Mallock got home at dawn, his heart heavy and his body soiled. He was hardly in the door before he pulled off his clothes and threw them into a bag. He didn’t know yet whether he should throw them away or take them to be dry-cleaned. He decided to keep them without washing them. You never know. He’d done enough stupid things at the crime scene.
Had he really seen it? His bloody wrists and fingers didn’t really leave any room for doubt. Some certainties were nightmarish: a child had been tortured and martyred and laid out like an offering to the Devil in a christening font in a church right in the middle of Paris.
One image obsessed him, ridiculous, dreadful, grotesque; that of a giant hard candy. That was what the murder scene had resembled. A piece of white sugar-candy tucked inside a scallop shell. A red fruit candy inside which someone had placed a plastic baby before filling the shell with strawberry or raspberry syrup, so the baby would stick to the inside. Red and white. The Makeup Artist definitely had a taste for the grotesque. He seemed to be obsessed with the Devil, with redemption through suffering; the same aesthetic preference for torture and hellish visions you might find in the paintings of Goya or Hieronymos Bosch, like in the right-hand panel of The Garden of Earthly Delights.
Mallock sat for a long time on the closed toilet lid in the bathroom, naked and sticky with blood, hands resting on his knees, head down, lost in thought.
It was only when he’d finally gotten into the shower that he placed the name of the strange odor he had identified at first as blood. Judging by the smells that were magnified now by the hot water diluting the liquid in the bottom of the shower, it seemed obvious now, and it also explained the image of sweets that had dominated his imagination. The red liquid in which the child’s body had been soaking was a mixture of wine and syrup—strawberry or raspberry, he still wasn’t sure which. Grenadine, maybe?
The telephone rang at ten minutes to eight.
“It’s me, Margot. Happy New Year! So, my superintendent isn’t calling me anymore?”
“Not after finding a baby’s body in a baptism font.”
There was a heavy silence. God knew, it was hard to shut Queen Margot up! But he’d struck home this time. He’d definitely been too harsh, and he knew it.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m pretty tense.”
Margot had recovered her composure somewhat. “Well, you could at least have clued me in.”
“About what?”
“I thought we had a gentlemen’s agreement.”
“What are you talking about? An agreement about what?”
“The Makeup Artist; what else?”
Now it was Mallock’s turn to be closemouthed—or the opposite, really; hearing Margot say the suspect’s name made his jaw hit the floor. “You know about it?” he asked finally. “What do you know exactly? Who tipped you off?”
“Yeah, I know about it. I know everything, or almost everything, about your serial killer. And no, no one tipped me off. It’s been public knowledge since five o’clock this morning. I’ve been a little annoyed, as you might imagine.”
Mallock acknowledged the point. With the murder of the child to top it all off, the new year was starting off with a flourish. A funereal one.
Hoarse trumpets and dented hearts.
Amédée tried to explain to Margot the series of events that had led him not to tell her anything. It wouldn’t totally exonerate him in her eyes, but it might soften the reprisals she had undoubtedly planned.
“Okay, okay, my dear superintendent,” she said at last. “I don’t forgive you, but I understand. I won’t bother you now; you’re going to get enough abuse from my colleagues without my joining in. Now, on another note, I hope you’ve lost a little bit of weight. I wouldn’t say no to the idea of dinner one of these nights, complete with dessert and sexy banter. And if you give me a tiny apology and a big exclusive between the pears and the cheese, well, then—and only then—will we call it even.”
Mallock and Margot had spent six months together, two years after Thomas’s death. She had helped him enormously, giving him back if not a taste for life, at least a reason not to do away with himself. Then she had gotten bored. The misanthropic homebody tendencies and sadness that had dominated Amédée back then hadn’t agreed with Margot Murât, who was made for dancing and belly-laughing, weeks in the Seychelles and weekends in Venice. He adored her, though she could be a bit intrusive sometimes. Like many women she talked a lot, often too much, and the happiness she brought him made him uncomfortable. What right did he have to be happy when Thomas was dead? He wouldn’t allow himself to feel joy without Thomas there. So, one day, with great tenderness and many promises, they had decided to break up. Just for a while, they had said. Since then they had held on to a strong friendship and, even though she was married now, Margot called him every now and then for a little spin in the bedroom. Stuffed suit that he was, it bothered him. It was against his principles. Margot, amused by his old-fashionedness, always laughed and reminded him that he had seniority over her dear husband.
Embarrassed by his own indecision, Mallock stammered: “Yeah—maybe, why not,” before hanging up.
He really was hopeless sometimes.
Margot hadn’t lied. He had barely stepped outside when he was blindsided by the banner headlines blaring from every newspaper displayed outside the corner shop. So much for the low-profile anonymity of the Makeup Artist.
