Extraordinary People Read online

  Raffin sat at one of the computers, searching the internet for background information on Hugues d’Hautvillers. They had driven back to Paris in the early evening, and Raffin had directed Enzo to his parking place in an underground car park in the basement of an apartment building in the Rue St. Jacques, near the Luxembourg Gardens. His own car was in for repair. They had taken the métro, then, to Glacière—one stop from Corvisart, and two from Place d’Italie, names that seemed to be haunting Enzo—and walked to the Rue des Tanneries.

  Enzo went down another three steps leading to a metal gallery overlooking the old warehouse storage area. Large interior windows opening into a bedroom immediately opposite made Enzo feel like a voyeur. He could see pale lilac sheets thrown back from a large bed, discarded clothes draped over a chair. He assumed it was Charlotte’s bedroom.

  Late evening sunshine streamed in through a pitched glass roof above a second gallery, and when Enzo looked down into the well of the space below, he saw that it had been transformed into an indoor garden, filled with potted plants and gravelled walkways. The constant tumbling of a small fountain filled the whole space with its gentle cadence. Upholstered garden furniture sat around a low, teak table at the centre of the garden. It was an extraordinary oasis in the heart of the city.

  ‘It’s where I interview my clients.’ Charlotte’s voice startled him, and he turned to find her at his side. She leaned on the rail. ‘Good feng shui. It relaxes them. It relaxes me. It’s almost a therapy in itself.’ She pointed out video cameras mounted on metal struts that criss-crossed the space overhead. ‘I quite often record my sessions so that I can replay them later.’ She nodded towards monitors next to where Raffin was still working at the computer. ‘It means I never have to take notes.’ She paused. ‘Where are you staying tonight? At the studio?’

  ‘Probably.’

  She lowered her voice a little. ‘I have a spare room here.’ And Enzo thought that no matter how much he was attracted to Charlotte, he hated this subterfuge.

  ‘You’d better come and have a look at this,’ Raffin called over his shoulder, almost as if he had heard her, and they went back up to the séjour. Enzo drew a chair in beside him. ‘Most of the stuff about d’Hautvillers is pretty well buried. Unlike Utopique. But I’m beginning to get a picture of him.’ He rubbed his hands enthusiastically, and started pulling up sites he had already visited. ‘We knew from the old servant at the château that he went to the Pritanée Militaire de la Flèche here in Paris. Apparently this was to prepare him for the competitive exam you have to sit to gain entry to the École Polytechnique.’ He glanced at Enzo, and must have realised that an explanation was required for the dumb foreigner. ‘That’s the grande école that trains the top engineers required for public administration. Seems he came out top of his year at the lycée and won the Concours Général for maths.’

  He pulled up another site. ‘Of course, he had no difficulty getting into the Polytechnique. He went on to become one of the top students of his year, and was selected on graduation for the Corps des Mines, which is pretty much the crème de la crème of the engineering cadre.’

  He ran his finger down the screen until he found what he was looking for. ‘But he turned that down to follow in the footsteps of a pretty famous predecessor, Valery Giscard d’Estaing. Apparently if you’re smart enough to be offered a place in the Corps des Mines, you’re smart enough to gain direct access to ENA. Which is what he did.’ He turned eyes filled with light towards Enzo and Charlotte.

  ‘Now, here’s the thing. Each period of study at ENA is called a promotion. Each promotion is given a name by its students, who choose it during a two-week bonding holiday in the Vosges. In d’Hautviller’s case, his promotion was named after Victor Schoelcher, who was a nineteenth century campaigner against slavery and colonial injustice. The Schoelcher Promotion ran from 1994 to 1996—the same period that Gaillard was teaching at ENA.’ He beamed triumphantly. ‘So Hugues d’Hautvillers must have been one of his pupils.’

  Enzo drew a long, steady breath. A direct connection between Hugues d’Hautvillers and Gaillard. Did that mean that d’Hautvillers was one of his killers? Enzo was reluctant to make that leap. But it was, at least, a starting point in the search for a motive.

