The Returned (9 page)

Stopped, and no one was ever brought to book. A big-shot forensic psychologist had come down from Paris and pronounced that the killer had either left the area or was dead, since if he’d
still been around, the killings would have just kept going. The investigation petered out, and the files were left open.

Back at the station now, Thomas summoned her and Bruno to his office to discuss the attack. She dug out the files from the previous cases, and brought along the photographs of the new victim. As
they laid them all out together, old pictures and new, it was impossible to deny the similarities in the injuries.

‘Christ,’ said Thomas. Bruno was just staring.

‘Her name is Lucy Clarsen,’ said Laure. ‘She’s been a barmaid at the Lake Pub for the past year.’

‘Shit, yes,’ said Bruno. ‘I know who you mean. Alcide’s taken a shine to her.’

‘As far as we know,’ said Laure, ‘she has no family in the area, but we’re keeping the identity quiet until we’ve been able to track down relatives. And of course,
we’re keeping the details of the attack from the press.’

‘Bruno,’ said Thomas, ‘once we’re done here can you have a word with Alcide? Let him know about Lucy Clarsen, and make sure he understands that he can’t discuss the
case with anyone.’

Bruno nodded, then started to look through the older case notes.

‘So what do we have?’ asked Thomas.

‘She’s still critical,’ said Laure. ‘She’d probably been lying there for at least four hours. Last I spoke to the doctor treating her, he said it was a miracle she
was alive. The blood loss was severe.’

‘And the diner attack?’ said Thomas. ‘Could that be linked?’

‘Possible,’ she said. ‘The manager hadn’t seen the guy around before, and the assault was vicious.’

‘CCTV of the tunnel?’

‘Indistinct, but it shows a guy in a hooded top, no image of his face, no way to rule the diner assailant in or out at the moment.’

‘OK.’ Thomas took a long breath. ‘Thoughts?’

Bruno stepped in. ‘The manager didn’t recognize his assailant, so if it is the same man maybe he hasn’t been around for a long time and he’s come back. It would explain
the hiatus in the attacks.’

Laure’s turn. ‘There was one key suspect before, sir, and he has a link to the victim. We should bring him in. Now.’

Thomas raised an eyebrow. ‘He was cleared, Laure.’

‘Captain Onesto didn’t think so.’

‘Onesto was under too much pressure to get a result. The evidence wasn’t there, and nobody who knew the suspect thought it was plausible.’ Laure started to interrupt; Thomas
held up a hand. ‘
But
. . . we have to talk to him anyway. Bruno, bring the pub manager in for interview. Don’t tell him anything.’

Bruno looked surprised. ‘You mean Toni Guillard? He was the suspect?’ Bruno had only transferred to the town three years ago.

Thomas nodded and sent him on his way. Once the office door closed, he turned to her. ‘Laure?’

She understood what he was asking. ‘I’m fine, sir.’

‘I need to know you can handle this. If it’s too personal . . .’

‘As I said, sir. I’m fine.’ After all, it hadn’t been personal for a long time.

She reviewed the old cases as she waited for the pub manager to be brought in. The details had been kept from the press back then, of course. Stabbings, they were called; the
ferocity of the attacks and the grim mutilations were not revealed. Julie’s identity had been protected; Laure had always feared it would become common knowledge, but mercifully it never did,
even after the inevitable rumours of the severity of the assaults emerged.

Among the police, the attacker immediately earned the nickname of the Cannibal. Each of the three attacks had been in a different part of town. The last had been in the same underpass where Lucy
Clarsen had been assaulted; it would make sense to keep a careful eye on the other two locations, in case the killer was reliving old memories.

The pub manager was a huge man, physically imposing from sheer height and bulk, and a little overweight. He was no athlete, that was certain, but he was easily capable of overpowering someone.
When Bruno led him in Laure found herself looking at him, picturing him with a knife in his hand. It didn’t take much imagination.

‘Have a seat,’ said Thomas. The man sat. Laure watched his face carefully; his expression was wary. ‘Do you know what happened to Lucy Clarsen?’

‘No,’ said Toni Guillard. He didn’t exude confidence by any means, but if anything he was bemused rather than frightened.

‘Was she working with you last night?’

‘Yes.’ Matter of fact.

‘At what time did she leave work?’

‘I don’t know exactly. About two a.m.?’

