by Michel Bussi
The girl cop played the part of the sympathetic supervisor who’s all too familiar with her boss’s ill humour. She even managed a “good luck” before I stepped into the corridor.
At 2.00 P.M. on the dot I was standing outside Captain Piroz’s office.
The door was open. I paused for barely a second.
“Come in, Monsieur Salaoui.”
Piroz gestured for me to close the door behind me. His grey hair, combed back, fell on his shoulders like the branches of a weeping willow with a coating of frost.
“Sit down.
He didn’t look like a headmaster who was about to read the riot act to a hopeless boy, more like a consultant who has no good news to pass on to his patient. The stack of files behind the model of Étoile-de-Noël was growing.
“I’ve got your results, Monsieur Salaoui.”
Not just any old specialist. An oncologist.
“It doesn’t look good, Monsieur Salaoui.”
“Meaning?”
“The fingerprints . . .” Piroz combed his greasy hair with his fingers. “They’re yours.”
Even though I’d been prepared for it, this was a hard blow to take.
“On the Burberry scarf?”
Piroz nodded.
“Let me explain, Captain.”
Piroz didn’t interrupt me once while I told him my version of events, my discovery of the scarf caught on the barbed wire near the blockhouse, my idiotic reflex in throwing it to Magali Verron. Her leap into the void, the scarf floating from her hand. I had rehearsed what I would say on the bus, but I still stammered when I told him what had happened next.
The beach.
The scarf wrapped around the neck of the suicide.
I suggested the version put forward by Mona, that the girl hadn’t seen her rapist’s face, she’d confused me with him, she’d panicked, she’d jumped to get away from me, to accuse me. I didn’t believe it myself, but I did my best to sound sincere. I sensed that Piroz would take some convincing.
I was wide of the mark.
“Your version is interesting, Monsieur Salaoui. But you interrupted me a moment ago. The fingerprints are yours, on the red cashmere scarf, quite definitely . . .”
He opened the green file in front of him. From experience, I knew it wasn’t a good sign.
“But you’ll have to explain to me, Monsieur Salaoui, why we also found your fingerprints on Magali Verron’s neck, on her legs and on her chest . . .”
I froze.
Paralysed.
My whole body was now as stiff as my left leg. I struggled to breathe.
“It’s . . . it’s impossible, Captain. I never touched the girl.”
Piroz looked up from his file and leaned his head back, as if the weight of his hair was pulling it down.
“You didn’t touch her before she jumped, that’s what you told me. But on the beach, when she was already dead?”
“I didn’t touch her, Captain! Not before her death, and not afterwards either. Christian Le Medef and that old lady, Denise must have told you that . . .”
“I’m just trying to help you, Monsieur Salaoui.”
Like hell he was.
I replayed the scene in my head, trying to remember every detail. There was no doubt in my mind. I had never been in direct contact with Magali Verron.
What was this new insanity?
“I don’t believe in your nonsense for a second, Captain,” I sneered. “What next? Are you going to tell me my sperm was in Magali Verron’s vagina?”
Piroz calmly smoothed a grey curl between his thumb and his index finger.
“That would make a lot of sense, Monsieur Salaoui. The man who strangled Magali Verron is probably the one who raped her.”
I exploded. The Étoile-de-Noël pitched and tossed in front of my eyes.
“Christ alive! I tried to save that girl! I tried to prevent her falling, and you’re accusing me of . . .”
I didn’t have the strength to finish. Piroz’s smile chilled my blood. An even more intense fear pierced my heart.
He hadn’t told me everything.
I spat out another question.
“Do you have the results of the DNA test? Is that it?”
“No . . . Not yet, perhaps this evening . . . But I’ve had the preliminary findings. They’re not good. Not good for you!”
Christ almighty!
I was sitting in an electric chair that had just passed two thousand volts through my body. My sperm in Magali Verron’s vagina . . . That was what that bastard was implying.
The policeman’s calm contrasted with the storm that was blowing through my head.
“I think you already know what the outcome will be, Monsieur Salaoui. The examining magistrate signed your indictment this morning. There are still some formalities to sort out. You’ll need to find yourself a lawyer, for example. But in the meantime, there are some things I would like to discuss with you.”
For the first time, there was a slight hesitation in his voice as he continued:
“I’d like to talk about the two murders that took place ten years ago: Morgane Avril and Myrtille Camus. Ten years ago. You remember, Monsieur Salaoui?”
Do I remember?
Suddenly I had the impression Piroz was on precarious ground, at the limit of what an examining magistrate would permit. I straightened up in my chair.
“Is that it, Captain? Three dead girls. You start by accusing me of killing the first one and then, while you’re about it, you try to pin two more on me—crimes the police have been unable to solve for ten years.
Piroz seemed unimpressed by my outburst.
“You must have carried out your own little investigation, Monsieur Salaoui. You must have noticed some striking similarities between the fate of Morgane Avril and that of Magali Verron. You’re right, we’re stuck . . . But there’s at least one thing we’re sure of: the three crimes are connected.”
