The Circle (23 page)

‘There are four cameras in all,' he said, ‘two inside and two outside. The insurance company didn't require even that much. They just wanted the cashpoint to be under video surveillance. Here we are.'

The director picked up the remote. A mosaic of four images appeared on the screen.

‘It's this camera which interests me,' said Servaz, placing his finger on the rectangle showing the car park, on the upper left-hand side.

The director pressed the number four on the remote and the image filled the monitor. Servaz noticed that it was slightly blurry at the back, by the entrance to the pub.

‘Does it record continuously or only when movement is detected?'

‘Continuously for the indoor cameras, except the one by the cashpoint, which is on a sensor and records when there's movement. The recordings are on a loop.'

Servaz was disappointed.

‘So does this mean that the recording from last Friday was taped over during the days that followed?' he said.

‘I don't think so, no,' smiled the director. ‘The camera you're talking about also works on a sensor, like the cashpoint one. It only comes on when there is something going on in the car park, which happens fairly regularly during the day but not much at night. Also, the camera records a limited number of images per second to save space. And if my memory serves me well, it has a hard disk of one teraoctet. That ought to be plenty. We keep the recordings as long as is legally required.'

Servaz felt his pulse increase slightly.

‘Don't ask me how it works,' said the director, handing him the remote. ‘Would you like me to call the guy who installed it? He could be here in half an hour.'

Servaz looked at the clock in the corner of the screen. Then at a sheet of paper in a plastic sleeve taped to the table. At the top was written ‘Surveillance System – Operating Instructions'.

‘No need, I should be able to manage on my own.'

The director looked at his watch.

‘We're closing in less than ten minutes. Maybe you could come back tomorrow …'

Servaz thought about this. He was overwhelmed by curiosity and a sense of urgency. He didn't want to waste a single minute.

‘No, I'll stay here. Tell me how to lock up behind me.'

The director seemed annoyed.

‘I can't leave the bank open like that after closing time,' he protested. ‘Even if you are inside.' He hesitated for a second. ‘I'll lock you in.
But I'll switch off the alarm: I don't want you setting it off without realising then have the gendarmerie show up.' He showed Servaz the screen of his BlackBerry. ‘When you're finished, call me on this number, and I'll come and lock up behind you and turn on the alarm. I live right nearby.'

Servaz entered the banker's number into his phone. The director went back out, but he left the door to the box room ajar. Servaz heard the last clients leaving, then the employees gathered their belongings, said goodbye, and left the establishment in turn.

‘Will you be okay?' asked the director five minutes later, sticking his head through the door, a briefcase in his hand.

Servaz nodded, even though he was beginning to wonder. The operating instructions seemed bloody complicated – at least for someone like him who had a serious technology handicap. He began by manipulating the buttons on the remote; the image disappeared then came back; then he got a full-screen image, but it was the wrong one. He swore to himself. Nowhere in the bloody instructions could he find how to replay the recordings. Obviously … had he ever found a single instruction manual that was useful from first page to last?

At
1
8.45, he realised he was in a sweat. It had to be 35 degrees in the room. He opened the little window, which was protected by two thick bars embedded in the wall. It had started raining again, and the sound of the rain entered the tiny space at the same time as the welcome cool air.

At 19.07 he finally understood what he had to do. When he managed to get the camera recordings that had filmed the car park, he realised there was only one way to get to the scene he was looking for – if it existed – that had occurred slightly before 20.30 the previous Friday: fast-forward the recording.

He made a first attempt but, mysteriously, the fast-forward jammed after a few minutes and the recording went back to the beginning.

‘Shit, shit, shit!'

His voice echoed down the empty corridor and lobby. He took a deep breath. Calm down. You'll get there. He decided to fast-forward the recording up to a certain point, then watch it normally, then fast-forward it again a bit further along.

