Irene (16 page)

Just then the phone in Camille’s pocket vibrated.

“Could you excuse me for a moment?” Without waiting for a response, he took the call.

It was Louis. Camille whipped out his notepad and scribbled something intelligible only to himself.

“O.K., meet me down there,” he said.

Camille stood up and Ballanger, startled, jumped to his feet as though he had received an electric shock.

“I’m sorry, Professeur Ballanger,” Camille said on his way out of the door. “I’m afraid I may have wasted your time …”

“Oh?” Ballanger said, curiously disappointed. “So your theory was wrong?”

Camille turned back. Something had just occurred to him.

“On second thoughts,” he said, as though overcome by a sudden flash of inspiration, “I believe I may need to call on you again very soon.”

In the taxi back to Paris, Camille wondered whether in his whole life he had read a thousand books, worked out a rough figure based on having read twenty books a year (and that only in a particularly good year), which, rounded up, came to four hundred; he brooded bitterly on the inadequacy of his education.

Rue du Cardinal-Lemoine. An old-fashioned bookshop utterly unlike the sterile, sprawling shops lit by fluorescent tubes. Everything here spoke of craftsmanship: the polished parquet floor, the wooden bookshelves, the brushed-aluminium ladders, the soft lighting. The atmosphere, at once calm and stately, prompted voices to drop to a whisper. It was a foretaste of eternity. Next to the door was a magazine rack, in the centre a table groaning under the weight of books of all sizes. At first glance, the place looked dusty and disordered but on closer inspection it was clear that it was spick and span and organised according to a logic of its own. On the right-hand side were ranks of books with yellow spines, and on the facing wall was the
Série Noire
collection, possibly in its entirety. It felt less like walking into a bookshop than stepping into another universe. Crossing the threshold was like entering the refuge of the specialist, part monastery, part cult.

When they arrived the shop seemed deserted, but at the tinkle of the bell above the door a tall man appeared as if from nowhere. Dressed in drab blue trousers and a matching cardigan, he was about forty and had a serious, almost anxious face on which was perched a pair of half-moon glasses. He exuded a smug self-confidence. “This is my demesne,” his tall, thin frame seemed to say, “I am lord of all I survey. I am a specialist.”

“How may I be of service?” he asked.

He approached Camille, but maintained a certain distance as though unwilling to come too close so that he wouldn’t have to look down.

“Commandant Verhœven.”

“Ah, yes …”

He turned to fetch something, and handed Camille a book.

“I read the article in the newspaper. In my humble opinion, there can be no doubt in the matter …”

A paperback. The bookseller has marked a passage in the middle of the book with a yellow bookmark. Camille studies the cover. The illustration is a low-angle shot of a man with a bright red tie, wearing a hat and a pair of leather gloves and holding a knife. He seems to be in a stairwell.

Camille takes out his glasses and reads the title page:

  BRET EASTON ELLIS

  AMERICAN PSYCHO

He turns the page.

  COPYRIGHT © 1991

  TRANSLATION © 1992

There is a preface by Michel Braudeau:

Louis does not read over his boss’ shoulder. He wanders around the bookshop while the owner, feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back, stares out at the street. Camille feels something akin to excitement welling inside him.

At the passage indicated by the bookmark, there are horrors indeed. Camille begins to read, silent, focused. From time to time he shakes his head and murmurs, “It’s not possible …”

In the end Louis succumbs to temptation. Camille holds the book slightly to one side so that his assistant can read along with him:

“I marked them with a cross,” the bookseller says, “the passages I thought were significant.”

Camille is not listening, or he does not hear. He reads on:

“Shit …” Camille says to himself. His eyes move from one word to the next. He is reading more slowly now. He tries to think. But he cannot. He feels sucked in by the letters dancing before his eyes. He needs to concentrate, a thousand ideas suddenly crowd into his brain.

Camille looks up at Louis and sees the reflection of his own expression.

“What on God’s earth is this book …” Louis says, struggling to understand.

“Who on God’s earth is this guy?” Camille says, and goes back to reading.

“I’ve got just one word for you: Bravo.”

“There’s no need to mock …”

“I’m not, Camille,” Le Guen reassured him. “To be honest I didn’t have much faith in your theory. Look, I hold my hands up … But just tell me one thing.”

“Go on,” Camille said, clicking his mouse to download his e-mail.

“Tell me you didn’t send a request to the European database without getting authorisation from Juge Deschamps?”

Camille pursed his lips. “I’ll sort it out …”

“Camille,” Le Guen groaned wearily, “don’t you think we’ve got enough shit on our plate? I’ve just had her on the phone. She’s furious. On day one, there you were on television, there was that profile of you in the paper on day two and now this. It’s as if you’re doing it deliberately. I’m sorry, Camille, but I’ve done all I can for you.”

“I’ll sort things out with her. I’ll explain …”

“From her tone of voice, you’ll have your work cut out. Besides, I’m the one she holds responsible for your cock-ups. There’s a crisis meeting at her office tomorrow morning first thing.”

When Camille did not reply, he added:

“Did you hear me, Camille? First thing tomorrow. Camille, are you there?”

*

“I received your fax, Commandant Verhœven.”

