The Circle (15 page)

Servaz could hear the discouragement and extreme weariness in the speaker's voice. Then all of a sudden his voice changed, as if he had just thought of something.

‘It's Toulouse, right?'

‘Yes, why?'

The man didn't answer. Instead, Servaz heard him speaking to someone else. His hand over the receiver made his words inaudible, but a few seconds later he came back on the line.

‘Something happened quite recently,' he said, and Servaz noticed the change of tone. ‘We put his portrait online. We Photoshopped his image and made a dozen different versions: beards, moustaches, long hair, short hair, dark, fair, a different nose and so on. You get the picture. In short, we had hundreds of replies. We looked at every single one: a long, painstaking job …'

The weariness in his voice once again.

‘Among the sightings there was one more interesting than the others: a guy who runs a service station on a motorway, who swears that Hirtmann stopped there for petrol and to buy the papers. According to this fellow, he was on a motorbike, had dyed his hair, let his beard grow, and was wearing sunglasses, but the guy was categorical: he looked just like one of the portraits online, the height and shape matched, and the biker spoke with a slight accent that could have been Swiss, according to the witness. For once, we lucked out: we were able to check the shop's video surveillance tapes. And the manager was right: it could be him – I repeat,
it could be
…'

‘And where is this service station? When was it?'

‘Two weeks ago. You'll like this, Commandant: it's called Bois de Dourre, on the A20, north of Montauban.'

‘Was the motorcycle filmed? Do you have the number plate?'

‘Whether by chance or deliberately, he parked it out of sight of the cameras. But he showed up at a tollbooth further south, in the Paris–Toulouse direction. The picture isn't very sharp, but we have the beginning of the registration. We're working on it … Do you see now why your story is so important? If it really was Hirtmann on that bike, there's a very good chance he's in your sector as we speak.'

Dumbfounded, Servaz stared at the results of his search. He had typed the words ‘Julian Hirtmann' into Google and obtained no less than 1,130,000 hits.

He flung himself back in his chair and thought.

He spent a long time looking for any report containing the slightest bit of information concerning Hirtmann after his escape; he had been through newspapers, dispatches and newsletters, had made dozens of phone calls, had harassed the unit in charge of tracking him, but the months had gone by, then the seasons – spring, summer, autumn, winter, spring again … and he had given up. Time to move on. It was no longer his business. Enough.
The End. Finito.
He had tried to banish him from his thoughts.

He scanned the page of hits on the screen. He knew that freedom of expression was of key concern to Internet users, and it was up to each individual to filter, sort and use their discrimination, but he was gobsmacked by what he discovered on the web. Julian Hirtmann
had thousands of fans, and there were dozens of sites that glorified him. Some articles were relatively neutral: photographs of Hirtmann during his trial and others where he was shown before the trial in the company of his ravishing spouse – the one he had electrocuted in his basement along with her lover. Hirtmann was compared to other European serial killers like José Antonio Rodriguez Vega in Spain, who raped and killed no fewer than sixteen women aged from sixty-one to ninety-three between August 1987 and April 1988, or Joachim Kroll, the ‘cannibal of the Ruhr'. In the photographs Hirtmann had a firm, clearly outlined face, somewhat stern, regular features and an intense gaze; far from the pale, tired man Servaz had met at the Institute.

Servaz could associate that face with a voice – deep, pleasant, steady. The voice of an actor, or an orator. The voice of a man who was used to being in charge and expressing himself in court.

He could also associate it with the more or less blurry faces of about forty women who had disappeared over the last twenty-five years. Women of whom there was not the slightest trace but whose names had been written, with a quantity of other details, in the former prosecutor's notebooks. Somewhere, there was a group of victims' parents who were clamouring for Hirtmann to be forced to talk. How? With some truth serum? Hypnosis? Torture? Every solution had been envisaged by the usual zealots on the web. Including sending him to Guantánamo or burying him in the desert, his head covered in honey, next to a colony of red ants.

