Alex Read online

  Alex is dazed but aware of what is happening to her. She is crying, choking on her tears. Why me? Why me?

  I don’t want to die. Not now.

  2

  When he called, Divisionnaire Le Guen gave him no choice.

  “I don’t give a shit about your scruples, Camille, you’re seriously busting my balls here. I haven’t got anyone else, and I mean anyone, so I’m sending a car for you and you’re fucking going!”

  He paused a beat, then, for good measure, he added: “And stop being such a pain in the arse.”

  Then he hung up. This is Le Guen’s style. Impulsive. Usually Camille takes no notice of him. Usually he knows how to handle the divisionnaire.

  The difference this time is that it’s a kidnapping.

  And Camille wants nothing to do with it. He’s made his position clear: there aren’t many cases he won’t handle, but kidnapping is top of the list. Not since Irène died. His wife had collapsed in the street, eight months pregnant, and been rushed to hospital; then she’d been kidnapped. She was never seen alive again. It destroyed Camille. Distraught doesn’t begin to describe it; he was traumatised. He had spent whole days paralysed, hallucinating. When he became delusional, he had had to be sectioned. He was shunted from psychiatric clinics to convalescent homes. It was a miracle he was alive. No-one expected it. In the months on sick leave from the brigade criminelle – the murder squad – everyone had wondered whether he would ever show his face again. And when finally he came back, the strange thing was that he was exactly the same as before Irène’s death, just a little older. Since then, he’s only taken on minor cases: crimes of passion, brawls between colleagues, murder between neighbours. Cases where the deaths are behind you, not in front. No kidnappings. Camille wants his dead well and truly dead, corpses with no comeback.

  “Give me a break,” Le Guen has told him more than once – he’s doing the best he can for Camille – “you can’t exactly avoid the living; there’s no future in it. Might as well be an undertaker.”

  “But …” Camille said, “that’s exactly what we are!”

  They have known each other for twenty years and they like each other. Le Guen is a Camille who gave up on the streets. Camille is a Le Guen who gave up on power. The obvious differences between them are two pay grades and fifty-two pounds. That, and about eleven inches. Put like that it sounds preposterous, and it’s true that when they’re together they look like cartoon characters. Le Guen is not very tall, but Camille is positively stunted. He sees the world from the viewpoint of a thirteen-year-old. This is something he gets from his mother, the artist Maud Verhœven. Her paintings are in the collections of a dozen museums abroad. She was an inspired artist and an incorrigible smoker who lived in a cloud of cigarette smoke, a permanent halo; it is impossible to imagine her without that blue haze. It is to her that Camille owes his two distinguishing traits. The artist left him with an exceptional talent for drawing; the inveterate smoker left him with foetal hypotrophy, which meant he never grew taller than four foot eleven.

  He has rarely met anyone he could look down on; he has spent his life looking up at people. His height goes beyond a mere handicap. At the age of twenty it’s an appalling humiliation, at thirty it’s a curse, but from the outset it’s clearly a destiny. The sort of handicap that makes a person resort to using long words.

  With Irène, Camille’s height became a strength. Irène had made him taller on the inside. Camille had never felt so … he gropes for a word. Without Irène, he’s lost for words.

  Le Guen on the other hand qualifies as colossal. No-one knows how much he weighs; he refuses to discuss it. Some people claim he’s at least 120 kilos, others say 130 kilos, and there are some people who think it’s more. It doesn’t matter: Le Guen is gargantuan, an elephantine man with hamster cheeks, but because he has bright eyes brimming with intelligence – no-one can explain this, men are reluctant to admit it, but most women are agreed – the divisionnaire is a very attractive man. Go figure.

  Camille is accustomed to Le Guen’s tantrums; he’s not impressed by histrionics. They’ve known each other too long. Calmly he picks up the telephone and calls the divisionnaire back.

  “Listen up, Jean: I’ll go, I’ll take on this kidnapping of yours. But the fucking second Morel gets back you’re putting him on it, because …” he takes a breath, then hammers home every syllable with a calmness that is filled with menace, “I’m not taking the case!”

  Camille Verhœven never shouts. Or very rarely. He is a man of authority. He may be short, bald and scrawny, but this is something that everyone knows. Camille is a razor blade. And Le Guen is careful not to say anything. Malicious gossip has it that Camille wears the trousers in their relationship. It’s not something they joke about. Camille hangs up.

  “Fuck!”

  This is all he needs. It’s not as if they get kidnapping cases every day; this isn’t Mexico City. Why couldn’t it have happened some other day, when he was on another case, on leave, somewhere, anywhere! Camille slams his fist on the table. But he does so slowly, because he’s a reasonable man. He doesn’t like outbursts, even in other people.

  Time is short. He gets to his feet, grabs his coat and hat and takes the stairs two at a time. Camille walks with a heavy tread. Before Irène died, he walked with a spring in his step. His wife used to say, “You hop like a bird. I always think you’re about to take off.” It has been four years since Irène died.

  The car pulls up in front of him. Camille clambers inside.

