The Circle Page 4

  Servaz merely nodded.

  ‘I will refer the case to the regional police and call your director at once. Rule number one: no hiding things and no mucking about with procedure. In other words, you’re to take no initiatives without my prior consent.’

  From beneath his prominent brows, Castaing sought a sign of assent. Servaz nodded again.

  ‘Rule number two: everything regarding the press goes through me. No speaking to the journalists. I’ll take care of that.’

  Well, well, he wanted his fifteen minutes, too. With his little formula Andy Warhol had sown the seed of discord, and now everyone wanted to be in the limelight at least once before vanishing: the refs on the pitch, overacting; union leaders taking managers hostage – to defend their jobs, yes, but also to be on the telly; and provincial prosecutors, the minute the camera got switched on.

  ‘No doubt you would have preferred to work with Cathy d’Humières, but you’ll just have to make do with me. I will refer matters to you for the duration, and I’ll start a preliminary investigation as soon as the suspect is brought in. If I’m not satisfied with your work, if it isn’t producing results, or if I am of the opinion that you are not doing enough, I will have the judge take you off the case and put the gendarmerie investigation squad on it. But in the meantime you have carte blanche.’

  He turned on his heels and walked over to his Skoda parked further along.

  ‘Great,’ said Espérandieu. ‘Nice to know he trusts us, isn’t it?’

  ‘At least we know what to expect,’ added Samira, who had just arrived. ‘What level of law court do they have in Auch?’

  She had shown up as they were coming back downstairs, and had not failed to attract the attention of the gendarmes with her Zombies versus Vampires parka.

  ‘It’s a county court …’

  ‘Hmm.’

  He guessed what she was driving at: he was willing to bet that this was the first case of such importance that the prosecutor had had to handle. To make up for his lack of experience, he was asserting his authority. There were times when the law and the police were in step, but sometimes it was as if they were pulling at opposite ends of the same rope.

  They went back inside. The CSI team had arrived; they had put up police tape, switched on their projectors, unwound metres of electric cable, laid down tabs of yellow plastic to indicate possible clues, and they were sweeping the walls with the beam of their special lamps to look for traces of blood, sperm, or God knows what. They came and went between the ground floor, the stairs and the garden, silently, in their white overalls, each one knowing exactly what to do.

  Servaz went into the garden. The rain had slackened off somewhat. But he still felt as if his head were being pounded by it. Marianne’s voice on the telephone was still resonating in his ears. She had told him that Hugo had called to explain he had just woken up in his teacher’s house. His voice was unrecognisable. He had no idea what he was doing there or how he had got there. Sobbing, he told her how he had searched the garden because the French windows were open, and had been astonished to find a collection of dolls floating in the swimming pool. Then he had set about searching the house, one room at a time, one floor after the other. He thought he would pass out when he discovered Claire Diemar’s body in the bath on the top floor. Marianne had explained to Servaz that for at least five minutes her son could do nothing but cry and speak incoherently. Then Hugo had pulled himself together and gone on with his explanations. He had grabbed Claire in the water, shaking her to wake her up while he tried to undo the knots, but they were too tight. And in any case, he could see that she was already dead. Horribly upset, he dragged himself out of the house and to the swimming pool, in the rain. He had no idea how long he’d been out there by the swimming pool, his mind drained of thoughts, before calling his mother. He told her that he felt weird – as if his head were full of fog. That was the expression he had used. As if he’d been drugged … then, while he was still groggy, the gendarmes had shown up and handcuffed him.

  Servaz went over to the swimming pool. A technician was fishing the dolls out with a net. He would catch one, then let it slide into one of the big transparent bags a colleague was holding out. There was something surreal about the scene: the projectors had been switched on, and the dolls’ white, ghostly faces glowed in the harsh light, as did their blue, staring eyes. Except, thought Servaz with a shiver, Claire Diemar’s gaze looked as dead as could be, while the dolls’ gazes seemed strangely alive. Or, to be more exact, their hostility seemed alive … What rubbish. Servaz berated himself for having such thoughts.

