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Histoires De Luna

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Hi friends! Now, after all the disaster happened while I was away, we can continue the story.



The Imperial Hotel


The Hotel Imperial is a potpourri of modern design, vaguely Japanese, and ‘environmentally friendly’ architecture, with cascades of water in the corridors and grass growing on the roof. It was originally a palace for state functionaries back in the eighteen hundreds, in a side street between the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue Saint Honoré, not far from the Louvre. The bar is in a glazed verandah located to one side of the courtyard garden, where a Zen stream of white pebbles lends a Japanese touch.

I make my way across the reflective marble lobby, feeling a little out of place with my backpack and jeans. When I’m on duty I can use my card as a passport to anywhere, but as a civilian I suffer some embarrassment in social interactions.

'There should be a room booked in the name of Mr. De la Tour.'

I say to one of the receptionists at the desk. Typing on the keyboard he breaks into a smile.

'Of course, madame. The Director will join you at once to accompany you to the suite.'

I pretend indifference, but wonder to myself, "the suite?" I take out my identity documents and handing them to the receptionist, but he rejects them with a friendly gesture.

'Not necessary. would you care to take a seat?'

'I’ll look at the garden.'

'Certainly, madam. I'll get you a drink.'

I go out, still dazed, and find Didier at one of the small tables scattered among the dwarf palms and maples. He’s smoking, and eyeing a dyed blonde at the next table. He’s stuffed with Xanax to overcome the stress of moving, his eyes are like two thin slits and his mouth half open.

' Just tell me, how rich are you?'

'If you shake me by my feet, not a penny will fall out.'

'Balls. Without a card from a private bank, they won’t even let you through the door here.'

'I solved the case of the owner's daughter, who’d run off with a hopeless drug addict. I accepted payment in kind. It’s enough for me to give him a call and I get the suite, even if they’re overbooked, for free.'

'What do you do if you ever do go out?'

'Impress the girls.'

'Like that blonde you're undressing with your eyes? You'll need something more than a private bank card for that one.'

'Let me dream.'

The director comes and half-bows in front of us, while two porters load Didier’s luggage and my pack onto a trolley and vanish. We are accompanied to the top floor in a glass elevator from the lobby. It’s completely transparent and moves so gently that Didier agrees to use it, but he cannot hide an uncomfortable flush.

'The only lift that I've ever taken over the past decade ...'

Meanwhile, I take advantage of the panoramic view to study the security under me. Unobtrusive guys in the lobby, in dark suits, wearing headsets, with the broad shoulders of former soldiers. Given the wealth of the customers they are no doubt efficient and trained to notice anything abnormal. It wasn't not by chance they fixed their eyes on me when I entered. If I’d not kept the gun in my cosmetics bag they would definitely have noticed it.

The elevator stops at the door of the suite, which the director opens, pausing in the entrance.

'Mr. De la Tour is familiar with the hotel. But please do not hesitate to contact me with any of your requirements.'

I try again to present my documents, the director pretends not to see them and goes back into the elevator with a smile. Once again I’m feeling embarrassed.

'Why don’t they want to check my ID?'

'I’m already a member, and my guests have a right to privacy, an additional right.'

'Against the law.'

'What a bore!'

'The next time we meet him, you can explain I’m not one of your bimbos.'

'He’s already noticed you're not the kind of girl I usually associate with, he was giving you a quizzical look.'

The suite is divided into two bedrooms, both with sybaritic bathrooms, and a large lounge with a fireplace. Within moments two employees appear to install an espresso machine on the bar and an electric coffee grinder.

'Let me guess, another exclusive benefit?'

'Good!'

'There's also a slavegirl to rub your back in the shower?'

Didier gives a mischievous grin,

'Only on request.'

Didier gives me the smaller room, which is still half as big again as the one in my apartment, and takes the bigger one for himself, explaining that he needs it because it has more windows, and a terrace with a jacuzzi and sauna.

'Where I sleep.'

'So don’t you use the round bed?'

I’ve only ever seen one like that in a porn movie.

'Not to sleep in...'

Snort. I take in the view from the terrace, it overlooks the garden, and is so high that even from the windows of the other rooms no-one could not see what goes on here. Still, it doesn’t seem a hundred percent safe. To provide for Didier’s security, we’d really need to move him into a bunker, which is certainly not the place for him.

