The Circle (16 page)

‘I don't know … it was a long time ago.'

‘A white lie, but a lie all the same.'

Silence.

‘Don't ask me why,' he said.

‘Why not? I wrote to you. Several letters. You never answered.'

She was probing him, her green gaze sparkling in the shadow of her face. Just the way it used to.

‘Was it because of Francis and me?'

Again he said nothing.

‘Answer me.'

He stared at her wordlessly.

‘So that was it … Oh, for Christ's sake, Martin! All those years of silence, because of Francis and me?'

‘Perhaps.'

‘You're not sure?'

‘Yes. Yes, I am sure. For God's sake, what difference does it make now anyway?'

‘You wanted to punish us.'

‘No, I wanted to move on. To forget. And I did.'

‘Oh really? And that student you met after me? What was her name again?'

‘Alexandra. I married her. And then we got divorced.'

It was strange how you could sum up a life in so few words. Strange and depressing.

‘And now, are you seeing anyone?'

‘No.'

Silence.

‘So that explains your appearance,' she said. ‘You look like a confirmed old bachelor, Martin Servaz.'

She was trying to sound light-hearted, and he was grateful to her for the attempt to ease the tension. The darkness of evening was stealing over them, along with the faint distortion of the senses that the wine induced.

‘I'm afraid, Martin,' she said suddenly. ‘I'm terrified, scared out of my wits … Tell me about my son. Are you going to charge him?'

Her voice almost broke on the last words. Servaz saw her pained expression, the fear in her eyes. He understood that from the start this had been the only question that really mattered to her. He took the time to choose his words carefully.

‘As things stand at the moment, if he were up in court, there is a good chance he would be charged.'

‘But you told me on the telephone that you had your doubts?'

Her tone was that of a desperate plea.

‘Listen. It's too soon. I can't talk about it. But I need some information,' he said. ‘And some time … There are one or two things … I don't want to give you any false hope.'

‘I'm listening.'

‘Does Hugo smoke?'

‘He quit a few months ago. Why do you ask?'

He swept his question away with a wave of his hand.

‘You knew Claire Diemar.'

This time it wasn't a question.

‘We were friends. But not close friends. Acquaintances. She lived on her own in Marsac, and so did I. That sort of friends.'

‘Did she talk to you about her private life?'

‘No.'

‘But did you know anything?'

‘Yes, of course. Unlike you, I didn't leave Marsac. I know everyone and everyone knows me.'

‘What sort of things?'

He saw her hesitate.

‘Rumours … about her private life.'

‘What sort of rumours?'

Again she hesitated. In the old days, Marianne had hated gossip. But her son's freedom was at stake.

‘People said that Claire collected men. That she used them and tossed them out like tissues. That she played with them and that she had broken a few hearts in Marsac.'

He looked at her. Thought about the messages on the computer. They expressed a sincere, violent, absolute love. They did not match this portrait.

‘But she was discreet about it, at any rate. And if you want me to name names, I don't have any.'

What about you
, he wanted to ask,
where do you stand, in that respect?

‘The name Thomas, does that mean anything to you?'

She stared at him as she inhaled her cigarette, then shook her head.

‘No. Nothing at all.'

‘Are you sure?'

She blew away the smoke.

‘That's what I said.'

‘Did Claire Diemar listen to classical music?'

‘What?'

He repeated the question.

‘I have no idea. Does it matter?'

Suddenly another question came to him.

‘Have you noticed anything peculiar lately? A guy hanging around the house? Anyone following you in the street? Something, anything, that made you feel uneasy?'

The look she gave him said she failed to understand.

‘Are we talking about Claire, now, or me?'

‘About you.'

‘No. Should I have?'

‘I don't know … if anything comes to mind, let me know.'

She stared at him intensely, but did not say anything more.

‘And you,' he said suddenly. ‘Tell me about yourself, about your life over all these years.'

‘Is this still the cop talking?'

He looked down, then up again.

‘No.'

‘What do you want to know?'

‘Everything … These past twenty years, Hugo, your life since …'

Her gaze clouded over in the fading light. She took the time to gather her memories. And to sort through them. Then she told him. A few carefully weighed sentences, nothing melodramatic. And yet there was plenty of drama; hidden, deep. She had married Mathieu Bokhanowsky, one of the members of their gang. Bokha, thought Servaz. Bokha the boor, the oaf. Bokha the good guy, occasionally the third wheel – there was always one like that – and openly scornful of girls and any form of romance. Bokha with someone like Marianne: back then, it would have seemed unimaginable. Bokha, against all expectations, had turned out to be a good, tender and affectionate guy, even funny. ‘A fundamentally decent man, Martin,' she insisted. ‘He wasn't pretending.' Servaz lit a cigarette and waited for her to go on. She had been happy with Bokha. Truly happy. With his kindness, simplicity and incredible energy, Mathieu had turned out to be someone who could move mountains, and he had almost managed to make her forget the scars left by Servaz and Van Acker. ‘I loved you. Both of you. God knows I loved you. But you were both inaccessible,
Martin: you had the burden of your mother's memory, your hatred of your father, that anger; and Francis had his ego.' Mathieu was calming, Mathieu didn't ask for anything in exchange for what he gave. He was simply there, whenever she needed him. Servaz listened to her as she unravelled the skein of years, no doubt leaving many things out, touching up some things and embellishing others, but isn't that what we all do? Back in the days when they were friends, no one, starting with Marianne herself, would have bet a centime on Bokha's future, and yet he had turned out to be not only extremely gifted at human relations but also endowed with a practical intelligence, something he had not really needed in the days when Francis and Martin spent their time talking about books, music, cinema and critical theory. Bokha had studied economics, created a chain of computer stores, and made a fortune that was as unexpected as it was sudden.

