Irene (8 page)

Dr Crest and Dr Nguyên shook hands as if they were at a conference. The delegate for lunacy greeting the delegate for atrocity. Then Dr Nguyên put on his glasses, checked the tape recorder was working and decided to begin with the stomach.

“The deceased is a Caucasian woman aged approximately …”

Philippe Buisson de Chevesne was not the best in the business, but he was certainly one of the most tenacious. The message “Commandant Verhœven does not intend to speak to the press at this stage of the investigation” did not faze him.

“I’m not asking for a press statement. I just want a couple of minutes of his time.”

He had begun calling late the night before. He began again first thing in the morning. At 11 a.m., the switchboard informed Camille of his thirteenth call. The switchboard sounded tetchy.

Buisson – who in his by-line dispensed with the aristocratic “de Chevesne” – was not exactly a star reporter. He did not have what it took to be a great journalist, but he was nonetheless a
successful
journalist because he focused his formidable instincts on the story in hand. Perhaps because he was aware of both his strengths and limitations, Buisson chose to cover lurid crime stories, a choice that proved astute. He was no stylist, but he was an effective writer. He had made a name for himself covering a number of high-profile cases where he had succeeded in digging up a few minor details. A little news and a lot of showmanship. Buisson was no genius, so he milked this formula assiduously. The rest had been down to luck, which clearly favoured heroes and scumbag journalists equally. Buisson had stumbled upon
the Tremblay murder and had been among the first to realise its true implication: a vast readership. He had covered the case from beginning to end, so it had been no surprise to see him show up in Courbevoie now that the two cases had been linked.

Camille spotted him as soon as he came out of the
métro
. A tall guy, trendy, in his thirties. A nice voice he had a tendency to overuse. A little too much charm. Cunning. Intelligent.

Camille immediately shut down and quickened his pace. “I just need a couple of minutes …” Buisson said, buttonholing Camille.

“If I had two minutes, I’d be happy to give them to you …”

Camille was walking briskly, but given his height, walking briskly meant walking at the unhurried pace of a man like Buisson.

“You’d be wise to make a statement,
inspecteur
. Otherwise the hacks are likely to write up any old shit …”

Camille stopped.

“You’re behind the times, Buisson. No-one’s called me ‘
inspecteur
’ for years. As for reporters writing any old shit, is that a promise or a threat?”

“Neither – obviously it’s neither.” Buisson smiled.

Camille had stopped, and this was his mistake. One point to Buisson. Camille realised this. The two men eyeballed each other.

“You know how it is,” Buisson went on. “If they’ve got nothing to go on, journalists tend to invent things …”

Buisson had been known to divorce himself from the sins he ascribed to others. From the look in his eyes, Camille suspected he was capable of anything, of the worst excesses and possibly more. The difference between a good predator and a great predator is instinct. Buisson clearly had the perfect genetic make-up for the job.

“Now that the Tremblay case has come up—”

“News travels fast …” Camille cut him short.

“Well, I covered the Tremblay case, so obviously I’m interested.”

Camille looked up. “I don’t like this man,” he thought. And immediately he sensed that the antipathy was mutual, that unwittingly they had developed a low-grade repugnance for each other that neither would ever shake.

“You’ll get nothing out of me I haven’t told the rest of the press,” Camille snapped. “You want a comment? Ask someone else …”

“Don’t you mean someone higher up?” Buisson peered down at the
commandant
.

The two men stared at each other for a moment, astounded by the rift that had suddenly opened up between them.

“I’m sorry,” Buisson muttered.

Camille, for his part, felt strangely relieved. Sometimes contempt is a consolation.

“Listen,” Buisson went on, “I’m really sorry … a slip of the tongue …”

“I didn’t notice,” Camille interrupted.

Then he walked off, the journalist trotting after him. The atmosphere between the two men had shifted considerably.

“You could at least tell me something. What have you come up with so far?”

“No comment. We’re proceeding with our investigation. For further information, contact Commissaire Le Guen. Or the
procureur
.”

“Monsieur Verhœven, these cases are getting a lot of press. Editors are itching for a story. I’ll bet you that by the end of the week the tabloids will have come up with plausible suspects and published E-FIT pictures that half the population of France will swear blind is the other half. If you don’t give the papers something
to work with, they’ll whip up mass hysteria.”

