Bed of Nails (22 page)

Guérin’s notebook had not come out. Lambert was making some awkward jottings in his pocket diary. The two policemen were mournful, tired presences, communicating their gloom to anyone else in the parking lot not already depressed. Lambert muttered a few words of sympathy without conviction. They moved off, while the voice of the woman, now hanging onto the arm of a haggard fireman, echoed through the underground garage. Their departure made the atmosphere lift a little

Lambert, dark circles under his eyes, stuffed his hands in his pockets, dragging his trainers on the concrete floor.

“Back to the office, or will I take you home?” he asked, not really believing the day was over.

The boss wasn’t listening.

It was getting dark outside. The stitches looked like flies on his cheeks.

Guérin called Enquiries from the car.

Address and phone number, Frédéric Roman, Clamart.

The mobile beeped and a text appeared.

“Clamart, rue Barbusse, No. 13, Lambert.”

Lambert did not reply or ask what they were doing.

They took cover in the southern suburb of Clamart, in a street lined with bungalows. 9.00 p.m. Guérin remembered reading Henri Barbusse’s book,
Under Fire
. Images of the trenches and of bombs tearing bodies to pieces came back to him. Pacifists make the best war reporters and monks the best writers about love.

A light was on in Roman’s house.

Guérin tapped a number into his mobile.

“
Yeah?
”

“Guérin here.”

“…
What do you want?
”

“Savane left a note. We need to talk.”

“
Fuck off
.”

“Either me or the disciplinary tribunal”.

“…”

“In my office, in an hour.”

“
What about Berlion?
”

“Looking for a scapegoat already? Savane not enough for you?”

“…
You can’t touch me
.”

“One hour.”

Roman emerged from the house ten minutes later, pulling on his leather jacket. He got into his car and drove off at speed.

Guérin put on the gloves.

“Keep watch, Lambert. Call me if you see him coming back.”

*

He had about an hour. Time for Roman to get to 36 quai des Orfèvres, realise he’d been fooled, and come back. The garden gate was still open. It was a modest bungalow, bought for immediate occupancy ten years ago, the householder’s pride having faded somewhat now. Guérin peered through the window of the living room and checked out the inside doors. No alarms. Noticing a decorative brick on the ground by a dead lilac bush, he decided not to bother with his locksmith tools and used a quicker and not too damaging alternative. He placed his cap against one of the panes, and hit it with the brick. The broken glass fell on the carpet. He put his hand inside and opened the catch.

Roman’s place was a mess, when inspected by torchlight. Living-room: racks for D.V.D.s, American action movies or French comedies. A locked wooden desk. Empty beer cans on a low table, a shabby sofa. He broke open the door of the desk. Porn films, locked away from the kids. Guérin felt around among the D.V.D.s, turned over cushions, opened drawers. He had a whole house to search, at least in the obvious places, hoping Roman wasn’t a genius at hiding stuff. And that the photographs were still there. Drinks cupboard, look behind the bottles. Nothing in the sitting room. Kitchen: the neglected kitchen of a divorced man. Cupboards, drawers, on the units, under them, under the sink. The pool of light flickered hesitantly from place to place. Nothing in the kitchen. What about the hall? A cupboard with concertina doors.

More clutter, work tools, a sawn-off shotgun and cartridges, knuckledusters, copies of
Playboy
and
Target
, a new Browning rifle, a Mauser survival knife, well sharpened. Bullets, cleaning stuff. Old shoes, rusty secateurs, gardening gloves, and a dusty box of toys. Nothing. Guérin put the claw back in his pocket and carried on, knife in one hand, torch in the other. W.C. stinking of piss. Nothing in the tank.

Main bedroom. The stuffy smell of dirty sheets, feet. Under
the mattress, in the wardrobe, under the bed: more porn mags. A framed poster, Dirty Harry under glass. What a cretin. Look behind the frame. Nothing. Cut up the mattress, open up the pillows, Nothing. Carpet, use the knife. Nothing. Guérin was sweating now. Spare bedroom. Bunk beds. Kids’ room, neat and tidy. Toys in a chest, plastic guns, childish drawings pinned to the wall, Walt Disney duvets on the bed ends. Photos on the bedside table. Two boys, aged about eight and ten. Miniature versions of their father. Graceless, tough-looking. The family was low of brow. The room was orderly and dust lay thick. The kids didn’t visit often. Look round, cut up the mattresses, with some reluctance. But nothing. Roman at least had the decency not to hide photographs of corpses in the kids’ bedroom. Bathroom. Rancid towels, peeling wallpaper, patches of damp. Guérin looked at his watch. Half an hour already. Dirty linen, shelves, cupboards. Nothing. Under the washbasin, behind the bath, nothing under the bath. Ventilator grill. Knife out again. No, nothing behind it.