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Alexandre, bos—”

  The driver bites his tongue. Everyone knows Camille hates to be called “boss”. Says it sounds like a T.V. police show. This is Camille’s style: he is very cut-and-dried, a pacifist with a brutal streak. Sometimes he gets carried away. He was always a bit of an oddball, but age and widowhood have made him touchy and irritable. Deep down, he’s angry. Irène used to say, “Darling, why are you always so angry?” Drawing himself up to his four feet eleven inches, and laying the irony on thick, Camille would say, “You’re right. I mean … what have I got to be angry about?” Hot-head and stoic, thug and tactician, people rarely get the measure of Camille on first meeting. Rarely appreciate him. This might also be because he’s not exactly cheerful. Camille doesn’t like himself very much.

  Since going back to work three years ago, Camille has taken responsibility for all interns, a blessing for the duty sergeants who can’t be arsed babysitting them. What Camille wants, since his own imploded, is to rebuild a loyal team.

  He glances at Alexandre. Whatever he looks like it’s not an Alexandre, but he’s alexandrine enough to be four heads taller than Camille, which isn’t much of a feat, and he set off without waiting for Camille to give the order, which at least shows he’s got some bottle.

  Alexandre drives like a maniac; he loves driving, and it shows. The G.P.S. system seems to be having trouble catching up with him. Alexandre wants to show the commandant he’s a good driver – the siren wails, the car speeds assertively through streets, junctions, boulevards; Camille’s feet dangle twenty centimetres off the floor, his right hand gripping his seat belt. In less than fifteen minutes they’re at the crime scene. It is 9.50 p.m. Though it’s not particularly late, Paris already seems peaceful, half asleep, not the sort of city where people are kidnapped. “A woman,” according to the witness who called the police, clearly in a state of shock, “kidnapped, before my very eyes.” The man couldn’t believe it. Then again, it’s not exactly a common occurrence.

  “You can drop me here,” Camille says.

  Camille gets out of the car, straightens his cap; the driver leaves. They’re at the end of the street, about fifty metres from the cordon. Camille walks the rest of the way. When there’s time, he always likes to view the problem from a distance – that’s how he likes to work. The first view is crucial, so it’s best to take in the whole crime scene; before you know it you’re caught up in countless facts, in detai
ls, and there’s no way back. This is the official reason he gives for getting out a hundred metres from where a crowd is standing waiting for him. The other reason, the real reason, is that he doesn’t want to be here.

  As he walks towards the police cars, their lights strobing the buildings, he tries to work out exactly what he is feeling.

  His heart is hammering.

  He feels like shit. He’d give ten years of his life to be somewhere else.

  But however slowly and reluctantly he walks, he’s here now.

  This is more or less how it happened four years ago. On the street where he lived, which looks a little like this one. Irène wasn’t there. She was due to give birth to a little boy in a few days. She should have been at the maternity unit. Camille raced around, ran everywhere searching for her, did everything he could that night to find her … He was like a madman, but there was nothing he could do. When they found her, she was dead.

  Camille’s nightmare had begun in a moment just like this one. This is why his heart is pounding fit to burst, why his ears are ringing. His guilt, the guilt he thought was dormant, has woken. He feels physically sick. A voice inside him screams, Get away; another voice says, Stay and face it; his chest feels tight. Camille is afraid he might pass out. Instead, he moves one of the barriers and steps into the cordoned area. From a distance, the duty officer acknowledges him with a wave. Even those who don’t know Commandant Verhœven personally know him by sight. It’s hardly surprising. Even if he wasn’t some sort of living legend, they know about his height. And his past …

  *

  “Oh, it’s you.”

  “You sound disappointed.”

  Flustered, Louis starts to panic.

  “No, no, not at all.”

  Camille smiles. He’s always had a knack for winding Louis up. Louis Mariani has been his assistant for a very long time and he knows him as well as if he’d knitted the man himself.

  At first, after Irène was murdered, after Camille’s breakdown, Louis used to visit him at the clinic. Camille hadn’t talked much. Sketching, which until then had been a hobby, suddenly became his chief, in fact his only activity. Pictures, drawings and sketches lay in heaps around a room that Camille had otherwise left institutionally spartan. Louis would make a place for himself and they would sit, one staring out at the trees, the other down at his feet. They said many things in that silence, but it was no match for conversation. They simply couldn’t find the words. Then one day, without warning, Camille said he would rather be left alone, that he didn’t want to drag Louis into his grief. “A miserable policeman isn’t exactly riveting company,” he said. It was tough on both of them, being separated. But time passed. By the time things had improved, it was too late. After grief, all that remains is barren.

  They haven’t seen a lot of each other for a long time now; they run into each other at meetings, briefings, that kind of thing. Louis hasn’t changed much. If he lives to be a hundred, he’ll die young – some people are like that. And he’s as dapper as ever. Camille once said to him, “If I was dressed for a wedding, I’d still look like a tramp next to you.” Louis, it has to be said, is rich: filthy rich. His personal fortune is like Le Guen’s weight: nobody knows what it amounts to, but everyone knows it’s fat and getting fatter. Louis could live off his private income for four or five generations. Instead, he works as a policeman for the murder squad. He did a bunch of degrees he didn’t need, and has such a breadth of knowledge Camille has never caught him out. There’s no denying Louis is a queer fish.

