The Circle (25 page)

Suddenly her smartphone rang out from her pocket, quietly but clearly, the sound of a harp. Elias cast her a furious glance, his eyes as round as saucers. Margot's heart flipped over.

‘I'll talk to her if you want—' David began.

‘Shh! What was that noise? Didn't you hear?'

‘What noise?'

‘It sounded like … a harp, something like that … there … just nearby.'

‘I didn't hear anything,' said David.

‘I heard it too,' said Sarah. ‘There's someone here!'

‘Run,'
murmured Elias in Margot's ear. He grabbed her hand and they began to sprint towards the way out, not even trying to hide their presence.

‘Fuck!' screamed David. ‘There was someone there!'

They heard him take off after them, followed by the other two. Elias and Margot were running as fast as their legs could carry them, taking the corners as quickly as possible, brushing against the hedge as they went by. Behind them, the others were running too, and Margot could hear the pounding of their footsteps. She felt as if her blood were trying to burst through her temples. As if the corners and lanes of the maze would never end. When they scrambled underneath the chain at the entrance, the rusty sign scratched her back and she winced with pain. She wanted to go the way they had come, but Elias yanked her back.

‘Not that way!' he muttered in rebuke. ‘They'll see us.'

He pulled her in the opposite direction, dodging into a narrow space between two hedges she hadn't been aware of, and they found themselves in complete darkness under the trees. They zigzagged
between the tree trunks and emerged in front of the large windows of the semi-circular amphitheatre. They went around the side to a little door she had never noticed. She saw Elias rummage in his pockets, then, to her great surprise, insert a key in the lock. A second later they were inside, their running footsteps echoing down the deserted corridors.

‘Where did you get that key?' she asked as she ran behind him.

‘Later!'

A staircase. It wasn't the one they had taken. This one was older and narrower and it smelled of dust. They climbed up to the floor where the dormitories were. Elias opened the door. Margot couldn't believe it: they were just outside the girls' dormitory. The door to her room was only a few metres away.

‘Hurry!' he murmured. ‘Don't get undressed! Get in bed and pretend you're asleep!'

‘What about you?' she asked.

‘Don't worry about me, run!'

She obeyed and hurried to her door, opened it, and looked behind her: Elias had disappeared. She closed the door and was beginning to unbuckle the belt of her shorts when she remembered his words. She lifted the sheet and slipped underneath.

A few seconds later her pulse went wild when she heard rapid footsteps coming down the corridor; and when someone turned the door handle she froze with fear. She closed her eyes and left her mouth slightly open like someone who's sleeping, trying to breathe deeply and calmly. Through her closed lids she could sense the light from a torch playing over her face. She was sure that from where they were standing they must be able to hear her heart pounding wildly, and see the sweat on her forehead and the blush on her skin.

Then the door closed, the footsteps faded away and she heard Sarah and Virginie go into their room.

She opened her eyes in the dark. White spots were dancing before them.

She sat up in bed. She was trembling from head to toe.

Roman Holiday

The radio was switched on. The voice in the speakers was deep and steady. ‘What does an MP's job consist of? Spending one's time on charitable committees, at neighbourhood meetings and departmental assemblies, applauding speeches, inaugurating supermarkets, being an expert on local boxing, shaking hands and knowing when to say yes. Above all when to say yes. Most of my colleagues do not believe that the evils of society can be resolved by any particular legislation, nor do they believe that promoting social progress is part of their job description. They believe in the religion of privilege, the creed of greed and the dogma of perks – for themselves, naturally.'

Servaz leaned closer and turned up the volume, not taking his eyes from the road. The voice filled the car. This was not the first time he had heard it. With his insolence, youth, and gift for soundbites, the speaker had become the darling of the media. The one who got invited to all the talk shows and morning radio programmes, the one who gave his listeners a hard-on.

‘Are you referring to your political opponents or those who are on your side?' asked the presenter.

