“Yes, so I imagine. I was referring to the testimonies you must have collected at the time.”
“The testimonies . . . Why would you want to investigate the character of the victim of a burglary?”
That was the end of that. One way or another, the next few minutes would put the original brigade criminelle inquiry in the spotlight. Either the divisionnaire was aware of some inconsistencies and would rush to defend his squad; or he was convinced that their conclusions were well founded and would fight tooth and nail to protect his team. Double or quits.
Subtle variations and phrasings of the same sentences whirled around Capestan’s head. She felt as if she were trying to dislodge a sea urchin without touching the needles. Eventually she took a discreet breath and went for it:
“The thing is, in my mind, there are a few details that don’t fit with the burglary theory. The dead bolt, for example . . .”
Valincourt’s eyes flashed with scorn, the sort reserved for the lowest of the low.
“Hold on, hold on, Commissaire Capestan. Let me just make sure I’m hearing this right: are you insinuating that our inquiry was deficient?”
Valincourt was digging in his heels. She needed to adjust her aim to avoid having their talk brought to a premature close.
“No, not at all. I’m simply questioning—”
“You’re simply questioning?” Valincourt cut her off, then proceeded to give her both barrels with a deadpan expression and chilling voice: “Listen, I understand that you need to keep busy down in your little rat-hole. And I appreciate that mediocre officers love nothing more than questioning the integrity of their predecessors. But your squad is a dead end, not a development scheme. So don’t waste my time with your ‘questioning.’ If you want to feed on our scraps, young lady, then be my guest. But at least have the decency not to come begging for our help.”
“Young lady” . . . Why not “pretty little thing” while we’re at it, Capestan thought to herself. The master was really starting to pull rank, and she managed to resist the urge to kick back with an “old man.” She nodded in silence. Deep down, he was right. And she had run the risk of a snub by turning up uninvited.
She had not hit upon any new information, and she had already been given her marching orders.
The room was starting to fill up. An officer with an affectedly casual manner came over to greet Valincourt with great ceremony. He had a shaved head and a leather jacket and was carrying a gun case big enough to house an acoustic guitar—not that he looked the type to bash out a Dylan cover. He made a surprised face on spotting the commissaire, smiling out of the corner of his mouth, as did the next two colleagues. Capestan was fuming, but she still offered her hand out of politeness as she stood up.
“I’ll leave you in peace, Monsieur le Divisionnaire,” she said. “Thank you for your time.”
He shook her outstretched hand and smiled an artificial smile at her. He hesitated a moment, then said:
“If you must look elsewhere, try the brother. But mind how you go with him: he was a nasty piece of work.”
Capestan nodded, then made for the exit under the sneer of her colleagues, smarting from the blow to her pride. As she opened the door, she made out the unmistakable sound of a Beretta automatic pistol. A shiver of envy ran down her spine.
15
It was early afternoon, and Évrard and Merlot were sitting on a bench in parc Monceau, carrying out surveillance on a junkie. In reality, Merlot was brazenly attempting to school Évrard in the subtleties of chess. She listened to him patiently, all the while thinking that the good capitaine was too drunk to count to five. But the weather was mild and the park was pretty, so Évrard passed the time placing accumulator bets based on the alternating numbers of wheelchairs and tracksuits, skirts, and trousers. There was nothing sociological about her people watching: just numbers and the voice of Merlot, her croupier, in the background.
Opposite them, the junkie was scratching the inside of his arm distractedly and tapping his foot. He was getting impatient, wondering what the hell he was doing in a park in the snazzy eighth arrondissement. He glanced at them nervously, and for some reason their presence seemed to calm him. Évrard looked at the man next to her in his mustardy trousers through the corner of her eye, then at her own worn-out black Converse sneakers and wondered, once again, what she was doing with her life. Two wheelchairs, one pair of trousers, three tracksuits, one skirt.
A man was striding down the central pathway. Évrard was on her guard. Nothing really marked him out from the crowd other than the fact he was a little more scruffy and pale than the others. And the fact that he was screaming “Asshole! Asshole! Asshole!” at the trees, the sky, and the passersby. Yet another person that Paris had forsaken. Évrard felt a sudden envy for his unbridled freedom, for the free fall that comes when you cut the final cord, the last restraint. She let the heady idea register, then breathed out to bring herself back to reality. The stakeout. Her job. Her chance to get back on track. Merlot was saying something.
“And so I advance my rook, hazarding a guess at my impudent opponent’s response . . . Ah, ah: no diagonal. Do you not realize? In public, no less!”
Évrard nodded in agreement, but her attention was back on the druggie under their surveillance. He was sitting bolt upright: must be someone coming. Bingo! A young man with a raver’s complexion and dressed in a blazer, skinny jeans, and a thin tie was sitting next to the junkie on the bench. They were pretending
