What was he doing there? None of the families lived in the area. Did he know who she was? Was he there by chance, or specifically to see her? Did he have an appointment, or did he want to speak to her?
Sitting facing a window, with his motorbike helmet at his feet, he seemed to be waiting his turn. Toussaint. Lucie Lindon looked for the name in the schedule of the three doctors in that morning, at the office where she was a medical secretary, but saw no sign of it. For more than two hours, the doctors went to open the waiting-room door, but they never called for Mr. Toussaint. At midday, he was still there, sitting facing the window. Along with two other patients waiting their turn. Half an hour later, when the waiting room was empty, Lucie Lindon went in and closed the door behind her. He turned his head in her direction and stared at her. Blonde, fine features, quite pretty. In other circumstances, he would have chatted her up. Although he’d never chatted anyone up, merely summoned them before helping himself.
“Hello, sir, do you have an appointment?”
“I want to speak to you.”
“To me?”
“Yes.”
It was the first time she was hearing the sound of his voice. She was disappointed. It revealed a somewhat drawling, rural accent. The birdsong didn’t live up to the plumage. She was thinking that for a few seconds, and then began to panic. And her hands to shake. She again rubbed them nervously, up and down her arms.
“Why me?”
“Fontanel told me that you asked Geneviève Magnan to supervise the children in your place that evening . . . Is that true?”
He had said it without the slightest tone. Neither anger, nor hatred, nor passion. He had said it without introducing himself, he knew that Lucie Lindon recognized him, had placed him. That she would understand the significance of the words “that evening.”
Lying would be pointless. Lucie sensed that she had no choice. Fontanel—just the name horrified her. A lecherous old dog with shifty eyes. She had never understood why he had been employed to work in the château, around children.
“Yes. I asked Geneviève to stand in for me. I was with Swan Letellier upstairs. I fell asleep. Someone knocked on the door, I went down and I saw . . . the flames . . . There was nothing I could do, I’m so sorry, nothing . . . ”
Philippe got up and left without saying goodbye to her. So far, Fontanel hadn’t lied.
* * *
DECEMBER 12TH, 1997
“Did someone hate you?”
“Hate me?”
“Before the fire, could someone have had a grudge against you?”
“A grudge against me?”
“A grudge against you to the extent of sabotaging equipment?”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Toussaint.”
“Were the water heaters installed in the ground-floor rooms defective?”
“Defective?”
Philippe grabbed Edith Croquevieille by the collar. He had waited for her in the underground car park of the Cora supermarket, in Epinal. She had moved to Epinal, with her husband, after being released from prison. Philippe had waited patiently there for her to return with her shopping cart, open the trunk of her car, and fill it with her groceries. She had to be on her own.
When he had approached her, menacingly, it had taken her a few seconds to place him. Then she had thought to herself that he was there to kill her, not question her. She had thought: That’s it, it’s over, I’m living my final moments. She lived with the idea that, one of these days, one of the parents would kill her.
Since knowing where she lived, Philippe had watched her for two whole days. She never went anywhere without her husband. He accompanied her everywhere, the shadow of her shadow. This morning, for the first time, she had left her home on her own, at the wheel of her car. Philippe had, in turn, followed her closely.
“I’ve never hit a woman, but if you carry on answering my questions with a question, I’m going to smash your face in . . . And believe me, I’ve got nothing to lose. That’s already happened.”
He loosened his grip. Edith Croquevieille saw that Philippe’s blue eyes had darkened. As though anger had dilated his pupils.
“To be clear, is it true that the children washed their hands with cold water in their room because the water heaters were past it?”
She thought for two seconds and then whispered a barely audible “Yes.”
“Did all the staff know not to touch those water heaters?”
“Yes . . . They hadn’t been used for years.”
“Could a child have got one working?”
She turned her head nervously from left to right before replying:
“No.”
“Why not?”
“They were more than two meters above the ground and hidden behind a security hatch. There was no risk.”
“Who could have done so, despite that?”
“Done what?”
“Got one of the water heaters working?”
“Absolutely no one. No one.”
“Magnan?”
“Geneviève? Why would she have done that? Poor Geneviève. Why are you talking to me about the water heaters?”
“Fontanel, did you get on well with him?”
“Yes. I never had a problem with my staff. Ever.”
“And with a neighbor? A lover?”
Edith Croquevieille’s face kept falling as Philippe bombarded her with questions. She couldn’t understand what he was getting at.
“Mr. Toussaint, until July 13th, 1993, my life was like clockwork.”
Philippe loathed that expression. His mother often used it. Philippe felt like killing Croquevieille. But what would have been the point? This woman was already dead. She was quite a sight, all buttoned up in a sad coat. Sad expression, sad eyes. Even the features of her face had hanged themselves. He turned his back on her and left without saying a word. Edith Croquevieille called out:
“Mr. Toussaint?”
He turned back to her, half-heartedly. Didn’t want to see her anymore.
“What are you after?”
He didn’t reply to her, got back on his bike, and headed, reluctantly, for Brancion-en-Chalon. He was cold, he was tired. He’d been gone for
