Night

by Bernard Minier

  Now she had been back in their room for at least an hour and he still hadn’t returned.

  Something had happened. Was he simply hiding somewhere, or had they found him? The more time went by, the more the answer to this question seemed to be vitally important. Should she call for backup? Martin had broken every rule by going in there. With the suspicions that had been weighing upon him since Jensen’s death, this would be the end of his career. Did that even matter? She could not possibly leave Martin at the mercy of those two individuals.

  She felt a stiffness in her neck and the onset of a headache, both probably due to stress. She massaged her neck and took a paracetamol, before going back to the window.

  As long as Gustav was awake, they wouldn’t act. They would wait until he was asleep. Unless they had already … she banished the thought. Had Hirtmann told them about Martin? She had to act, to do something. But what? Once again she tapped on her mobile.

  Where are you? Answer!

  She gazed desperately at the empty screen. Shit! Why did he have to go and sneak inside the chalet? Over there, at the window, Labarthe was swinging Gustav in his arms, then the boy ran off, laughing. A touching family scene.

  He was lying on his side in the darkness, his ear glued to the linoleum.

  In the dark, a thin strip of light ran around the trap door like a rectangle burned with a blowtorch.

  While he occasionally heard Gustav’s high-pitched voice from the ground floor, the adults’ voices were less distinct. Very soon they would put Gustav to bed. How long before they were all sound asleep? And even then, the trap door was right next to their bedroom. He recalled the creaking of the metal ladder when he extended it: it would be impossible to use it. There would be only one option: to jump straight down to the floor below and get the hell out of there.

  He couldn’t wait all night. What if someone came up to the attic?

  He could feel the damp in his armpits. It was very hot. He was thirsty, too, a nagging thirst that thickened his dry, swollen tongue like boiled cardboard. And both his elbow and shoulder were stiff from staying in the same position.

  He looked at his telephone. Not a single one of the messages he had sent had been transmitted.

  He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve and listened out. The television had just been switched on. A cartoon. He could identify the sounds coming from the big living room from the slight echo they made. Suddenly he heard heavy steps resounding on the floor below. Someone had come upstairs. Then the shower in the bathroom in the parents’ suite came on.

  Five minutes later, whoever it was came back out. And stopped just below the trap door.

  Servaz’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He was willing to bet it was Aurore Labarthe. Did she come up every evening to gaze at her secret garden, her infernal little paradise? Or had she heard some noise he’d made?

  He rolled over, moving quickly to one side: someone had just grabbed the handle on the other side and was opening the trap door.

  Kirsten looked at her watch. Two hours had gone by since she’d returned to the hotel. Shit, she couldn’t stand this waiting. The fog had lifted, with the exception of a few clouds of mist in the hollows, but it was snowing again, fairly heavily. The landscape looked like one of those virtual animated Christmas cards people send by email. Everything was drowned in a yellowish darkness.

  Over there, a light was flickering in the living room: the television. Kirsten was beginning to get pins and needles in her legs. She was constructing all sorts of scenarios in her mind – and some of them were fairly sinister. An American study had shown that uncertainty wrought more havoc on people’s minds and health than negative certainties.

  That she could confirm. The question was, had Hirtmann mentioned Martin to the Labarthes, and did they know how important the cop was to him. It seemed unlikely. Most probably Hirtmann had not told them any more than they needed to know.

  Light poured from the opening like glowing lava from a volcano. Servaz held his breath. The trap door was wide open. But whoever was standing underneath had not yet pulled down the ladder. He was frightened that his breathing, or the mad beating of his heart, would be audible. It was Aurore Labarthe, without a doubt: her heady, venomous perfume drifted up to him.

  Down below there was no movement, no sound. Was her face raised towards the attic? Could she sense his presence? Did she suspect that someone was hiding there in the dark?

  Then he heard the doorbell.

  Whatever she had planned to do, she thought better of it, because the trap door closed. His cheek against the plastic flooring, he began to breathe again.

