Capestan rotated the magnifying glass in her hands. This burglar struck her as somewhat unstable and irrational. Nervous, at the very least. Maybe a druggie, or a first-timer, something that always complicates investigations.
Next she tackled the coroner’s report and the summary of evidence from the scene. Marie Sauzelle was strangled to death. Her body had been discovered much later, probably ten days after she was killed. The coroner had been unable to specify the time or day of her death. He noted the presence of a bruise on her right forearm, presumably the result of defensive action, but had not discovered any trace of skin residue beneath her fingernails.
As for the forensics team, they had not managed to find any DNA or fingerprints at the scene other than those belonging to the victim or her cleaning lady, who had been vacation in Le Lavandou (in the rain) at the time of the murder. “Some folk just have no luck,” she had said, referring to the weather, not the murder.
Even though they had quickly come to the conclusion that this was a burglary gone wrong, the team from the brigade criminelle did explore other scenarios. The victim’s telephone records did not turn up anything remarkable: fairly short calls from family members, administrative numbers, a few friends. Nothing suspicious in terms of bank transfers either, even though her current account had plenty in it.
The testimony of one of Marie Sauzelle’s friends highlighted the extent of her community involvement, as well as her passion for tango: “She came along with me to a session a year ago and it completely changed her life. Marie took several hours of lessons a week, and every Thursday we’d go down to the tea dance at Balajo together. She’d always wear incredible outfits: split skirts and low-cut leotards. Despite her age, she still had it . . . Yup, she was talented, and she was so cheerful, too. Even when she was dancing, she couldn’t stop herself humming along: tam tam tadam, tadadadam, tam tam tam tadam . . . It irritated her partners a bit, it must be said.” Capestan grinned at the thought of the slick-haired grandpas grimacing as Marie threw them off their steps.
It was her neighbor, Serge Naulin, fifty-six years of age, who alerted the authorities. The victim’s brother, André Sauzelle, sixty-eight, living in Marsac in Creuse, about four hours south of Paris, became worried that she was not answering his calls and asked Naulin to check if everything was all right. He had rung her bell without any success and, since “a nauseating smell seemed to be coming from inside,” he called the fire department, who notified the police.
The transcript from the brother’s interview ran to only two pages, but an appendix to the file established him as a bad-tempered, rough man with a history of domestic abuse. A perfect fit for a suspect, but he had been cleared: no incriminating evidence, no apparent motive, and a large geographic distance without any bank activity to indicate he had traveled. So the officers from the brigade criminelle turned their focus back to burglars operating at the time, and nothing had come up.
They needed to go back to square one: visit the crime scene and question the neighbors. It was seven years later, but maybe someone would remember something. A murder next door is not something you wipe from your memory.
As she stood up to go and find Torrez, Capestan noticed a head bobbing uncertainly in the doorway. It belonged to a lanky young man with thinning blond hair. He glanced up from the entrance, waved his hand, then disappeared abruptly. The commissaire recognized him as Lewitz, a transfer from the Nanterre branch of the police judiciaire, where the overzealous brigadier had written off three cars in three months. Along with Merlot’s visit, he was the second person to vanish as quickly as he had appeared, and it was not even midday. It gave her confidence that her squad might swell in number after all, even if it was by one anticlimax at a time. Now they were seven.
Lebreton was making notes in Yann Guénan’s file, waiting for Rosière to grace them with her fulsome presence. As he turned each page, he would tap his pen on his desk, like a drummer. At no point, however, did he betray a hint of nervousness. Never. Before joining the IGS, he had spent ten years as a negotiator with an armed response team at RAID. He was not easily flustered. The guy was the epitome of composure, with a dash of arrogance thrown in for good measure. He ignored Capestan as she passed him.
Through the door, the commissaire could make out the soft croon of Daniel Guichard’s “Mon Vieux.” Her knock was met with a good three seconds of silence, after which a “Yes” rang out, which Capestan interpreted as: “Who the hell is disturbing me and why?” She opened the door, determined to seem unfazed about disturbing him and show that she was in charge. Torrez was stretched out on a brown velvet sofa that had not been there the day before. Capestan wondered how on earth he had managed to get it up there. A mystery. Tacked to the wall was a child’s drawing of a sun and a dog, or a cat, or possibly even a horse. A glance at the file on the lieutenant’s knees suggested he was coming to the end of his read-through.
“I’m going to Issy,” Capestan announced. “Are you coming with me?”
“I’m not going anywhere with anyone. No offense,” he answered, his nose buried in the file.
On the shadowy policeman’s desk, Capestan noticed a container of pencils surrounded by aluminum foil. In its
