The Circle by Bernard Minier

read that sentence again. What had she meant by these words? And for whom were they intended? For herself, or someone else? He wrote it down in his own notebook.
    His thoughts focused on the victim’s phone.
    If Hugo was guilty, he had no reason to make it disappear when everything already pointed to him: his presence in her house, the state he was in, and also his own mobile phone, with the proof of how often he had called her. It was absurd. And if the murderer was not Hugo, and that person had got rid of the victim’s mobile, then they were complete idiots. With or without a phone, in a few hours, the telecom companies would have provided the police with a list of incoming and outgoing calls. And so? Weren’t most criminals imbeciles, fortunately? Except, if one were to suppose that Hugo had been drugged and left there to serve as a scapegoat, and if one were to suppose that a clever magician was hiding in the shadow, that magician would not have made such a mistake.
    There was a third possibility. Hugo was indeed guilty and the telephone had disappeared for reasons that had nothing to do with the crime. Often in an investigation, a stubborn little detail resembled a thorn in the investigator’s side, until the day they realised it had absolutely nothing to do with all the rest.
    The atmosphere in the room was stifling and he flung open the central window. A wave of moisture caressed his face. He sat down at the computer. The ancient machine moaned and creaked for a moment before the screen appeared. There was no password. Servaz identified the icon for her inbox and clicked on it. This time, a password was required. He looked at his notes, tried a few combinations with her date of birth and the initials, backwards and forwards. Nothing happened. He typed the word
Dolls.
That didn’t work either. Claire taught classics, so he spent the next half hour testing the names of Greek and Latin poets and philosophers, the titles of works, the names of gods and mythological characters, and even terms such as ‘oracle’ or ‘Pythia’, the name given to the oracle at Delphi. Every time, he got the message ‘incorrect login or password’.
    He was about to give up when once again he glanced at the wall covered with pictures, and the sentence displayed there. He typed
André Breton
and the mailbox opened at last.
    Empty. A white screen. Not a single message.
    Servaz clicked on ‘Sent’ and ‘Trash’. Same thing. He flopped back into the armchair.
    Someone had emptied Claire Diemar’s mailbox.
    Servaz knew he was right to think this business was not as simple as it seemed. There was a blind spot. There were too many elementsthat did not fit. He took out his mobile and dialled the technological tracking service. A voice answered on the second ring.
    â€˜Was there a computer at Claire Diemar’s?’ he asked.
    â€˜Yes. A laptop.’
    It was now routine to go through every victim’s communications and hard drives.
    â€˜Have you examined it?’
    â€˜Not yet,’ said the voice.
    â€˜Can you take a look at the e-mail program?’
    â€˜Okay, I’ll finish what I’m on and look right away.’
    He leaned over the old PC and disconnected all the plugs one by one. He did the same with the landline telephone, after lifting a mountain of papers to follow the trajectory of the cable, then he took a plastic evidence bag from his jacket and slipped the open notebook into it.
    He went to the office door, opened it, went back to pile the landline telephone and notebook on top of the computer, and lifted the entire pile. The computer was heavy. He had to pause twice.
    Out on the steps, he put his load down once again, removed the electronic key from his pocket, unlocked the Cherokee from a distance, and then hurried over, watching as raindrops fell onto the waterproof bag where the notebook was sealed. He would take the computer and telephone the