Talking to Ghosts (15 page)

“Sorry, I haven't introduced myself. Lieutenant Delvaille.”

“Pierre Vilar.”

The men shook hands, exchanged a brief smile, and smoked in silence in the muggy shade of a silk tree. Now and then, the scent of roses drifted on the still air.

“Where do you think Morvan is? He would surely have put up a fight? Was he a big guy?”

“A metre eighty-five at least, and about ninety kilos, I think. Yes, he would probably have put up a fight. But if he had, the house would be a bomb site. And there's something else: I can't see anyone dragging him unconscious into the street and stashing him in the boot of a car in broad daylight. None of it makes sense.”

Delvaille nudged a twig with the toe of his shoe.

“How did you know him?”

“He was doing research into kidnapping and child trafficking. He was helping me to track down my son – he disappeared in 2000.”

He managed to say this without becoming breathless. Realising he had used the past tense, he was about to correct himself, then stopped. The younger man said nothing. He was staring at a notebook in which he jotted down some things.

“I didn't realise,” he said finally. “He … When was the last time you spoke to Morvan?”

“Yesterday. He called and said he had something to show me. Not a lead exactly, he said, but …”

Vilar tried to make sense of it. The erased hard drives, the missing C.D.s. All Morvan's databases were gone. It made no sense. Who could possibly have any use for such information? Suddenly he felt a wave of exhaustion, felt tension squeezing his skull.

They both started as the shutters suddenly flew open and one of the technicians appeared at the bedroom window.

“We've got something. Come and have a look.”

Vilar walked ahead of Delvaille into the hall. The sun now streamed in through the open windows of the bedroom upstairs, spilling into the hall.

As he entered the room, Vilar saw one of the technicians bent over the unmade bed, on which he noticed a sunflower-patterned quilt and then a square of sky-blue sheet, while his colleague packed away the camera and rummaged through his case. Going closer, Vilar saw what the first technician was looking at: a bloodstain that extended from the edge of the bed right to the pillow, longer than it was wide, already clotted and brown, the outline almost crisp. There were other blotches spattered over the pale yellow surface, and on the top sheet.

“The mattress soaked up a lot of the blood,” the technician said, lifting the sheet and pointing to an almost perfect copy of the same horror. “And look at this,” he said, lifting a corner of the sheet. “It's like someone wiped a blade. See these lines? I'd say that someone was tortured here.”

“That changes things,” Delvaille said. “We're going to need backup.”

“Now I'd be grateful if you could step away from the crime scene,” the technician said, rummaging in his case.

The bedroom door closed behind him. Vilar's eyes took a moment to adjust to the crimson half-light. He leaned against the wall as Delvaille strode ahead, his mobile pressed to an ear. Vilar felt a suffocating nausea welling up in him, his head throbbed as though caught in a vice. He took a few blind steps, trailing his hand along the wall to guide himself, then a sudden spasm sent him running into the garden where he fell to his knees, though he retched up only bile. The noonday sun pinned him to the ground, he could feel the dense heat weighing on him, bathing him in sickly sweat. He lay for a moment on the scorched grass, trying to catch his breath and still the muffled pounding of the blood coursing through his body. He heard Delvaille ask if he was alright and he groaned that he was fine and struggled to his feet in spite of the dizziness. Delvaille was holding out a glass of water which Vilar
gulped down, gagging and choking, and he managed to draw in enough air to bring himself round.

“Do you have any idea who might have done this?”

Vilar stared at the lieutenant for a moment without knowing whether he even wanted to answer. He could hear the two technicians in the bedroom above, pictured the patch of blood – so much blood – and felt a shiver run up his spine in spite of the heat which beat down on the little garden as though determined to scorch everything.

“What do you reckon?” Vilar said. “No, seriously, what do you reckon … ? D'you think I'd be standing here waiting for the cavalry if I had the slightest fucking clue which bastard tortured Morvan?”

“I'm just trying to understand,” Delvaille said apologetically. “My colleagues will ask you some questions. You know the drill. A man disappears the day you're coming to visit him, and—”

“Yeah, I know the drill,” Vilar cut him off.

