“Always eager to help,” he said in his unctuous tone.
Capestan said good-bye and hung up. She stood there for a few moments studying the notes on her desk. In the end, she tore off her jottings from the piece of wallpaper and went to knock on Torrez’s door, waiting for his response before entering.
The lieutenant was sitting on his sofa reading through André Sauzelle’s tax records—paying particular attention to the inheritance—by the light of an adjustable architect’s lamp that he had bolted to a stool. On the floor, his old cassette player was issuing a melancholy Yves Duteil number. The heat in the room was suffocating. A new poster had been pinned to the wall: a junior football team—Paris Alésia FC—made up of three rows of youngsters in oversized shorts bookended by two coaches in undersized tracksuits.
Capestan relayed Naulin’s telephone call word for word and Torrez noted down the description for himself.
“What do you make of it?” the commissaire said, rubbing the scar on her index finger.
“A nice present, all wrapped up with a ribbon.”
“Exactly. Without a name, either. I’m struggling to see how the details hang together. A young guy with red hair and a hoodie . . . wearing Bermuda shorts at this time of year? Clearly he doesn’t feel the cold,” Capestan said.
“When it comes to clothes and teenagers, the weather’s the last thing on their mind.”
“You’ve got a teenager, too?”
“You name it, I’ve got it,” Torrez replied earnestly. “We might be able to run a search on the bright-green bike helmet. Not a typical color—must come from a specialist cycling shop. If we find one in Decathlon, though, we’re screwed.”
“Let’s just pretend for a second that this kid exists outside Naulin’s imagination: could it have any importance? A boy visits an old lady who’s been dead for seven years. Why?”
Torrez scrunched up his dark eyes, hunting for a clue, a key, an opening.
“Former pupil? Remember she used to be a teacher,” he said.
“Yes, maybe. Listen, I’ll look into the helmet and we’ll bear the description in mind, but let’s not fret too much about this. It’s a tip-off from Naulin, after all.”
Capestan was by the door, about to leave, when the evening event mentioned by André Sauzelle came back to her.
“Did you find anything about a function or a meeting of some sort in Marie’s calendar?” she said.
“No, no I didn’t: in fact I wanted to talk to you about that.”
Torrez held up a finger to try and detain the commissaire, and with his other hand he searched through the documents scattered across his desk.
“There wasn’t anything written in her schedule, so I thought about checking her mail to see if she’d received an invitation. But . . . have a look,” he said, digging out a piece of paper from the crim file. “Turns out there wasn’t a single letter in the list of evidence recovered from Sauzelle’s house.”
“Maybe they didn’t see anything worth picking up,” Capestan said.
“That was my initial thought, but I went to check the premises,” Torrez replied, exuding professionalism. “I searched the writing desk in the living room, the drawers under the bookshelves, the hall table: nothing. Apart from an electric bill and a letter about some competition from a mail order company, there wasn’t a single envelope.”
“You’re right, that is strange. Especially for someone so involved in clubs and community life.”
“The murderer took her mail—I don’t see any other way around it. If you want my opinion, he didn’t just know the victim, but the two of them took part in some sort of activity together.”
Before Capestan could say even a word, the lieutenant held up one of his big mitts in surrender:
“I know, I know, only one thing to do: check to see if there’s a record of anything with the local clubs.”
The game of darts was finished. Capestan went through to join the team in the kitchen. The doors onto the terrace were wide open, and Lebreton and Rosière were out there smoking. Évrard had her hands clasped around a cup of coffee. Orsini, rigid as a watchtower, was surveying them all. Capestan went over to him and drew him to one side.
“Capitaine,” she said, “my approach may seem naïve to you, but—”
“Don’t worry, commissaire,” he cut in. “When it comes to this squad, I am not banking on reporting anything I see to the IGS or the press. I denounce only the corrupt. They may be in prison, they may be in office, but they are never discarded. No offense intended, but the actions of cretinous officers in the naughty corner do not concern me in the slightest.”
“Well, you’ve been posted here, too,” Capestan said, eager to take a stand against Orsini’s disdain for his colleagues.
He cordially acknowledged her point, rearranged his navy-blue silk handkerchief, and smiled:
“I consider my role to be more of a supporting one, commissaire.”
Capestan nodded her agreement and walked away from the capitaine. That final remark had given her pause, and she moved it to the back of her head to let it simmer away.
She opened the fridge and poured herself some fruit juice before going out for some air herself. Merlot completed the gathering on the terrace, holding a spoon in one hand and the pot of honey from Torrez in the other. Without any consideration whatsoever for future consumers, he plunged the spoon into the pot and put it directly in his mouth. As he was about to plunge it back, Capestan leapt forward to rescue the honey.
“That’s a present from Torrez,” she said, fully aware that this might discourage anyone else from touching it.
Merlot thought about protesting for a second, then brought all his attention to bear on the spoon, which he licked with delight:
“Honey, my children. Honey! Is it not truly marvelous what nature gives us?”
Pilou sniffed in agreement, desperate for some to fall.
“It doesn’t ‘give’ us anything,” Rosière objected, wagging a chubby finger at Merlot. “It takes hundreds of little bees working their asses
