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Histoires De Luna

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Trouble coming


The man in the leather jacket is back. He's leaning against the wall in the usual corner, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot. I'm spying through my binocs from my terrace, five floors above, trying in vain to catch a glimpse of his face. I know he’ll wait another hour, until 12:30, when the stream of mothers at the school entrance will become a flood, then he’ll move back, one step at a time. When the door opens, he’ll be twenty metres from the other waiting parents, he’ll look for a moment at the crowd of schoolchildren coming down the stairs to be embraced, taken by the hand and led home. While he’s waiting, he’ll smoke at least four cigarettes, but if he’s got one in his lips when they open the door, he’ll stub it out immediately. The only thing I’ve noticed that’s changed since a fortnight ago is his clothes, he’s gone from shirtsleeves to a fake leather jacket like the bikers wear. I look at him again for a long moment, 'How much longer will you wait'? I say quietly to myself.

I curl up on the couch with my face turned up towards the skylight. A patch of condensation on the glass above me draws a skull, two clear balls for eyes and a ripple in the middle forming a nose. I slide a little further until I match it with the reflection of my face. The illusion is broken when a drip detaches and the slick dissolves. I shudder. I take a cigarette and light it, then I come down to watch below, opening a space between the shutters. With a wind that smells of rain come the sounds of the street. I take a last peek at the man with the leather jacket, he’s still in his corner. He takes another step back.

After a shower, still in a bathrobe and dripping wet, I take my morning dose of pills and drops. As I switch on the espresso machine, the phone alerts me to an incoming message. It's the lawyer Fleury, he's only saying, 'Please look at it.' Sigh, Fleury sent me a dossier a week ago asking for an opinion, I haven’t found the will to look at it, just left it for a week in limbo, pretending not to remember it. But now I’ve got to. With a yawn I wake up the desktop, and scroll through the documents the lawyer’s sent, trying not to die of boredom, then I start the video he’s attached.

The scene is of a room in pastel colors, a table in the centre. At the table sits a little girl in a pink dress in front of a woman who’s smiling at her from behind her glasses. The girl is drawing something with an orange pencil. Another woman is standing behind the girl, but she’s visible only up to her neck, she’s keeping her hands on the child’s shoulders. The woman with glasses is a psychologist of the Juvenile Court, the other is her mother. I fast-forward the video, skipping the first few questions of the psychologist and the first responses of the child, then I look carefully the rest. At 5:02 minutes, I stop, go back and put the image on full screen. The psychologist is smiling as she leans towards the little girl, who continues drawing.

‘You can tell me. You can trust me.'

The girl stops moving the pencil for a moment.

'It was Dad.'

I stop the video by hitting the space bar, return to 5:02, then I start again in slow motion without sound. I focus on the mother's hands. I see them moving, lightly tightening on the infant’s shoulders. I make the video disappear and stay looking at my reflection. I feel icy sweat slide down my back.

'That’s it!'

It could have been more difficult. I’ll just send Fleury a text. I get up to pour more Panama Arabica into the espresso machine. The phone rings while I'm drinking my second cup.

'Hello lawyer.'

The coffee aftertaste on the tongue is a sweet and sour symphony with hints of chocolate.

'You’ve been in meditation all week, and now you just answer no?'

'Tell your client she can find someone else if she wants to ruin her ex-husband.'

I finish drinking the second cup.

'That kid's not been abused.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yup.'

I look down in the street, the man with the leather jacket has almost disappeared from view. Twenty more minutes and he’ll be gone.

'The little girl said her father sexually molested her.'

'Do we have to talk any more about it?'

'Yes, until you convince me.'

'Has the child shown any physical evidence of abuse?'

'No. But her stories are detailed. And everyone who’s heard her is convinced she's telling the truth .'

I put the cup under the spout to start a third coffee.

'She doesn’t know how to lie. And it’s not only I who says so. De Young, Von Klitzing, Haugaard, Elterman and Ehrenberg, Ackerman, Kane, Piaget ... '

'Psychologists and psychiatrists. I know them. We have to study them to become family lawyers ... '

'Then you should know that children the age of your client’s daughter have only one way to distinguish truth from lies. The truth is whatever parents approve. Lies are what make them unhappy. And they can always 'remember' things they’ve never seen, so long as you ask them about them in the right way. In the eighties Stephen J. Ceci ... '

'I missed him.'

'A psychologist, professor at Cornell University, he studied the validity of the testimony of minors. In one study, Ceci asked a group of children to concentrate and remember the time were they hurt their finger, getting it pinched in a mousetrap. It hadn’t ever happened to any of them. But when they were questioned over the following weeks they remembered it clearly, and all embroidered on it - the finger had bled, that the rat had run away ... need I go on?'

'No. And the mother would give cues?'

'You can see in the video.'

'You can only see her hands.'

'Hands gripping the girl’s shoulders before she responds, accusing her father. And then they relax and caress her. Tension first, then reward. The kid understands she’s doing well and carries on. The court psychologist has slices of salami on her eyes. Tofu, actually, she’s a vegan.'

'How can you tell she’s a vegan?'

'In the video you can see her purse, it’s a model produced by a vegan company that uses Vegetan instead of leather. Cruelty free. Hard to tell the difference.'

'You're just guessing.'

'The little girl has an animal-free diet. The father included that as a reason for applying for custody, claiming the vegan diet was cruelty to the child. It was among the documents you sent me.'

'So you have read them?'

'Just enough. OK then? I can send you the bill?'

'For ten minutes of work?'

'It'll be the most expensive ten minutes of your life.'