Makeup Artist, Serial Murders, Mallock, and 13 were the terms that popped up the most often. For some reason, several papers contained the same mistake. Though there had been thirteen crime scenes identified, double murders had been perpetrated at two of those scenes and, counting the latest murder, which nobody was talking about yet, there were sixteen killings—and if that number had been there it would really have shattered any goodwill he still had toward the papers. Another inaccuracy was that only Superintendent Amédée Mallock’s name appeared in the stories, as if he had been on the case from day one. There were no specifics given about the murders themselves. Someone had definitely spilled the beans, but no documents had been leaked, which was some consolation at least. If they had, there would have been a lot more facts and probably some images given. There was a lot of blather, but there were hardly any illustrations.
Only the rich get richer, police version: Mallock was suddenly headline news, with the pleasure of seeing himself ten years younger and thirty pounds lighter. After looking at all the front pages he went inside the shop, which featured a large and brand-new blinking plastic Santa Claus, lit up from within.
“Hello, Superintendent; you’re the star today! It’s all about you and your crazy lunatic! You’re famous!”
The newspaper-seller and his wife stared at him, their eyes gleaming with curiosity, while he picked a copy of every newspaper, one by one.
“I could do very nicely without it,” he said, forcing himself to smile at them.
He got into his car and quickly skimmed the main articles. Not all the information was there; far from it. Various theories, conjectures, and rumors were mixed with miscellaneous odd bits of information. Everything and anything, as usual. The further a journalist was from his source, the more deformed the message got.
Among the descriptions and hypotheses there was one concerning the serial killer’s mobile phone. As the journalist proudly explained:
“The killer’s name comes from the fact that he puts makeup on all his victims so that they all look like the woman he loved and who left him. He is endlessly repeating the fantasy murder of the same person.”
Not bad, thought Mallock. Wrong, but not bad. There was something to remember in that. The fact that the makeup did give all the victims, including the men and children, a certain resemblance. Mallock didn’t know the true reason for it yet, but it certainly wasn’t the one claimed by the journalist. If it were, the Makeup Artist would have chosen women that already looked much more similar to one another, and never men or children.
As for the rest of the newspapers, two major facts stood out: a series of horrible murders had been committed, which meant an atypical serial killer; and the existence of a government plot to hide the truth from the French people. Depending on the paper, either the conspiracy was the star point, or the monster was. Or both. This kind of sensational double story was a real godsend for the press; they’d sell newspapers by the ton. If they could draw it out a little, it might last a month—more, with public sympathy. Heat up the presses; let hack journalists come crawling out of the woodwork. The gutter press still cherished fond memories of the case of little Gregory, the ultimate headline cash cow.
From there it wasn’t much of a leap to wanting the murders to continue, to remain unsolved.
Someone had definitely leaked this, but who? Mallock’s first impulse was to suspect that asshole Judge Humbert, whom Dublin had felt obligated to bring in on the case yesterday morning. Judges did love their publicity. He was definitely at the top of Amédée’s list—but he was wrong, and he wouldn’t realize it until much later.
Mallock’s next mistake was failing to understand all the consequences these revelations would have on the rest of the investigation. He was certainly irritated at the time, but he was also relieved. It was bound to explode one of these days, so why not now? Considering the results they’d gotten up to this point, it seemed like the secrecy surrounding the case had really only benefited one person: the Makeup Artist. In revealing his existence, wasn’t it possible that a hellish cycle had been broken, even unintentionally?
Mallock hoped, now that the deck had been shuffled, that he might get a better hand this time—and that the game would get a lot crappier for his adversary. In this, he underestimated the fury of the media. It wouldn’t be long at all before they turned on the police, and the establishment too. Mallock was an ideal target.
They were already demanding explanations and apologies from the Secretary of the Interior. Some people were calling for his removal, or even the resignation of the whole government. Mallock was surprised to find himself smiling. Sometimes he preferred fighting in broad daylight, with one winner and one loser. Here, the arena was obviously packed to the rafters. In front of the screaming populace, the gladiators could do nothing but give themselves over to merciless combat. Thumbs would be turned up and then down.
The savage within Mallock was excited—but when he arrived at Île de la Cité, he knew he was in for a bad time. A mob of angry journalists had gathered around the station. He glanced over the crowd. He knew everyone, and they all knew him. After a second of hesitation, he decided to plow straight through them, head down.
Galvanized by the appearance of the superintendent, the hive began buzzing, every wasp ready to sting, armed with questions. Shoving with his elbows and muttering inaudible responses, Amédée fought through the dense mass of journalists. It was a job in itself; dodging the rapacity of the press corps without giving the impression that he was trying to escape them. You had to give a nice little smile, throw out a “Hi, how are you” here and there, maybe a wink at . . . nothing. He even granted himself the luxury, once he was on the other side of the throng, of turning around and calling out: “I hope I’ve answered all your questions.”
Then, the smile still on his lips, giving them the finger in his mind, he headed up to his office.