Bed of Nails (15 page)

*

The forty-eight dossiers were piled up, opened and scattered around on the big table for consultation. Richard Guérin had made notes on them:

—Male, 45, G. Del Pappas. Jumped from window in front of a demo by civil servants, rue de Marseille, June 2006, dossier no. 21. Concierge statement: “A couple not from this building had come out just before that”, blonde woman about forty, no clear description of the man.

—Male, 58, M. Attia. Pistol, one bullet to the heart, at market, boulevard d’Algerie, August 2006, dossier no. 26. Street vendor statement: “There were even people taking photos. A couple of tourists.” Woman in a hat. Man about forty-five. Both well dressed.

—Female, 27, L. Biberfeld. Heroin overdose, January 2007, rue de Solferino, dossier no. 32. Doctor, chance passerby, gave statement: “Tried to revive her, but she’d taken a massive dose, right there in the street, she was on her knees. There was a car parked nearby, but it pulled away when I asked for help. An expensive car, black or dark blue.”

—Female, 47, S. Granotier, cut her wrists, from the circle in the Odéon theatre, September 2007, dossier no. 39. Spectator in the stalls gave a statement: “This blood started to drip on me and a man next to me, he went off covered in blood, middle-aged, unshaven.”

—Male, 32, J.-B.-F. Pouy du Terrebasse. Knocked down by H.G.V., Porte Maillot, 12 April 2008, dossier no. 48. Homeless man, Paco, statement: “two men, one with a beard and a blonde woman”, in a black saloon car. (Cf. video, Renault Vel Satis, car number plate incomplete, but registered in Paris.)

That was all he had found in three hours, from four years’ worth of archives, gone through, forty-eight files, to try to back up his thesis, encouraged by Paco’s witness statement. But even if there had been four people in the car, all with red hair, he would probably have found some kind of supporting evidence in this garbage. Before 2006, he hadn’t been compiling files or following cases: the
interrogations were all botched and useless. He could have called the witnesses again, and perhaps consulted the files on other suicides in the city, the ones he hadn’t handled. But his reputation would complicate life, not to mention the hundreds of hours that it would take.

He added at the end of his notes: “Dossier no. 49, whale skeleton, Natural History Museum, Great Gallery of Evolution, C.C.T.V. and prints awaited. Dossier no. 50. Fakir in 6th arrondissement?”

Six cases. The thread was so thin that he could only see it by straining his eyes. But Guérin was prepared to donate one of his organs to keep it alive. Because it was there, somewhere in the papers, the only possible and necessary link. A certainty, and he would pursue it at the cost of his reason.

Paco’s statement was a point of no return that he had passed calmly, in the crazily lucid fashion … that of a man preparing his own suicide.

The shelves gave off a cynical little whistle as he went by, an infuriating refrain that his parrot would not have disavowed.

In the office, Lambert was snoring, slumped in his chair with his head thrown back. The C.C.T.V. film was running silently on the screen, as the grey silhouettes passed through the glass doors at the Museum. Probably he had looked up at the stain on the ceiling and not managed to wake up after that. The amethyst was quite busy today. The centre was darker, a sign that it had been raining outside their windowless walls for at least an hour. The stain, Guérin realised, had become a little lighter lately. No reason to think that crime had changed its habits. More likely their colleagues were fed up with traipsing up to the attic to dump the clothes there.

“Lambert?”

His deputy grabbed at his holster, without opening his eyes,
“Wha … What?”

Someone knocked at the door. Surprised, Lambert pulled the gun out and levelled it.

“Lambert! Put the gun away!”

Ménard opened the door. He had time to see the automatic going back in its holster and stood stock-still, his hand on the door handle.

“Am I interrupting?”

“No, come in Ménard, everything’s fine.”

Guérin murdered his blond assistant with a look. Lambert rubbed his face.

“Sorry, boss, I was having this dream …”

“Got any results, Ménard?”

The technician came into the room cautiously.

“Thirty-seven identifiable sets of prints. I don’t know what you’re going to do with all this, but that’s not my problem.”

His nose was red, and his neck was muffled in a thick woollen scarf. He put a packet of papers on the table.

