emotion from showing on her face, but she’s feeling quite the mix.
Pride, that Joséphine Pradel—probably soon-to-be Humbert—stood up for herself and got her husband talking. Excitement, because Monsieur Pradel is about to bring them one step closer to figuring out what happened to Clothilde.
And annoyance. Because even though Monsieur Pradel has been brought down by his wife and knows he’s beaten, there is enough fight left in him to negotiate the immunity he asks for.
Emeline pauses before replying to his request. “This means you were involved in something illegal and you know it.”
Pradel doesn’t answer. He only stares stonily back.
“I don’t have the power to promise you immunity right this minute,” Emeline says. “Nor am I certain I’d want to. We are on the hunt for a serial killer who has been active for over thirty years. If you are in any way involved in causing the death of so many young women, your sister-in-law included, I want to make certain you can’t get away from the consequences of your actions.”
Joséphine’s body jerks at the idea of her husband being involved in her sister’s death, but luckily, she stays silent. She has done her job of warming up the subject, now Emeline must do her part.
“I would never be involved with a serial killer,” Monsieur Pradel says, his hackles rising. “To even imply it’s a possibility—”
“Then why ask for immunity, Monsieur?” Emeline asks calmly. “The only people who ask for immunity are those guilty of a crime. In most cases, we already know what the crime is, and the police might be willing to trade information for leniency. In this case, I’m asking you about information that you’ve withheld from your wife for thirty years.”
Emeline catches Joséphine’s gaze and is happy to see she’s staying strong. There seems to be no danger of her falling apart no matter what her husband might tell her. She appears to have woken from a thirty-year-long sleep.
Her worries for Clothilde’s sister set to rest, Emeline focuses back on the husband. “While it’s certainly not decent to withhold such emotionally important information from your wife, it is not against the law. I deduce that you did do something illegal, and that by disclosing this information to us, you will be incriminating yourself.”
Monsieur Pradel stays silent, communicating his intent to not say another word until he’s promised immunity.
Emeline could play with him for quite some time longer, but she has better things to do with her evening.
“For someone who has occupied a position in local governmental bodies for so long,” she says, “I’m quite disappointed to see you’re unaware of the statute of limitations in our country.”
She sees the realization dawn on the man but doesn’t bother to wait to see if he has anything to say. “Unless you committed a crime against humanity, for which there is no statute of limitations, you cannot be prosecuted for whatever you admit to doing thirty years ago. If you were involved in terrorism, war crimes, or drug trafficking and this went on past the date of Mademoiselle Humbert’s death, I guess we could still be within the thirty years and you could be held responsible.”
Although Emeline keeps her eyes on Monsieur Pradel, not wanting to miss any clues, she catches Malik’s reaction out of the corner of her eye. He’s staring at her with wide eyes, though Emeline can’t quite figure out why. He’s been through officer training, and not that long ago—he should know all this.
“If you were responsible for Clothilde’s death but were not involved for the other victims, the statute of limitations ran out ten years ago,” Emeline continues. “We would think very lowly of you.” And the man should probably fear for his life as long as his wife draws breath. “But we cannot take you to trial.”
Emeline holds the man’s gaze as the sun dips below a tree-covered hilltop at the far end of what she assumes to be the Pradel property, bathing their perfectly manicured garden in golden light.
“Nothing would bring me more pleasure than already finding Clothilde’s killer,” Emeline says. “But I don’t think you’re guilty of that crime. You’re not the type to do things on the front lines and take risks, are you, Monsieur Pradel? I’m guessing at most, you’re guilty of obstruction of justice for not giving the police the information you’re now willing to exchange for immunity.”
Monsieur Pradel shows no reaction. In fact, he hardly moves and Emeline wonders if she should check he’s still breathing.
Poking at “strong” men’s sensibilities isn’t necessarily a great idea if she wants information, but it’s been a long day, Emeline has had it with this misogynistic fool, and why should she adapt to them, after all?
Her voice is as no-nonsense at it goes. “I’ve reminded you how the laws of our country work when it pertains to crimes in the past, Monsieur Pradel. Now you either start talking because it will not have any impact on what happens to you, or I call my superior asking him to start an investigation into your past because I have reason to believe you’ve done something sufficiently bad to not be covered by the statute of limitations.”
A single drop of sweat breaks free from Monsieur Pradel’s hairline above his right temple and slowly makes its way down his jaw, finally getting lost in the beginnings of gray stubble. Emeline pretends not to notice.
Joséphine isn’t as kind. “Just start talking, Edouard. I absolutely loathe you right now, but even I don’t believe you’ve done something as bad as what Captain Evian is insinuating. Tell us everything you know about Clothilde’s death and her body’s disappearance.”
Taking instructions from his wife clearly goes against the grain for Monsieur Pradel, but he finally starts talking.
