Bed of Nails (11 page)

The Nigerians had decided to make an example of the killers. Two examples. Eyes, tongues and genitals cut out, limbs slashed and crushed, probably with large hammers. One of them had been dead on arrival at A. and E., the other one’s heart was still beating when they loaded him into the ambulance. A fantastic day’s work.

Eighteen and twenty years old. Two kids from Gennevilliers, petty criminals, small-time dealers. The third would turn up at a police station any minute and stretch out his own hands for the handcuffs. Unless he was already on his way to Spain or on the ferry to Algeria. The accuracy of the scenario he had imagined
frightened him. These autopsies obliged him to have confidence in his judgement once more.

Guérin felt a moment’s concern for Savane, wondering just how far Roman, his big buddy, would be pushing his pal in deeper in order to get out himself; then the impression that something was hanging in the office atmosphere brought him out of his thought.

“What did you say, young Lambert?”

The telephone began to ring with an arrogant sense of timing. Guérin let it ring a few times. For the first time in two years, he didn’t want to pick it up.

Slowly and deliberately, he put the receiver to his ear. He listened with an intense expression, then stood up. Lambert pointed like a gun dog.

“Boss, your coat.”

At the foot of the staircase, while Lambert was describing Ménard’s phone call a second time, he saw the boss lift the lid of a dustbin. He thought the boss looked pretty smart in the new overcoat, even when he was half swallowed up inside a dustbin. Guérin brought out a large box file without any label, and tucked it under his arm.

When Lambert heard the boss muttering that he wasn’t mad, he rubbed his hands and savoured the cool morning air.

Guérin put the box on the back seat. A smell of rotting vegetables filled the car and escaped through the window, which Lambert opened, whistling his favourite tune.

“Where to, boss?”

“Well, young Lambert, it wasn’t clear. But I’d say between avenue Churchill and the esplanade of the Invalides.”

“Off we go then.” Lambert thought for a moment and frowned.

“But, boss, between the avenue Churchill and the Invalides it’s the Seine.”

“Precisely.”

Lambert shrugged and moved off into the traffic, pulling down the sun-visor.

Guérin got out his mobile and punched in a number. Voicemail.

“Savane, look here, kid, if you need to talk, give me a call.”

His assistant did a spectacular U-turn, saluted by a chorus of hooting.

Between the Invalides and the avenue Churchill there was a bridge: the Pont Alexandre III.

They arrived via the right bank, pushing through the chaotic traffic. The bridge was sealed off, and at each end drivers had been transformed into a furious audience.

Sometimes they didn’t know whether it was a joke being played on them by their colleagues, or a mistake by the switchboard, but they were sent to a suicide that hadn’t quite ended. Someone vomiting in an ambulance, a clerk locked inside a toilet at work, having cut his veins, a drunk in his sitting room with a gun in his mouth, shouting at his wife. At any rate, the two psychiatrists attached to the police were overstretched and rarely got there in time. They might just as well have sent anyone, for a joke or by mistake. The most frequent cases were people jumping out of high windows. Looking down gave you more time to think than a bullet, and was more frightening than pills. It was a surprising paradox: would-be suicides, who suddenly realised they were scared of heights.

The two policemen plunged into the crowd, waving their badges over their heads.

The firemen, who were probably also victims of misinformation, or of some bad joke, were standing around looking stupid with an inflatable mattress. The man hadn’t jumped yet, true, but when he did it would be into the water.

Alone, in the middle of the widest bridge in Paris, a man was clinging on to the column of a gilded lamp post. He looked
grotesque, ashamed and terrified, and no-one in the crowd around him seemed to be taking his wish to die seriously. A burst of laughter might be enough to make him jump.

They made their way towards the centre of the police cordon, a group of about ten men: uniformed city police, lacking any sort of coordination. The information had certainly been misleading. Guérin approached a portly constable.

“Have they contacted the River Brigade?”

“They’re sending a crew, and they also have to stop the boat traffic. But it seems they’re still dealing with an accident at Joinville. It’ll take them half an hour to get here.”

“The psychiatric service?”

