Irene (32 page)

“You realise that everything you say will be taken down and recorded in a statement for you to sign?”

“Obviously. That’s why I’m here.”

Her voice, a little husky, further added to her charm. She was the kind of woman people seldom notice, but those who do cannot take their eyes off her. A pretty mouth. Camille suppressed the urge to trace it, to sketch her portrait on his blotter.

Louis remained standing next to Camille’s desk, taking notes on his pad.

“In that case, can I ask you to repeat for me the statement that you gave my colleague?”

“My name is Fabienne Joly. I’m thirty-four. I live at 12, rue de la Fraternité in Malakoff. I’m a bilingual secretary, currently unemployed. And, since 1997, I have been Jérôme Lesage’s lover.”

As she came to the end of the little speech she had rehearsed, she seemed to lose her composure.

“And …?”

“Jérôme worries a lot about his sister. He’s convinced that if she found out about our relationship, she’d fall back into the crippling depression she suffered after her husband died. He has always wanted to protect her. And I accepted that.”

“I don’t quite see …” Camille began.

“All the things that Jérôme has been unable to explain concern me. I know from the papers that you took him in for questioning yesterday. I suspect he refused to tell you anything
that he considers, well, compromising. I know he invents business meetings so that we can be together. To keep it from his sister, you understand.”

“Yes, I think I’m beginning to understand. Though I’m not convinced it is sufficient to explain—”

“To explain what,
monsieur le commissaire
?”

Camille did not correct her.

“Monsieur Lesage has refused to give any account of his movements and—”

“When?” the young woman interrupted.

Camille glanced at Louis.

“Well, in July 2001, for example, Monsieur Lesage went to Edinburgh—”

“Absolutely, on July 9. Actually he arrived on the afternoon of the 8th. I arrived to join him on the late flight the following day. We spent three days touring the Highlands and then Jérôme went back to London to join his sister.”

“It’s all very well for you to tell us this, Mademoiselle Joly. But given Monsieur Lesage’s situation, I fear that your sworn statement will not be enough.”

The young woman swallowed hard.

“I realise this is going to sound ridiculous …” she began, blushing.

“Please,” Camille prompted. “Go ahead.”

“Maybe it’s the overgrown schoolgirl in me, but I keep a record …” She reached into her handbag and pulled out a large scrapbook whose romantic nature was underscored by its pink cover decorated with blue flowers. “I know it’s silly,” she said with a forced laugh, “I write down everything that seems important. The days on which I see Jérôme, the places we visit. I paste in train
tickets and plane tickets, cards from the hotels we stay at, menus from the restaurants where we eat.”

She offered the scrapbook to Camille, but quickly realising that he was too short to reach across the desk, she turned and handed it to Louis.

“At the back of the scrapbook you’ll see I keep track of the expenses. I don’t want to be indebted to him, you understand. The rent he pays on my apartment in Malakoff, the furniture he bought for me, everything. This is my current notebook. I have three more.”

“I’ve just had a visit from Madamoiselle Joly,” Camille said.

Lesage looked up. Hostility had given way to anger.

“You really stick your nose into everything, you c—”

“Stop that right now,” Camille warned. Then, more calmly, “Language like that could well constitute a statutory offence, and that I’d prefer to spare you. We intend to analyse the evidence Madamoiselle Joly has given us. If we consider it probative, you will be released.”

“And if not?” Lesage said defiantly.

“If not, I plan to charge you with multiple counts of murder and refer your case to the public prosecutor. You can explain yourself to the investigating magistrate.”

Camille’s anger was more feigned than real. He was accustomed to being shown some respect and was irritated by Lesage’s manner. I’m too old and too set in my ways to change now, he thought.

The two men sat in silence for a moment.

“About my sister,” Lesage said in a more civil tone.

“Don’t worry. If the evidence is found to be convincing and coherent, it’s covered by judicial confidentiality, meaning it will not be divulged. You can tell your sister whatever you please.”

Lesage looked up and, for the first time, Camille noticed something akin to gratitude. He went out into the corridor and gave orders for Lesage to be taken back to his cell and given something to eat.