The doorbell rings. I say ciao to Fleury and go silently to my door, to look through the peephole. On the landing I see a woman with a serious look on her face. She’s wearing a pair of tight jeans and a light jacket that’s slung over athletic shoulders. I shudder. I don’t know who this woman is, but one thing is certain – she's trouble.
 
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Velut Luna said:
focus on the mother's hands. I see them moving, lightly tightening on the infant’s shoulders... Tension first, then reward.

any physical evidence of abuse? ... No. But her stories are detailed. And everyone who’s heard her is convinced she's telling the truth

It hadn’t ever happened to any of them. But when they were questioned over the following weeks they remembered it clearly, and all embroidered on it

...
Click to expand...
This part is very very terribly real. False abuse memories created by suggestive questioning, and then systematically used in court to destroy people's lives.
People in Germany may remember the Wildwasser scandal (https://de.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wormser_Prozesse). False abuse memories created by suggestion led to several children being removed from their families. Ironically, some of them were placed in a care center run by self-appointed activists... where they were then ... actually abused. Many children never returned to their families even though abuse never happened in those families.
 
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The thing is teachers and councilors have been known to engage such activity. I know someone who spent $75,000 clearing his name and even after the department of family services cleared him he could not sue the teacher because she was 'looking out for the well-being' of his child!!!
 
A coffee


'Monsieur De la Tour? ...'

Her voice is slightly husky, I’d find it sexy if it didn’t belong to a cop.

'... I am Deputy Chief Inspector Carrel. I need to speak to you.'

I carefully open the door a chink, keeping the chain locked.

'Good morning.'

I extract the card and put in front of his nose.

'Good morning to you.'

'I can see it better?'

'Certainly!'

I take it, pretending to examine it closely. I have no talent for distinguishing counterfeit documents, but that’s not what interests me. I want to see how she reacts. She doesn’t seem bothered, most likely she is who she’s claiming to be. I return the ID.


'Have I done something wrong?'

'No. But I need a few minutes of your time. '

'For what?'

'I'd rather talk about it inside.'

'But I don’t have to let you in. I could just say no and you couldn’t do anything. You aren't going to break down the door?'

'Absolutely not.'

She smiles. I'm struck how her face is changed momentarily, losing all its hardness, highlighting her green eyes. Even if it’s false, it’s still a beautiful smile.

'But in your place I'd be curious to know what I want.'

'I believe that in my place you wouldn’t even answer the bell.'


She stiffens. I infer that I’ve touched a sore spot. I did it on purpose, I feel guilty.


'Come in.'

I try not to change my expression at the sight of the chaos in the apartment, but I can’t help it. Didier moves in the direction of the kitchen, zigzagging among the books scattered everywhere.

'I’m making some coffee, will you have a cup?'

'Thank you.'

He points to a table in the living area.

'Pick a chair and sit down. How do you prefer it? Round, rich, aromatic...'

'I usually just have instant, that’d be fine.'

'I'll pretend I didn’t hear that.'


To make up for my rudeness a moment before, I add to the mix a handful of Kopi Luwak, lightly roasted. These beans are harvested after the Indonesian palm civet it has eaten the berries and excreted the partially digested seeds – it’s the best coffee in the world for its fruity taste and lack of bitterness, it’s the most expensive and the most difficult to find.


'I don’t know if you normally take it with sugar, but this doesn’t need any.'
I close the lid, starting the grinder.

'Monsieur De la Tour ...'

Her face is tense. She’s still standing in the middle of the room, following my movements as sharply as those of a rat.


'Something wrong?'


She nods, her eyes seem even more green.

'Would you mind removing your left hand from your pocket, please?'

'Pardon?'

'I’ve noticed that you’ve kept it in your pocket since I came in. Even when it would have helped to open the coffee tin.'

It's true. I keep that hand hidden whenever I meet someone, it’s a gesture that I can’t control. Her body-language is expressing imminent danger, she’s instinctively brought a foot forward and is holding her arms flexed. Her right hand’s gripping the handle of her bag as if she were ready to throw it at me.

'Please.'

'As you wish.'

Didier raises his hand for me to see it. Only thumb and index finger seem to work, the other fingers are bent and lack nails. I saw a similar hand on a convict who’d had an accident in an industrial laundry.

'Excuse me. Today I seem to have woken up a bit over-anxious.'

'Don’t mention it...'


Being used to reading subtle signs in my interlocutors, I recognise that this nervousness is not momentary. She’s been a victim herself. Some violence? An accident on duty? Interesting....

Back to fiddling with the cups. With a black bathrobe that’s too big, fair hair slicked back, wet after a shower, he reminds me of David Bowie in an old science fiction movie.

The aroma of coffee expands into the room. Didier sits in front of me with two small cups of a modern design. I bring the coffee to my lips. I’m feeling light-headed and terribly exposed. Until two days ago I’ve even avoided my closest friends, and now here I am, exchanging pleasantries in the house of a stranger.

'It’s good.'

A lie, it’s too delicate for my taste.

'Thank you. I'm not ashamed of my poor hand. It’s just a habit, hiding it to avoid having to answer all the to questions it provokes - even though most people are too kind and polite to say anything. Or maybe you already know what happened to me and don’t need to ask? I think you’re in that third category. What do you know about me?'

'You’re questioning me?'

'Let's say it’s to save time.'

'You was born in Caen in 1977. At the age of six years, while you was playing alone in the yard behind the building where you lived, you were kidnapped by persons unknown. You’ve never been able to reconstruct what happened, and no-one saw anything.'

'There was a door from the cellars of my house, which gave access to the lawn where I was playing. I must have been carried off that way, probably drugged.'

'You were held prisoner for eleven years, most of the time in a bunker near a farm.'

