Night

by Bernard Minier

  38

  A Wolf Surrounded by Lambs

  ‘This child: do you believe that Someone sent him to us? Do you believe in God, Martin? I think I’ve already asked you that, at some point. He would have to be a bloody twisted sort of God, if he exists, don’t you think?’

  They had gone outside to breathe the night air, and were watching the snowflakes fall. Hirtmann took a drag on his cigarette.

  ‘Have you heard of Marcion of Sinope, Martin? Marcion was a Christian who lived in Rome eighteen hundred years ago. As he looked around him, as he looked at this world full of suffering, slaughter, disease, war and violence, Marcion the heretic concluded that the God who had created all this could not be good, and that evil was a component of his creation. The screenwriters of Christianity had come up with a fairly murky twist to respond to the question of evil: they invented Lucifer. But Marcion’s version was much better: God is responsible for evil along with everything else; he is responsible for Gustav’s disease as well. Not only is evil an intrinsic part of his creation, it also acts as a lever to that creation. It is thanks to violence and conflict that creation evolves towards ever higher forms. Look at Rome. According to Plutarch, Julius Caesar conquered over eight hundred cities, subjugated three hundred nations, took one million prisoners, and killed another million of his enemies. Rome was a vicious society, with a definite taste for cruelty. However, its rise enabled the world to evolve, with an empire that unified nations, allowed ideas to circulate, and invented new forms of society.’

  ‘I’m tired of your rambling,’ said Servaz, taking out his own packet of cigarettes.

  ‘We dream of peace, but it’s an illusion,’ continued Hirtmann, ignoring the interruption. ‘At every level you find rivalry, competition and warfare. William James, the father of American psychology, has suggested that civilised life makes it possible for many people to go from cradle to grave without ever experiencing the slightest moment of true fear. Therefore, many of these people do not understand the nature of violence, hatred and evil; and yet they’re surrounded by it all. Is it not marvellous to be a wolf surrounded by lambs?’

  ‘What did you do with Marianne? How did she die?’

  Hirtmann glanced at him, irritated this time, as if he found it rude to be interrupted on two occasions.

  ‘Did I tell you that when I was Gustav’s age I hit my uncle with a hammer? He was sitting in the living room with my mother. He had stopped by for some reason while my father was absent, and they were chatting. To this day I cannot explain why I did what I did. In fact, I had forgotten all about it until my mother brought it up years later, on her deathbed. I don’t know … it was probably simply because the hammer was there. I grabbed it, I went up behind him, and bang! I bashed him hard on the skull. According to my mother, there was blood everywhere.’

  Servaz held the flame from his lighter up to his fag.

  ‘One of the last things my mother said, a few seconds before her cancer finally got the better of her, was, “You’ve always been bad.” I was sixteen. I answered her with a smile: “Bad like cancer, mother.”’

  Suddenly, Hirtmann tore the cigarette from Servaz’s lips and tossed it into the fine layer of snow on the pavement.

  ‘What did you do th—?’

  ‘Have you never heard that a donor mustn’t smoke? It’s a bit late, but from now on, no more cigarettes,’ decreed Hirtmann, turning around and going back in the door. ‘Are you taking medication for your heart?’

  Servaz almost replied, but he thought of Gustav. Was this real? Was he really talking about his medication with Julian Hirtmann?

  ‘Not really for my heart,’ he replied. ‘It’s not as if I had a bypass or a transplant. And I stopped the painkillers and anti-inflammatories. I don’t think they had too much time to damage my liver, if that’s what you’re worried about. Where is she? What did you do with Marianne?’ he growled at Hirtmann’s back, following in his footsteps.

  The doors closed behind them. It was the service entrance. Servaz looked all around. There was no one.

  ‘Where is she?’ he said, grabbing him by the collar and pushing him up against the wall.

  Hirtmann put up no resistance.

  ‘Marianne,’ said Servaz again, his features twisted with rage.