Servaz knew that Hirtmann would never talk. Locked up or at liberty, he had more power over those families than any evil god would ever possess. He would always be their tormentor. Their nightmare. And that was the role he wanted. He was characterised by a total absence of remorse or guilt – like all major psychopathic perverts. He might crack if he was subjected to waterboarding or to electric shock but it was unlikely that he would crack during detention or a psychiatric interview – if they were even able to get their hands on him, which Servaz doubted.

ARE YOU READY?

Servaz jumped.

The words had just appeared on the screen.

For a moment he thought that Hirtmann had somehow managed to get into his computer.

Then he understood that without realising it he had just clicked on one of the numerous sites on the list. Immediately afterwards, the words disappeared and on the screen he saw a picture of a dense crowd and a stage. A singer walked up to the microphone, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, even though it was night time, and the crowd began chanting the killer's name. Servaz could not believe his ears. He hurriedly left the website, his heart pounding.

The next three links simply referenced encyclopaedia sites. Two more were general websites about serial killers. Fourteen in a row were forums where the name Julian Hirtmann was invoked for one reason or another, and Servaz didn't bother to consult them. The next link immediately drew his attention:

The Valley of the Hanged
is being filmed in the Pyrenees.

He saw that his hand was trembling when he double-clicked. When he had finished reading, he pushed his chair far away from the screen and closed his eyes. Breathed deeply, for a long time.

A film was going to be made the following winter. It would be based on his investigation in the Pyrenees and above all on Hirtmann's escape from the Wargnier Institute. The names had been changed, of course, but the premise of the film was transparent. Two very well-known actors had been approached to play the serial killer and the
commissar
(sic). Servaz felt sick to his stomach. This was what their society had become, he thought: exhibitionism, voyeurism, commodification.

He felt angry, but also frightened. All this agitation … In the meantime, where was Hirtmann? What was he plotting? He told himself that Julian Alois Hirtmann could just as easily be in Canberra, in Kamchatka or in Punta Arenas as in an Internet café at the end of the street. Servaz thought about the time Yvan Colonna had been on the run. The media, the police, the anti-terrorist services had all thought he was in South America, in Australia, anywhere – but in fact the Corsican criminal was hiding in a sheepfold not thirty kilometres from where he had committed the crime he was wanted for.

Could Hirtmann really be in Toulouse?

Over one million inhabitants, if you included the greater urban area. A diverse population. A tangle of streets, squares, roads, bypasses, flyovers, slip roads. Dozens of nationalities – French, English, German, Spanish, Italian, Algerian, Lebanese, Turkish,
Kurdish, Chinese, Brazilian, Afghan, Malian, Kenyan, Tunisian, Rwandan, Armenian …

Where do you hide a tree? In a forest …

She wasn't unlisted, he found her number in the directory, but she hadn't included her first name:
M. Bokhanowsky.
He hesitated for a good while before he dialled. She picked up on the second ring.

‘Hello?'

‘It's Martin,' he said. For a split second he faltered. ‘Can we meet? I have a few questions for you … about Hugo.'

Silence.

‘I want you to tell me the truth,' she said, ‘right now: do you think he did it? Do you think my son is guilty?'

Her voice quivered, as taut and fragile as a spider's silk thread.

‘Not on the telephone,' he replied. ‘But if you must know, I have increasing doubts about it. I know how difficult it is for you, but we have to talk. I can be in Marsac in an hour and a half, roughly. Is that all right, or would you prefer to wait until tomorrow?'

‘Marianne?' he said at last, as she did not answer.

‘Forgive me, I was thinking … In that case, why don't you stay for dinner? I'll do some shopping.'

‘Marianne, I'll be perfectly frank with you. I don't know, given that I'm the investigator, whether I should—'

‘That's fine, Martin. You don't need to shout it from the rooftops. And you can ask me your questions at the same time. After two glasses of wine, I'm a good deal more talkative.'

‘I know,' he said.