“If it were down to me,” said Camille curtly, “the press wouldn’t be informed until we make an arrest.”

“You’d be prepared to gag the press?”

Camille stopped again. Things had gone beyond point scoring or strategy.

“I would stop them creating ‘mass hysteria’, or in layman’s terms, publishing bullshit.”

“So we can expect nothing from the
brigade criminelle
?”

“On the contrary, you expect us to catch the killer.”

“So you think you don’t need the press?”

“For the time being, it means precisely that.”

“For the time being? That’s pretty jaundiced!”

“I live in the moment.”

Buisson seemed to think for a minute.

“Listen, I think there’s something I can do for you if you want. Off the record, strictly personal.”

“I’d be surprised.”

“It’s true. I can get you some P.R. I’ve just taken over writing the weekly Personal Profile, you know, full-page article, big photo, all that crap. I’ve been working on a profile of this other guy … but that can wait. So, if you’re interested …”

“Give it a rest, Buisson.”

“I’m serious! You can’t buy this kind of publicity. All I’d need from you is a couple of personal anecdotes. I’d make it a glowing write-up, I swear … and in return, you keep me up to speed on the investigation – you wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty.”

“Like I said, Buisson, give it a rest.”

“You’re a hard man to do business with, Verhœven …”

“
Monsieur
Verhœven!”

“If I might give you a little advice: Don’t take that kind of tone,
Monsieur
Verhœven.”

“
Commandant
Verhœven!”

“Fine,” said Buisson in a chilly tone that gave Camille pause. “Have it your way.”

Buisson turned on his heel and strode off. If Camille sometimes came across as media-friendly, it was patently not down to his tact as a negotiator.

Given his height, Camille preferred to remain standing. And since he didn’t sit down, no-one else felt they were allowed to sit, and every new recruit adopted this implicit code: at the
brigade
, meetings were held standing up.

The previous evening, Maleval and Armand had spent quite a lot of time trying talking to neighbours to get witness statements. They hadn’t held out much hope, given that there were no neighbours. Especially at night, when the area was about as busy as a whorehouse in heaven. While he’d been waiting for a signal from the girls, José Riveiro had noticed no-one in the area, but it was possible that someone had passed by later. They had had to tramp more than two kilometres before they found any sign of life – a couple of shopkeepers in a residential suburb who, needless to say, could tell them nothing whatsoever about any hypothetical
comings and goings. No-one had seen anything out of the ordinary, no trucks, no vans, no delivery men. No inhabitants. To listen to them, you would think the murdered girls could only have got there by the intercession of the Holy Spirit.

“Our killer was obviously careful when he picked his location,” said Maleval.

Camille studied Maleval more closely. A little comparison test: what was the difference between Maleval, leaning in the doorway fishing a well-thumbed notebook out of his pocket, and Louis, standing next to the desk, arms folded, a notebook in his hand?

Both men were well dressed, each, in his own way, was charming. The difference was sexual. Camille reflected for a moment on this curious notion. Maleval loved women. He bedded women. He never seemed to have enough. He was driven by his sexual urges. Everything about him exuded a need to seduce, to conquer. It’s not that he always wants more, Camille thought, it’s the fact that there is always some other woman to be charmed. Maleval did not truly love women, he was a skirt chaser. He had only to sense new prey and he was on the prowl, his suits were his battle fatigues. He was an off-the-peg man. The loves of Louis, on the other hand, like his elegant suits, were exquisitely tailored. Today, to greet the first rays of sunshine of the season, Louis was wearing a pale suit, a striking light blue shirt, a club tie, and as for his shoes … “The upper crust,” Camille thought. On the subject of Louis’ sexuality, however, Camille knew very little. Which is to say nothing at all.

Camille pondered the relationship between the two men. It seemed cordial. Maleval had joined the
brigade
a few weeks after Louis. They got along well. They had even socialised occasionally in the early days; Maleval had said, “Oh, Louis might look like an altar boy, but take him out and he’s a sleazy little devil. I tell you,
when posh boys slum it, they go all the way.” Louis had made no comment. He simply pushed back his fringe. Camille couldn’t remember which hand he had used.