'Close the curtains when you go to bed, OK? And keep the light off, otherwise someone could see your silhouette.'

'Are you thinking of a sniper?'

he asks, unsure whether I’m joking.

'I’m not thinking of anything, but you do as I say.'

I go to unpack my stuff. The bed is rectangular but in three squares, covered with a fluffy white duvet. On a wall there’s an LED tele, next to it a wardrobe with lacquered doors inlaid with oriental motifs, and a bookcase.

I ask myself for the hundredth time today whether moving a mentally unstable recluse in the name of a vague possibility of danger makes sense or not, or whether I’ve been infected with his paranoia. I hope I can figure it out soon.

I return to the lounge, where Didier is extracting his bags of coffee beans from a case, setting them in alphabetical order on the bar-shelf behind the espresso machine, Blue Mountain ...Kopi Luwak... Mérida ... Monsooned Malabar...Vintage Colombian ... Yirgacheffe... The smell of roasting spreads out into the room.

'There’s a beautiful heated swimming pool up above and, guess what, it's got a transparent roof. We could have a swim and enjoy a drink up there.'

'I’ve got a better idea, why don’t we get down to work?'

'You don’t like just enjoying life, do you?'
 

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Velut Luna said:
Hi friends! Now, after all the disaster happened while I was away, we can continue the story.



The Imperial Hotel


The Hotel Imperial is a potpourri of modern design, vaguely Japanese, and ‘environmentally friendly’ architecture, with cascades of water in the corridors and grass growing on the roof. It was originally a palace for state functionaries back in the eighteen hundreds, in a side street between the Rue de Rivoli and the Rue Saint Honoré, not far from the Louvre. The bar is in a glazed verandah located to one side of the courtyard garden, where a Zen stream of white pebbles lends a Japanese touch.

I make my way across the reflective marble lobby, feeling a little out of place with my backpack and jeans. When I’m on duty I can use my card as a passport to anywhere, but as a civilian I suffer some embarrassment in social interactions.

'There should be a room booked in the name of Mr. De la Tour.'

I say to one of the receptionists at the desk. Typing on the keyboard he breaks into a smile.

'Of course, madame. The Director will join you at once to accompany you to the suite.'

I pretend indifference, but wonder to myself, "the suite?" I take out my identity documents and handing them to the receptionist, but he rejects them with a friendly gesture.

'Not necessary. would you care to take a seat?'

'I’ll look at the garden.'

'Certainly, madam. I'll get you a drink.'

I go out, still dazed, and find Didier at one of the small tables scattered among the dwarf palms and maples. He’s smoking, and eyeing a dyed blonde at the next table. He’s stuffed with Xanax to overcome the stress of moving, his eyes are like two thin slits and his mouth half open.

' Just tell me, how rich are you?'

'If you shake me by my feet, not a penny will fall out.'

'Balls. Without a card from a private bank, they won’t even let you through the door here.'

'I solved the case of the owner's daughter, who’d run off with a hopeless drug addict. I accepted payment in kind. It’s enough for me to give him a call and I get the suite, even if they’re overbooked, for free.'

'What do you do if you ever do go out?'

'Impress the girls.'

'Like that blonde you're undressing with your eyes? You'll need something more than a private bank card for that one.'

'Let me dream.'

The director comes and half-bows in front of us, while two porters load Didier’s luggage and my pack onto a trolley and vanish. We are accompanied to the top floor in a glass elevator from the lobby. It’s completely transparent and moves so gently that Didier agrees to use it, but he cannot hide an uncomfortable flush.

'The only lift that I've ever taken over the past decade ...'

Meanwhile, I take advantage of the panoramic view to study the security under me. Unobtrusive guys in the lobby, in dark suits, wearing headsets, with the broad shoulders of former soldiers. Given the wealth of the customers they are no doubt efficient and trained to notice anything abnormal. It wasn't not by chance they fixed their eyes on me when I entered. If I’d not kept the gun in my cosmetics bag they would definitely have noticed it.

The elevator stops at the door of the suite, which the director opens, pausing in the entrance.

'Mr. De la Tour is familiar with the hotel. But please do not hesitate to contact me with any of your requirements.'

I try again to present my documents, the director pretends not to see them and goes back into the elevator with a smile. Once again I’m feeling embarrassed.

'Why don’t they want to check my ID?'

