GORSKI PARKED IN RUE DES TROIS ROIS. The florist greeted him as cheerfully as ever. The weighty scent of flowers reminded him of the church. Perhaps it was the funeral that had made him come here. His own father’s funeral had attracted only a handful of people. Ribéry had attended and sat discreetly at the back of the chapel. A few of his father’s cronies from the Restaurant de la Cloche had scattered themselves among the pews behind Gorski and his mother. None of M. Gorski’s customers had come.
Gorski bought a little bouquet of lilies. Mme Beck tried to refuse his money, but he insisted.
‘I took a little soup up earlier,’ she said.
‘I’m very grateful,’ said Gorski.
He took the stairs up to the apartment. He knocked lightly on the door, before pushing it open. It was never locked. His mother was asleep in her armchair. She looked very peaceful and Gorski thought about leaving without disturbing her. He found a vase in the old darkwood sideboard and went into the kitchen to arrange the flowers. When he returned his mother was awake.
‘Hello, Georges, I wasn’t expecting you.’ She smiled weakly at him.
‘I didn’t mean to wake you,’ he said.
‘I was just resting my eyes.’
‘I brought you some flowers.’
‘So I see. You should be buying flowers for your wife, not for me,’ she said. ‘But thank you. They’re beautiful.’
She struggled out of her chair and hobbled into the kitchen. She did not like to be helped. Gorski sat down at the table. He always sat in the same place. Mme Gorski returned some minutes later with a tray. Gorski poured out the tea. They sat in silence for a few minutes. It was very quiet in the little apartment.
Mme Gorski asked about Clémence.
‘She’s good,’ said Gorski. ‘Doing well at school.’
‘And your wife?’
Mme Gorski never referred to Céline by name.
‘Good,’ said Gorski. ‘Busy with the shop.’
Céline rarely visited and when she did she made little effort to conceal her disdain for the little apartment, with its old-fashioned furnishings and decor. Gorski always felt ashamed of her behaviour. M. Gorski’s chair was still in its place between them. Gorski could see the old man sitting there, his pipes arranged on the little side-table, newspaper draped over the arm of the chair.
‘You remember the murder of the young girl in the woods?’
He was not sure what made him say it. He never spoke to his mother about his work.
‘Of course,’ she said. ‘What was her name?’
‘Juliette Hurel.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I remember it well.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the window.
‘We finally got the guy that did it,’ he said.
Mme Gorski nodded almost imperceptibly. ‘Your father would have been pleased,’ she said.
Gorski swallowed hard and nodded. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. He let his breath out slowly. Then he got up and carried the tea things back to the kitchen.
‘I’d better go,’ he said.
He kissed his mother on the cheek. She gripped his hand for a moment.
‘Bring Clémence round some time. I’d like to see her.’
‘Yes, I will,’ said Gorski. ‘Soon.’
He had no desire to return to the police station. Gorski imagined how a cop like Lambert would celebrate the resolution of a twenty-year-old case, surrounded by admiring colleagues. Probably they would take over an entire bar and carouse into the night, a few favoured journalists hanging on the detective’s every word. Lambert would not be troubled by a bad conscience about a tramp who had been quite content to spend his final years with a roof over his head.
Instead, Gorski took refuge in Le Pot. The bar was busy with post-work drinkers, unconsciously observing the unwritten law which dictated that workers stood at the counter while clerical and professional men occupied the tables. Gorski took what was becoming his usual seat and gestured to the proprietor that he would take a beer. The former teacher was at his place beneath the high window, a glass of white wine on the table in front of him. At the table in the corner were three youths, around twenty years old. They were fresh-faced, bourgeois boys clearly revelling in the rebelliousness of drinking in such a dive. Yves brought his beer. Gorski did not know if he knew he was a cop. If he did, he gave no sign of doing so. Bar owners did not welcome the patronage of policemen. The presence of a cop made the other customers uneasy, no matter how law-abiding they were. Gorski downed his beer in a couple of swallows and signalled to the proprietor to bring another.
