.
“Monsieur . . . monsieur?”
*
8.10 p.m.
Time to leave. As a police officer, Camille cannot afford the luxury of behaving like some star-crossed lover. Detectives don’t spend the night at the victim’s bedside. He has already made enough blunders for one day.
And at precisely that moment his mobile vibrates, he checks the screen: Commissaire Michard. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket, turns back to the receptionist and waves goodbye. She winks and crooks her finger, gesturing to him. Camille hesitates, pretends he does not understand, but too weary to resist he trudges back. He already has the parking tickets, what more can she want?
“You finally off, then? Don’t get much sleep on the force, do you?”
This is meant as an innuendo, because she smiles, showing off her crooked teeth. To think he wasted his time for this. He sighs heavily, gives a half-hearted smile. He desperately needs to sleep. He has taken three steps when she calls after him.
“Oh, there was a phone call, I thought you’d like to know.”
“When was this?”
“A while ago . . . around seven o’clock.”
And before Camille has time to ask . . .
“Her brother.”
Nathan. Camille has never met Anne’s brother, but he has heard him on her voicemail. Nervous, excitable and young. He is fifteen years younger than his sister, a researcher in some incomprehensible subject – photons, nanotechnology, some field whose very name is meaningless to Camille.
“And for a brother, he’s not exactly polite. Listening to him, I’m glad I’m an only child.”
A sudden realisation explodes inside Camille’s head: how would Nathan have known Anne was in hospital?
Suddenly wide awake, he races round to the other side of the desk. The receptionist does not even wait for him to formulate the question.
“A man’s voice, he was . . . [Ophélia rolls her eyes] well, he was ignorant and rude. ‘Forestier . . . Yeah, with an F, how else would you spell it, with two Fs? [She mimics his curt, arrogant tone.] What exactly is wrong with her? And what did the doctors say? [Her imitation is beginning to verge on caricature.] What do you mean, they don’t know?’ [Her tone now is shocked, outraged.] . . .”
Did he have an accent?
The receptionist shakes her head. Camille glances around. The conclusion will come to him, he knows that, he is simply waiting for the neural pathways to connect, it is only a matter of seconds.
“Did he sound young?”
“Not young -young. Forty-something, I’d guess. Personally, I thought he . . .”
Camille is no longer listening, he is running, jostling anyone in his way. He wrenches open the door to the stairs which slams behind him. Already, he is taking the stairs as fast as his dumpy legs can manage.
*
8:15 p.m.
As soon as he heard my footsteps, he went upstairs, the nurse is thinking. About twenty-two, she has her hair in a skinhead crop and a ring through her bottom lip. On the outside she is all provocation, but inside is a different matter; if anything, she is too soft, too sensitive. She heard the stairwell door bang, but during those few seconds she spent hesitating the man could have gone anywhere – up to the fourth floor, down to reception, through the neurosurgical ward – there is no way of knowing where he went after that.
What was she supposed to do? She wasn’t sure what she had seen and you don’t go setting off the alarm in a hospital when you’re not sure . . . She heads back to the nurses’ station. The whole idea is ridiculous. Who would bring a shotgun into a hospital? But if it wasn’t a gun, what was it? Some sort of prosthesis? There are visitors who bring giant bunches of gladioli – are gladioli in season now? He got the wrong room, that’s what he said.
Still, she has her doubts. She did a course on battered women at nursing college, she knows how brutal men can be, she knows they’re quite capable of attacking their wives even in a hospital. She retraces her
“Monsieur . . . monsieur?”
*
8.10 p.m.
Time to leave. As a police officer, Camille cannot afford the luxury of behaving like some star-crossed lover. Detectives don’t spend the night at the victim’s bedside. He has already made enough blunders for one day.
And at precisely that moment his mobile vibrates, he checks the screen: Commissaire Michard. He stuffs the phone back into his pocket, turns back to the receptionist and waves goodbye. She winks and crooks her finger, gesturing to him. Camille hesitates, pretends he does not understand, but too weary to resist he trudges back. He already has the parking tickets, what more can she want?
“You finally off, then? Don’t get much sleep on the force, do you?”
This is meant as an innuendo, because she smiles, showing off her crooked teeth. To think he wasted his time for this. He sighs heavily, gives a half-hearted smile. He desperately needs to sleep. He has taken three steps when she calls after him.
“Oh, there was a phone call, I thought you’d like to know.”
“When was this?”
“A while ago . . . around seven o’clock.”
And before Camille has time to ask . . .
“Her brother.”
Nathan. Camille has never met Anne’s brother, but he has heard him on her voicemail. Nervous, excitable and young. He is fifteen years younger than his sister, a researcher in some incomprehensible subject – photons, nanotechnology, some field whose very name is meaningless to Camille.
“And for a brother, he’s not exactly polite. Listening to him, I’m glad I’m an only child.”
A sudden realisation explodes inside Camille’s head: how would Nathan have known Anne was in hospital?
Suddenly wide awake, he races round to the other side of the desk. The receptionist does not even wait for him to formulate the question.
“A man’s voice, he was . . . [Ophélia rolls her eyes] well, he was ignorant and rude. ‘Forestier . . . Yeah, with an F, how else would you spell it, with two Fs? [She mimics his curt, arrogant tone.] What exactly is wrong with her? And what did the doctors say? [Her imitation is beginning to verge on caricature.] What do you mean, they don’t know?’ [Her tone now is shocked, outraged.] . . .”
Did he have an accent?
The receptionist shakes her head. Camille glances around. The conclusion will come to him, he knows that, he is simply waiting for the neural pathways to connect, it is only a matter of seconds.
“Did he sound young?”
“Not young -young. Forty-something, I’d guess. Personally, I thought he . . .”
Camille is no longer listening, he is running, jostling anyone in his way. He wrenches open the door to the stairs which slams behind him. Already, he is taking the stairs as fast as his dumpy legs can manage.
*
8:15 p.m.
As soon as he heard my footsteps, he went upstairs, the nurse is thinking. About twenty-two, she has her hair in a skinhead crop and a ring through her bottom lip. On the outside she is all provocation, but inside is a different matter; if anything, she is too soft, too sensitive. She heard the stairwell door bang, but during those few seconds she spent hesitating the man could have gone anywhere – up to the fourth floor, down to reception, through the neurosurgical ward – there is no way of knowing where he went after that.
What was she supposed to do? She wasn’t sure what she had seen and you don’t go setting off the alarm in a hospital when you’re not sure . . . She heads back to the nurses’ station. The whole idea is ridiculous. Who would bring a shotgun into a hospital? But if it wasn’t a gun, what was it? Some sort of prosthesis? There are visitors who bring giant bunches of gladioli – are gladioli in season now? He got the wrong room, that’s what he said.
Still, she has her doubts. She did a course on battered women at nursing college, she knows how brutal men can be, she knows they’re quite capable of attacking their wives even in a hospital. She retraces her
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