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  “Sorry, what?”

  “The dough from the bank job organised by your father-in-law enabled your husband to become a comic.”

  The commissaire fell silent.

  *

  Capestan nodded and picked up the papers from the chair, before sitting down and placing her mug on the painted-metal table. Rosière took a perch opposite her, with the dog lying underneath.

  So Rufus was a bent cop. No great surprise there. Professional misconduct was just the icing on the cake of an abject life. Although he had done it for the sake of his son, who became a star on the back of a stolen ticket.

  Capestan was not sure what impact this news would have on Paul. Blame or regret? A fresh wave of affection, or an outright rejection of such backhanded meddling? The commissaire was not even sure she wanted to tell him. She would think about it later when things had cooled down.

  First there was the inquiry. Rufus’s involvement made it easier to understand why he brought such a lightweight unit to an operation as serious as a hold-up. These officers were meant to let the perps get away. But Rufus surely had not expected blood to flow.

  “Who sought out who to arrange the hit?” Capestan said, tracing her thumb around the rim of her mug. “Who introduced them? Who had the contacts?”

  “Melonne. He and Velowski grew up in the same neighbourhood. The manuscript doesn’t say where; neither do the police files. When Velowski became a banker, Melonne, who already had a string of petty crimes on his record, got back in touch. Melonne was an armed robber, but he was no psycho. He’d never fired at anyone. And he was an informant to Rufus. The three of them must have harboured dreams of money and grandeur without any of the consequences. Their mistake was hiring Ramier, an unknown entity. There again, Melonne was the middle-man. He met him in prison as a young man and did not know how dangerous the guy was. Same for Rufus. Before then, Ramier had got away with his bigger misdemeanours, so his record made him seem like your average young shitbag.”

  “Any other participants?”

  “Perhaps, but no guarantees. My analysis leaned on the details we already had locked down.”

  Two cooing pigeons swished their wings on the far corner of the terrace. The presence of two humans sitting calmly, slowed by the winter chill, had little effect on these feathered Parisians. They were happy to occupy the meagre stretch of ivy on the wall, which was a welcome distraction from the square’s stony landscape. Pilote sighed – he would have to get to his paws and restore some order.

  Melonne had got his hands on a huge fortune, as evidenced by his round-trips to Switzerland. He had also spent it in prodigious fashion, atoning for the two corpses that no doubt haunted his nights. It had eaten away at Velowski too, who had chosen to make himself disappear, the money letting him retire from the world. But Rufus? Capestan could see no sign of it in the last twenty years. In his gossip-gathering, Merlot had not struck on any major changes in lifestyle.

  “When they put that bloke in custody and thought the case was closed, the cowboys sent us those files. Did they contain Rufus’s bank statements?”

  “Yes, I think so. But a policeman was never going to fall for the trick of sticking his ill-gotten treasure in a good old high-street bank. We could always check for cash withdrawals . . . if there aren’t any, then maybe he had a hidden stash.”

  “Yes,” Capestan said. “We need to find out if he hid the money somewhere, and whether Ramier had to torture him to discover its whereabouts.”

  “Or maybe he invested the whole lot in his son’s career.”

  Rosière rolled the tip of her cigarette round the ashtray, then aimed a maternal smile at her colleague.

  “This time, you do need to go and see him, my darling.”

  Capestan nodded. She had no choice. Two shudders – one of impatience, the other of reluctance – collided head-on, fusing then fading into nothing.

  There would also be the matter of whether or not to divulge the information. As with Orsini, maybe silence would be the best option.

  “Have you said anything to the others?”

  “No. This is your shit-sandwich, not ours. Your call.”

  Capestan, who hated keeping any secrets from her squad, now had a second crisis of conscience to deal with. On this case, she was making them all work their arses off, prodding them every which way, only to keep all the findings to herself. She was not too keen on that image of herself.

  Rufus’s corruption also meant she would be tarnishing the reputation of another police officer. Setting one more in her sights and turning her back on the rest. Maybe two, if she counted Orsini. They had been right to baulk at the start of the Rufus case – they were bound to crash even further down the pecking order.

  On the other hand, Crim. and the B.R.I. had not seen this manuscript. And if they did see it, they did not have a Rosière to decode it. If she wanted, this information could stay within the four walls of the Commissariat des Innocents.

  Whose reputation would she tarnish? Who would she lie to? Her squad? Number 36? The Palais de Justice? Paul? What should she say, and who to?

  Capestan turned these questions over and over in her head, twisting them like a vase to check for defects. One false move and the whole thing would shatter.

  She had to confront Paul and disfigure the version of his father that she had promised, without really thinking, to leave untouched when she told him about the murder.

  Or she could keep this quiet too and hope a chance downpour would wash it all away.

  But she had to see her husband again, that much was for sure. Desire, fear and guilt were closing ranks for a new battle that Capestan was doing her best to avoid.

  The commissaire searched for an apology in Rosière’s eyes, which were full of compassion but devoid of doubt. She let out a deep, slow sigh and picked up her mobile from beside her cold tea.

