Camille (27 page)

No-one named Forestier. Maybe Anne’s daughter is married? Or maybe she uses her father’s surname? Instead he searches by first name. There are several Agathas and a handful of Agatas, but only two Agathes and one Agate. Three C.V.s.

Agathe Thompson, twenty-seven, Canadian. Agathe Lendro, twenty-three, Argentinian. Agathe Jackson, American. No-one from France.

No Anne and now no Agathe.

Camille considers running a search for Anne’s father.

“He managed to get himself elected treasurer of about forty different organisations. One day he emptied every one of the accounts, and no-one ever saw him again.”

Anne laughed when she told him the story, but it was a strange laugh. With so little information, it would be difficult to track him down. He was a shopkeeper, but what did he sell? Where did he live? When did all this happen? Too many unknowns.

This leaves Anne’s brother, Nathan. It is impossible that a researcher (what was his field? – astrophysics, something like that), who by definition has published scientific papers, would not be mentioned somewhere on the internet. Camille struggles to breathe as he waits for the search to complete.

No research scientist named Nathan Forestier, not anywhere. The closest match is Nathan Forest, a New Zealander aged seventy-three.

Camille changes tack again, he scours the travel agencies in Lyons and in Paris . . . By the time he finally runs a trace on Anne’s landline number, the tingling between his shoulder blades has stopped. He already knows what he will find. It is a foregone conclusion.

The number is unlisted, he has to circumvent the system, it is time-consuming but not particularly difficult.

The landline is leased to Maryse Roman, 26, rue de la Fontaine-au-roi. In other words, Anne’s apartment belongs to her next-door neighbour and everything is in her name, probably because everything belongs to her: the telephone line, the furniture, even the bookcase with its improbable selection of books.

Anne is renting a furnished apartment.

Camille could make further inquiries, he could send a team of officers round, but there is no point. Nothing there belongs to the phantom he knows as Anne Forestier.

Though he considers this fact from every angle, he comes to the same conclusion. Anne Forestier does not exist.

So who is this person Hafner is trying to kill?

*

Anne sets down her mobile on the tiled floor, she has to crawl, slowly and painfully, using her elbows, longing to be somehow invisible. A grand tour of the living room. Finally she reaches the little sideboard on which Camille left the scrap of paper with the code. The alarm itself is next to the main door.

# 29091571 #

As the alarm howls, Anne claps her hands over her ears and drops to her knees, as though the ear-splitting shriek is a continuation of the murderous attack by other means. She can feel it drilling into her skull.

Where is he? Though everything in her resists, she slowly gets to her feet and peers around the doorframe. No-one. She tries taking away her hands, but the alarm is so deafening she cannot focus, cannot think. Palms pressed to her ears, she crawls towards the window.

Is he gone? Anne’s throat is still tight with panic. It cannot be this easy. He cannot have run off. Not just like that.

*

Camille barely registers Louis’ presence when he pops his head round the door of the office – he tried knocking but there was no response.

“Pereira is on his way up . . .”

Camille has still not quite emerged from his daze. To get to the bottom of this will take time, it will take rigorous, rational, dispassionate logic – it will take a whole host of qualities Camille sorely lacks.

“Sorry?”

Louis repeats what he said. “Fine,’” Camille mutters and gets up. He grabs his jacket.

“Are you O.K.?” Louis says.

Camille is not listening. He digs out his mobile and sees he has a message. Anne called. Quickly, he punches the keypad and calls his voicemail. “Camille, he’s here! Call me back, please . . .” By the time he has heard these words, he is already at the door, he pushes past Louis, races along the corridor, hurtles down the stairs, crashing into a woman on the landing below and almost knocking her over. It is Commissaire Michard. She and Juge Pereira were on their way to meet him. When the magistrate opens his mouth to speak, Camille does not pause even for a millisecond, but as he tears down the stairs, he calls back:

“Later, I’ll explain everything later.”

“Verhœven!” bellows Commissaire Michard.

But Camille has already left the building. Outside, he scrabbles to open his car, slams the door, throws the vehicle into reverse, rolls down the window and reaches out to stick the police light on the roof. Lights flashing, sirens blaring, headlights on full beam, he roars out of the car park. A beat cop blows his whistle, bringing traffic to a standstill so he can pass.

