Irene (36 page)

There are no questions.

*

Two tables are pushed together, Camille and Le Guen sitting on one side, Maleval and the psychologist on the other. Armand, who has picked up Cob’s most recent list of warehouses from the printer, is going through the names with a pencil, crossing out those visited by the two teams out in the field, who immediately move on to the next address he gives. Louis is already on the telephone, the handset wedged between shoulder and chin leaving his hands free to type. Cob, factoring in the newest piece of information – that Chub’s novel was published by Éditions Bilban – has search engines running on every computer.

*

As he settles down to work, Le Guen arranges to have two squad cars on standby. He also alerts R.A.I.D. and, seeing that Camille has overheard, gives a fatalistic shrug.

Camille knows Le Guen is right. Should they find any solid evidence they’ll need a rapid response unit, and R.A.I.D. are the professionals. Camille has seen them in action, the tall black-clad men with so much body armour they look like robots and so much kit it seems impossible they can move so swiftly and silently, the technical officers who use thermal imaging and global positioning to scan the terrain and formulate every plan with military precision. R.A.I.D. descend like the wrath of God Almighty.

The moment the
brigade criminelle
comes up with an address, R.A.I.D. will take over. For better or worse. The strategy worries Camille a little, it seems somehow incongruous to pit the meticulous precision of R.A.I.D. against the meticulous precision with which Buisson has orchestrated this whole affair. Buisson
has had too much of a head start. For weeks now, perhaps for months, he has been carefully devising this plan, this
thing
with the patience of an entomologist. For all their helicopters, their tear-gas grenades, their night-vision scopes, their P.G.M. Precision Hecate rifles, the elite marksmen of R.A.I.D. will be shooting into the clouds.

Camille is about to say all this to Le Guen, but bites his tongue. What is the alternative? Is he planning to rush in and save Irène with the service revolver he has only ever fired during his yearly firearms test?

*

Having opened Buisson’s “novel” at page one, the four men find that they read at different speeds and in different ways. Viguier, an experienced psychologist, skims the text, his eyes attentive to detail. He turns the pages at a steady rhythm as though driven by some unalterable momentum. He is not looking for the same things as the others, he focuses immediately on the portrait Buisson pens of himself. He studies the style of the narrative, treats the people as characters in fiction.

Everything in this text is fiction, everything except the dead girls.

As far as Viguier is concerned, the rest of the text is Buisson himself: this is how sees the world, how he refashions reality. He tries to discern the ways in which Buisson has manipulated the facts to fit his vision of the world – not the world as it is, but as he would like it to be. Three hundred pages of pure fantasy.

Le Guen, for his part, is tenacious. Slow to read but quick to grasp, he has opted for the technique that best suits his way of thinking. He begins at the end and works his way back, chapter by chapter. He takes few notes.

No-one seems to notice that Maleval has not turned any pages. He has been staring at the first page for endless minutes. While Viguier, in a low voice, gives some preliminary thoughts, Maleval feels a desperate need to get up, to go over to Camille, to tell him … But he does not have the strength: for as long as he does not turn the pages, he feels safe. He is on the edge of an abyss, he knows this. Just as he knows that any minute now someone will give him the push that propels him into the void. He needs to take the initiative, take his courage in both hands, search for his name, verify that the expected cataclysm is imminent. That the trap into which he fell is about to snap closed. He needs to act now, to make a decision. But he cannot move; he is petrified.

Camille, his face expressionless, leafs briskly through the pages, skipping whole passages, scribbling notes here and there, going back from time to time to check a detail. He skims the scene in which Buisson imagines Camille’s first meeting with Irène, obviously it is nonsense. What can Buisson know about his first meeting with Irène? What was this shit about a T.V. programme? “It was a straightforward affair. He married Irène six months later.” It was indeed straightforward. It was pure fantasy on Buisson’s part.

