‘Don’t get me wrong, I love my sister. Even though I spent my youth fixing all her messes, hiding them from our parents, cleaning up after her and providing her with alibis for her secret encounters with increasingly unhinged men. And then one day last year I got the impression she had changed.’
She propped herself on her elbow and her gaze, which had been focused on the window, came back to him.
‘I questioned her and eventually she confessed that she had met someone. An older man – brilliant, charming, funny … But she didn’t want to introduce him to me and I sensed something must be up. I figured he must be unhinged like all the others, just another one of those nutcases who she found so attractive. And then one day in March, she disappeared. Poof – she was gone … We never found her.’
He gave her a searching look.
‘Hirtmann?’
She nodded.
‘Who else could it be? Several women disappeared in the Oslo region just after my sister did, and the description she gave me of her friend matches up.’
‘So this is why you’re putting so much into this investigation – not just because he wrote your name on a scrap of paper. It’s a personal matter. I should have guessed. But why did Hirtmann choose you? Why did he make you come all this way? Why did he put your name in the victim’s pocket? What does any of this have to do with Gustav?’
She didn’t say anything, but she looked – a sad, desperate look – deep into his eyes. He checked his watch, then gently pushed her back and sat on the edge of the bed.
‘Martin,’ she said. ‘Wait, wait. Do you know what Barack Obama said to one of his girlfriends when she told him she loved him?’
He turned around to look at her.
‘What?’
‘“Thank you.” That’s what he said. Please don’t say thank you.’
Once he had finished rehearsing Smetana’s symphonic poems, Zehetmayer went back to his dressing room. As always, he had called for chocolate, Japanese whiskey, and roses. These requirements were aimed above all at maintaining his legend. He was sufficiently vain to think that his legend would outlive him, but that in no way lessened the coming horror, the prospect of his imminent annihilation and eternal night; and lately he could not think of it without trembling. Twice already the crab had loosened its claws, but this time it would not let go.
He did not believe in God, he was far too proud. His old man’s mind was full of frightening lucidity, a lucidity so pure it bordered on madness. Around the Musikverein, the Viennese night had fallen yet again – a winter night of snow and wind, which for several years now had made him fear he would not see the next spring – when a knock came at his door. He thought of the statue of the Commendatore knocking at Don Giovanni’s door, and the flames of hell, and he wondered if the man on the other side, in the dark corridor – that man who had so often delivered death – ever thought of his own. Who doesn’t think of it? he wondered.
Despite his height, Jiri slipped into Zehetmayer’s dressing room with the lightness of a shadow. Bernhard recalled his early conversations with Jiri, at the prison. They had been insignificant. He would scarcely have imagined that he would get in touch with him again one day for a far more sinister reason. But from the very start he had sensed that Jiri would never change, that once he came out he would resume his ‘activities’. It was just who he was. Like a musician who will never give up music.
‘Good evening, Jiri,’ he said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
The killer didn’t bother to answer. He walked over to an open box of chocolates by the mirror.
‘May I?’
Zehetmayer nodded. ‘There has been a development,’ he said, his tone impatient. ‘They’ll be here soon. They’re coming to Austria.’
Jiri chewed on his chocolate and listened distractedly to the conductor, as if the topic did not interest him. No sooner had he finished the first chocolate than he took a second one.
‘Where?’ he said.
‘Hallstatt. Apparently the child, Gustav, is ill. He has to have an operation there.’
‘Why?’ asked Jiri.
‘I suppose Hirtmann knows someone there, someone from his past. He often came to Austria before he was arrested.’
‘And what do you want me to do?’
‘We will go there.’
‘And then?’
‘And then we’ll see.’
The old man fell silent for a moment. Then he looked Jiri deep in the eyes.
‘I’ll leave it up to you: either you kill him, or you kill his son. Either way, it’s all the same to me.’
‘What?’
There was another moment of silence. The old man’s lower lip trembled slightly.
‘If you don’t manage to kill him, kill the child. That gives you two options.’
Jiri seem to mull it over for a moment.
‘You’re crazy,’ he said.
‘There must be a way,’ insisted the old man.
Jiri nodded his head.
‘There is always a way. I want more.’
A broad smile lit up the conductor’s face.
‘I figured as much. One million euros.’
‘Where will you get it?’
‘I’ve been putting money aside my whole life. And I have no children. This seems to me a useful way of spending it.’
‘How old is the kid, did you say?’
‘Five.’
‘Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘One million, and one hundred thousand euros in advance,’ said the old man. ‘The balance when it’s done.’
Suddenly both men turned their attention to the door, which had just opened. A woman’s weary face emerged from the darkness, like a theatre mask, her eyes shining like pebbles. They saw a cleaning cart behind her.
‘Oh, sorry. I thought the dressing room was empty.’
She closed the door. They waited for a few moments, not speaking.
‘Why?’ asked Jiri. ‘Why do you want to go after the child as well? I’d like to understand.’
Zehetmayer’s voice betrayed his emotion.
‘He took my daughter, I’ll take his son. It’s simple arithmetic. He cares more about that child than his own life.’
‘So you hate him that much?’
