Irene (22 page)

“What’s she like?”

Camille glanced at Louis.

“Intelligent,” Louis said, sipping his wine. “Good family. From what she said, she and her husband didn’t so much live together as share a house. They’ve always been from completely different worlds, and over time they drifted even further apart. She claims to know very little about her husband’s private life; they lived separate lives.”

“It wouldn’t have been hard to outsmart her husband,” Camille said. “Thick as shit …”

“He was obviously an easy mark,” Louis agreed. “Maleval showed his photograph to the foreman at the self-storage place in Gennevilliers. There’s no doubt it was him.”

“He was clearly being used, so we still don’t have much to go on.”

“All we know for certain,” Louis said, “is that our killer is reenacting scenes from crime novels and—”

“From novels,” Camille interrupted him. “They’ve been crime novels so far, but there’s nothing in his letter to suggest that his ‘masterwork’ is finished. He could throw a woman under a train and claim he’s recreating
Anna Karenina
, poison some woman in the arse-end of Normandy to restage
Madame Bovary
in period costume … or …”

“… drop a thermonuclear device on Japan to play out
Hiroshima Mon Amour
,” Le Guen said in an attempt to display his erudition.

What sort of logic drove this man? Why had he chosen these particular books over any others? How many murders had he re-enacted before the Tremblay case? And then there was the elephant in the room: how many more murders might this maniac re-enact before they arrested him?

“What do you think, Camille?”

“About what?”

“What Louis just said …”

“I’m going to need Cob.”

“I don’t see the connection …”

“Listen, Jean, I don’t give a shit which other officers you assign to me, but I need Cob to run computer research.”

Le Guen took a moment to think about it.

At forty, Cob was something of a legend in the force. With few academic qualifications, he had joined the newly created Technology Crime Division of the
brigade criminelle
as a lowly junior. Since he had little chance of passing the cut-throat
concours administratifs
and would have to rely on promotions based on length of service, Cob seemed perfectly content to remain a junior officer because his computing skills meant he was always assigned to sensitive cases. Every officer in the
brigade
knew about Cob’s technical wizardry, especially his immediate superiors who were suspicious initially, until they realised that he was not a threat to their positions. Having once been treated like a sort of
idiot savant
by the departments to which he was assigned, he was now considered a genius. He was constantly in demand. Camille did not really know the man, having run into him only in the canteen, but he liked Cob’s style. Cob’s face was as square and white as a computer monitor and his somewhat sullen manner belied an ironic detachment and a deadpan sense of humour that appealed to Camille. But it was not for his sense of humour that Camille had requested him: the investigation needed a gifted computer expert, and everyone at the
brigade
knew that Cob was the best.

“O.K., fine …” Le Guen sighed. “But, to get back to what Louis was saying – what
do
you think?”

Camille, who hadn’t been listening to a word of their conversation, looked at his partner and smiled: “I think Louis is always right. It’s axiomatic.”

“Obviously, anything we discuss here is protected by judicial confidentiality.”

“Obviously,” said Fabien Ballanger, who clearly had only the vaguest idea of how investigations were conducted in the real world.

Sitting behind his desk, his head resting pensively on one fist like Rodin’s “Thinker”, Ballanger waited for Camille to get to the point, his imploring eyes trying to lighten the
commandant
’s burden by granting him general absolution.

“We currently have four murder cases on our hands.”

“Two more than when we last spoke …”

“Exactly.”

“Which, obviously, seems like a lot,” Ballanger said, staring down at his hands.

Camille gave a brief outline of how each of the crimes had been committed.

“We have now determined that three of these murders were precise re-enactments of scenes from
American Psycho
,
The Black Dahlia
and
Laidlaw
. Are you familiar with the books?”

“Yes, I’ve read all three.”

“Can you think of anything that might connect them?”

“Not really,” Ballanger said, after giving the matter some thought. “One Scottish writer, two Americans. They work in very different genres. In literary terms
Laidlaw
and
American Psycho
are a world apart. I can’t remember precisely when they were published, but I’m pretty certain there’s no correlation in the dates.”