‘Weren't you listening? I said “most of”. Have you heard me talking in a partisan manner?'

‘Well, I just hope you realise you won't be making friends by saying things like that.'

Another pause. Servaz could still feel the sharp pain throbbing like a vein at the back of his skull. He checked the screen of his GPS. The forest whizzed by in the beam of his headlights. There were white fences, lampposts every fifty metres, and the sides of the road were carefully maintained. Behind the trees he could make out spacious modern houses.

‘Voters elected me so I would tell them the truth. Do you know
why people vote? For the illusion that they are in control. Control is as important to humans as it is to rats. In the 1970s researchers showed that by giving electrical shocks to two groups of rats, the ones that had the means to control the shocks had more antibodies and fewer ulcers.'

‘Perhaps that's because they received fewer shocks,' joked the presenter lamely.

‘Well, this is what I do and what I want to go on doing,' continued the voice, unruffled. ‘To give control back to my constituents. And not just the illusion of control. That is why they elected me.'

Servaz slowed down. Hollywood. That's what all these illuminated houses among the trees made him think of. Not a single one smaller than 300 square metres. Straight out of the pages of a home decoration magazine, with vintage wines in the cellar and jazz turned on low.

‘We have one representative for every
100
inhabitants in this country, and one doctor for every 300. Don't you think it ought to be the other way around? A certain sum is allocated, up there at the top, at the very top, to be used for this or that purpose, and then – how should I put it? – the money …
trickles down
… and at every level in between a part of the total evaporates. By the time it gets to the bottom, and reaches the people or purpose for which it was intended, most of it will have vanished in operating costs, salaries, contract awards, and so on.'

‘You're just saying this because the left won almost every region last March,' said the presenter dryly.

‘Of course. Still, you pay taxes, don't you? I am willing to bet that—'

Servaz turned the sound off. He was almost there. The programme may have been recorded, but there was no guarantee he would find his prey at home. However, this was where he wanted to meet him. Not back at the precinct. He hadn't informed anyone of his plans, other than Samira and Espérandieu. Vincent had simply said, ‘Are you sure you haven't got things the wrong way round?'

What had the honourable member just said?
Control is as important to humans as it is to rats
… Well, it is indeed, he'd buy that, and that's why he wanted to keep control over his own investigation.

Servaz left the road. The drive led straight ahead for a dozen metres or so, ending in front of a building that gave onto the woods
and which was just the opposite of Marianne's house: it was modern, one storey, all concrete and glass. But it was certainly no bigger than Marianne's house. After the north shore of the lake, this neighbourhood nestled among the trees was the most elegant in Marsac. Besides, Marsac was one of those towns that broke all the laws regarding low-cost housing quotas. And for good reason: there was hardly anyone who could afford to live there. Sixty per cent of the population was made up of university professors, executives, bankers, airline pilots, surgeons, and engineers from the aerospace industry in Toulouse. Which explained the two golf courses, the tennis club and the two-star Michelin restaurant. Marsac was a sort of chic suburb for the region's elite, a place where people kept to themselves, far from the turbulence of the big city.

Servaz switched off the ignition. He stared at the illuminated building and at the night falling with stifling slowness. Horizontal lines, a flat roof, large glass surfaces intersecting at right angles along an elevated terrace. The rooms – an ultramodern open-plan kitchen, lounge areas, corridors – were all completely visible, in spite of the Venetian blinds. It looked like something Mies Van der Rohe might have designed. Servaz told himself that Paul Lacaze, the rising star of the right, believed in his celebrity status to the point where he followed their taste in architecture. He opened the car door and got out. Someone was watching him through one of the picture windows. A woman … He saw her turn her head and speak to someone behind her.

Suddenly his telephone buzzed.

‘Martin, are you all right? What's going on?'

Marianne … He looked for the woman in the picture window. She had vanished. A man's silhouette had replaced her.

‘I'm all right. Who told you?'