‘More than anything.’
Jiri shrugged. The orchestra conductor was crazy, no doubt about it. Well, as long as he paid …
‘I wouldn’t know,’ he replied. ‘I never let my emotions get the better of me. One million euros, fair enough. And two hundred and fifty thousand in advance.’
42
Alps
The following morning, engineer Bernard Torossian reluctantly left his house in Balma, in the eastern suburbs of Toulouse, and his little family – a spirited five-year-old girl, a slightly less lively boy of twelve, and an anorexic greyhound called Winston – to head for police headquarters. He left his car in the car park and took the A line of the Métro to Jean-Jaurès station. There he changed to the B line, in the direction of Borderouge.
As he came out of the station at Canal-du-Midi that morning, he dragged his feet the last few metres to the police station as if his soles were made of lead. He had never gone to work with such a heavy heart.
Torossian showed his badge at the turnstile, then went into the lift and pressed the button for the third floor, where the ballistics section of the forensics police laboratory was located. Once he was in his office he sat down at his computer, and proceeded to think. The last few hours had been tough on his nerves, and he had only managed to fall asleep at around four o’clock in the morning. His wife asked him what was wrong, but he refused to say.
He had finished the test firing the night before. The results were devastating for someone he liked very much. Not only was it someone who’d enjoyed a near-mythic stature in the regional crime unit ever since the Saint-Martin and Marsac cases, but he was also someone Torossian respected as a man.
But ballistics and physics don’t give a damn about human emotion
s. They are cold, factual, truthful and irrefutable. That is what he’d always liked about his profession until now: unlike his colleagues, he hadn’t had to struggle through the jungle of human emotions, intuitions, theories, lies and half-truths. Until today. Today, he hated facts. Because the facts had spoken: it was Servaz’s weapon which had killed Jensen. Beyond a shadow of a doubt. Science does not lie.
Looking out at the rain drearily splattering the windows, he shook his head – Servaz taking his gun to kill a man in cold blood: no, it was absurd – then picked up his phone and dialled the number for the Inspectorate.
He left his car in the police car park not long after dropping Kirsten off at her hotel. It would soon be daylight. He wanted to ask Espérandieu to keep an eye on Margot – she liked and trusted him – and on the surveillance teams during his absence.
He recalled Hirtmann’s words as he headed towards the building. Was he really about to walk into the lion’s mouth? If the ballistics analysis had come up with anything, he figured Vincent would surely have called to warn him.
He charged through the lobby and as he came out of the lift on the second floor, he ran into Mangin, a guy from the CSI team for whom he felt no particular affinity. Ordinarily, they greeted each other as briefly as propriety would allow. This time, Mangin gave him a sharp look and kept walking without a word.
No, not a sharp look: an astonished one.
He instantly felt nervous. A few more timid good mornings in answer to his greetings and he was beginning to feel pins and needles in his legs. He resisted the urge to turn right round and get the hell out of there. Run for it, said a little voice inside his head. Now. Run for it. He took out his phone. No messages from Rimbaud. Or Vincent. Or Samira. He hastened his steps and found them in their office.
‘What is going on here?’ he asked from the door.
Vincent was leaning over Samira’s shoulder, where she was sitting at her screen. His two assistants were speaking excitedly, then suddenly broke off. They turned to him. Their eyes grew wider.
He met their gazes.
And understood.
He felt a lump in his throat.
‘I was going to call you …’ Vincent began, hesitating somewhat. ‘I was going to call you … your gun …’
Servaz was still standing in the corridor by the door to the room. His ears seemed to be ringing, and Vincent was looking at him as if he’d seen a ghost.
Something moved, over to his left.
He turned his head, looked down the corridor, and froze. Rimbaud was taking great strides in his direction.
His expression was hostile.
‘It’s your gun,’ said Espérandieu again, as if dazed, from inside the office. ‘Martin, fuck, you …’
He didn’t hear the rest.
He swung around towards the lift. Started walking.
Slowly at first, and then more quickly.
‘Hey! Servaz!’ shouted the inspector behind him.
The doors were open. He stepped in. Swiped his badge.
‘Servaz! Where are you going? Come back!’
Rimbaud was running now, shouting something he didn’t hear. He could see faces appearing in the hallway, one after the other.
The lift didn’t move.
Come on, come on … Rimbaud was only a few metres away. Suddenly the doors closed. But in the instant before, he had time to read not only the frustration on the man’s boxer-like features but also his satisfaction at being right.
In the lift, Servaz let out a breath. He tried to think calmly and clearly. But any serenity was escaping like air from a punctured tyre. He was stuck, while up there Rimbaud would be making phone calls, sounding the alarm, rounding up the troops. His heart began beating faster.
They would nab him downstairs: just one call and they would block him at the front door.
Ever since the attacks on 13 November 2015, not only were there guards at the entrance, but junior officers at reception controlled access to the doors with a button.
His goose was cooked.
Then he thought of something else. There was one thing in his favour: it was a big building, and communication between departments was rarely optimal.