I didn’t trust myself to speak. I felt like a dog being restrained by the collar, ready to bite anyone who came within range.
“Explaining coincidences is your job, not mine.”
“True.” Piroz began delving through one of his files, a beige one, this time. “I’m going to ask you an important question, Monsieur Salaoui. It’s a simple enough question, and I’d like you to give me a straightforward answer. Did you still have the use of both legs ten years ago? Your file is a bit, shall we say, vague on this point.”
I had understood the implications without Piroz having to explain. The number one suspect in the Avril–Camus case, the stranger wearing a Burberry scarf, and perhaps three months later an Adidas cap, might vaguely match my description.
Brown, average height, athletic, dark skin.
Except he didn’t have a limp . . .
Except nothing would induce me to tell Piroz the truth.
On this point at least.
“No, Captain. I was born like this . . . Well, almost. I was unlucky, the fairy who bent over my cradle had some sort of speech impediment.”
Piroz eyed me with suspicion. He’d scared me shitless with his accusations, but now it was time for me to have my revenge.
“That damned fairy waved her magic wand over my forehead she said her magic word, abracadabra, or whatever, then she said, as true as I’m sitting here, Captain: “Of all the little boys in the world, may this baby be the stumpiest of all.”
Piroz’s expression was a picture.
“Just a mispronunciation, Captain. Stupid, isn’t it?”
The bubbles in my brain exploded like a firework display. I felt as if I was charging, sabre raised, at a tank.
Piroz turned brick red.
“This isn’t a game, Salaoui. Damn it, I’m trying to help you.”
“Set me up, more like! A cripple. An Arab. A
lone in the world. Working with loonies. The ideal scapegoat, don’t you think? The police have been looking for one for ten years . . .”
Piroz placed both elbows on the desk.
I carried on: “I didn’t touch that girl, Captain. Those aren’t my prints on her neck. It isn’t my sperm. Find another fall-guy!”
The policeman stared beyond the mizzen mast of the Étoile-de-Noël for a moment, then continued as calmly:
“This isn’t the right strategy, Salaoui. Your disability won’t save you when you’re up before a jury.”
Asshole! So what is the right strategy?
When I’d reviewed it all in my mind earlier, I could come up with only one possible explanation.
A police conspiracy.
They needed someone to pin it on. Who better than the poor guy who happened to be on the cliff at the wrong time one morning.
Me.
A moment later, the other hemisphere of my brain whispered to me that I was at the police station in Fécamp, not in North Korea or South Africa . . . You didn’t manufacture false evidence to trap an innocent party. Not here. Not in France . . .
“I have the right to see a lawyer.”
“Of course, Salaoui. It’s impossible to put a citizen under examination before he has heard the accusations accompanied by a lawyer.”
Vague memories came back to me, of television series glimpsed from the battered sofa in our flat in La Courneuve. The kind of soporific crime shows my mother used to watch, and which I used to hang around in front of so as not to be sent to clean up in my room.
The Avril–Camus case was almost ten years ago. Ten years, must be the statute of limitation for murder cases.
What if I was their last throw of the dice?
The Avril–Camus case would be closed within a few months.
What if, before the final curtain came down, the police had decided to pin it on the first guy who came along?”
“Do you have a lawyer, Salaoui?”
I didn’t answer. Something else had come to mind from one of my mother’s favourite television series.
“Don’t you need two police officers to interrogate somebody?”
“No, Monsieur Salaoui . . . Not for routine questioning.” Piroz got to his feet, clearly annoyed now. “I have three detectives working the Magali Verron case, following up every lead, looking for all the guys she came across during her final days. They are also collating all the similarities and coincidences that link Magali Verron and Morgane Avril. You may not realise it, but you’re lucky I’m working this case, Salaoui. Even though every single scrap of evidence points to you, I’m still looking elsewhere. Despite everything, I’m not entirely convinced of your guilt—so don’t go and mess it up.”
Piroz had delivered those last words with a strange solemnity. As if he alone stood between me and the fate that awaited me.
A trap? Another trap? Piroz was clever.
“One last time, Salaoui, it’s very important. Did you have both legs ten years ago?”
Piroz must have interpreted my silence as a pause for reflection, but I’d already made my decision.
I didn’t believe him.
In his eyes, I was guilty. In the eyes of the other officers too. All the evidence, the witness testimony pointed in that direction.
What was my word worth against that?
Nothing.
I didn’t know who they were, but they had set me up.
I had no choice, I had to escape the net that was tightening around me.
Now. Whatever the consequences.
The movement took less than a second. I leaned forward, just enough for my hands to grip the mahogany plinth of the model of the Étoile-de-Noël and, in the same movement, spun around with my arms raised to bring the plank of wood down on the head of the police captain.
Piroz didn’t have time to react. He fell heavily to the ground. His hands clawed at the void while his legs no longer supported him. Only his eyes clung to me. Terrified.
A thread of blood slipped from his pleading mouth.
“Salaoui, no . . .”
No what?