Back to the sitting room, open up the sofa. Nothing. Carpet, attacked again with the knife. Nothing. Back to the kitchen. Fitted cooker. More and more frantic, Guérin pulled the oven from its fitting. Nothing behind it, nothing inside. Moved the fridge, holding the torch between his teeth. No, nothing behind it. Had Savane got it wrong? Roman must have got rid of the photographs. Forty-five minutes. The kitchen smelled of grease, cooking oil, unwashed dishes. There was bound to be an attic, maybe a cellar as well. Guérin exhaled deeply.

*

9.30 p.m., 16th arrondissement. John put the visiting card back in his pocket.

He rang the bell of the building in the rue de Longchamp several times, waiting two minutes. No reply from Hirsh’s flat. He
hadn’t really expected it. He hesitated, then pressed the concierge’s bell three times. The big wooden door swung open a few centimetres and an old woman’s eye moved up and down behind the crack of light.

“What is it?”

“I’m sorry to bother you so late, but I was looking for Mr Hirsh.”

“He’s not here. Are you from the embassy?”

John exaggerated his accent.

“Yeah, that’s right, I’m a colleague of Mr Hirsh’s.”

The concierge opened the door a bit wider. Dressing gown, slippers, smell of vegetable soup wafting out.

“Would you be Monsieur Trapper?”

John cleared his throat and smiled broadly.

“That’s
right
!”

“He told me you’d be round.”

“Ah. Good.”

“He left something for you.”

The old woman disappeared, behind the door, went into her lodge which she had left open, and brought out an envelope. She had glasses on now and scrutinised John before handing it to him.

“What do you do in the embassy?”

“I’m in the cultural service, I, erm … deal with artists.”

“Ah, I thought so. You don’t look like the others. We’ve got two more people from the embassy in this house. Lots of them in the area. Here it is.”

She passed him a white envelope. Handwritten:
John Trapper
. John smiled again and pocketed it as naturally as he could.

“Tell me, Madame, when did Mr Hirsh leave?”

The old woman’s white eyebrows shot up above the spectacles.

“Didn’t you know?”

“I knew he was leaving, but not so soon.”

“He went the day before yesterday. Some people came to fetch
his things today, removers. Two hours, and that was it, all done. He said he was going back to America. Promotion or something, but he didn’t look happy to be going. I think he’ll miss Paris. What a nice man, I’m going to miss—”

“Thank you so much, Madame. Goodnight.”

John read the letter as he walked back.

Mr Nichols,

As you will have gathered, my situation has become impossible in Paris. I have to go back to the States. My career’s on the line, but I’m going to try to do what seems important from now on
.

Alan asked me to send a letter to your address in the Lot, in case anything happened to him. I didn’t realise then what it was he wanted to talk about. I should tell you that I posted it after we’d met at the embassy. A letter for you, from Alan. I don’t even know if you’re still in Paris, so perhaps you’re already back home and have got the letter by now. Never mind, it’s almost funny, even in these circumstances, to be getting out of town and leaving a mystery message. I hope you read this note that I’m giving my concierge to keep for you as a last resort, since I can’t reach you
.

Alan talked a lot about you, and I’m sorry I didn’t get to know you better. I couldn’t talk to anyone, except to Secretary Frazer, and that was not an enjoyable interview, about my love for your friend. It was a tragedy, but now I think, after all, that he must have wanted it that way. The letter to you makes me think he was preparing his death. You knew him better than I did, so maybe you will understand better
.

Forgive my little trick over your name, just a precaution
.

Goodbye

FH

Alan certainly had a gift for casting. The lucidity of the torturer. John smiled wryly as he thought about the young diplomat. He hadn’t really understood what he was getting into. A cheap thrill, slumming it with a hippy masochist. A little rebellion against Uncle Sam’s establishment. He’d had a dodgy love affair while under the influence, but he’d played his part in it too. Hirsh would surely get over it.

