The Circle (20 page)

She lost herself in the contemplation of the ships criss-crossing the caldera. This was the last chance to stock up on memories.

She wondered where Martin was, what he was doing at that moment. She was fond of him, and although he didn't know it, she was watching over him. In her own way. Then her thoughts drifted again.
Where was Hirtmann? What was he doing at that very moment?
Deep inside, her restlessness and her hunter's instinct were stirring. A little voice told her that the Swiss killer was at it again, that he would never stop. She suddenly realised she was eager for the holidays to be over. She was in a hurry to get back to France, to continue the hunt …

Servaz spent the rest of his Sunday doing a bit of housework and thinking. At around five o'clock the telephone rang. It was
Espérandieu. Sartet, the examining magistrate, together with the magistrate for custody and release, had decided to charge Hugo and place him in provisional detention. Servaz's mood clouded over. He wasn't sure the young man would emerge unscathed from such an experience. He would go through the looking glass, and see what was hidden behind the veneer of their society; Servaz could only hope that Hugo was still young enough to forget what he was about to see.

He thought again about the sentence in Claire's notebook. There was something odd about it. It was both too obvious and too subtle. For whom was it intended?

‘Are you still there?' he asked.

‘Yes,' replied Espérandieu.

‘Do what you can to find a sample of Claire's handwriting. And ask for a graphological comparison with the sentence in the notebook.'

‘The Victor Hugo quotation?'

‘Yes.'

He went out onto the balcony. The air was still heavy, and a threatening sky hung over the city. The thunder was only a distant muffled echo, and it was as if time had stood still. There was electricity in the air. He thought about an anonymous predator moving around in the crowd, about Hirtmann's victims who had never been found, about his mother's murderers, about war and revolution, and about the world that was using up all its resources, including those of salvation and redemption.

‘To last night in Santorini,' said Zuzka, raising her glass of margarita.

Just beyond their table the white terraces, tinged blue with night, plummeted dizzyingly towards the edge of the cliff, a Legoland of balconies and lights piled up above the void. All the way down at the bottom, the caldera sank slowly into the night. Still anchored in the bay, the cruise ship glittered like a Christmas tree.

A salty offshore breeze ruffled Zuzka's hair and she turned to look at Ziegler. In the candlelight her irises were a very pale blue with a darker edge bordering on violet. Irène could not get enough of looking at her.

‘Cheers to the world,' she said, raising her glass again.

Then she leaned across the table and kissed Irène, beneath the
curious gazes of their neighbours. She tasted of tequila, orange and lime. Eight seconds, no less. There was some applause.

‘I love you,' declared Zuzka, out loud, oblivious of their surroundings.

‘Same here,' answered Irène, her cheeks on fire.

She had never been the demonstrative sort. She had a Suzuki GSR6
00
motorcycle, a helicopter pilot's licence and a firearm, and she liked speed, deep-sea diving and motorsports, but next to Zuzka, she felt shy and awkward.

‘Don't let those macho bastards mess your head, all right?' (Zuzka occasionally had difficulty with idiomatic expressions.)

‘You can count on it.'

‘And I want you to call me every night.'

‘Zuzik …'

‘Promise.'

‘I promise.'

‘At the slightest sign of …
depresia
, I'll be right over,' said Zuzka threateningly.

‘Zuzik, I've got a company flat, in a building full of gendarmes …'

‘So?'

‘They're really not used to this sort of thing.'

‘I'll put on a fake moustache, if that's what worries you. We can't spend life hiding. You should change jobs, you know?'

‘We've already discussed this. I like my job.'

‘Maybe. But your job doesn't like you. Why don't we go for little walk to beach, so we enjoy last Greek night?'