  ‘Do you want to save your son or not? Let me go. You’ll find out when the time comes, don’t worry.’

  Servaz tightened his grip. He wanted to strike, to hit, to hurt.

  ‘Your son will die if we do nothing. We can’t wait any longer. One last thing, in case you’ve got it into your head that Gustav can be operated on here: think of Margot. Two nights ago, I saw her, she was scantily dressed … I’d spilled some coffee on her bodyguard’s suit and she opened the door. She’s quite a beauty.’

  This time, he lashed out – he smashed his nose. Hirtmann roared like a beast when Servaz let go of him. He leaned forward, took out a handkerchief and held it against his nose to staunch the flow of blood.

  ‘I could kill you for this,’ Hirtmann growled. ‘You know as well as I do,’ he continued, ‘that it’s impossible to protect your daughter from someone like me. Speaking of Margot, don’t you think she looks tired these days? Have you seen the shadows under her eyes?’

  ‘You fucking bastard!’

  He was prepared to hit him again. His heart was pounding wildly. And then he saw the sign on the wall, next to the sliding door:

  Any physical and/or verbal aggression displayed towards hospital staff is punishable by law.

  Art. 222-7 and 433-3 of the Criminal Code

  Well, he thought, it wasn’t as if Hirtmann was a member of hospital staff. Suddenly, he reached for his handcuffs.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Hirtmann, his eyes darting with rage.

  Not answering, he closed one of the cuffs around Hirtmann’s wrist and swung him around briskly.

  ‘Stop it. This is nonsense.’

  He did the same with the other handcuff, grabbed him by the arm, and led him towards the way out.

  ‘What are you doing, for God’s sake?’ shouted Hirtmann. ‘Think of Gustav! The time we’re wasting.’

  His voice was smooth and cold, and Servaz felt as if he were walking on thin ice that was about to crack.

  The nurse in the little office saw them go by and rushed out of the room. Without turning around, Servaz waved his badge and walked on with his prisoner.

  ‘You seem upset, Martin,’ said Hirtmann, his voice both mocking and nasty now. ‘You’re like a cat with its tail caught in the door. Take these off. I didn’t touch your daughter. And I will not touch her. If you do what you have to do … Ultimately, everything – absolutely everything – depends on you.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  He pushed the swinging door into the entrance hall and again held out his badge to the woman at reception – who stared round-eyed at Hirtmann’s bloodied face – then he turned and led Hirtmann out of the door.

  There was a rush of cold air, but Servaz didn’t notice. They went down the steps and headed towards his car.

  ‘Think,’ said Hirtmann, walking next to him. ‘You’re going to be convicted of murder. I’m the only person who can clear you.’

  ‘Precisely. I’d rather know you’re in prison by then and not at large,’ he said, opening the passenger door.

  ‘And Gustav?’

  ‘That’s my problem.’

  ‘Oh, really? Once you’re in jail, how are you going to donate your liver?’

  Hirtmann was leaning against the car, his bound wrists crossed over his abdomen; he looked him up and down. Servaz hesitated.

  ‘All right, I’ll do it, but on my terms,’ he said.

  ‘Which are?’

  ‘You’ll go to prison, I will be free. I’ll follow your instructions. I’ll go to your clinic and donate my liver. We’ll save Gustav. But you’ll be in jail all that time.’

  Hirtmann made a sound between a laugh and a roar.

  ‘You think you can dictate your
terms? You have no choice, Martin, if you want to save your son. And your daughter … Even if I’m in prison, think of what the Labarthes could do to her. Or if it’s not them, other people like them – acquaintances of mine. You look very pale, Martin …’

  His eyes had narrowed to two slits, but Servaz could make out a metallic gleam between his eyelids. He did not doubt for one second that the man would make good on his threat.

  He struck him in his liver, as hard as he could, and Hirtmann screamed in pain and rage, bending his knees.

  ‘You’ll pay for this,’ he said. ‘Sooner or later, you’ll pay. But not now.’