'I’m already a member, and my guests have a right to privacy, an additional right.'

'Against the law.'

'What a bore!'

'The next time we meet him, you can explain I’m not one of your bimbos.'

'He’s already noticed you're not the kind of girl I usually associate with, he was giving you a quizzical look.'

The suite is divided into two bedrooms, both with sybaritic bathrooms, and a large lounge with a fireplace. Within moments two employees appear to install an espresso machine on the bar and an electric coffee grinder.

'Let me guess, another exclusive benefit?'

'Good!'

'There's also a slavegirl to rub your back in the shower?'

Didier gives a mischievous grin,

'Only on request.'

Didier gives me the smaller room, which is still half as big again as the one in my apartment, and takes the bigger one for himself, explaining that he needs it because it has more windows, and a terrace with a jacuzzi and sauna.

'Where I sleep.'

'So don’t you use the round bed?'

I’ve only ever seen one like that in a porn movie.

'Not to sleep in...'

Snort. I take in the view from the terrace, it overlooks the garden, and is so high that even from the windows of the other rooms no-one could not see what goes on here. Still, it doesn’t seem a hundred percent safe. To provide for Didier’s security, we’d really need to move him into a bunker, which is certainly not the place for him.

'Close the curtains when you go to bed, OK? And keep the light off, otherwise someone could see your silhouette.'

'Are you thinking of a sniper?'

he asks, unsure whether I’m joking.

'I’m not thinking of anything, but you do as I say.'

I go to unpack my stuff. The bed is rectangular but in three squares, covered with a fluffy white duvet. On a wall there’s an LED tele, next to it a wardrobe with lacquered doors inlaid with oriental motifs, and a bookcase.

I ask myself for the hundredth time today whether moving a mentally unstable recluse in the name of a vague possibility of danger makes sense or not, or whether I’ve been infected with his paranoia. I hope I can figure it out soon.

I return to the lounge, where Didier is extracting his bags of coffee beans from a case, setting them in alphabetical order on the bar-shelf behind the espresso machine, Blue Mountain ...Kopi Luwak... Mérida ... Monsooned Malabar...Vintage Colombian ... Yirgacheffe... The smell of roasting spreads out into the room.

'There’s a beautiful heated swimming pool up above and, guess what, it's got a transparent roof. We could have a swim and enjoy a drink up there.'

'I’ve got a better idea, why don’t we get down to work?'

'You don’t like just enjoying life, do you?'
Click to expand...
Good grief, Luna....I'm sitting in a Premier Inn reading that! :( :doh:
 

Old Stuff

Aubert’s been sent by Roux, he arrives in less than half an hour, and delivers two boxes of documents. He’s in civile clothes.

'Did you use your own car?'

'I haven’t got a car, I borrowed one from a friend.'

'That should be all right.'

His nose now looks like a boxer’s, more adult, a nose so more suited to the face of a policeman. He helps me unpack the material on the floor, then watches curiously from the door of the suite.

'Are you really living here now, doctor?'

'Only for a few days. And I’m not paying for it.'

'Santa Claus has arrived!'

exclaims Didier when he sees the parcels,

'But do you still use paper?'

'The data on Béjart is almost all digital. But your case is old stuff.'

'I'm not "old stuff".'

He responds testily.

'At least we have Roux to thank for giving it us.'

'Where do we start?'

'Up to you, that’s the last thing I could know. '

'Then I’ll make some coffee.'

As we examine the papers spread out across the floor, Didier can finally tell with precision, for the first time since he got free, his story.

He was locked up in a bunker built by the Germans near a farm that belonged to Antoine Borrel, a former army corporal who had inherited the property from his deceased parents. The bunker was used as a warehouse for agricultural produce until, when Antoine retired, most of the land was sold to the owner of the neighboring farm. Since then the bunker had not been used. In the eleven years that Didier was kept captive, Borrel had carried on with his life, cultivating his vegetable garden, raising chickens and rabbits, drawing his pension every month.

In the village everyone remembered him as a shy, quiet, man, too unsociable to have any family. He’d exchanged a few words about the weather when he went out shopping, drank alone at the bar. On summer evenings he would sit in front of his house in threadbare jeans and undershirt. The discovery of who he really was and what he had done had upset the peaceful farmers of those parts, since then he had become 'the madman'. His grave had been desecrated twice before he was exhumed, cremated, and the ashes scattered in a mass grave. The motive for what he had done, in the opinion of the investigators and experts, must have been his frustrated desire to have a family, that had become madness.

