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  “Basile,” Lieutenant Zahoui said from the doorway. “I just checked the board, you’re on-call tomorrow, the thirty-first and the first. Sorry. And . . . I’m not supposed to tell you, but as of Monday, you’re on patrol too.”

  “Do you reckon it’ll go on much longer?”

  Zahoui shook his head sadly.

  “I’m afraid so, buddy. You didn’t expect a quick sulk, did you? You criticised the boss in front of people from another department. He’s no pushover – and he holds a grudge.”

  On November 9, a huge fair had opened on the Champsde-Mars to celebrate the hundredth anniversary of the Police Judiciaire. Basile Diament had invited his mother along and his heart was pounding with genuine excitement. One of the videos on the big screen was dedicated to Diament’s unit, the Varappe Division, and he could not wait to see the maternal pride written across her face. Before taking a seat for the short film, they dropped in to the area where the P.J.’s different departments were being showcased: senior management, the Brigade des Mineurs, the drugs squad, the Brigade Financière, etc. They all had their space to shine, including, of course, the fabled B.R.I. There was a document summarising their remits, along with photographs of each premises to give an idea of the atmosphere at their various offices. On one such sheet, an image depicted a desk where, amid the ashtrays defying the smoking ban, a framed, signed photograph of the former leader of the National Front had pride of place.

  Basile’s mother winced as if she had been stung by a wasp, before turning to her son with a look of great compassion and gently stroking him on the cheek. The humiliation ran through Basile like a blade, a feeling far more intense than anything a video or a big screen could generate. He had not come here to be insulted, nor to show her what he had been made to endure.

  The following day, during the inauguration, Divisionnaire Buron, the directeur of the Police Judiciaire, the Préfet and a few other big cheeses had asked him what he thought of the fair. Standing to attention and eyes front, Lieutenant Basile Diament had expressed his disappointment at seeing photographic evidence of political partisanship, which was inappropriate at such an event since it reflected the opinion of a single individual, rather than a whole police division.

  Diament did not know that the photograph belonged to Frost.

  Two months later, he was still paying the price.

  *

  1.00 p.m. Lieutenant Évrard.

  At the market on boulevard Richard-Lenoir, white paper wrappers adorned plump chicken thighs and whole sides of smoked salmon lounged on pieces of golden card. Vol-au-vents, savoury canapés of various sorts and Christmas logs were all around, while the last trees lined the pavement. Soon it would all be gone, allowing the grated carrot and tabbouleh to resume their rightful places. Évrard tugged the heavy tartan shopping trolley laden with vegetables and followed her parents down rue du Chemin-Vert. On the corner, a man was roasting chestnuts on a brazier, their sweet smell warming the air. As her parents passed the window of an estate agent’s, they slowed their pace ever so slightly. Évrard glanced to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of the rental prices. One was for a nearby studio and was not too expensive, and Évrard could not help pausing. Her father stopped in the middle of the pavement too.

  “Do you want us to come and see it with you?”

  She had not gambled a cent for over six months. The squad and her friends had helped get her on the straight and narrow. There were a few outstanding debts, of course, but her salary was coming in. A regular pay cheque. Évrard wanted to believe she could do it. She was back in luck. The lieutenant turned to her father and nodded.

  “Yeah, that would be great.”

  *

  2.00 p.m. Lieutenant Torrez.

  José Torrez ducked between the ropes and stepped into the ring, iron in hand. A basket of crumpled laundry was sitting to the right of the board he had been allocated. Opposite him, his challenger, a solid old boy, shot him a look of sheer defiance. Between the boards, the pearly-toothed referee-cum-M.C. was shuffling some cue cards. In a nod to the festive time of year, he had opted for a red bonnet with a white bobble and flashing lights.

  When the two contestants were in position, the “Rocky” theme tune belted out of the speakers and the referee grabbed his microphone with gusto: “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome to the final of the 2012 French ‘Golden Iron’, brought to you by Philips. It is my honour to introduce the man to my right, joining us all the way from Paris and ironing no fewer than five shirts in ten minutes – José Torrez! Let’s hear it for him! And to my left, from Mulhouse in eastern France, the mighty François Sarton, recently off the back of nine shirts in ten minutes! You heard me – nine! Another round of applause, please. The victor in this final bout will have the great privilege of representing France in the Grand Final in Hawaii not long from now. Let’s give it up one more time for our contestants!”

