When she is about to close the trunk, her eye catches on the faint glint of shiny leather. It is a valise, wedged under the man’s foot next to a spare can of petrol. She carefully opens the petrol and pours it on the body and the back seat of the car, thinking this might fuck with any DNA evidence, though she doesn’t know how. Does it even matter? There have probably been a hundred people through this cab in the last week and, anyway, nobody knows she is here. She is ‘black’ in France and there is no reason to suspect her of involvement in this, part of a larger crime that cannot be investigated.
The valise is locked, so she takes it with her, closes the trunk, and begins walking. Later, she will jimmy the lock open, find the valise full of cash, and count it – 100,000 euros in small, nonsequential bills.
For now, she heads towards the Château de Vincennes Métro station. It’s almost 5 a.m. She feels great. It has occurred to her that a) she may have committed the perfect crime and b) she now has the whole 50 euros and no cab fare to pay. ‘Picked up the wrong girl,’ she thinks. ‘Fucked with the wrong girl. Your perfect crime, my ass.’
The first Métro comes within the hour and she vanishes into the crowd of bleary-eyed morning commuters, looking, with her valise, just like one of them.
HEATWAVE by DOMINIQUE SYLVAIN
Lieutenant Blaise Reyer walked into his office and felt like turning round and walking straight out again. Three offensively colourful guys were clustered in front of his desk. They were wearing cyclists’ helmets, hallucinogenic jerseys and skin-tight cycling shorts, and were all talking at once. Who to, Reyer wondered, since I’m not there? That morning. Reyer had shaved his head, but not his beard. He’d had nightmares all night and looked more than ever like a former KGB apparatchik who’d gone into some dodgy business. He skirted four gleaming bicycles, parked casually in the corridor, slipped between the merry cyclists and found, brazenly sitting in his chair, his number one enemy of the moment, the excessively young and excessively polite Lieutenant Zaraoui.
‘Am I seeing things or are you taking over my job, Khaled?’
‘Morning Blaise, the chief wants us to work as partners on this case.
‘And as you weren’t in yet…’
As partners. But I don’t want to partner anybody, thought Reyer, regaining possession of his chair and his desk.
‘What case? The Tour de France stick-up?’
The multicoloured trio looked at Reyer as if he were speaking Martian. The lieutenant took the opportunity to study them. One was tall and fair-haired, another tall and dark-haired, the other short and dark. They were all approaching forty, but not a hint of paunch. Reyer instinctively pulled in his stomach and looked at the ID cards laid out before him. Mathieu Grémond, the tall fair-haired guy, Philippe Lancel, the tall dark one, and Paul Perroux, the runt. Addresses scattered between Bastille and République.
‘Guillaume Gamier, these gentlemen’s friend, has just suffered a heart attack,’ explained Zaraoui. ‘A stone’s throw from here. In place Léon Blum.’
‘Because of the heatwave,’ added Perroux, the short, dark guy.
‘This gentleman’s probably right,’ adds Zaraoui. ‘But there was an anonymous phone call. A woman rang twenty minutes ago. To say that Gamier had been murdered.’
Reyer pinched the bridge of his nose; that helped him keep his cool. At the same time, he acknowledged that procedures were likely to be a bit hit or miss. Paris was suffocating in a crazy heatwave, the disastrous football World Cup defeat was still festering in people’s minds like an open wound, the Tour de France favourites had been disqualified for failing a dope test, and three clowns prancing around in poofter pants had been getting up the nose of the police force since dawn.
‘How did he die?’
‘He collapsed while we were taking a break. We’d stopped at Café Mirage for a drink, our bikes were parked nearby…’
‘What were you doing in a baking hot Paris when you could have been riding down quiet country lanes?’
‘The Tour de France arrives tomorrow, Inspector,’ replied Grémond, the tall fair-haired one.
‘I’m aware of that. So?’
‘We wanted to party all weekend, soak up the atmosphere.’
‘Too bad,’ retorted Reyer. ‘Where’s the body?’
‘At the forensic lab in place Mazas,’ answered Zaraoui. ‘But it’ll take ages. Nearby all the pathologists are on holiday.’
Reyer wiped a hand over his face, suppressing a superhuman urge to give the three jokers a mammoth clout – Zaraoui too, while he was at it. He’d left home on the verge of imploding. By 6 a.m. the thermometer was already announcing 29°C, the radio massacres and tsunamis, and his ex-wife a demand for money. She’d phoned early to be sure of cornering him to talk about their daughter who was off ‘to the States with her boyfriend and needed cash’. The boyfriend in question was a little jerk, with parents to match. And on top of all that, he had to team up on a ridiculous case that would have been done and dusted if some hysterical woman with a cock-and-bull story hadn’t got Zaraoui all agitated.
Reyer felt an attack coming on and made for the toilets, He splashed cold water on his face and the back of his neck and attempted a few breathing exercises, visualising a pure sky over an emerald sea, a method advocated by Marthe Morgeval, his new shrink. A girl with a velvety voice and sensational breasts. Reyer pictured himself with his nose buried in those silky, pneumatic torpedoes and managed to stem the tide of words rushing into his mind.
‘It’s going to be a tough day,’ he said to the the mirror, on which a cycling enthusiast had plastered a Floyd Landis sticker.
An hour later, Reyer and Zaraoui went up to the ticket window of the Josephine Baker swimming pool and asked to speak to the manager. He confirmed that Guillaume Gamier had spent his last evening swimming lengths in the company of his three friends.
’At a quarter to midnight, I had to ask them to leave. Otherwise they’d have spent the night here. Their wives sat waiting for them, sipping cocktails. Mind you, it was very nice.’
’I’m sure it was,’ said Zaraoui with a smile.
Another habit that annoyed Reyer. Why smile when you’re a cop? This wasn’t a fucking cocktail party at Paris town hall.
’I expect you’ll want to talk to Perroux and Lancel’s wives,’ added the manager.
‘Do they sleep here?’
‘Natasha Perroux and Beatrice Lancel are lifeguards. They’re on duty today. Last night they were off, but they still kept their husbands company.’
Reyer had an urge to take off his shoes and socks and go to question Natasha and Beatrice barefoot, by the side of the pool. The manager preferred to call them into his office.
‘Grémond’s single. So was Gamier,’ Zaraoui thought it useful to mention as they waited for the wives.
‘So what?’
‘Gamier was a good-looking guy.’
‘What do they do with themselves apart from cycling and taking dips?’
‘They’re reps for the same sportswear manufacturer.’
Reyer told himself that this case was far too sporty for a torrid July day. He’d wandered over to the bay window and was admiring the girls in swimsuits. Suddenly he froze, then got a grip on himself. Marthe was lying on a blue mat. She was wearing a white bikini that made her more seductive than ever. And chatting to a hulk who was lingeringly rubbing cream into her bronzed shoulders.
Natasha and Beatrice seemed upset by Garnier’s death. Natasha was a fine specimen but Beatrice had the eyes and voice of a little girl that must make some men want to protect her. Personally, Reyer would rather apply a mammoth slap. They both agreed that Gamier was a live wire.