The 306’s interior was a perfect match for its bodywork. A screwdriver was wedged in the door to stop the window from falling down; the knob of the gearshift had been ripped off, reducing it to a long greasy bolt that you had to grip with some force to get it into first; electrical wires spilling out of the radio compartment jiggled up and down to the rhythm of the journey; and the fuel gauge was flickering around the zero mark. The two police officers had not exchanged a word in this hazardous cockpit since leaving the parking garage. At the lights on Pont de Grenelle, Torrez finally said:
“Finding a burglar seven years down the line . . . this should be a laugh.”
“We’ll need to get creative, that’s for sure.”
The lieutenant raised two thick eyebrows and set off again. His optimism was a joy to behold.
Fifteen minutes later, they were parking at the top of rue Hoche, a stone’s throw from the Issy-les-Moulineaux town hall. In the square, a stone monument boasted the grandiose inscription IN MEMORY OF THE FALLEN AND ALL VICTIMS OF WAR. No qualms about casting the net wide in this neighborhood: honor be to those at both ends of the rifle, throughout the ages and across the lands.
Capestan and Torrez waited for a bus to maneuver itself into the terminal, then set off toward rue Marceau.
The ramshackle house at number 30 was narrow and tall. It comprised one upper story with a loft above, as indicated by a dormer window in the tiled roof. Outside, the yellow paint on the shutters was flaking off, the render was crumbling, and a greenish sludge was oozing from the gutter. On the tinplate letterbox a worn, discolored sticker saying NO JUNK MAIL PLEASE was peeling off at the corners. The rusty gate creaked as Capestan pushed it open to give them access to the overgrown minuscule garden. The commissaire climbed up the three front steps and rang the bell. No answer.
“It looks uninhabited,” Torrez said, stamping down the tall grass with his thick rubber soles.
“Agreed. Even if it’s not, it has been neglected for some time.”
Torrez stooped down to slip his hand between the base of the wall and a scrawny boxwood. He pulled out an old piece of fluorescent orange tape, the sort used to cordon off crime scenes.
“From the time of the murder, you think?”
He handed it to Capestan, holding it between thumb and forefinger for her to inspect.
It seemed unlikely. Seven years is a long time. The commissaire thought for a few moments before making up her mind.
“Let me ask the neighbors. Stay here.”
She came back ten minutes later. The couple at number 28 had only moved in a few years ago. A lady had answered the door, a little girl clinging to her leg with pigtails that stuck up like palm trees. The commissaire had held up her ID with a smile, prompting the mother to send the girl inside to play.
The newcomers had never heard about the murder, and Capestan could not help thinking that the details might spoil their evening, not to mention the next few months. But the young woman had been able to confirm one thing: they had never seen anyone in the house next door.
Capestan went back to Marie Sauzelle’s place, where Torrez was waiting, absentmindedly scraping the sole of his boot.
“Are we going in?” he said.
They were eager to avoid wasting time requesting permission from a juge d’instruction, so Capestan nodded. After a quick scan of the area, the lieutenant took out his lock-picking kit and manipulated the mechanism like a true pro.
“The dead bolt hasn’t been locked,” he said with surprise in his voice.
The wood had swollen and the door scraped against the frame as it opened. Capestan and Torrez were barely across the doorstep when they stopped suddenly in complete disbelief.
Only the body was missing. In seven years, nothing else had moved. The floor was still covered with upturned drawers, scattered books, and broken glass. Curled-up rubber gloves from the forensics teams were lying on the coffee table, while the powder used to dust for fingerprints was smudged across the door handles and furniture. The teams had left it as it was, and no inheritor or real estate agent had spruced the place up, even to sell it at a knockdown price.
“Ever seen anything like it? A crime that hasn’t been cleaned up for seven whole years?” Torrez said.
“No. Especially not in a house that would be so easy to sell.”
They made a start on their inspection. Compared with the photographs from the police report, the décor had turned gray from the dust. The spiders had made the most of the owner’s absence to weave their webs with great enthusiasm. Anne Capestan tried to picture the corpse on the sofa. Taking care not to trample on the shards of porcelain, she picked up a clear acrylic photo cube. There was a picture of Marie wearing a black-and-white djellaba as she perched on the back of a camel. On one of the other sides, she was grinning as she leaned at an angle next to the Tower of Pisa. Capestan turned the object over in her hands. The following photograph was all yellowed and featured a young man with a strong family resemblance—the brother, no doubt—standing next to a racing bike, holding it by the handlebar and wearing a polka-dot cycling jersey. Next up was a young couple—Marie and a slender, blond-haired man—posing beneath an apple tree. Finally, a photograph of Marie in jeans and sandals, drinking from a bottle of mineral water outside Buckingham Palace.
Somewhere, perhaps even in this city, was the man who had killed this lady, snuffing out her wonderful lust for life. And to this day he had never had to face the smallest consequence.
Capestan carefully laid the photo cube on a bookshelf, beside a box full to the brim with multicolored
