Irene by Pierre Lemaitre Page A

were still in his mother’s old studio.
    “I called him the other day,” Camille said to Irène. “He seems fine.”
    Irène devoured her food as Camille gazed at her.
    “Remember to thank Louis for the recommendation,” she said, pushing her plate away.
    “I’ll give him the bill while I’m about it.”
    “Cheapskate.”
    “I love you.”
    “I should hope so.”
    “So, how’s your case coming along?” Irène asked as dessert was being served. “I heard the investigating magistrate on the radio today … what’s her name? Deschamps, is it?”
    “Yeah. What did she have to say for herself?”
    “Not much, but the case seems pretty grim.”
    Seeing Camille look at her questioningly she continued. “She said that two young women had been murdered in Courbevoie. She didn’t go into details, but it sounded horrific …”
    “It is.”
    “She mentioned some connection to a cold case in Tremblay. Did you work on that?”
    “No, it wasn’t one of mine then, but it is now.”
    He did not really feel like discussing the case. To talk about the death of two young women with his pregnant wife on their wedding anniversary felt somehow obscene. But Irène had surely noticed that the dead girls had occupied his every waking thought in the last days, and that each time he managed to put them out of his mind, something or someone reminded him of them. He gave her a general outline of the case, at pains to avoid certain words, certain images, only to trail off into awkward silences, his eyes darting around the restaurant as though searching for some way to explain. His clear, measured account suddenly stopped in midstream as words failed him, and he raised his hands in a helpless gesture. Irène realised that he could not describe the unspeakable.
    “The guy’s clearly a psycho …” was Irène’s verdict.
    Camille tried to explain that during a lifetime spent on the force, not one in a hundred officers would ever have to deal with a case like this, and not one in a thousand would want to be in his shoes right now. Like most people, Irène’s notion of what his work entailed seemed to come from the detective novels. He foolishlysuggested this to her and Irène snapped:
    “When have you ever seen me read a crime novel? I can’t stand them.”
    “You’ve read some in your time!”
    “I read
And Then There Were None
as a teenager. When I went to Wyoming as an exchange student my father thought it would be the best way to prepare me for the American mind-set. He never was much good at geography.”
    “I’m not a great fan myself,” Camille said.
    “I’ve always preferred movies,” she said with a smile.
    “I know …” He smiled too. They knew each other too well. With the point of his knife, Camille traced the outline of a tree on his napkin. He looked up at her and took a small box from his pocket.
    “Happy anniversary.”
    Irène had long since accepted that her husband had no imagination. He had given her jewellery on their wedding day, he had given her jewellery when she told him she was pregnant, and now, a few months later, here he was again. But she was not disappointed. She knew she was fortunate compared to those women whose only attentions from their husbands were a Friday night fumble. Irène, on the other hand, had more imagination. She held out the large, gift-wrapped package Camille had seen her putting under her chair as they sat down.
    “Happy anniversary to you too.”
    Remembering every one of Irène’s gifts, each different from the last, Camille felt a little embarrassed. He tore off the wrapping paper, the diners at the next table glancing over curiously, and took out a book:
The Caravaggio Mystery
. On the cover was a detail from “The Fortune Teller”: three hands, one palm up,proffered in surrender. Camille, who was familiar with the painting, mentally conjured it now in its entirety: a woman in a white turban whose eyes seem to promise something more than fortune telling, a