It was an attempt to ease the tension, but he instantly regretted his words: he did not want to refer to the past, still less to let her think that he might have any motivations other than professional ones, particularly at the moment.

He thanked her and hung up, then looked up the address in the directory:
5, Domaine du Lac.
He still remembered the geography. Marianne lived in west Marsac. That was where the most luxurious villas were, on the north shore of a little lake. They had names like Belvedere, The Cask, or Villa Antigone, and most of them were set back from huge lawns that sloped gently down to a jetty where small dinghies or motorboats were moored. In the summer, the children of the rich lakeside inhabitants learned to sail and water ski. Their
parents worked in Toulouse, as academics or in eminent positions in the aeronautics or electronics industries. Coincidentally, given what was on his mind, the other inhabitants of Marsac had baptised this district ‘Little Switzerland'.

His mobile buzzed. He quickly pulled it out of his pocket and opened it. Margot.

‘What's going on?' she said. ‘Why do you need to know that?'

‘No time to explain. Does he smoke or not?'

‘No. I've never seen him smoke.'

‘Thanks. I'll call you back later.'

North Shore

It was already three minutes past eight when he reached the east shore of the lake, where the café-concert restaurant Le Zik sat on stilts above the green water. Servaz drove around it and headed north. The Marsac lake was shaped like a bone or a dog biscuit, running east–west, seven kilometres in length. Most of it was bordered by thick woodland. Only the eastern area was urbanised, and ‘urbanised' might be pushing it: every villa was huge, and generally situated on a property 3 to 5,000 square metres in size.

The address corresponded to the last house on the north shore, just before the woods and the part where the lake narrowed before widening again further along. The building must have been at least a hundred years old with its gables, balconies, chimneys and Virginia creeper. A house that was much too big for a mother and her son, he thought. The gate was open and Servaz drove beneath tall fir trees over the gravel, as far as the porch. He went up the steps and heard Marianne calling to him through the open door. A suite of rooms led to the terrace.

The rain was still sweeping over the lake. Kingfishers circled above the choppy surface before dive-bombing then reappearing in a shower of drops with their dinner in their beaks. To the left, beyond the other properties, he could see the roofs of Marsac and its steeple, veiled in mist. On the opposite shore there were dark woods and what local people pompously referred to as ‘the Mountain': a rocky massif which rose a few dozen metres above the surface of the lake.

Marianne was setting the table. He stopped for a moment to look at her. She was wearing a khaki tunic dress that buttoned in front with two pockets on the chest and a fine woven belt, which gave her an almost military look. She had undone the top button, presumably because of the heat. Servaz noticed her bare suntanned legs and the
absence of any jewellery around her neck. She was wearing only a faint touch of lipstick.

‘What awful weather,' she said. ‘But we won't let that get us down, will we?'

She was speaking without conviction, her voice as hollow as a metal box. When she kissed him on the cheek, he caught a whiff of her perfume.

‘I brought this.'

She took the bottle, looked briefly at the label and set it down on the table. Then she went back to what she had been doing.

‘The corkscrew is over there,' she added after a moment, as he stood there, arms hanging limply by his side.

She disappeared inside and he wondered if he had made a mistake by agreeing to come to dinner. He knew he shouldn't be there, that the little lawyer with the intense gaze would use this against him if Hugo was found guilty. He also sensed that the investigation was taking up all his thoughts, and it would be hard for him to talk about anything else. He should have questioned Marianne according to procedure, but he hadn't been able to resist the invitation. After all these years … He wondered whether Marianne had known what she was getting into, inviting him like that. Suddenly, without knowing why, he was on his guard.

‘Why?'

‘Why what?'

‘Why did you never come back?'

‘I don't know.'

‘No letters, no e-mails, not a single text or call – nothing, in twenty years.'

‘Twenty years ago there were no text messages.'

‘That's not much of an answer, Commandant.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘That's not an answer either.'

‘There is no answer.'

‘Of course there is.'