The Circle (52 page)

‘You suppose right.'

‘I think you should take better care of your health,' said the doctor as he jabbed him with the needle.

Servaz was holding a cup of coffee in his free hand.

‘What do you mean?'

‘How old are you?'

‘Forty-one.'

‘Well, it's time, I think, to take better care of yourself,' he said. ‘If you don't want to have any nasty surprises.'

‘I still don't understand.'

‘You don't do much in the way of exercise, do you? Take my advice and think about it. Come and see me … when you have time.'

And he left, no doubt with the conviction that he would never see this particular patient again.

Servaz looked around the table. He summed up his conversation with Van Acker, along with the latest findings: the negative result of the graphological comparison, and the photos he'd found in Elvis's attic.

‘Even if your friend didn't write in the notebook, that doesn't automatically prove his innocence,' Sartet pointed out. ‘He knew the victims, and he had both the opportunity and the motive. Given that, to top it off, he was getting his drugs from that dealer, it seems we have enough to take him into custody. But I'd like to remind you that I requested the withdrawal of Paul Lacaze's parliamentary immunity. So, what do we do?'

‘It would be a waste of time. I'm convinced it's not Van Acker.' Servaz hesitated. ‘Nor do I believe that Paul Lacaze is guilty,' he added.

‘Why is that?'

‘For one thing because you already had your eye on him. What good would it do him to set a trap for me at this stage, when he
refuses to say where he was the evening Claire Diemar was killed? It makes no sense. And he wasn't among Elvis's blackmail victims, he's not in his little catalogue of photos.'

‘But he did lie about where he'd been and when.'

‘Because if word got out about whatever he was doing that evening, his political career would be over.'

‘Maybe he's gay,' suggested Pujol.

‘Do you have any idea what the reason might be?' asked Sartet, ignoring Pujol's remark.

‘Not the slightest.'

‘One thing's for certain …' Sartet began.

They looked at him.

‘If someone shoots at you, it's because you're on to the truth. And that person will stop at nothing.'

‘We already knew that,' said Pujol.

‘Moreover,' Sartet continued, turning conspicuously to address Servaz, ‘Hugo Bokhanowsky's lawyer has reiterated his request for his release. As of tomorrow, the magistrate for custody is going to examine his request. In all likelihood he will meet the defence halfway. Given the present status of the case, I see no reason to keep the young man in detention.'

Servaz refrained from saying that he would have released him a while ago. His thoughts were elsewhere. All the theories he had put together were collapsing. Hirtmann, Lacaze, Van Acker. The magistrate and the murderer were both wrong: they were not getting closer to the truth. They were getting farther away. They hadn't been this clueless since the beginning of the investigation. Unless … Servaz looked at them thoughtfully. Unless he
had
come very close, without realising. How else could he explain the fact that he'd been shot at? In which case he would have to go over the different stages of the investigation one by one, painstakingly, to determine when he might have been on the verge of uncovering the murderer – and had frightened him into taking a risk like that.

‘I still can't get over it,' said Sartet suddenly.

Servaz glanced at him questioningly.

‘How we made such fools of ourselves.'

Servaz wondered what he was talking about.

‘I have never seen a French team play so badly! And if it's true what happened in the changing room during half time, it's unbelievable.'

A murmur of general disapproval greeted his remark. That's right, thought Servaz, there had been a ‘decisive' match earlier that evening. France-Mexico, if memory served. He couldn't believe his ears. It was two o'clock in the morning, he had nearly died – and they were talking about football!

‘What happened in the changing room?' asked Espérandieu.

Maybe a bomb had exploded, blowing half the team to bits? wondered Servaz. Or one player had killed another? Or the despised manager had committed hara-kiri in front of them?

‘They say Anelka insulted Domenech,' said Pujol, his tone one of deep shock.

Servaz was stunned. Every day, in police stations and in the street, cops were insulted. It simply proved that the French team was a true reflection of society.

‘Anelka, wasn't he the player who was sent off last time?'

Pujol nodded.