'Not most of the time. All of it.'

'In 1994 you managed to escape your captor, who committed suicide. His name was Antoine Borrel, a farmer.'

'Borrel was the owner of the farm, and indeed he committed suicide, but he didn’t kidnap me. At the very least, it wasn’t he who kept me prisoner.'

'I didn’t think I had that wrong.'

'It’s not you who are wrong, it’s those who investigated the case. I saw his face, my kidnapper, and bore no resemblance to Borrel. '

'Why weren’t you believed at the time?'

'Because all the evidence pointed to Borrel, because he killed himself, because I was in a disturbed state of mind ...'

'But you still believe that?'

'Yup.'

'They investigated, looking for accomplices ...'

'And they didn’t find anyone. I know. But go ahead with your version...'

'I don’t have much more to add. You changed your name and took your mother's maiden name. You traveled a bit, and got into trouble. You served a term for disorder, fighting, assault, causing bodily harm, and illegally carrying an unauthorized weapon.'

'It was a Taser, they’re sold freely.'

'Not here they aren’t. Over the past eight years you’ve got a grip on yourself. No more complaints.'

I'm impressed at how well she’s consulted the notes.


'You know a lot about me, but you didn’t know about my hand.'

'Maybe I missed that.'

'You wouldn’t miss a thing, not you. The documents you've seen simply haven’t got it on record. That hand would have made me too recognizable in a small town, so the juvenile court didn’t allow that detail to be published. This makes me think you’ve not had access to the prosecution papers. And there’s another thing that's strange: you’re not a regular cop.'

'What makes you think that?'

'You aren’t armed. I couldn’t see a weapon if you’d got it behind your back, but a person who’s armed and trained to shoot tends to hold their hand near the holster if they think they’re in danger. But you were just shaking the handle of your bag. A Deputy Chief always goes armed, unless she’s on vacation or on leave. Am I wrong?'
 
Involved


'Out of the Service, with immediate notice ... You’re a poor liar, you’re showing your embarrassment. But we’ll overlook this detail. What do you want from me?'

'A girl disappeared in Fontainebleau Forest.'

'A woman was killed and her husband’s in jail. I heard the news. Whoever sent you thinks that the man is innocent, even if whoever’s leading the investigation doesn’t agree, probably the Investigating Magistrate. And because the father cannot know where his daughter is, and it’s hardly likely to be a kidnapping for extortion, you want my help.'

'You are an expert on missing persons.'

'If you say so.'

'You've been involved in two kidnappings for extortion, five cases of domestic violence and I don’t know how many voluntary runaways. You’ve solved all those cases. You’ve sometimes dealt with violence against children, too. You’ve always been kept hidden by your lawyer’s firm, so they seem to be using private detective agencies. All the same, rumours get around, and they reached the person who’s sent me. Those rumours say you’re good.'

'I only put my experience to good use... You see, doctor, for eleven years, the most sensitive years in the formation of a human being, I lived without contact with other people except on and off with my kidnapper. When I came out, the world was incomprehensible for me. Normal social relationships were alien to me, as alien you’d feel in an ants’ nest. While I studied the world outside, I found I was could understand the mechanisms better than those who’d grown up in it. To see something clearly you must keep the right distance from it - and I had. And I’m still able to keep this distance today. I can understand if something experienced in the past is affecting how people behave, what they love and what they fear. Looking at how they arrange their things. I can tell if someone or something has interrupted the routine of their life. '

'And you can read our body language, as you did mine.'

'My captor had always gloves on, and his face covered. I tried to tell by his posture if I was doing well or I was going to be to punished, whether he was telling the truth when he told me that I’d have food, or water to drink. It helps me to find the person behind the words. They always know more than they say, and I notice.'


'Why do you never appear in public?'

'You’ve seen inside this house?'

'You can’t always be shut in here.'

'It would be difficult for a judge to accept me as an expert, unbiased witness. Not to mention that the last thing I want is to get back in the spotlight. '

'All I’m asking for is your private involvement. It wouldn’t have to come out.'

'No, doctor. Two things I never do: intervene in a case directly or collaborate with the police. And you’re asking for both ... It’s been a pleasure to speak with you. Come back and see me, I can offer you another cup of coffee.'


He gets up, I stay seated. Didier shows a little grimace, like a crack through which I can see him for who he is, a victim who has painstakingly reconstructed his existence, gluing the pieces together, after enduring the unimaginable. I should go, it would be the right thing to do, but I cannot.

'De la Tour ... Let me have my say.'

Didier sits down reluctantly.

'With what has happened to you, you deserve to be left in peace for the rest of your life.'

'Don’t pity me, please, I really can’t bear it. '

'I want to be honest with you. This situation is as painful for me as for you: I'm not used to involving civilians in investigations, I don’t like shady business.'

'You don’t mean ...'

'While we’re about it, I’ll tell you I drank your coffee that comes out of a squirrel’s arsehole just to be polite. Yes, I saw the label on the packet, and although I'm a cop, I know what Kopi Luwak is. And I also know how much it costs, before you throw it in my face. '

'I’m not that ill-mannered...'

'And I'm not so delicate. I’ve been with the police thirteen years, and I’ve seen and eaten more shit than you could ever imagine. I didn’t tell everything I know. I know what happened to your parents. Your father was in and out of jail before you reappeared. Your mother had committed suicide when you were nine years old. And my colleagues at the time weren’t able to find you, or even to accept you were still alive. In your place I’d be angry with all the cops, the magistrates, and the whole world. We abandoned you, washed our hands of you, you had to save yourself.' I stare into his eyes. 'But do you really want what happened to you to happen to another family?'

'It seems you’ve come to my place to blackmail me ...?'

