The Circle (19 page)

‘What do you want?' he asked.

Espérandieu stepped forward and showed his card once again. Servaz preferred to stand back. His assistant was a geek, far better acquainted with the whole world of computers than he was: the invasive influx of mobile phones, social networks and tablet computers was already enough to cause him to break out in a rash. Espérandieu also didn't look like a cop.

‘Are you the boss here?'

‘I'm the manager,' corrected the big man cautiously.

‘An e-mail was sent from here yesterday evening at around six o'clock. We'd like to know if you remember the man who sent it.'

The manager raised his eyebrows above his glasses and shot them a look which implied,
What do you think, mate?

‘There are roughly fifty people or more who come through here every evening. You think I stand over their shoulders to see what they're doing?'

Espérandieu and Servaz had a photo of Hirtmann on them, but they had decided not to show it: if the guy recognised the serial killer who had been on the front page of all the papers the previous year, he might go telling everyone what had happened, and the news that Hirtmann was in Toulouse sending e-mails to the police would make its way into the papers in less time than it took Usain Bolt to run 100 metres.

‘A very tall, thin guy,' said Espérandieu. ‘In his forties. He might have been wearing a wig. He might have attracted attention because of his rather … strange behaviour. And he might have had a slight accent.'

The manager's gaze went back and forth between the two of them, like a spectator at the French Open; he seemed to think that they were perfect morons. He shrugged.

‘Is this some sort of joke? That's a lot of “might have”s, don't you think? Really doesn't ring a bell with me, no.'

Then he seemed to remember something.

‘Wait a minute …'

He saw them looking at him and broke off. His faded blue eyes sparkled behind his glasses and Servaz understood that the man was enjoying their interest and their impatience.

‘Someone did come in, yes, now that you mention it …'

He smiled. Acted as if he were thinking. Waited for their reaction. Servaz was beginning to feel exasperated.

‘This is a nice place you have here,' said Espérandieu, as if he couldn't care less what came next. ‘Is your local network on WiFi?'

The man seemed disconcerted by the visitor's sudden loss of interest in him, but he was flattered by his interest in the café.

‘Uh … no, I've still got cable. With thirty computers, even if I had a top-end WiFi router, it couldn't cope. Because of all the games on the network.'

Espérandieu nodded his approval.

‘Hmm … Yes, of course. So, someone did come?'

This time the manager of the Internet café felt a need to kindle the flames somewhat.

‘Yes, but not the guy you described. It was a woman.'

The two cops' interest was fading to zero.

‘So what's that got to do with the man we're looking for?'

A smile returned to the manager's face.

‘Because she told me you would come. She told me that some guys would come and see me and ask me questions about a message she had sent. But she didn't tell me they'd be from the police.'

Gotcha. They were riveted.

‘And that's not all …'

Stupid bastard, thought Servaz. One more minute like this and he would grab him by the collar.

‘She left this …'

They watched as he bent down to open a drawer and take something out.

An envelope.

Servaz felt a chill down his spine.

Patrick handed the brown envelope to Espérandieu, who had already pulled on a pair of gloves.

‘Who's touched it, besides you?'

‘No one.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. I'm the one who took it and put it in the drawer.'

‘Do you have a letter opener, or a pair of scissors?'

The man rummaged in a drawer and handed him a bread knife. Espérandieu delicately tore open the envelope and placed two fingers inside. Servaz looked at his gloved hand as he pulled out a shining metallic disc. Espérandieu examined it on both sides. Over his shoulder, Servaz did the same. The disc was blank: there was nothing written on it, nor any fingerprints that he could see.

‘Can we have a look?' he asked the manager.

The man waved to the row of computers in the multimedia space.

‘No, not there. Somewhere more private.'

Patrick went back to the other side of the bar and drew open a red curtain, revealing a tiny windowless room filled with computer packaging material, crates, a defunct percolator and, in one corner, a desk with a lamp and a computer.

‘This woman who handed you the envelope,' said Servaz, ‘was she alone?'

‘Yes.'

‘What sort of impression did she make?'

