Irene (27 page)

They had eaten a light supper. For a month now, Irène had not had the energy to cook, and only prepared cold cuts since she never knew what time they would sit down for dinner.

“Perfect weather for a murder, darling,” she said thoughtfully, holding the cup in both hands as though to warm herself.

‘What made you say that?”

“Oh, it’s nothing …”

Camille picked up his book and came and sat by her feet.

“Tired …” – “Tired?”

They had said the word at precisely the same time.

“What do you call it when that happens?”

“I don’t know. Subconscious communication, I suppose.”

They sat for a moment in silence, each engrossed in their thoughts.

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“I have been lately. I find time passes slowly.”

“Is there anything you’d like to do tomorrow night?” Camille asked half-heartedly.

“I quite fancy giving birth …”

“Remind me to grab my first-aid kit.” Camille had set down his book and was idly flicking through its pages, gazing at Caravaggio’s paintings. He stopped at a reproduction of “Mary Magdalene in Ecstasy”. Irène leaned forwards so she could look over his shoulder. In the painting, Mary Magdalene’s head is thrown back, her lips parted, her hands clasped at her breast. Her mane of red hair tumbles over her right shoulder, emphasising her bosom; her left breast is barely covered. Camille liked this portrait of womanhood. He leafed back several pages and studied Caravaggio’s depiction of Mary in “Rest on the Flight into Egypt”.

“Is it the same woman?” Irène said.

“I’m not sure.”

Mary was bent over her child, her hair an even deeper red that seemed almost purple.

“I think she’s having an orgasm,” Irène said.

“No, I think Saint Theresa is the one who has the orgasm.”

“They all look like they’re having an orgasm.”

Magdalene in ecstasy, Mary with her child. He did not say as much, but when Camille looked at them he thought of Irène. He could feel her behind him, heavy and warm. The importance of Irene’s appearance in his life was incalculable. He reached over his shoulder and took her hand.

She was the kind of woman about whom there is nothing to say; neither beautiful nor ugly, almost ageless. The face is familiar, almost recognisable, like an old schoolfriend. Forty-something, favouring clothes that are depressingly utilitarian, Christine Lesage sits facing Camille, hands clasped discreetly over her knees, a female carbon copy of her brother. Is she afraid? Is she overwhelmed? It is difficult to tell. She stares fixedly at her hands. Camille believes he can detect in her a tenacity that verges on the absurd. Though physically she bears an uncanny resemblance to her brother, it is clear that Christine Lesage is made of stronger stuff.

And yet there is something lost about her; from time to time her eyes dart about the room as though she is out of her depth.

“Madame Lesage,” Camille begins, setting his glasses on the desk, “you know why you’re here.”

“I was told it’s about my brother.”

Her voice, which he is hearing for the first time, is high, shrill even, as though she is defending herself against some accusation. The way she tenderly says the word “brother” speaks volumes. A maternal reflex almost.

“That’s correct. We’re curious about him.”

“He’s got nothing to be ashamed of.”

“That’s something I’d like to discuss, if you don’t mind. I would be grateful for any insights you might have.”

“I said all I have to say to the other officer.”

“Yes.” Camille nodded to the report lying on the desk. “But that’s precisely my point – you don’t seem to have much to say at all.”

Christine Lesage clasps her hands over her knees once more. As far as she is concerned, the interview is over.

“We are especially interested in your trip to the United Kingdom. In …” Camille slips on his glasses and briefly consults the report. “July 2001.”

“We weren’t in the United Kingdom,
commandant
, we were in England.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Aren’t you?”

“No, actually, I don’t believe you were … at least not for the whole of your trip. You arrived in London on July 2, is that correct?

“Possibly.”

“Definitely. Your brother left London for Edinburgh on the 8th. That would be in Scotland, madame. Which is in the United Kingdom. His ticket confirms he returned to London on the 12th. Is that correct?”

“If you say so …”

“And you didn’t notice that your brother was absent for five days?”

“You said from the 8th to the 12th, that’s four days, not five.”

“Where was he?”

“You said it yourself, he was in Edinburgh.”

