22
The pharmacist pushed down on the pedal of the metal trashcan and threw in the alcohol-soaked sterile pad.
“All cleaned up,” she said to Capestan, who stood up from the gray footstool where she had been sitting to have her wound examined.
Standing before the shelves of medicinal infusions, Torrez and Sauzelle both looked as guilty as the other as they observed the end to the procedure. Traces of bruising were starting to break out on Sauzelle’s neck. He wasn’t hurt, but Capestan felt uneasy all the same. He was nearly seventy, and she had displayed a level of aggression applicable for a man half his age.
They left the pharmacy under a clear blue sky. An airplane had left a vapor trail in its wake, a stratospheric oddity that you only seemed to see in the countryside. After installing Sauzelle in the back seat of their car, Capestan and Torrez leaned against the vehicle to discuss their plan of action.
The man had taken two police officers hostage and threatened them with a gun. He had even knocked one of them out. At the same time, even though she could justify it as self-defense, Capestan’s response had been disproportionate. And the commissaire was anxious to spare herself another hearing with IGS—she did not have enough points left on her license. As for Torrez, he was reluctant to sustain another blow to his reputation. They agreed not to press charges against Marie’s brother. All that remained was to ask him a few questions.
Sauzelle, still a bit shaken up, watched them through the car window, waiting for the verdict. Capestan motioned to him to lower it, which he did promptly. He welcomed the news of his exemption with relief and gratitude, then asked straightaway—aware that this might be pushing it—whether he could answer their questions at the same time as doing his round of deliveries: this whole incident meant he was running late.
As soon as they arrived back by the pond, Sauzelle opened the back of his white van, which had the words VERGERS SAUZELLE stamped on its side, and took out a crate of apples, offering the officers two of the shiniest specimens. Torrez accepted with the fulsome thanks of a well-mannered schoolchild; Capestan declined with a shake of the head. Her scalp was throbbing and she still felt unsteady on her feet. She gave Torrez a meaningful glance, prompting him to take the lead—she would observe from the background, giving her temper time to calm down. The lieutenant bit into the apple before beginning, opting for a less mild approach in order to maintain their upper hand.
“Did Naulin tell you we were coming?”
“Yes. He told me that you’d questioned him, that you were on your way, and that you’d almost certainly be arresting me . . .”
Sauzelle was standing in front of the back of his van, wiping his hands on his trousers, a washed-out pair of jeans with a neat crease running down each leg. The man didn’t really know what to think anymore.
Torrez held out his apple to Capestan, then took out his notebook and pen to scribble a few words down.
“Did you get along well with your sister?” the lieutenant asked.
“Yes, we were very close.”
“Despite living two hundred miles apart?”
“It’s not that far, just a little drive. And we spoke on the telephone all the time.”
“You’re right, it’s not that far, just a little drive . . . You could easily have made it there and back in one night to kill her.”
“No, absolutely not, I never left the area. Plenty of people will tell you—”
“Plenty of people can’t be monitoring you every day, and certainly not every night.”
“That’s what your colleagues said last time.”
“And what was your answer back then?” Torrez said, his pen hovering over his notebook.
“I hadn’t bought enough gas for a journey that long . . . Anyway, that hardly matters. Nothing. I said nothing, but I never would have killed Marie.”
Sauzelle swiped a stray curl of hair away from his forehead with a thick hand. His beige workman’s jacket was fraying at the elbows.
“You know,” he resumed in a dull voice, “we had lost both our parents. She was a widow, I was divorced. Neither of us had children. She had lots of friends, but I—I only had her.”
Capestan took a few steps back, taking the apple with her. Nearby, four trees with thin trunks and bright-yellow leaves had been pruned into a spherical shape. They looked like giant matches that had been planted there to light up the green grass.
The smooth, syrupy surface of the pond shone like mercury. In the middle, a solitary duck was tracing a silvery furrow, following a decisive, unswerving trajectory. This duck knew where it was going. Unlike the murderer, Capestan thought to herself. He had been floundering, zigzagging. First he had brutally killed her with his bare hands; then he had sat the body back down and straightened her up with some dignity. He had strangled her, yet he had fixed her hair. There had been too many emotions bound up in such a staunch body. He had been unable to control them. Sauzelle fitted the profile, but did he have a proper reason to kill his sister?
Torrez, who had forgotten all about his apple, pressed on with the interrogation. By his reckoning, they had dispelled any suspicions about the brother and were now investigating other potential leads. So the lieutenant adjusted his line of attack and slipped into collaboration mode: a one-man display of good cop, bad cop.
“Was she on bad terms with anyone?”
“Maybe that property developer, the one in Paris . . .”
“Oh yes?”