‘Why did they let him play again if he's so bad?' Servaz asked.

Everyone looked at him as if he had asked an excellent question. And as if the answer were almost as important as finding the murderer.

Surrounded

The refrains of ‘Singin' in the Rain' penetrated her sleepy consciousness. Before she was wrenched from her dream, Ziegler had a fleeting vision of Malcolm McDowell wearing a derby hat, singing and dancing, and kicking her. Her mobile phone was ringing. She rolled over onto her stomach and reached with a groan towards the night table. An unfamiliar voice.

‘Captain Ziegler?'

‘Speaking. For God's sake, what time is—'

‘I, uh, this is Monsieur Kanté. Listen, I … I'm sorry to wake you, but I have something important to tell you. It's really important, Captain. I couldn't sleep. I – I figured I had to tell you. But if I don't do it now, I won't have the courage later on …'

She switched on the lamp. The clock radio said 2.32. What had got into him? His voice was that of a man who was tense, but determined.

‘Tell me what, Monsieur Kanté?'

‘The truth.'

She sat up straight.

‘What do you mean?'

‘I lied to you, this evening. I – I was afraid. Afraid the man might find a way to take revenge, that if you arrest him I'll be judged, too – and deported. Is your deal still on?'

Her pulse began to race.

‘I gave you my word,' she said finally, as he remained silent. ‘No one will know a thing. But I'll have my eye on you, Kanté.'

She could tell he was weighing every word. But he had called her; he had already made his decision. She waited patiently, feeling her fingertips pulse as they squeezed the phone.

‘They are not all like you,' he said. ‘What if one of your colleagues spills the beans? I trust you, but not them.'

‘Your name won't appear anywhere. I promise. And I'm the only one who knows it. You called me, Kanté. So out with it. Because there's no going back: I won't leave you alone now.'

‘That man. He doesn't have a Sicilian accent.'

‘I – I'm not sure I know what you mean.'

‘I told you he had an accent, an Italian accent, don't you remember?'

‘Yes. And?'

‘I lied to you. He has an accent from Eastern Europe, a Slavic accent.'

She frowned.

‘Are you sure?'

‘Yes. Believe me, I've come across a lot of people during my … travels.'

‘Thank you … but you're not calling me at this time of night just to tell me that, are you?'

‘No, that's not all. I – I had him followed. He thinks he's so clever. But I'm smarter than him. Yesterday, when I gave him back the USB stick, I asked one of my girlfriends to follow him when he left the café. He was parked far away and he was being careful, but my girlfriend is careful, too. She knows how to make herself invisible. She saw him get into a car. And she wrote down the number plate.'

Ziegler sat bolt upright. She leaned over to grab a pen.

‘Go ahead, Kanté, I'm listening.'

It was two o'clock in the morning by the time Margot got back to her room, exhausted and on edge. She wondered if she had just lived through the craziest night of her life. She wondered, too, if what they had seen up there by the lake was real. And if it was important. She was convinced it was. She couldn't explain why, but that spectacle had made a deeply disturbing impression on her, of something sinister, of impending catastrophe. And there had been David's threats, and his attempted rape, the note left on her locker …

Then there was what had happened with Elias in the car. His attitude all of a sudden. Until this evening, she would never have thought that Elias could be attracted to her – he hadn't even looked at her the night she had opened her door in her underwear. And until this evening, she had never felt drawn to him. She remembered, too, the anger in his eyes after she slapped him. She was sorry she
had done it. It would have been enough to push him away, without humiliating him. The return trip had been long and tiresome; Elias had walled himself up in silence, and avoided looking at her.

She thought again of their kiss. A forced kiss, a strategic kiss – but a kiss all the same. A year earlier, she had had a lover her father's age, very experienced. Married with two children. He had broken off their affair suddenly and without explanation, and she suspected her father had had something to do with it. She had had three affairs since then. Altogether she had been with half a dozen men. With the exception of her first calamitous experience aged fourteen, Elias was certainly the least experienced of them all. She could tell from the way he had kissed her. So why did she want to repeat the experience as soon as possible?

