you would come to the same conclusion.â
He started. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou said it yourself: you were well acquainted with his mother. And sheâs the one who called for help, if Iâm not mistaken.â
Servaz arched his back, stung by her insinuation. There were still a number of details that didnât fit.
The way it was staged, the torch, the dolls
⦠he thought.
And the timing as well â¦
There was something about the timing that was bugging him. If the kid had lost it, why was it on that very night, when everyone was glued to the television?
Was it chance, coincidence? In sixteen years on the job, Servaz had learned to scratch such words from his vocabulary. Hugo liked football. Would someone who liked watching the World Cup choose that evening to kill someone?
Only if he wanted to be sure no one would notice
⦠But Hugo had stayed on the spot and let himself be caught; he hadnât tried to hide.
âThis investigation is over before itâs even begun,â concluded Samira, cracking her knuckles.
He stopped her with a wave of his hand.
âNot quite. Go back there and check whether the technicians had a good look at Hugoâs car, and ask them to go over it with cyanoacrylate.â
He wished he had a shed available to go over the interior and exterior of the car with a fine-toothed comb. A painting shed likethe ones that body shops used, equipped so that cyanoacrylate â a sort of superglue â could evaporate by being heated. Upon contact with the oily traces that fingers left, cyanoacrylate vapours made the fingerprints appear in white. Unfortunately there were no sheds like that available within a radius of over 500 kilometres: consequently, the technicians had to make do with âcyano shotsâ â portable diffusers. In any event, the violent downpour had probably washed the bodywork clean.
âAnd then question the neighbours. Do all the houses on the street, one by one.â
âA house-to-house â at this hour? Itâs two oâclock in the morning!â
âWell then, get them out of bed. I want answers before we go back to Toulouse. I want to know whether anyone saw anything, heard anything, noticed anything, tonight or on any day leading up to today, anything unusual, anything at all â even if it has no connection with what happened this evening.â
He met their incredulous gazes.
âGet to work!â
7
Margot
Theyâd been driving through the hills. It was September, and it was still warm; summer was all around them, and since the air-conditioning wasnât working, Servaz had rolled down the windows. He had slotted a Mahler CD in the player and he was in an excellent mood. Not only was the weather fine and he had his daughter for company, but he was taking her to a place he knew well, even though he hadnât been back there in a long time.
As he drove, he thought about how Margot had been an average pupil in primary school. Then there had been the adolescent crisis. Even now, with her piercings, her strange hair colour and her leather jackets, his daughter didnât look at all like sheâd be at the top of her class. But despite her punky look she had earned very good marks. And Marsac was the most demanding prep school in the region. You had to prove you were good to be admitted. As he drove through the summer landscape that morning, he felt himself swelling with pride like a soap bubble.
âItâs so beautiful here,â said Margot, removing her headphones from her ears.
Servaz glanced quickly around him. The road wound its way through green hills, sunny forests and silky blond fields of wheat. As he slowed down to go around a bend, they could hear the birds singing and the chirring of insects.
âItâs a bit dead, no?â said Servaz.
âHmm. What is Marsac like?â
âA small town. Quiet. I suppose they still have the same
He started. âWhatâs that supposed to mean?â
âYou said it yourself: you were well acquainted with his mother. And sheâs the one who called for help, if Iâm not mistaken.â
Servaz arched his back, stung by her insinuation. There were still a number of details that didnât fit.
The way it was staged, the torch, the dolls
⦠he thought.
And the timing as well â¦
There was something about the timing that was bugging him. If the kid had lost it, why was it on that very night, when everyone was glued to the television?
Was it chance, coincidence? In sixteen years on the job, Servaz had learned to scratch such words from his vocabulary. Hugo liked football. Would someone who liked watching the World Cup choose that evening to kill someone?
Only if he wanted to be sure no one would notice
⦠But Hugo had stayed on the spot and let himself be caught; he hadnât tried to hide.
âThis investigation is over before itâs even begun,â concluded Samira, cracking her knuckles.
He stopped her with a wave of his hand.
âNot quite. Go back there and check whether the technicians had a good look at Hugoâs car, and ask them to go over it with cyanoacrylate.â
He wished he had a shed available to go over the interior and exterior of the car with a fine-toothed comb. A painting shed likethe ones that body shops used, equipped so that cyanoacrylate â a sort of superglue â could evaporate by being heated. Upon contact with the oily traces that fingers left, cyanoacrylate vapours made the fingerprints appear in white. Unfortunately there were no sheds like that available within a radius of over 500 kilometres: consequently, the technicians had to make do with âcyano shotsâ â portable diffusers. In any event, the violent downpour had probably washed the bodywork clean.
âAnd then question the neighbours. Do all the houses on the street, one by one.â
âA house-to-house â at this hour? Itâs two oâclock in the morning!â
âWell then, get them out of bed. I want answers before we go back to Toulouse. I want to know whether anyone saw anything, heard anything, noticed anything, tonight or on any day leading up to today, anything unusual, anything at all â even if it has no connection with what happened this evening.â
He met their incredulous gazes.
âGet to work!â
7
Margot
Theyâd been driving through the hills. It was September, and it was still warm; summer was all around them, and since the air-conditioning wasnât working, Servaz had rolled down the windows. He had slotted a Mahler CD in the player and he was in an excellent mood. Not only was the weather fine and he had his daughter for company, but he was taking her to a place he knew well, even though he hadnât been back there in a long time.
As he drove, he thought about how Margot had been an average pupil in primary school. Then there had been the adolescent crisis. Even now, with her piercings, her strange hair colour and her leather jackets, his daughter didnât look at all like sheâd be at the top of her class. But despite her punky look she had earned very good marks. And Marsac was the most demanding prep school in the region. You had to prove you were good to be admitted. As he drove through the summer landscape that morning, he felt himself swelling with pride like a soap bubble.
âItâs so beautiful here,â said Margot, removing her headphones from her ears.
Servaz glanced quickly around him. The road wound its way through green hills, sunny forests and silky blond fields of wheat. As he slowed down to go around a bend, they could hear the birds singing and the chirring of insects.
âItâs a bit dead, no?â said Servaz.
âHmm. What is Marsac like?â
âA small town. Quiet. I suppose they still have the same
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