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Charlotte sat down on the edge of the table and looked at Enzo. ‘The name of Hugues d’Hautvillers came out of the process of decoding the clues you found in Toulouse, didn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So wasn’t there a name associated with the first set of clues? The ones found at Place d’Italie?’

  ‘Philippe Roques,’ Enzo said. ‘But that was just a clue to lead us to the Hospital St. Jacques.’

  ‘Are you sure about that? The Hugues d’Hautvillers that you originally unearthed was one of the founders of the Knights Templar, wasn’t he? Not the Hugues d’Hautvillers who went to ENA.’

  The implications of what she was saying started to dawn on Enzo.

  ‘She’s right,’ Raffin said. ‘Maybe the clues don’t just lead us to the next body part, but also to one of the killers.’ He typed Philippe Roques into his search engine and hit the return key. ‘Let’s see what comes up.’

  There were nearly five hundred links to sites with references to the name of Philippe Roques.

  ‘Merde!’ Raffin began scrolling through them. There was a financial expert, a professor of film studies in New York, an expert on downloading music from the internet. There was the Philippe Roques they already knew about, recipient of the Ordre de la Libération, and a Philippe Roques who was head of the Inspection Générale de l’Administration at the Ministry of the Interior. Raffin’s cursor hovered momentarily over the last name, and he tilted his head slightly, staring off into the middle distance. Then he clicked on the name, and up came a biography. Raffin scanned it quickly, and then slapped the palm of his hand down on the table. ‘I knew it!’ And he read, ‘Philippe Roques, fifty-two, rose through the ranks of the IGA before taking advantage, in 1994, of one of several internal promotion opportunities offered each year by the École National d’Administration.’ He turned shining eyes on his ex-lover. ‘Spot on, Charlotte. Roques was at ENA at the same time as d’Hautvillers. Part of the Schoelcher Promotion. Another one of Gaillard’s pupils.’

  ***

  They ate in silence in the kitchen, each nurturing his or her own private thoughts. Charlotte had prepared a smoked salmon salad, and they washed it down with a cool, crisp Chablis. A beige, short-haired cat with a huge head and enormous green eyes watched them enviously from the window sill. It looked like an alien, or something recovered by archaeologists from a Pharaoh’s tomb. Charlotte called it Zeke, and when she let it, it would leap on to her shoulders and drape itself around her neck. It was Charlotte who finally broke the silence. ‘So how many killers do you think there are?’

  ‘Probably as many as there are body parts,’ Enzo said.

  ‘And how many body parts?’

  ‘Well, we’ve already found the head, the arms, and the legs. You have to figure there’s not a whole lot more of him left.’

  Talk of body parts was not putting Raffin off his salad. ‘This is very good.’ He pushed a final forkful of smoked salmon and Roquefort into his mouth. Then he mopped up the remaining dressing with his bread, cleansed his palate with the last of his Chablis, and wiped his lips with his napkin. ‘I’ve got to make a few phone calls.’ He pointed up the stairs towards the work station. ‘Is it okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ Charlotte said.

  Enzo was still lost in thought. ‘I don’t understand it. Why? I mean, who did they leave these clues for? And why are they giving themselves away, one by one? What kind of game were they playing?’

  ‘Well, maybe that’s exactly what it was,’ Charlotte said. ‘Some kind of a game. But maybe they thought they would be the only ones ever to play it.’

  Enzo looked at her. ‘You’ve studied the psychology of crime. What is it that makes people kill?’
r />   Charlotte shook her head. ‘Like this? I have no idea. There are various theories about what makes people commit crime. There are the so-called social causes—environment, peer pressure. There are situational causes. A set of stressful circumstances perhaps. People crack under stress. Then there are those who commit crime impulsively, usually sexual crimes. Or compulsively, as part of a character disorder or fantasy obsession.’ She sipped at her wine. ‘They are all fairly predictable. My favourite, though, is Fredric Wertham’s theory of catathymic behaviour.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Wertham describes catathymia as the urge to carry an idea through to a violent act. The person imbues the violence with symbolic meaning, and his thinking acquires a delusional quality, which is often marked by rigidity and incoherence. Some situation then arises, creating extreme emotional tension, and leads to the crisis of violence. When it’s over, the person returns to a superficial normality, and the tension appears to have been expunged.’