“I know it only too fucking well. I'm guessing Capitaine Daras explained the situation to your boss, right?”

“Maybe, but no-one told me. I got the call-out the same time as
l'Identité judiciaire
. All I was told was it was a missing persons case and here I am. And since I like to be thorough …”

He spoke softly, without hostility, with no arrogance. He seemed to Vilar to be a decent bloke.

“How about we go back inside?” Delvaille said. “We'll die of heat-stroke out here.”

He gestured for Vilar to go into the living room.

It was almost cool inside. The shade was soothing and, as one, both men took a deep breath.

“My son,” Vilar said. “He …”

Delvaille was staring at him intently, as though he knew what Vilar was about to say.

In a low voice Vilar told him about Pablo's abduction, about the false hopes and the hopelessness, then he told him about meeting Morvan, told him he could only promise that he would never give up, that he had got results in three similar cases: one of the kids had been
found alive in a brothel in Germany, and the other two had been found buried in the garden of a killer named Bernard Fédieu, who had thrown himself out of a window at the police headquarters in Rennes before it was possible to question him about the half-truths and contradictions in his confession to eight other murders.

“That's why I'm here,” Vilar said. “I'm still clinging to a kind of hope. Though it's saner not to hope for much anymore.”

He pulled up a chair. Delvaille, looking intently at the computer screens, hardly seemed to be breathing.

“But you manage to carry on working, you manage to care about all the shit we have to wade through?”

“I don't know if I really care anymore, it's more a kind of addiction. It's either this, or drink, or drugs. Or take up cycling – as long as you keep pedalling, you stay upright. In the past week we've had two big cases, and we're slogging our guts out. I've hardly got time to think, I've only been home to grab a bite. Drugs aren't the only thing that turn you into a zombie …”

Two cars pulled up outside, doors slammed, five, maybe six, Vilar was not sure, and Delvaille hurried to the front door. From the hall came the sound of heavy footsteps, muffled voices asking questions, and the young officer answering in a quiet voice. Vilar got to his feet with a sigh, realising that the nausea was gone, and turned towards the door as four men came in while the fifth headed straight for the bedroom, carrying a big black case, shouting to the forensics techs who told him that it was over there, they were almost done with the bedroom. A big man wearing a dark jacket and a fuchsia polo shirt came over and shook Vilar's hand, the expression on his face difficult to read.

“Capitaine Niaussat. Michel. Marianne Daras briefly filled me in. I have to warn you right now that she and I have agreed that, professionally speaking, you can have nothing to do with this case. So don't get in the way, please. For what it's worth, though, if I were in your shoes I'd be doing exactly what you've done.”

“But you're not in my shoes.”

Niaussat stiffened.

“Listen, I'm not trying to wind you up,” Vilar said. “I don't care about your compassion, but I appreciate your support. You do your job, I'll do what I have to do. I won't get in the way. I've got more to gain than you in seeing Morvan found – alive and well preferably.”

Niaussat nodded.

“Then we're clear. Can you tell me some more, so I know exactly what I'm dealing with? Because Daras was – how shall I put it? – pretty succinct.”

They sat in the only two armchairs in the living room; Delvaille and the other officers had to fetch chairs from the kitchen. Over the next hour Vilar told them about his life since 20 March, 2000 at 11.30 a.m., when Pablo, who was almost ten years old, had disappeared on a street corner a hundred metres from his school gates. Never to return. He spoke in an almost placid voice as they stared at him, all knowing that this apparent gentleness simply masked the wound.

When he had given Niaussat all the information he had on Morvan's work, what he knew about his methods, his contacts and his habits, Vilar struggled to his feet and asked if he could go. Since none of them dared make him stay even a few minutes longer, he left quickly, as muted voices wished him a safe trip back to Bordeaux, before getting on with the investigation.