‘What were you doing when she left?’

‘Closing up.’

‘Alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then what did you do?’

‘I went home.’

The captain paused for a moment. ‘Can someone confirm that?’

‘Why all these questions?’

Laure couldn’t hold back any longer. It was time to push him. ‘Seven years ago you were suspected of murder and attempted murder.’

‘It wasn’t me,’ said the man, fear showing in his eyes for the first time. ‘I was innocent.’

She thrust a photograph of Lucy Clarsen’s injuries in front of him, feeling her anger grow. ‘Look at your barmaid. It’s a miracle she’s still alive.’ The man just
stared at the image, horror in his eyes. ‘You’re the one who put her in that state. And the others, too. But if that wasn’t sick enough, you started to
eat
them.’

‘That’s enough,’ said Thomas, glaring at her. She knew she’d overstepped the mark. ‘You can go, Inspector. I’ll take it from here.’

She looked down at the floor, angry with herself. ‘Yes, sir.’

Then Toni looked up from the photograph, dazed. Gawping at both of them. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he said. ‘It isn’t possible . . .’

She and Thomas shared a look. The man’s reaction was genuine.

He was as shocked as they were. He wasn’t their killer.

After Léna had walked away from her father, she had ended up where she always did. Even for the afternoon, the Lake Pub was quiet. Frédéric was there as
usual, playing pool with a few others. He looked over at her from time to time but at the moment she just wanted to sit alone with a beer and unpick what she was feeling.

She didn’t know how to deal with what was happening, but the idea that her mum was right – that Camille really had come back, that a miracle
had
happened – was
difficult for her to accept. She
wanted
that version to be true, wanted it badly. That was why she was so cautious, she thought. And there was something else about Camille, now, that fed
into her unease. She’d always known what her sister was thinking, always. Sometimes even when they were apart, she’d known. But last night and this morning? Nothing. Her sister, if that
was what she really was, had been unreadable.

Then Simon, the dark-haired guy from the night before, came in, looking around. He saw her and came straight over, a cagey look about him. She watched him with a little suspicion. He was wearing
the same clothes as last night, his suit a little crumpled. She wondered if he’d slept in it.

‘Well, if it isn’t our mysterious regular,’ she said. ‘How are things? Feeling any less vague these days?’

‘Where did you say Adèle works?’ he asked.

She wondered if the guy even
had
a sense of humour. ‘Ah. Straight to business. She works at the library.’

‘Near the church?’

‘No,’ she said. She tried to think how long ago the new library had opened. Six years, at least. ‘Next to the town hall. I thought you said you lived around here?’

‘I’ve been away.’

‘Right.’ She peered at him; he looked back at her, clearly uncomfortable. ‘So why do I feel like I know you?’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘Just that kind of face.’ Then he thanked her and went on his way.

‘What did he want?’ It was Frédéric, showing up conveniently to check on her.

‘To sleep with me.’ She grinned. Frédéric said nothing, just looked hurt – a little more hurt than she’d intended. ‘But he’s not my
type.’

He held up the pool cue he had in his hand. ‘You want a game?’

She shrugged. Why not? She could do with the distraction. She beat him with ease, relishing the discomfort he felt in defeat – something he always found hard to mask. He could be very
competitive, could Frédéric, however much he claimed otherwise.

‘Another game?’ he asked.

‘If you can stand it,’ she smirked. ‘Back in a minute.’

She headed for the toilets, and on her return two police officers came in through the front door and walked towards the bar. She hung around to see what the excitement was. They asked for Toni,
had a quiet word with him, then left the pub with the bemused manager in tow.

She turned to the barman, Samuel. ‘Any idea what that was about?’

‘Not a clue,’ said Samuel.

‘Did Toni leave you in charge?’ she said, a coy smile on her lips.

Samuel scowled. ‘No freebies, Léna.’ She gave him a worth-a-shot shrug before he turned to serve a customer.

Léna drifted over to the windows at the front and watched Toni get inside the police car. After they’d gone, she was about to head back to Frédéric when something
stopped her. The wall beside her was covered in photos, old and new; full of the regulars of the Lake Pub. One of the pictures was very familiar. It had her in it, nine years old, sitting and
pretending to play the drums. Beside her was the guitarist from the band that had played that night. She moved closer, suddenly feeling cold.

