The Lying Down Room (Serge Morel 1) (35 page)

‘What makes you think you are big enough to make these sorts of decisions?’ Lila said. Morel turned to her, surprised. ‘Do you think you are God, that you can decide a
person’s fate?’

‘Listen, Armand,’ Morel said without waiting for an answer. ‘The pastor told us that Dima was in your old rooms last night. He must have gone back there after what he did to
Irina Volkoff and to our colleague. We checked and there was no one there. But we think he’ll come back. And we’ll be waiting for him when he does.’

Armand looked at Morel. ‘You do what you have to do. Now just tell me what you need from me to make my confession official, then let me sleep.’

When they finally leave him alone Armand drops his head onto the table and closes his eyes. He wonders what possessed the boy to return to the faculty instead of staying put.
Granted, the place at the back of the church where he’d settled César was more of a cupboard than a room, but it was safe. Armand knew the church community there and he knew they would
look after the boy when they found him. He’d left César with a letter to make sure of that. The letter absolved him of all blame.

A sob escapes his throat and he digs his fist into his mouth so that no one will hear him.

César!
he thinks, sorrow washing over him like rain.

César, what have you done?

Everyone except Akil was in the office when Morel arrived.

‘The kid’s confirmed everything that Le Bellec told us,’ Lila said. ‘He also confirmed he’d beaten both Marco and Volkoff. He said he was terrified and he panicked.
Because he couldn’t find Le Bellec.’

‘How did he tell you all this?’ Morel said.

‘In writing.’

They hadn’t had to wait long for the boy to return to the faculty. He’d returned the night after Le Bellec’s confession.

‘He had a letter that Le Bellec had given him,’ Morel now told the team.

‘What letter?’ Marco said.

‘It’s essentially a signed confession. Le Bellec admits to killing Isabelle Dufour, Elisabeth Guillou and Marie Latour. He says the boy was not involved in any way and that
he’s sorry for exposing him to this violence, that the boy is as much a victim as the others.’

‘Well, not quite,’ Lila said. ‘He’s not dead, for one.’

Morel had asked colleagues from the child-protection unit to sit in today while the boy was being charged with assaulting Marco and Irina Volkoff. He would need to undergo a psychiatric
evaluation before anything else happened.

If what Le Bellec said was right, and the boy had been present during the killings, then he would be needing some serious therapy.

Morel thought about Dima. He looked to be about fourteen or fifteen. With his baseball cap and oversized clothes, he looked like an ordinary teenager.

But his eyes had made Morel pause. There was no light in them.

Morel thought about Le Bellec’s detailed confession. Something didn’t sit well with him. For one, he couldn’t see Le Bellec messing about with the make-up and wigs, just to
comfort Dima. It was clear Le Bellec cared about the orphan. In which case, why would he expose him to such horrors?

It made little sense. But they had Armand’s confession, and the boy had corroborated his statement. Perrin was ecstatic, planning his next media briefing with all the enthusiasm of a
fame-seeking starlet.

‘Is the kid going to prison?’ Marco asked Morel. Marco had returned, looking pale but determined to get back to work despite the bandage he still wore around his head. Morel
didn’t have the heart to send him home. He felt partly responsible for the boy’s injuries.

‘I don’t know,’ Morel said. ‘He did after all attack you and Irina Volkoff. But I think it’s unlikely. Given the boy’s age and history, and the trauma
he’s undergone, I suspect he’s more likely to spend some time in psychiatric care.’

‘Is that a good thing?’

Morel looked into Marco’s youthful face. He was waiting for something, for his boss to tell him that everything would turn out OK.

‘I don’t know, Marco,’ Morel said. ‘It probably isn’t the worst outcome for the boy. But I seriously doubt whether it’s a
good
thing.’

At that moment the phone began to ring. Morel went to answer it. He listened for a while and spoke quietly into the receiver. When he got off the phone, he stared into the distance for a moment
before summoning the other three.

‘That was Vincent,’ he said. ‘Calling to say his wife died in hospital this morning.’

Lila followed Jacques Dufour’s car even though there was no need. She knew exactly where he was heading.