Just as a drowning man apparently sees his life pass before his eyes in a fraction of a second, Camille sees the real story play out in his head. A Sunday morning. The gift shop in the Louvre. A young woman looking for a book on Titian – “It’s for a present” – she dithers, looks at one book, then another, sets both down and finally selects a third. The wrong one. And little Camille Verhœven unthinkingly blurts out, “You shouldn’t get that one, if you don’t mind my saying.” The young woman smiles and immediately she was Irène, her smile stunning yet simple. And it was “his Irène”
who said “Really?” in a tone of mock deference that demanded an apology. And so he apologises, introduces himself, says something about Titian that he hopes is not pretentious, but it is, since he feels he is something of a connoisseur. He stumbles over the words. It has been a long time since he blushed. He blushes. She smiles. “So you think this is the best one?” He has too many things he wants to say, he tries come up with some pithy turn of phrase that encapsulates his fear of sounding like a snob and his embarrassment at recommending the most expensive book, and finally splutters “I know it’s the expensive one … but it
is
the best.” Irène is wearing a dress with buttons all the way down the front. “You mean it’s like buying shoes, then? Except that in this case it’s Titian.” Irène smiles. It is her turn to blush, mortified at having lowered the tone. She confesses that she hasn’t set foot in the Louvre in more than a decade. Camille cannot bring himself to tell her he comes almost every week. Nor can he bring himself to tell her, as she heads for the till, that he would rather not know who her gift is for, that he usually comes on Sunday mornings, that he realises there is only a one-in-a-million chance that he might see her here again. At the counter, Irène signs the credit-card slip, leaning down, peering myopically. Then she vanishes. Camille turns back to browse the bookshelves, but his heart is no longer in it. A few minutes later, tired and overcome by a sudden melancholy, he decides to leave. He is dumbfounded to see her once more, she is standing beneath the glass pyramid reading a brochure. Camille turns, trying to find his way, stares blankly at the innumerable signs that point in every possible direction. He passes close to her. She sees him, she smiles at him, he stops. “So, do you know any good books about finding your way around museums?” she says with a smile.

Camille is already focused on the next passage.

*

Looking up, Camille sees Maleval, hands resting on the cardboard folder, staring at Le Guen, who is ruefully shaking his head.

“Camille,” Le Guen says without looking at him, “I think we may need to have a word with our friend Maleval.

Camille finishes reading:

*

“My hands are tied, Jean-Claude, I have no choice but to sack you.”

Sitting opposite Camille, Maleval blinked rapidly, desperately looking around for something to lean on.

“It kills me to have to do it … it really does. Why didn’t you just come and talk to me? … How long has this been going on?”

“Since the end of last year. He got in touch with me. At first, I just threw him a few crumbs of information and that seemed to be enough …”

*

Camille lays his reading glasses on the table. He balls his fists. When he turns, his barely suppressed fury is so apparent in his expression that Maleval starts back on his chair and Le Guen feels obliged to intervene.

“O.K., Camille, let’s deal with this in an orderly fashion. Maleval?” He turns to the young officer. “Is it true what he’s written?”

Maleval splutters that he doesn’t know, that he hasn’t had time to read everything, that he needs to check …

“To check what?” Le Guen says. “Were you or were you not feeding this man information?”

Maleval nods.

“O.K., I’m going to have to place you under arrest.”

Maleval’s mouth, like that of a fish out of water, forms a perfect O.

“Aiding and abetting a murderer who has killed seven times – what were you thinking?”

“I didn’t know,” bleats Maleval. “I swear I didn’t—”

“That bullshit excuse might work on the
juge
, but right now it’s me you’re talking to!” Camille shouts at him.

“Camille …” Le Guen interrupts.

But Camille is not listening.

“This guy you’ve been feeding information for months has kidnapped my wife. You remember Irène, Maleval? You’ve always been fond of Irène, haven’t you?”

Even Le Guen does not know how to break the silence that ensues.

“She’s a sweet woman, Irène,” Camille continues. “She’s eight months pregnant. What did you have in mind for the christening present? Or have you already spent the cash?”

Le Guen closes his eyes. When Camille gets into a rage …

“Camille …”

Camille’s anger spirals, the torrent of words keeps coming, the furious invective feeding on itself.

“That whole sympathetic, forgiving
commandant
thing, it’s only in novels. Personally, I could cheerfully put my fist through your face. But right now, we’re going to hand you over to internal affairs, after that it’s the public prosecutor, the investigating magistrate, you’ll be remanded, you’ll be tried, and I will be the star witness. You’d better pray that we find Irène safe and sound, Maleval. Because I plan to make you pay for this, you fucking shit!”