“I think they’re trying to get hold of them. But it’s chaos over there, we were called for a road accident and the firemen were told it was someone jumping from a window.”

Lambert added calmly, “And we were told to come and pick up a corpse.”

Guérin ignored the policeman’s laughter.

“Has he said anything?”

A puzzled look: “Just that he wants to jump.”

“Who’s the senior officer here?”

The man pointed to a young man in uniform in the middle of the light-blue tunics. He looked less cheerful than the others and, unlike everyone else, did not seem to be waiting eagerly for the guy to jump. Auburn-haired with a moustache and a square jaw, he gave an impression of wrestling with a tide of entropic stupidity.

“I’m from H.Q. Lieutenant Guérin. I’ll take over, if you don’t object.”

The young officer nodded, relieved to have found someone who was keeping calm.

“You’ll have to get all these people to move back. Can you do that?”

Guérin was watching the man on the bridge all the time, as he spoke.

“Yeah, we’ll manage, I’ve radioed for a traffic patrol to come and back us up. But this lot is going to make it even more difficult.”

The officer frowned as he saw the first T.V. vans start to arrive. He had a voice like a foghorn, booming from his flat muscular stomach.

“If the River Brigade is late, try the firemen. They have divers too, and they might be able to act quickly. If need be, requisition a pleasure boat and pump up the mattress on it.”

The young man raised his eyebrows before he realised that Lieutenant Guérin was serious.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s your name?”

“Gittard, Brigadier-Major, 8th arrondissement.”

The 8th was well-known for its
savoir-vivre
– probably because it was in an elegant district, and had a splendid set of offices in a wing of the Grand Palais. The officer looked at Guérin as if he had suddenly made a connection between a face and an idea, and added in a confidential tone:

“The Kowalski affair, that was you, wasn’t it? Not everybody went for the official version, lieutenant. I worked with Kowalski once, good at his job, but my God, what a pervert. He was completely insane. And I’m not the only one who thinks that.”

Completely insane
. Guérin had a sudden internal vertigo, a rush of different thoughts, and felt a surge of warmth shoot though his body, making the scratches on his head itch under his cap. He gave a grateful smile to the policeman, embarrassed by this show of solidarity. The last thing he wanted was to become the pretext for clan warfare. But Gittard was sincere, so he was not about to reject a little support.

“Thanks. But let’s get on with this business.”

Lambert, hands on hips, was looking doubtfully at the candidate for the high jump. The man hadn’t let go of the column, and kept turning his head one way then the other, towards the crowd and towards the choppy waters of the Seine. He was on the downstream side of the parapet, and still clinging to the lamp post which was being lit up by a ray of sunshine.

“Lambert, go and help Brigadier-Major Gittard and his men to keep the crowd back. And take care of the journalists first. Hey, kid, wake up.”

Lambert shook himself and approached. He shook Gittard by the hand, gave a big smile and unzipped his jacket (Brazil national colours today). The Beretta, in its ill-fitting holster, looked enormous on his narrow chest.

“I’m Lambert, I’m the junior at Suicides.”

Gittard looked anxious, then smiled as if out of bravado at something unaccustomed. Guérin had turned towards the bridge with its sole occupant.

“I’m going to talk to him. Try and keep the others calm, Gittard. Who’s at the other end?”

“Leduc, he’s my colleague, a safe pair of hands.”

Gittard was indeed a clansman.

“Well, tell him the same thing. And contact the River Brigade, tell them or anyone else who comes up by boat not to make themselves too conspicuous.”

“Are you really going to talk to him?”

“Is there any other solution? As long as he doesn’t get too stressed, he shouldn’t jump.”

Guérin looked at his watch.

“At this time of day nobody jumps into the Seine. If a boat starts approaching, make a sign like this” – Guérin made a wavy motion with his hand. “And wait till I give a signal before you make
any move.” He tapped his cap. “Just a few men in plain clothes. Even better if you’ve got a woman you can use. The softly softly approach. Get it, Gittard? Thanks.”

Guérin had dictated his orders in the tones of one making his will. Gittard had taken it all in, though he looked puzzled at the reference to the time of day.