*

“I’ll put you through to the maternity unit.”

This time, Camille had called from the open-plan office. He had been resisting the temptation to call the hospital, preferring to leave another message on the answering machine at home.

“Do you know if she had her mobile with her?” he asked Élisabeth, cupping his hand over the mouthpiece.

“I gave it to her. I brought it in with the suitcase. No need to panic.”

This was exactly what he had feared. He said nothing, simply nodded.

“No,” came the woman’s voice at the other end of the line. “As I told you earlier, Madame Verhœven was discharged at around four o’clock. I have the register here in front of me … she left at 4.05 p.m. precisely. Why, is there some problem?”

“No, no problem. Thanks,” Camille said without hanging up. He was staring into the distance. “Thank you again. Louis, get me a car, I need to go home.”

At 6.18 p.m., Camille was scrambling up the stairs to their apartment, mobile still pressed to his ear. He was still expecting Irène to answer as he pushed the half-open door. Curiously, he could hear her mobile ringing in the distance and, ridiculous though it seemed, he kept his own to his ear as he stepped through the doorway and headed for the living room. He did not call out, did not shout “Irène, darling?” as he often did when he came home and she was in the kitchen or bathroom. He listened. By now the call had gone through to her voicemail. As Camille listened to this greeting, whose every syllable, every inflection he knew by heart, he moved through the living room. Irène’s suitcase, the neat little suitcase she had packed ready for the clinic, was lying on the floor, contents spilled everywhere. Nightdress, toiletries, clothes.

“
You’ve reached the voicemail …
”

The table had been upturned and books, magazines, even the wastebasket were strewn across the rug as far as the green curtains, one of which had been ripped from the rail.

“…
of Irène Verhœven. Here you are, calling me, but sadly I can’t pick up right now
…”

Mobile still pressed to his ear, gripped by a muted panic, Camille went into the bedroom, where the bedside table had been overturned. Drops of blood formed a long path that led him to the bathroom.

“
It’s little things like this that remind you that fate is foolishness …
”

There was a small, a tiny pool of blood at the end of the bathtub. Everything from the shelf beneath the mirror had been scattered onto the floor and into the bath.

“
Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you …
”

Camille raced back through the bedroom and the living room and stopped dead in the doorway to the study. Lying on the floor where it had been tossed, Irène’s mobile whispered softly, “…
as soon as I can
.”

Standing frozen in the doorway, staring at the floor, Camille dialled a number without even realising, hypnotised by Irène’s voice.

“
Speak soon
.”

His own words were still echoing in his head – “Call me back, darling, call me back, please …” – when he heard Louis answer.

Only then did Camille fall to his knees. “LOUIS!” he howled, his voice clotted with tears. “Louis, come quickly. Please, Louis, you have to come …”

Within six minutes the
brigade criminelle
had arrived in force. Three squad cars, sirens keening, shrieked to a halt outside. Gripping the banister, Maleval, Mehdi and Louis took the stairs
four at a time with Élisabeth and Armand following behind. Le Guen, panting, brought up the rear, stopping on each landing to catch his breath. Maleval kicked the door open and rushed into the apartment.

They knew what had happened the moment they entered and saw Irène’s eviscerated suitcase on the floor, the curtain dangling from the rail and Camille slumped on the sofa, clutching his mobile phone, staring around as though seeing the place for the first time. Louis knelt next to Camille and prised the phone from his hands as slowly and as gently as one might prise a toy from a sleeping child.

“She’s gone …” Camille said, utterly devastated. With a bewildered look, he nodded towards the bathroom.

“There are traces of blood in there.”

The sound of footsteps echoed around the apartment. Maleval grabbed a dishcloth from the kitchen and began carefully opening doors one by one while Élisabeth put in a call to
identité judiciaire
.

“No-one touches anything!” Louis roared, seeing Mehdi opening cupboards with his bare hands.

“Here.” Maleval tossed him another dishcloth. “Use that.”

“I need a forensics team down here,
NOW
…” Élisabeth said, and rattled off the Verhœvens’ address.

