The Circle (41 page)

‘What about Margot?'

‘There's a gendarmerie van at the entrance.' Servaz pointed to the blue vehicle parked by the side of the road. ‘Samira is keeping watch at the rear, and Margot is in class. I know Hirtmann. If he's going to act, he'll take no chances. Particularly not the chance of returning to jail.'

‘So where are we going?'

‘Just drive.'

They entered the town and Servaz gave Espérandieu directions. The meeting with Lacaze had dissolved all his enthusiasm. He couldn't understand why the MP was so obstinate in his refusal to say where he had been that night. Something wasn't right. He had sensed that Lacaze had good reasons to stand his ground. It wasn't the attitude of someone who has committed murder.

But perhaps Lacaze was simply very good at this game. He was a politician, after all, which meant an actor and a professional liar.

‘Here we are,' said Servaz.

The university residence, on one of the hills overlooking the town, was a series of five identical buildings. They went through a small gate where a sign indicated P
HILIPPE
-I
SIDORE
P
ICOT DE
L
APEYROUSE
S
TUDENT
R
ESIDENCE
. They parked beneath the trees; the lawns were
deserted. Unlike the lycée in Marsac, the semester at the faculty of science was over, and most of the students had left for the summer. The residence seemed abandoned. From the outside, the long four-storey building looked handsome enough with its rows of big windows, which ought to have made the rooms light and pleasant, but the moment they came in the entrance they understood that something was awry. There were banners hanging on the walls: ‘
WE PAY RENT
,
WE DEMAND THE MINIMUM
', ‘
WE ARE FED UP WITH COCKROACHES
', or even ‘
STUDENT WELFARE OFFICE = FILTH
'. There was no lift. As they walked up the stairs, they soon realised that the banners were justified: the plastic strips on the ceiling were coming loose, the yellow paint on the walls was peeling, and on the door to the showers hung a sign that said
OUT OF ORDER
. Servaz even caught a glimpse of some insects scurrying along the floor. The narcs had told them room number 211. They stopped outside. There was music coming through the door, full blast. Espérandieu knocked and put on his most youthful tone of voice.

‘Heisenberg, you there, mate?'

The music stopped. They waited at least thirty seconds, wondering whether ‘Heisenberg' had escaped out of the window, when the door opened to reveal a thin girl wearing a tank top and shorts. Her hair was sticking up and its blonde colour was no more natural than her black roots. Her arms were so thin that her bones and veins were visible beneath her tanned skin. She was blinking in the half-light of the room, the blinds almost completely down, and her pale eyes studied them one after the other.

‘Is Heisenberg around?' asked Vincent.

‘Who're you guys?'

‘Surprise!' exclaimed Vincent joyfully, waving his warrant card and pushing past her to enter the room.

The walls were almost entirely papered with photographs, posters and flyers. Espérandieu recognised Kurt Cobain, Bob Marley and Jimi Hendrix. The moment he stepped in the room, he identified the faint odour that lingered: THC, tetrahydrocannabinol; in its most common form: hashish.

‘Is Heisenberg here?'

‘What you want with him?'

‘That's none of your business,' said Espérandieu. ‘Are you his girlfriend?'

She gave them a look full of hatred.

‘What the fuck is it to you?'

‘Answer the question.'

‘Get the fuck out.'

‘We won't leave until we've seen him.'

‘You're not the narcs,' she said.

‘No, crime squad.'

‘Call the narcs, you can't lay a finger on Heisenberg.'

‘What would you know? Is he your boyfriend?'

She didn't answer, her big pale eyes darting from one to the other with an evil glow.

‘Okay, well, I'm out of here,' she said.

She started to walk towards the door, and Espérandieu reached out and grabbed her wrist. Immediately, like a cat striking back, she spun round and dug her nails into his forearm.

‘Ouch! Fuck, she scratched me!'

He grabbed her other wrist and tried to control her while she lashed out and struggled like a tiger.

‘Let me go, you filthy cop! Get your dirty paws off me, fucking pig!'

‘Calm down. Stop right now or we'll take you in.'

‘I don't give a damn, you bastard! You have no right to treat a woman like this! Let me go!'

She wriggled, hissed and spat like a frenzied animal. Just as Servaz was about to come to Vincent's assistance, she banged her head violently against the wall.

‘You hit me,' she screamed, a gash in her forehead. ‘I'm bleeding! Help! Rape!'