“I picked up dozens of samples on the floor too, mostly hairs, but it’s going to take me days to classify and analyse them. Is this some big enquiry, lieutenant? Because if you want quick results, you’ll need more people on the job, I can’t do any more for now. I’m not well again, what with the change in the weather. Is there an enquiry going on? I haven’t heard of anything, nobody in Homicides seems to know. Lambert told me it was serious …”

Ménard was a rubbish-collector both in his job and in the corridors of the quai des Orfèvres. He’d been asking questions, rumours must have started in the offices.
Guérin’s at it again
. The cuttings on the door were just the beginning.

“The suicide in the Natural History Museum had taken out a big life insurance. The family and the insurance company are going to court, over the insanity clause. There’s no rush, the prints will do. If I need any more, but I don’t think it likely, I’ll contact you.”

Ménard listened, lackadaisically, unconvinced.

“Well, it’s your call.”

Lambert stood up.

“Want to go for a coffee, Ménard?”

“Sure, a herbal tea perhaps.”

Guérin placed a hand firmly on Lambert’s shoulder.

“You’re staying right where you are, Lambert.”

No more Mr Nice Guy, the metaphysics of his new future seemed to carry responsibilities and work. Lambert affected not to be bothered.

“Another time, O.K.?”

Ménard looked at them and sniffed.

“Yeah, right, see you.”

Guérin gave a cold smile.

“Thank you. Very efficient work.”

Ménard backed out of the room.

Moment of discretion over. The bollocking Lambert had been expecting for some time fell on his shoulders with all the weight of Guérin’s accumulated anger.

John had left the Luxembourg Gardens by way of the rue de l’Observatoire, passed in front of the Val-de-Grâce and crossed the boulevard Port-Royal. Then he walked along under the wall of the Santé prison without knowing what lay behind it, but imagining the worst: the biggest pile of blackened stone he had seen for a while. When he went past the main gates, Bunker’s warning took on a new meaning. There are some walls you don’t ever escape from.

His bruised stomach was feeling better for the walk. His black eye added to the distrustful glances he attracted. He was a bit fresher after the cold shower though. In his shirt pocket, folded up, was Alan’s last letter, which he had read one last time on a park bench before setting off.

Hey Doc!

What’s new out in the sticks? Guess I’ll come down and see you one day, find the time. Unless you want to come up here? Haven’t you got some call to come to Paris? Find a girl, come and see your old pal? I’m working quite a bit, the Parisians like a bit of S and M, they’re romantics basically. Weird audiences here though, they don’t let themselves go like we do. You got to shake them up a bit, these European types
.

Must be your fault. I’m starting to think about the future, settling down. I’m still at Paty’s, but I need something more
permanent. A place of my own, what do you think?! I’ve got money, don’t need any more John, no need to get your wallet out. I’m clean these days, my head’s clear for once, and that’s your fault too. In fact, let me tell you, you’re the one worries me now. You lead too healthy a life, you need a change. You’re still like in that photo in Venice Beach, a college boy hiding in your mom’s skirts. I do my best, but let’s face it, it’s not easy with a guy like you!

Well, you’re the one who’s good with words, not me. Try reading between the lines here if you get bored, Doc. Then it’ll be like my letter’s longer
.

Remember in Venice, when I told you about the desert? I think I’m getting it all out of me now. For good. I think I’m going to be able to talk about it to other people soon. Is that a good sign, Doc? Man, it’s crazy how much stuff is your fault
.

Watch your ass, Big J., without me around, it’ll rust up
.

Big A
.

Nothing there. Nothing about planning to die. Nothing about Hirsh. Nothing like a goodbye. Just the usual bullshit: I’m clean now, I’m thinking about the future, maybe I’ll be able to talk about it … Nothing, except for some words which took on a new meaning after the visit to the morgue.
A place of my own, something more permanent, my head’s clear for once. Come and see your old pal
. It was a letter like plenty of others he’d received, a mixture of optimistic lies and good intentions, a smile covering a pile of rubbish, and some well-disguised friendship and strong feeling. And always that sense of guilt that Alan tried to transfer to him. This time it did hurt. But apart from that, what was there to read between the lines? Not a lot. The stuff about his ass wasn’t out of the ordinary, that was the way Alan always went on. The letter hadn’t affected him as much he’d expected. But he had not failed to note Paty’s address
on the back of the envelope. That was perhaps the only surprising thing about it since Alan didn’t usually give an address.
Still at Paty’s, find yourself a girl
. He had already mentioned Paty back in the winter. He was playing matchmaker, and again not for the first time. Even if it wasn’t the same thing any more. He thought again about the photograph. Alan, bare-chested, tattooed, smiling, his arm round John’s shoulder. And himself aged twenty-two, a big, blond, baby-faced boy with a crewcut. Behind them the beach, the ocean.