  Amid the cries and cheers, Torrez made out the voices of his children: “Yes! Go, papa! Smash him!”

  *

  3.00 p.m. Commandant Lebreton.

  Lebreton contemplated the boot of the Lexus. It was full to bursting. He and Rosière were off to the house of the commandant’s sister in Sceaux, just to the south of central Paris.

  “Eva, you’re . . . It’s too much.”

  “Yeah, but – ”

  “I know, but it’s too much – you’ll make them feel uneasy. Our family doesn’t go to town with presents. It’s more of a gesture with us. And anyway, the whole thing will be over by 11.00 p.m. at the latest.”

  “O.K., O.K.,” Rosière said. “You can wield the axe yourself, Mr Sensible.”

  Louis-Baptiste took out the heaps of parcels tumbling from the saloon. He read the labels and decided to keep it to one per person, leaving the overspill on the steps leading up to Rosière’s house. Pilou sniffed at each one with interest, as if to make sure the commandant was not brazen enough to cull the pâté.

  The Lebreton family were an altogether more sober bunch. Their tastes bordered on the austere, in fact. In temperament alone, Eva was already rather out of place, and that was before throwing in her fulsome gifts and abundant gratitude. Lebreton had poked fun at his family a bit so that Rosière knew what she was in for. He was glad to have her by his side, what with her explosive tongue and her unending ability to distract him at any time and from any heartache, and he certainly did not want her to feel out of place or be the butt of any potentially hurtful comments. She was his friend, and that made him the guardian of her happiness for the evening.

  With one derisive eyebrow arching high above her mascaraed lash, she watched him scoop out the presents and the champagne, the caviar and the salmon. When Lebreton was finished and the boot was closed again, she turned the key in the ignition and said:

  “Like I care – you left the smallest ones and they’re the most expensive.”

  *

  3.05 p.m. Capitaine Rosière.

  Rosière had observed her colleague going to and from the car with the same studious gaze she reserved for works of art – a mixture of admiration, respect, feeling and attachment. He was her friend, her pal. The best, kindest man she knew. All wrapped up in a shit-hot bod. And her saviour this Christmas Eve.

  Watching the pretty, rejected parcels stack up in front of her door, Rosière felt a pang of regret about leaving them there, cleaved from their recipients. She plucked a marker pen from the inner pocket of her bag, removed the lid with her teeth, grabbed the first present and mumbled:

  “We’re going to need to take a little detour on the way.”

  *

  4.00 p.m. Lieutenant Dax.

  Weaving in and out of the pedestrians, Dax was stepping on it despite lugging his last-minute presents. He did not want to be late, not for an in-laws’ year like this. His brothers and sisters were all with their other halves and children. Other houses and other homes. Dax would be the only son at his mum’s this year and he was determined not to keep her waiting. The grub would definitely
be ready and she would have cooked enough for all the absentees put together. The lieutenant had put on a smart jacket, but he had chosen trousers with plenty of give in the waist. Tonight, he would be eating for the whole family.

  *

  5.00 p.m. Capitaine Saint-Lô.

  Saint-Lô had poured himself a small glass of plum brandy that he usually reserved for the small hours. From his sofa bed, he gazed bitterly at his walled-up fireplace.

  That was how things were, now. Walled-up fireplaces and lowered ceilings. All flamboyance extinguished; all loftiness curtailed. No desire to go beyond. Life had become even smaller than his body.

  Nowadays the réveillon, the eve of the birth of Christ himself, was marked with a tree shoved in a pot. Midnight mass was celebrated at 6.00 p.m. Thousands of parcels were tied with a ribbon, but not a single hearth was lit.

  Saint-Lô wanted logs and he wanted fire.

  There was a proper chimney at the commissariat. The capitaine drained his glass in one and set it down on the side table next to his armrest with a firm gesture.