'But the problem is, he wasn’t Father.'

'There were only his footprints, the property was his, they never saw anyone else.'

'What accent do I have?'

'Accent? Vaguely northern. Not marked, anyway.'

'That’s how it was when I got out.'

'So what?'

'Borrel had only been at elementary school and spoke a strong dialect. It couldn’t have been him who educated me.'

During his imprisonment the kidnapper had taught Didier to read, write and count using old textbooks. The police had found some of them, they were publications from the sixties, probably bought off junk stalls. Father’s educational programme had been bizarre but systematic.

'Sometimes he got me to memorize long passages cut out from books that I never saw. I kept the pages that I had to study all night. If the next day I got anything wrong, he took away food and water and punished me, hitting my left hand with a stick. That was the part of my body reserved for punishment.'

Didier had memorized parts of the most important works of poets and writers since 1800, and can still remember them perfectly. Father had a thing about Paris, Didier had to learn the names of streets and squares using a map. One of Father’s memory tests involved showing him fragments of images of monuments and major buildings to see if he could recognise them. According to the psychologists who had examined Didier after his liberation, the lessons he had been taught were only meant to exercise dominion over him and inculcate submission.

'Maybe Borrel was self-taught?'

'That’s what your colleagues said, but it’s not credible.'

'But there were only his fingerprints on the books. I see here that they took some DNA samples, which proved to be his. Did you ask for these tests?'

'Yup. They weren’t done at the time when I got free, I paid to have them done, but it didn’t help.'

'But you were always certain that Father and Borrel were not the same person?'

'Borrel only owned the bunker. I'm sure. I saw him in the face, and it was not Borrel.'

In his narrative I find nothing to support Didier’s theory, but nor can I find any evidence against it. His account is crystal clear, he displays a flawless memory, even about the smallest details of what had happened. A perfect recollection of everything.

'Tell me.'

‘It’s all in the records.'

'Not all. You know.'

'Whatever you want. That day, when I heard Father opening the door and coming down the ladder, I reacted. He didn’t expect my move, I’d never done anything like it before. I pulled the ladder, making him fall to the ground. He struck his head violently, he was concussed. I pulled off the woollen balaclava and goggles that he always wore. For the first time, I saw his face, and I’ll never forget it: between thirty and forty, short hair, very light blue eyes, sunken cheeks, the opposite of all the photos of Borrel that I was shown. I wasn’t sure what to do, I was shaken, but after a few moments I put the back the ladder up to the door, and fled.'
 

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A smoke

Didier goes out onto the terrace for a smoke. I am tempted to imitate him, though I have not smoked since the day of the Disaster. I seem to be entering into the most delicate and problematic depths of his psyche, things he has learned over the years to shield from the world. During my career I have questioned and listened to hundreds of victims, suspects and offenders, but rarely have I felt so troubled. But Didier’s story is anything but common.

He returns, pretending nothing is wrong, goes on talking:

'I never turned around to see what he was doing, I just ran away, I narrowly missed breaking my neck, falling off the ladder – I didn’t know how to climb - like a lot of things you can’t do inside a bunker - like running, that’s another.'

Still, somehow, barefoot, he succeeded, he reached the main road, where a car picked him up. Fortunately for him the driver rushed him straight to the hospital without waiting for an ambulance.

When the police arrived at the farm, they found Borrel already shot in the mouth with the military gun he must have kept hidden and never handed in, after sprinkling the farm and the bunker with kerosene and setting fire to the lot. The bunker had resisted burning, but the Scientific Branch had failed to get anything out of it, the farm was burnt down to the foundations. No trace was ever found of man, ‘Father’, described by Didier, nor anything to support his story that there was another prisoner in another cell in the bunker. The hypothesis was that this was an invention, from his need not to feel alone. His protestations got him nowhere, nothing served to change the minds of the investigators.

‘Everything was burnt, but I don’t think it was Borrel lit the fire, it was Father. He killed his accomplice, erased all his own traces, and disappeared. The other one was wiped out.'

'So this other one would have been a prisoner like you?'

'I could never really understand who he was or where he was being held. For a while, I continued to be interested in him, then I gave up. Now you know everything there is to know.'

