view of the vehicle, because in M. Bertignac’s freeze-frame all that is visible are the front wheels and the lower section of the bodywork. He knows more about the M.O. and about the timing of the abduction, but not about the kidnapper. Nothing happens on the tape. Absolutely nothing. They rewind.
Camille can’t quite bring himself to leave. Because it’s infuriating to have the kidnapper right there while the camera is focused on some trivial unimportant detail. At 21.27, the van pulls out of the cul-de-sac. And it’s at that moment it happens.
“There!”
M. Bertignac bravely plays the studio engineer. Spools back the tape. There. They peer at the screen; Camille asks if it’s possible to enlarge. M. Bertignac twiddles various knobs. Just asthe van pulls out of the parking spot, it’s obvious from the lower part of the bodywork that it has been repainted by hand, leaving part of the lettering still visible. It’s impossible to read what it says. The characters are barely legible and besides, they’re cut off along the top edge of the screen, out of shot of the C.C.T.V. camera. Camille asks for a printout and the chemist obligingly gives him a U.S.B. key onto which he’s copied the whole sequence. At maximum contrast, the pattern looks something like:
It is like Morse code.
The van has clearly scraped against something and there are small traces of green paint.
More work for forensics.
*
Camille finally makes for home.
The evening has shaken him somewhat. He takes the stairs. He lives on the fourth floor and on principle never takes the lift.
They’ve done what they can. What comes next is the worst part. The waiting. Waiting for someone to report a woman missing. It could take a day, two days, maybe more. In the meantime … When Irène was kidnapped, she had been found dead within ten hours. Half that time has already elapsed. If forensics had found anything useful, he would know by now. Camille is all too familiar with the sad, slow melody of cross-checking evidence, this war of attrition that takes ages and leaves your nerves shot.
He broods over this endless night. He’s exhausted. He barely has time to take a shower and knock back a couple of coffees.
Camille sold the apartment he once shared with Irène; he couldn’t bear to live there – it was too difficult seeing her everywhere he looked. To stay on would have required a strength of will better expended elsewhere. He wondered whether to go on living after Irène’s death was a matter of courage, a matter of will. How was it possible to carry on alone when everything around you had dissolved? He needed to check his own fall. He knew that this apartment was dragging him down, but he couldn’t bear to give it up. He asked his father (who could always be relied on to give a straight answer) and then Louis who had said: “To hold on, you have to let go.” It’s from the Tao, apparently. Camille wasn’t sure he understood what it meant.
“It’s like ‘The Oak and the Reed’, it you prefer.”
Camille preferred.
So he sold up. For three years now he’s been living here on the Quai de Valmy.
He steps into his apartment and Doudouche immediately comes to greet him. Ah, that’s something else. Doudouche, a little tabby cat.
“A middle-aged widower with a cat …” was Camille’s reaction.“It’s a bit of a cliché, don’t you think? Or am I being over the top?”
“I suspect it depends on the cat, doesn’t it?” Louis said.
And that’s the whole problem. Out of love, or a desire to fit in, through unconscious mimicry or a sense of propriety – who knows? – Doudouche has remained incredibly small for her age. She has a sweet little face, bandy legs like a cowboy, and she’s tiny. It’s a mystery so profound even Louis had no theory to propose.
“You think maybe she’s a little over the top too?” Camille said.
The vet was embarrassed when Camille brought the cat in to ask about its size.
No matter what time
Camille can’t quite bring himself to leave. Because it’s infuriating to have the kidnapper right there while the camera is focused on some trivial unimportant detail. At 21.27, the van pulls out of the cul-de-sac. And it’s at that moment it happens.
“There!”
M. Bertignac bravely plays the studio engineer. Spools back the tape. There. They peer at the screen; Camille asks if it’s possible to enlarge. M. Bertignac twiddles various knobs. Just asthe van pulls out of the parking spot, it’s obvious from the lower part of the bodywork that it has been repainted by hand, leaving part of the lettering still visible. It’s impossible to read what it says. The characters are barely legible and besides, they’re cut off along the top edge of the screen, out of shot of the C.C.T.V. camera. Camille asks for a printout and the chemist obligingly gives him a U.S.B. key onto which he’s copied the whole sequence. At maximum contrast, the pattern looks something like:
It is like Morse code.
The van has clearly scraped against something and there are small traces of green paint.
More work for forensics.
*
Camille finally makes for home.
The evening has shaken him somewhat. He takes the stairs. He lives on the fourth floor and on principle never takes the lift.
They’ve done what they can. What comes next is the worst part. The waiting. Waiting for someone to report a woman missing. It could take a day, two days, maybe more. In the meantime … When Irène was kidnapped, she had been found dead within ten hours. Half that time has already elapsed. If forensics had found anything useful, he would know by now. Camille is all too familiar with the sad, slow melody of cross-checking evidence, this war of attrition that takes ages and leaves your nerves shot.
He broods over this endless night. He’s exhausted. He barely has time to take a shower and knock back a couple of coffees.
Camille sold the apartment he once shared with Irène; he couldn’t bear to live there – it was too difficult seeing her everywhere he looked. To stay on would have required a strength of will better expended elsewhere. He wondered whether to go on living after Irène’s death was a matter of courage, a matter of will. How was it possible to carry on alone when everything around you had dissolved? He needed to check his own fall. He knew that this apartment was dragging him down, but he couldn’t bear to give it up. He asked his father (who could always be relied on to give a straight answer) and then Louis who had said: “To hold on, you have to let go.” It’s from the Tao, apparently. Camille wasn’t sure he understood what it meant.
“It’s like ‘The Oak and the Reed’, it you prefer.”
Camille preferred.
So he sold up. For three years now he’s been living here on the Quai de Valmy.
He steps into his apartment and Doudouche immediately comes to greet him. Ah, that’s something else. Doudouche, a little tabby cat.
“A middle-aged widower with a cat …” was Camille’s reaction.“It’s a bit of a cliché, don’t you think? Or am I being over the top?”
“I suspect it depends on the cat, doesn’t it?” Louis said.
And that’s the whole problem. Out of love, or a desire to fit in, through unconscious mimicry or a sense of propriety – who knows? – Doudouche has remained incredibly small for her age. She has a sweet little face, bandy legs like a cowboy, and she’s tiny. It’s a mystery so profound even Louis had no theory to propose.
“You think maybe she’s a little over the top too?” Camille said.
The vet was embarrassed when Camille brought the cat in to ask about its size.
No matter what time
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