“If our theory is correct, there has to be some link.”

Ballanger frowned for a moment, then said: “Maybe your killer just happens to like those books.”

Camille couldn’t suppress a smile, and Ballanger smiled too.

“I hadn’t thought of that,” Camille said finally. “Stupid of me.”

“When it comes to taste, readers can be very eclectic.”

“Murderers less so. They tend to be more logical. Or at least, they have their own twisted ‘logic’.”

“This might be in bad taste.”

“Spit it out.”

“I’d say that in each case he’s chosen an exceptionally fine book!”

“Good,” said Camille, smiling, “I’d much rather hunt down a man of taste. It’s more fulfilling.”

“Your … your killer … is obviously well read. He’s something of an expert in the genre.”

“He would seem to be. He’s definitely one sick bastard. But we still have one crucial question: how far back does this thing go?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” Ballanger said.

“We know about all the murders that he ‘signed’. If we’re lucky, we can work out where this ends. But what we don’t know is which novel started the whole thing off, and where. And when.”

“I see …” Ballanger said, though plainly he did not.

“There may be other murders dating years before the one in Glasgow,” Camille said. “His scope is vast, his plan is grandiose. The novels we’ve already managed to identify, would you say they’re classics?”

“Well, they’re all pretty well known. I’m not sure I’d call them ‘classics’, at least, not in terms of the literary canon.”

“If that’s the case, I have to say I’m a little surprised.” Camille appeared heartened by Ballanger’s response. “Because if he wanted to pay homage to crime fiction, it would be logical to begin by re-enacting what you might call a ‘classic of the genre’, would it not?”

Ballanger’s curiosity was piqued.

“You’re right. That would make good sense.”

“So, in your opinion, how many ‘classics’ could we be talking about?”

“Oh, I don’t know. The list would be pretty long,” Ballanger said, thinking, “Well, maybe not that long. In crime fiction, what constitutes a ‘classic of the genre’ is moot. Personally, I think the choices are sociological and historical rather than strictly literary.”

Camille looked at him quizzically.

“Sociological in the sense that the reading public often consider certain books to be masterpieces in the teeth of critical opinion. Historical in the sense that a classic is not necessarily a masterpiece. Lieberman’s
City of the Dead
is a masterpiece, but it’s not considered a classic. The opposite is true of Christie’s
And Then There Were None
. Now,
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
is both a masterpiece
and
a classic.”

“I need you to be categorical, Professeur Ballanger,” Camille said. “If I were a
professeur
of literature I’d be happy to sit here quibbling about semantics, but I’m a detective investigating
a series of cases in which young women have been horribly murdered. So, how many masterpieces, classics, call them what you will, how many are there, roughly?”

“I’d say about three hundred. Roughly.”

“Three hundred? Could you draw up a list of titles and give me some idea where we could find synopses for them? That way we can try to cross-reference cold cases with plot elements from these novels.”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because I need someone who not only has the requisite knowledge but is capable of refining it, condensing it. It’s not going to come as a surprise to you that we don’t have too many literary experts down at the
brigade criminelle
. I had considered asking a specialist bookseller.”

“Not a bad idea,” Ballanger said.

“We know one, but he’s not exactly … cooperative. I’d prefer to entrust the task to – how should I put it? – one of the eminent educationalists in the service of the Republic.”

Ballanger seemed to think this was a nice touch. The grandiloquent term made it hard for him to refuse; it appealed to his sense of honour and decency.

“Yes, I suppose I could do it,” he said. “The list wouldn’t be too difficult to compile, though I warn you, the choices will inevitably be subjective.”

Camille indicated that he accepted this.

“I’m bound to have a number of monographs and papers on the subject lying around. And I could ask some of my students to lend a hand … Two days?”

“Perfect.”

The interest senior officers take in high-profile cases can be measured by the resources they allocate to investigating officers. That afternoon, Camille discovered that he had been allocated a large squad room in the basement. With no windows.

“Damn,” he said to Le Guen. “One more murder, and they’d probably have given us a room with a view.”

