The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (2 page)

Morel pulled the sheet back. Both the victim’s arms lay straight down her sides. In her right hand, she held a wooden cross, with four blue stones embedded one at the end of each arm.
There were no visible signs of injury. But the scene was all wrong. The woman’s ramrod posture, the make-up, the fact that someone – who? – had tucked her in that way. Abdelkader
had made a good call.

‘You did the right thing,’ Morel told him, and he saw the other man visibly relax.

The photographer had returned to the room and moved in to take more shots. While he clicked away, Morel looked at Madame Dufour’s hands and face for anything that might reveal something
about how she’d died.

Next he checked the bedside table. It held a lamp, a novel and a stack of religious pamphlets. At first glance they looked like the sort of thing you found in your mail box or people handed out
to you on the street. There were three of them, all identical. Nothing in the drawer except a pair of reading glasses and a packet of tissues.

Morel pulled the sheet back over the victim. Even someone with more experience than Abdelkader might have been forgiven for thinking she had died of natural causes. Wearing too much make-up,
admittedly. But still. Morel made a mental note to remember the officer’s name.

‘So? Any ideas? I’m hoping the answer is yes. The last thing we need is to give the press another excuse to bang on about soaring crime rates. They’re
supposed to be going down, remember? If this government is telling the public that we’re getting tougher on crime, then we’d damned well better be getting tougher. And getting
results.’

Morel waited. There was no point in responding, he’d heard it all from Perrin before. The pressure he was under because of the results culture brought in by Sarkozy.

‘Numbers. That’s all that matters to them,’ he said now, for the hundredth time.

He sighed meaningfully and looked at Morel. ‘So what have we got here?’

‘We’ll need to wait for the results of the autopsy before we jump to conclusions,’ Morel said mildly. Perrin eyed him with suspicion.

‘I need to know
today
,’ he said, articulating the last word as though Morel might have trouble understanding it. ‘I need to know what happened to her and what leads
we’ve got. I’ll expect to hear from you before I head home tonight, and I’m leaving early to get changed for dinner.’

‘I understand,’ Morel said.

Perrin stared at Morel as if he didn’t know what to make of him. He started to say something else but just then he caught sight of the deputy public prosecutor entering the room and,
without another word or even a look in Morel’s direction, he sidled up to the woman with his arms outstretched, all smiles.

Morel had been dozing happily in Solange’s arms when the call had come through at 8.34. Knowing he was running late but telling himself he deserved a break. Over the past
six months Morel’s team had closed more cases than any other team at the Criminal Brigade. Even Perrin had been forced to acknowledge their performance.

‘The cleaning lady has been working for our victim for sixteen years,’ Lila explained. ‘She let herself in with her own set of keys. Looked for her employer and thought that
maybe she was sleeping in, though she was an early riser. Then realized something was wrong. She ran out and alerted the concierge.’

Morel listened and looked over at the two women sitting in the hallway. The thin-lipped concierge and the cleaning lady made an unlikely pair. He had a feeling, looking at the former with her
beady blue eyes and tight curls, that she would not typically show such warmth to the stout woman who sat by her side wearing a headscarf and clutching a shopping bag. But clearly this was an event
that superseded any perceived issues of class and sophistication.

The two Neuilly
flics
had done a good job sending nosy neighbours away, Morel thought. Aside from a change of menu at their local bistro, this was probably the biggest thing that had
happened to most of the tenants in years.

‘That Abdelkader was the one who decided to escalate this,’ Lila said.

‘Yes, smart guy,’ Morel said.

‘Speaking of which . . .’

Abdelkader was making his way over to them.

‘There is something you need to know,’ he said.

‘What’s that?’ Morel said.

‘The victim. It turns out one of my colleagues took a call from her a week ago. She wanted to make a complaint.’

‘About what?’

‘About two guys who had knocked on her door. Evangelists. Jehovah’s Witnesses or something, I can’t remember.’

Morel thought of the pamphlets on Dufour’s side table. ‘What was the big deal?’

‘She was freaking out because they had come into the building and all the way to her front door. Normally the concierge keeps a close eye on who comes and goes.’

‘What happened to the complaint?’