Espérandieu tried to gag her with his hand to stop her screaming. She would rouse the entire building, even if it probably was three-quarters empty. She bit him. He shuddered as if he had received an electric shock, and was about to slap her when Servaz blocked his wrist.

‘No.'

With the other hand, he locked the door. The girl calmed down a little, evaluating the situation, her sunken eyes shooting sparks of hatred when she realised she was trapped. Her forehead was bleeding. She rubbed her wrists, where there were red marks from Espérandieu's fingers.

‘All we want is to speak to Heisenberg,' said Servaz calmly.

The girl sat down on the edge of the bed and looked up at them, dabbing at her bloody forehead with a corner of her tank top.

‘What do you want to tell him?'

‘We have questions for him.'

‘I'm Heisenberg.'

Servaz and his assistant looked at each other. For a split second they wondered if she was bullshitting them again, then Servaz understood she was telling the truth. The narcs had deliberately not told them that Heisenberg was a woman, probably relishing the surprise and difficulties that lay in store for them.

‘You can take me in, but I won't answer your questions. I have a deal with your colleagues. They even wrote it down somewhere.'

‘We don't give a toss about your deal.'

‘Oh, really? Well too bad, but it doesn't work like that, guys. I only talk to the narcs. You've got no right to grill me!'

‘Well, let's just say the rules have changed. Call your contact if you like. Go ahead. Ask him. We want answers. You've got no more protection, you're stark naked. Either you talk to us, or you go to jail.'

Her pale green gaze watched them, trying to determine whether they were bluffing.

‘Call your contact,' said Servaz again. ‘Go ahead.'

She inclined her head, defeated.

‘What do you want?'

‘To ask you some questions.'

‘What sort of questions?'

‘Such as: is Paul Lacaze one of your clients?'

‘What?'

‘Paul La—'

‘I know who Paul Lacaze is, sweetheart. Are you serious? You think a guy like him would risk getting his drugs from me? Shit, are you joking?'

‘Who are your clients, students?'

‘Not just them. Little middle-class people from Marsac, posh women you'd just love to slap in the face but who have tons of dosh, even labourers – these days, drugs are like golf: it's gone democratic.'

‘You must have good marks in sociology,' said Espérandieu sarcastically.

She didn't even bother to look at him.

‘How does it work?' asked Servaz. ‘Where do you hide your supply?'

She explained. She made use of a ‘childminder' – in police jargon, a person who agreed to look after the supply, generally an addict
who agreed to do it in exchange for the odd hit now and then. But Heisenberg's childminder was not an addict: she was an old lady of eighty-three who lived all alone in a private home; Heisenberg spent one afternoon there a week, keeping her company and chit-chatting.

‘Do you keep a list of your clients?' asked Servaz.

She looked at him, her eyes round.

‘What? No!'

‘Do you know the lycée in Marsac?'

She gave him a wary look.

‘Yeah?'

‘Do you have any clients from there?'

She nodded, a gleam of defiance in her eyes.

‘Uh-huh.'

‘What? I didn't hear.'

‘Not just students.'

Servaz felt a familiar tingle at the base of his spine.

‘A teacher?'

She gave him a triumphant smile.

‘Yup, a teacher. From Marsac. That elite lycée. That's shut you up, hasn't it?'

Servaz looked into her faded green eyes, wondering if she was bluffing.

‘Their name?' he said.

‘Sorry. You'll get bugger all from me. I don't inform on people.'

‘Really? So how do the narcs go about it?'

‘Not like that,' she said, stubbornly, as if he had offended her.

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

She nodded.

‘And David Jimbot?'

She nodded again.

‘The name of the teacher,' he insisted.

‘No can do, mate.'

‘Listen, I'm getting fed up. You're wasting my time. The narcs have a file on you as thick as the phone book. And this time, the judge won't show any mercy. He's ready to send you down on a single phone call from us. You'll be behind bars for quite a—'

‘Oh all right, for fuck's sake! Van Acker.'

‘What?'

‘Francis Van Acker. That's his name. He teaches I don't know
what at the lycée in Marsac. A guy with a little beard who thinks he's the bee's knees.'

Servaz looked at her. Francis … of course. Why hadn't he thought of it earlier?