'I apologise for that, too. But I would like an answer.'

'Thirty thousand children die every day, half of them from starvation. I can’t take charge of all the evil in the world. '

'The Béjarts' daughter is closer than Africa.'

'Then find her.'

'You could make a difference. You know that, don’t you? '

'Until yesterday you didn’t even know I existed. But who sent you? '

If I want something I have to be honest.

'Dr. Roux, of the Flying Squad.'

'And the magistrate jerk, who is it?'

'D'Alembert.'

'You really have got problems. But do you really believe I can do something? Or are you just dragging me into a power-game between your head and the prosecutor? '

'I just hope you can pull a rabbit out of the hat, but I doubt it.'


I nod slowly. I’d got a hunch of her motives, I’ve twigged that she’s hiding some deep pain. And it’s not because Roux’s picked her for this mission impossible, so irregular and improper, sending her to the slaughter, but because she’s accepted it. She’s a suicide bomber who’s on her final mission. I find that irresistible. I love blatant heroic gestures, even when they’re bloody stupid. Or especially when they are, perhaps...


'Tell you what, Doctor. I’m willing to look at the notes you’ve got in your bag, and tell you what I think.'

'Thankyou.'

'You can wait before you thank me. But first I want a favour from you.'


'What?'

I escort her to the window, and point to the man in the street below.

'Him.'

 
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Velut Luna said:
Involved


'Out of the Service, summarily informed ... You’re a poor liar, you’re showing your embarrassment. But we’ll overlook this detail. What do you want from me?'

'A girl disappeared in Fontainebleau Forest.'

'A woman was killed and her husband’s in jail. I heard the news. Whoever sent you thinks that the man is innocent, even if whoever’s leading the investigation doesn’t agree, probably the Investigating Magistrate. And because the father cannot know where his daughter is, and it’s hardly likely to be a kidnapping for extortion, you want my help.'

'You are an expert on missing persons.'

'If you say so.'

'You've been involved in two kidnappings for extortion, five cases of domestic violence and I don’t know how many voluntary runaways. You’ve solved all those cases. You’ve sometimes dealt with violence against children, too. You’ve always been kept hidden by your lawyer’s firm, so they seem to be using private detective agencies. All the same, rumours get around, and they reached the person who’s sent me. Those rumours say you’re good.'

'I only put my experience to good use... You see, doctor, for eleven years, the most sensitive years in the formation of a human being, I lived without contact with other people except on and off with my kidnapper. When I came out, the world was incomprehensible for me. Normal social relationships were alien to me, as alien you’d feel in an ants’ nest. While I studied the world outside, I found I was could understand the mechanisms better than those who’d grown up in it. To see something clearly you must keep the right distance from it - and I had. And I’m still able to keep this distance today. I can understand if something experienced in the past is affecting how people behave, what they love and what they fear. Looking at how they arrange their things. I can tell if someone or something has interrupted the routine of their life. '

'And you can read our body language, as you did mine.'

'My captor had always gloves on, and his face covered. I tried to tell by his posture if I was doing well or I was going to be to punished, whether he was telling the truth when he told me that I’d have food, or water to drink. It helps me to find the person behind the words. They always know more than they say, and I notice.'


'Why do you never appear in public?'

'You’ve seen inside this house?'

'You can’t always be shut in here.'

'It would be difficult for a judge to accept me as an expert, unbiased witness. Not to mention that the last thing I want is to get back in the spotlight. '

'All I’m asking for is your private involvement. It wouldn’t have to come out.'

'No, doctor. Two things I never do: intervene in a case directly or collaborate with the police. And you’re asking for both ... It’s been a pleasure to speak with you. Come back and see me, I can offer you another cup of coffee.'


He gets up, I stay seated. Didier shows a little grimace, like a crack through which I can see him for who he is, a victim who has painstakingly reconstructed his existence, gluing the pieces together, after enduring the unimaginable. I should go, it would be the right thing to do, but I cannot.

'De la Tour ... Let me have my say.'

Didier sits down reluctantly.

'With what has happened to you, you deserve to be left in peace for the rest of your life.'

'Don’t pity me, please, I really can’t bear it. '

'I want to be honest with you. This situation is as painful for me as for you: I'm not used to involving civilians in investigations, I don’t like shady business.'

'You don’t mean ...'

'While we’re about it, I’ll tell you I drank your coffee that comes out of a squirrel’s arsehole just to be polite. Yes, I saw the label on the packet, and although I'm a cop, I know what Kopi Luwak is. And I also know how much it costs, before you throw it in my face. '

'I’m not that ill-mannered...'

'And I'm not so delicate. I’ve been with the police thirteen years, and I’ve seen and eaten more shit than you could ever imagine. I didn’t tell everything I know. I know what happened to your parents. Your father was in and out of jail before you reappeared. Your mother had committed suicide when you were nine years old. And my colleagues at the time weren’t able to find you, or even to accept you were still alive. In your place I’d be angry with all the cops, the magistrates, and the whole world. We abandoned you, washed our hands of you, you had to save yourself.' I stare into his eyes. 'But do you really want what happened to you to happen to another family?'

'It seems you’ve come to my place to blackmail me ...?'

'I apologise for that, too. But I would like an answer.'

'Thirty thousand children die every day, half of them from starvation. I can’t take charge of all the evil in the world. '

'The Béjarts' daughter is closer than Africa.'

'Then find her.'

'You could make a difference. You know that, don’t you? '

'Until yesterday you didn’t even know I existed. But who sent you? '

If I want something I have to be honest.

'Dr. Roux, of the Flying Squad.'

'And the magistrate jerk, who is it?'