His mobile rang. He jumped. Cold sweat. The screen lit up in the dark kitchen. Unknown caller.

Not Lambert, then. Roman? If the worst came to the worst, he could play for time. He breathed in and pressed
reply
.

“Lieutenant Guérin?”

“Yes.”

“John Nichols.”

“
Who?
”

“John, we met at the airport, Alan Mustgrave’s friend.”

“I can’t talk now.”

“I’ve got to see you.”

“I haven’t got time.”

“We’ve got to meet.”

“I’ll call you back.”

“I don’t have a mob …”

Guérin had switched off, furious and high on adrenalin. Minutes lost, huge fatigue and nerves on edge. His hour would soon be up. The house had been turned upside down. And now Nichols and his masochistic pal were blundering into the Kowalski sewer. He put the torch down, and rested both hands on the work surface. He breathed in with his stomach, giving himself a minute to collect his thoughts. Sweat was forming on the bald cranium and trickling down into his eyes. The acrid smell mingled with the odour of stale fat. He shone the torch on the hood over the hob, and pressed the on switch.

The extractor fan didn’t work. He jumped back and dropped the knife. The blade bounced on the tiled floor and shrill tones suddenly burst on his ears. The mobile again. Still not Lambert. He waited for it to stop ringing and picked up the knife, his heart pounding furiously. He pulled the grid out of the hood. Sticking to the grease-drenched filter was a plastic bag, and inside it a big brown envelope. He slipped his hand inside, teeth clenched on the metal torch.

His mobile registered yet another message and the wretched beep made him jump again. Yes. This was it. Colour photographs. Corpses laid out in the morgue for autopsy. Kowalski. Abruptly, Guérin vomited, a burning stream that sent the torch skittering across the kitchen floor. He ran from the room, skidding on the pool of sick on the floor, jumped out of the sitting-room window, and got into the car with Lambert. He collapsed on the seat, deathly pale, clutching the envelope in his trembling hands.

Lambert, alarmed, put his foot down.

“Where to, boss?”

“Your place.”

Guérin listened to the message on his mobile in a daze. It was the American again.

“
Lieutenant, it’s John again. I’m in a phone booth. I’ll wait half an hour. Please call back, it’s urgent
.”

“Nichols?”

“Yes.”

“What do you want?”

“I’ve got to see you, now.”

“Where are you?”

“Lambert, go to rue de la Pompe metro station, we’re picking up the American.”

“Boss, what’s all this about. What were you getting from Roman’s place?”

“Evidence, my son, that the worst is always yet to come.”

“And this hippy, this American, what’s he got to do with it?”

On the avenue de Paris, they met Roman coming the other way, sirens screaming. Lambert shrank back on his seat.

*

John got into the back of the car. No-one spoke. Lambert let him close his door and then drove on. John noticed the stitches on Guérin’s cheek but asked no questions. Their faces were starting to match.

“So, Monsieur Nichols, you went on searching. And what did you find?”

“Alan’s got nothing to do with your case.”

“Still just as sure of yourself, are you?”

“There are people after
me
now, the same ones who were after Alan, but they’ve got nothing to do with your investigation.”

“So why are you here?”

“Alan was blackmailing Frazer, the secretary in the embassy. Frazer headed up this unit in Kuwait in ’91. A specialist in interrogations. His real name’s Lundquist, and he was with the C.I.A. Alan was one of his men, a protégé. I think Frazer used Boukrissi, the dealer, to kill Alan.”

Lambert sighed deeply. The American was even nuttier than his boss.

In Lambert’s bedsit, there was no room for the three of them to squeeze in alongside the immense T.V. screen. Twenty square metres, including the shower, the kitchen units and the hot-water tank. They remained standing, as the young man brought out a folding chair from a cupboard.

Twelfth floor, a fantastic view through the only window onto the City of Clouds estate in Nanterre. Tower blocks with round sides like they built in the seventies, decorated with trompe-l’oeil skies and clouds, in faded tones of red and blue. Magical under a grey, half-full moon. At the foot of the tower blocks, gangs of youths were fooling about and smoking under the street lights. The lamps were wreathed in mist, like vaporous islands on which the teenagers were huddled.