The Circle (58 page)

‘Yep?' said a voice on the intercom after twenty seconds or so.

‘Mr Jovanovic?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘My name is Irène Ziegler and I'd like to make use of your services.'

‘We're closed. Come back Monday.'

‘I'd like someone to tail my husband. I know you're not cheap, but I'm prepared to pay whatever it takes. Please give me fifteen minutes.'

For a few seconds, there was silence, broken by the crackling of the intercom, then the lock clicked open and she pushed against the
door. She was in a tiny apartment which smelled of stale tobacco. There was a light at the end of the corridor so she went towards it. Zlatan Jovanovic was locking some documents in a safe. An old-fashioned model, not much better than a cupboard. It would take a real professional only one minute to force it open. She understood that the safe was only there to impress the clients. He must do this with every new arrival: the trick of putting the documents in the safe. Important things would be elsewhere, probably encrypted on a computer. He closed the heavy door and turned the cylinder lock. Then he collapsed into his office swivel chair.

‘Go ahead.'

‘That's a good one, the trick with the safe. I'm impressed.'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘It's sort of old-fashioned, that model, isn't it? I know at least twenty people who could open it blindfolded with one hand tied behind their back.'

The man's eyes narrowed.

‘You're not here about a fickle husband.'

‘How observant.'

‘And who are you?'

‘Does the name Drissa Kanté mean anything to you?'

‘Never heard of him.'

He was lying. The tiniest retraction of his pupils. In spite of his poker face, the name was like a slap.

‘Listen, Zlatan – you don't mind if I call you Zlatan? – I don't have much time to waste, so if we could dispense with the preliminaries …'

She took a USB stick out of her pocket and slid it across the desk to him.

‘Does this look like the memory stick you gave Kanté?'

He didn't even look at it. He was staring at her.

‘Let me repeat the question: who are you?' he said.

‘The person who's going to have you sent down if you don't answer me.'

‘My activity here is legal, I'm registered with the prefecture.'

‘And installing spyware on police computers, that's fine with them, I suppose?'

Again, the blow struck home. But only for a tiny fraction of a second. He must be a very good poker player.

‘I don't know what you're talking about.'

‘Five years in jail: that's what you've got coming to you. I'm going to request an identity parade. We'll see whether Kanté identifies you. Besides, we have a witness: a friend of his followed you and wrote down your number plate. Not to mention the owner of the café, who saw you with him several times. Seems rather a lot, don't you think? You know what's going to happen? The examining magistrate will request a remand in custody, and the magistrate for custody and release will decide your case. It will take him only ten seconds and a quick glance at your file. Believe me, it won't be a moral dilemma. You will be locked up for sure.'

He wiggled on his chair, and gave her a black look. Despite his disdainful manner she saw a familiar gleam: fear.

‘You seem nervous all of a sudden.'

‘What do you want?'

‘The name of your client. The one who asked you to spy on Commandant Servaz.'

‘If I tell you, my business will be fucked.'

‘You think you'll be able to conduct your business from inside? Your client is a murderer. Do you want to be charged as an accessory to murder?'

‘And what do I get in exchange?'

She took a deep breath. She had no trump card: no orders, no warrant. If this got out, she would be dismissed for sure.

‘I just want a name. That's all. If I get it, I leave and we wipe the slate clean. No one will know a thing.'

He opened a drawer in his desk and she recoiled slightly. His big paw rummaged inside. She watched him, ready to jump. His hand came back out with a cardboard folder, which he set down in front of her. She noticed that he bit his fingernails.

‘In here.'

Standing in the rain, Lacaze gazed at the entrance to the new courts of law. It was already several minutes past eight, and he wondered if the man he was looking for would still be in his office.

The new law courts had opened a few months earlier. The architects had preserved the original maze of old buildings and courtyards around the rue des Fleurs, but they had extended the listed building with very modern additions, an artificial eloquence of glass, brick,
concrete and steel. Lacaze thought the concept reflected, unintentionally, the state of justice in this country: an ultramodern facade and entrance hall masking the dilapidation and lack of funds behind it.