If Gorski felt any satisfaction at the resolution of the Juliette Hurel case, it was of a melancholy kind. Had he been more competent, the case would have been resolved the first time round. He had been face to face with the guilty party and suspected nothing. And now, even if it were possible to bring charges against Manfred Baumann, it would do nothing for Gorski’s reputation. In any case, the authorities would not consent to granting a posthumous pardon to Malou, and Baumann’s confession would never be deemed admissible. Any lawyer worth his salt would see to that. And what would be gained by prosecuting Baumann? He was not a murderer in any meaningful sense. In the eyes of the law he was responsible for the death of Juliette Hurel, but he had not set out to kill her. In some ways, he had suffered the consequences of his actions as much as anyone.
Thus the conclusion of the case must remain a private matter. Gorski could not even go home to Céline and tell her that he had finally solved the murder that had blighted the early years of their marriage. Since the conviction of Malou he had kept his thoughts about the matter to himself. Céline had found his fixation with the case distasteful and the knowledge that he had conspired in the conviction of an innocent man shamed him. It was better all round to keep up the pretence that the case was closed.
The only remaining question was whether Baumann’s confession had any bearing on the case of Adèle Bedeau. The bank manager was, undeniably, a peculiar character. He had lied about his involvement in the waitress’s disappearance and, as Gorski now knew, he had committed a murder on at least one occasion. Nobody Gorski had spoken to had anything positive to say about him. On paper, Baumann was a compelling suspect. Certainly the newspapers would have little trouble persuading their readers of his guilt. Yet Gorski was unconvinced. He did not place much importance on the fact that he had lied. Gorski had learned long ago that for even the most blameless people lying to the police was a reflex. As a cop, one’s default position must be to believe nothing one was told. What mattered was not the bare fact that someone had lied, but their motivation for doing so. In the case of Manfred Baumann it was not yet clear whether he was lying because he had something sinister to hide or because he simply did not wish to become involved in a police investigation. Given what Gorski now knew of his history, the latter was possible, even understandable. On the other hand, perhaps he had been too quick to be taken in by Baumann’s story. He had, after all, had twenty years to concoct his version of events. Perhaps it had not happened the way Baumann described it at all. Perhaps he had followed Juliette Hurel into the woods and done her to death to satisfy some murderous urge. Perhaps the whole story of the days they had spent together was nothing more than the inventions of a psychotic. By Baumann’s own admission, his teenage self had displayed remarkable composure in covering his tracks and then, in the days and weeks that followed, betrayed no sign of what he done. Still, had Baumann wished to exonerate himself, he could simply have left out the unflattering details of how he had acted in the aftermath of the killing. The fact was that his story had the ring of truth to it. In any case, there was little Gorski could do to verify it one way or another.
Gorski ordered a third beer. The obese hairdresser came in. He walked to the bar, his thick legs splayed apart, and ordered a white wine. He had clearly had a couple already. He turned and surveyed the bar and spotted Gorski, who avoided his gaze.
‘Inspector, how pleasant to see you in our humble establishment.’
Gorksi looked up and acknowledged Lemerre with a curt smile. The former schoolteacher had looked up from his paper. Gorski found the hairdresser quite repellent. He waddled over to his table and spoke in a conspiratorial tone.
‘Tell me, Inspector, how’s the case coming along?’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Gorski, ‘I can’t discuss it.’
Lemerre leaned in closer. He smelled strongly of sweat.
‘Come on, Inspector, I heard you gave Baumann the third degree.’
Gorski fixed him with a steely gaze.
Lemerre gave him a theatrical wink and tapped the side of his nose.
‘So Baumann’s for the high jump, eh?’
It mattered little what Gorski did or did not say. Lemerre was no different from the majority of individuals. People loved nothing more than a murder on their doorstep, preferably a bloody and vicious murder. The idea that something dramatic had happened in their midst lent a passing thrill to their lives. It fuelled conversation in bars like this for weeks.
