Camille (29 page)

The only possible conclusion sends Camille into a tailspin.

He already knows that Anne is not Anne. Now he is convinced that Hafner is not Hafner.

It means starting the investigation over.

It means: back to square one.

And given everything that Camille has done so far, it may mean:
Go to jail. Go directly to jail. Do not pass Go . . .

*

There he goes again, the runty little cop, making the trip between Paris and his country estate, like a hamster in a wheel. Like a rat. Always scuttling around. I just hope it pays off. Not for him, obviously, at this point he’s up shit creek, he’s well and truly screwed as he’ll find out very soon. No, I hope it pays off for me.

I’m not about to give up now.

The girl has done what she needed to, you might reckon she paid her pound of flesh, I can’t complain. It’s going to be a close-run thing, but right now everything seems to be going like clockwork.

Now it’s my move. My good friend Ravic and I did a perfect dummy run. If the guy were still alive, he’d testify to that, though with all those missing fingers, he’d have a job swearing on the Bible.

Thinking back, I went easy on him, in fact I think I was pretty lenient. Putting a bullet in his head was almost an act of kindness. I swear, the Serbs are like the Turks, they’re a thankless bunch. It’s their culture. They have no sense of gratitude. And then they come bitching about how they’ve got problems.

But it’s time to get down to some serious business. I know that wherever he is – I don’t know if there’s a heaven for Serbian thugs, after all there’s definitely one for terrorists – Ravic will be happy. He’ll have his revenge served
post mortem
because I have a powerful urge to flay someone alive. I’m going to need a bit of luck. But since I haven’t had to call on her so far, I figure the goddess Fortuna owes me a favour.

And if Verhœven does his job, things should move pretty fast.

Right now, I’m heading back to my fortress of solitude to rest up a bit, because when this kicks off, I’m going to have to move fast.

My reflexes might be a little blunted, but my motivation is intact, and that’s what counts.

*

12.00 noon

In the bathroom mirror, Anne examines her gums, stares at the ugly, gaping hole. Since she was admitted to hospital under a false name, she will not be able to access her medical file – the X-rays, the test results – she will have to start over. Start again from scratch – though the word hardly does justice to her injuries.

He says he wasn’t trying to kill her because he needs her. But he can say what he likes, she does not believe a word. Dead or alive, Anne would have served her purpose. He beat her so brutally, so savagely . . . He might claim that it had to look authentic, but she knows that he actually enjoyed beating her, that he would have done more damage if he could have.

In the medicine cabinet, she finds nails scissors and a pair of tweezers. The young Indian doctor assured her that the gash on her cheek was not deep. He suggested removing the stitches after ten days. She wants to do it now. In one of the drawers in Camille’s desk she finds a magnifying glass. Working with makeshift instruments in a dimly lit bathroom is not ideal. But she cannot bear to wait any longer. And this is not simply about her obsession with neatness. This is what she used to say to Camille when they were together, that she was a neat freak. Not this time. Contrary to what he might think when all this is over, she did not tell him many lies. The bare minimum. Because it is difficult to lie to Camille. Or because it is too easy. It amounts to the same thing.

Anne wipes her eyes with her sleeve. It is hard enough to remove the sutures by herself; with tears in her eyes, it is impossible . . . There are eleven stitches. She holds the magnifying glass in her left hand and the scissors in her right. Close up, the little black threads look like insects. She slides the tip of the scissors under the first knot and immediately she feels a sharp pain as though she has stabbed herself. Under normal circumstances, the procedure would be painless, obviously the wound is not yet healed. Or perhaps it is infected. She has to slide the blade quite far to cut the stitch, she screws up her face and goes for it. The first insect is dead, now all she has to do is pull it out. Her hands are trembling. Still trapped beneath her skin, she has to tug with the tweezers, struggling to keep her hands from shaking. Finally it begins to move, leaving an ugly mark as it emerges. Anne peers at the wound but can see no difference. She is about to start on the next suture, but she feels so tense, so unsteady, that she has to sit down and take a breath . . .

