The Circle (30 page)

Servaz felt overwhelmed with fatigue. All the excitement of the night had disappeared. All the joy and lightness had evaporated, like champagne.

‘Do you know Paul Lacaze?' he asked, to change the subject.

She hesitated for a moment.

‘What has Paul got to do with any of this?'

He wondered what he ought to say. He couldn't tell her what he had found out.

‘You know everyone in Marsac. What do you know about him?'

She examined him. She had understood it must have something to do with the investigation – and therefore, with Hugo.

‘He's ambitious. Very ambitious. Intelligent. Provocative. He's got his political future all mapped out, on a national level. His wife has cancer.'

She looked closely at him again.

‘You already know all that,' she concluded, still peering at him. ‘Why are you interested in him?'

‘I'm sorry. I can't say anything for the moment. What I'm interested in is not what everyone knows, it's what you know personally, that no one else knows.'

‘What makes you think I would know things that no one else knows?'

‘Because it might help me prove your son's innocence.'

Margot lay flat on her back, and could not sleep for worrying. She kept thinking about the mysterious conversation she had overheard in the maze. She tried to decrypt every word she'd heard. What did Virginie mean when she said that if necessary, they would help her father to understand? There had been a chilling threat in her words. Margot had clearly sensed the presence of danger. She thought she knew them, she thought they were simply the four most brilliant young people at the lycée: Hugo, David, Virginie and Sarah … But that night, she had stumbled upon something which would not leave her in peace. A shadow, a feeling. Vague but insistent. It was there, unspoken, but right at the heart of everything they said. And then there were those words of David's:

We have to call an urgent meeting of the Circle.

The Circle … what circle? The very word had an aura of mystery. She typed out a text to Elias:

They talked about some circle. What is it?

She wondered if he was already asleep, or if he would answer, and then her smartphone made its harp-like sound, and although she had been waiting for it, the sound made her jump.

Not the slightest idea. Important?

I think so.

She waited again for a reply.

In that case, we should start there.

How?

They said Circle meeting on the 17th. We won't let them out of our sight.

Okay. And meanwhile?

Keep watching. Careful, they've seen you.

Once again, she felt ill at ease on reading his final words. She remembered what Sarah had said: ‘We have to be careful ….' She was in the middle of typing,

Okay, see you tomorrow

when her phone vibrated again with a final message:

Be really careful. I mean it. If one of them is the killer, it's bad news. Night.

Margot gazed for a long time at the words on the bright screen. Eventually she switched the phone off and put it on the night table. Then she did something she had never done before: she went to lock the door of their room.

The Stream

It was 7.30 in the morning and Zlatan Jovanovic was observing the other patrons at the Café Richelieu while finishing his cappuccino and croissant. Jovanovic would tell whoever wanted to listen that he could spot an adulterous husband, a bailiff, a flirtatious wife, a cop, a petty thief or a dealer, all in the twinkling of an eye. That customer in his fifties standing at the bar, for example, together with two younger colleagues wearing suits and ties: he had just received a text and was wearing a beatific smile. No message from work or from a long-time spouse could ever elicit that kind of smile on a bloke's face. And the wedding ring on his finger was the old-fashioned kind. Zlatan was willing to bet – from the way that he stood up straight and looked at his two companions with a superior, victorious air – that his mistress was much younger than him, and drop-dead gorgeous. Jovanovic took a sip of his coffee, wiped his upper lip and focused his attention on the bloke. He was typing a quick answer.
He's got it bad
, he thought. The double beep of a text echoed in the room less than a minute later. Hmm, it looked like their affair was going well … Then he caught a brief flash of annoyance in the man's eyes. Oh-ho! Had the young lady decided to move on to the next stage? Perhaps she was pressuring him to leave his wife. And the guy surely didn't want to … It was always the same old story: contrary to received opinion, seventy per cent of divorces were instigated by the wife, not the husband. Men were more cowardly. Jovanovic shrugged, put five euros on the table and got up. It was none of his business – but it was not altogether improbable that someday soon the guy's wife would show up at his office. Marsac was a small town.

