Irene (34 page)

“How?”

“Irène must have scratched him while they were struggling.

*

We found traces in the bathroom and on a towel he must have used to wipe himself. Obviously, we cross-checked against yours just in case. His is O positive, it’s pretty common.”

“Short brown hair, blood type O positive, what else?”

“That’s it, Camille, we haven’t be—”

“O.K., thanks. Excuse me.”

When all the teams had arrived back at the
brigade
, there was a general debriefing. The results were meagre. At 9 p.m. it seemed as though they were no further advanced than they had been at 6.30. Crest had studied the last letter from the Novelist and for the most part confirmed what Camille knew already or what he had intuited. Le Guen, enthroned in the only armchair in the squad room, listened gravely to the psychological profiler’s report.

“He enjoys toying with you. He weaves a little suspense into the beginning of the letter, as though this is a game. A game both of you are playing. This further confirms what we suspected at the start.”

“That this is personal?” Le Guen said.

“Indeed,” Crest said, turning to him. “I think I can see what you’re getting at, but I wouldn’t want you to misinterpret. In my opinion, this didn’t start out as a personal grudge. In other words, I don’t believe we’re dealing with an offender previously
arrested by Commandant Verhœven or anything like that. No, it’s not personal in that sense. It
became
personal, probably from the moment he read the first classified ad. The fact that the
commandant
adopted an unorthodox approach, signed the ad with his initials, gave his home address.”

“I’ve been such an idiot,” Camille muttered to Le Guen.

“There’s no way anyone could have known, Camille.” The
divisionnaire
pre-empted the psychologist’s response. “Besides, what difference would it have made? It’s not as though people like you and me are difficult to track down.”

For a brief instant, Camille reflected on his rashness, on the arrogance of acting as he had, of having himself made this case personal, as though he could take the killer on, man to man. He thought again of the conversation in Juge Deschamps’ office when she had threatened to take him off the case. Why had he been so determined to prove himself? A pathetic piece of point-scoring that had cost him much more than a defeat.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Le Guen went on. “He’s known from the start and no matter how we handled things, it wouldn’t have changed anything. We know that because he says it here in black and white: ‘
you are flailing and floundering in a labyrinth of my devising – one from which you will be freed when and as I decide
.’”

“I know, I get that part, but it never occurred to me that he intended to target me, to target Irène.”

“I’m not sure it would have occurred to me either,” said Crest. Though his tone was conciliatory, Le Guen and Camille could clearly detect a hint of reproach. This last letter had not been passed on to the doctor until late in the day. Too late.

“The most important part of the letter is the last section, the
one where he quotes at length from Gaboriau.”

“Where he talks about his goal, his great monument, I know.”

“You see – and this is where I might surprise you – I don’t believe it.”

Camille turned to stare at the doctor, as did Louis, who was now sitting next to Le Guen.

“The thing is, it’s too obvious. He overdoes it. In acting terms, you’d say he’s hamming it up. Some of the phrasing is deliberately pompous.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying he’s not insane, he’s simply warped. He’s playing a role for your benefit, the role of the deranged psychotic who can’t tell the difference between fantasy and reality, between fiction and fact, but I think that’s just one more ploy on his part. He’s nothing like the character depicted in his letters. Oh, he wants you to believe he is, but that’s a different matter.”

“Why would he do that?” Louis said.

“I’ve no idea. The long digression about the needs of humanity, about art transfiguring reality, is so mannered it’s almost a caricature. He’s not saying what he thinks, he is pretending to think these things. But I couldn’t tell you why.”

“To throw us off the scent?” Le Guen said.

“Perhaps. Or perhaps he has some higher reason.”

“Such as?” Camille said.

“Perhaps it’s simply part of his plan.”

*

The various case files were distributed to the team. Two officers were assigned to go through each case, to start again from the beginning, examine every scrap of evidence, every statement. At 9.45 p.m., maintenance arrived to instal four more telephone
lines and three more computers which Cob quickly hooked up so that they were all connected to the database on which he had stored all available information. The room hummed as Camille’s team fielded questions from the newly assigned officers as they came across some fresh detail.