Camille immediately registered Juge Deschamps’ curt, brittle tone. There was a time when he would have been prepared to bow and scrape. On this occasion, he simply walked around his office since the printer was too far away for him to reach the page he had just printed out.

“I’ve just read the extract of the novel you sent. It would appear that your theory is correct. As you can imagine, I will have to meet up with the
procureur
. And, to be blunt, that is not the only thing I intend to discuss with him.”

“Yes, I can imagine, the
divisionnaire
just phoned me. Listen,
madame le juge
—”

“
Madame
la
juge
, if you don’t mind,” Deschamps interrupted.

“My apologies.”

“You have little flair for procedure, certainly. I’ve just had confirmation that you used my authorisation to submit an inquiry to the European database. As you are no doubt aware, this was—”

“A gross error of judgment?”

“It was egregious misconduct,
commandant
! And I will not stand for it.”

“I’ll sort things out,
madame la juge
…”

“You don’t seem to realise,
commandant
, that I am the one to ‘sort things out’! You seem to forget that I have the power to grant you authorisation.”

“I haven’t forgotten. But the thing is,
madame la juge
, though procedurally I may have been in the wrong, technically I was right. In fact, I think you would be wise to sanction the request as quickly as possible.”

There was an ominous silence on the other end of the line.

“Commandant Verhœven,” Deschamps said ultimately, “I think I may have to ask the
procureur
to remove you from this case.”

“That is within your power. But when you do ask him to replace me,” Camille said, rereading the slip of paper he was holding, “could you mention that we have a third crime on our hands?”

“Excuse me?”

“In response to the European inquiry authorised by you, I’ve received a response from Detective …” Camille took a moment to find the name at the top of the e-mail. “… Timothy Gallagher, Glasgow C.I.D. They have an unsolved murder case dating from July 2001, the victim was a young woman. On her body they found a fake fingerprint identical to the one we submitted in our inquiry. Whoever takes over the case from me should really call him as soon as possible …”

After he had hung up, Camille went back to his list:
Tremblay = Black Dahlia = Ellroy, Courbevoie = American Psycho = Ellis
. To this, he now added:
Glasgow = ? = ??

Since the detective inspector was not there, Louis’ call was put through to his superior, Superintendent Smollett, a pure-blood Scotsman, to judge by his accent. The superintendent told Louis that Scotland had only recently joined the P.J.C. – the Police and
Judicial Co-operation in Criminal Matters programme – and that explained why they never received the earlier request concerning the fingerprint left at the Tremblay crime scene.

“Ask him which other countries have only recently joined the programme.”

“Greece,” Louis repeated, listening to the superintendent, “and Portugal.”

Camille made a note to send a request to the police forces of both countries. Following his instructions, Louis asked if they could have a copy of the case file, and requested that Detective Inspector Gallagher call him as soon as possible.

“Ask him if Gallagher speaks any French.”

Covering the receiver, Louis translated the reply with a respectful, slightly sardonic smile: “You’re in luck, his mother is French.”

Before hanging up, Louis chatted for a moment with the superintendent and then burst out laughing. Camille looked at him quizzically.

“I was asking whether Redpath had recovered from his injury,” Louis explained.

“Redpath?”

“The Scottish scrum-half. He was injured in the match against Ireland a couple of weeks ago. If he’s not fit to play on Saturday, Scotland have no chance of beating Wales.”

“And?”

“He’s fit to play,” Louis said with a satisfied smile.

“You’re a rugby fan?”

“Not particularly,” Louis said, “but since we need the Scots, it’s not a bad idea to speak their language.”

Camille headed home at about 7.30 p.m. Worried. He lived on a quiet street in a lively neighbourhood. He thought again about what his father had suggested. Perhaps moving on would not be such a bad idea. His mobile rang. He checked the screen: Louis.

“Don’t forget flowers …” Louis said simply.

“Thanks, Louis, you’re one of a kind.”

This was what Camille’s life had come to: expecting his assistant to remind him to think about his wife. Having walked straight past the florist without even noticing, Camille now angrily turned on his heel and in doing so headbutted a man in the chest.

“I’m sorry …”

“Don’t worry,
commandant
, no harm done.”

He recognised the voice even before looking up.

“So you’ve taken to stalking me now?” Camille snapped.

“I was trying to catch you up.”

Camille kept going without a word. Buisson had little difficulty keeping pace.

“Aren’t you beginning to find this farce a little repetitive?” Camille said, stopping suddenly.

“Got time for a quick drink?” Buisson said, nodding to a nearby café with a winning smile as though they were old friends delighted by this chance meeting.

“You might, but I don’t.”

“There’s another thing that’s getting a little repetitive. Listen,
commandant
, I apologise for the article. I saw red, as they say.”

“Which article would that be, the first or the second?”

The two men had stopped in the middle of the rather narrow pavement, making it difficult for pedestrians to pass as they hurried to buy groceries before the shops closed.

“The first … the second was purely informative.”

“Exactly, Monsieur Buisson, you seem to be a bit too well informed.”

“What sort of journalist would I be if I weren’t? You can hardly criticise me for that. No, the person I feel badly about is your father.”