Night

by Bernard Minier

‘Ask her. Straight out.’

  Servaz nodded. Vincent was right.

  ‘And what about the Norwegian woman, is there anything between you?’

  ‘Is that any of your business?’

  Espérandieu sighed, a gleam of irritation in his eyes.

  ‘No, of course not. Except that in the old days you would never have spoken to me like that. Seriously, you’re spooking me.’

  Espérandieu stood up. ‘I’ve got to go. I’ve got work. I’ll keep you posted about the DNA.’

  Kirsten saw the Labarthes come back with the boy at around three in the afternoon. She watched them for a moment through the binoculars, then suddenly she was fed up. What was the point? She tossed the binoculars onto the bed and was about to lie down when her phone vibrated. She looked at the screen.

  Kasper. Calling for news.

  She didn’t reply. She didn’t feel like talking to him. His interest in the investigation was all to his credit, but she was beginning to find his repeated phone calls a touch suspicious: after all, he hadn’t seemed that interested when she was in Bergen. She had been careful not to tell him that Hirtmann had been found. He would have told his superiors in no time. Servaz had not informed his own superiors, either. Why? Because he didn’t want to be taken off the case – or was there another reason? She herself had not told Oslo much of anything. If there was one thing she wanted to avoid, it was having the Kripos prying into what was happening here.

  She stared at the ceiling and thought about the Labarthes. About what they had put her through. And above all, what they hadn’t had time to put her through … The very thought of it filled her with a murderous rage. It shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t her style to just let things drop. She remembered her early days as a uniformed policewoman on the streets of Oslo. She had been called to Rosenkrantzgate regarding a fight in a bar and had stopped a drunken man and his mate. As she expected, the man in question went for her from the start, spitting in her face words that certain men automatically use the moment a woman stands in their way. Despite this, the man was released the next morning, and as he was leaving the station he jeered at the policemen on duty.

  No doubt he didn’t understand why, the following evening, as he was staggering home, drunk yet again, a shadowy figure had appeared out of nowhere and assaulted him. The drunk ended up with several broken ribs, a crushed jaw, a dislocated shoulder, and three fingers of his right hand bent back. To this day he must wonder what had happened to him.

  She’d had enough of going round in circles. So she put on her boots, her anorak and her hat and went out for a walk in the snow. As her ankles sank into 20 centimetres of powder, she thought about Martin and the night they had spent together. It had been more than just a one-night stand. At the time, she’d felt as if something else was beginning. Had he felt it too?

  ‘What shall we do?’ asked Aurore Labarthe.

  ‘What do you mean, what shall we do?’

  She shot her husband a look of exasperation. It was nine o’clock in the evening and she had just put Gustav to bed. Night had fallen long ago, and the chalet was silent.

  ‘Didn’t you see his face at the hospital?’ she said. ‘He’s going to come back. And this time he’s going to punish us.’

  She saw Roland go very pale, and his features lost their composure.

  ‘What do you mean, punish us?’

  ‘Are you going to go on parroting me?’ she snapped.

  She did not see the murderous look he gave her, because she had turned to the window.

  ‘We have to get out of here,’ she declared.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Before he comes to deal with us.’

  ‘Why … why would he do that?’

  His voice was practically trembling. He was such a wuss.

  ‘That’s his thing, punishment. You ought to know, you’re his biographer,’ she snorted. ‘We screwed up.’

  ‘You screwed up,’ he corrected her. ‘It was your idea to drug the kid. And your second mistake was to tell him.’

  ‘Because you think that little twit of an intern wouldn’t have told him? Shut up. And stop shitting yourself.’

  ‘Aurore, don’t speak to me like that.’

  ‘Shut up. There’s only one thing for us to do: take as many things as we can carry and get out of here.’

  ‘And the kid?’

  ‘As soon as we’re gone, you call Hirtmann and tell him to come and get him, that the keys to the chalet are in the exhaust of my car and that Gustav is sound asleep in his bed.’

  ‘And where will we go, for fuck’s sake?’

  ‘Far away. For a change of air. And we’ll change our names if we have to. There are plenty of people who do that, who disappear overnight. We have enough money put aside.’