“Probably,” Le Guen said, “but one fewer murder and you wouldn’t have had those computers.”

Technicians were setting up a bank of five computers while workmen installed cork-boards, flip-charts, a floor-standing water cooler that also dispensed hot water for instant coffee, office desks and chairs and several phone lines. Juge Deschamps had called Camille on his mobile to arrange the first briefing. They settled on 8.30 a.m. the following morning.

By 6.30 p.m, the whole team had assembled. Not all the chairs had been delivered, but this did not matter since, in keeping with tradition, the first team meeting was held standing up.

“Let’s start off with the introductions,” Camille began. “I’m Commandant Verhœven – call me Camille, it’s simpler. This is Louis, he’ll be coordinating the team. Any leads you come up with go straight to him. He’ll also be assigning duties.”

The four newcomers looked silently at Louis and nodded.

“This is Maleval. On paper, he’s called Jean-Claude, but everyone calls him Maleval. He is in charge of resources. If you need computers, cars, equipment, whatever, talk to him.”

Maleval gave the new recruits an awkward wave.

“Last but not least, Armand. He and I are the senior officers here. You’ll never meet a more meticulous officer. If you’ve got any doubts about a line of inquiry, talk to him. He’ll be happy to help out. He’s an exceptionally generous man.”

Armand stared at the floor and blushed.

“Right, now, the newcomers.”

Camille fished a piece of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

“Élisabeth …”

A fifty-something woman of ample proportions with an honest face dressed in a trouser suit of indeterminate vintage.

“Hi,” she said, raising a hand. “Good to be here.”

Camille liked her straight away, the way she spoke, her easy manner.

“Welcome, Élisabeth. Have you worked on any other major cases?”

“I worked on the Ange Versini case …”

Everyone at the
brigade
remembered the case of the Corsican man who had strangled two children and evaded capture for eight weeks, before being gunned down at point-blank range on the boulevard Magenta after a high-speed chase that had created a lot of front-line damage – and a few front-page headlines.

“Good work. I hope we’ll add to your list of credits.”

“I hope so too.”

She seemed anxious to get to work. She glanced over at Louis and gave him a friendly smile and a nod.

“Fernand?” Camille asked, looking down at his list.

“That’s me,” said a man in his fifties.

Camille quickly sized him up: the solemn, slightly vacant expression, the rheumy eyes, the pasty complexion of an alcoholic. Ever the pragmatist, Le Guen had already tipped off Verhœven: “I suggest you use him in the mornings. After that, there’s no-one home …”

“You’ve been seconded from Vice, is that right?”

“Yeah, I don’t know much about the
brigade criminelle
.”

“I’m sure you’ll prove your worth here,” Camille said with a confidence he did not really feel. “You’ll be working with Armand.”

“By a process of elimination, I assume you must be Mehdi?” Camille turned to a young man of about twenty-five. Despite the jeans and the T-shirt no doubt worn to show off his a gym-toned body, despite the iPod headphones that dangled around his neck, Mehdi had a serious and alert expression that Camille found charming.

“That’s me. I’m with the 8th Brigade. Well, obviously I haven’t been there long.”

“This will be good experience for you, kid. You’ll be working with Maleval.”

Mehdi nodded at Maleval, while Camille instantly regretted referring to a fellow officer as “kid”. He was clearly getting old.

“Finally, this is Cob,” Camille said, stuffing the piece of paper back into his pocket. “We know each other, but we’ve never actually worked together …”

Cob looked over at Camille.

“Not until now.”

“Cob will be our technical genius.”

Cob greeted the ripple of recognition with nothing more than a raised eyebrow.

“If there’s anything more you need, Cob, just tell Maleval and he’ll sort it.”

“For now, we’ve found nothing to contradict our initial assessment. We’re dealing with a profoundly misogynistic sociopath.”

Deschamps’ first briefing had begun on time at 8.30 a.m. Dr Crest, having set his briefcase on one of the desks, was addressing the assembled company from notes scrawled in his tall, sloping hand.