  He walked slowly around the pool, careful not to slip on the wet tiles. He sensed something in the victim’s behaviour must have attracted the predator. As in nature, where an animal can picture its prey, and does not hunt by chance.

  Everything about the way the crime had been staged told him that in this case, too, the victim had not been chosen by chance.

  He stopped by the wall that separated the garden from the street and looked up. Above the wall he could see the upper floor of the house across the street. One window looked directly over the swimming pool. That must be where the English neighbour had seen Hugo and the dolls. If Hugo had sat on the other side of the pool, at the foot of the high wall, no one would have seen him. But he had been sitting on the side where Servaz was now standing. Perhaps he hadn’t even thought about it, perhaps he was too stoned, too lost, too distraught after what had just happened to care about anything else. Servaz frowned. There was something not right about the whole business.

  5

  The Hunting of the Snark

  Oliver Winshaw was an old man with eyes as bright as those of a fish straight out of the water. And although it was late, he didn’t seem the least bit tired. Servaz observed that his wife had not said a word, but she never took her eyes off them, and she didn’t miss a thing. Just like her husband, she was anything but sleepy. Two alert old people, who had surely led interesting lives and intended to keep their neurons working as long as possible.

  ‘One more time, just to get this straight, you haven’t noticed anything unusual lately?’

  ‘No. Nothing. I’m sorry.’

  ‘Even something like a man lurking about the house, or someone ringing at your neighbour’s door, a detail you might not have noticed at the time but which, in light of what has just happened, might seem fishy now. Please concentrate, it’s important.’

  ‘I think we are quite aware of how important it is,’ said the woman firmly, speaking for the first time. ‘My husband is trying to help you, Commissioner, you can see that.’

  Servaz looked at Oliver. The old man’s left eyelid was twitching almost imperceptibly. He didn’t bother to correct her use of ‘commissioner’.

  ‘Mrs Winshaw, would you mind leaving me alone with your husband for a moment?’

  The woman’s expression hardened and she parted her lips.

  ‘Look, Commissioner, I—’

  ‘Christine, please,’ said Winshaw.

  Servaz saw that his wife was startled. Apparently she was not used to seeing her husband take charge. There was a touch of alertness in Oliver Winshaw’s voice: he had enjoyed hearing his wife being put in her place, and he liked the idea of finding himself alone among men. Servaz looked at his two assistants and motioned to them to leave the room as well.

  ‘I don’t know if you are allowed to drink while on duty, but I would be glad of a Scotch,’ said the old man when they were alone.

  ‘You won’t tell anyone?’ said Servaz with a smile. ‘Without ice, thank you.’

  Winshaw flashed him a smile yellowed with tannin. He had a gentle, mischievous gaze, and an old man’s thinning hair. Servaz got up and went over to the bookshelf. Paradise Lost, The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Hyperion, The Hunting of the Snark, The Waste Land: row upon row of English poetry.

  ‘Are you interested in poetry, Commandant?’

  Servaz took the glass the old man was holding out to him. T
he first sip went down like fire. It was good, with a very pronounced taste of smoke.

  ‘Only Latin poetry.’

  ‘Did you study it?’

  ‘I studied literature, a long time ago.’

  Winshaw nodded vigorously in approval.

  ‘Only poetry can tell of man’s inability to understand the meaning of our passage on earth,’ he said. ‘And yet, when given the choice, humankind always prefers football to Victor Hugo.’

  ‘What, you don’t like sport?’ said Servaz teasingly.

  ‘Bread and circuses. Nothing very new about that. At least the gladiators put their lives at risk, and that gave them an altogether different allure than these kids in shorts running after a ball. The stadium is only an exaggerated version of the schoolyard.’

  ‘Plutarch said, “Nor is it good to scorn physical exercise”,’ said Servaz.

  ‘Then let’s drink to Plutarch’s health.’