  He stood up, pulled on his long coat and boots, and put on his hat. Then he left.

  *

  6.00 p.m. Capitaine Merlot.

  Drinks o’clock. Shame being alone (a rat did not make much of an aperitif companion). Merlot stroked the thick fur between Ratafia’s ears. He paused for a second. After a while, he heaved himself out of his armchair in front of the blank television and rummaged through his drawers in search of some trinkets, which he proceeded to swathe in recycled wrapping paper. Essential to keep every bit, that way one always had the right size.

  He slid the crumpled parcels into the pockets of his jacket and his overcoat. Then, with the rat in tow, he went downstairs to the shop to buy a bottle of fizz, before waiting at the bus stop that took them to the rue des Innocents.

  If anyone happened to be lurking at the commissariat, he would be ready to raise a glass.

  *

  7.00 p.m. Commissaire Divisionnaire Buron, Directeur of the Police Judiciaire.

  The directeur checked his bow tie one last time in the mirror of his vast hallway as he waited for his wife to find her fur. The children were not coming until the following day, the twenty-fifth. This evening, the two of them were eating with friends. A dinner party for six in a beautiful panelled room with elegant chandeliers. Bound to be deathly dull – Buron was dreading it.

  *

  11.00 p.m. Commissaire Anne Capestan.

  Earlier on, sitting between a niece and a nephew, Anne had praised her brother-in-law for his gorgeous tie, despite it being the same clashing colour that ruined the family photograph every year. He replied that if she was off the wine, then she should just say – it would be easier for him that way.

  But she had barely heard him, what with the decibel count of her sisters’ combined giggles. This had not put off her mother, who shouted over them for help – the truffle mashed potato was getting cold and no-one was passing the serving dishes or the gravy, least of all her husband, who was busy explaining to his youngest grandchild how to distinguish an Impressionist work from a pointillist painting. The grandchild in question had not listened to a single word and was simply waiting for Grandpa to finish so he could get back to playing “Minecraft” with his cousin.

  Anne now set down the empty bowl of potato on top of all the other washing-up on the work surface. In one evening, her kitchen had seen more action than the last two years put together. As ever, her feet automatically took her to her window, where she liked to sit and watch rue de la Verrerie below.

  On the far pavement, just in front of a Vietnamese grocery, whose owner was going to get a serious shock in the morning, were four words painted in big, white letters: “ANNE, ALWAYS THE SAME.” The smile across Capestan’s face was even broader than the one twenty years ago.

  The falling snowflakes were not enough to cover the message.

  *

  11.05 p.m. Paul Rufus.

  The smartphone seemed to take up the entire sideboard. Slumped on a bar stool, Paul was keeping a close eye on the mobile, a drop of white paint still stuck to the blonde hairs on his forearm. Every cell of his body was charged with anticipation. He could not remember the last time he had drunk, eaten, moved. There was nothing around him but a small, dark, rectangular piece of plasma that he hoped would light up tonight.

  It was not the most appropriate timing, but Paul could not give a damn about circumstances, about propriety. About anything except Anne.

  The ringtone and vibrate settings were both on full, and Paul jumped when the call finally came. He stared at the name on the screen: Anne. A huge wash of relief nearly knocked him off his stool. He stood up and pressed the green icon.

  The softness of the “Hello” told him that they were home at last.

  *

  11.30 p.m. The commissariat, rue des Innocents.

  “You had better wait for us before opening them.” The message on the folded piece of A4 sitting in front of the parcels under the tree was quite clear. Saint-Lô and Merlot had been pawing the ground all evening. Even Orsini had prowled around the pile two or three times. In a spirit of convivial solidarity, Merlot had texted the absent colleagues. Dax, like Évrard, had finished early and dropped in to see what was up. They came in joyously, their hair and shoulders flecked with sparkling flakes. With almost magical punctuality, the snow had decided to honour its side of the bargain by turning Christmas Eve a perfect white. Tomorrow it would be slush, but for now, the immaculate coating would cover up the greyness, muffle the noise and reflect the orange glow of the street lamps as well as the neon signs of the sex shops. Lebreton, Rosière and Pilote eventually arrived to a collective “Ahhhh!” and the distinctive pop of a cork. Now they could tuck in. Every corner was suddenly full of ripped paper and snipped ribbons as Merlot’s ghastly plonk mixed with the fine Champagne to pour down unfussy throats. The aroma of the tree joined that of the chocolates and the tangerines to cheer up the atmosphere even more.