‘I can’t comment. If you don’t mind…’
Lemerre nodded meaningfully, as if by failing to deny his assertion, Gorski had favoured him with a choice morsel of inside information. He moved back to the bar. Gorski imagined how he would later regale anyone in the vicinity about how he had it on good authority that Manfred Baumann was soon to be done for the murder of Adèle Bedeau.
Now that Lemerre had blown his cover it would have been prudent to leave the bar at this point. He was no longer an anonymous drinker. He was a cop, around whom other drinkers must watch what they said. The conversation at the counter had become more subdued. It was not politic for Gorski to be seen getting quietly sozzled on his own. But he had no desire to go and sit around the dinner table with Céline. He should have telephoned to say he would not be home. Céline liked him to call if he was going to be late. But the beer had made him bloody-minded. He ordered another, a large one this time, like the ones the men at the bar were drinking. Did Gorski detect a change in Yves’ demeanour towards him? Did he avoid making eye contact as he placed it on the table in front of him? It was probably his imagination.
The large glass felt pleasingly weighty in Gorski’s hand. He took a healthy slug. Céline could go hang. Let her sit and seethe over her paltry, ruined dinner. They had nothing in common. They had never had anything in common. She resented him and he resented her.
Lemerre did not stay long. After he left, the conversation at the bar picked up a little. Perhaps it had been on account of the hairdresser’s presence, rather than Gorski’s, that it had subsided. Still, the men at the bar also finished their drinks and drifted away. The three youths at the corner table remained absorbed in earnest conversation. They had not paid any attention to Lemerre’s exchange with Gorski and appeared no more self-conscious than before. Clearly they were from well-off families, the sort of young men who were brought up to believe that they could achieve whatever they wanted to in life. Gathering in this least salubrious of Saint-Louis’s bars was probably an act of revolt against the fathers who expected them to follow them into the family business or profession. They had long hair and wore heavy corduroy trousers. They held their cigarettes between their thumb and index finger and narrowed their eyes as they inhaled. One of them blew smoke rings, which made a slow ascent towards the now darkened window above them. They were discussing a writer Gorski had never heard of, listening earnestly to each other’s opinions. No doubt they dreamt of defying their fathers and running off to Paris to write poetry or play jazz. Gorski empathised with them. Had he not become a cop simply to defy the expectations of his father, to assert some control over his life? Yet, he reflected, was it not the case that he would have been better suited to a life pottering around a pawnshop, in a brown store coat with a pencil behind his ear.
The youths became progressively drunker. Yves seemed unperturbed and continued to serve them round after round. What concern was it of his if they wanted to spend their fathers’ money getting smashed? Gorski too began to feel the effects of the alcohol. The beer made him bloated and he switched to wine. Later on, two men in suits, their ties loosened around their necks, came in and sat at the table next to Gorski’s. They were in town on business and clearly out for a night on the tiles. They engaged Gorski in conversation.
‘Where do you go for a bit of fun around here?’ one of them asked.
Gorski shrugged. He was having trouble focussing. Yves observed the little scene from behind the counter.
The other man asked Gorski what line of business he was in and he told them.
‘A cop?’ said the man. ‘Sorry, I…’
Gorski looked at them. They leaned back on their chairs and then returned to their own conversation. One of the youths got up and staggered towards the WC. He leant on the back of a chair, which toppled over under his weight. The boy collapsed on the floor, to the cheers of his companions. Yves came out from behind the counter and unhurriedly hauled the youth to his feet. The boy grinned stupidly at him. Yves planted him back on his chair.
‘Time to go, boys,’ he said matter-of-factly. The youths paid and piled out of the bar. They could be heard singing in the street.
Later, when Gorski returned home, he staggered upstairs without seeing the note Céline had left on the kitchen table and fell asleep without noticing that she was not in the bed.