facing them as though goading them to come closer.
Everyone immediately knows what’s coming next. One look at him is all it takes as he sits on the railing, his back to the traffic below, his legs dangling, staring at the line of police moving slowly towards him, weapons trained on him. This first image is the one that will stick: a man staring at the advancing officers.
He flings his arms wide, as though about to make some momentous statement.
Then he raises his legs high.
And topples over the edge.
Before they even reach the railing they hear the body smash on the autoroute below, the sound of the truck hitting him, the shriek of brakes, the car horns, the screech of metal of cars unable to stop in time.
Camille looks down. Below is a tangle of cars, a blaze of headlights and hazard warning lights. He turns, runs across the flyover and leans over the opposite railing. Trarieux has gone under the wheels of an articulated lorry. Camille can see half the body, the shattered skull, blood spreading across the asphalt.
For Camille, the second image comes about twenty minutes later. The Périphérique is completely cordoned off, the whole area is an eerie scene of flashing lights and sirens, horns, paramedics, firefighters, police, drivers and gawkers. They’re on the flyover, in the car. Louis is taking notes as Armand reels off the information they’ve got on Trarieux. Next to him, Camille has snapped on latex gloves; he’s holding the mobile phone found on the suspect’s body which somehow escaped the wheels of the articulated lorry.
Photographs, six of them, of a sort of wooden crate, the slats regularly spaced, suspended above the ground. Inside, imprisoned, a woman, young, maybe thirty, her hair lank, greasy, dirty, completely naked, huddled in a space clearly much too small for her. In each picture, she is looking at the photographer. Her eyes are frantic, ringed by dark circles. But her features are delicate, her dark eyes are striking; she is in a terrible state, but this cannot hide the fact that in ordinary circumstances she must be quitepretty. But right now, all the images tell the same story: pretty or not, this caged woman is dying.
“A
fillette
,” Louis says.
“A what? What are you talking about?”
“The cage. It’s a
fillette
.”
And seeing that Camille is still puzzled: “A cage that makes it impossible to stand or sit.”
Louis stops. He doesn’t like to flaunt his cleverness; he knows what Camille’s like … But this time Camille gives an exasperated nod – come on, get on with it.
“It’s an instrument of torture created under Louis XI for the bishop of Verdun. He was kept in it for ten years. It’s a passive but very effective torture. The joints fuse, the muscles atrophy … and it drives the victim insane.”
They can see the girl’s hands frantically gripping the slats. It’s enough to turn your stomach. The last photograph shows only part of her face and three large rats scuttling across the top of the cage.
“Fucking hell …”
Camille tosses the phone to Louis as though afraid of burning his fingers.
“Check the date and time of the images.”
Camille’s not much use when it comes to technology. It takes Louis precisely four seconds.
“The last photograph was taken three hours ago.”
“What about calls? The calls!”
“Last call was ten days ago …”
Not a single call since he abducted the girl.
Silence.
No-one knows who this girl is or where he’s been keeping her.The one person who did know has just been hit by an articulated lorry.
Camille picks two images from Trarieux’s mobile, including the one with the huge rats. He types a text to the magistrate, copying the message to Le Guen:
Now that the “criminal” is dead, how do you suggest we focus on the victim?
13
When Alex opened her eyes, the rat was staring at her centimetres from her face, so close it seemed three or four times its actual size.
She screamed, and it scurried
Everyone immediately knows what’s coming next. One look at him is all it takes as he sits on the railing, his back to the traffic below, his legs dangling, staring at the line of police moving slowly towards him, weapons trained on him. This first image is the one that will stick: a man staring at the advancing officers.
He flings his arms wide, as though about to make some momentous statement.
Then he raises his legs high.
And topples over the edge.
Before they even reach the railing they hear the body smash on the autoroute below, the sound of the truck hitting him, the shriek of brakes, the car horns, the screech of metal of cars unable to stop in time.
Camille looks down. Below is a tangle of cars, a blaze of headlights and hazard warning lights. He turns, runs across the flyover and leans over the opposite railing. Trarieux has gone under the wheels of an articulated lorry. Camille can see half the body, the shattered skull, blood spreading across the asphalt.
For Camille, the second image comes about twenty minutes later. The Périphérique is completely cordoned off, the whole area is an eerie scene of flashing lights and sirens, horns, paramedics, firefighters, police, drivers and gawkers. They’re on the flyover, in the car. Louis is taking notes as Armand reels off the information they’ve got on Trarieux. Next to him, Camille has snapped on latex gloves; he’s holding the mobile phone found on the suspect’s body which somehow escaped the wheels of the articulated lorry.
Photographs, six of them, of a sort of wooden crate, the slats regularly spaced, suspended above the ground. Inside, imprisoned, a woman, young, maybe thirty, her hair lank, greasy, dirty, completely naked, huddled in a space clearly much too small for her. In each picture, she is looking at the photographer. Her eyes are frantic, ringed by dark circles. But her features are delicate, her dark eyes are striking; she is in a terrible state, but this cannot hide the fact that in ordinary circumstances she must be quitepretty. But right now, all the images tell the same story: pretty or not, this caged woman is dying.
“A
fillette
,” Louis says.
“A what? What are you talking about?”
“The cage. It’s a
fillette
.”
And seeing that Camille is still puzzled: “A cage that makes it impossible to stand or sit.”
Louis stops. He doesn’t like to flaunt his cleverness; he knows what Camille’s like … But this time Camille gives an exasperated nod – come on, get on with it.
“It’s an instrument of torture created under Louis XI for the bishop of Verdun. He was kept in it for ten years. It’s a passive but very effective torture. The joints fuse, the muscles atrophy … and it drives the victim insane.”
They can see the girl’s hands frantically gripping the slats. It’s enough to turn your stomach. The last photograph shows only part of her face and three large rats scuttling across the top of the cage.
“Fucking hell …”
Camille tosses the phone to Louis as though afraid of burning his fingers.
“Check the date and time of the images.”
Camille’s not much use when it comes to technology. It takes Louis precisely four seconds.
“The last photograph was taken three hours ago.”
“What about calls? The calls!”
“Last call was ten days ago …”
Not a single call since he abducted the girl.
Silence.
No-one knows who this girl is or where he’s been keeping her.The one person who did know has just been hit by an articulated lorry.
Camille picks two images from Trarieux’s mobile, including the one with the huge rats. He types a text to the magistrate, copying the message to Le Guen:
Now that the “criminal” is dead, how do you suggest we focus on the victim?
13
When Alex opened her eyes, the rat was staring at her centimetres from her face, so close it seemed three or four times its actual size.
She screamed, and it scurried
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