the corpse was like looking at disgusting pornography. Bestiality.
Lost in her own thoughts, Julia only now realized, Annika was sobbing.
Softly, but wrenchingly, the Belgian woman was crying, and trying to hide her flowing tears behind her hands. Rouvier gestured to his junior officer, and requested, in French, that Annika be driven back to her cottage. The junior obeyed, taking Annika gently by the arm. The doctor did his duty and wheeled away the traumatized corpse of Professeur Ghislaine Quoinelles.
Rouvier and Julia were alone in the mortuary. He sighed.
‘These places. Always I think – one day I shall come in here, and I will never come out again. But, let us be thankful, not today.’
They took the elevator to the ground floor. Rouvier seemed keen to talk, lingering by the front door of the hospital, where a few patients in dressing gowns were smoking the midnight hours under a steel and glass awning.
‘There is a machine over there with the most terrible coffee. I believe I need one. And for you?’
‘Black. Thanks.’
Rouvier jangled some coins and went to the drinks machine.
Julia sighed into the rainy night. In the chaos and con fusion she had left her car at Annika’s. She had quite forgotten. But she couldn’t be bothered to arrange a wearying or expensive lift to the Cham now – especially as she’d just have to drive all the way back, the same night.
She would sleep here in Mende, in her nearby apartment, and maybe get a lift from Alex in the morning. After all, he would want to go and see Annika. Offer comfort.
Moreover she was happy to be right here, at the hospital, surrounded by people. She didn’t want to go home alone to her empty rooms, not right now, not immediately. She was actually scared. Who did that appalling killing? The randomness and barbarity was frightening. Julia noticed her hand was shaking as she reached to accept the white plastic cup of coffee from Rouvier.
She sipped.
‘You’re right. It’s disgusting coffee.’
‘It is a miracle, non? To make coffee this bad is practically a Biblical event.’
‘And stupidly hot, too.’
He nodded and smiled. She noticed he had very neatly manicured hands. She liked Rouvier: he reminded her of her father at his nicest: clever, gentle, wise.
It seemed a shame not to take this opportunity to ask him a few questions. Julia’s scientific brain was keen to take control again, to exert a grip on her febrile emotions. That way she could fend off the sadness and fear, and memories.
‘Do you have any theories? Any suspects?’
Rouvier shook his head, blowing cold air on the coffee.
‘No. But there are some clues. The arrangement of the knife blows is interesting. He has many many cuts on the hands and fingers.’
‘I saw.’
‘The distribution of the cuts shows he had his arms, hmm, what is the word . . . elevated. Elevated. To protect himself.’
This was a little mysterious.
‘Protect himself. How?’
‘Maybe the killer was trying to stab him high in the head. That is our suspicion. The front of the head. The forehead or the eyes. Naturally there is a reflex: to lift your hands. In that situation.’
It was a horrible image.
‘How do you know it was one killer?’
‘We don’t. But I think, just a guess, I think I am right. One big man, frustrated, and then frenzied. Yes that is a very good English word. Frenzied. ’
‘Who found the body?’
‘A neighbour. I understand she is very upset.’
‘Not surprised. Jesus. Jesus .’ Julia was gulping her coffee now: it was cooler, and the bitter taste was apposite. ‘So. Do you have any theories about motivations? Did Ghislaine have enemies?’
‘Motivations? ’ said Rouvier, half smiling, half avoiding her gaze. ‘No. Yes. No. A man with no close family? No girlfriend. No rivals in his small field. Yet a man with a famous name.’
‘Famous?’
‘OK, perhaps not famous. But well known.’ Rouvier crushed the plastic cup in his hand and chucked it in a
Lost in her own thoughts, Julia only now realized, Annika was sobbing.
Softly, but wrenchingly, the Belgian woman was crying, and trying to hide her flowing tears behind her hands. Rouvier gestured to his junior officer, and requested, in French, that Annika be driven back to her cottage. The junior obeyed, taking Annika gently by the arm. The doctor did his duty and wheeled away the traumatized corpse of Professeur Ghislaine Quoinelles.
Rouvier and Julia were alone in the mortuary. He sighed.
‘These places. Always I think – one day I shall come in here, and I will never come out again. But, let us be thankful, not today.’
They took the elevator to the ground floor. Rouvier seemed keen to talk, lingering by the front door of the hospital, where a few patients in dressing gowns were smoking the midnight hours under a steel and glass awning.
‘There is a machine over there with the most terrible coffee. I believe I need one. And for you?’
‘Black. Thanks.’
Rouvier jangled some coins and went to the drinks machine.
Julia sighed into the rainy night. In the chaos and con fusion she had left her car at Annika’s. She had quite forgotten. But she couldn’t be bothered to arrange a wearying or expensive lift to the Cham now – especially as she’d just have to drive all the way back, the same night.
She would sleep here in Mende, in her nearby apartment, and maybe get a lift from Alex in the morning. After all, he would want to go and see Annika. Offer comfort.
Moreover she was happy to be right here, at the hospital, surrounded by people. She didn’t want to go home alone to her empty rooms, not right now, not immediately. She was actually scared. Who did that appalling killing? The randomness and barbarity was frightening. Julia noticed her hand was shaking as she reached to accept the white plastic cup of coffee from Rouvier.
She sipped.
‘You’re right. It’s disgusting coffee.’
‘It is a miracle, non? To make coffee this bad is practically a Biblical event.’
‘And stupidly hot, too.’
He nodded and smiled. She noticed he had very neatly manicured hands. She liked Rouvier: he reminded her of her father at his nicest: clever, gentle, wise.
It seemed a shame not to take this opportunity to ask him a few questions. Julia’s scientific brain was keen to take control again, to exert a grip on her febrile emotions. That way she could fend off the sadness and fear, and memories.
‘Do you have any theories? Any suspects?’
Rouvier shook his head, blowing cold air on the coffee.
‘No. But there are some clues. The arrangement of the knife blows is interesting. He has many many cuts on the hands and fingers.’
‘I saw.’
‘The distribution of the cuts shows he had his arms, hmm, what is the word . . . elevated. Elevated. To protect himself.’
This was a little mysterious.
‘Protect himself. How?’
‘Maybe the killer was trying to stab him high in the head. That is our suspicion. The front of the head. The forehead or the eyes. Naturally there is a reflex: to lift your hands. In that situation.’
It was a horrible image.
‘How do you know it was one killer?’
‘We don’t. But I think, just a guess, I think I am right. One big man, frustrated, and then frenzied. Yes that is a very good English word. Frenzied. ’
‘Who found the body?’
‘A neighbour. I understand she is very upset.’
‘Not surprised. Jesus. Jesus .’ Julia was gulping her coffee now: it was cooler, and the bitter taste was apposite. ‘So. Do you have any theories about motivations? Did Ghislaine have enemies?’
‘Motivations? ’ said Rouvier, half smiling, half avoiding her gaze. ‘No. Yes. No. A man with no close family? No girlfriend. No rivals in his small field. Yet a man with a famous name.’
‘Famous?’
‘OK, perhaps not famous. But well known.’ Rouvier crushed the plastic cup in his hand and chucked it in a
Similar Books
