The Circle (59 page)

‘Marianne, don't you think that … that it's a bit premature? After all, I'm also the cop who locked him up.'

‘Maybe you're right.' He could hear her disappointment. ‘Later, then.'

He hesitated.

‘This dinner … does that mean that …?'

‘The past is the past, Martin. But “future” is a fine word too, don't you think? Do you remember that language we invented? Just the two of us?'

Of course he remembered. He gulped. Felt his eyes misting over. It was probably the effect of the medication, all this emotion …

‘Yes … yes … of course,' he answered, his throat tight. ‘How could I have—'

‘
Guldendreams
, Martin,' said the voice on the other end of the line. ‘Look after yourself, please. I … We'll talk soon.'

Five minutes later his mobile vibrated again. Again, Espérandieu answered before passing him the phone.

‘Commandant Servaz?'

He immediately recognised the young voice. Even though the tone was totally different from the last time he had heard it.

‘My mother just called. They've told me I'll be released first thing tomorrow morning, and they've dropped all the charges against me.'

Servaz could hear the usual prison sounds behind the voice, even at this time of the evening.

‘I wanted to thank you.'

He felt himself blushing. He had just done his job. But Hugo seemed very moved.

‘Uh … You did a great job,' he said. ‘I know how much I owe you.'

‘The investigation isn't over,' Servaz hastened to point out.

‘Yes, I know, you have another lead, I've heard … the coach accident?'

‘You were there, too, Hugo. I'd like us to talk about it. As soon as you have the strength, of course. I know it's not easy, that it's not a pleasant memory. But I need you to tell me everything that happened that night.'

‘Of course. I understand. Do you think the murderer might be one of the survivors?'

‘Or the parent of one of the victims,' said Servaz. ‘We found out …' He hesitated. ‘We found out that the coach driver was also murdered. Just like Claire and Elvis Elmaz, and probably the fire chief. It can't be a coincidence. We're very close.'

‘Gosh,' murmured Hugo. ‘I might even know him …'

‘Yes, you might.'

‘I don't want to disturb you any longer. You should rest. Just remember I'll be eternally grateful for what you did. Goodnight, Martin.'

Servaz put the phone down on the night table. He felt strangely moved.

‘If I understand correctly,' said the judge, stunned, his fingers linked beneath his chin, ‘you were in Paris, in the company of the likely future presidential candidate for the opposition on the evening Claire Diemar was killed.'

The magistrate was no longer in the slightest hurry to go home.

Paul Lacaze nodded. ‘That's right. That night I was on the motorway. My chauffeur can confirm it.'

‘And, naturally, there are other people besides him who could confirm it, if need be? This member of the opposition, for example? Or someone in his immediate entourage?'

‘If it becomes absolutely necessary. But I hope it won't.'

‘Why didn't you say anything?'

Lacaze gave a sad smile. The building had emptied and the corridors were silent. They looked like two conspirators. Which, ultimately, is what they were.

‘You do realise that if this gets out, my political career will be over. And you know as well as I do that there is no secrecy in this country,
that everything always ends up in the papers. So you see that it was extremely difficult for me to talk about it here or at the police station.'

Sartet clenched his jaw. He didn't like it when someone questioned the integrity of representatives of the law.

‘But by running the risk of being indicted, you also put your career in jeopardy.'

‘I didn't have time. I had to react, and choose between the two evils. Obviously, I couldn't know that my meeting would be on the same night as … as what happened. And that's why you have to find the culprit as quickly as possible, your Honour. Because that way I'll be cleared, and those who suggested I might be guilty will be discredited, and I'll be able to resume my place as the politician of integrity whom others sought to destroy.'

‘But why have you told me all this now?'

‘Because it's my understanding that you have another lead … this business with the accident …'

The judge frowned. Lacaze was clearly well informed.

‘And?'

‘That means it might not be necessary to keep a record of this informal meeting we've had. And I don't see any clerks about,' said Lacaze.