Camille, Le Guen and Louis studied the whiteboard, reexamining each of the major lines of inquiry, Camille feverishly checking and rechecking his watch. Irène had been missing now for almost five hours. Everybody in the room knew the statistics relating to abductions.

On the whiteboard, at Camille’s request, Louis wrote up a list of all the locations (Fontainebleau, Corbeil, Glasgow, Tremblay, Courbevoie), next to it, a list of victims (Maryse Perrin, Alice Hedges, Grace Hobson, Manuela Constanza, Évelyne Rouvray, Josiane Debeuf) and finally the list of dates (July 7, 2000; August 24, 2000; July 10, 2001; November 21, 2001; April 6, 2003). The three men stood staring at these lists, searching desperately for some connection, floating theories that came to nothing. Dr Crest, who had been sitting on his own in silence, reminded them that the Novelist was working to a warped literary logic, and it might be worth considering the books he had copied. Louis jotted down another list (
Le Crime d’Orcival
,
Roseanna
,
Laidlaw
,
The Black Dahlia
,
American Psycho
), but this did not seem to help.

“We’re not going to find anything here,” Le Guen said. “This is a list of his ‘earlier works’. He’s moved on.”

“No, he hasn’t,” Camille insisted. “He’s moved on to the next novel. The question is, which one?”

Louis went to fetch Ballanger’s list, made enlargements of the pages on A3 sheets and pinned them on the cork-board.

“That’s a lot of books …” Crest said.

“Too many,” Camille said. But there has to be a novel on that list – or maybe it’s not on that list – a novel that …”

He trailed off for a moment and thought.

“… a novel that involves a pregnant woman. Louis?’

“There isn’t one.”

“There has to be one!”

“I don’t see it.”

“There has to be,” Camille roared, ripping the original list from Louis’ hands. “There fucking has to be!”

He scanned the document and handed it back.

“It’s not on that list, Louis, it must be on the other one.”

Louis stared at Camille.

“Oh, Christ, I forgot …” He rushed to his desk and dug out the copy of Ballanger’s original list Cob had printed out. In the margin, in Louis’ elegant handwriting, were notes on each of the titles.

“It’s there,” he said finally, handing Camille the piece of paper.

Reading through Louis’ notes, Camille had a flashback of his conversation with Professeur Ballanger: “
One of my students thought the March 1998 case, the one where the pregnant woman is disembowelled in a warehouse, sounded similar to a book I’ve never heard of. It’s called …
Shadow Slayer
by someone named Chub or Hub. Never heard of him either
.”

Meanwhile, Louis brought up the list of suspicious cases that had been given to Ballanger to analyse.

*

“Yes, I realise it’s late, Professeur Ballanger …”

Louis turned away and quickly and quietly explained the situation.

“I’ll hand you over …” he said, proffering the phone to Camille,
who briefly reminded him of their earlier conversation.

“I remember, but as I told you at the time, I’ve never heard of the book. In fact, the student in question didn’t seem entirely sure either. It was just a suggestion. There’s nothing to say that—”

“I need that book, Professeur Ballanger, I need it right now. Where does he live, this student of yours?”

“I have no idea. I’d have to check the student records. They’re in my office.”

“Maleval!” Camille shouted, ignoring Ballanger on the other end of the line. “Take a car, go and fetch Professeur Ballanger and take him to the university. I’ll meet you there.”

Before Camille had time to respond to the
professeur
, Maleval was racing for the door.

*

Cob had already identified some thirty possible warehouses which Armand and Élisabeth carefully marked up on a map of Paris. Each address, each location, together with whatever details Cob had been able to unearth, were scrutinised. They drew up two lists. The primary list detailed those warehouses that were remote and had been derelict for some time, the second list was of those locations that seemed less likely, but nonetheless fitted the criteria.