Ziegler nodded, lost in thought. The holidays were over. Back to the norm, to life in the Southwest. She liked her job.
Really?
So many things had changed since that notorious winter. Suddenly, she saw herself as she had been eighteen months earlier, when she'd been carried away by the avalanche, casting a desperate look at Martin before he disappeared from sight, up there in the mountains. She thought for the hundredth time of that psychiatric hospital lost in the snow, with its long corridors and its electronic locks, and the enigmatic man, pale and smiling, who had been locked up in there – and Mahler's music …

A full moon was shining over the Aegean, inscribing a silver triangle on the surface of the water. They held hands, and walked barefoot at the edge of the waves. The sea breeze blew harder here, caressing their faces. Now and again strains of music came to them from one of the tavernas along the immense beach at Perissa, then the wind shifted and the roar of the sea grew louder.

‘Why didn't you say anything, earlier, when I said you should change job?' asked Zuzka.

‘Say anything about what?'

‘That I too should change my job.'

‘You are free to choose, Zuzka.'

‘You don't like what I do.'

‘It's thanks to your job that we met.'

‘And that's exactly what frightens you.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘You know very well what I mean. Do you remember? When I was stripping and you showed up in the room, you and that other gendarme … Do you think I have forgotten your look? You tried to hide it, but you couldn't take your eyes off my body. And you know I have same effect on other clients.'

‘Why don't we change the subject?'

‘Ever since we've been together, you haven't been back to
Pink Banana
, or just that once, that night when I left letter to say I was leaving you,' continued Zuzka.

‘Zuzka, please …'

‘I haven't finished. And you know why? You are afraid to see other clients gazing at me the way you did. You are afraid I'll find someone like I found you. Well, you're wrong. I found you, Irène. We found each other. And no one can come between us, you have nothing to fear. There is only you. The only thing that can come between you and me is your job.'

Ziegler didn't answer.

‘You are too sensitive for that job,' said Zuzka, walking on. ‘All those months where I saw it interfere in your private life, where I put up with your dark moods, your silences, your fears. I don't want to live through that again. Because if you cannot separate private life from your fucking job, if you cannot disconnect when we're together, it's not some dyke who comes to stare at me you have to be afraid of; no, it's you: you are the only person who can separate us, Irène.'

‘Then you don't need to worry. Where I am now, all I have to deal with is a few stolen handbags and some drunken brawls.'

She said this wearily. Zuzka grabbed her by the hand and stopped her.

‘I'm going to be honest with you. For me, this is excellent news.'

Ziegler said nothing. Zuzka pulled her close. She kissed her and took her in her arms. Irène could smell her skin and her hair, her light perfume. She felt her desire return. She had never felt this before meeting Zuzka, never with such intensity.

‘Hey, girls, you're not on Lesbos here!'

A drunken voice, heavy with laughter. They pulled apart, swung round in the direction of a little group that had just come out of the shadow. Young Brits, full of alcohol. The scourge of Mediterranean beaches … There were three of them.

‘Look at those fucking dykes!'

‘Hi, girls,' said the smallest one, stepping away from the other two.

Ziegler looked around her quickly. There was no one else on the beach.

‘A nice moonlit night, huh, girls? Super romantic and all that. Aren't you bored all alone?' he said, turning to look at his friends.

The other two burst out laughing.

‘Fuck off, arsehole,' said Zuzka coldly in perfect English.

Ziegler started. She placed a hand on her girlfriend's arm.

‘You hear that, lads? They're not the kind to give in easily, eh? Hey, want something to drink?'

‘No thank you,' Ziegler replied.

‘Suit yourself.'

His tone was too conciliatory. The gendarme felt every muscle of her body tense and harden. Out of the corner of her eye, she kept watch on the other two.

‘What about you, bleedin' cow – want some?'

Irène's hand squeezed Zuzka's arm. Zuzka said nothing this time. She had grasped the danger.

‘Cat got yer tongue? Or you only use it to insult people and go down on her?'

A strain of music drifted over from one of the tavernas. It occurred to Ziegler that even if they screamed no one would hear them.

‘You're pretty stacked for a dyke,' said the redhead, looking Zuzka up and down.