Dark, curly hair. Looking the same. Looking
exactly
the same. Simon. She wondered what he wanted with Adèle Werther.

She went back to Frédéric, dazed. He could see something was up. ‘You want to go?’ he asked.

‘Can people come back from the dead?’ she said.

‘Yeah, sure,’ he said. ‘In
films
. Not in real life. Just as well, or we’d all be fucked.’

She glared at him. ‘Forget it.’ She started to walk away.

‘Wait,’ Frédéric said. ‘I’m sorry. Léna, what is it?’

She ignored him and kept on walking, leaving the pub. Frédéric took the hint and let her go. This wasn’t something anyone else could help with. The only person who might have
the answers was Camille, and she either didn’t know or wasn’t letting on.

She took the long route home, liking the solitude. When she got there, her parents were both at the door before she’d even closed it behind her.

‘Why was your phone off?’ her mum asked, her voice sharp, something usually reserved for when Léna came in at two in the morning.

Léna looked to her dad for an explanation.

‘Camille,’ he said. He looked exhausted. ‘She slipped out. She’s been gone for an hour, at least.’

‘Why did you let her do that?’ said Léna.

‘I thought she was sleeping,’ snapped her mum. ‘She’ll come back, won’t she?’ Her face went pale. ‘What if she doesn’t? What if that was all the
time we were allowed? If you two rejected her, and now she’s gone away?’

‘She’ll come back any minute, Claire,’ said her dad.

‘I couldn’t bear to lose her. Not
again
.’

Léna offered to go out to try and find her, but her mum gave her a fiery look: ‘Don’t even think about leaving this house,’ she said.

The three of them sat in the living room, in complete silence. Half an hour later the front door opened, and they all hurried over.

Claire grabbed Camille in a hug, palpably relieved. ‘Sweetheart, where were you?’ she said. ‘You mustn’t leave like that. I was so worried.’

Camille looked as if she’d been crying. ‘What could even happen?’ she said, sounding wretched. ‘I’m already dead.’

‘Where were you?’ asked her father.

‘The Lake Pub. I wanted to see Frédéric.’

Too quickly, Léna asked: ‘And did you?’

The more she spoke, the closer Camille came to tears. ‘I watched through a window. I saw him and Lucho playing pool. Marc was there too. I wanted to talk to Frédéric, but I
didn’t know what would happen. Then Marc came outside. He spoke to me.’

Her dad’s face darkened. ‘He recognized you?’ Léna felt it, too: the fear of discovery, the complications it would bring. She felt nauseous at the thought.

‘No,’ said Camille miserably. ‘He didn’t. He looked at me for a moment and I thought he’d recognized me, but then he asked if I was new in town. So I ran.’
She started to cry. ‘How could he not know who I
was
?’ Her mum stepped forwards and comforted her.

Léna turned to her dad, whispering: ‘Why wouldn’t he recognize her?’ Marc hadn’t really known them well before the crash, but surely . . .

‘I don’t know,’ said her dad.

‘But if it’s really her,’ said Léna, ‘I can’t see how—’

Her mother interrupted. ‘
If
it’s really her? You expect someone to recognize Camille, when you and your father both deny it?’

‘Claire, I—’ said her dad, but her mum cut in.

‘Look at her.
Look
at her. Whatever you choose to believe, at least believe your
eyes
.’

Camille was watching both of them, and Léna knew she could see their lingering doubt. Camille ran up the stairs, sobbing. Claire gave them both a disapproving look before going after
her.

Léna looked at her dad and shook her head. ‘Do other people even see what we see?’

Jérôme sighed. ‘The moment I saw her, every part of my mind was telling me it was impossible, that it couldn’t be her. Perhaps that’s all it is – people see
someone who looks very like Camille, but their minds don’t allow them to consider that it
is
her.’

‘But it
can’t
be her,’ said Léna, her voice almost a whisper.

‘Léna, your mother’s right. I don’t understand what it means, or what the future holds. You say it can’t be her. But tell me, and tell me honestly – seeing
Camille run from us just now, didn’t you feel ashamed?’

He watched for her reaction. She looked away. Yes, she’d felt ashamed; because however impossible the situation was, seeing Camille in tears had caused her real pain. Her denial was rooted
in desperation, not in what she truly felt. When she looked back at him, he had a weary smile. ‘You too?’ she said.