'You’re wrong. I only know your version. There are the investigations and interrogations that my colleagues and the judges carried out.'

On the cigarette box he traces a zero.

'All they found pointed the same way: one kidnapper, Borrel, no person unknown, and no other prisoner.'

‘Might there have been any checks on the farm while you were a prisoner?'

'More than once, according to your file, and there was only ever Borrel there. The only discordant testimony was from someone who lived on a farm about a kilometre away. He said he often saw the headlights of a car stopping not far from there, but he always thought they were couples.'

'Maybe they were.'

'If you get stuck on the first trivial hypothesis we’re just wasting time.'

'I told you, I’m looking for evidence, even a single scrap, for the possibility of a link between your kidnapping and Béjart’s daughter.'

'The whistle.'

'Other than that ...'

I open one of the files, it is the list, with signatures, of the people questioned after Didier’s escape, or who were in some way under suspicion.

'The prosecutor questioned thirty people, looking for a possible accomplice.'

'Your colleagues pulled a clutch of known sex offenders and common criminals out of the hat, but they found nothing against any of them. I reject them all. Father held me captive for eleven years, making me see him at least one day in every three, without interruption. All those others had spells in prison or in a psychiatric hospital, which makes such continuity impossible.'

'Are you sure Father and Borrel didn’t alternate?'

'I was then and even more so now. Do you too think I’ve dreamed this man up?'

'I’ll be honest with you - I don’t know.'

'With me, always choose honesty.'

'Tell me what other points of similarity come to mind.'

'My father was accused of being the culprit, just as Béjart is.'

'But your father wasn’t accused of killing your mother. She committed suicide.'

'Or she was made a "suicide" ...'

'You really think so?'

'... There’s no trace of the girl, not the least one.'

Didier continues.

'Apart from the blood in the trunk.'

'Left there by Father.'

'Then Father is a war machine. He diverts attention from himself, the blame falls on those he chooses, he never gets caught ... '

'Exactly.'

'So what hope do we have against someone who never makes mistakes?'

'He made one. I managed to escape. '
 
It won’t happen


'Enough of the past. Let’s on with the Béjart kidnapping, that’s a fresh trail, unlike yours.'

'To find more points of similarity?'

'I just have a hunch, Didier. Something tells me Béjart didn’t kill his wife. Just that one point ... if it is your old captor, or someone who’s imitating him, we’ll know we aren’t making it all up. But if the girl is found, alive or dead, we can all go back home.'

'It won’t happen, Corinne. It wouldn’t be consistent with the way Father operates.'

'All the missing information on Béjart will be coming to me from Roux in good time. We’ll compare it with what we already know.'

'And what’s in it for him, risking his career? Except to drop D'Alembert in the shit? '

'I’ve no idea.'

'I’ve read the transcripts of the preliminary statements, but I can’t find anything any use to us. His family and friends were only asked if Béjart had told them anything confidential, and whether they know where the girl might be. As you’d expect ... '

‘Supposing it’s not Father or a copy-cat, supposing it's an ordinary kidnapping ... '

'Ordinary?'

'... one of the kind you've worked on in the past. How would you proceed?'

'I’d be looking for the answer to the question that’s been going around in my mind since we did our walk around at Fontainebleau.'

'Which?'

‘Why did Béjart’s wife climb up Crow Hill with her daughter? She did that of her own free will, no-one took them up there by force. The kidnapper must have arranged an assignation, and she went, leaving her mobile, after waiting for her husband and sister to fall asleep having been given some drops of Valium in their drinks. Was that why? Does that convince you? '

'Blackmail or threat?'

'No, rather a lover who offered her the opportunity to run away from her abusive husband. Or a friend on whose shoulder she could cry. Someone she could confide in. Even in whispers.'

'We’ve got the list of witnesses, who might be most promising?'

'Maybe her sister, if she wasn’t an accomplice of the husband, but it’s rumoured that she was his lover.'

'I need to contact Roux to get the go-ahead.'

'It's late now. How about dinner as it should be for once? In two days we’ve only eaten a few bites. '

'Do I have to put on my evening dress?'

The restaurant is too enclosed for Didier, they have set up a table behind a screen beside the window overlooking the garden. I feel embarrassed by the white-gloved service. It’s not that I have only ever eaten in pubs, but I’ve never had the experience of a dedicated waiter standing behind me. And I still suffer from severe discomfort sitting in any restaurant after the evening of the disaster.