  ‘Do you think that catathymia could have played some part in Gaillard’s murder?’

  Charlotte smiled. ‘Well, we all get stressed when we’re sitting exams. But we don’t usually kill our teachers. And it would be hard to imagine a group of people all becoming catathymic at the same time.’

  Raffin appeared in the doorway at the top of the steps and waved a piece of paper at them. ‘I’ve got an address for Philippe Roques. Why don’t we go and ask him?’

  II.

  It was nearly ten-thirty by the time their taxi dropped them outside Roques’ apartment. The last light of the day was almost washed from the sky, and even through the light pollution of the city it was possible to see the first faint stars putting in their nightly appearance. The apartment was on the third floor of an upmarket block on the Boulevard Suchet, on the edge of the Bois de Boulogne, not far from the Hippodrome. Charlotte had decided not to come with them.

  At a tall gate, Raffin rang the bell for the concierge, and after a few minutes an elderly lady peered at them suspiciously through the wrought iron.

  ‘Sorry to trouble you, madame,’ Raffin said, turning on the charm. He held up his Press pass. ‘My name’s Raffin. I’m with the Press corps at Matignon. We’re here for a briefing with Monsieur Roques. He is expecting me, but I’m afraid I’ve mislaid my entry code.’

  She raised a sceptical eyebrow and it was clear that she did not believe him. But, still, she sighed and opened the gate. ‘Always the same,’ she said. ‘Young men, old men….’ She glanced at Enzo. ‘All with their stories. You people must think I came up the Seine in a bubble.’

  Enzo and Raffin exchanged puzzled glances. What on earth was she talking about?

  ‘Follow me,’ she said, and they did as they were told. She took them through a brightly lit passageway to a wide, paved courtyard ringed by extravagant gardens. Her apartment was on the ground floor adjoining a marble lobby with an elevator and a carpeted staircase. ‘Wait here. I’ll call him.’ She went into her apartment and left the door open.

  ‘What are we going to tell her when Roques says he doesn’t know us?’ Enzo whispered.

  But Raffin was unfazed. ‘I’ll think of something.’

  They waited a long time before the concierge returned, scepticism replaced by consternation. ‘I don’t understand it. I saw him coming in. And I know he hasn’t gone out.’

  ‘There’s no reply?’ Raffin asked. She shook her head. ‘Then he must have slipped out when you weren’t looking.’

  ‘No.’ She waggled a finger emphatically. ‘If he had gone out again, I’d have seen him.’ She nodded towards a barred window giving on to a small sitting room. A television screen flickered blue in the dark. ‘I always hear the elevator. Besides, young Luc hasn’t been out all day.’ She was clearly at a loss for what to do, and more than a little apprehensive. ‘Will you come up with me?’

  ‘Of course, madame.’

  The three of them took the elevator to the third floor and stepped out on to a thick-piled carpet. The walls of the landing were painted a rich cream above polished mahogany panelling. There were doors to two apartments set into opposite angles of the hallway. Roques’ nameplate was on the left-hand door.

  The concierge went to ring the doorbell and stopped suddenly, recoiling as if from an electric shock. ‘It’s open,’ she said. And Enzo moved forward to see that the door stood very slightly ajar, as if someone had left in too much of a hurry to close it properly. He pushed it wide. The apartment beyond lay in darkness.

  ‘Hello?’ he called into the void. It seemed to swallow up his voice, and gave nothing back in return. ‘Hello!’ he called again, only louder. Still nothing. But now he caught a scent that seemed vaguely familiar. A perfume, or an aftershave. For some reason it spooked him, and he began to feel decidedly uneasy.

  ‘There must be a light,’ Raffin said, and Enzo leaned in to feel for a light switch on the wall. He found it and flicked it down. Nothing happened.

  ‘The disjoncteur must have blown,’ the concierge said. ‘I’ll go and get my flashlight. Wait here.’ And she seemed relieved to have found an excuse to leave.