“Armand, Mehdi, you take over from Cob,” Camille said. “Élisabeth, divide the rest of the group into teams, I need them checking out every one of these locations, starting in Paris, then gradually moving out through the suburbs. Cob, I need you to track down a book for me by someone called Hub or Chub or something like that.
Shadow Slayer
. An old book, probably out of print. I don’t have any other details. I’m going to the university, you can reach me on my mobile. Come on, Louis. Let’s go.”

At night, only two streetlights bathed the façade of the university in a pallid yellow glow. Behind the tall windows of the lobby, they could make out the two staircases leading to the upper floors. Now deserted, the building looked like an ocean liner run aground. As Louis skidded to a halt in front of the main doors, another car roared out of the darkness from the far end of the forecourt. Roused by the sirens and the lights, the security guard appeared inside, holding a large dog on a leash. Maleval, leaving Ballanger to extricate himself from the back seat of the car, had already run to the front entrance and pressed his I.D. card against the glass. The guard immediately produced a bundle of keys and bent to unlock the door.

Camille briefly shook Ballanger’s hand. The man seemed dazed by the circumstances and slightly panicked after the frantic drive with Maleval at the wheel.

“Thanks for coming,” Camille said, breaking into a run.

“You’re welc—” Ballanger began. While Maleval explained the situation to the security guard, Louis and Camille took the left-hand staircase, followed by the
professeur
, who was fumbling for his own keys. Less than a minute later the three men burst into the little office and Ballanger rushed over to a filing cabinet, opened one of the drawers and flicked through the files beginning with “G”.

Camille’s mobile rang.

“It’s Cob. No luck, I’m afraid, I haven’t found anything on the book.”

“That’s impossible,” Camille barked.

“I’ve run it through 211 search engines and databases! Are you sure about the reference?”

“Hang on, I’ll pass you to Louis.” Ballanger had just handed him a file labelled “Sylvain Guignard”, pointing to the home phone number. Camille swapped his phone for Louis’ and dialled the number. A sleepy, bewildered voice on the other end grunted hello.

“Sylvain Guignard?”

“No, this is his father. Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Commandant Verhœven of the
brigade criminelle
. I need to speak to your son, right now.”

“Who did you say?”

Camille repeated more slowly and added, “Put your son on the line, Monsieur Guignard. Immediately.”

Camille heard footsteps and whispered voices, then a young, clear voice came on the line.

“Is that Sylvain?”

“Yes.”

“Commandant Verhœven,
brigade criminelle
. I’m here with Professeur Ballanger. You did some research work for us, remember?”

“Of course, it was about—”

“You mentioned a book he wasn’t familiar with, one you thought might be relevant, by someone called Hub or Chub – do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember.”

Camille glanced down at the file. The boy lived in Villeparis. Even if they were quick … He checked his watch.

“Do you have a copy of this book?” he said. “Do you have one there?”

“No, it’s an old book, I just remembered …”

“Remembered what?”

“Something about the case. It rang a bell.”

“Now, listen to me, Sylvain, a pregnant woman was kidnapped this afternoon in Paris. We have to find her before … It’s possible that this woman could be … I mean … She’s my wife.”

Having uttered these words, Camille swallowed painfully.

“I need that book. I need it now.”

For an instant, the young man on the other end of the line was silent.

“I don’t have a copy,” he said finally. “I must have read it about ten years ago. I’m sure of the title –
Shadow Slayer
– and the name of the author is Philip Chub. But I can’t remember who published it. I’m racking my brains, but I don’t remember. All I remember is the cover.”

“What was on the cover?”

“It had one of those stock pulp fiction covers, an overwrought illustration of terrified women screaming with the shadowy figure of a man in the hat looming over her, that kind of thing.”

“Plot?”

“A man kidnaps a pregnant woman, I remember that, it struck me because it was very different from other stuff I was reading at the time. It was pretty horrific, but I don’t remember the details.”

“Setting?”

“A warehouse, I think, or something like that.”

“What kind of warehouse? Where?”

“I honestly don’t remember. But I’m pretty sure it was a warehouse.”

“What did you do with the book?”

“We’ve moved house three times in the past ten years. I couldn’t tell you where it got to.”