  She rang the bell a second time. The door opened at last and Aurore Labarthe appeared. She was even taller than Kirsten had imagined: almost 1 metre 80. She was wearing an old dressing gown that looked warm and comfortable, and her hair, wet from the shower, was the colour of damp hay and fell around her severe face like a curtain. She planted herself in front of Kirsten. She had a long slender figure, her body all bone and muscle. Her pale blue eyes were totally devoid of warmth.

  ‘Hi,’ said Kirsten in English, with a big smile.

  He listened out. A new voice. Familiar. He couldn’t hear what she was saying, and it took him a few moments to realise why. English. Kirsten! Good Lord! What was she up to? He became aware that for a while now he’d had a terrible urge to urinate. He stood up and walked tentatively through the dark to the shower, where he relieved himself without really caring whether he was pissing in the right spot. Then he returned to his post.

  Everyone was downstairs. He had to risk it. He opened the trap door a few centimetres and the voices reached him more distinctly.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ Kirsten asked, at the front door.

  The Labarthe woman answered with a simple nod, neither unclenching her jaw nor taking her eyes off her.

  ‘I – I’m staying at the hotel. I’m an architect in Oslo, in Norway, and I’ve been looking at your chalet since this morning.’

  The blonde was listening without batting an eyelid, completely indifferent to what she was saying.

  ‘I’m completely fascinated. I took a few pictures of the facade. I would like your written permission to publish them in a Norwegian journal, as an example of French mountain architecture. Would you allow me to have a look inside?’

  That was all she had come up with. Improbable enough to be credible. She had the advantage of not looking like a French police officer – none of the ones she had met spoke English as impeccably as she did – and she did look like a foreigner. However, the woman at the door had not yet said a word and her expression was indecipherable. Kirsten felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end: there was something utterly chilling about this woman. For a split second she wondered if she should reveal her true identity.

  ‘I realise it’s late and I’m disturbing you. I apologise. I’ll come back tomorrow.’

  All of a sudden Aurore Labarthe’s face lit up.

  ‘Not at all. Come in,’ she said, with a broad smile.

  Servaz heard the voices below, but could not make out what they were saying. The conversation sounded light. Nothing aggressive or threatening. This did not reassure him. God only knew what the Labarthes would be capable of in the presence of a lone woman as attractive as Kirsten. She had entered their lair, she had thrown herself into the lion’s jaws. Now that he had seen all the paraphernalia in the attic, he wondered if anyone had ever been brought up here against their will.

  The tension was exhausting and the situation was getting out of hand. He had to do something.

  They were still chatting downstairs, the television blasting out its cartoon. This meant Gustav was not in bed yet. As long as that was the case, they would not go after Kirsten. He pushed the trap door wider, slid out, hanging from his arms, swung and let go. The moment his fingers were free he felt his shirt tear somewhere on his back.

  He landed on the floor a bit too loudly, but at least the
sound was muffled by the thick carpet. He wondered if anyone had heard him, but in addition to the racket of the cartoon, there was a shutter banging somewhere. He listened for a moment and could hear Aurore Labarthe’s sinister laugh. He took out his telephone and switched it to silent. Hunted for Kirsten in his contacts. Typed in English:

  Get out of here!

  ‘How interesting,’ said Aurore Labarthe, pouring Kirsten another glass of the sweet white wine which was, she said, a speciality of the southwest. ‘Architecture is one of my passions,’ she added, with a faint smile and a wink. ‘Santiago Calatrava, Frank Gehry, Renzo Piano, Jean Nouvel … Do you know what Churchill said? “We shape our buildings; thereafter they shape us.”’

  Her English was perfect. Kirsten had a moment of panic. Truthfully, architecture was far from being one of her specialist subjects. She looked up from her glass, flashed Aurore Labarthe an indulgent smile, which she hoped would appear to be that of a professional who has already heard this a thousand times from enlightened, enthusiastic amateurs. Only one name came to mind.

  ‘Ah, we have several remarkable architects in Norway,’ she said with a smile. ‘Kjetil Thorsen Traedal to start with.’