Delvaille walked out with him as far as his car and shook his hand, promising to keep him up to speed, regardless of whether or not his bosses said he could. Vilar smiled, patted him on the shoulder, then in spite of himself he studied the blazing street for some clue, something out of the ordinary, but as he sat in his sweltering car, breathing the muggy air, he felt as though any road he took now would run out to be a dead end.

The drive took a little less than an hour, and towards the end of the journey, after they had passed Saint-Laurent, there were vineyards as far as the eye could see, beautiful houses with turrets and slate roofs set in magnificent grounds, and the two adults – the director, who was driving, and Bernard – were marvelling at how close they were to the famous wineries advertised on the signs along the road. Victor, who had spent most of the trip dozing, turned around once to see a high-clearance tractor spraying copper sulphate, and the curious shape of the tractor surprised him at first, but then he remembered he had seen one before, though he could not remember where or when, and he stared at the machine, enveloped in a bluish haze, until it disappeared.

On the way into Pauillac they got lost, looked for the road to Saint-Estèphe, and ended up on the quays, driving along the swirling muddy estuary, past the forest of masts in the marina, until a woman gave them directions. Ten minutes later they pulled up outside one of the last houses in the village, after which the narrow road ran between the vineyards.

In spite of the heat that poured in as soon as the car doors were opened, Victor did not get out, leaving the two adults to go and ring at the blue front door. Almost immediately he saw a smiling woman with short brown hair, wearing floral-print leggings and a black T-shirt, bend down and give him a little wave through the car window. Bernard came back and gently told Victor he should come over and say hello, meet his new family, that he couldn't stay in the car all day.

The boy took a deep breath, got out, and walked towards the smiling woman who held out her hand.

“Hello, Victor. Welcome. My name is Nicole.”

Victor looked at the woman, wondering how old she was. He felt an instinctive repulsion and was glad she had not kissed him. Obviously she was old, but he could not work out how old. Older than his mother, certainly. While she talked to the others, offering them a drink, Victor studied her plump features, her wide hips and her fat thighs in the floral-patterned leggings, the full breasts that heaved under her T-shirt.

“Aren't you thirsty in all this heat?” she said.

She invited Bernard and the director to come into the garden and briefly laid a hand on Victor's shoulder, urging him to come with them. She led them to a living room with drawn blinds where it was still relatively cool and told them to wait while she got some refreshments. When she asked what he wanted to drink, Victor mumbled inaudibly and had to repeat, “Some Coke”, as he shook his T-shirt to dry the sweat from his back. Seeing him standing there, Bernard gestured to the spot next to him on the sofa, and Victor sat down and crossed his legs, fiddling with the laces of his trainers. The social worker asked if he was alright and he nodded, still staring at his shoes.

“It'll be fine,” the director said.

Victor did not react. He felt as though he were being tossed on an ocean, floating on the surface, the way it might feel when a current pulls you out to sea or a whirlpool drags you under and you're shattered and don't know what to do, except wait out what little time is left and hope that something will float past for you to cling to. He remembered the last scene in the film “Moby Dick” – a teacher had shown it to them at school one day, and it had made him want to read the book – in which the hero is floating all alone at sea, clinging to the coffin of his friend.

Nicole came back with drinks, explaining that the kids were at the beach at Hourtin with her sister, that they were having a picnic there and would be home at about five o'clock.

“You'll have the whole day to yourself to get settled in,” she told
Victor. “After that, we've got all the time in the world to get everyone introduced.”

The boy raised his eyes to hers, then averted them straight away.

“How many foster children do you have here at the moment?” the director said.

“Just one, Julien, he's ten, and now Victor. And there's Marilou, our daughter, who's eleven.”

She smiled to herself, looking down, the gentle look of a contented woman, then, seeing that everyone had drained their glasses, she jumped to her feet.

“Follow me, I'll show Victor his room.”

She led them up a staircase that creaked as they went, and opened a blue door. Victor stood behind Bernard and the director, and they had to urge him to step into the vast attic room, furnished with a big bed, a desk on which stood a large red lamp, and a little shelf on the wall with two books whose titles he could not make out. The woman turned on the bedside lamp, which gave off such a soft, welcoming glow in the dark room with its closed shutters that the boy immediately wanted to be alone in what would at least be a safe, peaceful refuge.