‘The director of the bank is a friend …' (
Of course
, he thought. Marianne herself had told him she knew everyone here.) ‘Listen …' he heard her sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I'm sorry about last night … I know you're doing what you can. I – I would like to apologise.'

‘I have to go,' he said. ‘I'll call you back.'

He turned his attention to the house. One of the glass doors had slid open and the silhouette was now standing on the terrace.

‘Who are you?'

‘Commandant Servaz from the crime squad,' he said, taking out his warrant card and starting up the stairs. ‘Paul Lacaze?'

Lacaze smiled.

‘Who do you think? Don't you ever watch television, Commandant?'

‘Not really, no. But I just heard you on the radio … very interesting.'

‘What brings you here?'

Servaz looked at him more closely. Forty years old. Medium height, solid build, Lacaze seemed to be in good physical shape. He was wearing a tracksuit with a hood which made him look like a boxer who'd just finished a workout. Which was what he was. A fighter. The type who would rather hit than dodge. The tracksuit wasn't the same as the one on the surveillance tape, but that didn't mean anything.

‘Don't you know?'

His expression became less friendly.

‘Claire Diemar,' said Servaz.

For a moment the MP stood stock still.

‘Darling, what is it?' called a woman's voice behind him.

‘Nothing. The monsieur is from the police. He's investigating that murder. And since I am deputy mayor of the town …'

Lacaze gave him a penetrating look. Servaz saw Lacaze's wife come forward through the glass door. She was wearing a scarf tied around her head with a curly wig underneath. Her eyebrows had been replaced by thick lines of black pencil and even in this dark grey half-light, she did not look well. In spite of that, she was still pretty. She held out her hand, and Servaz took it. Her hand in his weighed no more than a feather; it had neither strength nor energy.

In her eyes he read that the cancer was winning, and suddenly he felt like apologising and getting out of there.

‘What a terrible business,' she said. ‘That poor woman …'

‘I won't take much of your time,' he said apologetically. ‘It's a simple formality.'

He looked at her husband.

‘Why don't we go to my study, Commandant?'

Servaz nodded. Lacaze pointed to the ground. Servaz looked down and saw a doormat. Obediently, he wiped his feet. Then they went into the house. Crossed a lounge where a large flatscreen television was showing a subtitled black-and-white film with the sound
turned off. Servaz noticed two glasses half filled with Scotch on the coffee table, and a bottle on the bar counter. A corridor lit by spotlights. Lacaze opened a door at the end of it. The study was spacious, modern and comfortable, and the ebony walls were covered almost entirely with framed photographs.

‘Have a seat.'

Lacaze went behind his desk and collapsed into an armchair. He switched on an anglepoise lamp. Servaz's chair was made of chrome tubes and supple leather.

‘No one told me you were coming,' said Lacaze.

All his suave politeness had vanished.

‘I took it upon myself.'

‘Right. What do you want?'

‘You know very well.'

‘Get down to the facts, Commandant.'

‘Claire Diemar was your mistress.'

Lacaze did not hide his surprise. Servaz was not so much asking him a question as asserting a statement.

‘Who told you?'

‘Her computer. However, someone went to the trouble to empty both her mailboxes, the one at work and the one at home. A rather stupid manoeuvre, if you want my opinion.'

Lacaze stared at him, clearly failing to understand. Or else he was a good actor.

‘“Thomas999”, that's you, isn't it? You were exchanging passionate e-mails.'

‘I loved her.'

His answer, laconic and direct, took Servaz by surprise. Apparently Lacaze cultivated frankness in every domain. A sincere politician? Servaz was not so naïve as to believe that even one specimen of the species might exist.

‘And your wife?'

‘Suzanne is ill. I love her, Commandant. Just as I loved Claire. I know that must be hard for you to understand.'

More of this apparent frankness. Servaz was wary of people who made a show of honesty

‘Are you the one who deleted Claire Diemar's e-mails?'

‘What?'