He went up the boulevard Blanqui towards the place d’Italie. A drum roll in the sky told him the weather was changing. A minute later, the sky disgorged a deluge. The pavements were quickly running with water, streams cascaded from above, the gutters were full. He ran towards 78A, and reached it soaked to the skin. Water ran down the names on the entryphone.

Patricia Königsbauer replied after the second buzz. An impatient voice came from the little speaker in a crackle almost drowned by the sound of the rain. Over the door was a dark, cold security camera.

“What do you want?”

“This is John Nichols, I’m a friend of Alan’s.”

Cars went past, sending up waves of water.

“First left inside the courtyard.”

The big metal door opened.

John found himself in a small courtyard, streaming with water, and ran across it. The left-hand door was another metal one, painted white. She opened it for him and he pushed past the woman to get out of the rain, without seeing her.

His shirt smelled of wet dog, an odour quite distinct from the fresh, sweet smell of the paint. A puddle of water was forming at his feet, on a concrete floor stained with colours. The darkness of the thunderstorm that had drowned the city was less oppressive in
this large room, stretching the length of the house, with all the walls and furniture painted white. The canvases too were white, with a few minimalist, electric splashes of colour. One colour per canvas. Some of them had handprints and here and there what looked like the profile of a face. It was an artist’s studio, a great empty space, needed for self-expression, he supposed. There was a small American-style kitchen and in the back wall were three doors, one of them half-open. Through it John glimpsed a futon, a white quilt and a pale carpet.

“Alan told me about you. What are you doing here?”

Patricia had a slight German accent and blonde curly hair. John, remembering the kind of women who were drawn to Alan – intellectuals who took an aesthetic interest in him, or dropouts from the protest counter-culture – wondered which she was.

She was barefoot, and wearing a white paint-stained smock. The top three buttons were undone and below her collarbone light skin showed through; no bra or underclothes. She was tall, taller than the average French woman, with a sturdy, upright bone structure. The Scandinavian type, athletic and fit. He had been living in the woods for six months. A prickling in his thighs made him take a few pointless steps forward. Above the tempting décolleté, her regular features were cold, her eyes hazel and her expression suspicious. All in all, she looked arrogant.

“I went and asked some questions about Alan.” John pointed to the bruises on his face. “Someone told me to get out of town. I was wondering if you knew anything.”

“How did you find me?”

“Alan gave me your address.”

“You thought you could just turn up like that, without notice?”

The blonde’s default position was hostility. A nervous hostility that charm wouldn’t disarm, and which he associated, he didn’t know why, with a brunette. John realised he was facing a girl who
would bite and scratch and make a scene in public: if I make love to you, there’ll be tears, then I’ll kick you out.

“So did Alan have problems, apart from drugs, I mean?”

She dragged a ten-litre tin of paint noisily into the centre of the room.

“Not that I know of. He didn’t say much.”

“But he did tell you about me.”

She looked him up and down scornfully, with blazing eyes.

“So?”

“I mean, were you close?”

“We screwed now and then. You got a problem with that?”

A second tin had now joined the first.

“As a rule, he didn’t stay as much as a few months anywhere. But he stayed a long time with you. Did he ever mention a dealer, someone he owed money to?”

“Alan’s dead. It doesn’t matter now.”

Third tin. She was taking the lids off, without waiting for his answer.

“It does to me.”

She undid the rest of the buttons on the smock and slipped it off. Underneath she was naked. A German-manufactured, ready-made fantasy. A thirteenth calendar girl for Bunker: the house-painter. John was blinded by her golden bush. Perhaps it had been worth having that shave earlier. She held the smock out to him.