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Authors: Pierre Lemaitre
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early afternoon. Traces of D.N.A. found at the scene prove beyond doubt that Duguet had been in the apartment. A car was later rented by a young woman using a driving licence stolen from the victim’s apartment. All evidence indicates that the woman who hired the car was Sophie Duguet.
Within two days of absconding, Sophie Duguet had been implicated in a second murder. The manhunt was intensified, but brought no results . . .
Despite repeated calls for witnesses, constant surveillance at all locations the suspect might use as a refuge and information from police informers, no new information has come to light. One cannot help but wonder whether Sophie Duguet has succeeded in fleeing the country. The police and the judiciary have half-heartedly attempted to shift the blame, but in fact it seems as though Duguet’s success in so far evading capture is not due to any procedural errors in the investigation, but to her fierce determination, careful planning (contrary to police theory) or to an exceptional ability to improvise. The Préfecture denies reports that it has called in a crisis-management specialist.
We hear that the hunt goes on, and there is nothing to do but wait. Meanwhile, detectives at the
police judiciaire
can only keep their fingers crossed and hope that the next they hear of Sophie Duguet is not news of another murder. As for predictions, official sources are now more guarded. News may come today, tomorrow, or never.
10
Sophiewalks stiffly, her hips do not sway. She walks in a straight line, like a wind-up toy. When she has walked for too long, her pace begins to slacken. At that point, no matter where she is, she stops, then starts again, with the same mechanical gait.
She has lost a lot of weight. She eats very little, mostly junk food. She smokes a lot and barely sleeps. In the morning she wakes with a start, sits bolt upright, her mind a blank, wiping tears from her face as she lights her first cigarette. For a long time now, this is how it has been. The morning of March 11 was no different from any other. Sophie is living in a furnished apartment outside the city centre. She has added no personal touch to the décor: the same dated wallpaper, the same threadbare carpet, the same battered sofa. As soon as she gets up, she turns on the television, an antiquated model where every channel comes with a blizzard of static. Whether or not she is actually watching (and she spends countless hours staring at it), the television is always on. She has got into the habit of leaving it on with the sound muted whenshe goes out. She often comes home late and, from the street, she can see the flickering blue glow of her apartment. The first thing she does when she comes in is to turn up the sound. Most nights, she leaves it on. At first she had hoped that even in her sleep the sound would keep her mind distracted and spare her the nightmares. To no avail. But at least when she wakes, every two hours, it is to the reassuring babble of early-morning weather reports, of tele-shopping programmes which she can be glued to for hours, sometimes the midday news if she has taken something to knock herself out.
Sophie mutes the sound and leaves. She goes down the stairs, lights a cigarette before pushing open the entrance door of the building and, as always, pushes her hands into her pockets to conceal their constant trembling.
*
“Are you going to shift your arse, or do I need to give it a kick?”
Rush hour. The fast-food joint is humming like a hive, whole families are queuing to be served, the smells from the kitchen fill the whole restaurant, the staff weave between the tables collecting trays left by customers, clearing away the polystyrene containers full of cigarette butts in the smoking area, wiping up the spilled drinks. Sophie is working with a mop. Customers balancing trays step over it, somewhere behind her a group of schoolchildren are making an infernal racket.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,”
Within two days of absconding, Sophie Duguet had been implicated in a second murder. The manhunt was intensified, but brought no results . . .
Despite repeated calls for witnesses, constant surveillance at all locations the suspect might use as a refuge and information from police informers, no new information has come to light. One cannot help but wonder whether Sophie Duguet has succeeded in fleeing the country. The police and the judiciary have half-heartedly attempted to shift the blame, but in fact it seems as though Duguet’s success in so far evading capture is not due to any procedural errors in the investigation, but to her fierce determination, careful planning (contrary to police theory) or to an exceptional ability to improvise. The Préfecture denies reports that it has called in a crisis-management specialist.
We hear that the hunt goes on, and there is nothing to do but wait. Meanwhile, detectives at the
police judiciaire
can only keep their fingers crossed and hope that the next they hear of Sophie Duguet is not news of another murder. As for predictions, official sources are now more guarded. News may come today, tomorrow, or never.
10
Sophiewalks stiffly, her hips do not sway. She walks in a straight line, like a wind-up toy. When she has walked for too long, her pace begins to slacken. At that point, no matter where she is, she stops, then starts again, with the same mechanical gait.
She has lost a lot of weight. She eats very little, mostly junk food. She smokes a lot and barely sleeps. In the morning she wakes with a start, sits bolt upright, her mind a blank, wiping tears from her face as she lights her first cigarette. For a long time now, this is how it has been. The morning of March 11 was no different from any other. Sophie is living in a furnished apartment outside the city centre. She has added no personal touch to the décor: the same dated wallpaper, the same threadbare carpet, the same battered sofa. As soon as she gets up, she turns on the television, an antiquated model where every channel comes with a blizzard of static. Whether or not she is actually watching (and she spends countless hours staring at it), the television is always on. She has got into the habit of leaving it on with the sound muted whenshe goes out. She often comes home late and, from the street, she can see the flickering blue glow of her apartment. The first thing she does when she comes in is to turn up the sound. Most nights, she leaves it on. At first she had hoped that even in her sleep the sound would keep her mind distracted and spare her the nightmares. To no avail. But at least when she wakes, every two hours, it is to the reassuring babble of early-morning weather reports, of tele-shopping programmes which she can be glued to for hours, sometimes the midday news if she has taken something to knock herself out.
Sophie mutes the sound and leaves. She goes down the stairs, lights a cigarette before pushing open the entrance door of the building and, as always, pushes her hands into her pockets to conceal their constant trembling.
*
“Are you going to shift your arse, or do I need to give it a kick?”
Rush hour. The fast-food joint is humming like a hive, whole families are queuing to be served, the smells from the kitchen fill the whole restaurant, the staff weave between the tables collecting trays left by customers, clearing away the polystyrene containers full of cigarette butts in the smoking area, wiping up the spilled drinks. Sophie is working with a mop. Customers balancing trays step over it, somewhere behind her a group of schoolchildren are making an infernal racket.
“Don’t pay any attention to him,”
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