‘We got her to come in and took her testimony. That was about it. We never followed up on it.’

He looked unhappy.

‘Well, that sounds right,’ Morel said. ‘There wasn’t anything else you could have done. What’s bugging you?’

‘Nothing. Just that one minute two guys turn up at her door and she seems really freaked out. And the next she’s been killed in this weird way.’ He shook his head.
‘I’ve seen a few dead people since I took this job but nothing like this.’

‘It’s certainly an unusual crime scene. I’ll give you that,’ Morel said. ‘We’ll have to see what the forensic pathologist has to say.’

‘Let me know if I can help.’

Morel noted the restraint in the other policeman’s tone. Abdelkader looked like a man who kept his emotions to himself but Morel guessed how much he wanted to be a part of the
investigation. His hunger was evident.

Morel hadn’t been that different himself, back then. And he was impressed by the younger man’s professionalism.

‘Don’t worry. I will.’

After sending Jean and Marco to interview the other tenants in the building, Morel took Lila with him and instructed one of the two women who had been sitting in the hallway
for the past half hour to follow him to the ground floor.

‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Would you mind coming downstairs with us? We’ll use your living room, if that isn’t too much trouble,’ Morel told the concierge.

‘Not at all,’ she said, clearly flustered. ‘If you could just give me a tiny minute to make sure the place isn’t a complete mess.’

Once they reached the ground floor, she trotted ahead of them to her apartment while they followed at a slower pace. Through the half-open door they heard a bout of furious whispering before she
reappeared.

‘Please come in.’

The room they found themselves in was fussy and feminine. Morel guessed that the concierge, who’d introduced herself as Rose Jardin, was solely responsible for the interior decoration. It
certainly seemed to have little to do with the man who sat as well he could on the pale leather sofa, between two rows of symmetrically arranged heart-shaped cushions. He wore a pair of blue
overalls over a short-sleeved shirt and hardly looked away from the TV screen when they entered the room.

‘Georges,’ she hissed at him and turned to Morel with an apologetic smile. ‘My husband has been working on the pipes all morning. We’ve had some plumbing issues. Sorry.
Would you care to sit down?’

‘Thank you. Commandant Serge Morel.’ He extended a hand to Rose’s husband.

Reluctantly, the man turned the television off and turned to the two officers. ‘Georges Jardin. So she’s dead, is she? Madame Dufour?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Murdered.’

‘We’re investigating what happened,’ Morel said while Lila fidgeted on the sofa, trying to make a space where she could sit comfortably. In the end she picked up two of the
cushions and shoved them aside. Morel noticed how the concierge flinched. He saw that Lila had noticed too.

‘We hope you won’t mind if we ask a few questions.’

‘Not at all.’

‘Though I’m not sure how we can help,’ the husband said.

‘
You
might not be much help,’ the concierge said. Then, turning to Morel, ‘Georges wouldn’t notice if someone took an axe to me right in front of his nose. But
happily, I’m more observant. No one gets past me in this building.’

‘Did Isabelle Dufour have many visitors?’

‘No. The only people I ever saw were her son Jacques – and even that very rarely – and her daughter-in-law and grandchildren. Mostly her daughter-in-law came with just the
younger of her two children.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No.’

‘How often did her son visit?’

‘In the eight years I’ve been here I’ve probably seen him four times. That’s how rarely he comes. The last time was just last week, in fact. He stayed for about an hour.
He probably had lunch with his mother. It was around midday.’

‘Did he visit with his wife and children?’

Rose shook her head.

‘No. Always alone. The wife came separately. About once a month, I saw her and the little boy. They usually spend some time in the afternoons.’

‘What about the cleaning lady? How often does she come?’

‘Maria? She cleans at Madame Dufour’s three times a week. Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays. Always comes in at 8 a.m. and leaves at 12 p.m.’

‘We’ve been told there might have been a couple of people, a man and a boy, distributing religious pamphlets.’

‘I’ve never seen anyone like that.’

‘Yet Isabelle Dufour filed a complaint with the police about them.’

‘When?’

‘A week or so ago.’

Rose looked put out.

‘Well, I never saw anyone like that.’ She looked at Morel. ‘I wish she had mentioned it. After all, I am responsible for this building.’