'D'Alembert.'

'You really have got problems. But do you really believe I can do something? Or are you just dragging me into a power-game between your head and the prosecutor? '

'I just hope you can pull a rabbit out of the hat, but I doubt it.'


I nod slowly. I’d got a hunch of her motives, I’ve twigged that she’s hiding some deep pain. And it’s not because Roux’s picked her for this mission impossible, so irregular and improper, sending her to the slaughter, but because she’s accepted it. She’s a suicide bomber who’s on her final mission. I find that irresistible. I love blatant heroic gestures, even when they’re bloody stupid. Or especially when they are, perhaps...


'Tell you what, Doctor. I’m willing to look at the notes you’ve got in your bag, and tell you what I think.'

'Thankyou.'

'You can wait before you thank me. But first I want a favour from you.'


'What?'

I escort her to the window, and point to the man in the street below.

'Him.'
Click to expand...
owww.... interesting turn and well chapter!!!
 
Hunting Time


'Aubert!'

'Aye, Doctor.'

'Leave the car and go along to the corner of Rue Saint Antoine near the City Freemen's School.'

'Is there a problem, Doctor? '

'Not for now. But be careful not to be seen. I’ll stay in contact.'

A minute later,

'I'm there, doctor.'

'See the news-stand in front of you?'

'Yes, doctor.'

'There’s a man smoking, with a red jacket.'

'I see him. What should I do?'

'Watch him until I come down. I don’t want to lose him while I’m on the stairs. Ok? '

'Excuse me, Doctor ... What has he done?'

'Don’t ask unnecessary questions.'

They don’t seem so unnecessary to him. The man is in his fifties, heavily built, looking the opposite way from where Aubert is, now only about three metres away. Just then he turns to see Aubert, who’s staring at him. He doesn’t even try to conceal his nervousness, sets off at a brisk pace, in seconds he could slip across the street.

'Hey!'

The man doesn’t turn around, pretending not to hear.

'I'm talking to you!'

Now he turns and in the same move he gives Aubert a punch in the face, he falls on his but, blood seeping from his nose and filling his mouth.

'Are you alive?'

'Yes, doctor. He took me by surprise ... '

The man in the leather jacket is running as if he were on roller-skates. As he passes a greengrocer’s stall at the crossroads, he collides with an old woman with a shopping trolley. I’m sprinting, zigzagging my way between pedestrians, pushing those who are don’t get out of my way.

When did I last chase someone down the street? It’s years since I was with the anti-drug squad and agents couldn’t dodge the hassle of taking orders from me, a woman in a ‘penguin’ cap. Now I’m running without knowing why. I dodge a boy on a bike who screams a rude word - I’ll smash his face. Now the man is less than three metres ahead and is about to turn left off the street. He hesitates. By luck some road-works are blocking the way. I reach him and hit his shoulder, sending him reeling against the wall of a building.

'Police! Put up your hands and rest them on the wall.'

He reacts, jabbing out an elbow that I dodge, I grab his arm trying to swing him round, but it's like I’ve grabbed the branch of an oak tree, he’s got such massive muscles. He tries a low punch at my belly, with a step back I kick him with my leg straight on his testicles.

'Ugly bitch ...'

Then he’s seized with retching. I make a mistake, thinking I’ve tamed him I get in close to finish the job, but the he’s still got energy and grabs me by the throat. I feel my throat closing, emptying the lungs. In the edges of my visual field appear the buzzing shadows that precede another attack ... No! Not now ... I focus on the pain I feel in my neck, I cling to pain like a trail of breadcrumbs that can lead me out of the dark. The man continues to tighten his grip, yelling insults. I strike him with fingers outstretched, above the Adam’s apple, a nukite, as they say in karate. He falls to his knees gasping. I push him to the ground, belly-down, with a kick on the rump, then jump on him astride, pressing with my hand behind his head so his face is against the ground, it’s his turn to choke.

'Spread your arms out! Arms out! '

I manage to shout in a hoarse voice.

'I've done nothing!'

'Arms out, fuck you!'

He obeys. While I’m hunting for weapons he bursts into tears.

'I love her. I love her! '

he sobs.

'Shut up!'

But I don’t understand what he’s on about.


Around a dozen people have gathered out of the shops and the 'Cherry Ripe' restaurant on the corner of Rue de la Cerisaie.

'I'm the police, okay? I’m making an arrest.'

'What's he done?'

asks the Moroccan waiter from the restaurant.

'He laid a hand on me, see?'

Showing the bruises on my own neck.

The boy nods,

'But let his head up, he might suffocate, it wouldn’t be the first time.'

'Listen, asshole, I haven’t any handcuffs and we're going stay this way until my colleagues turn up.'

I search in my pocket for the cell phone, it’s fallen out during the scuffle.

'Someone give me that cell phone there, on the ground near the edge of the sidewalk!'
 
Last edited by a moderator:
Velut Luna said:
Hunting Time


'Aubert!'

'Aye, Doctor.'

'Leave the car and go along to the corner of Rue Saint Antoine near the City Freemen's School.'

'Is there a problem, Doctor? '

'Not for now. But be careful not to be seen. I’ll stay in contact.'

A minute later,

'I'm there, doctor.'

'See the news-stand in front of you?'

'Yes, doctor.'

'There’s a man smoking, with a red jacket.'

'I see him. What should I do?'

'Watch him until I come down. I don’t want to lose him while I’m on the stairs. Ok? '

'Excuse me, Doctor ... What has he done?'

'Don’t ask unnecessary questions.'