There are four of them in the car. They're driving fast. Too fast. At night. Windows down, on the road that winds its way through the woods. The rush of air makes their hair dance, and Marianne is leaning against him in the back seat, so her hair mingles with his and he inhales the strawberry smell of her shampoo. On the radio Freddie Mercury is asking who wants to live forever and Sting whether the Russians love their children too. Francis is driving.

The fourth member of their party must have been Jimmy, or maybe it was Louis: Servaz doesn't remember. He and Francis are in the front seat, talking endlessly, mindless banter, laughing. They each have a beer in their hands; they look joyful, immortal and somewhat tipsy. Francis is driving too fast. As always, but it's his car. And suddenly in his free hand there is a joint, and he holds it out to Jimmy, who laughs stupidly before taking a drag. Servaz feels Marianne tense up next to him. She has the sparkly fingerless mittens that she wears all year round except in summer; her warm fingers emerge from the wool and mingle with his, their two hands joined like the links of a chain that no one can break. Martin revels in these moments, sitting in the semi-darkness in the back of the car, where they have become one person. The headlights cut through the tree trunks, the road speeds by, it smells like weed in the car, in spite of the night air blowing through the windows. On the radio, Peter Gabriel is singing ‘Sledgehammer'. And suddenly, Martin feels Marianne's warm breath against his ear and her voice murmurs, ‘If we die tonight, I want you to know that I've never been this happy.'

And he is thinking exactly the same thing, that their two hearts are beating in unison; he too is certain that he will never be as happy as he is at that moment, knowing the fulfilment of her love, and the friendship that fills the car, the carefree grace of their youth, until suddenly he sees Francis looking at them through the rearview mirror. The smoke from the joint is rising before his eyes in a thin spiral. Any trace of humour has vanished. It is a look of covetousness, of jealousy, of pure hatred. A moment later, Francis winks at him and smiles, and Servaz is certain he must have been dreaming.

Servaz parked in the centre of town. He had spent all afternoon thinking. He couldn't help remembering what Marianne had said about Francis the night before. About his lack of talent, and how he had always been jealous of Servaz's gifts. He pictured the literature professor they'd had back then, an elegant man who wore cravats beneath his striped shirt collars, and pocket handkerchiefs in his suits. He would spend a long while chatting with Servaz between or after classes and now he remembered how this used to make Francis sneer; he was perpetually denigrating the older man, and suspected him of seeking out Martin's company for reasons that were not purely intellectual.

Servaz had never suspected that Van Acker's sarcastic remarks might be due to jealousy: Francis was the centre of attention in Marsac, he had his little court of admirers –if anyone should have been jealous, it was Martin.

Marianne's words drummed incessantly in his mind: ‘Your best friend. Your alter ego, your brother … There was only one thing he wanted: to take what you loved most in the world.' Even if he had subsequently hated Francis for having stolen the woman he loved, at the time he had believed that their friendship had something
sacred
about it. Hadn't Francis felt that way, too? He remembered his words in Marsac, only five days earlier: ‘You were my big brother, you were my Seymour – and for me, in a way, that big brother committed suicide the day you joined the police force.' Was that a complete lie? Was Francis Van Acker the sort of person who sought revenge on those who were more talented or more handsome than he was? Did his sarcastic wit conceal a deep inferiority complex? Had he manipulated and seduced Marianne to make up for it – and because at the time she was easy prey? A possible answer was beginning to dawn in his mind. But it was simply too ridiculous, too absurd to be taken seriously.

Marianne. Why had she still not called? Was she waiting for him to call her? Was she afraid he might interpret a call as an attempt to manipulate the person who could get her son out of prison? Or was there something else? He was filled with anxiety. He wanted to see her again as soon as possible; he was already feeling that empty yearning he had had such difficulty getting rid of. He'd thought of dialling her number ten times since yesterday. And ten times he had decided not to. Why? And Elvis – what did he have to do with it all? He had narrowly escaped what looked like attempted murder,
his life was hanging by a thread, and he had summoned his last remaining strength to tell Servaz to go digging in his past. Finally, there was Lacaze. Lacaze who refused to say where he had been on Friday evening. Lacaze who had a motive, and no alibi. Lacaze who at that very moment was in the judge's office, being heard as a target witness: the hearing had begun four hours earlier, but the MP was maintaining his suicidal silence. Elvis, Lacaze, Francis, Hirtmann: players doing a circle dance around him in a game of blind man's buff. He was the central player, the one whose eyes were blindfolded, hands outspread, and he had to grope his way towards the murderer.