“And what was he doing there?”

“We have a contact there. As we do in London. My brother likes to visit our suppliers if he gets the chance. It’s … business, if you like.”

“Your contact there is a Mr Somerville,” Camille said.

“Mr Somerville, that’s right.”

“We have a little problem, Madame Lesage. Mr Somerville was interviewed by the police in Edinburgh this morning and he confirms that he saw your brother, but only on the 8th. According to him, your brother left the city on the 9th. Could you tell me where he was between the 9th and the 12th of July?”

Camille realises straight away that this is news to her. She gives a suspicious, resentful scowl.

“Sightseeing, I assume,” she says finally.

“Sightseeing. Of course. He took a tour of the Scottish highlands: the lochs, the castles, the ghosts …”

“Spare me the platitudes,
inspecteur
.”

“
Commandant
, if you don’t mind. Would his curiosity perhaps have taken him as far as Glasgow, in your opinion?”

“I have no opinion on the matter. Nor can I speculate on what he could possibly have been doing there.”

“Murdering young Grace Hobson, perhaps?”

A calculated gamble on Camille’s part. Such stunts have paid off in the past. But Christine Lesage does not seem the least bit disconcerted.

“Do you have proof?”

“Are you familiar with the name Grace Hobson?”

“I read about her in the papers.”

“To recapitulate: your brother leaves London to spend four days in Edinburgh, he stays only one day and you have no idea what he does for the other three days, is that what you’re saying?”

“More or less, yes.”

“More or less?”

“That’s right. I’m sure that he will have no trouble pro—”

“We shall see. Let us jump to November 2001, if you don’t mind.”

“Your colleague already ask—”

“I know, Madame Lesage, I know. I simply need you to confirm what you told him, then we’ll say no more about it. Tell me about 21 November.”

“Do you remember what you were doing two years ago on 21 November?”

“I am not being asked the questions here, Madame Lesage, you are. Tell me about your brother. Does he travel much?”

“
Commandant
,” Christine Lesage says in the long-suffering tone of one addressing a small child, “we run a business. Antiquarian and second-hand books. My brother buys and sells; he visits private libraries, he buys books at auction, he offers valuations, he buys from colleagues and sells to them, obviously he can’t do all that from behind the counter of the bookshop. So, yes, my brother travels a great deal.”

“Which means you never know precisely where he is …”

“Don’t you think we might save some time? If you could just tell me—”

“It’s very simple, Madame Lesage. Your brother called us and gave us information about a crime.”

“This is what he gets for trying to help …”

“We did not ask for his help – he offered it. Spontaneously. Generously. He informed us that the murders in Courbevoie were inspired by a novel by Bret Easton Ellis. He seemed extremely well informed. His information proved accurate.”

“It’s his job.”

“Killing prostitutes?”

Christine Lesage blushes to the roots of her hair.

“If you have evidence,
commandant
, I’m listening. Though we both know that if you had any evidence I wouldn’t be here answering your questions. Can I go now?” she says, making as if to get up.

Camille stares at her intently. Meekly, she abandons the halfhearted gesture.

“We were granted a warrant to examine your brother’s desk diaries. He is a very meticulous man, very organised. I have officers going through his meetings and appointments over the past five years. Until now, we have queried only a handful of entries, but it’s astonishing how many inaccuracies we’ve discovered, for such a methodical man.”

“Inaccuracies?” Madame Lesage seems surprised.

“Yes, the diary says he was in such and such a place … when in fact he wasn’t. He has recorded meetings that never took place. That sort of thing. He claims to be with someone when in fact he is not. So we can’t help but wonder.”

“Wonder what, exactly,
commandant
?”

“Wonder what he has been doing with his time, obviously. What he was doing in November 2001 while a 23-year-old prostitute was being hacked in two, what he was doing earlier this month when two other prostitutes were dismembered in Courbevoie. Does your brother frequent prostitutes?”

“You are an odious little man.”

“What about
him
?”

“If that’s all you’ve got on my brother—”

“In point of fact, Madame Lesage, those are not the only
troubling questions concerning your brother. We have also been wondering what he does with his money.”