  Servaz removed the handcuffs.

  It was four o’clock in the morning when he went back up to the hotel. He saw a light shining in the window of the room. Kirsten was awake.

  When he went in, she was sitting with her back to him, on the chair by the little desk, at her computer.

  ‘Where were you?’ she asked, not turning round.

  He didn’t answer right away. Kirsten spun around and looked at him.

  ‘What happened? You look as if you’ve aged ten years in one day.’

  39

  Margot

  ‘And you didn’t see fit to tell me?’

  She was furious. She did not seem to have got much sleep, and the shadows beneath her eyes made her look frailer than usual.

  ‘You spent five hours in the damn hospital with that kid and you couldn’t find a single moment to call me?’

  ‘You were sleeping …’

  ‘Fuck off!’

  He took this as a warning and fell silent.

  ‘And where is he now?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You … you let him get away? Just like that?’

  ‘Didn’t you hear what I said? Gustav may be my son. And he is mortally ill.’

  ‘And so …?’

  ‘Hirtmann has everything planned. The clinic abroad, the surgeon who is going to operate on him …’

  ‘Shit, Martin! They can just as easily operate on the kid here, if you’re the donor. You don’t need to—’

  ‘No,’ he interrupted.

  She looked at him.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ she swore.

  ‘He threatened to go after Margot.’

  ‘You could ask to have her detail reinforced.’

  ‘You know as well as I do that it’s impossible to protect someone one hundred per cent of the time,’ he said, thinking of what Hirtmann had said about Margot. ‘I won’t take that risk. Besides, who knows how long it will take to sort Gustav’s situation here. He’s ill. There’s no time to lose. They have to operate now.’

  His tone was firm, and categorical. Kirsten nodded, with solemn intensity.

  ‘So you’re going to let him play this out, is that it? You’re going to obey him?’

  ‘For the time being. I have no choice.’

  ‘You always have a choice.’

  She seemed very annoyed.

  ‘When are you due to see him again?’

  ‘He’s going to contact me.’

  Again she nodded, not without shooting him a sharp look.

  ‘I have to go,’ he said, gathering his things.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she asked, exasperated and dumbfounded.

  ‘To see my daughter.’

  It was still dark when Servaz reached Toulouse, parked his car in the Victor-Hugo car park, went down to street level, crossed the road and entered his building, with a wave of his hand to the cop sitting in his car. He greeted the other cop outside his door, wondering how long he’d been there. It was 6.12 in the morning.

  ‘Coffee?’ he said.

  The cop accepted and stood up. He unlocked the door carefully, so as not to wake Margot. He heard someone moving in the kitchen.

  ‘Margot?’

  His daughter’s face appeared in the doorway.

  ‘Dad? What are you doing here?’

  ‘Good morning, mademoiselle,’ said the cop behind him.

  ‘Good morning,’ she replied. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘You’re already up?’ asked her father, studying her tired face, the bluish shadows beneath her eyes.

  She looked at him without answering and turned around to go back into the kitchen. Even her shoulders seemed to droop more than usual in her worn dressing gown. He remembered what Hirtmann had said: ‘Don’t you think she looks tired these days?’

  He walked into the kitchen and took the cup Margot held out to him.

  ‘I’m going back to bed,’ said Margot, stifling a yawn.

  She kissed him and walked away, through the living room. He watched her go. She really didn’t seem herself. He also noticed the effects of her recent inactivity: she had put on a few kilos since she’d arrived, and her face was rounder. Did Hirtmann know more than he was letting on? From Hirtmann, his thoughts turned to Gustav. The hospital was keeping him under observation until the end of the day. After that he would go home – to the Labarthes’, in other words. The very thought of it made his stomach churn.

  He was hungry. He looked for a pizza in the freezer, but there were none left. The microwave meals had vanished, too. Yet again he felt a wave of irritation. The fridge had also been emptied of hamburgers, replaced by industrial quantities of fruit and veg. Organic, obviously.

