‘Hi, this is Claire Le Flohic’s phone. I can’t speak to you right now, but leave me a short message and I…’
Putting the phone away, Julie pushed open the door of the smoky bistro. There were hardly any customers.
‘We’re about to close, miss,’ warned the owner, who was drying glasses behind his bar.
Julie clasped her hands: ‘Please, just a coffee,’ she begged. ‘I’m meeting a friend, she won’t be long.’
She sat down at a table towards the back, near a window. Took out her mobile again and toyed with it. Her coffee was brought, along with the till receipt. She paid immediately. Just as the waitress left her table, Julie saw the olive-skinned man enter, sit on a bar stool near the door and order a drink. Julie looked down at the steaming coffee, the bill, her hand quivering over her mobile. Then she pressed ‘call’ again.
The voicemail message again. She listened to the end this time and when it was her turn to speak, after the beep, whispered into the phone: ‘Claire, it’s Julie. Listen… Call me back as soon as you get this, it’s urgent. You have to come and meet me, I’m in La Bélière on rue Daguerre. I don’t dare go home, I don’t know what to do. Claire, I’m scared…’
She ended the call, making sure to keep the mobile on. Minutes went by. Julie gulped her coffee. It was still scalding, and very strong. At the bar, Guy Georges was chatting with the owner, a glass of beer in his hand. ‘What a moron that man is,’ Julie said to herself. ‘Can’t he see the guy looks exactly like the photofit? He could at least make a discreet call to the police… But hey, he’s a man, what does he care, he can’t understand the terror Parisian women have been living with for four months…’
Claire’s voice came back to her, telling the story – which she seemed to delight in – of the attack endured by Elisabeth O, the only victim kept prisoner by the killer to have come out alive…
The girl was going home late, after spending the evening with friends… She arrives at the entrance to her building, punches in the door code… crosses a courtyard, goes through a second door and up the stairs… On the first floor, where her flat is, she hears the entrance door to the building slam shut. Then, hurried steps on the staircase, and a shadow jumps on her… The attacker puts a knife to her throat and she hears a hoarse voice say: ‘Don’t shout, don’t move. Open your door.’ Terrified, Elisabeth obeys. The door closes behind them, the guy immediately tries to reassure her: ‘If you behave yourself, you won’t get hurt. I’m on the run. I just need to sleep here for a few hours. I’ll be off in the morning.’ The flat was a duplex, with the bedroom on the lower level. They go down together… He’ll have to tie up his prisoner, Guy Georges apologises, so he can sleep… He lets her smoke a last cigarette, then starts to bind her wrists, chatting all the while. Despite his North African appearance, he has no accent. She asks his name. He answers: ‘Eric’. ‘You don’t look like an Eric,’ she observes. Irritated, he growls: ‘Just call me Flo.’ Then he takes off his shoes, settles down as if he really does want to sleep. It’s completely dark in the bedroom, but a light’s still on in the hall… The killer gets irritated again, and goes to switch it off. In the meantime, Elisabeth, who’s surreptitiously managed to free her hands, opens the window and jumps into the yard, running off down the street…
Julie, who was spinning out her coffee while she recalled Claire’s story, looked up. Surprise: the man was no longer at the bar, the owner was alone, wiping it down. The man had left. Julie couldn’t believe it. The killer had lost heart, seeing her talking on her mobile and clearly waiting for someone. Yes, of course… And anyway, she now acknowledged, maybe it wasn’t Guy Georges after all… Her imagination was playing tricks on her… A photofit isn’t necessarily faithful… If it was really true to life, the cops would have caught him ages ago…
The other customers were getting up to go.
‘This time, we’re closing, young lady!’ the owner called as he locked his till.
Julie was back outside in the icy wind, nervously inspecting both sides of the road. The customers were laughing as they walked away, the bistro’s metal shutter crashed down with a painful grating sound. She pulled on her gloves, shivering. Steam formed in front of her mouth. Giving up on Claire, Julie turned right, walking back up the road towards her building. She passed the picture framer’s, the accordion shop, and turned right at the corner of the bakery Le Moulin de la Vierge. Julie was now in rue Fermat, practically on her doorstep.
Crossing the road in front of the traffic wardens’ station, all closed up of course, she realised she was completely alone. No sounds of voices or steps. The area was desolate. She need only stop at 5 rue Cels, press in her door code, push open the door, slip under the porch and cross the courtyard to the staircase. Which she did as quickly as possible. She only had two floors to go when she heard the outer door slam shut. She should have heard it a little earlier. Then rapid steps on the staircase.
Her heart beating so hard she thought it was going to burst, Julie ran up to the fourth floor, the last, charging into the narrow corridor of the attic rooms. The fluid, quick steps were coming up the stairs, closer and closer. She grabbed the keys from her bag, trembling, had trouble inserting the right key in the lock. The second the door was finally open, a shape rushed at her and shoved her roughly inside. Julie stumbled, with a squeal. The door slammed.
‘Don’t shout. Don’t move.’
Some groping around, then the man found the switch. Light shone from the ceiling, revealing the North African man in his jean jacket. Julie opened her mouth, tried to scream (The ones who got away, Claire repeated, were the ones who screamed their heads off. The man ran for it…), but couldn’t. No sound came out.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ Guy Georges declared. ‘I don’t mean you any harm. I just need a roof for the night, that’s all. I’ll be off early in the morning.’
She nodded, her eyes filled with tears.
‘You see, when I saw you in the Métro, I fell for you straight away. I need help, you’re beautiful, you look kind. I’m homeless, my landlord threw me out because I’m three months behind with the rent…’
Julie went on nodding her head, sniffing.
‘Don’t cry. Take off your coat.’
She obeyed, still trembling. Threw the coat over the corner of the sofa that she and Claire had gone to buy last week, at Ikea.
He sat on a chair, lit a cigarette.
Julie stammered: ‘What… What’s your name?’
‘Florent. My mother’s French, my father’s Algerian.’
Her heart sank. Florent… Flo. Doubt was no longer possible. The name he’d given Elisabeth before she escaped. She was in the presence of Guy Georges. The prisoner of Guy Georges. The Beast of Bastille…
Now she knew what was in store. Claire had told her enough times:
He ties the girl up, trying to reassure her. Then he takes out a knife and rips her clothes. His usual method is to slice the bra between the cups. That’s his serial killer ‘signature’. Then he slashes her knickers, on the side. He tells the girl to suck him, then he rapes her. Finally, he starts stabbing, violently, going for the neck…
Since she couldn’t scream, Julie attempted to soften him up.
Seem friendly. Human. That way, maybe…
The ones who were nice to him, who did whatever he said – like Catherine Rocher who gave him her credit card, with the pin number – it was no use. They’re all dead.
‘Would… Would you like a coffee?’
Guy Georges smiled. ‘Good idea.’
Shaking, Julie went to the kitchen area. She took out an aluminium saucepan, turned on the tap, poured in cold water. Lit the gas (she broke four matches before managing to light one). Then, standing on tiptoe, she took the packet of coffee from the cupboard.