An attempt at modernisation that was doomed to fail.

He had to empty his pockets onto a little table before going through the metal detector. After that, he walked across a lobby dominated by a lofty glass ceiling, and turned left, passing the doors that led to the courtrooms. Just beyond them a woman was standing. He needed a badge to go further and he didn't have one.

‘Thank you for waiting for me,' he said.

‘Are you sure he'll still be there?' asked the woman, scanning her badge and pushing open the bulletproof door.

‘I was told he worked late.'

‘Naturally you won't tell him I'm the one who let you in.'

‘Don't worry.'

Servaz heard the door to his room open and for a moment, he was truly apprehensive.

‘Good God,' came Cathy d'Humières' powerful voice. ‘How do you manage it, constantly getting yourself in these situations?'

‘It's not as bad as it looks,' he smiled, relieved.

‘I know. I've just seen the doctors. If you could see yourself, Martin. You look like that Italian actor in that film from the sixties …
Oedipus Rex
…'

His smile turned to a grin and he felt his cheeks pulling on the large bandage wrapped around his temples and forehead.

‘Coffee, boss?' said another voice, and he recognised his assistant.

He held out his hand and Espérandieu pressed a warm coffee into it.

‘I thought visits weren't allowed after eight p.m.,' he said. ‘What time is it?'

‘8.17,' said Vincent. ‘Special dispensation.'

‘I won't stay long,' said the prosecutor. ‘You have to get some rest. Are you sure the coffee is a good idea? I gather they just gave you a sedative.'

‘Uh-huh.'

He had wanted to refuse, but the nurse left him no choice. He didn't need to see her to understand that she wasn't joking. The coffee was remarkably bad, but his throat was dry; he would have drunk anything.

‘Martin, I'm here as a friend. This investigation is under the exclusive jurisdiction of the county court in Auch, but between you and me, Lieutenant Espérandieu explained what's going on. If I've got it right, you think the same murderer killed all those people over the last few years because of the coach accident. And that would be the motive?'

He nodded.
They were so close
… That was where they had to look: the Circle, the accident, the death of the fire chief and of the coach driver … It was right there. But deep down, he still had doubts. It had come to him while they were on their way to the lake and getting ready to dive. There was something wrong. A piece of the puzzle that didn't fit with any of the others. Except that he couldn't put his finger on it, and his headache didn't help matters.

‘I'm sorry,' he said, to avoid answering. ‘I've got a horrible headache.'

‘Of course,' said Cathy d'Humières apologetically. ‘We'll talk about all this when you feel better. In the meantime, we've had no sign of Hirtmann,' she said, changing the subject. ‘There ought to be an agent outside your door.'

He shuddered. Apparently, everyone wanted him guarded.

‘It's pointless. No one knows I'm here, other than the emergency team, and a few gendarmes.'

‘Yes. Well. Hirtmann has popped up more than once, after all. I don't like it, Martin. I don't like it one bit.'

‘I have a buzzer next to my bed, if need be.'

‘I'll stay for a while,' interrupted Espérandieu. ‘Just in case.'

‘Fine. If you're up and about tomorrow, we'll go over everything in detail. We'll give you a white cane if we have to,' she said, opening the door to his room.

He made an evasive little gesture with his hand.

‘Goodnight, Martin.'

‘You're not actually going to spend the night here, are you?' he asked Vincent when the door had closed.

He heard the scraping of a chair being moved.

‘Would you rather have a nurse? In any case, in your state, you wouldn't even know what she looked like.'

Ziegler closed the folder. Zlatan Jovanovich was staring at her from the other side of the desk. There was a gleam in his eyes that hadn't
been there earlier. He had had plenty of time to think while she was reading. Did he really believe she would leave and draw a line under everything he had done? Maybe he was thinking that she hadn't shown him any official documents. Suddenly she was on her guard.