  The co-architect of the Oslo Opera, known to all the inhabitants of the city. Aurore nodded cautiously, narrowing her eyes. Kirsten didn’t like that look. She noted that they were sitting face to face in the living-room area, while Roland Labarthe was standing slightly to one side. From where he stood he could observe Kirsten at his leisure. Kirsten put down her glass. She had drunk enough. Her telephone vibrated in her pocket. A message.

  ‘Shall we get Gustave to bed?’ said Aurore Labarthe to her husband.

  Kirsten saw the look they gave each other, and she was immediately on her guard. Where was Martin? His absence was increasingly worrying. She wondered again whether she ought to reveal her true identity. She tried desperately to pick up a sound, a sign. She hoped that Martin had heard her and that he would take advantage of the fact she was distracting the Labarthes’ attention to find a way to get out. But what if he were tied up somewhere? She felt close to panic.

  Labarthe switched off the television.

  ‘Are you coming, Gustav?’ he said.

  Gustav … She swallowed her saliva. The little blond boy stood up.

  ‘Your little boy is very sweet,’ she said. ‘And very well behaved.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Aurore Labarthe. ‘Gustav is a good little boy. Aren’t you, my treasure?’

  She caressed his blond hair. The boy could have been hers. The couple headed towards the stairs, with Gustav between them.

  ‘We won’t be long,’ said Aurore Labarthe.

  Kirsten became aware of the sudden silence in the house. She took out her mobile. She had a signal. Four bars. She saw the message. Martin! His text in English was as explicit as could be:

  Get out of here!

  He scarcely had time to slip into one of the first-floor bedrooms before they were there. Through the narrow opening of the door, he saw them walk down the corridor towards the boy’s room, with Gustav in his pyjamas. Aurore was much taller than her husband.

  ‘I want her,’ said the blonde woman.

  ‘Aurore, not in front of the kid.’

  ‘I fancy her,’ she insisted, paying no attention to what he had said. ‘I really fancy her.’

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ asked Labarthe, his voice warm and refined. Servaz was hearing it for the first time, as they walked by. ‘It’s a bit too good to be true, don’t you think?’

  ‘I want you to take her up there for me,’ the woman declared. ‘She’ll be perfect.’

  ‘Isn’t it a bit dangerous? She’s staying at the hotel next door.’

  They were moving away, towards Gustav’s room.

  ‘With what I put in her wine, she won’t remember a thing tomorrow,’ answered the woman.

  ‘You drugged her?’ he said, incredulously.

  Servaz suddenly felt cold fear grip his insides. He leaned closer to the opening in the door to be able to hear, but the tension was making his ears buzz.

  ‘What are you talking about?’ asked Gustav.

  ‘Nothing, treasure. Get into bed now.’

  ‘I have a tummy-ache.’

  ‘I’ll get you something.’

  ‘A sedative for Gustav, then?’ said the man, calmly.

  ‘Yes – I’ll get a glass of water.’

  Servaz heard the woman coming and quickly stepped back. She went into the bathroom on the other side of the corridor and turned on the tap. Then she passed him again, a glass in her hand. He saw her hard profile, her gaze without warmth, and it was as if his centre of gravity suddenly plummeted. The Labarthes’ intentions were as clear as could be.

  ‘May I use your toilet?’

  Kirsten’s voice, now, from the ground floor.

  ‘I’ll go,’ said the man. ‘Make sure Gustav is asleep.’

  Servaz resisted the urge to jump on Labarthe as he went past. He would have the advantage of surprise for a brief moment, but there was the woman – and he suspected that they were resourceful. He remembered the rowing machine, the weightlifting bench, the weights and the punching bag. He would never get the better of them. Not one against two, with his gun at police headquarters and Kirsten drugged. He was going to have to outsmart them.

  ‘May I use your toilet?’ she called, looking upstairs.

  She heard heavy steps coming down, and Labarthe appeared. First his legs then his narrow face, with his ambiguous little smile.

  ‘It’s this way,’ he said, showing her. ‘Please.’