  They stood on the landing listening to the whine of the elevator as it descended to the ground floor. And then an unnerving silence. Enzo and Raffin exchanged uneasy glances. Finally, Enzo said, ‘I’m going in.’

  Raffin nodded bravely. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  The hall was long and narrow, and went beyond the reach of the light from the landing. There were doors off to left and right. Enzo stepped forward cautiously, pushing open a door on his right-hand side. A glimmer of light sloped in through a window and lay across the cool tiles of a bathroom floor. Further on, a door to the left opened into a bedroom. There was more light here, from the streetlamps in the boulevard. The bed was unmade, and there were clothes strewn across the floor. A stale smell of socks and bodies. Enzo could hear the murmur of distant traffic.

  Raffin followed behind him like a ghost as he moved down the hall to the next door. On the right this time. Another bedroom. Less light. The bed was made, pillows leaning decoratively against the headboard. There was an odd, unlived-in feel about the room. A guest bedroom, perhaps.

  At the end of the corridor, the hall divided into passageways leading off at right angles, and they found themselves facing tall double doors to what Enzo assumed must be the séjour. One of the doors was off the latch, and a faint crack of light drew an angled line across the floor of the hall and up the wall opposite. As Enzo gently pushed it open, the crack widened. Through it, he could see windows overlooking the street whose lamps were the source of the light. Otherwise, the room seemed mired in deep shadow. The scent which Enzo had first noticed on the landing was stronger here. And, oddly, even more familiar.

  Behind them they heard the drone and clatter of the elevator as the concierge returned with her flashlight. Emboldened, Enzo opened the door wide. Now the scent of perfume gave way to something else. Again, strangely familiar. But unpleasant, like singed flesh and hot metal. The warm air was thick with it. Enzo scanned the room, eyes adjusting to the dark, and stepped in as he heard the concierge at the far end of the hall.

  But suddenly the floor beneath his feet turned soft, and he felt his ankle turn, and he tipped forward losing all spacial awareness as the window flew up through his line of vision towards the ceiling, canted at a peculiar angle, and he hit the floor with a force that took his breath away. Almost at the same moment, the world flooded with a light that burned and dazzled, and he found himself looking into half a face. A single, staring eye. A mouth that gaped in a grotesque smile, revealing bloodied teeth and jawbone, and disappearing into deep, black red. Enzo opened his own mouth to scream, but all he could hear was the screaming of the concierge.

  He spun on to his back, feeling the blood sticky on his hands and soaking into his shirt, and as he heaved himself on to one elbow, he saw a young man sitting in a chair, arms hanging at his sides. His head was tipped backwards at an impossible angle, a
nd most of the back of it was splashed across the wall behind him. Bits of brain and bone and hair. A gun lay on the floor beside the chair, immediately below one hanging hand.

  The concierge was still screaming, standing in the doorway, both hands clutching at her face. Raffin stood a little way in front of her, and his face was as white as Champagne chalk.

  III.

  Enzo heard the high-pitched whine of a flash recharging after each photograph, and then the splat sound it made with the next shot. There was a low murmur of voices, and footsteps moving around. Something fell to the floor, and a voice raised itself above the others with a curse.

  Raffin was pacing by the window, speaking rapidly into his cell phone. He had made several calls in the space of a few minutes, but Enzo was paying him very little attention. He was still in shock. The blood had dried, turning rust brown and crusting on his hands. Like Lady Macbeth, all he wanted to do was wash them. His shirt was stiff where the blood had dried on it, and despite the warmth of the Paris night, Enzo found himself shivering. He wanted out of these clothes, he wanted to stand under a hot shower and wash away the blood and the memory at the same time.

  Both men in the next room were dead. That much was certain. And one of them was Roques.

  Enzo and Raffin had been made to wait in the guest bedroom when the first officers of the Brigade Criminelle arrived. No one had talked to them. No one had asked them anything. But they had heard the shrill, near-hysterical voice of the concierge in another room describing everything that had happened from the moment they had shown up at the gate.