  25

  The rows of empty seats in the Italian-style theatre disappeared into the darkness. At the front on the spotlit stage stood an energetic, cocky young man. As he paced the boards, he seemed to be asking God himself what He thought of his stand-up and whether it wasn’t all too clever. He was demanding more light, more sound, more laughter. He had talent, but not as much as he had ambition. Capestan recognised in his expression the same false modesty affected by most of Paris’s funny-men.

  God did not answer, leaving the job to the producer sitting in the middle of the auditorium, who was firing out instructions in a majestic voice that immediately turned Capestan’s spine into a tuning fork. The commissaire stayed in the shadows at the back and admired the thick hair that was made even blonder by the lights. Over the years, his profile had thickened without ever getting fat. Paul kept an eye on it. He was vain, after all, something his father had always mocked him for. The son had inherited Serge’s manly beauty but left the ruggedness behind. A comedian and a show-off. A loyal, kind man, just one who ran away from hardship with almost childish predictability. When Capestan started unravelling, he had not lasted a year. She had stopped laughing; he had stopped staying. His punishment came with no deadline and no chance of an appeal.

  Anne knew that she had not been very accommodating, or even particularly pleasant. At the time, she had put up a hard, cold, abrupt front. All her strength was focused elsewhere, on the investigations and the need to stay afloat. She had nothing left with which to make herself bearable. Living alongside the nocturnal king of glitz almost made her into a full-blown schizophrenic, prone to bouts of real bitterness. Her love for Paul was like a highwire act that left her nauseous. She had tried to keep her balance amid the brilliance, the joy, the intelligence, but what she experienced in her job suddenly made all this seem improper. She had tried, but she had not tried hard enough.

  And neither had Paul.

  Capestan breathed out. She resented the figure calmly issuing stage directions from his seat. But at the same time, her legs were jittering with excitement, urging her forward as fast as possible to sit next to him, t
o breathe with him, alone in the dark theatre. Except she had questions to ask him.

  Spotting her as she approached, Paul eagerly waved her over. He stood up, bearing those show-stopping good looks of his, but caught his knee on the bottom of the neighbouring seat. She walked up the row and wondered whether to leave a gap between him and her, eventually opting to sit right next to him. He held her shoulder and gave her a quick peck on the cheek. They sat down and watched the guy on the stage reel off his routine, holding back any mention of murder or suspicion. They enjoyed this short moment where their auras could meet again. It felt calming. The material-to-material contact of Paul’s cotton shirt and her cashmere sweater transmitted a sensual warmth between them, as if the threads were momentarily intertwined. Allowing this thrill to register but not letting it dull her determination, the commissaire spoke to him in hushed tones:

  “We’re making progress. We’re sure we have identified your father’s killer. Max Ramier, if that name rings a bell at all. Here’s his photo,” she said, showing him a police mugshot on her mobile.

  “No . . . Not so far as I remember, anyway.”

  “And these men?” she said, bringing up Melonne and Velowski.

  “Yes, maybe these ones, but it’s hazy. I can’t really say. And . . . do you know why he killed him?”

  “Settling scores, it seems.”

  Capestan hesitated. Either she told him now or she didn’t.

  “It’s to do with an armed robber, who’s also a murderer. Your father arrested him and sent him down. He took his revenge when he was released.”

  Paul nodded, taking in the news that he had no doubt been hoping to hear. What did he know about his father’s corruption? Was he already aware? Capestan could not tell, and this uncertainty, which had not occurred to her before, suddenly worried her.

  All the same, she was now committed to a course – lying through omission – and she would have to stick to it, even if that made the follow-up questions harder. Capestan decided to change tack.

  “How’s the new guy?” she asked, nodding at the comic.

  “Very good. He’s pretty pushy, but he’s starting to make a name for himself. Plenty of hits on YouTube, the odd thing on T.V. He’s popular with the Friday night games shows. He’s got his head down and working his way up.”

  “And you? Still not keen to get back into it yourself?”

  “Sometimes . . .”

  Paul patted his hair with mock arrogance.

  “I found out yesterday that I’m no longer a total has-been.”

  “Something new?”

  “No, no. Vintage. It’s early days, but the idea of a comeback has done the rounds at a few production companies. Film, this time. Feature-length, a sort of throwback thing.”

  “Great . . .”

  Paul made a face as if to say that it was nothing to get too excited about.

  “If the script’s any good then yeah, it could be great.”

  “Needs some funding, I imagine.”

  “Yes, that’s part of it. Of course. In fact that’s all of it,” he said, stroking his stubble.

  “How did that all work out when you first came to Paris?”

  Paul let out a short laugh.

  “Seriously? I haven’t got the faintest clue . . .”

  “Are you kidding?”

  “No, I know, it must sound crazy, but you need to cast your mind back. Remember what I was like then – a blowhard. Denis was in charge of the business side of things, I was just the pretty boy.”

  “Nonsense, Paul, stop that.”

  Doing himself down again. This tendency followed him everywhere, as if it had been chiselled into his pedestal. No-one had ever managed to sand it down. Paul had written every single sketch, each one making millions laugh. His humour was close to the bone but never hurtful. It united people. And all this thanks to a work-rate and rigour that no blowhard could have managed. When it came to money, it was true, he paid less attention. She would have to follow up on these practical matters with Denis. Maybe he knew details that Paul did not, namely the cost involved in putting their show together.