“You'll be O.K. here,” Bernard whispered.

Victor forced himself to smile. Obviously, it was better than the children's home, and obviously he had to live somewhere while he was waiting, though he did not know what it was he was waiting for, and suspected he might have to find it for himself.

Since he wanted to be alone, he mustered enough breath to ask the adults if he could go and get his things from the car and bring them up to his room, and they looked at each other in surprise and, smiling, gave their blessing. As he went downstairs he heard the director reassure Nicole that everything would be just fine, that there was no need to worry.

When he set down his two bags and his suitcase on the bedroom carpet, having refused to accept help, he shut the door and stood at the foot of the bed, breathless, letting the sweat drip from him, tiredness beating dully in his temples. He could smell clean sheets, old timber, and maybe damp. He listened carefully, but he could not make out the
grown-ups' conversation downstairs. The shutters kept out the birds' distant muffled trilling and the luminous heat that pressed against the two diamond shapes cut out of the thick wood.

After a while he sat down on the bed, hands wedged under his thighs, looked around this peaceful room and nodded, perhaps in approval at the soothing half-light or perhaps at the vague notion that was gradually forming in his mind, less an idea than a foreboding that made his heart beat faster and brought a lump of bitter rage to his throat and made his eyes sting, a thought that he could not yet put into words, and one that he might never voice since he was beginning to think that words were futile, meaningless sounds whisked away by the wind like empty plastic bags to catch on fences and branches.

There was a knock at the door and he hurried to open it. It was Nicole, come to tell him that Bernard and the director were ready to go back to Bordeaux and wanted to say goodbye. He looked at her and realised she had a pretty smile that made those around her feel good, and made him feel handsome. The sort of smile a girl with a crush might give the boy she loved. He followed her downstairs and shook hands with the director, who said he was counting on Victor to build a new life for himself, a great future. Victor did not really understand what he meant by building a life, he often did not understand what the man was saying, with his flowery phrases and intellectual air. Then Bernard shook his hand and patted him on the arm, saying they were counting on him to be happy.

Victor did not go out to watch them leave, but stood for a long time listening to the car's engine as it faded into the distance, and when Nicole came back in, rubbing her hands, and asked if he would mind helping her tidy up the glasses and the bottles from the coffee table he carried everything into the kitchen, put the glasses in the sink and ran some cold water over his hands, drinking a mouthful from his cupped palm before splashing some on his face and neck.

Afterwards they had lunch, because it was already past noon, and then, having tidied away his things in his bedroom, he waited there in its tranquil shade. He did not know what he was waiting for, but he was
no longer afraid. At some point he picked up the urn, held it close and pictured his mother's smile, her walk, the way she looked at him, the way she pulled her collar up when it was cold in winter, the smell of a tagine as she lifted the lid of the earthenware pot, eyes wide with hunger, then closing them to inhale the rich scent of the steaming broth.

He cried when he realised that all this was in the past. He cried that he did not have magical powers that could raise the dead or at least speak to them, so that he might be lulled again by her voice. He imagined finding a time machine in an old hangar and going back to that day, he would skip school, go home and force his mother to go out, even if she was furious with him, even if she was disappointed in him, at least she would not be there when the killer turned up. At least she would still be alive. Here. Her fingers running through his hair. My little boy. Manou.

He fell asleep. When the other children got back from the beach, Nicole came to wake him.

There was a girl and a boy. Marilou and Julien. Victor found it strange that they hugged him – they had probably been told to. The girl, who had wild black curly hair and big laughing eyes, put her hands on his shoulders and planted loud kisses on his cheeks, then sat on the sofa, holding a fizzy drink, and fluttered her long lashes at him. Victor felt obscurely flattered. Julien's glasses hit Victor on the forehead as he hugged him and he stepped back, embarrassed. Everything seemed to make the boy self-conscious. His eyes darted around, suspicious or fearful. Perhaps frightened of being scolded, or of some imminent danger.