“Here, give me that,” Le Guen said, flushed and breathless, snatching the phone from her. “This is Le Guen. I want a team from
identité judiciaire
here within ten minutes. Prints, photos, trace evidence, everything. And I want Team 3 down here too. Every last officer. Tell Morin to call me immediately.”

Then, fishing his own phone from his jacket pocket, he punched in a number, his expression grim.

“Divisionnaire Le Guen, put me through to Juge Deschamps.

*

Well get her off the phone and get her to call me back. Right now.”

“The place is clear,” Maleval muttered, coming back to stand next to Louis.

A roar came from Le Guen. “Which bit of ‘right now’ don’t you fucking understand?”

Armand sat on the sofa next to Camille, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Camille, who had collected himself somewhat, got slowly to his feet and everyone turned to look at him. What was going on in his head and in his heart at that moment even Camille would never know. He glanced quickly around the room, looking at each member of his team in turn, and something whirred into action, something born of discipline and rage, of professionalism and powerlessness, some heady combination that can stir in the best of men the worst of impulses and which, in others, sharpens the senses, hones the vision and triggers a brutish single-mindedness. Something that might be called terror.

“She left the hospital at 4.05 p.m.,” he said, his voice so low that the team shuffled imperceptibly towards him, listening intently. “She obviously came back here.” Camille nodded towards the suitcase everyone had been cautiously circling. “Élisabeth, you check out the rest of the building,” he said suddenly and grabbed the dishcloth Maleval was still holding.

He went over to the desk, shuffled through the papers and took out a recent snapshot of himself and Irène taken on holiday the previous summer. He handed it to Maleval.

“We’ll need copies. There’s a copier in my office. Just press the green button.”

Maleval hurried into the study.

“Mehdi, you and Maleval go downstairs and ask around outside. She’s well known in the neighbourhood, but take the
photo anyway. Irène is highly pregnant so he could not have taken her without arousing suspicion. Especially if she’s … injured or something. Armand, you take a copy of the photo and go back to the clinic, check at reception and with every department on every floor. As soon as the rest of the team get here, I’ll send backup. Louis, you go back to the
brigade
, coordinate the various teams, bring Cob up to speed and make sure he keeps a line free. We’re going to need him.”

Maleval came back with two copies of the photograph and gave the original back to Camille, who stuffed it into his pocket. Everyone disappeared in an instant, the thud of their footsteps echoing in the stairwell.

“You alright?” Le Guen said, coming over to Camille.

“I’ll be fine once we find her, Jean.”

Le Guen’s mobile rang.

“How many officers have you got on shift?” he asked Morin. “I’ll need all of them. Yes, all of them. I want them down here now. You too. At Camille’s … You’re telling me … Now get your arse in gear.”

Camille took a few steps and knelt once more before the open suitcase. With the tip of a pen, he gently lifted a piece of clothing and let it fall, then stood up and crossed to the ripped curtain and stared at it for a long moment.

“Camille,” Le Guen said, walking over to him, “I need to tell you something …”

Camille whipped around. “Let me guess …”

“Look, you know what I’m going to say … Deschamps is categorical, we have to take you off the case. I’ll have to ask Morin to take charge.”

Camille nodded slowly.

“Morin’s a good officer. You know him. It’s just that… you’re too personally involved, Camille. It wouldn’t be right.”

From outside came another wail of sirens.

Engrossed in his thoughts, Camille did not even flinch.

“You need someone else to take over the case, that’s what you’re saying, right?”

“I’m sorry, Camille, but yes. We need someone who’s not so involved. It’s not that I don’t trust—”

“In that case, I want you, Jean.”

“What …?”

The stairwell rumbled with the beat of running footsteps, the door flew open and Bergeret was the first into the apartment. He came and shook Camille’s hand and said simply:

“We’ll be in and out before you know it, Camille. I’ve got every available forensic officer on the case.”

Before Camille could even reply, Bergeret had turned and was giving orders to his team even as he strode through the rooms. Two techs set up spotlights and the apartment was bathed in a blinding glare as they were trained on the areas to be examined first. Meanwhile, three other technicians wordlessly shook Camille’s hand, pulled on latex gloves and opened their field kits.