Woman in the Fifth

‘No, monsieur … that’s the law.’

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. Then he stood up and went over to the window and peered out.

‘This morning we visited the address you gave my colleague of the apartment where you were having your “assignations” with Madame Kadar. The concierge said that he wasn’t aware of your visits. So how did you gain access to it?’

‘Madame Kadar let me in.’

‘I see.’

‘How else would I have gotten inside? I mean, the apartment I described to you is exactly the one you saw, isn’t it?’

Coutard continued to stare out the window as he said, ‘Madame Kadar did live in that apartment until her death in 1980. Since then, it has been empty … though it has remained in her estate. A small trust that was left behind after her death continues to pay, by prelevement automatique, the service charge. But no one has occupied it in over twenty-five years. Can you describe the apartment to me, please?’

I did. In detail. He nodded.

‘Yes, that is the apartment as I found it … including the 1970s decor. There was one major difference, however. The apartment I saw hadn’t been cleaned or dusted in years.’

‘That’s nonsense. It was always spotless when I visited it.’

‘I’m certain that’s how you saw it, monsieur.’

A uniformed officer knocked on Coutard’s door and came inside.

‘Please take Monsieur Ricks back to his cell. He will be spending some more time with us.’

The officer approached me and took me by the arm. I turned to Coutard and said, ‘You have to try to believe me.’

‘No, I don’t,’ he said.

They locked me up in the same cell. I was left alone there for hours with no reading material, no pen or paper on which to write, nothing but my thoughts to preoccupy me.

Am I insane? Have I been imagining all this? During the past few months, have I been acting out a strange, warped reverie? And if it is true that Margit has been dead for all these years, what sort of alternative reality have I been living in all these months?

A tray of cold tasteless food arrived around seven that evening. I was famished, so I ate it. Around nine, sleep began to overtake me. I stripped off my now rank jeans and crawled under the grubby blanket and quickly drifted into unconsciousness. Only tonight I did not sleep the dreamless sleep I craved. Tonight the nocturnal screening room in my mind played out a horror show where there was a trial, and I was in the dock, and everyone kept pointing fingers at me and shouting in French, and there was a judge calling me a danger to society and condemning me to life imprisonment with no chance of parole, and being locked up in this cell for twenty-three hours a day, and me continuing to swear blind that they had to find this woman Margit … that she would explain it all … and the walls of the cell closing in around me … and me huddled in a corner on the concrete floor, my head leaned up against the toilet, my eyes as frozen as Margit’s in the crime-scene photograph … and …

That’s when I jumped awake, my body drenched, my teeth biting in the filthy pillow. For a moment I didn’t know where I was. Then the realization hit: You’re incarcerated.

I had no watch, so I didn’t know what time it was. I had no toothbrush, so I couldn’t rid my mouth of the disgusting aftertaste of my nightmare. I had no change of clothes or access to a shower, so I was now feeling totally ripe. After emptying my bladder in the toilet and finishing what little water was left in the bottle, I stretched out on the bunk and shut my eyes and tried to empty my brain and blank out the present and tell myself to somehow stay calm.

But it’s hard to vanquish negative thoughts when you’re about to be charged with two murders, and when you’re living in a hall of mirrors where nothing is as it seems …

The cell door opened. Morning light filtered in. An officer stood there with a tray of food.

‘What time is it?’ I asked.

‘Eight thirty.’

‘Is there any chance I could have a toothbrush and toothpaste, please?’

‘We’re not a hotel.’

‘How about something to read then?’

‘We’re not a library.’

‘Please, monsieur …’

He handed me the tray. The cell door closed behind him. There was a plastic cup filled with weak orange juice, a hard roll, a pad of butter, a small plastic mug of coffee, plastic utensils. Five minutes later the cell door briefly opened and a hand shot in, holding a copy of yesterday’s Le Parisien.

‘Thank you,’ I said as the cell door clanged shut. Having devoured the breakfast — I was famished — I now devoured the newspaper, reading it cover to cover, trying to lose myself in its reports of petty crimes, of disputes between neighbors, of road accidents, of more internal problems with some local football team, of new movies opening this week and the bust-up of a French popstar marriage. The obituaries, as always, gripped me. How do you summarize an entire life — especially one which doesn’t merit a big journalistic splash? Beloved husband of … Adored husband of … Much admired colleague of … A respected employee of … Sadly missed by … Funeral Mass held tomorrow at … In lieu of flowers, please make a donation to … And that’s that. Another life vanished.

That’s the thing about the obituary page. You always know there is a story behind a story — all the hidden complexities that make a life a life. You also know that, one day, your life too will be summarized in a few hundred words … if you’re lucky. Death is the great leveler. Once you’ve crossed over into that realm of nothingness, your story only really stays in the minds of those closest to you. And when they too vanish …

Nothing matters. And because of that, everything matters. You have to counter the insignificance of what you do with the belief that, somehow, it does have import. Otherwise what can you do but despair and think, When I’m dead, none of the forces that drove my life — the anger, the neediness, the ambition, the search for love, the regrets, the terrible mistakes, the futile pursuit of some sort of happiness — will count for anything.

Unless death isn’t the end of everything.

‘This is the death certificate from the medical examiner in Budapest — signed after he performed the autopsy on Madame Kadar … But you still insist that Madame Kadar is alive? ‘

I didn’t know the answer to that question anymore.

The cell door opened again. A new officer entered.

‘The inspector wants to see you now.’

I pulled on my jeans and ran my hands through my grubby hair. The officer coughed loudly, a signal for me to hurry up. Then he took me by the arm and led me back upstairs.

Coutard was seated by his desk, smoking. My passport was next to the ashtray. Inspector Leclerc was standing by the window, in conversation with Coutard. The talk stopped as soon as I was brought into the room. Coutard motioned for me to take a seat. I did so.

‘Sleep well?’ he asked.

‘No,’ I said.

‘Well, you won’t have to spend another night as our guest.’

‘Why is that?’

‘Because you are no longer a suspect.’

‘I’m not?’

‘It’s your lucky day: we found the murderer of Monsieur Omar and Monsieur Attani.’

‘Who was it?’

‘A certain Monsieur Mahmoud Klefki …’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘A diminutive man with what seems to be a permanent scowl. He works for your landlord, Monsieur Sezer. Perhaps you met him?’

Of course I did. Many times. Only I knew him as Mr Tough Guy.