In the meantime, Hugo was born. Bokha the mediocre oaf, the underling of the gang, now had everything a man could want: money, recognition, the prettiest girl in the neighbourhood, a home, and a son.

Too much happiness, no doubt – at least that was Marianne's opinion, and Servaz thought, without saying it, of hubris, that lack of moderation which to the ancient Greeks was a capital sin: the man who committed it was guilty of wanting more than his share, and so he drew down the wrath of the gods. Mathieu Bokhanowsky was killed in a car crash one night on his way home from the opening of an umpteenth store. There were rumours: according to some, his alcohol level was over the limit. Others said that they had also found traces of cocaine in the car. Or that he hadn't been alone: his pretty secretary was with him, who escaped with only a few bruises.

‘Slander, lies, jealousy,' hissed Marianne.

She had lifted her knees up against her chest and her bare feet clung to the edge of the wooden chair like claws. For a moment he observed them, those pretty tanned feet.

‘There were also rumours implying that Mathieu was ruined. They were untrue. He had invested his money in life insurance and shares, but I found a job so I wouldn't have to sell the house. I'm an interior decorator for people who have no taste; I design websites for various organisations … It's a long way from our dreams of being artists, but still, it's not as far as—' She broke off, but he knew
she had almost said, ‘as being a cop.' ‘I've been bringing Hugo up alone since he was eleven years old,' she concluded, crushing her cigarette in the ashtray. ‘I've managed fairly well, I think. Hugo is innocent, Martin. If you charge him, it's not just my son you'll be sending to prison, but also an innocent boy.'

He got the message. She would never forgive him.

‘It doesn't depend just on me,' he answered. ‘It's up to the judge.'

‘But it depends on what you say to him.'

‘Let's get back to Claire. There must be some people in Marsac who disapproved of her way of life?'

She nodded.

‘Of course there were. There was constant gossip. I was the target of similar gossip after Mathieu died, whenever married men came to visit.'

‘Married men came to visit you?'

‘Completely above board. I have a few friends here, perhaps Francis told you. They helped me get over it. This is a new thing, this judgmental attitude …'

‘It's the job, I can't help it,' he said.

She stood up.

‘You should forget your job from time to time.'

Her tone was as harsh as a whip, but she softened it by placing her hand on his shoulder as she walked by. She turned on the light on the terrace. The sky was getting dark. Servaz could hear frogs. Insects gathered around the lamp, and wisps of mist began to appear on the surface of the lake.

She came back with another bottle. He felt good, relaxed – but he wondered where this was heading. He noticed that he was following every move she made, that he was hypnotised by the way she filled the space. She uncorked the bottle and poured him another glass. Neither one of them felt the need to speak now, but she looked at him often. He suddenly understood that something else was happening, in his guts: he desired her. Violently. It had nothing to do with their history together. It was a desire for
this
woman, the Marianne she was today.

It was one in the morning by the time he reached his flat. He took a burning-hot shower to rid himself of the fatigue that was knotting his muscles and he put Mahler's Fourth Symphony on low in the
living room. He thought about everything he had learned in the last twenty-four hours, and tried to organise his thoughts.

Servaz sometimes wondered why he liked these symphonies so much. Probably because they were complete worlds where he could lose himself, because in each one he found the same intensity – cries, pain, chaos, storms and mournful omens, the same ones as out in the real world. Listening to Mahler meant taking a path from darkness to light and back to darkness, from boundless joy to the tempest assailing the fragile craft of human existence and eventually capsizing it. The greatest conductors had taken on this Everest of symphonic art, and Servaz collected the various interpretations the way others collected rare stamps or seashells: Bernstein, Fischer-Dieskau, Reiner, Kondrashin, Klemperer, Inbal …

Music, however, did not prevent him from thinking. On the contrary. He absolutely had to get some sleep; five or six hours, no more – just enough to charge his batteries – but his mind would not rest until he had sorted and classified his mass of bare facts and impressions and come up with a strategy for the following day.

It was Sunday, but he had no choice: he would have to call in his team, because Hugo's remand was due to end in a few hours. Judging from the elements they had in the file, Servaz knew that the magistrate would not hesitate to request pre-trial detention. Marianne would be devastated and the kid would lose all his innocence; a few days in the rat-trap and his vision of the world would change. Urgency was boiling Servaz's blood. He took his notepad and began summing up the evidence:

Servaz underlined the last two questions. He lifted his pencil from the page, sucked on it, and reread what he had written. Soon, the tracking service would give him an answer to question number 10
.
This would mean some headway with the investigation. He went over the facts again slowly, one by one, and worked out a chronology: Hugo left the pub shortly before the Uruguay-France match; an hour and a half later, roughly, he was seen by a neighbour sitting by the side of Claire Diemar's pool, and the gendarmerie found him shortly afterwards, distraught and clearly under the influence of alcohol and drugs, while the young professor lay at the bottom of her bath. The kid asserted he had lost consciousness and only came to in the victim's living room.