Coming back to the mirror, she presses on the gash and winces, she snips the second suture, and the third. She pulls them out too quickly. Looking through the magnifying glass, the wound is still red, it has not closed up. The fourth stitch is more troublesome, it feels almost welded to her skin. But Anne is determined. She grits her teeth, digs the tip of the scissors into her flesh, tries to cut the thread and fails, the wound gapes and oozes a little blood. Finally the thread snaps, but great drops as big as tears are now trickling from the cut. She deals with the next few sutures quickly, sliding them out and flicking the corpses into the sink, but for the last few Anne has to work blindly because as she wipes away the blood, more gushes to the surface. She does not stop until all the stitches have been removed. Still the blood flows. Without thinking, she rummages in the medicine cabinet for the bottle of surgical spirit and, having no compress, pours some onto her palm and dabs it on.

The pain is excruciating . . . Anne howls and pounds her fist on the washbasin, the splints on her fingers come loose making her scream even louder. But this scream is hers and hers alone, no-one has ripped it from her body.

She dabs more alcohol directly onto the wound, then grips the sink with both hands, she feels as though she might pass out, but she stands firm. When the pain finally subsides, she finds a compress, soaks it in surgical spirit and applies it against her cheek. When finally she looks, the bandage does little to hide the ugly, swollen gash which is still bleeding a little.

There will be a scar. A straight line slashed across her cheek. On a man, people would call it a “war wound”. She cannot tell how big the scar will be, but she knows it will never go away.

It is permanent.

And if she had to dig out the wound with a knife she would have done it. Because this is something that she wants to remember. For ever.

*

12.30 p.m.

The car park at the casualty department is always full. This time, Camille has to flash his warrant card just to get in.

The receptionist is blooming like a rose. A slightly wilted rose, but she lays the concern on thick.

“So, I hear she disappeared?”

She makes a sad pout, as though she understands how difficult this is for Verhœven –
what happened, it must have come as a shock, it doesn’t say much for the police, does it?
Camille walks on, desperate to be rid of her, but this is not as easy as he might have expected.

“What about that admission form?”

He retraces his steps.

“I mean, it’s not really my department, but when a patient does a runner and we don’t even have a social security number, there’s ructions upstairs. And the big shots are quick to pass the buck, they don’t care who’s responsible, they come down on us like a ton of bricks. It’s happened to me often enough, that’s the only reason I’m asking.”

Camille nods – I get the picture – as though he sympathises while the receptionist fields a series of telephone calls. Obviously, since Anne was admitted under a false name, she could not have produced a social security number. This is why he found no papers in her apartment. She has no papers, or none under that name.

Suddenly he feels the urgent need to call, for no reason, as though he is afraid he cannot handle the situation without her, without Anne . . .

And once again he remembers that she is not Anne. Everything that name once signified is meaningless. Camille feels distraught, he has lost everything, even her name.

“You O.K.?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Camille tries to look preoccupied, it is the best thing to do when you need to throw someone off the scent.

“Her file, her medical file,” he says, “where is it?”

Anne disappeared the night before, so all the paperwork is still up on the ward.

Camille thanks the receptionist. When he gets upstairs, he realises he has no idea how to play this, so he takes a moment to think. He stands at one end of the corridor, next to the waiting room that is now a junk room where he and Louis did their first debriefing on the case. He watches as the handle slowly turns and the door reluctantly opens as though a child is afraid to come out.

When he appears, the child turns out to be close to retirement: it is Hubert Dainville, the consultant, the big boss. His grey mane is perfectly blow-dried, it looks as though he has only just removed his curlers. He flushes scarlet when he sees Camille. Usually, there is no-one in the junk room, it has no purpose and leads nowhere.

“What the devil are you doing there?” he snaps officiously, ready to bite.

I could ask the same of you. The retort is on the tip of Camille’s tongue, but he knows that is not the way to go about things. He looks around distractedly.

