Significance (35 page)

There were no less than fifteen witnesses who came forward with reports of this boy. Fifteen versions of a single truth, each of them inadvertently filtered and altered by the individual telling the story, and distorted by news of the murder, by gossip, by the desire to be a part of this thing, this evil visited on a peaceful small town.

Then there is the business about the cardigan, and the reported voodoo. A young black man running. An African who claims he is about to begin his training in medicine – who is running. A white man may run. Dress him in shorts, in a tracksuit, in Adidas or Nikes. A sweat band. What is he doing? He is running for the exercise, for his heart, training for a race, a marathon. But this African, his gleaming blue
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black skin hardly even breaking out in a sweat, he must be running from something. He cannot just run. He must be guilty. If he finds a woman's cardigan and places it on a hedge so that its owner can reclaim it, he is not doing a kind and thoughtful deed. No, his act must be misinterpreted as ritualistic, as evil.

Witnesses: their words tumble and fall, spill out elaborations, interpretations. Never meaning to lie, but each is susceptible to the workings of their imagination.

This is now the accepted truth about eye witnesses, their absolute fallibility.

This is why the hard science of forensics is so important.

The phone rings on Vivier's desk, he reaches out for it, snatches it up clumsily, clattering the hand piece as he does so.

‘Vivier.'

‘Sir.'

It is Sabine Pelat; her usually reserved tones are unmistakably breathy as she continues to speak at a rapid pace. ‘The path lab got back to me. It was sperm on the cardigan, and they've done a DNA profile and got a match with a local man.'

‘Who is it?'

‘Florian Lebrun.'

‘Lebrun
…
doesn't ring any bells. He's got a record?'

‘Yeah, mostly petty stuff, drugs, handling stolen goods, shoplifting, car theft and one rape charge.'

‘Convicted?'

‘Not of the rape.'

‘He's done time, though?'

‘Yeah. Started young.'

‘Violent?'

‘Apart from the rape, no.'

‘What about physical description? Is he tall, blond, American?'

‘Five eight, light brown hair, French citizen.'

‘Yeah. I guessed that from the name. Anything else?'

‘Unmarried. No kids.'

‘Alright, let's get everyone in the briefing room in half an hour.'

Vivier was about to hang up when Sabine said, ‘Ah, sir?'

‘What?'

‘This seems too easy.'

‘Yeah.'

‘You thought the same?'

‘But a DNA match?'

‘I guess.'

‘Well, if she was a prostitute she may have encountered both men. Others too.'

‘Zero trace of semen on the body. The vaginal swab was clean as a whistle.'

‘Hmm.'
Vivier considered this. ‘We'll have to bring Lebrun in. We have no choice in the matter, but in the meantime can you find out what you can about the rape case?'

‘Yes, I was thinking that.'

‘Thanks, Sabine.'

She hung up and he immediately noticed that he felt curiously troubled. It was not just the case, but something else, a sense of loss. He pondered this and after a few minutes convinced himself that his feelings, if indeed they might be really called feelings or emotions, were to do with some aspect of his appreciation of Pelat's intelligence; her patience, diligence and respect. It could not be, as it had almost seemed, that her voice at the other end of the phone line was somehow seductive, that he had pictured her as he listened and responded, that he was remembering how they had laughed together earlier that morning, and how her eyes had shone.

He recognised that she was a beautiful and desirable woman. A man would be blind not to see that. But to think that she would be remotely interested in him, that was a folly bordering on madness.

Vivier had long ago resigned himself to a bleak, lonely existence. His first wife had said that he was too remote, too intellectual, too cold to really ever love anyone. And because he truly believed that he had loved her, her parting words had sunk deep and made him question his own feelings. Subsequent love affairs seemed to confirm the accusation she'd made.

He steeled himself against the possibility of falling for Sabine Pelat. He would only make a fool of himself. No doubt she found him cold and ugly; as appealing as the carved stone effigies of the centuries
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dead lords and knights who lay piously, hawk
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nosed and hollow
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cheeked on their austere tombs in the cathedrals of Northern France.

He would not make a fool of himself.

His stomach growled. He reached into his pocket, thumbed an indigestion tablet from the foil pack and put it on his tongue. Sat quietly while it melted. His guts carried on with their curiously musical gurgles and groans. An orchestra of comical effects. Without dignity. All too human.

Reasons to be Cheerful

Jean
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Pierre Laniel was late for work. But, as he was always deliberately early, usually arriving in the office at nine instead of the contracted hour of ten, being ten minutes behind his self
-
inflicted schedule was an issue only to Jean
-
Pierre himself.

But it was an issue that made him grip the steering wheel of his Renault Clio so hard that his knuckles whitened. A touring caravan had broken down at the junction of the main road causing a tailback of seven cars. Jean
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Pierre had pulled up and waited for all of two minutes before, with gritted teeth and a string of loud expletives, he'd turned the car around and headed back up the road he'd just come down. He knew another way. It was less direct and involved one narrow country lane and a detour through the northern part of the town, but at this hour he would have no difficulty.

He was in a bad mood, but as his moods usually ranged between moderately grumpy to bad to very bad to blind raging fury, with few incursions into peacefulness or full
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blown happiness, his short temper at this delay was hardly exceptional. And this day, like the others in his 33 years, provided him with an array of excellent reasons to be angry.