What was he most afraid of losing?
His model? His prey? His life?
He tried to get back to his feet and rested both hands on the tiled floor. Dazed. Scarlet drops formed on his brow and dripped along his hair.
I glanced one last time at the Étoile-de-Noël, the fine rigging glued on with the precision of a watchmaker, the little sailors arranged in minute detail on the deck, then I smashed the whole thing against the back of Piroz’s neck.
He fell to the ground, unconscious.
For a few minutes I stood frozen in place, sure that a dozen policemen alerted by the noise would suddenly appear in the office.
Silence. Closed door.
Almost as if they were used to people being beaten up between their walls.
I quickly assessed the situation. I was I going to get out of this now? Climb out the window? Sprint down the corridor to reception? Pull Piroz by the collar, with a letter-opener pressed to his carotid artery, and make my escape by holding him in front of me?
Ridiculous!
My only hope was to leave as I had come in. Detached. Vaguely worried. A smile of complicity to the girl cop on reception.
As silently as possible I tugged on the apple-green cord of the shutter that was supposed to protect the room against the rare sunlight of Fécamp. It took me less than a minute to bind and gag Piroz.
He was breathing, but he wasn’t moving. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes and hair sticky with blood. I took a few seconds to grab the green file in passing.
Magali Verron.
I thought of taking others. There was a great pile of files stacked up on the captain’s desk, but I didn’t have time to sort through them. I couldn’t afford to weigh myself down either.
With one final movement I slipped into my pocket a loose page that was sticking out of the file. It was the one that had intrigued me the day before.
A simple table on a white background.
Eight numbers in four boxes.
One more mystery?
This one could wait . . .
I left.
A first policeman crossed my path; a second appeared on my right and brushed past me; two others came towards me at the end of the corridor, guns in their belts, stared at me, slowed down and stepped aside.
I passed between them without turning around.
I was already in the entrance hall.
“Did you survive?” the girl cop at reception joked.
I almost felt guilty for returning her smile. Her colleagues were going to blame her for what happened She had joked with the rapist on the run, never suspecting a thing, failing to raise the alarm. Would she dare to say that she’d thought he was nice? That he didn’t fit the profile of a killer? That they were perhaps mistaken?
Given the lengths they’d gone to in their efforts to set me up, the ease with which I escaped seemed laughable.
As soon as I went down the steps of the police station, the iodine-filled wind lashed my face.
I was free.
For how long?
I quickly put some distance between myself and the station and headed towards the harbour.
How long before Piroz raised the alarm?
I thought fleetingly again of the five directions on my star. Becoming the one-legged hero of the Ultra-Trail of Mont Blanc, making love with the woman of my dreams, having a child, being mourned, paying my debt . . .
Not exactly a great start . . .
I would only escape the police for a few hours; a few days at most. I couldn’t go back and sleep at the Sirène, or even head towards Yport.
What was I going to do?
Prove my innocence all by myself? Wa
it for this madness to evaporate like a bad dream? For the police to find another culprit? The real killer?
I left the seafront behind me. The place was deserted. In this weather, no one was venturing out. The pebbles on the beach swallowed me up without anyone noticing me.
Without anyone hearing me.
I’m innocent! I yelled in my head.
I’m innocent!
The water rose gently, but by walking quickly I was able to get far enough away before it covered the shoreline completely. Between Fécamp and Yport, over ten kilometres of shoreline, there was only one means of access to the sea, at Grainval, and dozens of panels indicated that it was strictly forbidden to walk below the cliffs.
The local police had long ago stopped playing hide-and-seek with the smugglers on the customs men’s path. No one would come looking for me here, between sea and chalk.
The pebbles rolled beneath my feat. Already, Fécamp, was just a vague line of grey buildings. Gripping the green file in my hands I thought again of Piroz and his accusations.
One question haunted me.
By hitting him and running away, had I torn free of the spider’s web that was being woven around me?
Or had I taken one more step towards the abyss that was waiting to engulf me?
II
ARREST
Rosny-sous-Bois, July 22nd, 2014
From: M. Gérard Calmette, Director of the Disaster Victim Identification Unit (DVIU), Criminal Research Institute of the National Gendarmerie, Rosny-sous-Bois
To: Lieutenant Bertrand Donnadieu, National Gendarmerie, Territorial Brigade of the District of Étretat, Seine-Maritime
Dear Monsieur Donnadieu,
Following your letter of July 13th, 2014, regarding the discovery of three skeletons on Yport beach on July 12th, 2014, our service has devoted itself with utmost diligence to this troubling case.
Although to date none of the three individuals has been identified, preliminary forensic examinations confirm that the bones belong to three men, adults, aged between twenty and thirty at the time of their death.
We could find no evidence of significant trauma to the three skulls, or any other part of the skeletons, which seems to rule out the possibility that they were killed by the collapse of the cave walls. However, violent or non-natural death remains a possibility, taking into account the circumstances of the discovery of these bodies. Complementary chemical examinations will allow us to test the possibility of death by poisoning.