Toulouse …’ She hesitated. ‘It’s all too normal, in fact.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m wondering if they haven’t spotted us.’
‘That soon?’
‘They’re on their guard. And your Labarthe may have spoken to the manager yesterday.’
He shrugged.
‘You’re imagining things. The fact they’re behaving normally, that’s what’s normal,’ he concluded, with a smile.
31
Abandon All Pride, Oh Ye Who Enter Here
He put Labarthe’s book back down, disappointed. It was fiction based on facts – phoney, meaningless stuff.
Everything in it was common knowledge, although Labarthe had added some personal ideas, putting himself in the killer’s shoes. At the end of the day it was a pretentious, bombastic thing, passing itself off as literature.
He thought about what his father had said to him again and again, when he was making his first efforts at writing: ‘I believe more in the scissors than I do in the pencil.’ He later found out that these were not his father’s words, but Truman Capote’s. What he had before his eyes was verbose, complacent and posturing.
Could Hirtmann really have been seduced by such a book? Pride provokes blindness. The portrait that Labarthe had given of him was virtually hagiographic; it was easy to sense the fascination that Hirtmann’s acts held for the scribe. Perhaps he had dreamt of doing the same thing but had never dared take the first step? It was certainly not morality that held Labarthe back, but rather fear of prison; everyone knew what happened inside to people like him. So why had he agreed to take Gustav in? Why run such a risk? Had Hirtmann forced their hand in one way or another?
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