Sartet in turn gave a vague smile. ‘Hence the late hour of your visit …'

‘I trust you implicitly, your Honour,' insisted Lacaze. ‘But only you. I don't trust the people around you nearly as much.'

Sartet smiled at this rather vulgar flattery but it did have an effect. He was equally flattered to find himself – a minor examining magistrate – in the middle of what might be termed an Affair of State.

‘Your relationship with Diemar has begun to filter into the press,' he pointed out. ‘That could also be harmful to your career. Particularly given your wife's condition.'

Lacaze's brow creased, but he banished the argument with one hand.

‘It'll be far less harmful, however, than murder or collusion with the opposition,' he replied. ‘And the press will get its hands on the letter I wrote to Claire not long before her death. It says that I had decided to break off our relationship to devote myself entirely to my wife. I should point out that I really did write this letter. It's perfectly genuine. I just hadn't planned to make it public.'

Sartet shot him a look of disgust mingled with admiration.

‘Just tell me one thing. The reason for this high-risk meeting with the opposition – was it to imitate Chirac's move in 1981? You come to an understanding with the probable opposition candidate for the presidency, and you ensure that a great many votes from your party will go to him in the second round. That way, five years later, you stand against him.'

‘It's no longer 1981,' corrected Lacaze. ‘The people in my party won't vote for the opposition unless – perhaps – his economic policies are reasonable and he has already proved himself elsewhere. And if they disapprove of the policies of our current president. I'm afraid he has no chance to be re-elected.'

‘This assumes, all the same, that the person you met last Friday will definitely be selected as the candidate,' said the magistrate, who seemed to be enjoying himself more and more. ‘Two years from now …'

Lacaze smiled back at him.

‘That's a risk I can take.'

There was a knock at the door. Servaz turned his head in that direction. He could hear Vincent moving on his chair.

‘Oh, excuse me,' said a young man's voice. ‘I came to see if he was asleep.'

‘No problem,' said Espérandieu.

The door closed again. Espérandieu went back across the room and the chair creaked when he sat down. There was less noise now in the corridors.

‘Who was that?'

‘A nurse, or an intern …'

‘Go home,' he said.

‘No, it's fine, I can stay.'

‘Who's looking after Margot?'

‘Samira and Pujol. And two gendarmes.'

‘Go and join them. You'll be more useful there.'

‘Are you sure?'

‘If Hirtmann wants to get at me, it's Margot he'll attack.' His voice quivered. ‘He doesn't even know I'm here. Besides, he would rather attack a woman. I'm worried, Vincent. Worried about Margot. I'll feel easier if you're there with Samira.'

‘And the person who fired at you, have you thought about them?'

‘Same thing. They don't know I'm here. And shooting someone at night in the middle of the woods is not the same as doing it in a hospital.'

He could tell his assistant was thinking.

‘All right. You can count on me. I won't let Margot out of my sight.'

Espérandieu took Servaz's hand and put his mobile phone in it.

‘Just in case,' he said.

‘Okay. Get going. Tell me when you get there. And thanks.'

He heard the door close and the silence fall. Beyond the window echoes of thunder reverberated throughout the sky. They seemed to be calling to each other, surrounding the hospital.

The shrill blast of a car horn sounded in the street. Ziegler sensed movement behind her. She understood that he'd gone around to get her from behind, and waited until there was some noise to move. She turned round. Too late. The punch hit her temple with a violence that made her fall to her knees, stunned. Her ears were ringing. She had scarcely had time to turn her head to cushion the blow.

Then she felt a kick in the ribs, her lungs emptied and she rolled on the floor. There came another kick in the stomach, but she had curled into herself, her hands around her head, her knees up, and her elbows close to protect herself, so he only partially reached his target. Then came another shower of furious blows.

‘Filthy bitch! You really thought you could fuck me over like that? What do you take me for, stupid cow?'