  ‘And my work at the university?’

  ‘Do you think I give a fuck?’ she replied.

  ‘May I remind you that it’s thanks to my position that we’ve been able to buy this place and that we—’

  There was the sound of an engine. They fell silent. For the first time, he saw Aurore’s face contorted with fear when she turned again to the window. He looked in turn, and froze. A car was driving very slowly through the snow; it had passed the hotel and was headed now towards the chalet, its headlights like two bright suns.

  ‘It’s him,’ she said.

  ‘What are we going to do?’

  ‘The same thing we did to that Norwegian,’ she declared. ‘Then we’ll kill him. After we’ve had a little bit of fun.’

  She turned to face him and he felt an icy chill: Aurore Labarthe’s eyes were sparkling with cruelty.

  Kirsten saw him get out of the car and go up the snowy steps to the door.

  Julian.

  She moved the binoculars and saw Aurore Labarthe at one of the windows on the first floor. She focused on the blonde woman. She looked preoccupied, but there was something else in her expression, too: wiliness, treachery, scheming … Kirsten suddenly felt all her senses on the alert. Something was brewing.

  Clearly, Aurore Labarthe was fully aware of the danger she and her husband were in. As for Hirtmann, was he aware of the danger that was stalking him? Kirsten felt as if a cloud of black ink were obscuring her thoughts. What should she do? She had come without her gun. Where was Martin? Probably on the road. She dialled his number – and got his voicemail.

  Shit.

  He was standing on the steps, his shadow wrapped in a dark winter coat sprinkled with snow, his hair dancing in the wind above his glasses. Aurore Labarthe had put on the black silk dressing gown with red braid he liked so much, but when she opened the door, he did not pay her the slightest attention. Any more than he noticed her body which, ordinarily, he always stopped to appreciate. At no point did his eyes ever leave hers.

  ‘Good evening, Aurore,’ he said.

  His tone was as chilly as the night outside. She felt a shiver in every one of her vertebrae, beneath the silk, like the caress of an icy finger. She saw his battered, swollen nose, and the cotton protruding from his nostrils. What had happened?

  ‘Good evening, Julian. Come in.’

  She wondered, as she stood to one side, when he was going to throw himself on her, but he did nothing of the kind, and headed towards the living room. She thought of Roland, in the kitchen mixing the cocktails. His hands must be trembling, her coward of a husband. He had better not make any mistakes with the dosage.

  All the same, when Julian walked past her, she felt the heady mixture of excitement and fear she always experienced in his presence. He strode into the living room like an animal. Certain of his strength, but wary. Ready for action and reaction. Aurore tightened the sash of her dressing gown around her waist before walking over to him. Roland came out of the kitchen carrying a tray with three big cocktail glasses, and she saw right away that he had been drinking to give himself courage.

  ‘Master,’ he said respectfully. ‘Please have a seat.’

  ‘Stop talking rubbish, Rolan
d, will you please?’ said Hirtmann, removing his damp coat and tossing it onto the sofa.

  Labarthe nodded his head, not daring to look at him. He set the creamy white cocktail down in front of him.

  ‘A White Russian, as usual?’

  Hirtmann nodded, never taking his eyes off Labarthe. Labarthe put Aurore’s champagne cocktail and his own Old-Fashioned down on the coffee table. Cocktails were another of Roland’s passions. Which had come in useful more than once when they had to ‘help’ their guests relax and take part in their games.

  ‘Have I ever told you that I have Russian roots?’ said Hirtmann, raising his glass. Roland was staring at the cocktail. Aurore wanted to shout at him to be more discreet. But then she turned her attention back to Hirtmann, who had paused with his glass a few inches from his lips. ‘Aristocratic Russian, in fact. My maternal grandfather was a minister in the Kerensky government, before the October Revolution. The family lived in Saint Petersburg, on Bolshaya Morskaya street, a stone’s throw away from the Nabokovs.’

  At last he took a sip of the mixture, which looked like whipped cream, then another one.

  ‘Delicious, Roland. It’s perfect.’