Once she’d arrived, she parked the car and walked the rest of the way. She could hear voices, the same ones she’d heard on two previous occasions when she’d followed Dufour.
Now she could match names to the two voices that weren’t his.

Taking care not to be seen, she took photos while the men carried out their exchange.

‘That’s a big bag, Jacques,’ she muttered to herself. ‘Surely that’s not all for you?’

When she was satisfied she had everything she needed, she walked back to the car and drove off.

It was time to tell Morel. He might be pissed off with her for having tailed Dufour without telling him what she was up to. But once he found out just what the man was doing, he would see things
differently.

I’ve got you, you son of a bitch, she thought.

With that amount, he must be selling. He might actually have to serve time.

Anne Dufour might finally have a life.

Charles’s life was falling apart. There was no other way to look at it, he thought, standing in the reception area waiting for the orderly to take him through.

His wife had left him for good. The kids stayed with him for now because it was easier that way. But he knew that as soon as Geraldine had found a place of her own she would fight him for
custody. It was just a matter of time.

He had lost his job. Too many missed opportunities, too many days off when he felt incapable of dragging himself to work. He was getting by on the dole, but what with the divorce he would have
to find a job soon.

‘Sometimes things need to fall apart completely in order for a person to sort themselves out properly,’ his mother had said only yesterday. He couldn’t quite see it that way,
but hey. At least it was hard to picture how things could get much worse.

‘It’s this way,’ the orderly said, interrupting his thoughts. Just as well, they weren’t particularly uplifting. He followed the man down the hallway. The orderly stopped
outside a door.

‘He has his own room?’ Charles asked.

‘Yes.’

‘Will you be staying?’

The orderly examined him. ‘If you want me to. But I am sure it will be fine.’

‘OK.’

He entered the room and heard the door close softly behind him. The boy sat at a desk with his back to him. He looked like he was drawing something. He turned briefly to look at Charles, then
returned to what he was doing.

It was a pleasant room, with white walls and a wide window overlooking the grounds. There were posters of rock bands on the walls, typical teenage stuff, and Charles wondered whether the boy had
put them up himself.

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ he asked. His voice sounded shaky and unnatural. When there was no answer he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘It’s a nice room you have. The
staff seem nice too.’

He realized how inane he sounded. Better to shut up than come out with such platitudes, he thought.

‘Do you mind if I just sit here for a while?’

César didn’t respond but Charles thought he saw him relax his posture a little.

Light streamed in from the window. Outside, the trees were beginning to look quite bare. Someone was raking up the leaves, making a pile of them in the middle of the lawn.

Charles thought of Armand and wondered what he could see from where he was sitting.

He could easily have wept, but he reminded himself that he wasn’t alone.

See where I am, Armand. Making amends.

The minutes ticked past. The boy never turned around but somehow that was OK. With a shaky sigh, Charles unfolded the newspaper he’d brought along and began to read.

Everything was still. Charles felt the warmth of the sun against his face. He sat further back on the bed and leaned against the wall. He stretched his legs. After a while, he dozed off.

He didn’t see the boy turn to look at him. His eyes as wide and distant as two moons.

They were looking at a mass of dark clouds. The wind had risen and it was so cold Morel’s ears had gone completely numb. As for Philippe, he looked like he’d turned
to stone some time ago.

‘Maybe we should call it a day.’

‘What? Already?’

Morel didn’t bother pointing out to his father that they had been fishing on the jetty for two hours now. During that time they hadn’t caught a single fish, though they had pulled up
plenty of seaweed from the choppy waters below. Morel’s fingers were raw from the cold and the effort of untangling his hook from each slimy catch.

‘Fine, let’s go,’ his father said. Very slowly, he reeled his line in. Even dressed up in a grey coat and a woollen hat pulled over his ears it was obvious he was cold. He was
taking great pains not to show it.

‘Let’s get a drink,’ Morel said. ‘And then we can decide where to go for dinner tonight.’

‘If we’re going out we’d better tell Augustine,’ his father said.

Morel didn’t say anything. Instead he looked at the windswept outline of Saint-Malo ahead of them, a subdued version of the town he’d come through with Lila four months earlier. It
was hard to believe this was the same place. The beach was deserted aside from a couple walking their dog and a group of teenage boys desultorily tossing a ball around.