Maleval’s voice shook Camille from his thoughts.

“The image of the human genome has appeared in newspapers and magazines,” said Maleval, “it’s been all over the media. And we might as well forget about the faux cowhide. They’re not exactly fashionable at the moment, but back in the day people snapped them up. It would be impossible to find out where that particular one came from. The wallpaper in the bathroom looks new, but there’s no easy way to tell where it came from. We’d have to contact wallpaper manufacturers …”

“Sounds like a thankless task for somebody,” Louis said.

“Tell me about it! As for the stereo, millions of that model have been sold. The serial numbers have been removed. I sent it down to the lab, but they reckon the numbers were burned off using acid. Frankly, I wouldn’t hold out much hope.”

Maleval looked over for Armand to take over.

“I haven’t got much either—”

“Thanks, Armand,” Camille cut him off. “We’re grateful for your input. Most constructive. It’s been very helpful.”

“But Camille …” Armand said blushing.

“I’m joking, Armand, I’m joking.”

The two men had known each other for fifteen years and, having started out in the force together, had always been on first-name terms. Camille thought of Armand as a friend, of Maleval as a prodigal son and Louis as a kind of heir apparent.

Armand was still flushed, his hands trembled at the slightest little thing. Sometimes, Camille felt a surge of pained sympathy for the man.

“So …” He gave Armand an encouraging look. “You’ve got nothing for us …?”

“Actually, I do have something,” said Armand, somewhat reassured, “but it’s a bit thin. The bedlinen in the apartment was standard issue, you can buy it anywhere. Same goes for the braces. The Japanese bed, on the other hand …”

“Yes?” Camille said.

“It’s what they call a photon …”

“I think you mean a futon?” suggested Louis. Armand checked his notes, an operation that took quite some time but was revealing about his character. Nothing could be taken as true until it had been thoroughly verified. He was a rationalist.

“Yes,” he said, looking up at Louis with vague admiration, “you’re right, a futon.”

“So, what about this futon?” Camille said. “That’s the thing – it was imported directly from Japan.”

“From Japan? It’s not uncommon for Japanese things to be imported from Japan, you know?”

“Well, yeah …” Armand said, “I suppose it is common …”

A silence settled over the office. Everyone there knew Armand. They knew how dogged he could be. An ellipsis in Armand’s speech could be the result of two hundred hours of investigation.

“Why don’t you explain, Armand?”

“So, O.K., it is pretty common, but this particular model comes from a factory in Kyoto. They make furniture mostly, chairs and beds and stuff …”

“O.K.… ” said Camille.

“So, anyway, this” – Armand consulted his notes – “futon was made there. But what’s interesting is that the large sofa was made there too.”

The room was silent again.

“It’s huge. They don’t sell many of them. This particular model went on the market in January. They’ve sold thirty-seven. The sofa in Courbevoie has to be one of those thirty-seven. I got a list of their customers.”

“Fucking hell, Armand, couldn’t you have just said that straight off?”

“I’m not done, Camille, I’m not done. Of the thirty-seven, twenty-six are still with furniture dealers. Eleven were exported from Japan, six of those for Japanese buyers. The rest were bought by mail order. Three of these were shipped to France. The first was ordered by a Parisian dealer for one of his customers, Sylvain Siegel. That’s this one here …”

From his pocket Armand took a photograph of a sofa that looked exactly like the one in Courbevoie.

“Monsieur Siegel sent me the photo. I’m going to visit his place to check, but I think we can assume it’s kosher …”

“And the other two?” Camille said.

“That’s where it gets interesting. The other two were bought online direct from the factory. Sales to private individuals take longer to trace. The whole thing is done by computer – you have to find the right people to contact, you have to hope the guy knows his stuff, you need to track down the relevant files … The first was ordered by someone called Crespy, the second by someone called Dunford. Both are based in Paris. I haven’t managed to contact Crespy, I’ve left a couple of messages, but he hasn’t called back. If I don’t hear anything by tomorrow, I’ll drop in there. But we’re not likely to turn up much, in my opinion …”