Lebreton ordered a coffee and a croissant then sat down.
“I brought my razor, but I forgot the blades. Mea culpa.”
For months Lebreton had not forgotten a thing, purely because he had all the time in the world to get himself organized. Perhaps the joy of leaving had upset the pattern.
“Tea forgivea,” the capitaine answered, lifting her elbow impatiently to brush off some stray crumbs, but the jam was making them stick.
“Right, off we go, I suppose,” she continued. “Jallateau won’t take too kindly to being bothered again. It’s weird that no one has managed to find a scrap of evidence against him.”
“Maybe because it’s not all so simple,” Lebreton answered, sliding a document across the table.
With his index finger, he drew Rosière’s attention to one line in particular. She picked up her cup and leaned over the sheet of paper. She frowned as her memory whirred into action.
“That name does ring a bell . . .”
Suddenly it registered, and she stared at Lebreton incredulously. The commandant tore his croissant in half and nodded, smiling in triumph.
The springs creaked as Gabriel leapt onto his bed. He had just gotten back from the births, marriages, and deaths registrar at the town hall, where he’d battled for hours to obtain duplicates. He was one of those kids who was forever checking the wrong box on official forms. It turned out that marrying the girl you love was an arduous process in this country.
The old cat sloped in and did a tour of the room, sniffing all the furniture as it went. Then he jumped onto his master’s bed, got comfortable on the pillow, and fell asleep with a purr. Gabriel stroked him for a moment, then took a list out of the side pocket of his Bermuda shorts. Instinctively he flattened the crumpled piece of paper against his thigh. All the names had been crossed out, with one exception. He unlocked his cell phone. He had spoken to all the survivors without learning a thing: no one remembered any details about his mother or his father. The only person left was Yann Guénan, the onboard quartermaster. The last telephone call. After this, he would stop.
27
Capestan had summoned all her troops to a morning meeting. Or, more precisely, she had taken advantage of the unlikely presence of a decent number of officers to engage the squad in an overdue powwow.
Lebreton and Rosière were still on the road, but they wouldn’t be long. They had promised some mind-blowing news. Capestan had reserved two prime seats for them on the old plaid sofa, Orsini’s contribution to the communal refurbishment effort. The capitaine had specified that it was in fact a sofa bed, which had immediately prompted Capestan to ban anyone from unfolding it. The furniture was beginning to mount up, but the living room was big enough to handle it. They had somewhat reshuffled the desks, and the sofa—a comfortable three-seater—was now positioned in front of the fireplace.
The wallpaper process had commenced. Two days before, Évrard and Orsini had primed the walls, with Merlot—glass in hand—issuing advice throughout. Capestan and Torrez had then fitted the wallpaper in half the living room. A paint-covered drop cloth was folded up in a corner of the room by the door next to a bucket of water, a brush, a jar of paste, and three leftover rolls of wallpaper. On the telephone, Lebreton had said he would finish the job this evening after the meeting.
Everyone was in their seat, thinking caps at the ready. Merlot had his back to the window, and next to him Évrard was humming as she fidgeted with her euro coin. She was forever mumbling bits of songs, the odd note that would break off as she picked up a pen and then resume just as quickly. She would keep the rhythm by bobbing her head or tapping her foot. Only the prospect of some sort of wager would get her to sit still. Orsini was sitting, too, ankles and hands crossed, on an orange plastic chair. The door leading to the corridor was open, and through it you could catch a glimpse of Torrez perched on a stool, following the discussion from a deliberate distance.
Two officers were making their first proper appearance. A good five weeks after the official start date and with only a few fleeting visits to check out the décor, they were finally reporting for duty. Finding that the atmosphere wasn’t so bad after all, they had stayed put to do some work.
The first was Dax, a young boxer who had shed as many brain cells in the ring as he had drops of sweat. With his flattened nose and cheerful smile, he had the same enthusiasm for life as a sea lion splashing around in the waves. Before the uppercuts caught up with his coconut, Dax had been one of the sharpest lieutenants in cybercrim. Apparently he was still capable of the odd flash of inspiration, but the team had yet to see any direct evidence of this.
Next to him was his pal Lewitz, the crazy motorhead that the higher-ups had insisted on transferring to Capestan, having failed in their attempts to fire him outright. Brigadier Lewitz loved cars, and half his career in the police force had been spent with the siren blaring. He was a hopeless driver, but he refused to admit it. Cars were his mistresses, Fernando Alonso was his idol, and his hands did not find peace unless they were gripping a steering wheel.
The state had generously allocated the squad a whiteboard and three marker pens, one of which had not dried up. Torrez had also brought along a blackboard mounted on red metal legs, as well as a box of crayons and a little sponge. His girls had grown out of it, so he was happy it would have a new home. Capestan had used it to recap the Sauzelle case, while the Guénan case was drawn up on the whiteboard. Everything was