  He headed towards his daughter’s room. The door was ajar, and he opened it quietly. She was already asleep. Even in her sleep she looked exhausted.

  ‘Your son?’ said Vincent Espérandieu, incredulous.

  Servaz was looking at the bottom of his coffee cup, as if a message were written there.

  ‘Martin, this is unbelievable. Your son.’

  ‘Maybe,’ amended Servaz, sliding two Ziploc bags over to him, one containing a lock of blond hair, the other a single hair. ‘Or maybe he’s just bluffing. I need the results as quickly as possible. For both of them.’

  Espérandieu studied the bags, then picked them up.

  ‘Why two? I don’t understand.’

  ‘I’ll explain.’

  It was too cold to sit on the terrace so they had taken refuge indoors, by the window. There were not many passers-by on the place du Capitole.

  ‘Don’t you think you could have told me about this before?’

  Servaz said nothing. He glanced at his assistant. He was approaching forty, but with his hair falling over his face, his chubby cheeks and his adolescent expression, time had no purchase on him. Servaz thought he hadn’t changed a bit since the day he had first come through the door to his office, ten years earlier.

  Vincent was a true geek and a mild-mannered young man. In the beginning he had been the target of jibes and homophobic insults, until Servaz put a stop to it. Subsequently they had become the best of friends – to be honest, Vincent was the only true friend he had in the police, or anywhere else, for that matter. Servaz was even godfather to Vincent’s son.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘No, but really! How long have we known each other, Martin?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘For God’s sake, you never tell me anything any more. Not me or Samira.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand what you’re getting at.’

  ‘You’ve changed, Martin, since your coma.’

  He stiffened.

  ‘Not at all,’ he replied, firmly. ‘The proof is that I’ve told you before anyone else.’

  ‘And I’m glad you have. Bloody hell, I don’t know what to say. You saw Hirtmann, you were in the same room as him. And you let him get away. Bloody hell, Martin! It’s complete madness!’

  ‘What else was I supposed to do? You think I’ve given up on the idea of arresting him? The boy could die. And he may be my son.’

  ‘Is there no way to have him treated here?’

  ‘Are you going to help me or not?’

  ‘W
hat do you want me to do?’

  ‘The guy from the Inspectorate: what stage is he at?’

  ‘Rimbaud? He’s convinced you killed Jensen.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous.’

  Espérandieu looked at him intently.

  ‘Of course it’s ridiculous. But the jerk has no other leads, so he’s clinging to it. In any case, once they’ve done the test firing he won’t have anything on you.’

  Servaz avoided his assistant’s gaze.

  ‘So the question remains,’ continued Vincent, ‘who would have wanted to bump off that scumbag?’

  ‘Besides me, you mean.’

  ‘Fuck, Martin, I didn’t mean that.’

  Servaz nodded. But Vincent Espérandieu was determined not to leave it at that.

  ‘Since when have you been taking everything your friends say the wrong way? Shit, you want me to tell you? Ever since you came out of your coma, I’ve been wondering who I’m speaking to: you, or someone else.’

  That’s something I’ve been wondering, too.

  ‘Can you keep an eye on Rimbaud?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s going to be tricky. He doesn’t trust Samira and me.’

  ‘Who’s doing the test firing?’

  ‘Torossian.’

  ‘Well, we know him. Could you sound him out?’

  ‘All right,’ said Vincent. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

  He shook the two Ziploc bags.

  ‘What will you do if he is your son?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘How’s Margot?’

  Servaz was instantly on the alert.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I saw her two days ago in town and she really didn’t look well.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘So you’ve noticed, too?’

  He looked down, and then up again.

  ‘I feel guilty,’ he said. ‘She dropped everything to be near me, and I’m constantly leaving her on her own. And then, I wonder if … I don’t know … I get the impression there’s something … But she won’t tell me anything. Things are awkward between us at the moment. I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘It’s simple.’

  Servaz looked at his assistant, astonished.