‘I'll be taking this with me,' she said, pointing to the folder.

He merely stared at her. She stood up. He did likewise. She looked at his hands hanging down next to his body. Drissa Kanté was right: he must weigh at least twenty stone. He walked slowly around the desk. She stayed still, waiting for him to go ahead of her, ready to dodge if he jumped her. He did nothing of the sort, however. He merely walked down the dark corridor. As she followed him, staring at his wide back, she put one hand in the pocket of her jacket where she kept her weapon, when all of a sudden he disappeared through an open door on the right. She didn't have time to react. She could see the darkness beyond the door. She grabbed her gun, removed the safety catch, and chambered a round.

‘Jovanovic! Don't be stupid! Show yourself!'

She had her gun ready now. She stared at the dark doorway, less than a metre away. She froze. She didn't want to go any further. She didn't want twenty stone worth of flesh to burst out of the shadow, his fists coming down on her like sledgehammers.

‘Come out of there right now, for fuck's sake! I won't hesitate to shoot, Zlatan!'

Nothing. Jesus Christ!
Think!
He was probably just around the corner, waiting in ambush, with a club or even a gun. She held her weapon in both hands, as she'd been taught. She took the top hand from her grip and moved it slowly towards the pocket containing her iPhone.

Suddenly she heard a click from the other side of the room: the light went out and the apartment was plunged into darkness. A glow of lightning briefly illuminated the corridor, followed by a boom of thunder outside, and then everything returned to darkness. The only source of light were the street lamps and the neon of a café downstairs. The rain was streaming down the windows, drawing shadows that slid across the floor like black snakes. She could feel her nervousness growing. From the start, she had known she was dealing with someone experienced. She had no idea what this guy had done before becoming a private detective, but she was sure he knew all
the tricks of the trade. She thought of what Zuzka would say in such circumstances: ‘Not looking good.'

Judge Sartet was about to lock the door to his office when the footsteps in the corridor caught his attention.

‘How did you get in here?'

‘Have you forgotten I'm an MP?' replied the visitor.

‘These law courts are a complete sieve. I don't think we had an appointment. And my day is over. To the best of my knowledge your immunity has been withdrawn, Monsieur Lacaze,' he added. ‘So don't worry, I will listen to you when the time comes: I haven't finished with you.'

‘This won't take long.'

The judge had difficulty hiding his exasperation. All the same, these politicians. They thought they were above the law, they went on about how they were serving the country or the state but in fact they were only serving themselves.

‘What do you want?' he asked, not even trying to be polite. ‘I don't have time for games.'

‘I want to confess.'

Thunder and lightning rattled the windows. The phone vibrated at the same time and he gave a violent start. Servaz stuck out his hand, groping to find his mobile on the night table, but Espérandieu was quicker.

‘No, I'm his assistant. Yes, he's right here. Yes, I'll pass you over.'

Vincent put the phone in his hand and went out into the corridor.

‘Hello?'

‘Martin? Where are you?'

Marianne's voice.

‘In hospital.'

‘In hospital?' She seemed genuinely frightened. ‘What happened?'

He told her.

‘Oh, my God! Do you want me to come and see you?'

‘No more visits as of eight o'clock,' he replied. ‘Tomorrow, if you like. Are you alone?' he added.

‘Yes, why?'

‘Lock your door and close your shutters. And don't let anyone in, all right?'

‘Martin, you're frightening me.'

I'm afraid, too
, he almost answered.
I'm scared shitless. Get out of there. Don't stay alone in that empty house. Go and sleep somewhere else until we find that fucking maniac
…

‘You have no reason to be afraid,' he said. ‘But still, do as I said.'

‘I heard from the prosecutor's office,' she told him. ‘Hugo gets out tomorrow. He was weeping when I spoke to him. I hope this experience won't have …'

She didn't finish her sentence. He could sense her relief, her joy and her fear, all at the same time.

‘What do you say to a celebration, the three of us?'