  “Come on, I was hardly outstanding back then. And I wasn’t looking very far ahead,” he said modestly. “All I was interested in was moving forward and living my life. No inkling about fans, success, causes or consequences.”

  “You were looking for an escape route. And you were young at heart.”

  He gave a slight shrug, causing his shirt to rub against the velvet of the seat.

  “You were too, weren’t you?” he asked, the question sincere.

  “Kind of. Less so,” she said with a smile.

  “Ah.”

  Except around you, she thought to herself. In those days, Paul made her ten years younger (and several I.Q. points stupider). He just had to turn up and she would lose her focus completely. That was when their love was starting to take root, turning her brain to mush and the rest of her body into tumult.

  “Does this have anything to do with the investigation?”

  “No, nothing,” she said.

  The seats meant they did not have to face each other, which made it easier to lie.

  “The armed robbery happened when you were still in Lyon. Do you remember your father having any unusual visitors or any major shifts to his work patterns? Threats, blackmail, anything like that?”

  She hesitated, out of habit more than anything, before adding:

  “Changes to his mood?”

  “His mood,” Paul said, letting out a heavy sigh. “Yes, the last few years in Lyon were odd, but I can’t put my finger on why. I was setting out on a new life, with new people, a new desire to defend myself, too. I had moved out of their apartment. I’m not sure if it was because his grown-up son was flying the nest, or if it was something at work, but he did behave differently. Back then, outside of you and my career, I wasn’t really aware of anything. I’d had enough of my father.”

  “Yes, of course. Had you seen him more recently? Did you notice anything, any nervousness?”

  “No.”

  Paul stared at a phantom piece of fluff on his jeans, brushed it away, then turned to Capestan.

  “I never saw him again after the wedding, you know that.”

  Capestan knew.

  26

  Just outside Paris, September 1993

  In the small bedroom of the country hotel, Paul was fumbling with his tie, his hands trembling with rage. He could see his father’s disapproving, fixed grin in the wardrobe mirror. From his superior height and with his muscles threatening to burst the seams of his suit, he was haranguing his son, pushing him to give up, to walk away.

  “You’ll never measure up to a policewoman; you don’t have the stature. You’re just a joker. Look at you with your matching tie. Spend hours picking it, did you? How much did you blow on that playboy suit, anyway? Unbelievable, all pampered, smooth-faced and stinking of perfume – ”

  “Shut it,” Paul snapped.

  Now Serge’s smile turned nasty. He walked up to his son with a poisonous look in his eye.

  “You can’t afford to take that tone with your father. Listen to me, you shitbag. You can’t afford to take on Capestan, either. She’ll come up against things you don’t even want to know about. While you’re sipping cocktails in the evening, she’ll be swimming in filth you can’t imagine. And when she gets home needing a guy with strong shoulders, someone who can handle it, what’ll she find? Look at you, for fuck’s sake. What’ll she find?”

  “A man who talks to her, listens to her. A man who won’t lay into his son. Maybe that’s what maman would have wanted.”

  Paul held back the “you bastard” that was coming next. He felt tears pricking at his eyes, but he did not want to give him the satisfaction. Shit, he finally had something good, something beautiful, something great in his life, something that lit up the darkness he had known, but no: his father’s shadow was still lurking, still growing, still threatening it all.

  “You
r mother could always rely on me, she – ”

  “Rely on who? Old Billy Big Balls here? You’re the worst husband she could have had. She’s had a shitty life and she’s been crushed by sadness.”

  The fist struck him on the arch of his eyebrow, which burst open under the shock. Blinded and almost out cold, Paul smashed into the mirror, shattering it and sending splinters of glass across the floorboards. He managed to stay upright by hooking his fingers onto the frame, but a stray shard nicked his palm. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his starched shirt, spattering the bright white fabric with red droplets as his suit and tie soaked up the blood gushing from his head. Paul looked up to see his father standing there triumphantly, ready to land another blow just to show him who was boss. A familiar, deep-rooted terror rose up inside him, coming from before he could remember, etched into his body from when he was small. Far worse than the pain itself, it froze his limbs, his thoughts and any instincts that might have let him fight back against this man, the very embodiment of domination.

  But Paul was bigger now. Rugby, boxing, hockey, martial arts and late-night scuffles had all given him a taste of violence. He had been getting ready for years now, waiting for that chance, that flicker that would overcome his fear.

  “Today is my wedding, papa. You should have thought twice before playing with symbols. Today is going to be different.”

  Paul stood up straight, his eye puffy and half-closed. He realised he was as tall as his father – perhaps even taller – and just as broad. A rush of strength came from deep within him, seizing control of his arms and filling his rib cage. He grabbed his father’s suit and delivered a furious uppercut.

  He knocked him out with a single blow. Then he slapped him to bring him round.

  “Go back to your room, clean yourself up and change your clothes. I’m getting married in fifteen minutes.”