Camille takes the bus lane. He redials Anne’s number, puts the call on speakerphone.

Pick up the phone, Anne.

Pick up the phone!

*

Anne gets to her feet again. She waits. She cannot understand this absence. It could be a ruse, but the seconds tick past and still nothing happens. The alarm stops, giving way to a throbbing silence.

Anne takes another step towards the window, standing to one side, half hidden, ready to retreat. He cannot simply have run away like that. So swiftly. So suddenly.

At that moment, he materialises right in front of her.

Anne shrinks back in terror.

They are less than two metres apart, on either side of the plate-glass window.

He has no weapons, he stares into her eyes and takes a step forward. If he reached out, he could touch the glass. He smiles and nods his head. Unable to tear her eyes from his, Anne takes a step back. He holds his hands palms out, like Jesus in a painting Camille once showed her. Still gazing into her eyes, he raises his hands above his head and slowly turns around as though she has a gun trained on him.

See? I’m not armed.

And as he comes to face her again, his hands are outstretched in welcome.

Anne cannot move. Like a rabbit sitting in headlights, paralysed with fear, waiting for death.

His eyes still fixed on hers, he takes a step, then another, slowly moving towards the sliding door. Gently, he grasps the handle, he seems anxious not to panic her. And it seems to be working: still Anne does not move, she stares at him, her breathing ragged, her heart pounding, each beat heavy, muffled, painful. The man stops, his smile a rictus, he is waiting.

We might as well get this over with, thinks Anne, we’ve almost reached the end of the road.

She looks down at the terrace outside the window and notices that he has thrown his leather jacket on the ground. The butt of his pistol is clearly visible and the gleaming handle of a hunting knife sticking out of the other pocket. The man puts his hands into his pockets and turns them inside out.

See? Nothing in my hands, nothing in my pockets.

Just two steps. She has already taken so many. The man does not move a muscle.

She comes to her decision suddenly, as though hurling herself into the flames. One step forward, the splints make it difficult for her fingers to release the latch, especially as she can barely grip it.

The moment the latch slides back, the moment the door is open and he has only to step through, Anne scuttles back, clapping a hand over her mouth, as though suddenly realising what she has just done.

She lets her arms fall limply to her sides. The man steps into the room. In the end, she cannot contain herself.

“Bastard!” she shrieks. “Bastard, bastard, bastard . . .”

Slowly edging backwards, she unleashes a torrent of insults mingled with sobs that come from deep within her belly,
bastard, bastard . . .

“Oh, dear, oh dear . . .”

He clearly finds this tedious. He steps further into the studio, looking around curiously like a visitor or an estate agent – the mezzanine is a nice touch, and there is a lot of light . . . Panting for breath, Anne is cowering next to the stairs.

“All better now?” the man says, finally turning to her. “Feeling a bit calmer?”

“Why are you trying to kill me?” Anne wails.

“What the . . . what on earth makes you think I’m trying to kill you?”

He sounds genuinely upset, almost outraged.

Anne’s hand falls away from her mouth and in a sudden frenzy, all her rage, all her fear comes pouring out, her voice is high and shrill, she has lost all self-control, she feels nothing now but pure hatred. But she is still afraid, afraid that he will beat her, she shrinks back . . .

“You’re trying to kill me!”

The man sighs . . . This whole situation is tiresome. He listens wearily as Anne rages on.

“That wasn’t part of the plan!”

This time he nods his head, disappointed in the face of such naivety.

“Oh, but it was.”

Clearly, she needs to have everything spelled out for her. But Anne has not finished.

“No, it wasn’t! You were only supposed to push me aside! That’s what you said, ‘I’ll just give you a little push’!”

“But . . .” He is dumbfounded to find he has to explain something so basic. “But it needed to be convincing. Don’t you get it? Con-vin-cing!”

“You’ve been stalking me!”

“Well, yeah, but bear in mind it’s all in a good cause . . .”

He laughs, which further fuels Anne’s rage.

“That’s not what we agreed, you fucking bastard!”