At 19.23 his heart began to beat more quickly. 20.12 said the screen. He pressed play, at normal speed. Something had set off the
camera at that moment. A car was leaving the car park. A succession of fixed images. Servaz watched the car drive by the camera. A flash of lightning lit up the screen. The storm broke over Marsac, the vehicle's windscreen wipers came and went and it was virtually impossible to see anything inside. Until he was able to make out for a fleeting moment a couple in their fifties … Once again, he was disappointed. The recording stopped, then switched back on at 20.26. Another car went by, behind the curtain of rain and the car park. The light was fading, but the system made up for it. In the background, however, the entrance to the pub was getting more and more blurry. He wondered if he would be able to make out anything at all if someone were to leave at that moment … He rubbed his eyelids. His eyes were burning from staring at the screen. The sound of the rain was deafening. It was as if it were coming from the recording. Suddenly he stiffened.
Hugo
… He had just come through the door of the pub. In spite of the storm and the blurry image, there could be no doubt. The clothes were the same ones he had been wearing the night of the murder. The haircut and shape of the face matched. Servaz swallowed, aware that the seconds that followed would be decisive.

Go on, go ahead
…

His eyes riveted to the screen, he saw the young man walk across the square between the cars. The speed of a dozen images per second made his progress seem somewhat choppy. The young man stopped suddenly in the middle of the street, raised his eyes to the sky, and stood there for a few seconds.

What the fuck are you doing, for Christ's sake?

Hugo was so motionless that Servaz wondered if the image weren't stuck again. At the same time, he watched the entrance to the pub. But nothing was happening there … His sweating fingertips left a damp trace on the remote.
Come on
… Servaz tried to make out the car, the one that Hugo had left outside Claire Diemar's place, but he couldn't see it. It must be there, though, somewhere, in that row … Suddenly, Hugo pivoted to the right and disappeared.
Shit!
There was some sort of equipment shed right in the middle of the car park, and Hugo had parked behind it! Servaz swore once again and was about to bang his fist on the table when, in the background, the door to the pub opened …

Jesus Christ!

He'd been right. He opened his mouth, eyes glued to the screen. There was just a chance. A very slight one. Tiny even.
Come closer
… The figure turned into the car park, walking towards the camera, also with that slightly jerky gait, heading towards the spot where Hugo had parked. Servaz's throat went dry. The newcomer was tall and thin. He was wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up. Shit! Suddenly, Servaz was certain he would not see his face and he was filled with rage. But at least there was one positive thing: this recording would lend greater credibility to Hugo's statements. Even if it did not constitute definitive proof. The silhouette in the hoodie disappeared in turn behind the equipment shed.

And now?

There was still a slight chance … The car had to back up, and come into the camera's visual field at some point. Maybe he'd be able to see who was driving. Servaz waited, his throat tight, his nerves on edge. Too long. It was taking too long … Something was going on.

A sound.

He sat up straight as if someone had kicked him. He'd heard something – not from outside, but in the bank.

‘Is there anyone there?'

No answer. Maybe he'd imagined it. There was so much noise from the rain through the window that he couldn't be sure. He wanted to turn his attention back to the screen.
No, he had heard something
… He pressed the pause button and stood up. Went out into the corridor.

‘Hey! Who's there!'

His voice echoed down the corridor. On the far side was a metal emergency exit door with a horizontal bar. It was locked.

He hesitated, then finally began walking towards the lobby. No one. The counter, the rows of coloured armchairs, the white line … The lobby was deserted. He turned around.

Except … He could feel it now …

A draught, ever so slight.

A draught, between the window of the box room and … another window open somewhere. He swung around in the middle of the lobby and looked through the glass doors at the deserted square. The doors were locked. Inside, darkness was creeping into every corner of the lobby. Darkness and silence. It was as if someone were
rubbing a grater over his nerves. He felt for the gun on his hip, and opened the holster. A gesture he had not made in many months, not since that winter of 20
0
8, to be exact.