Christine Lesage gives the
commandant
an incredulous look.

“His
money
?”

“Well, your money, as it turns out. Because from what we understand, your brother manages your fortune.”

“I have no ‘fortune’!”

She spat the word as though it were an insult.

“Well, you have a stocks portfolio, you own two apartments in Paris which are currently rented out, plus the family home. And perhaps now would be a good time to mention that we’ve sent a team of officers to your house.”

“To Villeréal? May I ask why?”

“We are looking for two bodies, Madame Lesage. One large, one small. But we’ll come back to that. We were discussing your fortune.”

“I have entrusted my brother with managing my financial affairs.”

“Then I’m afraid I should tell you that it may not have been a wise decision …”

Christine Lesage stares at Camille for a long moment. Surprise? Suspicion? Anger? He cannot read what is in her eyes. He quickly realises it is nothing more than steely determination.

“Everything my brother did with my money was authorised by me,
commandant
. Everything. Without exception.”

“So what have you got?”

“To tell you the truth, Jean, I have no idea. They’ve got a pretty weird relationship, these two.”

*

Jérôme Lesage is sitting bolt upright in his chair, adopting an attitude of calm composure. He is going to show he is not a man to be duped easily.

“I’ve just had a chat with your sister, Monsieur Lesage.”

Despite his resolve to show no concern, Lesage’s face flinches perceptibly.

“Why her?” he says, as if requesting a menu or a train timetable.

“The better to understand you. The better to
try
to understand you.”

*

“She’s backing him tooth and nail. It’ll be hard to drive a wedge between them.”

“Hardly surprising, I suppose. They’re a couple.”

“Of sorts. But more baffling.”

“All relationships are baffling. All my marriages certainly were.”

*

“We’re having a little difficulty accounting for your movements, you see? Even your sister, who knows you better than anyone—”

“She knows only what I choose to tell her.”

He folds his arms across his chest. As far as he is concerned the subject is closed. Camille elects to remain silent.

“Would you kindly tell me what it is you have against me?” Lesage says at last.

“I have nothing against you. I’m conducting a criminal investigation, Monsieur Lesage. I have the issue of a number of dead bodies to account for.”

“I should never have helped you, not even that first time.”

“But you couldn’t help yourself.”

“That’s true.”

Lesage seems surprised by his own response.

“When I read the reports of the Courbevoie murders, I was proud to have recognised Ellis’ novel,” he continues thoughtfully. “But that doesn’t make me a killer.”

*

“She defends him, he protects her. Or vice versa.”

“What have we got, Camille? Cards on table, what exactly have we got?”

“For a start, we’ve got the unaccounted-for gaps in his schedule.”

*

“I’d like you to talk me through the time you spent in Scotland.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What you did between July 9 and July 12. You arrived in Edinburgh on the 8th, had a meeting that day, and didn’t reappear until the 12th. What were you doing in the meantime?”

“Sightseeing.”

*

“And has he been able to account for these gaps?”

“No, he’s playing for time. He’s waiting for us to come up with evidence. He knows that as things stand there’s fuck all we can do. And they both know it.”

*

“Sightseeing? Where?”

“Here and there. I travelled about. Like most people on holiday.”

“Most people don’t murder young girls while they’re ‘travelling about’ on holiday, Monsieur Lesage …”

“I didn’t murder anyone!”

For the first time since the start of the interview, the bookseller’s tone becomes heated. Being openly contemptuous of Camille is one thing, but to risk seeming like a killer is something else entirely.

“I didn’t say you did.”

“No, you didn’t. But I can see that you’re trying to fit me up for murder.”

“Do you write books, Monsieur Lesage? Novels?”

“No. Never. I’m a reader.”

“A voracious reader.”

“It’s my job. I don’t criticise you for hanging around with murderers.”

“It’s a pity you don’t write novels, Monsieur Lesage, because you have a vivid imagination. Why do you invent fictional meetings in your desk diary, with people who don’t exist? What do you do during these so-called meetings? Why do you need so much time, Monsieur Lesage?”