  He set his glass back down. Roland glanced furtively at Aurore. He had added almost 3 grams of GHB to the cocktail. A huge dose. In a few minutes, the substance would make its way to Hirtmann’s brain, changing his mood, making him euphoric, dissolving his fears and paranoia, and altering his motor functions. He would then cease to be the formidable Julian Hirtmann, and become easier prey.

  Aurore went and sat opposite Hirtmann. Ostensibly spreading her legs. This time, Hirtmann’s gaze lingered at the woman’s thighs, and for a moment it shone with pure lust, but also rage.

  ‘What you did was unforgivable,’ he said suddenly, his voice as sharp as a knife, as he set his glass back down.

  Aurore tensed. Labarthe felt his stomach drop to his shoes. It was Hirtmann’s tone, more than what he said, which was so chilling. She thought about the loaded gun she had hidden behind him, in an open drawer in the sideboard. She wondered if she would have time to reach for it.

  ‘You shouldn’t have done it. Really. It’s very … disappointing.’

  His suave, honeyed voice, as soft as a caress. Or a doctor’s cotton swab before the injection.

  ‘Julian,’ Aurore began.

  ‘Shut up, you bitch.’

  She recoiled. He had never spoken to her like that. No one had ever spoken to her like that. But she remained silent.

  ‘To be honest, it’s something that I cannot … forgive. And so, as you will easily understand, it must be punished.’

  Aurore wanted to say something, but she realised it was pointless. Only the drug could save them now. If it worked in time … Hirtmann’s eyes were darting from her to Roland and back, and for the moment, they did not show the slightest sign of any altered consciousness.

  ‘You are going to—’

  He broke off. Raised one hand to his face. Rubbed his eyelids. When he opened them, his gaze had changed. His dilated pupils were two black holes. His gaze was hazy, and he had difficulty focusing.

  ‘This cocktail,’ he said, ‘this cocktail is absolutely … delicious.’

  He flung himself back against the sofa, his neck on the cushions, his eyes staring at the ceiling, and he smiled.

  ‘Among humans as among the rats, control stimulates the mind, you know that? The absence of control, it is said, can paralyse mental function. But sometimes it’s good to lose control, isn’t it?’

  He laughed, sat up again, raised the glass to his lips, then took a long swallow. Suddenly he burst out laughing.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know what is in this, but I have never felt so fucking good!’

  There was no trace of threat in his voice.

  ‘“Now I know when the last morning will come: when the Light will no longer bring fear … neither Night nor Love … when slumber has become eternal, a single … a single … inexhaustible dream … and … I feel a celestial fatigue …”’

  He put his glass back down and lay on his side on the sofa, his knees tucked up.

  ‘Shit … I think I’m going to sleep …’

  Aurore peered at him. He closed his eyes. Then opened them. Then closed them again. She was silent for a moment. Then she looked at her husband and motioned towards the kitchen with her chin. Labarthe was about to get up when Hirtmann opened his eyes and stared at him. The professor felt his blood go cold. But then Hirtmann’s eyes closed again and his head fell back against the cushion. Unsteadily, Labarthe followed Aurore into the kitchen.

  ‘What the fuck did you do?’ she hissed as soon as he came in. ‘Have you seen the state he’s in? How are we going to get him up there?’

  Roland opened his eyes wide.

  ‘So? He’s at our mercy! All we have to do is finish him off. Now. Right away.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I told you I wanted to have some fun with him.’

  Labarthe couldn’t believe his ears. Had his wife gone mad? He could see the irritation and frustration in her eyes.

  ‘Shit, the man is dangerous, even drugged! We have to finish him off, Aurore! Now! Just in case you hadn’t noticed, this time it’s murder.’

  She gave him a penetrating look, her eyes flashing.

  ‘You’re nothing but a coward, you know that? All your so-called fantasies – it’s all hot air. Why do you have to screw everything up? Do everything all wrong?’

  ‘What did you do all wrong?’ came a voice from the door, behind Labarthe’s back.

  Julian Hirtmann’s tall figure was framed in the threshold to the kitchen, and he had a broad smile across his face. Labarthe felt his heart beating fit to burst. Had Hirtmann heard the beginning of their conversation?