Le Guen pounds on the table. And just then the nebulous
thought he has been racking his brains to apprehend, emerges.

“Camille, we’re wasting time.”

Instantly, Camille falls silent and looks at him.

“We’ll deal with debriefing Maleval. You need to get back to work. I’ll call internal affairs.”

He pauses.

“It’s for the best, Camille. Trust me on this.”

Le Guen is already on his feet, determined to prevail though the outcome seems moot. Camille is still staring hard into Maleval’s eyes.

Finally, he gets to his feet and leaves the office, slamming the door behind him.

*

“Where’s Maleval?” Louis says.

“He’s with Le Guen.” Camille struggles to say as little as possible. “They shouldn’t be long.”

He doesn’t know why he says this. It is like a slip of the tongue. Time is slipping away and still they have nothing concrete to go on.

When news arrived that Irène had been kidnapped, everyone expected to find Camille devastated, helpless; instead they find Commandant Verhœven straining at the bit.

Picking up the manuscript again, he sees Irène’s name. How had Buisson known so precisely the things Irène complained about, how alone she felt, how abandoned? Perhaps all unhappy couples are alike. And all journalists.

*

It is past 11 p.m. Louis is still completely calm and even looks impeccable still, not a wrinkle in his shirt and – despite rushing around all day – there is not a scuffmark on his gleaming shoes.

*

Almost as though he nips off to the toilets now and then for a spit and polish.

“Philippe Buisson de Chevesne, born September 16, 1962, in Périgueux. There was a general in Napoleon’s army named Léopold Buisson de Chevesne, he fought at Jena. The title and the estate were granted by imperial decree.”

Camille is no longer really listening. If Louis had found anything concrete he would have led with that.

“Did you know about Maleval?” he asks out of the blue.

Louis looks at him. He is about to say something, but bites his lip. Finally, he makes up his mind.

“Know what?”

“That he’s been leaking information to Buisson. That he was the one who kept him updated on the progress of the investigation. That it’s thanks to Maleval that Buisson has always been one step ahead of us.”

The colour drains from Louis’ face, he slumps back in his chair. Camille realises that he had no idea.

“It’s here in Buisson’s ‘novel’,” Camille says. “Le Guen was quick to spot it. Maleval is being interviewed right now.”

There is no need to say any more. Louis’ keen intelligence quickly figures out the rest, his eyes dart around the squad room, his lips are parted as though he is about to say something.

“Is it true that you lent him money?”

“How do you—”

“It’s right here in the book, Louis, it’s all in here. Maleval must have confided in him about it. You see, you’re a hero too, we’re all heroes. Isn’t it great?”

Instinctively, Louis glances towards the interview room.

“He’s not likely to be much help.” Camille can read his thoughts.

*

“I’m pretty sure Maleval knows only what Buisson decided to tell him. He was playing him from the start, long before the Courbevoie murders. Buisson anticipated everything. Maleval was well and truly fucked over. And us with him.”

Louis stares at the floor.

“So anyway,” Camille says, “what were you saying?”

Louis reads from his notes, but his voice now is a barely audible whisper.

“Buisson’s father …”

“Louder,” Camille shouts as he walks over to the drinking fountain.

Louis raises his voice. He sounds as though he too might shout, but he restrains himself. His voice quavers.

“Buisson’s father is an industrialist. His mother is from Lanquais, her maiden name was Pradeau, she owned a lot of property in her own right. Buisson went to school in Périgueux, though he wasn’t much of a student. There’s a record of him spending a short period in a clinic in 1978, I’m having someone look into that. The financial crisis of the early ’80s hit the Buisson family pretty hard. In 1980 Buisson goes to university to study literature, but he soon drops out. He decides to study journalism instead and finally graduates in 1985. His father has died the year before. From 1991, he’s working freelance, and he joins
Le Matin
in 1998. There’s nothing of any significance before the Tremblay murder. His articles attract a lot of attention, he gets promoted to editor responsible for social issues. His mother died two years ago. Buisson is an only child and he’s still single. The family’s fortune is no longer what it once was. Buisson sold the business, held on to the properties he inherited, he had a healthy stock portfolio with Gamblin & Chaussard and the rent from the properties brought
in six times his salary at
Le Matin
. Over the past two years, he’s liquidated his portfolio of stocks.”