  ‘Claire Diemar was a beautiful woman, wasn’t she?’

  Oliver Winshaw paused with his glass a few inches from his lips. His pale, gentle gaze seemed to retreat somewhere far from the room.

  ‘Very.’

  ‘As much as that?’

  ‘You saw her, didn’t you? Unless … Don’t tell me that she … that she …’

  ‘Let’s just say that she wasn’t looking her best.’

  The old man’s gaze clouded over.

  ‘Oh, Lord … Here we are joking and drinking, with what just happened right over the road …’

  ‘Did you watch her?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Over the wall, when she was in her garden, did you watch her?’

  ‘What are you getting at, for goodness’ sake?’

  ‘She sunbathed: that was obvious from her tan lines. She must have walked around her garden. Stretched out on the deckchair. Gone swimming, I would imagine. A beautiful woman … There must have been times when you noticed her without meaning to, as you walked by your window.’

  ‘Rubbish! Don’t beat about the bush, Commandant. You want to know if I was a bit of a voyeur?’

  Oliver Winshaw was not at a loss for words. He shrugged.

  ‘Then let me tell you: Yes, I did occasionally watch her. And so what? She had one hell of an arse, if that’s what you want to hear. And she knew it.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘That girl wasn’t born yesterday, Commandant, believe me.’

  ‘Did she have visitors?’

  ‘Yes. A few.’

  ‘People you knew?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘None of them?’

  ‘No. She didn’t associate with the locals. But I had already seen that boy.’

  The old man looked Servaz straight in the eyes, clearly enjoying the interest he aroused in the policeman.

  ‘You mean that he had already come to see her?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘A week ago. I saw them together in the garden. They were talking.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m not senile, Commandant.’

  ‘And any other times? Were there other occasions?’

  ‘Yes, I had already seen him before.’

  ‘How many times?’

  ‘I would say at least a dozen. Not to mention the times I must have missed him. I’m not always at my window.’

  Servaz was convinced that wasn’t true.

  ‘Were they always out in the garden?’

  ‘I don’t know … I don’t think so, no … Once or twice, he must have rung the bell and they stayed inside. But don’t go thinking I’m insinuating anything.’

  ‘How did they behave towards each other? Did they seem to be … intimate?’

  ‘Like lovers, you mean? No … maybe … Honestly, I really don’t know. If you’re looking for juicy details, you’ll have to ask someone else.’

  ‘Had it been going on for long?’

  The old man shrugged.

  ‘Did you know that he was one of her students?’

  This time there was a spark in the old man’s eye.

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  He took a swallow of his whisky.

  ‘And doesn’t that seem odd, a student who visits his teacher when she is at home alone? A teacher who is that beautiful?’

  ‘It’s not for me to judge.’

  ‘Do you talk with your neighbours, Mr Winshaw? Were there any rumours about her?’

  ‘Rumours? In a town like Marsac? What do you think? I hardly speak with the neighbours: that’s Christine’s job. She’s much more sociable than I am, if you see what I mean. You’ll have to ask her that.’

  ‘Had you ever been inside her house, you and your wife?’

  ‘Yes. When she moved in, we invited her for coffee. She returned the invitation, but only once, probably out of politeness.’

  ‘Do you recall whether she collected dolls?’

  ‘Yes. My wife used to be a psychologist. I remember very well that when we came home, she voiced a theory about the dolls.’

  ‘What sort of theory?’

  Winshaw told him.

  At least the riddle about the origin of the dolls had been solved. Servaz had no more questions. He looked at a small table where three books lay open: a Torah, a Koran and the Bible.

  ‘Are you interested in religion?’ he asked.

  Winshaw smiled. He took a sip of his whisky, his eyes twinkling mischievously above his glass.

  ‘It’s fascinating, don’t you think? Religion, I mean. How these lies can blind so many people. You know what I call this table?’

  Servaz raised an eyebrow.

  ‘“The stupid bastards’ corner”.’