He said goodbye to the barman, crossed the street and went into a building on the opposite side. There was one brass plaque by the
front door, and it was his: Z. J
OVANOVIC
, P
RIVATE
D
ETECTIVES
. S
HADOWING
/S
URVEILLANCE
/I
NVESTIGATIONS
. A
T YOUR DISPOSAL
24/7.
REGISTERED WITH THE PREFECTURE
. The plural of the word ‘detective' was a dutiful exaggeration: Jovanovic was the only associate in the office. He had just the one secretary who came two days a week to tidy up his mess. The big sign on the door up on the third floor was more explicit:
UNFAIR COMPETITION INQUIRIES
,
COLLECTION OF EVIDENCE
,
RESEARCH
,
VERIFICATION OF WORK STOPPAGES
,
VERIFICATION OF CVS
,
SOLVENCY INVESTIGATIONS
,
VERIFICATION OF DOCUMENTS
,
MISSING PERSONS SEARCHES
,
WORKPLACE THEFT
,
PHONE
-
TAPPING DETECTION
,
SECURITY AUDITS
,
MATRIMONIAL TRACKING AND SURVEILLANCE
,
SURVEILLANCE OF CHILDREN
'
S FRIENDS AND WHEREABOUTS
.
RATES CALCULATED BASED ON COMPLEXITY OF INVESTIGATION AND ON THE INVESTMENT REQD
.
BY OUR TEAMS
.
WE ARE BOUND BY PROFESSIONAL SECRECY
(
ARTICLE
226-13
OF THE NEW PENAL CODE
),
WE OPERATE IN FRANCE AND ABROAD WITH OUR NETWORK OF PARTNER AGENCIES
,
OUR REPORTS ARE ADMISSIBLE IN A COURT OF LAW
,
OUR DETECTIVES ARE REGISTERED WITH THE PREFECTURE
. Half of this information was bogus, but Zlatan Jovanovic was not sure even a single visitor had ever gone to the trouble of reading the sign to the end. And a good number of his activities would certainly not have obtained the approval of the prefecture.

His appointment was already there. Zlatan caught his breath, and they shook hands. He slipped the key in the lock and gave the door a slight shove with his shoulder to open it. The tiny flat that served as his office smelled of stale tobacco and dust. Zlatan went straight through to the room at the back, a room that was as drab and grey as he was.

‘Where is your team, Zlatan?' asked the voice behind him in a bantering tone. ‘Do you keep them in the broom cupboard?'

Jovanovic didn't respond. To date, the detective had always known how to satisfy this client, with or without a team, and that was all that mattered. And anyway, he did have a partner – even if his partner never set foot in the office.

He lit an unfiltered cigarette and paid no attention to the person opposite him as he shuffled through a pile of papers until eventually he found what he was looking for: a little spiral notebook.

This tool would have caused his sole partner to smile, for the
partner was a man who used neither pencil nor notebook and worked exclusively from home: a computer engineer whom Zlatan had recruited a year earlier. It was in this sector that the agency's sketchiest activities – from a legal standpoint – took place, but they were also the most lucrative: massive theft of electronic data, hacking into private mailboxes, computer piracy, phone tapping … It hadn't taken Zlatan long to figure out that companies had financial resources far superior to those of most individuals, and that he would have to subcontract these assignments to someone who had the skills he lacked. He puffed on his cigarette and listened attentively to the client's aims and objectives. This time, they would be doing more than merely flirting with breaking the law. When his client had finished, he let out a long whistle.

‘I may have just the man you need,' he said finally, ‘but I don't know if he'll go along with it. We will have to be … very convincing.'

‘Money isn't a problem. But I want no traces in writing, anywhere.'

‘That goes without saying. All the information you need will be loaded on to a USB stick, and there will be no copies. Your name will not be mentioned anywhere. No memos, no invoices, no notes, not a trace.'

‘There is always a trace. Computers have an irritating tendency to leave traces.'