  ‘I thought maybe we could have some fun before I take Gustav away,’ said Hirtmann, his voice unsteady. ‘What do you think? A sort of farewell party … shall we?’

  His head was wobbling. He was blinking, as if he were having trouble keeping his eyes open; they were rolling in their sockets, unable to stay in place. Aurore looked at him warily, then her smile spread. The cretin was going to hurry into the trap all by himself, the great Julian Hirtmann would be at her mercy. A shiver of excitement went all through her like an electric shock.

  ‘Of course.’

  Labarthe looked at her in turn, and his look said, Aha, you see? Hirtmann went back out of the kitchen and staggered towards the staircase.

  ‘Are you sure he’s not faking?’ Labarthe murmured behind his back. Aurore pointed to the cocktail glass. It was empty.

  ‘How much did you put in?’

  ‘Almost three grams.’

  ‘That’s impossible. Even for him,’ she said.

  As if to prove Labarthe was right, Hirtmann stumbled on the first step, laughed, went up another step, and stumbled again.

  ‘Fuck, I’m drunk as a skunk!’

  The spouses looked at each other. Roland went over to Hirtmann and put his arm around his waist. Hirtmann put his free arm around the professor’s shoulder and squeezed him affectionately. Labarthe looked tiny next to Hirtmann; the huge man could snap his neck just like that, and the professor felt every hair on his body stand on end.

  ‘My friend,’ said Hirtmann, ‘my faithful, loyal friend.’

  ‘Always,’ answered Labarthe, subject in spite of himself to a strange and powerful emotion which wasn’t only fear.

  ‘Always,’ echoed Hirtmann, with the solemn conviction of a drunk.

  With Aurore following behind, they climbed up the steps. On the final landing, Hirtmann held out his arm. He was tall enough to reach the trap door handle on the ceiling; he opened it then pulled down the metal ladder, which descended with a creak. Hirtmann grabbed hold of the ladder and climbed up the first rungs like a child eager to play.

  He suddenly stopped halfway up and leaned towards them, looking concerned.

  ‘Are you sure Gustav is asleep?’

  She g
ave her husband a questioning look.

  ‘I’ll go and check,’ he said. ‘Go ahead and start without me.’

  She wanted to tell him to do no such thing. She didn’t like the idea of going up there alone with Julian Hirtmann. But Hirtmann was watching them and she reluctantly agreed.

  Labarthe went back down to the floor below. She heard his steps heading along the corridor towards the boy’s room. Hirtmann flipped the light switch and disappeared into the attic. She put her foot on the ladder.

  Why did she feel as if she were climbing up to the gallows?

  With each rung she told herself this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. Perhaps Roland was right: they should have finished the job downstairs. When she put her head through the hole, she shuddered: he was standing right next to the trap door, towering over her, observing her with his shining little eyes.

  She saw her own reflection in the lenses of his glasses. For a split second she was tempted to go back down and run away.

  She pulled herself out onto the floor and stood up. Hirtmann gazed at her, lustfully. The wind was howling against the roof. Outside, the temperature must be arctic, but the heat up here made her dizzy.

  ‘Take it off,’ he said.

  She did as she was told, and the bathrobe dropped to her feet with an almost imperceptible rustle of silk. He gazed at her for a long time, his look this time one of pure desire, not missing a single part of her body.

  ‘I’m in charge here, don’t forget,’ she said.

  He nodded, his head still shaky, his eyelids visibly heavy. She put one hand flat on his chest, near his heart, and pushed him gently but firmly, and he stepped back, docile. She reached for a leather bracelet attached to a cable, tugged on the pulley, and fastened it around his left wrist. He complied with a smile.

  ‘Bring your face closer,’ he said. ‘Kiss me.’

  She hesitated but lifted her face to him; their chests were almost touching. He leaned slightly forward, put his free hand behind her neck and kissed her on the mouth. She responded to his kiss. He tasted like coffee liqueur and vodka. Suddenly Hirtmann’s large hand left the back of her neck and closed around her throat.

  ‘What did you put in my cocktail?’