During his shower earlier that morning he had noticed that the water was not running off as freely as it should. The drain wasn't blocked, merely a tad sluggish. He had stopped washing himself and crouched (the hot water pulsing down relentlessly on his bony spine) on the shower
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room floor to investigate. Caught in the silver spokes of the plughole he could see the offending object: a flotilla of pale stringy strands. Using his thumb and forefinger he was able to grasp this and pull (with some difficulty) a tangle of
long wet hairs and soapy glutinous stuff from the drain. He placed this for safe keeping on the edge of the sink, then recommenced showering. When he was done, and had shaved, applied cologne and hair gel, he padded out of the bathroom in his slippers and dressing gown, with the hair from the drain held between his fingertips at arm's length, and made his way to the kitchen where his wife was preparing breakfast.

She was standing at the work counter cutting pears into quarters. She seemed unaware that he had entered the room – blithely innocent – the way she always played it.

He stood there waiting for her to sense his presence.

‘Oh!' she said, when on turning to get something from the fridge she finally noticed him. She smiled weakly.

‘Here,' he said, advancing on her.

‘What?' she asked, but held out her hand anyway.

He dropped the greasy damp tangle into her outstretched palm.

‘Yours I believe,' he said.

She apologised and promised to be more careful in the future, though he somehow doubted she was capable of it and said as much.

He did not like issuing these reminders and reprimands day and night. If it wasn't his wife, it was his daughters, his colleagues and other staff. Or occasionally his elderly parents or the home help, Bette, or his neighbours and anyone else who crossed his path; the girls' schoolteachers, shop assistants, the doctor's receptionist, his brother, his fool of a gardener.
The list was endless.

It was exhausting always having to think for other people, continually pointing out the flaws in how things were done and explaining how these might be improved. And if he didn't do it, who would? How much better would the world be if only people would learn? If they, like him, paid more attention to the small details? The driver of the stalled camper van for example, who had caused Jean
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Pierre and several other motorists so much inconvenience, should have checked his oil and water and fuel before setting out. And furthermore for a tourist to be on the roads at an hour when other citizens were on their way to work was clearly shortsighted and selfish. The van had a foreign sticker on it. ‘D' for Deutschland. Arrogance. Typical Kraut.

Following his alternative route, Jean
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Pierre figured that he would arrive at his desk at 9.25 – in plenty of time to note, as he always did, who was next to arrive, who left it until 10 o'clock and who drifted lazily to their post at one minute or two or ten past the hour. He pulled up at a traffic light on rue de Bainville, and with the engine ticking over and his hands growing sweaty on the wheel, he glanced to his left just in time to see the front door of a nearby house swing open. A woman with red hair emerged. Her hair was long and unruly, the dress she wore a rather unflattering floral sack. She was dragging an overlarge trolley suitcase of the sort that invariably tripped one up or was rolled over one's toes at airports. She looked vaguely familiar, but then she was one of a type – a henna
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haired hippy wench, slovenly and probably loud and opinionated. Following her was a man carrying an even larger bag, an olive green hold
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all of monstrous proportions. He was very tall, with broad shoulders and blond hair. He struggled with the bag, his whole upper body swaying as he hefted it out through the doorway.

Lastly, a younger man wandered out of the house. He was also blond and stepped out of the house entirely unburdened by any luggage.

Jean
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Pierre was thinking that, strictly speaking, if they must have such a quantity of possessions with them on holiday, then surely five or six smaller cases would be better. That way the load could be more evenly distributed between the three.

But then, just as he was thinking this, he realised that he did indeed recognise all three of these people. The youngest man had been that lunatic he had seen on the street only yesterday. And now Jean
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Pierre looked closer he could just make out multiple thin red scars on his hands and wrists.

Yesterday, arriving upon the scene late, Jean
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Pierre had been just in time to see the boy being led away by the blond man and another in a postman's uniform. The woman had been with them too, though he hadn't paid much attention to her.

Jean
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Pierre had immediately phoned the police on his mobile and attempted to order those involved back to the scene of the incident, but they had not listened to him. He had therefore waited at the place where the boy had been until the police finally arrived.

Or rather one rather young policeman on foot who had arrived after an hour or so.

Later Jean
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Pierre had heard about the murdered girl, and although the policeman had taken a brief statement from him about the boy dripping with blood, they had not been in touch again, and now these people were escaping.

The red
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haired woman left the case on the path outside the house and crossed the lawn to a drive at the side of the house where a car was parked.

The lights changed then and immediately the driver in the car behind Jean
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Pierre sounded his horn. Infuriated, Jean
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Pierre crashed his gears and put his foot hard on the accelerator. He crossed the intersection, slowed down, pulled into a driveway (he didn't care who it belonged to) reversed out and returned to the house where the tourists were. The woman was standing by the driver's door on the drive. The younger man was in the back seat of the car, his neck twisted so that his forehead was resting on the side window. The other man was lifting something into the boot of the car.

Without hesitation Jean
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Pierre pulled up onto the pavement and parked his car so that it was blocking their exit from the driveway.
Then he pulled his keys from the ignition, tossed them under his seat and took out his mobile phone.

They did not notice him at first, as they were busy with the luggage. Then the woman got in behind the wheel and turned to talk to the boy in the back, while the man went back to the house and tugged at the front door making sure it was locked.