Ziegler watched the other two. They weren't moving. They were waiting to see what would happen. They were followers … Or maybe they were already too drunk to react. How many hours had they been drinking? It did matter, after all. She turned her attention to the leader. He was a bit too chubby, with an ugly face, a strand of hair falling in his eyes, thick glasses and a long pointed nose that made him look like a fucking rat. He was wearing white shorts and a ridiculous Manchester United sweatshirt.

‘Maybe you could change the menu, for once. Have you ever sucked off a man, love?'

Zuzka didn't budge.

‘Hey, I'm talking to you!'

Irène had already grasped that things wouldn't stop there. Not with this dickhead. She evaluated the situation in silence. The other two were definitely taller and sturdier, but they did look heavy and slow. In the short term, the ginger wanker was the most dangerous. She wondered if he had anything in his pocket, a knife. She was sorry she had left her can of mace at the hotel.

‘Leave her alone,' she said, to distract his attention from Zuzka.

The Englishman swung around to face her. She saw his little eyes sparkling with fury in the moonlight. Yet his gaze was blurred with alcohol. So much the better.

‘What d'you say?'

‘Leave us alone,' said Ziegler again, her English shaky but adequate.

She had to get him to come closer.

‘Shut up, bitch! Stay out of this.'

‘Fuck you, bastard,' she replied.

The Englishman's face was distorted; he opened his mouth. Under different circumstances his expression might have looked hilarious.

‘Whaaa d'you say?'

His voice hissed like a snake. She was trembling with rage.

‘Fuck you,' she repeated, very loudly.

She saw the other two move and an alarm bell went off in her mind. Watch out: maybe they weren't as drunk as they seemed; they had managed to grasp, after all, that the situation was evolving.

The chubby little guy moved too; he took a step in her direction. Without knowing it, he had just entered her zone. Make a move, she thought, so intently she wondered if she hadn't said it out loud.
Make a move …

He raised his hand to hit her. In spite of the booze and his excess weight, he was quick. And he was reckoning on the effect of surprise. With anyone else it would have worked – but not Irène. She stepped easily to one side and aimed a kick in the direction of the most vulnerable part of any male. Bingo, bull's eye. The redhead let out a shout and fell to his knees in the black sand. Irène saw one of the other two rush towards her and she was about to deal with him when she saw Zuzka empty her can of mace in his face as he went by. The second Englishman screamed, lifting his hands to his face and bending double. Weighing up the situation, the third man hesitated to get involved. Ziegler turned her attention back to the first. He was already back on his feet; she didn't wait for him to be fully upright but grabbed his wrist and rotated it in a movement she had learned at the academy, twisting his arm behind his back. She didn't stop, now that she had the advantage. If she let them get their wits about them, she and Zuzka would be fucked. Maintaining her momentum, she twisted his arm until a bone cracked somewhere. The redhead let out a roar like an injured animal. She let him go.

‘She broke my arm! Fuck! She broke my arm, that dyke,' he whined, holding his shattered limb.

Ziegler sensed a movement to her right. She turned her head just in time to see a fist come in her direction. The shock made her head fly back and for a split second she felt as if she were being plunged underwater. It was the third yob – he'd eventually made a move. She fell stunned into the sand, and immediately afterwards felt a kick to her ribs. She rolled over to cushion the blow.

She waited for more blows. But to her great surprise, there weren't any. She raised her head and saw that Zuzka had jumped on the back of the third one and was clinging to him. With a quick glance Irène saw the second one was beginning to recover. She got to her feet and rushed to her girlfriend's aid, directing a kick straight into the guy's chest. He collapsed, his breath taken away. Zuzka pushed him over in the sand to get away from him.

The redhead hadn't completely given up. He rushed at Ziegler. This time, he held a blade in his good hand: she saw it gleam in the moonlight for a second. She stood easily to one side, grabbed the Englishman by his broken arm and pulled.

‘Ahhhhhh!' he screamed, falling for the second time.

She let him go. She grabbed Zuzka by the hand.

‘Come on, let's get out of here.'

The next instant they were fleeing, running flat out towards the lights, the music and their scooter.