They don’t seem so unnecessary to him. The man is in his fifties, heavily built, looking the opposite way from where Aubert is, now only about three metres away. Just then he turns to see Aubert, who’s staring at him. He doesn’t even try to conceal his nervousness, sets off at a brisk pace, in seconds he could slip across the street.

'Hey!'

The man doesn’t turn around, pretending not to hear.

'I'm talking to you!'

Now he turns and in the same move he gives Aubert a punch in the face, he falls on his but, blood seeping from his nose and filling his mouth.

'Are you alive?'

'Yes, doctor. He took me by surprise ... '

The man in the leather jacket is running as if he were on roller-skates. As he passes a greengrocer’s stall at the crossroads, he collides with an old woman with a shopping trolley. I’m sprinting, zigzagging my way between pedestrians, pushing those who are don’t get out of my way.

When did I last chase someone down the street? It’s years since I was with the anti-drug squad and agents couldn’t dodge the hassle of taking orders from me, a woman in a ‘penguin’ cap. Now I’m running without knowing why. I dodge a boy on a bike who screams a rude word - I’ll smash his face. Now the man is less than three metres ahead and is about to turn left off the street. He hesitates. By luck some road-works are blocking the way. I reach him and hit his shoulder, sending him reeling against the wall of a building.

'Police! Put up your hands and rest them on the wall.'

He reacts, jabbing out an elbow that I dodge, I grab his arm trying to swing him round, but it's like I’ve grabbed the branch of an oak tree, he’s got such massive muscles. He tries a low punch at my belly, with a step back I kick him with my leg straight on his testicles.

'Ugly bitch ...'

Then he’s seized with retching. I make a mistake, thinking I’ve tamed him I get in close to finish the job, but the he’s still got energy and grabs me by the throat. I feel my throat closing, emptying the lungs. In the edges of my visual field appear the buzzing shadows that precede another attack ... No! Not now ... I focus on the pain I feel in my neck, I cling to pain like a trail of breadcrumbs that can lead me out of the dark. The man continues to tighten his grip, yelling insults. I strike him with fingers outstretched, above the Adam’s apple, a nukite, as they say in karate. He falls to his knees gasping. I push him to the ground, belly-down, with a kick on the rump, then jump on him astride, pressing with my hand behind his head so his face is against the ground, it’s his turn to choke.

'Spread your arms out! Arms out! '

I manage to shout in a hoarse voice.

'I've done nothing!'

'Arms out, fuck you!'

He obeys. While I’m hunting for weapons he bursts into tears.

'I love her. I love her! '

he sobs.

'Shut up!'

But I don’t understand what he’s on about.


Around a dozen people have gathered out of the shops and the 'Cherry Ripe' restaurant on the corner of Rue de la Cerisaie.

'I'm the police, okay? I’m making an arrest.'

'What's he done?'

asks the Moroccan waiter from the restaurant.

'He laid a hand on me, see?'

Showing the bruises on my own neck.

The boy nods,

'But let his head up, he might suffocate, it wouldn’t be the first time.'

'Listen, asshole, I haven’t any handcuffs and we're going stay this way until my colleagues turn up.'

I search in my pocket for the cell phone, it’s fallen out during the scuffle.

'Someone give me that cell phone there, on the ground near the edge of the sidewalk!'
Click to expand...

Another chapter done well!!!
 
First step


I go back to Didier’s flat, but 've already been here three hours, I’m tired after the rush of adrenaline, and irritated by the bollocks I’ve had to tell to my colleagues in the local police.

Didier opens the door to me, he’s wearing a pair of black jeans, a shirt of the same colour. He looks more skinny, he has the figure of an alien. Aubert is lying on the couch with a tablet of synthetic ice on the forehead.

'You don’t look happy,'

he says, stirring the beans for another coffee, taking them from three different packets and measuring them out like a pharmacist.

'It wasn’t one from Al-Qaeda.'

'So I imagined.'

'And did you imagine he was an estranged father who wanted to see his daughter?'

'But he wasn’t supposed to, right?'

'He’s under an injunction not to approach the child or the mother.'

'Abuse or violence against one or the other, I guess. I’m glad to have done a little bit for justice.'

Didier starts the espresso machine and starts to fill the cup. He closes the jet when it’s one third full.

'To enjoy this you have to drink it very short.'

He hands me the cup.

'That kid’ll have a better chance of a decent life without a violent father.'

'Only if the mother doesn’t turn out worse than the father, or meets someone who butchers her - I checked out what kind of trade she does.'

'I don’t claim to be God, only to fix the problems in my horizon.'

'By sending me out to get into fights on the street ...'

'You got away better than your colleague.'

'Hey, he took me by surprise, I didn’t expect that reaction ...'

Aubert tries to justify himself in a voice that’s even more nasal than usual, because of swabs they gave him from the chemist on the corner of Rue du Petit Musc.

'Yeah ...',

I say with a hint of sarcasm.

Didier manoeuvres to strike a cigarette lighter with the two working fingers of his left hand.

'I don’t think I can dodge your demands now, Dr. Carrel?'

'Don’t even try.'

Didier sits at the table, opens the folder and begins to browse through the reports.

'Of course,’

he snorts when sees the quantity of pages,

'Is that how much paper you use? You know there are USB sticks and internet ... '

'Stop grumbling and read!'


For twenty minutes the only sounds to be heard are the rasping breath of Aubert and rustle of pages being turned. Didier separates them into piles, giving only a quick glance at some.

After checking that Didier’s really reading, I take a look around. Some things surprise me, like the DVDs stacked on the TV, all 80s movies, but poor quality. I had a job at Blockbusters to pay for my studies, and that stuff isn’t even worth the plastic it’s recorded on. Yet he’s sought them out, one packet shows the label of a firm that sells by mail order. I imagine Didier has passion for trash, or they’re some use to them for some weird research.

