“I’m dealing with a different case,” the lieutenant repeated, unfazed. “It dates back to 2005, but we have a new lead.”
A hint of surprise flashed across the divisionnaire’s face. Curiosity was taking hold of him. For several years, Valincourt had been sitting on a handful of murders that had gone unpunished. He wanted to know what they knew. Torrez slowly removed the elastic ties from the corners of the file, pulled out a color photograph, and slid it toward the divisionnaire. It was of Marie Sauzelle.
“Do you know her?”
Valincourt barely even looked at him.
“Of course, I headed up the case.”
Torrez nodded gravely, pulled an afflicted expression, and took out a second picture, this one of a mailbox. He turned it toward the divisionnaire and poked one of his thick fingers onto the print to indicate the NO JUNK MAIL PLEASE sticker.
“You see stickers like this on the doors of eco-minded folk, or people away on vacation,” Torrez said, nodding as though approving of such sensible measures. “But do you know where you never find them?”
Valincourt avoided meeting his eye, so Torrez answered his own question:
“On the doors of old ladies who collect discount coupons.”
Torrez mulled over his words before coming to the natural conclusion:
“But a sticker like that isn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. He must have brought it with him. In a murder case, that means premeditation.”
The lieutenant enunciated each syllable of that last word. Valincourt pursed his lips for a moment, but must have considered it wiser not to comment. After all, he had not been overtly accused. He arched his eyebrows and looked at Torrez scornfully. The divisionnaire was good at controlling his facial expressions, but he could not avoid turning pale. They had him. It was time to pass on the baton. Torrez held out a hand and gently tapped the divisionnaire’s arm. His own special coup de grâce.
“Follow me.”
Torrez led Valincourt, shaken but still standing, down the corridor to the main room, where Lebreton was waiting next to his perfectly tidy desk. Rosière and Orsini were in the background, each holding a thick notebook.
The divisionnaire had just looked Destiny in the eye. Now Torrez was delivering him to the instruments of Law and Opinion: Lebreton and the IGS; Orsini and the press; Rosière and the mob. Valincourt was standing firm, but his brow was starting to glisten from the pressure of this ordeal. Nevertheless, he managed to recover all his outward dignity, and, still not seeing his son, protested with a strident voice:
“Look, where is he? I’m ordering you to release him. Right away.”
Lebreton moved closer to the wastepaper basket at the foot of his desk, then took a step back.
“No.”
“Excuse me? Do you have any idea who you’re talking to? You can start by telling me on what grounds you’re holding my son.”
Lebreton tucked a stray propeller pencil away in its container before eventually going to stand impassively behind his chair.
“Fleeing the scene of a crime, as he said on the telephone earlier.”
“Don’t make me laugh, capitaine—”
“Commandant . . .”
“He was walking down a street, correct? He ran off when Capestan confronted him? She’s a good-looking lady—you know how shy young men can be. She’s wrong to take it so personally.”
Lebreton grinned with amusement. Valincourt was attempting to sound lighthearted, but the effects of his fifteen minutes with Torrez were clear: sarcasm is harder to pull off when your voice is trembling. The divisionnaire was aware of the slight stammer, too, and his face was overcome with irritation.
“He happened to be walking down the street of a murder victim,” Lebreton said, gesturing toward one of the armchairs.
Valincourt grabbed hold of the arm and paused for a moment before deciding to sit down.
“He was coming to see me. Listen, you do realize this counts as an arbitrary arrest. You can’t charge my son with anything—you’ve got nothing.”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re not even entitled to place him in custody,” he said with a disdainful, sweeping motion that took in the room and the squad.
“No, I’m not sure we are,” Lebreton conceded blankly.
He studied the body language of the divisionnaire, who still had a stiff, almost military bearing. He had deliberately not changed before arriving, choosing to present himself in ceremonial uniform. Nothing incidental about that: he was trying to reassert his status and remind them of his rank.
“Fine, then,” Valincourt said. “Let him go.”
“Of course,” Lebreton said.
Valincourt made as if to stand up without any further comment, but the commandant cut him off to clarify what he meant:
“I’ll let him go. He hasn’t murdered anyone, after all. You, on the other hand . . .”
The divisionnaire bristled, but he checked himself immediately, regaining the necessary composure.
“How dare you, you shitty little officers? What right do you have to make such accusations?”
“My own. Are you making any progress on the Maëlle Guénan case? Because . . . well, we’ve got the culprit,” Lebreton said.
“Stop with your theatrics. I was staying out of courtesy, but this time . . .”
Valincourt stood up and put on his police cap. He was about to set off down the corridor to fetch Gabriel.
“What were you doing on Thursday, September 20, between 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m.?” Lebreton said.
“I’m not answering your questions.”
“Then I’ll answer them myself. On September 20, you went to rue Mazagran with a set of kitchen knives, you rang Maëlle Guénan’s doorbell, then you stabbed her to death before searching the apartment for any documents belonging to her husband.”
As he delivered that last point, Lebreton was watching for any sign of confirmation: Valincourt flinched, and the commandant knew he had found his target.
“You killed her, just as you killed Yann Guénan and Marie Sauzelle. You knew the victims and you deliberately hid that fact from us. Don’t bother with any unnecessary objections, we have it on video. Does the memorial of a shipwreck sound at all familiar?”
Lebreton pointed the remote at the TV and revealed the paused picture of Valincourt with Sauzelle. This time there was no doubt whatsoever about his aim. All means of escape