  6

  Amicus Plato sed major amicus veritas

  Servaz dropped a coin into the coffee machine and pressed the button for an Americano with sugar. He had read somewhere that, contrary to popular belief, there was more caffeine in ‘long’ coffees than in espressos. The cup fell sideways from the dispenser, half the liquid spilled to one side and he waited in vain for the sugar and the stir stick.

  He drank it down all the same, to the last drop.

  Then he crumpled the cup and tossed it in the bin.

  Finally, he went through the door.

  The gendarmerie in Marsac did not have an interview room, so they had set aside a little meeting room on the first floor. Servaz immediately noticed the location of the window and frowned. The prime danger in this sort of situation was not so much that the suspect might attempt to escape, but rather commit suicide, if he felt driven to it. Even if it seemed highly unlikely that he would throw himself from the first-floor window, Servaz didn’t want to take any chances.

  ‘Close the shutters,’ he said to Vincent.

  Samira had opened her laptop and was preparing the statement, noting the time they had begun. Then she swivelled it so she’d be able to film the suspect. Once again, Servaz felt behind the times. Every day his young assistants reminded him how quickly the world was changing and how maladjusted he was. He reflected that some day soon the Koreans or the Chinese would invent robot-investigators and he would be put out to pasture. The robots would be equipped with lie detectors and lasers that could detect the slightest inflection in the voice or movement of the eye. They would be infallible and emotionless. But lawyers would probably find a way to ban them.

  ‘What the fuck are they doing?’ he asked, annoyed.

  Just then the door opened and Bécker came in with Hugo. The boy wasn’t wearing handcuffs. Servaz observed him. He seemed absent. And tired. He wondered whether the gendarmes had already tried to interrogate him.

  ‘Have a seat,’ said the captain.

  ‘Has he seen a lawyer?’

  Bécker shook his head.

  ‘He hasn’t said a word since we took him in.’

  ‘But you did remind him that he had the right to see one?’

  The gendarme shot him a nasty look and handed him a typed sheet of paper wit
hout bothering to reply. Servaz read, ‘Has not requested a lawyer.’ He sat down at the table opposite the boy. Bécker went to stand near the door. Servaz told himself that since Hugo’s mother already knew he was here, there was no one else he needed to inform.

  ‘Your name is Hugo Bokhanowsky,’ he began, ‘and you were born on 20 July 1992, in Marsac.’

  No reaction. Servaz read the next line. And gave a start.

  ‘You are in the second year of literary preparatory classes at the lycée in Marsac …’

  Hugo would be eighteen in one month. And he was already taking the advanced preparatory classes. A very intelligent boy … He wasn’t in the same class as Margot – who was in the first year – but he was nevertheless at the same school. Which meant there was a good chance that Margot had also had Claire Diemar as a teacher. He made a note to ask her.

  ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  No reaction. Servaz turned to Vincent.

  ‘Go and get him a coffee and a glass of water.’

  Espérandieu stood up. Servaz looked closely at the young man. He was keeping his eyes down and his hands wedged tightly and defensively between his knees.

  He’s scared shitless.

  He was slim, with the sort of good looks that girls go for, his hair cut so short that it formed a light, silky down on his round skull, which shone in the neon light. A three-day beard. He was wearing a T-shirt advertising an American university.

  ‘Do you realise that everything seems to point to your guilt? You were found at Claire Diemar’s house the same evening she was assaulted in a particularly barbaric fashion. According to the report I have here, you were clearly under the influence of alcohol and drugs at that time.’

  He looked closely at Hugo. The boy didn’t move. Perhaps he was still under the influence of the narcotics.

  ‘Your footprints were found all over the house.’

  Hugo said nothing.

  ‘With traces of mud and grass from your shoes after you had been in the garden.’

  Still no response.

  Servaz looked questioningly at Bécker, who answered with a shrug.

  ‘Identical traces were discovered on the stairs and in the bathroom where Claire Diemar was found murdered.’