for months. I mean, abducting a girl using your own van is taking a hell of a risk.”
“Or maybe the guy’s dumb as a box of rocks …”
Camille and Louis turn round. It’s Armand.
“If the guy’s dumb, he’ll be unpredictable,” Camille says, smiling. “That’s going to make things more difficult.”
They all shake hands. Armand has worked with Camille for more than ten years, nine and a half under his command. He isa terrifyingly gaunt man with a sad face who suffers from a pathological tight-fistedness that has blighted his whole life. Every second of Armand’s life is geared towards saving money. Camille’s theory is that he’s scared of death. Louis, who’s studied just about every subject possible, confirmed that this is a valid psychoanalytical theory. Camille felt proud to be an able theorist in a subject he knows nothing about. Professionally, Armand is a tireless worker ant. Give him a telephone directory for any city, come back a year later, and he’ll have checked every number.
Armand has always felt an unalloyed admiration for Camille. Early on in their careers, when Armand discovered Camille’s mother was a famous painter, that admiration became a fervour. He collects press cuttings about her. On his computer, he has images of every painting of hers available on the internet. When he learned that Camille’s short stature was due to his mother’s inveterate smoking, Armand felt conflicted. He tried to reconcile his admiration for a painter whose work he doesn’t understand but whose fame impresses him, and his resentment for a woman who could be so selfish. He never quite resolved these incompatible feelings; he seems to struggle with them still. But he can’t help it, the moment there’s a mention of Maud Verhœven or one of her paintings on the news, Armand is ecstatic.
“Maybe she should have been your mother,” Camille said one day, peering up at him.
“That’s low,” Armand muttered. For all his faults he has a sense of humour.
When Camille was forced to take leave, Armand visited him at the clinic. He’d wait until he could find someone driving that way so he didn’t have to pay to get there and he invariably turned up empty-handed, always with a different excuse, but at least hevisited. He was devastated by what had happened to Camille. His anguish was genuine. You work side by side with someone for years only to find out you don’t really know them. All it takes is an accident, a tragedy, an illness, a death for you to realise how much of what you know about them is simply random information. Armand can be generous, though that may sound bizarre. Obviously, he’s not generous with money, or with anything that costs money, but he has a generosity of spirit. Not that anyone in the squad would believe it; mention it and anyone he’s ever hit for money – meaning everyone – would crack up laughing.
*
When he came to the clinic, Camille would give him money to get a newspaper, a couple of coffees from the machine and a magazine. Armand always kept the change. And at the end of the visit, as he leaned out of the window, Camille would see Armand wandering around the car park talking to people leaving the clinic, trying to find someone who could drop him close enough to his place that he could walk the rest of the way.
It’s painful, finding themselves together again after four years. The only person missing from the old team is Maleval. He was kicked off the force. Spent a couple of months on remand. What’s become of him? Camille suspects Louis and Armand still see him from time to time. He couldn’t bring himself to.
The three of them are standing in front of the huge map of Paris, not saying anything, and when the silence starts to feel like a furtive prayer, Camille snorts. He points to the map.
“O.K. Louis, as we discussed, you take the teams up to the crime scene. Get them to comb the area.”
He turns to Armand.
“You, Armand, we’ve got a
“Or maybe the guy’s dumb as a box of rocks …”
Camille and Louis turn round. It’s Armand.
“If the guy’s dumb, he’ll be unpredictable,” Camille says, smiling. “That’s going to make things more difficult.”
They all shake hands. Armand has worked with Camille for more than ten years, nine and a half under his command. He isa terrifyingly gaunt man with a sad face who suffers from a pathological tight-fistedness that has blighted his whole life. Every second of Armand’s life is geared towards saving money. Camille’s theory is that he’s scared of death. Louis, who’s studied just about every subject possible, confirmed that this is a valid psychoanalytical theory. Camille felt proud to be an able theorist in a subject he knows nothing about. Professionally, Armand is a tireless worker ant. Give him a telephone directory for any city, come back a year later, and he’ll have checked every number.
Armand has always felt an unalloyed admiration for Camille. Early on in their careers, when Armand discovered Camille’s mother was a famous painter, that admiration became a fervour. He collects press cuttings about her. On his computer, he has images of every painting of hers available on the internet. When he learned that Camille’s short stature was due to his mother’s inveterate smoking, Armand felt conflicted. He tried to reconcile his admiration for a painter whose work he doesn’t understand but whose fame impresses him, and his resentment for a woman who could be so selfish. He never quite resolved these incompatible feelings; he seems to struggle with them still. But he can’t help it, the moment there’s a mention of Maud Verhœven or one of her paintings on the news, Armand is ecstatic.
“Maybe she should have been your mother,” Camille said one day, peering up at him.
“That’s low,” Armand muttered. For all his faults he has a sense of humour.
When Camille was forced to take leave, Armand visited him at the clinic. He’d wait until he could find someone driving that way so he didn’t have to pay to get there and he invariably turned up empty-handed, always with a different excuse, but at least hevisited. He was devastated by what had happened to Camille. His anguish was genuine. You work side by side with someone for years only to find out you don’t really know them. All it takes is an accident, a tragedy, an illness, a death for you to realise how much of what you know about them is simply random information. Armand can be generous, though that may sound bizarre. Obviously, he’s not generous with money, or with anything that costs money, but he has a generosity of spirit. Not that anyone in the squad would believe it; mention it and anyone he’s ever hit for money – meaning everyone – would crack up laughing.
*
When he came to the clinic, Camille would give him money to get a newspaper, a couple of coffees from the machine and a magazine. Armand always kept the change. And at the end of the visit, as he leaned out of the window, Camille would see Armand wandering around the car park talking to people leaving the clinic, trying to find someone who could drop him close enough to his place that he could walk the rest of the way.
It’s painful, finding themselves together again after four years. The only person missing from the old team is Maleval. He was kicked off the force. Spent a couple of months on remand. What’s become of him? Camille suspects Louis and Armand still see him from time to time. He couldn’t bring himself to.
The three of them are standing in front of the huge map of Paris, not saying anything, and when the silence starts to feel like a furtive prayer, Camille snorts. He points to the map.
“O.K. Louis, as we discussed, you take the teams up to the crime scene. Get them to comb the area.”
He turns to Armand.
“You, Armand, we’ve got a
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