Not since Hirtmann …

Servaz walked past the counter. There was a second corridor on the other side. Now he was taking measured steps, his weapon firmly in his hand. He hoped no one would pass the glass doors of the bank just then and notice him. He wasn't altogether sure this wasn't simply a fit of paranoia. Nevertheless, he kept his weapon in the prescribed position, hoping he wouldn't have to use it. Sweat trickled from his eyebrows into his eyes, and he blinked.

The other corridor was not as long as the first one. There was only one door, leading to the toilets.

He bent his knees, held his hand down to the ground, to the gap of two centimetres beneath the door.

The draught was coming from there.

He opened the door very slowly, encountering a slight resistance from the door closer. A smell of industrial cleaner. All of a sudden the draught of air increased and more than ever he was on his guard. The door to the men's toilets.

It was open.

Someone had forgotten to close that window, and as the director had not connected the alarm system, no one had noticed. He was trying to think of a simple explanation. The idea that someone might have come into the bank to go after him, when they could easily have gone after him anywhere and at any time, seemed terribly far-fetched.

He stood with both feet on the toilet bowl and pulled himself up to the little window. It had the same bars as in the box room. There was nothing to see here. He was climbing back down when he heard a new sound, outside the toilets but inside the bank. This time, the blood surged into his veins like water from a dam into a turbine. Now he was afraid. He turned to the door, heart pounding, legs like jelly.
There was someone out there
… He tightened his hold on his gun, but his hand slipped on the moist grip.

Call for back-up.
But what if he was mistaken? He could just see the headlines:
Cop Loses It in Empty Bank.
He could also call the director and tell him that he couldn't play the recordings. And then?
Would he stay locked inside here waiting for someone to show up? He had got as far as this in his deliberations when he heard the sound of the emergency exit door closing with a bang.

Bloody hell!

He rushed out of the toilets and past the counter, skidded at the corner and ran as fast as he could to the end of the corridor. He went through the same metal door. A stairway. He heard footsteps above him.
Shit!
He took off after them. Two flights of concrete stairs and a door between each floor. The stairs vibrated beneath his feet. He listened out to try and hear whether the fugitive had left the staircase, but he felt certain that he was still climbing. After three flights, Servaz was out of breath, his chest burning. He clung to the metal railing. On the sixth floor, he stopped to catch his breath, bent double, his hands on his knees. His lungs were making a wheezing sound. His target was continuing to climb: he could feel the vibrations beneath his feet. He resumed his climb. He had reached the seventh floor when a metal door squealed, then banged noisily, closing above him. He opened the door to the seventh floor. It didn't squeal and didn't close, either. So he hadn't gone through there … His heart was pounding fit to burst. For a split second he wondered if he might die of a heart attack, climbing up some stairs in pursuit of a murderer.

He continued on up past the eighth floor.

His muscles were like cement when he finally made it up the last two flights of stairs.
The roof
… The metal sound had come from here. This was where they were hiding. Servaz's apprehension returned, full blast. He recalled the investigation in the Pyrenees. The vertigo. His fear of the void. He hesitated.

He was soaked in sweat. As he passed his weapon from one hand to the other, he wiped his palms on his trousers, then sponged his face with the back of his sleeve. He waited for his heart to ease a little, and he stared at the closed metal door.

What was behind it? What if this were a trap?

He knew that his fear would make him weak. But he had a weapon …

And what if the fugitive was armed, too?

He hesitated, unsure how to proceed. At the same time, impatience and urgency were snapping at his heels. He placed a trembling hand on the metal bar. The door squealed when he pushed it. He was
immediately overwhelmed by the storm: lightning, wind and rain. The wind was much stronger up here, out in the open. The soles of his shoes crunched on gravel. The terrace was a vast flat space with a concrete edge not more than twenty centimetres high. His stomach went into a knot. He could see the roofs of Marsac below. He let the door close behind him. Where had they gone? The wind mussed his hair. He looked to the left and the right: a row of masonry pillars one metre high, with openings for ventilation, rose up out of the roof. There were also huge pipes running along the ground, and three satellite dishes – and that was all.