Marilou told him about their day at the beach, the swimming, the helicopter that had whirred back and forth. About Julien digging a huge hole, burying himself in the sand and pretending to be dead. Marilou had found it creepy. She thought pretending to be dead was stupid.

Surreptitiously Nicole looked at Victor, who was still staring at the dark-haired girl.

The afternoon stretched on like this as he sat, his bare feet on the
tiled floor, in front of the television while the others went and showered to wash off the salt and the sand.

Then came dinner. Victor had to sit with these people, sit right next to them, under their watchful eyes.

Victor felt as though he were at the bottom of a pit.

He was not hungry, and he felt again an acrid lump in his throat. He weighed up these strangers one by one as they sat at the table, unable to believe that they truly existed, that this meal – the five of them sitting around the big dining-room table with the windows wide open to the night in the hope of a cool breeze – was not some sort of performance for his benefit, whose actors, completely engrossed in their roles, intimidated him slightly. He longed to wake up from this nightmare in which he felt himself shrinking, rooted to his chair, while the others around the table seemed gigantic, distant, strange. He did not know what he was supposed to do or say, he stared at his plate, eating slowly so that no-one would offer him second helpings. He said, “Not too much, thanks,” when he was served, not daring to say that he could not bring himself to eat anything, then he methodically chewed everything, making it easier to swallow.

Nicole had sat him next to Marilou, and he could feel her studying him, observing the way he ate or maybe how he used his knife and fork, anything that she could tell her friends the next day. He knew that girls talked, teased each other, made up secrets about things they found out, laughing and shrieking. Marilou constantly squirmed in her chair as though incapable of sitting still, swinging her tanned legs, of which, out of the corner of his eye, Victor could see only an area of thigh between her shorts and the tablecloth. Victor had liked the way Marilou smiled, the way she walked, twirling around the living room when they got back from the beach, showing off her suntanned back, her stomach, her legs. But now as she sat next to him he suddenly found her too quiet, too curious about his every gesture; he wanted her to go on talking in that soft, hoarse voice that made the boy want to clear his own throat.

In fact no-one talked much over dinner, glued to the television that
was broadcasting news from all over the world, images of famines, massacres and natural disasters which seamlessly segued into news reports about holidaymakers, of hoteliers and restaurant owners worried that their takings were down. But the babble of the television could not fill the long silences, interrupted only by the clink of cutlery and the smack of wet lips.

Then there was the man, silently bent over his plate, who sat up only to sip his wine or glance indifferently at the children. The conversations had already trailed off by the time he arrived.

This was Denis, Nicole's husband. He had got home just before seven, moody and exhausted, and had gone straight into the kitchen where he drank down two beers, standing in front of the open refrigerator, before coming into the sitting room to say hello, to shake the hand that Victor shyly proffered and ask how old he was.

“Thirteen.”

“The awkward age. You'd better be careful. Otherwise …”

He had said this with a tired, forced smile, and Nicole had immediately said that of course he would be careful, that he was a responsible boy.

When Denis had turned his face towards him, slick with sweat, Victor had caught the sour smell of alcohol as if the man's sweat were made of the stuff, and he noticed a weary, doubtful gleam in his eyes, half hidden by his constant blinking. Victor had put it down to the fact that he was worn out after a day working on a building site near Bordeaux. During the afternoon Nicole had told him her husband was a builder, who had set up his own business three years ago, and he worked harder than the two labourers he employed because it was tough to make ends meet. It was not a job that Victor would have liked. Working under the heat of the sun or in the rain, as he often saw labourers do; they were badly paid too, his mother had told him, it was a shitty job.

Now everyone was watching a news report about the terrible fires in Portugal, huge flames leaping across roads, forcing the firefighters to flee while the locals complained about how their few belongings had been destroyed by the fire. Victor felt relieved that no-one was looking
at him, and tried to make as little noise as possible with his cutlery so they might forget about him a while longer. Even Marilou seemed to have stopped studying him, and he could look up without risking meeting anyone's gaze.