“O.K., so there are a couple of details I didn’t fill you in on . . . And don’t call me a bastard or I’ll give you a fucking slap.”

“Right from the start you’ve been planning to kill me.”

This time, he snaps.

“To kill you?” he growls, “No, no, no, darling. Because if I really wanted to kill you, you wouldn’t be here to bitch about it now. [He raises his index finger to emphasise the point.] With you, I was just trying to make an impression, there’s a difference! And let me tell you it’s a lot harder than you think. Even that little performance at the hospital where I had to scare that runty little boyfriend of yours without him calling in an armed response unit took restraint, it took talent.”

The argument hits home. Anne is beside herself.

“You ruined my face! You smashed my teeth! You . . .”

“O.K., I’ll admit you’re no oil painting right now. [He struggles to suppress a smile.] But it can be fixed, plastic surgeons these days can work miracles. Tell you what, I’ll pay for two gold teeth out of my share if I hit the jackpot. Or silver if you prefer. You choose. But if you’re hoping to find a husband, for the front teeth I’d recommend gold, it’s classier . . .”

Slumped on the floor, curled into a ball, Anne has no more tears, only hatred.

“I’ll kill you one of these days . . .”

“So, not bitter, then . . .” The man laughs, wandering around the room as though he owns the place. “But you’re only saying that because you’re angry. No, no, no . . .” he says, his tone deadly serious now. “If all goes well, you’ll have your stitches removed, you’ll have a couple of plastic teeth fitted and you’ll go home like a good little girl.”

He stops and looks up at the staircase, the mezzanine.

“It’s not bad, this place. I like what he’s done with it. [He looks at his watch.] Right, you’ll have to excuse me, but I can’t hang around.”

He steps towards her and she presses herself against the wall.

“I’m not going to touch you!”

“Get the fuck out!” she shrieks.

The man nods, but he is distracted by something else. Standing at the foot of the stairs he looks down at the shattered step, then back at the bullet hole in the window.

“Pretty good, don’t you think?” He turns back to Anne, eager to persuade her.

“Get out . . .!”

“Yeah, you’re right. [He glances around. Satisfied.] I think we’ve put in a good day’s work. We make a good team, don’t we? And now [he gestures to the bullet holes around the room], everything should go smoothly, unless I’m very much mistaken.”

He strides over to the windows.

“I have to say, the neighbours aren’t exactly fearless! That alarm could have gone on all day and no-one would come over to see what was up. Still, it’s hardly surprising. It’s the same everywhere these days. Right, better run . . .”

He steps out onto the terrace, picks up his jacket, slips a hand into one of the pockets and comes back.

“There,” he says, tossing an envelope towards Anne. “You use this only if everything goes according to plan. And you better hope for your sake that it does. Whatever happens, you don’t leave here without my permission, understood? Because otherwise, what you’ve suffered so far will just be a down payment.”

He does not wait for an answer. He disappears.

A few metres from where she is sitting, Anne’s mobile starts to ring, vibrating against the tiled floor. After the piercing howl of the alarm, it sounds tinny, like a child’s toy telephone.

It is Camille. She has to answer.

“Do exactly what I tell you and everything will be fine.”

Anne presses the answer button. She does not need to pretend to be devastated.

“He’s gone . . .” she says.

“Anne?” Camille roars. “I can’t hear what you’re saying. Anne?”

Camille is panicked, his voice is colourless.

“He came to the house,” Anne says, “I set off the alarm, he panicked and ran off . . .”

Camille can barely hear her. He turns off his siren.

“Are you alright? I’m on my way there now, just tell me you’re alright . . .”

“I’m O.K., Camille,” she speaks a little louder. “Everything’s fine now.”

*

Camille slows the car, takes a breath. His terror gives way to agitation. He wants to be there now.

“What exactly happened? Tell me everything . . .”

Cradling her knees with her arms, Anne starts to sob.

She wishes she were dead.

*

10.30 a.m.

Camille feels a little calmer, having turned off the siren. He turns it on again now. There are so many elements of the case to consider, but his mind is still a jumble of emotions and he is incapable of ordering his thoughts . . .