The Circle (17 page)

Servaz flopped back in his chair and mulled this over. There was a contradiction between the apparently spontaneous nature of the crime and its very elaborate staging. Once again, the image of Claire Diemar tied up in her bath, with a torch down her throat, sprang into his mind. He was suddenly convinced that this was not the killer's first crime: the modus operandi pointed to someone experienced, not a beginner. At the same time it was proof of a highly unbalanced personality. There was something ritualistic about the whole thing. And the presence of a rite almost always implied the threat of a series of deaths … a series to come or already underway? he wondered. The idea had occurred to him when he found the corpse, but he had rejected it because serial killers are rare, except in films and novels, and no cop on the crime squad ever thinks of them spontaneously: most of them have never even met one.
Hirtmann?
No, it couldn't be. And yet, question number seven worried him more than anything. He found it very difficult to believe that the Swiss criminal could have anything to do with this case; it was just too fantastic – and it would have meant that Hirtmann was very well acquainted with Claire's life. But then he recalled his phone call with the man in Paris, the business with the biker at the motorway service station … He found that hard
to believe as well. Could it be that the members of the unit in charge of finding Hirtmann had gone after so many ghosts that they had ended up mistaking their dreams for reality?

Servaz walked around the open-plan kitchen, took a beer from the fridge and slid open the glass door to the balcony.

He went over to the edge and looked down at the street below him, as if Hirtmann might be there, somewhere in the rain, spying on his every move. A shiver went through him. The street was deserted, but cities never truly sleep at night, he knew that. As if to prove him right, a police car went by his building before disappearing, its siren fading progressively into the permanent hum of a city on standby.

He went back inside and switched on his computer to check his e-mail, the way he did every night before going to bed. Adverts offered him low-cost train journeys anywhere in Europe, hotels by the sea at rock-bottom prices, villas for rent in Spain, online dating … Suddenly his gaze was caught by an e-mail entitled ‘Greetings'.

The blood went cold in his veins. The message was sent by a certain Theodor Adorno.

He moved the mouse and clicked on it:

Do you remember the first movement of the Fourth, Commandant?
Bedächtig … Nicht eilen … Recht gemächlich …
The piece that was playing when you came into my ‘room' that famous day in December? I've been thinking about writing to you for quite some time. Are you surprised? I'm sure you'll believe me if I tell you I've been very busy lately. You can only truly appreciate your freedom, like your health, when you've been deprived of it for a long time.

But I won't bother you any more, Martin. (Do you mind if I call you Martin?) Personally I hate being bothered. You'll have news of me soon. I doubt you will like it very much – but I am sure you will find it interesting.

Regards, JH.

Night

The moon made a brief appearance then disappeared again, engulfed by clouds. The sound of rain hammering on the tiles came in through the open window, and the moisture clung to her skin like a wet towel while the drops fell to the floor at her feet, but Margot stayed motionless by the window, inhaling her cigarette. It was stifling in the little garret room beneath the eaves.

Smoking wasn't allowed, but she didn't care. Her tank top clung to her burning skin, the sweat was trickling between her shoulder blades and under her arms. She looked at her watch. Ten minutes past midnight. Her roommate was sound asleep, and snoring. As usual.

Margot wondered which was noisier, the summer rain or her roommate. She liked the girl – shy, on the chubby side – but her snoring was driving her crazy. Fortunately, she had her iPod to fill her ears with ‘Welcome to the Black Parade' by My Chemical Romance. A headache was drilling into her temples. Fifteen minutes earlier they had still been working on their philosophy essay.

She leaned outside and glanced up at the old ivy-draped round tower in the corner, crowned with a pointed roof. At the top of the tower there was a light on in the headmaster's office. As there often was at this time. Disgusting Old Pig must be downloading porn while his wife was sound asleep.

She smiled at the thought.

More than once she had caught him sneaking glances at girls' legs, and she was sure his mind was a gallery of smut.

Suddenly a flash of light at the edge of her vision drew her attention and she looked over towards the garden. Another flash of light. Once. Twice … Then nothing more.

Shit, Elias
, she thought.
You're out of your mind!

Before closing the window she tossed her cigarette butt out and it made an incandescent arc in the night. She also closed her laptop, which had been open on the bed, its screen glowing in the dark. She pulled on her khaki shorts, fastened the big silver buckle of her studded belt, and slipped her bare feet into some fluorescent trainers.

On the wall above her bed were three posters from horror films: the main character from
Halloween
; Pinhead, the Cenobite with his head prickling with needles from
Hellraiser
, and Freddy Krueger, the bogeyman with the burned face who haunted the nightmares of teenagers on Elm Street. She loved horror films. Just as she loved heavy metal and novels by Anne Rice, Poppy Z. Brite and Clive Barker. She knew that her reading and her taste in music and movies stuck out like a sore thumb in Marsac, and that none of these authors stood the slightest chance of ever finding their way onto the modern literature syllabus. Even Lucie, who went to a lot of trouble to please her roommate, had ventured to question the choice of posters she saw nightly as she dropped off to sleep. Just as she had objected to Margot's habit of smoking in their room, even with the window open.

Margot leaned over the little sink, splashed her face with cold water and rinsed under her arms.

Then she stood up and inspected herself in the mirror. Her two ruby studs, one in her eyebrow, the other below her lower lip, shone like little red stars in the neon light. She was slender, with muscular legs and medium-length brown hair, and she didn't look anything like the other girls in Marsac, which was a source of pride to her.

The cupboard door creaked when she opened it to grab her anorak from a hanger. Lucie protested feebly in her sleep.

The corridor was deserted. Light shone at the end of the corridor from under the doors of the students who were in scientific prep classes. In some of their rooms the light would stay on until three o'clock in the morning. There was no movement at all in the corridor and she went along to the staircase, feeling as if the very soul of this place was weighing on her shoulders. The building was almost three centuries old.