'Would it have been a crime on impulse?'

His voice makes me jump.

'Premeditated. He brought her to that isolated place ... '

'That is a rational action. But he decapitated her, that’s a crazy action. He didn’t cut up the body, that would be rational. How is rational to take off his dirty clothes and pretend to be looking for her. And only a lunatic would chuck the weapon only a few metres away. It doesn’t make sense, pal. You think that too, don’t you?’

'People aren’t always rational.'

'But they're not irrational intermittently. The child. You haven’t got anything from the school? Notebooks, drawings?'

'No.'

'You know at least who her doctor is?'

'I know she's been contacted for information on the girl's health ...'

'And?'

'... It doesn’t appear she had any problems.'

Didier snorts in disgust.

'Really? Look here! '

He takes the bundle of photos of Béjart’s daughter and puts them in a row on the table. The child appears in various situations from infancy to adolescence, the last one is in front of her school.

'Notice anything?'

I'm going to say no, but then I’m moved by the sad expression of the girl in the last picture, miserable and apathetic. I skim back in time, it’s as if the girl had gradually lost the will to smile, the change is obvious.

'She’s become unhappy.'

'More than unhappy, look at the body-language. In the last-but-one photo, the father’s trying to cuddle her, she seems not to care '

'Perhaps it's the family atmosphere, perhaps if we saw more photos it would be different.'

'No, it's too systematic. You know what autism is, I guess?'

'I know it occurs in children, but much younger.'

'Not in all cases. Sometimes symptoms of what’s called Heller’s syndrome appear much later - the first signs appear around five or six years, and then get worse.'

'And Béjart’s girl could be affected?'

'Autistic and anorexic. Maybe. I ought to talk to the father.'

'That’s not possible.'

'See you then, that’s as much I can tell you. Who do I send the invoice to? '

'Try and read at least the first reconstruction of the facts. There’s also the full transcript of the questioning… '

'I've already read it. Perhaps that’s what the father thought, perhaps not '

'Try again.'

'These documents and photos can’t tell me any more,'

says Didier, irritated.

'To understand things I need to take a ride to the scene.'

'No problem.'

'The problem’s mine. I’ve not been out of this apartment for two months. I hope you’re a patient person, it’ll take a bit of time to achieve that.'

'I’m in no hurry.'

'You aren’t even worried?'

'About what?'

'You see, if the father is innocent, someone’s built a little scenario that put him in centre stage, while he’s making himself comfortable with the girl, pretending it was a crime of impulse. But he’s failed. You know why? '

'No.'

‘His hand was too firm. It took him a few cuts to detach the head, but only through the neck. The woman’s face does hasn’t even got a scratch on it. The killer's hand never shook.'


I feel a shiver run down my spine.

'Whoever it is, is used to killing.'
 
The stone circle


I prepare myself mentally for the descent. My phobia is not constant, in the best conditions I can force myself to do difficult things like going into a supermarket for a short time, as long as there's only a few people, and there are large windows.


My first psychiatrist advised me to assess my symptoms from one to ten. At the lowest values I can do almost anything, but when they’re at their highest, I lose control and need to be sedated. Now, even if I’m trying not to show it, they’re at seven, which is already a risky level. Blame the unusual day, and also the fact that I don’t want to look bad with this solemn-looking policewoman. I ‘m going to need all the strength of will that I can scrape up to make the five flights of stairs. Five windowless storeys, with sharp angles and low ceilings, with neighbours who can appear out of nowhere and block the space that’s already too small, breathing my oxygen. I know for sure there’s no real danger on the stairs, as there’d be in a locked building or in a cupboard, but my rational side cannot win over the animal instinct for imminent danger that stirs inside me. I suddenly find myself covered in icy sweat just hearing the noise of the machinery that moves the elevator and I imagine myself inside it, beating against the walls.


I pull on a black waterproof and a pair of boots for the muddy ground, put on my iPhone headphones and select a symphony of ocean waves. I adjust my breathing to their rhythm, then begin the descent.


For the first two floors it goes smoothly. I set off in a hurry, holding the handrail, with the sound of the sea filling my ears and my mind. But at the third landing I make the mistake of looking up, I see the stairs above me, so close that I think they’ll fall on me. For a minute I’m nailed on the same step, then, moving towards the stairwell, I see the light coming through the skylight, revealing a glimpse of heaven. I go on down, holding my head turned in that direction, guiding myself by the handrail. On the fourth floor down I bump into someone, I feel my heart jump into my throat, it’s one of the neighbours, she moves her mouth, saying something that I can’t hear. My immediate impulse is to go back, to cower in my flat, but what saves me is the thought of the cop waiting for me. I smile through gritted teeth at my neighbour and continue on down. One floor, just one more floor. I draw in breath as if I’ve I’m about to dive, and race down the last two flights. I exit the door as if I’m escaping from hell.

I watch him, leaning against the hood of the police car, my arms folded.

'It was hard?'

'A bit. But being outdoors will do me good. '

'Have you ever thought of getting therapy?'

'Have you?'

She looks at me coldly, opening the car door.

'Be my guest.'

'I’ll sit in front, I don’t give a damn your regulations forbid it. I won’t wear a seat belt, and we’ll keep the window open even if it rains. Okay?'


The journey is long. The speed seems to have a disastrous effect on Didier’s nerves. Aubert is forced to stop several times to wait for the passenger until he gets back in, he comes back saying everything will be fine, but after a while he turns pale again, anxious, sweating. Finally we reach La Solle Racecourse at Fontainebleau.