“I’m lost . . . [Then, resigned:] I must have taken the wrong corridor.”

The surgeon’s blush has faded to pale pink, his awkwardness forgotten, his personality reasserts itself. He strides off as though he has just been summoned to an urgent case.

“You no longer have any business here,
commandant
.”

Camille trots after him, having been caught off-guard, his brain is whirring feverishly.

“Your witness absconded from this hospital last night!” Dainville growls as though he blames Verhœven personally.

“So I heard.”

Camille can think of no other solution, he thrusts a hand into his pocket, takes out his mobile and drops it. It clatters across the tiled floor.

“Shit!”

Dainville, who has already reached the lifts, turns and sees the
commandant
, his back towards him, scrabbling to pick up the pieces of his mobile. Stupid prick. The lift doors open; Dainville steps inside.

Camille gathers up his mobile, which is actually in one piece, and pretends to put it back together it as he walks back towards the junk room.

Seconds pass. A minute. He cannot bring himself to open the door, something is holding him back. Another few seconds tick by. He must have been mistaken. He waits. Nothing. Oh, well. He is about to turn on his heel, but changes his mind.

The handle turns again, and this time the door is briskly opened.

The woman who bustles out, pretending to be preoccupied, is Florence, the nurse. Now it is her turn to blush as she sees Camille. Her plump lips form a perfect O, he hesitates for a second and by then it is too late to create a diversion. Her embarrassment is clear as she pushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear and, staring at Camille, she closes the door calmly, deliberately
– I’m a busy woman, I’m focused on my job, I have nothing to feel guilty about.
Nobody believes her little performance, not even Florence herself. Camille does not have to press his advantage, it is not really in his nature . . . He hates himself for doing it, but he must. He stares at Florence, tilts his head quizzically, increasing the pressure
– I didn’t want to interrupt you during your little tryst, see how tactful I am?
He pretends he has just been standing here fixing his mobile, waiting for her to conclude her
tête-à-tête
with Dr Dainville.

“I need Madame Forestier’s medical file,” he says.

Florence walks ahead of him, but makes no attempt to lengthen her stride as Dr Dainville did so blatantly. She is not mistrustful. And there is not an spiteful bone in her body.

“I’m not sure . . .” she says.

Camille squeezes his eyes shut, silently imploring her not to make him say it:
maybe I should have word with Dr Dainville, I suspect he . . .

They have come to the nurses’ station

“I’m not sure . . . if the file is still here.”

Not once does she turn to look at him, she pulls opens a drawer of patient files and promptly takes out one marked “
FORESTIER”
, a large manila folder containing the C.A.T. scan, the X-rays, the doctor’s notes. To hand this over to someone, even a policeman, is a serious breach of nursing protocol . . .

“I’ll bring over the warrant from the
juge d’instruction
this afternoon,” Camille says. “In the meantime, I can issue a receipt.”

“That won’t be necessary,” she says hurriedly, “I mean, as long as the
juge
. . .”

Camille takes the file. Thank you. They look at each other. Camille feels an almost physical pain, not simply because he has resorted to such an ignoble ploy, extorting information to which he has no right, but because he understands this woman. He knows that her botoxed lips are not an attempt to remain young, but stem from an overpowering need to be loved.

*

1.00 p.m.

You go through the wrought-iron gates, along the long path. The imposing pink building rises up before you, tall trees tower above your head. You might be forgiven for thinking you have arrived at a mansion; it is difficult to believe that behind the graceful windows, bodies are lined up and dissected. Here, livers and hearts are weighed, skulls are sawn open. Camille knows this building like the back of his hand and cordially loathes it. It is the people he likes, the staff, the assistants, the pathologists, Nguyên above all. The many shared memories, most of them painful, have created a bond between them.

Camille makes his usual entrance, waving to this person or that. He can tell there is a certain chill in the air, that rumours about the case have preceded him, it is obvious from the awkward smiles, the diffident handshakes.