The lights were refusing to change. Capestan attempted to take one step, but a Chevrolet skimmed past her and sent her flying back onto the pavement. The Squirrel must have been making good headway. As the next car sped past, Capestan made a spontaneous dash for it.
Behind she could hear Torrez’s panic-stricken voice shouting “No!!” at the top of his lungs, but by then she had made it to the middle of the boulevard. Holding up her hand to slow down the oncoming traffic, she crossed the last section of the road and leapt onto the pavement. A hundred yards ahead she could make out the green helmet disappearing into the distance. She upped her pace.
Without slowing down for a second, the boy glanced back to see Capestan fast approaching. He wove his way through the pedestrians and veered left down passage Lemoine. The commissaire lost him and started really sprinting, reaching the passage just in time to see him take a right onto boulevard de Sébastopol. She hurtled after him, knocking into two men smoking on the pavement outside a jeans shop.
Who was this boy? What was he doing there?
He’d crossed boulevard de Sébastopol and was level with rue de Tracy when a woman suddenly moved her bicycle forward, sending him completely off-balance as he bore down on her. Capestan was afraid he might jump onto the bike and lose her once and for all, but no, he swerved abruptly to avoid the woman, buying the commissaire a few precious yards. Her lungs were starting to burn and she wondered how long she’d be able to keep this pace up. Ahead, her target—twenty years her junior and with fewer miles on the clock—was still charging along, showing no sign of slowing down. Capestan needed to find a way of catching him fast: if it came down to stamina, she didn’t stand a chance.
How did he know Marie and Maëlle? What did he want from them?
He turned past the railings of square Émile-Chautemps and erupted onto rue Saint-Martin, barging into someone leaving the post office and sending his parcel flying onto the street. The man was unleashing a volley of furious obscenities as Capestan tore past him. She spotted the green helmet cutting diagonally across the junction with rue Réaumur, and was summoning her final reserves of energy when a screech of brakes made her turn sideways. A bus was heading right for her. She could make out the driver’s horrified expression through the windshield. Capestan had just enough time to raise her arm to protect herself.
She felt an impact, but it wasn’t the bus: a pair of hands had shoved her in the back and propelled her forward onto the far pavement. As she landed, her hip slammed onto the concrete and she let out a cry of pain. Capestan heard the dull thud of a collision behind her and people screaming all around. She looked back and saw Torrez stretched out on the ground, blood gushing from his head. Clutching her side, she crawled toward him, calling out to him, praying he wasn’t dead. Slowly he lifted his head and looked at her and, with a lopsided smile, reassured her with a weak voice:
“I’m fine. I’m happy.”
He was still smiling when he passed out.
The wail of an ambulance drew nearer. Capestan sat next to the lieutenant and waited.
35
A long-haired medic had just taken over from the on-call doctor. Torrez had a broken collarbone and extensive bruising, including one that covered the whole of his right thigh. He had been severely shaken up, but his days were no longer numbered. He was sleeping.
Rosière swung open the double doors separating the intensive care unit from the main lobby, quickly followed by Lebreton.
“He’s going to be fine,” Capestan said.
The two officers heaved a sigh of relief.
“They’re going to transfer him to his own room. His wife is on her way, but we’ll have to do shifts, too, to make sure someone from the squad is always here.”
“Of course,” Lebreton said, then held out an item of clothing. “We recovered the hoodie.”
Capestan noticed cat hair on the sleeves. It would need to go in for some tests. She asked Lebreton to take care of it, and also to arrange for a lookout to keep tabs on the boy’s bike.
What a waste letting him get away like that.
“The kid matches Naulin’s description, right?” Rosière said.
“Yes. We absolutely have to identify him. He’s linked to both victims—we need to find out how. We need to question him, but first we need to find him.”
“Bearing in mind his age, he could be anyone: a son, a nephew, a student, someone’s younger brother . . . ,” Lebreton said, trailing off.
Capestan’s face suddenly lit up:
“The Guénan boy?”
“No. They had a framed photo: it’s not him.”
The commissaire shook her head slowly and stared down the corridor, thinking for a few seconds as she rubbed the scar on her finger.
“We need Naulin to remember the exact words of his conversation with the boy, and we need to call everyone again: Jallateau, André Sauzelle, the victims’ friends, even that property developer . . . If possible, we’ll need to talk to Maëlle Guénan’s son. They’re roughly the same age. Maybe our Squirrel was looking for him?”
Capestan stood up straight and turned to Lebreton.
“Commandant, I’m going to leave this research in your hands. I’m off to see Buron. Our information is becoming too important to keep them in the cold. I’m going to request that we join forces for the investigation.”
Rosière looked unsure.
“He’ll never agree,” she warned the commissaire. “At least not without something to cushion those butt cheeks of his.”
Before braving the headquarters of the police judiciaire and meeting with the big cheese himself, Capestan decided to take a breather along the Seine, strolling gently down the embankment. After Notre-Dame, the riverside momentarily lost its touristy charm, with the
