’He could never sit still,’ added Natasha.
’Do you know if he had any enemies!’ asked Zaraoui. The question didn’t inspire the girls. Zaraoui moved on to the anonymous phone call, and Reyer took the opportunity to slip away. He showed his police ID to the girl in the changing room and demanded a pair of swimming trunks, a towel and an electronic locker wristband. He changed and ventured among the tanned bodies. Marthe was still lying on her stomach and Hulk was chatting to the small of her back. To see his shrink’s face, Reyer had to get into the water. He swam two lengths and got out of the pool. The girl in the white bikini wasn’t Marthe.
When he returned to the office, the manager was back, and Zaraoui and the two girls were exchanging platitudes. All four noticed Reyer’s wet hair, but nobody said anything.
’You didn’t go for a dip, did you?’ asked Zaraoui once they were back outside on quai Panhard et Levassor.
’You think I’d skive off when I’m on duty?’
Zaraoui shrugged.
’The girls are stunning, especially Beatrice,’ he went on. ‘Yes, but I can’t see them bumping off a cyclist…’
Reyer watched Zaraoui out of the corner of his eye. The young lieutenant was no more inane or disagreeable than any other, but his drawback was that he existed. That was his biggest flaw. Reyer wished he could take the Métro to Marthe the shrink’s place, bury his face between her breasts and fall asleep there for a century or two. But three little bicycles were beginning to do laps between his ears. That’s what was so awful about being a cop. You always ended up seeing evil everywhere. You always ended up getting interested.
‘Perhaps he was on something,’ continued Zaraoui.
‘He wasn’t competing in the fucking Tour de France, as far as I know! Have to wait till the lab guys feel like going back to work. Meanwhile, we’ll have to rely on hunches and legwork.’
Zaraoui merely raised an eyebrow. The complicated thing about him, apart from the fact of him, thought Reyer, is that side of him that’s smooth as a saddle, reliable as a well-oiled chain, straightforward as handlebars. Because, despite all of it, you want to give him a mammoth clout every five minutes. Reyer was about to get into the unmarked car just as three excitable characters drew up and parked on the pavement. Too late, Reyer spotted the TV camera, the mic covered in mammoth hair (mammoths were cropping up everywhere, this was getting worrying), and the France 2 logo. Zaraoui stepped in calmly. Reyer turned his back on the TV crew and lost himself in the blue-grey of the Seine, concentrating hard on the seagulls’ cries. He pictured himself floating towards Le Havre, in a little old tub, with Marthe. She was lying on deck in a white bikini, and he was rubbing cream into her back… ‘Blaise! Hey, Blaise!’
Reyer turned in the direction of Zaraoui’s voice. The journalists had evaporated into the thick air; all that was left were a few ozone fumes, and for once, Reyer was happy to breathe them.
‘They gone?’
‘Yes, to the swimming pool.’
‘They interview you?’
‘I was concise and natural. I talked without telling them anything. If you must know.’
‘They were pretty well informed.’
‘Apparently.’
Zaraoui looked as though he’d swallowed a piece of rotten fish. Reyer stared at him until his resistance broke.
‘Actually, the chief wants us to move fast because he had a phone call from the TV people. This morning. He thinks the media were tipped off by the same mystery woman.’
‘And you forgot to tell me?’
‘I didn’t have time.’
Mostly you were afraid I’d go off and partner myself. Because the chief’s afraid I’ll flip my lid, live on TV. And as we’re the only ones he can lay his hands on, seeing as everyone else is spreading their toes in the sun, he asked you to keep an eye on me. Reyer considered giving his colleague a mammoth wallop but decided to take a deep breath instead. Zaraoui found a map of Paris in the car and located a few strategic points. They decided to start with Sportitude, the company where the three merry cyclists worked.
Sportitude, what a name, thought Reyer as Zaraoui parked on a pedestrian crossing. Sounds like vicissitude, turpitude, solitude. Sport Attitude would have been more appealing. Reyer made an effort to put his words away in a drawer in his mind. Those creatures were terrifying, ready to take off from your neurons and land on your stomach, ready to leap off again from your flabby bits in glutinous gangs bent on entering your ducts and crawling up them until they reached…
‘Blaise! Hey, old man, you OK?’
Call me old man again and you’ll get a mammoth fist in the face, kid, thought Reyer, giving his partner a look filled with loathing. The young lieutenant smiled at him. Reyer sighed, then stepped inside Sportitude. The place was inhabited by an army of dummies in cute little outfits. There was only one warm-blooded creature in the place: a girl with glasses. Reyer made a beeline for her, and she recoiled slightly. He showed his ID, the triumphant figure of the Republic intimidated the girl, even made the colour drain from her cheeks. As he felt no desire to question her, Reyer signalled to Zaraoui to act alone. The girl knew the merry cyclists, they were nice guys, she didn’t know anything about their private lives. And she looked uneasy. This little goose is sitting on a secret, thought Reyer before spotting a door with a sign saying Service Personnel Only. He walked over to it, heard the girl protest, flung open the door and came upon two youngsters smoking a spliff. He dealt them both a mammoth cuff around the ears.
‘POLICE!’
‘What the hell…?’ yelped the one who’d been knocked furthest.
Zaraoui raced over. He apologised for his colleague’s ‘overreaction’.
‘Go to the police and press charges. Feel free,’ said Reyer. ‘My chief smokes spliffs in his office too. The whole force smokes dope. We have the occasional Ecstasy rave, too. Right, joke’s over. Talk to me about Gamier and his trio of funny friends.’
After a hiatus, the youths regained their wits and their dignity and talked. He wasn’t sure how reliable their information was. The youngest one stated that Gamier had no enemies at work and ‘put more energy into cycling than working his ass off’. The other kid thought there was a married woman in Garnier’s life, but he’d never personally seen a husband complaining. The three merry cyclists seemed to get on very well.
‘Did Gamier ever join you for a smoke?’ asked Reyer.
‘No, he was a very healthy guy.’
Reyer walked out without a word. Zaraoui had to run to catch up with him. He found him sitting in the car, staring into space.
‘I thought inspiration had struck.’
Inspiration had struck. Nice, Zaraoui’s turn of phrase.
‘With me, the only things that strike are my fists.’
‘That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, Blaise…’
‘Made me feel great…’
Zaraoui’s mobile rang, interrupting them. Reyer gathered the lieutenant was talking to his mother about a lost key. Funny, these kids who take personal calls while on duty. Zaraoui ended the call and started to apologise.
‘Actually, yes, inspiration did strike,’ Reyer cut him short. ‘You’re going to call the swimming pool and ask to speak to Beatrice and Natasha. We need to identify the anonymous voice…’
Zaraoui called directory inquiries to obtain the number and did as Reyer had asked. He ended the call and looked embarrassed.
‘Sorry, but I can’t remember. I don’t have a musical ear.’
‘You’re useless, full stop.’
Zaraoui was about to open his mouth but thought better of it. He switched on the ignition and pulled away.