'Enjoy some life, Corinne. '

For the occasion, he puts on a charcoal-coloured tie with a blue shirt and a black Armani suit, I do not feel so well-dressed in my blouse and black pants.

'I don't feel comfortable here.'

'Pretend you're on holiday.'

'I wouldn’t be here with you.'

'It’ll be a little better than the police canteen ... '

'How come you're so used to luxury?'

'For a while I was well off for money. My father sued the whole world when it was proved that he hadn’t killed me. He won all his claims, and was compensated by the state for wrongful imprisonment and for what happened to him in jail.'

'He fell ill?'

'They stabbed him, but he got away.'

'How old is he?'

'Seventy. We aren’t often in touch. We were never really able to bond after I came back. We were like two strangers - and we are, even though we try to be pleasant to each other. I think he blames me for ruining his life. In his own way he is right. When I came of age he gave me a lot of money, mainly to get me from under his feet. I was in a whirl. When I wasn’t in some clinic, I wanted to enjoy myself ... '

'Always in places like this?'

'... Even better. I’ve always been a spendthrift ... '

Didier has only vegetables on his plate, while I taste my tournedos Rossini, while the waiter in white gloves pours me wine that I pretend to drink.

'... I was in a cage for too long not to be horrified by farms.'

Didier pushes away his plate, he has eaten very little, the waiter retrieves the reminder.

We go out into the garden, where smoking is permitted. The trees are illuminated by hidden lights and soft music wafts discreetly. We settle on two armchairs half hidden amid the fragrant bushes. Two Moscow Mules are served in copper glasses filled with ice, his favourite cocktail: vodka, ginger ale, lime and a slice of cucumber.
 
The first crack



The OK from Roux arrives at 6 : 00 o'clock in the morning. I call Stephanie Moulin at the time for early breakfast, trying to appear official without saying anything definite, to avoid offering any handholds to the magistrate.

'I’m in charge of your sister’s case, and there are a couple of things I’d like to clarify with you.'

'Any news?'

'Unfortunately not. When we can meet?'

'You can come this morning, but before lunch please, I'm home till then.'

'Thank you.'

The woman's voice is of one who is expecting bad news.

Didier looks like a ghost in his black bathrobe.

'Get a move on, it's late.'


'First of all I need a coffee.'

'I called Moulin ...'


'Who?'

'... The dead woman’s sister.'


'Ah.'

'We’re going to meet her.'

Didier stands watching the espresso machine before answering.

'I’ll leave it to you. I don’t know how to do a cop’s job. No offence...'

'I’ll do it. You’ll just watch and give me prompts if I need them.'

'Corinne, it’s not my cup of coffee. I'm no good with people. '

'You're good at observing them.'

'From a distance. Emotional involvement makes me uncomfortable. You can’t force me.'

'Come on, that's an order! And hurry up.'

He obeys, goes to get dressed.

An hour later Stephanie Moulin opens the door.

'I am assistant chief inspector Carrel. I rang earlier... '

'Come on up.'

'If you don’t mind, Mr. De la Tour wants to meet you.'

'Why doesn’t it he come in?'

'Please be so good, he cannot leave the car.'

'All right.'

She’s wearing a suit and indoor slippers, over her shoulders a lemon-yellow sweater. On her face is painted a grimace of anxiety.

'Is there no news?'

'No, I'm sorry.'

'She’s dead, isn’t she?'

'Madam ... we really don’t know. We’re hoping for the best. '

'But how can she still be alive? No-one’s given her anything to eat... '

'Maybe someone’s caring for her'

'Some friend of my son-of-a-bitch brother-in-law?'

Didier is waiting, leaning with a grim look against the car's fender, smoking a cigarette.

'Mr. De la Tour.'

'My condolences.'

he mumbles, without even looking at her face.

'What do you want to ask? I told them all I knew. And I spent a night in the police station. '

'There are certain special, private, matters regarding your sister, that we need to know about.'

'About my sister? Like what?'

'Like if she had a lover.'

Didier mumbles, still not looking up.

'How dare you?'

'Madam, excuse my colleague’s lack of tact, but ... I need you to answer.'

She crosses her arms over her chest.

'My sister didn’t go with anyone who wasn’t her husband. God knows why not. Don’t you know why they arrested him? '

'Yup. This is why we thought there could ...'

