Earlier that morning, Riverni’s outraged face had been plastered across the front of every newspaper in the city, free and paid-for alike. The pages that followed contained ruthlessly precise and formidably well-informed articles about Riverni the Younger’s misdemeanors. Orsini, like the seasoned pro that he was, knew how to unleash a good story. He lit the fire online, kindled it by providing Le Canard enchaîné with the necessary documents, and by the eight o’clock news, which had no choice but to run it, the whole thing was up in flames, only for the sparks to land on the following morning’s dailies. Orsini always delivered the goods; the journalists knew how reliable a source he was. Buron must have been glued to his telephone all morning.
Capestan held her breath as she picked up.
“Typical,” Buron said. “I suppose I should have seen this coming!”
“Good morning, Monsieur le Directeur. It was too tempting, yes. Only seems just.”
“Just? Just! Do you know what Riverni wants to do with your ‘justice’? He wants to fire the whole group of you!”
Buron was almost choking. Capestan pictured his scarlet face, bow tie ready to detonate. His receiver must be gleaming after that almighty shower.
“Permission to shed a tear?”
“It’s not tears you’ll be shedding, Capestan! You are intolerable: you’ll never change. Senior management, police headquarters, the ministry . . . the whole goddamn barnyard has been on my case since seven o’clock asking where this leak came from. It’s not a leak, it’s goddamn Aqualand! You didn’t pull any punches. You didn’t stop at telling the press about the boy and his cocaine; you had to tell them about his father attempting to hush it up.”
The game of darts had resumed without Capestan, and the players were having a lot more fun. She always found it fascinating how much people hate losing—herself included.
“You left me with no choice. And you know it,” she said.
“You always have a choice. And you routinely opt for the one that appeals to your pride.”
“The squad’s pride,” Capestan corrected him. She distractedly leafed through the wallpaper samples, eventually settling on the red ochre.
“There we have it. Fine. I didn’t tell HQ that it came from your squad. That wouldn’t have done you any favors, Capestan. Let me remind you how close you were to going to the slammer. I decided to protect you. I’m not asking you to thank me—”
“But I do thank you, wholeheartedly. Thank you, Monsieur le Directeur: thank you very much. I’m grateful for your understanding and for your exemplary discretion,” she said, surprising herself with her tone.
It wasn’t insolence. She often tried that with Buron, but usually in less tricky situations as a way of lightening the mood. Not that he ever took offense: he was more than aware of the endless, unswerving admiration she had for him. Her respect for the chief was never genuinely in question. But her response had clearly been out of tune with the reprimand she had just received. It was like a sudden flash of inspiration. Capestan wouldn’t have been able to explain such a sudden, uninhibited display of nonchalance; this sense of play acting. Buron, however, far from reprimanding her, copied her benign tone:
“And apart from this, how’s the squad? All going well?”
After a few minutes of lighthearted conversation, Capestan hung up, only for the telephone to ring again immediately, like a rebound.
“Did you forget something, Monsieur le Directeur?” she said.
There was a moment of hesitation at the other end, shortly followed by an oily voice that Capestan recognized with a shudder of revulsion.
“Good morning, commissaire.”
“Monsieur Naulin, hello,” she said. “What can I do for you?”
“I just wanted to let you know that a young man just rang my bell looking for Marie Sauzelle.”
“Did he now? For any reason in particular?”
“He just wanted to talk her, or so he said. He was very surprised and extremely upset to hear that she had died seven years ago.”
“What did he look like?” Capestan said, pulling a pad toward her and picking up a ballpoint that turned out to be a dud. She tested three others by scribbling on the back of the wallpaper samples, ultimately finding a red rollerball that did the job. Why was it never the blue or black ones that worked?
“Like a sort of young, squirrelly boy with reddish-brown hair. A ruddy complexion, almost as red as his hair. Around five foot eleven. A handsome boy, but gangly—not grown into his body, if you know what I mean. Timid, eyes darting all over the place. The lobe of his left ear was missing. And perhaps a finger, but I’m not entirely sure. He was wearing an orange zip-up hoodie, and one of those new cartoon-style T-shirts . . .”
“Manga?”
“Absolutely. He was also wearing beige Bermuda shorts and enormous sneakers, you know those ones that make them look like Mickey Mouse.”
Capestan could hear Naulin smiling: he couldn’t resist a bit of humor.
“And a bright-green bike helmet . . .”
His precision was remarkable, suspicious even. Capestan had been around there the day before. She had wanted to share her thoughts surrounding the welcome she had received in Creuse thanks to his efforts. She had come for an explanation, but Naulin had stalled in classic fashion, denying any responsibility, then played the impenetrable, enigmatic card as soon as she started asking questions. Exasperated and still reeling from the blow to her temple, Capestan had rattled him a bit, but Naulin had nothing new to report. The commissaire should have gone easier on him. She left convinced that the guy was guilty, but she still didn’t have anything firm to go on. Naulin obviously woke up this morning and decided to make himself seem more innocent. Now here he was—description at the ready—providing the perfect smokescreen.
“Did he leave a name?”
“Unfortunately not.”
Well, there you have it.
“Shame, but thanks all the same, Monsieur Naulin. Your sketch