Patrick thought for a moment.

‘She was cute, I remember. Other than that, rather on the serious side. Come to think of it, I get the impression she actually was wearing a wig.'

‘And she asked you to give this to us? Why didn't you call the police?'

‘Because there was no mention of the police or any hint that it was anything illegal. She just told me that some people would come and ask me about her and that I had to give them this envelope.'

‘Why did you agree? Didn't you find it a bit dodgy?'

The man broke into a smile.

‘There were two fifty-euro notes along with it.'

‘That's even dodgier, don't you think?'

The man didn't answer.

‘So you didn't notice anything else, besides the wig?'

‘No.'

‘Do you have CCTV?'

‘Yes. But it only turns on at night, once the place is closed. It's activated by a motion detector.'

He could read the disappointment in Servaz's eyes and seemed delighted. Patrick didn't seem particularly concerned about the fate of his fellow citizens, but on the other hand he was clearly very eager not to make things too easy for the police. No doubt he read George Orwell and was convinced that his country was a police state.

‘The notes, do you still have them?'

Another smile.

‘No. Money comes and goes, here.'

‘Thank you,' said Espérandieu to dismiss him.

Servaz watched as his assistant leaned over the computer. The man didn't budge.

‘Who's this guy you're looking for?'

‘You can go now,' said Servaz with a broad smile. ‘We'll call you if we need you.'

The manager gave them a look. Then he shrugged and walked off. Once he was on the other side of the curtain, Espérandieu slipped the disc into the drive. A window opened on the computer screen and the media software program started up automatically.

Instinctively, Servaz felt tense. What should they expect? A message from Hirtmann? A video? And who was this woman the manager
was talking about? An accomplice? The tension was affecting them physically. Servaz could see a triangle of sweat darkening his assistant's T-shirt, and it wasn't just because it was hot in the tiny room.

The silence seemed to last forever, broken only by the crackling of static in the loudspeakers. Espérandieu turned the volume up.

All of a sudden there was a blast of music that made them both jump as if a gun had gone off.

‘Bloody hell!' exclaimed Espérandieu, hurrying to turn down the volume.

‘What is that?' said Servaz, his heart pounding fit to burst, while the music continued, more quietly.

‘Marilyn Manson,' answered Espérandieu.

‘There are people who listen to this?'

In spite of the tension, Espérandieu could not help but smile. The song played to the end. They waited for a moment, then the CD stopped.

‘That's it,' said Espérandieu, looking at the cursor on the screen.

‘There's nothing else?'

‘No, that's it.'

On Servaz's face, fear had given way to bewilderment and disappointment.

‘What do you think it means?'

‘I don't know. It looks like a hoax. One thing is for sure: it wasn't Hirtmann.'

‘No.'

‘So it wasn't Hirtmann who sent you the e-mail, either.'

Servaz got the message and felt his anger return.

‘You all think I'm paranoid, don't you?'

‘Listen, the lunatic is out there somewhere. Every police force in Europe is looking for him, but they haven't got the slightest clue. He could be anywhere. And before he disappeared he confided in you.'

Servaz looked at his assistant. ‘There is one thing I do know,' he replied, aware that his words could be yet another piece of evidence for the file on his paranoia: ‘Sooner or later, that lunatic is going to show up again.'

Santorini

Irène Ziegler looked down at the cruise ship anchored in the volcanic crater 100 metres below her. From this vantage point, the huge ship looked like a pretty toy, all white. The sea and the sky were almost artificially blue, contrasting with the blinding white terraces, the red ochre cliffs, and the black of the little volcanic islands at the centre of the bay.

She took a sip of very sweet Greek coffee then a long draw of her cigarette. Eleven o'clock in the morning. It was already hot. On the neighbouring terrace, an English couple wearing straw hats were writing postcards. On yet another, a man in his thirties gave her a friendly little wave while talking on the phone. At €225 a night in low season, the hotel catered to a rather wealthy clientele. Fortunately she wasn't the one, on her gendarme's salary, who was paying for the room.