Guérin went forward on to the bridge, between the newly regilded Pegasus statues on the right bank, representing Commerce and Industry. With his dark overcoat and tartan cap, he looked like a character out of a Le Carré novel, about to cross over from one side to the other, betraying himself and carrying the secrets which would bring about his downfall. His small dark silhouette, with its drooping shoulders, attracted the attention of the crowd.

As he walked on, the silence spread. The sounds of the city fell away, the rumble of voices stopped and the sound of the rushing current under his feet sounded louder. Now he could see the other two Pegasus statues, Arts and Sciences. Framing the Invalides esplanade like a set of gates.

The man had seen him approach and was fidgeting nervously. He swayed away from the edge then back to the balustrade, but kept hold of the lamp post. Finally, he let go with one arm and pointed it at the little man in the woollen cap.

“Stop! Stay where you are! Stop!”

He was beside himself with loneliness, but refusing to admit it. Guérin, standing twenty metres away, had to call out loudly to be heard.

“I just want to talk to you. I promise not to touch you.”

Guérin looked towards the right bank. The security cordon had moved back a dozen metres, further accentuating the impression of solitude on the bridge. Gittard had not yet made the sign like a fish in water.

“This is the thing, I’ve got a parrot called Churchill, like the avenue over there. Churchill hates all human beings.”

Guérin could make out the man’s features now. About forty, about 1 metre 80, short thick hair, greying a little at the temples. He was dressed like a mobile phone salesman, in casual business clothes. He had something perhaps of an Armenian about him, or a Kabyle: of mixed race perhaps? His arm was still stretched out towards Guérin, and his lips were moving silently, searching for an impossible reply. Guérin moved about ten paces closer. The man was pale and trembling with fear. He had freckles and Guérin decided he was probably a Kabyle.

“He’s about your age. And a bachelor. He used to belong to my mother, and I grew up with him. He was the man of the house. Well, the only one who was there all the time. Churchill was her favourite politician, because after the war he said the time of great men had passed and now it was the age of dwarfs. My mother was a prostitute, and she agreed with him. Churchill was a kind of guard dog. He’s not really dangerous, but he has a lot of character. I was too small. Do you know what my parrot thinks? He’s never said so, but it’s obvious: he thinks the only species on earth you could wipe out without creating problems is the human race. If earthworms became extinct, life would disappear from the face of the earth. But without us, everything would be better. What do
you
think?”

The man stuttered, blinking.

“Why, why you talking about a bird? I’m in trouble, monsieur. I’m going to chuck myself in the water. Can’t you see? I’m in trouble!”

He was becoming hysterical, but still clutching the column with all his might.

“It’s not any old bird, it’s a macaw. A big parrot. From Mexico. In the old days, before we had antibiotics, parrots used to live
longer than humans. He thinks the same as you just now, that’s why I’m talking about him.”

“How do you know what I’m thinking! I don’t know you! You don’t know anything about me!”

“Shh. I know everything. No need to shout.”

The man remained openmouthed. Guérin moved to within five metres, sure now that he wouldn’t jump.

“Stop there!”

Unless he had a sudden reflex that was … The man had suddenly let go of the column, and flung himself against the balustrade. Guérin wondered, curiously, whether death might be a reflex.

But the man’s knees were buckling. He bent almost in half, twining his arms round the steel guard rail.

“Talk to me, then … What do you know?”

Guérin put his hands in his pockets and started speaking slowly, using the manner of a lawyer talking to a family about the last will and testament of the deceased.

“For starters, I know that this bridge is named after Alexander III of Russia, and it was inaugurated in May 1900 for the World’s Fair. The president was there, Loubet his name was, and plenty of ministers. The Third Republic liked this kind of big show. The bridge is a good example of the kind of over-the-top ugly stuff they built then. I wouldn’t have picked this one, in case you’re interested. It was designed at the same time as the Grand and Petit Palais, but they’re much better buildings. Do you know what these three monuments have in common?”

Guérin stopped. “What’s your name, by the way?”

“Alex. Alex Monkachi, What are you on about? Oh God, what are you talking about? I’m not well, I’m going to be sick. What am I up here for? Why are you telling me all this?”