‘Yes, well, I’m sure she didn’t want to trouble you.’

The entire time Rose’s husband hadn’t said a word. Now Morel turned to him.

‘Monsieur Jardin, did you ever see any visitors that fit that description?’

‘No.’ He hesitated and looked at his wife. ‘But we aren’t
always
aware of who comes and goes. There are times when Rose and I are having our lunch. And often we
like to take a quick nap in the afternoons.’ He blushed then, and Morel forced himself not to smile.

But he couldn’t resist looking at Rose Jardin. Her face had turned bright red and she was staring carefully at the ground.

‘Well, thank you for all your help,’ Morel said, standing up. ‘Now if you don’t mind I’ll call Maria in. If there is a room where we could speak to her . .
.’

‘Of course,’ Rose Jardin said. ‘You can use this room. My husband and I will leave you to it.’ She still wouldn’t meet Morel’s eye.

Morel stepped out of the flat and gave Jean a call. ‘Can you get the cleaning lady to come down now?’ he asked.

Morel and Lila waited for Maria in the lobby.

‘I bet Georges is in for a telling-off,’ Morel said.

‘I don’t know about that. I think she’ll be too busy rearranging the cushions,’ Lila said. ‘Did you see her face when I moved a couple of them? I wonder if she uses
a ruler or if she relies on instinct?’

The interview with the cleaning lady revealed very little.

‘It was horrible, to see her like that,’ Maria said. She was clearly distressed about Dufour’s death.

‘Any idea who could have done this?’ he asked.

She shivered.‘I have no idea. A monster! It must be someone who is crazy.’

‘What sort of employer was Madame Dufour?’ he asked.

‘Very good.’ Maria shook her head.‘I have a son, Alfonso, and Madame Dufour always remembers his birthday. She always gives him something special.’ She seemed to realize
she was using the wrong tense and paused, unsure of what to say next.

‘She was thoughtful,’ Lila prompted her. ‘Sounds like she was fond of you.’

‘I was fond of her, too,’ Maria said, and she started crying all over again. ‘She helped us with the plane tickets when we went home to Portugal every summer. This year we went
back for four weeks. I brought her a gift.’

‘Did anyone visit her?’ Lila asked.

Maria wiped the tears from her face. ‘Her daughter-in-law and grandson. Once or twice I saw Madame Dufour’s son.’

‘Anyone else?’

‘No. She sometimes met a friend for lunch but they never came here.’

Morel showed Maria the pamphlets he’d placed in a sealed bag.

‘Do you know anything about these?’

Maria shook her head. ‘No. They have been lying on Madame Dufour’s bedside table for a little while, maybe the past week or so. I don’t move anything, except to clean
underneath, of course.’

‘Was she a religious woman?’

‘I don’t think so. But we never talked about it.’

‘How would you describe her, generally?’

Maria thought. ‘I think she was a nice lady who was quite lonely. She was usually alone.’

‘Did that make her unhappy?’

Maria looked at them with troubled eyes. ‘I don’t know. She was a very quiet person. We talked mostly about practical things. What cleaning products she needed, whether we should
think about replacing the shower curtain, that sort of thing.’

‘But you worked for her for sixteen years,’ Lila said.‘Surely you had some idea of the sort of person she was?’

Maria shook her head. ‘I don’t know what sort of person she was. We weren’t friends. I cleaned her house and she was kind to me. But she wasn’t looking for someone to
talk to.’

It was well past 2 p.m. when Morel and the three members of his team left the apartment and headed back to Quai des Orfèvres. They stopped on the way for takeaway sandwiches and
coffees.

While he and Jean waited in the car for Marco and Lila to return with the food, Morel thought about Isabelle Dufour’s painted face and the clothes she’d been dressed in. A strange,
ritualistic murder. There was no doubt that someone had taken their time with her. There had been nothing impulsive about it.

He wondered what sort of person they were looking for.

Morel balanced his weight carefully on the swivel chair and turned to face his visitor. Six months he’d been waiting for a new seat. This one concertinaed and slumped
without warning, leaving him at times with his knees up to his chest. Looking at his visitor, Morel hoped the chair would behave itself, just this once.