The operational base has been dismantled, gone too are the vehicles that were littering the road. Just a pair of horses in training are troting along the track in an unreal silence. But some of my colleagues are still in the place and Aubert finds a 4x4 that’s available for the detectives, so we continue up the track as far as the path that leads to the Crow’s Nest.

Didier seems emboldened, and walks quickly, I follow him about ten metres behind, observing his behaviour. He seems fascinated by everything he encounters, full of energy, turning up leaves and debris, deviating from the line of the trail to observe down below.

I call Roux to update him.

'I warned you it wouldn’t be easy.'

'You didn’t tell me he was a complete nutter. You should see his flat.'

'And is what he said just as barking?'

'I haven’t made up my mind. Any news of the girl?'

'Bugger all. Relatives and friends have all been contacted, to no avail. There’s just a rumour, it seems he had a relationship with Stephanie, his sister in law, but it’s not plausible explanation. The initial laboratory findings validate D'Alembert’s theory. The blood in the car-boot is that of the girl, and the bill-hook is definitely from the Béjarts’ house, he bought it a month back to prune a tree in the garden, but says he’d never used it.'

'Any confession?'

'There’s not, but the arrest has been validated.'

'And God forbid ... Doctor, we're wasting our time. Everything is against Béjart. We’ll have to find som other way to get rid of ... you know who.'

'And De la Tour, what does he say?'

'Think of a conspiracy. Talk to you later, we’ve got there.'

Didier’s reached the viewpoint, and is bending over, staggering. Thankfully, he’s clinging to the railing, otherwise he’d have fallen down.

'You suffer from vertigo?'

'Is it so obvious? Now come past me. I didn’t think it was so high, it took me by surprise. What does your boss say? '

'That the weapon was bought by her husband.'

'Were his fingerprints on it?'

'No.'
Gripping the metal bar, he hauls himself up.

'Then our killer could have taken it from the house.'

'A bit risky, don’t you think?'

'I told you, he’s not easily scared. Where were the shoes?'

On that bush, where there’s a numbered card now.

'Very ornamental. We’ll go back down while it’s still light.'

I struggle to keep up with him, Didier descends rapidly between the stones.

'And why should this ruthless, clear-headed murderer take it from Béjart?'

'Ah, I don’t know yet.'

Didier stops in front of the cordons surrounding the site of the discovery. Two cops are controlling access, one throws away a cigarette and approaches us, I pull out my card. The officer salutes, while Didier proceeds into the clearing.

'Who’s he, Lord Voldemort?'

he asks, gesturing at Didier who’s wandering around among the rocks, being careful not to step on the signs affixed by the technicians.

'A consultant.'

'Thank God. I was afraid it was a colleague.'

Didier climbs on a rock.

'... When he thought I deserved it, Father gave me hot food ...'

'The father?'

'He wanted me to call him that. And as I never knew who he was ... '

He crouches on the rock, he looks like a big black crow waiting for prey.

'What can you see from there?'

'A Stonehenge in miniature. You couldn’t find a better place for a ritual killing.'

'Or for a masquerade.'

'According to you, the killer hung the shoes up before or after he killed the mother?'

'Before, I’d find difficult, the mother would have noticed something was wrong.'

'You kill someone, and then you get to decorate the environment? Cool’s okay, but that seems a bit much.'

'If he was a killer with such a steady hand, maybe it was part of the scenario. Or maybe the girl lost them on the track, on the way back, and someone hung them there so they might be found.'

'What about footprints?'

'Too much rain, too much mud, too many people had passed. If there were any of the killer's fingerprints, or the missing girl’s, they’re no longer distinguishable.'

'So we don’t know which way he left?'

'If it was Béjart, he returned to the picnic site and began to pretend to look for his wife and daughter. But I can’t understand the role of the sister in law.'

'I don’t think the killer went in the direction we came from, it seems too busy a route, he’d certainly have made sure he wasn’t seen.'

'Then he hung up the shoes and came back again?'

'Maybe. Which makes it an even more significant gesture, but I’m not sure why. Let's go.'

He jumps down from the rock, indicating the path ahead, and walks off without waiting for me. While he was indoors he seemed unable to take two steps without being carried! We meet a couple of mushroom hunters. Too many people are wandering around here.

'Maybe someone crossed the killer’s path?'

'No-one has come forward to testify.'

'Because no-one noticed. And I doubt if your colleagues have tried that hard to look for evidence.'

'Not after the arrest of Béjart. But everyone knows now about the missing child, her picture’s everywhere. If a mushroom-hunter or anyone else had seen her walking with someone, we’d have had a report.'

'I don’t think she was walking, he was carrying the girl, leaning on his shoulder. She’s so thin, she looks like a much younger girl, no-one would notice.'

'Provided that this mysterious kidnapper exists.'

We come out in a clearing in the middle of which there is a small shrine dedicated to the Virgin Mary, surrounded by the large boulders that are everywhere round here.

'If your guess is correct, the kidnapper would have parked not far from here. And if he’d left after dark, he may not have met anyone. Hikers leave earlier... '

I realise Didier's not listening, he’s fixated on a metal object hanging at mid-height on a telegraph pole in the park. I walk over to see it better. It's a metal whistle, cylindrical, opaque, tied to a frayed hempen cord. He grabs my wrist, his grip’s cold, strong and tight, almost painful.

'Don’t touch it!'

He is ashen.

'What's up?'

After some failed attempts, with a shaking, small voice he half-whispers,

'When he picked me up... When Father took me, I was carrying something I’d found in the grass where I was playing.... it was a Boy Scout's whistle...'

He turns to me, but it's as if he doesn't see me, he’s viewing an ancient terror, immense.


'That.'
 
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