  He smiles. It’s weird Camille just showing up like this without warning.

  “It’s over there,” he says, nodding towards the police tape.

  Camille hurries after the younger man. Though he’s not so young anymore.

  “How old are you, Louis?”

  Louis turns.

  “Thirty-four. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just curious.”

  Camille realises they’re a stone’s throw from the Bourdelle Museum. He can clearly remember the face of “Hercules the Archer”, the hero triumphing over monsters. Camille has never sculpted – he never had the physique for it – and he hasn’t painted for a long time now, but he still sketches. Even after his long bout of depression, he can’t stop. It’s part of who he is; he has always got a pencil in his hand – it’s his way of looking at the world.

  “You ever seen ‘Hercules the Archer’ at the Bourdelle Museum?”

  “Yeah,” Louis says and looks confused. “You sure it’s not in the Musée d’Orsay?”

  “Still an irritating smart-arse, then.”

  Louis smiles. Coming from Camille, this kind of quip means “You know I care about you”. It means, “Jesus, time flies, how long have we known each other?” Mostly, it means, “We haven’t seen a lot of each other since I killed Irène, have we?” So it’s weird the two of them being at the same crime scene. Camille suddenly feels the need to explain:

  “I’m filling in for Morel. Le Guen didn’t have anyone else, so he put me on the case as a temporary measure.”

  Louis gives a shrug to say he understands, but he has his doubts. The idea of Commandant Verhœven “filling in” on a case is improbable.

  “Call Le Guen,” Camille goes on. “I need forensics down here now. Given how late it is, we’re not going to get much done, but we have to try.”

  Louis nods and fishes out his mobile. He agrees with Camille. You can look at a crime like this two ways: from the kidnapper’s point of view, or from the victim’s. The kidnapper’s probably long gone, but the victim may have lived in the area, might have been snatched near home, and it’s not just what happened to Irène that makes both men think this; it’s the statistics.

  Rue Falguière. They’re surrounded by sculptors tonight. They move slowly, walking down the middle of the street which has been cordoned off at both ends. Camille glances up at the buildings. All the lights are on; they are tonight’s reality T.V. show.

  “We’ve got a witness, just the one,” says Louis, turning off his mobile. “And we know the position of the vehicle used in the kidnapping. The forensics boys from l’identité judiciaire will be here any minute.”

  And here they come. The barriers are pushed back and Louis indicates the gap on the pavement between two cars. Four forensics officers, laden with equipment, pile out of the van.

  “Where is he?” Camille says. The commandant is edgy. It’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here. His mobile vibrates – it’s the procureur.

  “No, sir, by the time the call came through to the squad from the fifteenth arrondissement, it was far too late to start setting up road blocks.”

  It’s a curt, almost insolent tone to take with a procureur. Louis discreetly moves away. He can understand Camille’s frustration. If the victim had been a minor, there would already have been an amber alert, but the victim is an adult woman. They’ll have to manage on their own.

  “I’m afraid what you’re asking will be difficult, sir,” says Camille. His voice has dropped almost an octave and he’s speaking too slowly. Anyone who knows Camille would recognise the sign.

  “You have to understand, sir, that as I’m talking to you there are …” he looks up “… I’d say a hundred rubberneckers staring out of their windows. The teams manning the cordon will have to inform another two or three hundred. But obviously if you’ve got any ideas about how to stop news getting out, I’m all ears.”

  Louis smiles to himself. Classic Verhœven. Louis is overjoyed because it means Camille hasn’t changed. He’s aged a lot in four years, but he’s still completely upfront. And a public menace as far as his superiors are concerned.

  “Of course, monsieur le procureur.”

  From his tone, Camille obviously has no intention of keeping the promise he’s just made. He hangs up. The conversation has clearly done nothing to improve his mood.

  “And where the fuck is your partner Morel? Why isn’t he here?”

  Louis is surprised. Your partner
Morel. Camille is being unfair, but Louis understands. Giving a case like this to a man like Verhœven, who already has a certain propensity for grief …

  “He’s in Lyons,” Louis says calmly, “for the European seminar. He’s back the day after tomorrow.”

  They walk on towards the witness, who is being guarded by a uniformed officer.

  “Jesus fucking Christ!” Camille says.

  Louis says nothing. Camille stops.

  “I’m sorry, Louis.”

  But he doesn’t look at him as he says it, he looks down at his feet, then back up at the windows, at the heads all craning in the same direction, like a train setting off for war. Louis wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say, and besides, there’s no point. Camille makes a decision. Finally, he turns back to Louis:

  “Why don’t we just act like …”

  Louis pushes back his fringe. With his right hand. It’s like a whole language, this thing of pushing his hair back. Right now, using his right hand, it means sure, O.K., why not, let’s just crack on. Louis nods to a figure standing behind Camille.