She waved back, and stood up. A little sea breeze struggled against the rising heat, but she felt, all the same, a trickle of sweat run down her back. She went through the French windows.

‘Don't move,' said a voice in her ear.

Ziegler jumped. The voice was full of menace.

‘If you make a single move, you'll regret it.'

She felt a rope go round her wrists behind her back and her forearms prickled with goosebumps, despite the heat. Then everything went dark as a blindfold covered her eyes.

‘Go over to the bed. Don't try anything.'

She obeyed. A hand pushed her roughly onto the bed on her stomach. Her skirt and bathing suit were immediately yanked off.

‘Isn't it a bit early for this?' she asked, her face in the sheets.

‘Shut up!' said the voice behind her, followed immediately by a stifled laugh. ‘It's never too early,' added the voice, with a slight Slavic accent to her French.

She was turned over onto her back and her tank top was removed. A body as naked and hot as her own lay on top of her. Moist lips kissed her eyelids, nose and mouth, then a wet tongue ran over her body. Irène freed her wrists, removed the blindfold and looked at Zuzka's brown head moving down towards her belly. A wave of desire broke in the hollow of her back. With her fingers in her companion's silky black hair she arched, rubbed against her and moaned. Then Zuzka's face came back up, and they kissed.

‘What's that weird taste?' she asked suddenly between kisses.

‘Yaourti me meli,'
answered the voice. ‘Yoghurt with honey. Quiet.'

Irène Ziegler gazed at Zuzka's body stretched out next to her. She was naked except for a Panama straw hat over her face and strappy little leather sandals on her feet. She was asleep.

For three weeks they had been hopping from one island and one ferry to another: Andros, Mykonos, Paros, Naxos, Amorgos, Serifos, Sifnos, Milos, Folegandros, Ios and finally Santorini, where they had spent their time swimming, diving, and sunbathing on the black sand beaches, and shutting themselves away in their hotel room to make love. Especially to make love … From time to time, they would go and sip a Marvin Gaye at the Tropical Bar, just before the rush of hysterical revellers drove them away. Then they would enjoy a moment wandering hand in hand through the calm streets, kissing under awnings and in dark corners, or jumping onto the scooter to head for a moonlit beach – but even there it was difficult to get away from the drunks and the bores and the thumping echo of techno.

Ziegler stood up soundlessly, so as not to wake her girlfriend, and opened the fridge to take out some bottled fruit juice. She drank a tall glass, then went into the bathroom for a shower. It was their last day. The next day they would fly back to France and each of them would resume her usual life: Zuzka in the nightclub where Irène had met her two years earlier, where she was both manager and head stripper, and Ziegler to her new assignment: the investigation squad in Auch.

Not really a promotion when you came from the investigation squad in Pau, a much bigger place …

The winter 2008 investigation had left its mark. Paradoxically, Commandant Servaz and the Toulouse crime squad had stood up for her, and it was her own superiors who had punished her. For a
moment she closed her eyes against the memory: that sinister session where her superiors, all lined up in their dress uniforms, had listed the charges against her. Against all the rules, she had wanted to play the lone warrior, and she had hidden information from the members of her team; she had also hidden certain aspects of her past with regard to the investigation, and she had concealed an important piece of evidence where her name appeared. The only reason she had not been punished more severely was thanks to Martin's intervention and that of the prosecutor, Cathy d'Humières, who had insisted that she had saved the policeman's life and also risked her own to capture the murderer.

So when she got back she would be taking up her position in the investigation squad of the county town of a region of 23,000 inhabitants. A new life and a new departure. In theory. She already knew that the cases she would deal with there would have little in common with the cases she had previously worked on. Her only consolation was that she would be the head of the department, as her predecessor had retired three months earlier. Auch did not have a court of appeal the way Pau did; there was a county court, and she had already noticed that the trickier cases were sent to the regional section of the Criminal Affairs Division, to the departmental public security police, or to the regional gendarmerie in Toulouse. She let out a sigh, came out of the shower, wrapped herself in a towel and emerged again on the terrace, where she picked up her sunglasses before leaning over the little wall of stones.