“I met with Clothilde several times that year,” he says. His eyes are directed toward Emeline but he’s not really looking her in the eye, more like her right ear. It’s probably his version of looking at his hands while he talks. “She came to see me on behalf of her non-profit organization, something to do with the traffic increasing in Toulouse.”
Joséphine snorts. “You remember every detail of every meeting you’ve ever had, Edouard. ‘Something to do with traffic’ is not the right way to describe what Clothilde tried to put into motion.” Clearly she knows what the non-profit was about but she’s not going to help her husband out. Only push him forcibly in the right direction.
Monsieur Pradel doesn’t acknowledge his wife’s words physically, but they seem to have hit their mark nonetheless. “They were worried city planning wasn’t taking into account the rapid growth of the city of Toulouse. Traffic was increasing in the city center and this group wanted to make certain the City Council did their job. Now, I don’t know about you, officer, but when a teenager comes to me repeatedly, accusing me of not doing my job, I do not particularly appreciate it.”
“I believe she was twenty,” Emeline says. “So, not technically a teenager. And personally, I’d take a good, long look in the mirror if someone over ten years my junior sees things in my job I’m not seeing. Age does not necessarily mean wisdom, Monsieur—and especially if that age was, what, forty?”
“We were working on the subject, Madame Evian. In fact, traffic management has been a major issue to be tackled by every Toulouse City Council since personal cars became a widespread phenomenon. We did not need these youngsters butting in, and when told as much, Mademoiselle Humbert refused to take no for an answer. I once had to call security to have her escorted out of the Capitole, and yet she still came back three days later.”
Emeline’s mind goes to the hours she has already spent in traffic in Toulouse, and she’s been here less than two months. Whenever she has to go anywhere, the streets are saturated, frustrated drivers honking at each other and trading insults, and buses getting stuck behind double-parked cars whenever someone ignores the rules because they need their cigarettes and “it’s only for two minutes.”
“How exactly has this subject been handled over the past three decades?” It’s not really the important subject here, but had someone come up to her and said they wanted to improve traffic fluidity in the city today, she’d have jumped on it pronto. The fact that Monsieur Pradel talks as if the problem has been solved, or possibly that there was no problem to begin with, frankly doesn’t make sense.
Malik is the one to answer her question. “Is hasn’t,” he says. His eyes are narrowed at Monsieur Pradel. It’s possible he’s holding the man responsible for the hours of his life lost to meaningless traffic jams. “New ideas are thrown out regularly, a few are even put into action—like making all the streets in the city center a maze of one-way streets to discourage anyone from driving there—but nothing has ever been able to change the trend. Which is more and more traffic jams. If you want to drive to work before the worst of it starts, you now have to be on the road before seven a.m. The return trip is always hell if you attempt it at any time between four and seven thirty.”
Malik meets Emeline’s gaze, checking he shouldn’t shut up and let Monsieur Pradel do the talking. “Because of the growing industry—Airbus, the CNES with their space research, the cancer research center, lots of startups—the population increases by almost two percent per year. That’s almost twenty thousand new inhabitants, hundreds of new apartments buildings often built in place of single homes, thousands of extra cars. Every single year.”
His gaze is downright accusatory toward Monsieur Pradel. “In the meantime, be it in the city of Toulouse itself or on a regional level, as good as nothing has been done to improve the infrastructure to try to keep up. They talk and they talk, but they never follow through.”
“If this is true,” Emeline says, genuinely curious now, “why would you turn down the help of a non-profit who wanted to assist you on the subject? Would it not be in your best interest to find a solution that might work? Would that not help you become more popular and thereby push toward re-election?”
Monsieur Pradel opens his mouth to argue, seems to change his mind, and closes it again. He sends an evaluating glance at his wife, but he must not like his odds because his shoulders visibly slump.
Finally, they’re getting somewhere.
“A non-profit led by twenty-year-olds wasn’t going to revolutionize the city planning of a city like Toulouse,” Monsieur Pradel says, making Emeline fight not to slump in disappointment. Will the man never learn?
“But even if they had been middle-aged and renowned experts in their fields, I would not have let them through,” he continues. “This was the one subject where no outside help was allowed. I could not have helped them had I wanted to.”
Which he hadn’t but that was beside the point.
“Why?” Emeline asks. “Why this one subject?”
“I’m afraid I do not have the answer to your second question,” Monsieur Pradel says. “I was not given a justification and I did not ask for it. As for your first question… I was simply following orders. This is, I’m sure, a concept you are familiar with, Captain Evian?”
So he does remember her rank. Emeline isn’t about to tell this man she’s currently getting quite proficient in pretending to follow orders, so she stays expressionless. “Who gave the order?”
Monsieur Pradel seems disappointed she doesn’t rise to the bait. Tough luck.
His answer elicits reactions from his entire audience of three, though.
“Who do you think gives orders to the members of the City Council? The mayor, of course.”