  Gifts changed hands, with Rosière and Merlot’s haul mixing with whatever Évrard and Dax had managed to find in the late-night corner shop. Belts from Hermès swapped with ashtrays from some Riviera bistro; Colette tote bags with steel bottle-openers. Each lucky recipient fell into raptures, baying with enthusiasm and chortling unreservedly.

  Saint-Lô smoothed his moustache with both hands before teasing Merlot.

  “My friend, that belt will need another fifty good inches if it’s to buckle that paunch of yours.”

  “Or eight holes for yours, my fellow!” the capitaine said, patting the musketeer so hard on the back that he almost sent him flying.

  After rooting out one of Merlot’s presents, Rosière was intrigued to discover that it looked a lot like a stone. She studied it all over before asking:

  “What’s this, then?”

  “Careful, that’s very precious,” Merlot said, wagging a priggish finger at her. “That there is a piece of the Berlin Wall.”

  “You’ve been to Berlin?” Dax asked.

  “Yes, in 1960, along with my dear, now defunct parents.”

  “Are you telling me this is a piece of the Berlin Wall that actually predates the construction of the wall?” Rosière said, her lip already quivering with expectation.

  Orsini burst out laughing. The sound surprised even him, not to mention the others, and he turned to check the stone’s provenance, before regaining his composure and addressing Rosière:

  “No, Eva, I believe it is a piece of a Berlin wall, rather than the Berlin Wall.”

  “Have some respect, please,” Merlot said, downing a whole glass of Dom Pérignon.

  Saint-Lô seemed aggrieved at receiving so much without giving anything in return. On top of that, the general excitement was abating, so after a short silence, he summoned the only thing he had available to him:

  “Friends, I have nothing by way of gifts, but if you so wish, I could recite a poem I once committed to memory.”

 
“Wonderful idea!” Rosière said, always keen for a spectacle. “We’re listening.”

  “It is an epic poem, a hellish famous one from the Middle Ages: La Chanson de Roland.”

  By what felt like the hundredth verse, the party realised they were not in for a sonnet and began to display signs of restlessness. Saint-Lô paused.

  “Epic poems and songs of deeds last the whole night. There must be a good two hundred strophes yet! You’d be advised to settle . . .”

  So the squad, engorged with bubbles and nibbles, made themselves comfortable on the armchairs and carpet, rugs and cushions to listen to the troubadour by the fire, his rich bard’s voice lulling along with the crackling logs and Merlot’s contented snores.

  *

  Midnight. Special Officer Pilote.

  Sitting nice and upright with his back warming by the fire, Pilou glared at the rat disapprovingly. This impostor was starting to make itself at home, venturing ever further into territory that was his by right – first come, first served, and all that. It was time to lay down some boundaries.

  Indoors, Pilote was prohibited from deploying his urine-jet territory-marker. A furtive glance in the direction of his beloved mistress was enough to dissuade him from trying it out now, despite the gravity of the situation. He aimed his muzzle at the intruder. The rat, out of sheer provocation, volunteered a single paw onto his rival’s carpet.

  Pilou bared his teeth and let out a deep growl, followed by a single warning bark.

  The rat retreated immediately. That would show him who was in charge here.

  *

  00.01 a.m. Special Officer Ratafia.

  From underneath the sofa, Ratafia’s two black, beady little eyes stared at the beast out front. How dim could a dog be?

  32

  Bois de Vincennes, Paris, December 25, 2012

  Knocked from side to side by the Antigang officers rushing around without seeming to notice them, having already been moved to one side by the forensics teams and ignored by the Crim. detectives, Capestan, Lebreton, Orsini and Rosière stood in front of Max Ramier’s body in stunned silence.