'You’ve guessed wrong.'

'Why didn’t she leave him?'

'Because she was in love with him, despite everything. With that maniac. She said if the girl had been in any danger she’d run away immediately, but she never did ... never did. '

'Did anyone notice the baby was ill?' asks Didier.

This time Stephanie does not get angry.

'How do you know?'


'I looked at the pictures.'

'He's right, she became depressed and never spoke. When I held her she always seemed to be on another planet. And she wouldn’t eat, she’d lost a lot of weight.'

'Especially In the past year, right?'

Stephanie scrutinizes Didier as if he were the strangest policeman in the world.

'Yup.'

'And did your sister notice?' I ask.

'She did,' she confirms, shaking her head in disgust. 'But for her husband, it was normal, just an adolescent crisis, he didn’t want to hear anything about it.'

'She was never referred to a specialist?'

'No, he didn’t want it.'

But she doesn’t speak with conviction, the tone of her voice doesn’t escape Didier.

'She didn’t see one secretly?'

'No.. I don’t think so. But she wanted to visit a doctor.'

'Her paediatrician?'

Didier presses her. It seems that the air around his head is crackling, he is so focused.

'No. It was a new doctor, my sister called him to make an appointment. '

'When did she do that?'

'That was a fortnight ago.'

'And where did she meet him?'

'A visit was arranged by the school.'

Didier is looking at me insistently, I continue,

'Do you know if they met?'

'No I don’t… I forgot to ask ... Do you think I have all the time ...' She’s speaking in a whisper, furtively wiping away a tear with her right sleeve, her lips are trembling and more tears are welling. He turns away to blow her nose vigorously.

'You were saying?'

'Do you remember the name of this doctor? Or if your sister made a note of his number? '

'I only know she called him. Why do you think it's important?'

'We don’t know if it is.'

'Do you think my brother-in-law had an accomplice? Or that it wasn’t him? '

'We have to examine all the possibilities. Apart from this doctor, did your sister meet anyone in the last few days? New acquaintances, new friends of your niece?'

'Not that I know of. As I said to your colleagues ... she hadn’t received any threats, she hadn’t ever noticed anyone prowling around the house. Nor had I neither. The only danger was already in the house.'

'Especially if there was also a lover in the house.'

I secretly aim a kick at Didier’s ankle.

'My niece is dead. And it was that bastard. Can’t you understand?'

She turns and runs up the stairs.

'What do you think?'

'Next time I shan’t come, even if you tie me up. She feels guilty for failing to protect her sister from her brother-in-law when it was still possible. She isn’t an accomplice. She’d very much like some other murderer to pop up, because then it would ease her conscience. But she doesn’t believe it, and she’s loading the guilt on herself.'

I grimaced.

'She’s not making up her story?'

'No. The first crack, Corinne!'

'Not even near it.'

'So we forget it?'

'Come on, jump in, let's go.'
 

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I've deliberately not asked Luna to tell me any more than I really need to know about how the 'histoire' is going to proceed, let alone end - it helps me wrestle with the Italian as well as with the plot, and hopefully to translate it into English that keeps up the sense of mystery and threat. Discussing with Luna has brought out some points about what we readers do - and don't - know now, which we think might help:

We've apparently come to a point where it seems that Didier’s beliefs are drawing together into a common thread, so that the whole affair is moving towards the solution, confirming what has been said. But let’s not assume it’s that straightforward. The ‘truths’ that have emerged may only be apparent. Didier is seeing his own truth. The facts we’re glimpsing from time to time are just reflections from the fragments of a broken mirror. Corinne is groping in the dark. Although she’s an experienced investigator, she can't move except in the stiff and pedantic way of the police. The one who is trying to pull the strings is Roux, but he can't reveal himself in person, he's using Corinne, throwing her into the fray. The disaster weighs on her conscience, as if it were her fault.

And so far, very little has actually happened: a murder described, another murder only hinted at, that of the Dutch model. Two abductions, Luciole and Luna, Luna from a hospital. Don't forget that Luna is a prisoner in the hands of the mysterious Father, locked up in the circular world. Apart from the diners slaughtered in the Disaster, this thriller seems stingy with corpses. It's not clear yet why Father kidnaps his victims, much less why he kills others. Everything will change. There will be surprises. ;)
 
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