The lift opened on the ground floor, just opposite the turnstile, but he stayed at the back. He swiped his badge again and pressed another button. The lift began moving again with a slight vibration.
The basement.
The jail. The detention cells.
They must have already called reception. How long before they figured out where he had gone?
The doors opened. He entered a cold, clinical space without windows, lit solely by artificial light.
He turned right.
The cells were glass-walled; some lit, others not. Men lay on the floor inside them like puppies in a pet shop, their gazes indifferent, weary, enraged, or simply curious.
A bit further along, he passed the big glassed-in office with guards in light-coloured uniforms; he greeted them, expecting them to burst out at any moment to intercept him, but they merely returned his greeting.
Someone was being remanded in custody a bit further along – the man was going through the security checkpoint, about to be searched. Three cops from the crime brigade were with him.
His heartbeat accelerated. This might be his chance. He went through the checkpoint, and continued on his way …
Turned right.
Headed for the door leading to the car park Open!
A Ford Mondeo was waiting in the gloom near the exit for the patrol to return. There was no one inside. He swallowed, walked around and peered in the driver’s side.
Christ! The keys were in the ignition!
He had a split second to decide. He was not yet a fugitive criminal, but if he took this car, there would be no going back. He glanced behind him: the men from the crime brigade had their eyes on the detainee, and were paying no attention to either Servaz or the vehicle. He heard a phone ring somewhere.
Decide, quick!
Servaz opened the door, sat at the wheel, and turned the key in the ignition. He put the car into reverse. He saw someone look over, from the building, then the policeman’s stunned expression when he put the car into gear.
He backed up, causing the tyres to squeal on the floor of the car park, then drove forward through the rows of cars, charging towards the exit ramp.
Thirty seconds.
That was the time he figured he would need to reach the barrier, which would open automatically to any vehicles coming from inside and which, as a rule, were in a hurry.
He was driving fast, too fast. He almost lost control when he reached the ramp, and he hit a motorcycle with the right front wing, skidded first to the left and then to the right, but quickly regained control. The motorcycle he had just hit collapsed against the one next to it, and all the motorcycles in the car park fell one after the other in a clamour of crumpling metal and twisted handlebars, echoing all through the underground space.
He hardly heard it: he was already charging towards the exit and the barrier that gave out onto the boulevard.
He was fleeing from his workplace like a bandit! The entire police building could hear the screech of tyres.
His fingers were damp and tense on the steering wheel, and he forced himself not to think about it; he was sure the barrier would not go up, or that someone would appear, something would go wrong, and he would spend the rest of his days in …
Concentrate, dammit!
The barrier.
It was going up! He couldn’t believe his eyes. Hope returned and the adrenaline was like a kick in the arse. He came out onto the boulevard, jumped the red light in front of a Mini coming from his right, which stopped short with a squeal of tyres and blew its horn in a rage. He turned left, scraping the pavement that went along the canal, and sped towards the Minimes bridge.
Twenty seconds.
That was roughly how long it took him to cover the 300 metres to the bridge.
He was across th
e canal fifteen seconds later.
Avenue Honoré-Serres now.
Fifty more interminable seconds because of a traffic jam – not a single siren, yet – his heart pounding wildly. For a moment he was even tempted to turn round and go back to the police station. ‘All right, I did something stupid, I’m sorry.’ But he knew there was no going back.
Nearly there: 200 metres more and he turned left onto the rue Godolin – he thought he could hear sirens in the distance – then after 150 metres, down the rue de la Balance; a few seconds more and he was lost in the labyrinth of the Les Chalets district. He abandoned the vehicle and continued on foot.
He was dying for a cigarette, and to see his daughter, but that was impossible now, too. A door – an invisible one – had just closed in that direction as well. He thought about Hirtmann, who had forbidden him from smoking. The urge was overwhelming. He took out his packet, still striding down the pavement, feeling completely, utterly alone.
At the car hire agency, a glassed-in office right in the middle of the car park opposite the arrivals hall at Toulouse-Blagnac airport, he handed over his passport in the name of Émile Cazzaniga, filled out the form, and took possession of the vehicle. In the boot he placed the little suitcase and handful of belongings he had bought at the Galeries Lafayette in the centre of town, and turned the key in the ignition.
Fifteen minutes later he was driving towards the Mediterranean. The little Peugeot 308 GTI was brand new, the tank was full, and the sun was shining. For a few minutes he was filled with the headiness of freedom – checking, nonetheless, that he was driving well below the speed limit. Then he suddenly recalled what the doctors had told him: avoid long car trips. This one would take fifteen hours. What if he had a heart attack driving at 130kph down the motorway? He preferred not to think about it. He did, however, think of Gustav and Hirtmann on the dam, and his daughter who looked so tired, and Rimbaud saying, ‘I will prove that you have been lying,’ and of Kirsten’s sister, the artist who liked shadows and who had gone to be with them. And then he saw Kirsten again, saying, ‘Please, don’t say thank you.’
What exactly did he feel? He had to admit that this Norwegian woman had filled his thoughts a good part of the time recently. What would happen now? He was on the run, and she would have to go back to Norway. Would they go their separate ways for good?
Night Page 33