  Once she was inside, Kirsten turned on the tap and ran her face under the cold water. What was happening to her? She felt woozy; as if she was going to be sick. Her forehead was damp with sweat. She pulled down her trousers and pants, and sat on the toilet seat. As she was relieving herself she felt as if her heart kept changing pace, beating faster, then slower.

  What the hell was going on? She stood up painfully, took a deep breath and went back out.

  The Labarthes were both sitting in the living-room area now. Their gazes swung towards her in unison, as if they were being moved by the same puppeteer, and she almost burst out laughing.

  Don’t laugh. You ought to be wary of these two, my dear, said a little voice inside. If I were you I’d get out of here as fast as possible.

  She was sure that in the state she was in – if she ran to the door – they would catch up with her in no time. And besides, they had just said they would have a drink and show her pictures of the chalet when it was being built – or renovated, rather, since it was an old farmhouse.

  She was thinking about all this as she walked towards them across the big living room. She suddenly wondered how long it had taken her to do that. For fuck’s sake, she was losing all sense of time and space, and the floor seemed to be moving in waves. Aurore Labarthe patted the space next to her on the sofa, and she flopped down.

  The blonde smiled, and never took her eyes off Kirsten; nor did her husband.

  If you think I’ve lost control, you’re kidding yourself!

  ‘Some more wine?’ said the blonde.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘I’ll have another one,’ said the man.

  ‘Here,’ said Aurore Labarthe, putting the iPad on her lap, ‘here are the photographs of the chalet as it was being renovated.’

  ‘Oh!’

  Kirsten looked down at the screen, tried to focus on the photographs, but she found it difficult – and the colours seemed strangely saturated, like those of a poorly adjusted television: glaring reds, greens and yellows, all running into each other.

  ‘The colours are strange, don’t you think?’ she said, and her voice seemed thick.

  She could hear Roland Labarthe’s short, ironic laugh, oddly distorted by a sort of echo in her ears. What was he laughing about? She wanted to let herself go, to lie down on the sofa. She felt weak, drained of strength.

  Suddenly she remembe
red Martin’s message:

  Get out of here!

  Shit, get a hold of yourself.

  ‘I don’t feel very well,’ she said.

  There was an echo in her voice. Aurore Labarthe stroked her cheek with her index finger. She leaned towards her, pressing her breast against her arm.

  ‘Look,’ she said, showing her the pictures.

  Her fingernails were black and very long.

  ‘It’s …’ she began.

  What did she say? She had mixed up Norwegian and English! Her hosts were looking at her, amused. There was something besides mere amusement in their identical expressions, though: something sly, false, covetous … A shiver went through her. They said something to each other and laughed, but her brain must have disconnected for a moment, because she couldn’t remember what had made them laugh.

  She realised she was on her feet, and that they were leading her towards the staircase, holding her by both arms. When did I stand up? She couldn’t remember.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked.

  ‘You have to get some rest,’ said Aurore Labarthe gently. ‘We’re taking you somewhere quieter.’

  ‘Y-yes,’ she stammered. ‘I want to be left alone, I want some peace and quiet.’

  Suddenly Aurore Labarthe turned to her, grabbed her chin and kissed her. The woman’s tongue forced its way into her mouth. Kirsten let it. Something in her brain – a barrier, a lock – was preventing her from reacting.

  ‘You fancy her,’ said the man, behind them.

  ‘Oh, yes. Very much. Let’s go.’

  Servaz looked at Gustav. The boy was sound asleep in the soft blue glow of his nightlight. It made the twirling Spider-Men on the duvet turn purple. Once again he wondered who this boy was – and above all, who his father was.

  He had the blond hair in his pocket, deep inside the Ziploc bag.

  He had heard Kirsten’s voice downstairs as it changed and became thick and shrill. He had heard the Labarthes laughing, their honeyed voices, and he felt a rage in his belly.

  But he knew that if he confronted them, both he and Kirsten were in danger of ending up in chains upstairs in that den. He had to outwit them.