She understood that the stress, excitement and fear they had shared had something to do with it. But that wasn't the only explanation. He might be clumsy, his behaviour was strange and unpredictable, but despite all that, she realised that she fancied him. Then her thoughts turned to something else.

She had to tell her father.

One way or another, what they had seen had something to do with what had happened to her teacher. She had to concentrate on that. She was tormented by an inexplicable feeling of urgency. Why didn't he return her call? Her thoughts were all over the place. Her father, Elias … She pictured Elias in his room, moping, and suddenly she felt she had to let him know that she was not indifferent about what had happened. She picked up her phone and keyed a message:

Are you there?

She waited a long time for the answer:

?

Meet me downstairs, in the hall

?

I have something to tell you

Don't feel like it

Please

What do you want?

I'll tell you there

Can't it wait?

No. It's important. I know I hurt you. I'm asking you as a friend

No answer.

Elias?

OK

She got up, hurried to the sink to splash some water on her face, and went out. He wasn't there when she got to the bottom of the steps and she was beginning to wonder if he was going to come when at last he appeared, his expression inscrutable.

‘What do you want?' he said.

She wondered where to begin, tried to find something to say, and then suddenly she knew. She went up to him, very close, and kissed him. He did not respond. She felt him stiffen, cold as marble, but she continued until he melted, took her in his arms.

‘Forgive me,' she murmured.

She was looking deep in his eyes when her phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it, but it went on buzzing. Elias pulled away before she did.

‘Sorry,' she said.

She looked at the screen. Her father …
Shit!
She was sure that if she didn't answer, he would show up or send Samira.

‘Dad?'

‘Did I wake you up?'

‘Uh … no.'

‘Okay. I'm on my way.'

‘Now?'

‘You said you had something important to tell me. I'm sorry, sweetheart, but I couldn't get away before. Some … some stuff happened tonight.'

Don't I know it.

‘I'll be there in five minutes,' he added.

He gave her no time to respond. He had hung up.

David had always thought of death as a friend. A close companion. It had been with him for so long. Unlike most people, not only was he not afraid of death, he saw it sometimes as a possible spouse. To marry death … it was a romantic notion, but he liked it. He knew that there was a name for what he suffered from.
Depression.
A word that was almost as frightening as
cancer.
And he owed it to his father and his older brother. To the black seed they had planted in his brain very early on by making him understand, day after day, year after year, that he was the failure in the family, the ugly duckling. Even the most inept psychologist could have read his childhood like a book. A distant, authoritarian father who reigned over tens of thousands of workers; a big brother, the heir, who had chosen his father's side very early in life; a little brother who had drowned accidentally in the family swimming pool when David was supposed to be looking after him; a self-obsessed mother, locked away in her little inner world. By the time he was seventeen, his mother had sent him to every therapist in the region – but his depression did not go away. There were times when he managed to keep it at bay, when it was nothing more than a vaguely threatening shadow on a sunny afternoon, where he could laugh, and mean it – but there were other times when the shadows overwhelmed him, like now, and he dreaded the day they would not release him from their embrace.

Yes, death was an option. The only one – he knew – that could rid him of the shadow.

Particularly if it could be used to get the only brother he had ever had out of prison. Hugo. Hugo had shown David that his father did not deserve admiration, that his blood brother was an idiot. Hugo had made him understand that there was no reason to envy them, that making money was a very ordinary talent. It wasn't enough, of course. But it had helped. When Hugo was around, David felt the melancholy loosen its grip. However, Hugo's time in prison had made him aware of a fact that up to now he had preferred to ignore: Hugo would not always be there. Sooner or later he would go away. And on that day, the depression would come back more avid, more famished, more cruel than it had ever been. On that day it would
devour him whole, and spit out his empty soul like a little pile of bones. He could already sense its presence, hovering impatiently above him. He had not the slightest doubt: it was sure of victory. He would never be rid of it. It would have the last word. So why wait?