She went down the stairs and out into the storm, and felt a childlike joy. The warm rain crackled on the hood of her jacket while she hugged the wall of the former stables. Then she went through the soaking grass to the first hedge, moving from shadow to shadow,
choosing a path that made her invisible. She stopped between the hedge, the trunk of a cherry tree and a tall statue on a pedestal. She looked up. The statue was peering down at her with empty eyes.

‘Hey,' said Margot. ‘Stinking weather, even for you, right?'

The entrance to the maze was a bit further along. More than once the administrative body of the lycée had discussed closing the maze, or even tearing it down, because there had been several issues with hazing as well as ‘inappropriate behaviour' in the hedges between students of both sexes – but the maze was on the register of historical monuments, like the main building, so they weren't allowed to touch it. All they could do was hang a sign on a chain that said:
‘PRIVATE
. E
NTRANCE FORBIDDEN TO STUDENTS
', which obviously only dissuaded the most obedient. Margot was not one of them. She bent down and slipped under the chain.

At this time of night, the interior of the maze was not the most cheerful place in the world. She shivered and cursed Elias.

‘Where are you?' she shouted, to make herself heard above the rain.

‘Over here!'

The voice came from directly opposite, but on the other side of the tall hedge that blocked the way. The first lane of the maze led to two corners, to the right and to the left.

‘Right. Either you tell me which way to go, or I'm going home.'

‘Go left,' he answered.

She started walking. A laugh.

‘No: go right.'

‘Elias!'

‘Go right, go right …'

She turned around. She felt as if she were inside a bubble. She went around the corner at the end of the lane. There was another right angle turn to the left two metres farther along, then another to the right immediately after that … Then there was a crossroads with three possibilities: straight ahead, to the left, or to the right.

‘Which way?'

‘To the left!'

She obeyed, went around two more bends and saw him at last, sitting on a moss-covered stone bench, his endless legs stretched out in front of him. His brown hair clung to his head, streaming with water and covering nearly his entire face.

‘Elias, you are completely sick!'

‘I know.'

She wiped the end of her nose.

‘Fuck, if anyone sees us, they'll think we're completely crazy.'

‘Calm down, no one will see us.'

‘Yeah, right!'

Elias and Margot were in the same class. In the beginning she hadn't paid much attention to this beanpole who seemed encumbered by his body and hid behind his hair as if it were a curtain. During breaks between classes he spent most of his time well away from the others, smoking and reading, sitting in a corner of the courtyard. He wouldn't speak to anyone except when it couldn't be helped, and before long his misanthropy was attracting a fair number of sidelong looks and harsh commentary. ‘Antisocial', ‘nutter' and ‘weirdo' were the adjectives most often applied to him. As well as ‘virgin', when it was the girls talking. Except Elias didn't seem to give a toss about what anyone thought of him. This was probably what had eventually drawn Margot to him. She was perfectly aware of the looks she had inspired when she had undertaken her initial efforts at friendship but, like Elias himself, she didn't care what others thought. But unlike him, she had managed to create a sufficiently solid network of friends within the lycée.

‘Watch out,' he had said right at the start, ‘you might catch my disease if you get too close.'

‘What disease?'

‘Solitude.'

‘Your misanthropy doesn't faze me.'

‘So what are you doing here?'

‘I'm trying to figure something out.'

‘Figure what out?'

‘Whether you're a genius, a slob, or just a guy who likes to show off.'

‘You're barking up the wrong tree, babe. Don't waste my time with your psychobabble.'

That was how it had begun. She was not attracted to Elias. But she liked the way he was different, and didn't care.

Margot looked up. The moon greeted her briefly through a tear in the clouds, then disappeared again. Elias handed her his pack of cigarettes and she took one.

‘Have you heard about Hugo?'

‘Obviously. That's all anyone is talking about.'

‘So you know they found him completely stoned next to Mademoiselle Diemar's swimming pool,' he said.

‘So?'

‘I heard your dad was in charge of the investigation.'

She stopped fiddling with her lighter.

‘Who told you that? I thought you didn't speak to anyone except me.'

‘Some girls next to me this morning were talking about it … News travels fast. All you have to do is tune your antennae,' he said, fanning his hands on either side of his head.

‘Right. So what's your point?'

‘I was at the Dubliners, last night, before it happened … Hugo and David were there, too.'

‘So? I heard the pub was packed, because of the match …'

‘Hugo left the pub before the match started. Roughly an hour before Mademoiselle Diemar was killed.'

‘That's the rumour that's going around.'

‘It's not just a rumour. I was there. Nobody paid any attention to him at the time, everybody was waiting for the fucking match. Everyone except me.'

A smile played on Margot's lips as she thought of her father.

‘Sports really aren't your thing, huh, Elias? And so what were you doing all that time? Playing the fucking voyeur? Were you asleep? Were you reading
Brothers Karamazov
?'

‘Why don't we focus on what's really important,' he said, putting her in her place.

‘So what's important, according to you?'

‘David left the pub, too.'

This time he had her attention. The clouds parted like a zip, showing the white breast of the moon, then closed again.

‘What?'

‘Exactly. A few seconds later.'

‘You mean—'

‘That David didn't stay and watch the match, either. No one noticed because no one gave a fuck about anything except that stupid football … Except maybe Sarah.'

‘Was Sarah with them?'

‘Yes, at their table. She's the only one of the three who didn't move. Later, David came back. But Hugo didn't, as you know.'

Margot's senses were suddenly all on the alert.

‘How much later?'

‘I don't know. I didn't keep track. As you can imagine, I had no way of knowing what was going on. I just noticed that David had come back at one point. That's all.'