Jovanovic took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat that was trickling down his neck. The heat was already stifling and he had no air-conditioning.

‘The computer in this office is used only for ordinary paperwork and nothing else,' he said. ‘It is as virginal as a nun's arse. All confidential tasks are dealt with elsewhere and no one but me knows where. And the person who assists me is ready to destroy everything the moment I give the signal.'

The client seemed satisfied with his answer.

Servaz was woken by a beam of sunlight. He opened his eyes and stretched, looking around him at the room illuminated by the new day. The chocolate-coloured walls, the light furniture and heavy pale grey curtains. Lamps and knickknacks everywhere. For a split second he was totally disoriented.

Marianne came in, wearing her blue satin pyjamas, a tray in her hands. Servaz yawned. He was ravenous as a tiger. He grabbed a
piece of bread and dipped it in his bowl of coffee, then drank some orange juice. She watched him eat in silence, a little smile on her lips. When he had finished, he put the tray down on the bedside rug.

‘Have you got a cigarette?' he said.

He had left his pack in his clothes. Marianne reached for hers, handed him one and lit it. The very next moment, she took his free hand in hers. Her fingers were warm and supple after sleep.

‘Have you thought about what happened last night?'

‘Have you?'

‘No, but I'd like it to continue …'

He said nothing. He wasn't sure what he'd like.

‘You're tense,' she said, with a hand on his chest. ‘What's wrong? Is it because of me? Because of what I told you about you and Francis?'

‘No.'

‘Then what is it?'

He hesitated. Should he tell her? Why not. So he told her about the e-mail he'd received. As well as the image taken by the motorway camera. He merely said it was a man who'd escaped, a man who was trying to get in touch with him.

‘There's something,' he said. ‘I'm not exactly sure what it is … It makes me feel as if I'm being watched. It makes me feel as if someone is following everything I do, as if he knows wherever I go, even anticipates where I'm going to go, as if … I know it seems absurd … as if he could read my mind.'

‘It does seem absurd, indeed.'

‘You see, it's like when you play chess with someone who is much better than you are, and you know that no matter what you do, they already know your moves, as if they were inside your head.'

‘Does it have anything to do with the investigation into Claire?'

He thought again about the CD they had found in her stereo.

‘I don't know … the man escaped from a psychiatric hospital two winters ago.'

‘It's that Swiss guy the newspapers were talking about, isn't it?'

‘Mmm.'

‘Do you think he
has
come back?'

‘Maybe. I don't really know what to think. Or maybe it's me … You're right, I must be getting paranoid. And yet in spite of everything, I do sense something. A plan, a strategy somewhere, and it
concerns me. It's as if I were his puppet. All he has to do is be increasingly provocative – an e-mail here, a little sign there, to get me to react in a certain way.'

‘Is that why you asked me if I'd seen anyone lurking around the house the other evening?'

He nodded. He could see the gleam in Marianne's eyes. He knew what she was thinking: that his old demons were back.

‘You should be careful, Martin.'

‘Do you think I'm going mad?' he asked.

‘Something strange happened, during the night.'

‘Strange in what way?'

He could see her gathering her thoughts, a vertical line between her brows.

‘It was after we made love for the second time. I couldn't get back to sleep. What time was it? Three o'clock in the morning? I got out of bed, I took my cigarettes and went to smoke one out on the balcony.'

He said nothing, waiting for her to continue.

‘I saw a shadow near the lake. I can't be sure, but it seemed as if there were someone behind the trees in the garden. He went along the shore and disappeared into the woods. At the time, I thought it must be an animal. But now I think of it, it couldn't have been. There was someone there.'

He looked at her in silence. It was back, the chilling sensation that someone else was writing the pages of this story in his place, that he was a mere character and the author was in the shadows. Two separate stories: Claire Diemar's murder on the one hand, and Hirtmann's return on the other. Unless … He swung his legs out of the bed and stood up, grabbed his trousers and underwear from the chair, then went out onto the balcony, barefoot.