He had finally finished his owl, according to the plans. It was better than he’d hoped. So lifelike that sometimes when he worked at his desk or lay in bed reading, Morel had the feeling
he was being watched. He half expected the owl to swoop down from its perch on the bookshelf with a papery rustle of wings.

In the New Year his sister Maly would be getting married. At her request Morel had agreed to be Karl’s best man. Maly had seemed happy. He was pleased that she had decided to do this.
Whatever the future held, at least she was moving forward.

Morel felt the tiredness settle in his limbs. It was a different kind of tiredness, brought on by the great gusts of wind and salty air. He would sleep well tonight, aided by a few glasses of
wine. Tomorrow morning he would decide how they might spend the day. There was no point asking his father.

‘Come on,’ he said.

He passed the bucket to his father and picked up the fishing rods. Together, they made their way into the town centre under a shifting and unpredictable sky.

I drew inspiration for
The Lying-Down Room
from many sources, including a 1998 Human Rights Watch report on the state of Russia’s orphanages entitled
‘Abandoned to the State – Cruelty and Neglect in Russian Orphanages’. I have taken liberties with certain event dates, such as the Paris strikes, where it suited the narrative.
Any factual errors in this book, intentional or otherwise, are entirely my own.

I am deeply indebted to many people who made this book possible. Thank you to my agent, Peter Robinson, and to Alex Goodwin, for believing in this book. Thank you to my wonderful publisher,
Maria Rejt at Mantle, and to my warm and talented editor Sophie Orme. A big thank you to Ali Blackburn, Stacey Hamilton, Praveen Naidoo and all the other lovely people at Pan Macmillan UK and
Australia.

I also want to thank:

My parents Renji and Christine Sathiah, who taught me the value of storytelling, and took me around the world; Amanda Holmes Duffy, Louise O’Leary and Carol Pollaro Ross, for their
enduring friendship, loyalty and support; the author Michael Pye, for his unfailing kindness and encouragement; Hervé Jourdain, for his invaluable insight into the world of the brigade
criminelle; Malcolm Dodd, for sharing his experiences as a forensic pathologist; and Robert J. Lang, for unveiling the art of origami.

And finally, to the three men in my life, big and small – Selwyn, Alex and Max: who would have thought so much love and laughter was possible?

If you enjoyed
 
The Lying-Down Room
, you’ll love

– the second Commandant Morel novel.

Far from home, secrets can be deadly . . .

When a French man is found brutally murdered in the Cambodian city of Phnom Penh, Commandant Serge Morel finds his holiday drawn to an abrupt halt. The victim – Hugo
Quercy – was the dynamic head of a humanitarian organization which looked after the area’s troubled local teenagers. But what was Quercy doing in a hotel room under a false name? What
is the significance of his recent investigations into land grabs in the area? And who broke into his house the night of the murder, leaving behind a trail of bloody footprints?

A deeply atmospheric crime novel that bristles with truth and deception, secrets and lies,
Death in the Rainy Season
is a compelling mystery that unravels an exquisitely wrought human
tragedy.

Out now

An extract follows here . . .

The moment he turned down the alley, the dog started barking. He hurried towards the gate and crouched down, where the mutt could see him. Immediately, the barking stopped. The
dog came up, wagging its tail, and sniffed his outstretched hand.

‘Good boy,’ the man said, scratching the dog’s head.

He wasn’t familiar with this part of Phnom Penh, though he’d been invited to the house often enough. Each time, he’d lost his way coming here, riding his motorcycle through a
maze of narrow streets. This time was no different. It was pitch-dark and all these alleyways looked the same. There was no one about.

Most of the families living around here were local. He left his motorcycle at the end of the street and walked past the sleeping houses. Each had an outdoor Buddhist shrine, with its miniature
wooden temple or house mounted on a pillar. So did the place he was looking at now. Through the gate, he could see the spirit house mounted on its pedestal in an auspicious corner of the concrete
yard. It would contain the remains of the morning’s offerings. Rice, lychees and dragon fruit. A couple of burnt-out incense sticks. Such meagre gifts to appease the spirits. He knew, better
than anyone tonight, what little difference these rituals made. Life had a way of choosing for you, regardless of what you threw at it.