skiing
holiday. A lace handkerchief and a sewing kit. How lifeless one’s possessions became after death, Morel thought. In any case there was nothing there that might help progress the
investigation.
He closed the drawers and turned back to the room. While the furniture was stylish, all the knick-knacks were a different story. Their only common denominator was an absence of good taste.
Porcelain dogs and clowns. A globe with a snowman that produced snow when you shook it. All things that could have been picked up at a jumble sale. Of the four cushions lining the two sofas, no two
matched. One had a tapestry cover, the other a crocheted outline of a house. Two depicted animals, one a horse and the other a Dobermann. They were all equally ugly.
He slid the balcony door open and went out. After the silence of the flat, the noise from the traffic below was an assault. The balcony was bare. There were no plants, not even a chair to sit
in. Clearly, Isabelle Dufour had not been a gardener. There was a cafe opposite and a newsagent. From her balcony, Dufour would have been able to see anyone coming from across the street.
Why had she opened her door to a stranger? Maybe because she felt safe in her building. She had no reason not to.
Morel went back inside and slid the door shut. He turned to find Lila standing near him. It gave him a start.
‘Nothing in the main bedroom.’
Slowly and methodically, they went through the guest room, the kitchen and bathroom, before reconvening in the living room.
It had been a discouraging search, Morel thought. He could see Lila felt the same. It was time to go.
Before leaving, he took one last look around. As his eyes swept the room, the stereo caught his eye, mainly because it was such a dated and clunky model. One with a tape deck and radio included.
Nowadays even the cash converters didn’t bother with these. Someone, maybe Dufour’s son or daughter-in-law, had bought her a cheap CD player as well. Morel wondered why Isabelle Dufour
had bothered keeping the old system but then again, she might have found it hard to part with something she’d had for so long.
Without thinking, he went up to the tape deck. He pushed Play. Nothing happened. He tried the CD player.
Sound blasted from the speakers into his ears and he recoiled, immediately turning the volume down. The slow and solemn opening was devastatingly familiar.
‘Do you think it was left there intentionally?’ Lila said as they headed down in the lift.
‘Unless it was left behind because someone forgot to take it back.’
‘Or maybe it’s just a coincidence,’ she said mournfully.
Morel shook his head. This was the second time in two days that he was hearing Fauré’s
Requiem.
It could not be accidental.
‘Not a coincidence. But the question is, what is it supposed to tell us? What is it for?’
‘Beats me.’
‘Come on. There’s a reason behind it,’ Morel said.
‘Is the music part of the ritual? Did Dufour have to sit through it before she was drowned?’
‘Or while she was drowning. Or being dressed and laid out on her bed,’ Morel said.
Lila rubbed her arms and crossed her legs. ‘Shit. You know, I can deal with the stabbings and shootings, the normal stuff we see every day.’ She caught Morel’s eye. ‘You
know what I mean. But this is different. I told you, we’re dealing with a freak.’
‘A methodical freak,’ Morel said. ‘Someone who likes to do things a certain way, tidy and organized. Someone who thinks things through.’
Back in the office, Jean told Morel that Vincent had called again. Morel went straight to his desk and dialled his number. Vincent answered on the first ring.
‘It’s me,’ Morel said. ‘Is everything OK?’ He realized as soon as he’d said it that it was a stupid thing to say to a man whose wife was dying of cancer.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I even forgot to call yesterday . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,
holiday. A lace handkerchief and a sewing kit. How lifeless one’s possessions became after death, Morel thought. In any case there was nothing there that might help progress the
investigation.
He closed the drawers and turned back to the room. While the furniture was stylish, all the knick-knacks were a different story. Their only common denominator was an absence of good taste.
Porcelain dogs and clowns. A globe with a snowman that produced snow when you shook it. All things that could have been picked up at a jumble sale. Of the four cushions lining the two sofas, no two
matched. One had a tapestry cover, the other a crocheted outline of a house. Two depicted animals, one a horse and the other a Dobermann. They were all equally ugly.
He slid the balcony door open and went out. After the silence of the flat, the noise from the traffic below was an assault. The balcony was bare. There were no plants, not even a chair to sit
in. Clearly, Isabelle Dufour had not been a gardener. There was a cafe opposite and a newsagent. From her balcony, Dufour would have been able to see anyone coming from across the street.
Why had she opened her door to a stranger? Maybe because she felt safe in her building. She had no reason not to.
Morel went back inside and slid the door shut. He turned to find Lila standing near him. It gave him a start.
‘Nothing in the main bedroom.’
Slowly and methodically, they went through the guest room, the kitchen and bathroom, before reconvening in the living room.
It had been a discouraging search, Morel thought. He could see Lila felt the same. It was time to go.
Before leaving, he took one last look around. As his eyes swept the room, the stereo caught his eye, mainly because it was such a dated and clunky model. One with a tape deck and radio included.
Nowadays even the cash converters didn’t bother with these. Someone, maybe Dufour’s son or daughter-in-law, had bought her a cheap CD player as well. Morel wondered why Isabelle Dufour
had bothered keeping the old system but then again, she might have found it hard to part with something she’d had for so long.
Without thinking, he went up to the tape deck. He pushed Play. Nothing happened. He tried the CD player.
Sound blasted from the speakers into his ears and he recoiled, immediately turning the volume down. The slow and solemn opening was devastatingly familiar.
‘Do you think it was left there intentionally?’ Lila said as they headed down in the lift.
‘Unless it was left behind because someone forgot to take it back.’
‘Or maybe it’s just a coincidence,’ she said mournfully.
Morel shook his head. This was the second time in two days that he was hearing Fauré’s
Requiem.
It could not be accidental.
‘Not a coincidence. But the question is, what is it supposed to tell us? What is it for?’
‘Beats me.’
‘Come on. There’s a reason behind it,’ Morel said.
‘Is the music part of the ritual? Did Dufour have to sit through it before she was drowned?’
‘Or while she was drowning. Or being dressed and laid out on her bed,’ Morel said.
Lila rubbed her arms and crossed her legs. ‘Shit. You know, I can deal with the stabbings and shootings, the normal stuff we see every day.’ She caught Morel’s eye. ‘You
know what I mean. But this is different. I told you, we’re dealing with a freak.’
‘A methodical freak,’ Morel said. ‘Someone who likes to do things a certain way, tidy and organized. Someone who thinks things through.’
Back in the office, Jean told Morel that Vincent had called again. Morel went straight to his desk and dialled his number. Vincent answered on the first ring.
‘It’s me,’ Morel said. ‘Is everything OK?’ He realized as soon as he’d said it that it was a stupid thing to say to a man whose wife was dying of cancer.
‘I wanted to say I’m sorry I haven’t been around. I even forgot to call yesterday . . .’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,
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