He went on insulting her, spluttering, as he hit her. The pain was atrocious. He bent down, grabbed her by the hair and banged her face against the floor. Her vision was invaded by a cloud of black dots, and for a moment she thought she would pass out. He grabbed her by the ankles, turned her over, even though she was lashing out, and fell with all his weight on to her, crushing her to the floor, one knee in the hollow of her back. He twisted her arms behind her and she felt him putting thin plastic handcuffs on her wrists, which he tightened until they were biting painfully into her flesh.

‘Fuck! Do you understand what I'm going to have to do now? Do you understand, you stupid bitch?'

His voice was enraged and whiny at the same time. He could have killed her right then. But he was still hesitating: killing a cop was one hell of a step to take, a decision that required some reflection. Perhaps she was still in with just a tiny chance …

‘Don't be stupid, Zlatan!' she cried. ‘Kanté knows all about it, and so do my superiors. If you kill me, you'll be sent down for life!'

‘Shut it!'

He gave her another kick, not as hard this time, but it was somewhere he'd already struck and she winced with pain.

‘You're really taking me for a fool, aren't you? You didn't even get out your badge. And you're not on assignment. I'll take care of Kanté. Who else knows about this?'

He kicked her again. She clenched her teeth.

‘You don't want to talk? No problem: I've dealt with tougher ones than you.'

He spat on the floor. Then he leaned down, searched her pockets, took her iPhone and her gun, and went back to his office, leaving her handcuffed and frantic in the middle of the corridor.

Servaz wasn't asleep. He simply couldn't fall asleep. Too many questions. Caffeine was galloping through his veins, along with the sedative the nurse had given him – and he didn't know which one out of the arabica, the adrenaline and the bromazepam would be first over the finish line.

All he could hear was the storm outside and from time to time footsteps outside the door to his room. He had tried to imagine what the room was like, but he couldn't. He felt completely helpless.

He stared at the void in front of him and let his thoughts come.

The discovery of the corpse in the Mercedes was the proof that his assumption was right: the murders were connected to the coach accident. The fire chief's fight with the homeless men had, in all likelihood, been staged. The men had never been found. The murderer or murderers had been very clever: it would be difficult or even impossible for an investigator to find a connection between a fight that went wrong in Toulouse and a disappearance
100
kilometres away, three years later. Not to mention the fact that other cases might come to light, concerning other people involved in that tragic night.

But there was still something wrong.

The nagging feeling he'd had earlier was back. There was something that wasn't clear.
If these were murders and not accidents, the driver's and fire chief's deaths were carefully disguised. But not Claire Diemar's
…

The painkiller they had forced him to take was beginning to work. His head was spinning. It seemed in the end that Sister Morphine stood the best chance of winning. He cursed the doctors, nurses and all the medical staff. He wanted to stay lucid. All these doubts were blossoming in him, like a poisonous flower. Claire Diemar had been killed in a way that connected her, beyond the shadow of a doubt, to the coach accident.
The torch in her throat, the lit bath, even the dolls in the swimming pool
… But this was the first time that the murderer had wanted to make the link. Claire's death very clearly evoked the accident. And it testified to the murderer's rage at the moment he committed the crime. His lack of control.

Suddenly everything fell into place. Why had it taken him all this time to see what had been right in front of him from the start? He recalled how he'd felt at the very beginning of the investigation, when he found the cigarette butts in Claire's garden. How he'd had the unpleasant impression that he was watching a magician's trick:
someone wanted to make him look the wrong way.
He had sensed the presence of a hidden shadow moving behind the drama, unbeknownst to all. Except that now, he knew. He felt a wave of nausea. He hoped he was wrong, prayed that he was. He was still staring out at his room without seeing it. The thunder in his ears was incessant. In the same manner, the thought came back to him. Why hadn't he seen it sooner? No one was better positioned than he was to understand. He had to warn Vincent. Immediately. And the magistrate.