When he saw Frank coming, Froben stepped discreetly aside. Parker spoke to him without turning.
‘Don’t tell me you had an irresistible urge to say goodbye.’
‘No, general. I just wanted to make sure you left and also I needed to share one last thought with you.’
‘Which is?’
‘You told me several times that I was finished. Now I’d just like to point out that you’re finished. I don’t care if the rest of the world will ever know . . .’ The two men looked at each other. Black eyes against blue. Two men who would never stop hating each other. ‘You know it, and that’s enough for me.’
Without a word, Nathan Parker turned and walked past the barrier and down the hallway. The last vestige of soldierly pride had fallen away; now he seemed like any old man shuffling through an airport. Everything he was leaving behind was no longer his problem. The real problem lay ahead of him. As he walked towards the plane, his reflection was caught in the mirror on the wall. A coincidence, one of many. Another mirror . . .
Frank stood still and watched Parker until he turned the corner and left the mirror empty.
SIXTY-THREE
Frank reached the end of the hallway and found himself in front of Roncaille’s office. He waited before knocking, thinking of all the closed doors that had stood before him, real and metaphorical. This was just one more, but now everything was different. Now the man known as No One was safely behind bars and the case would go down as another successful investigation.
Four days had passed since Jean-Loup Verdier’s arrest and the meeting with Parker at Nice airport. Frank had spent that time with Helena and her son, without reading the papers or watching TV, trying to put everything behind him. Although he knew he would never be able to get rid of it entirely.
He had left the Parc Saint-Roman apartment and taken refuge with Helena and Stuart in a small, discreet hotel where they could escape the relentless pursuit of the media. Despite their desire for each other, he and Helena were not sleeping in the same room. Not yet. There would be time for that. He spent his days resting and getting to know Stuart, trying to build a relationship with him. The official confirmation that he would keep his promise about Disneyland had laid the groundwork. The fact that their vacation would also include a couple of weeks in the Canal du Midi on a houseboat hadn’t hurt either. Now all he had to do was wait for the cement to harden.
Frank knocked at the door and Roncaille asked him to come in. He was not in the least surprised to find Durand there as well, but hadn’t expected to see Dr Cluny. Roncaille greeted him with his standard PR smile that now seemed a little more natural. In that moment of grandeur, the police chief knew how to play the perfect host. Durand was sitting in the chair with his usual owlish expression and merely waved.
‘Good, Frank. You were the only one missing. Come in. Sit down. Attorney General Durand’s just arrived.’ It was such a formal atmosphere that Frank almost expected to see an ice bucket with champagne on the desk. There probably would be one, later on, somewhere else.
Frank settled into the chair that the chief had indicated. He waited in silence. There was nothing more for him to say. But there were things he wanted to know. Roncaille spoke.
‘Since everybody’s here, I’ll get straight to the point. There are other sides to this story that you don’t know about, things that go far beyond Daniel Legrand, alias Jean-Loup Verdier. Here’s what we managed to find out.’
Roncaille leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. Frank thought it strange that Durand was allowing him to conduct the meeting, though he wasn’t much interested in the reason why. Roncaille shared what he knew with the spontaneity and benevolence of a saint sheltering a poor man with his cloak.
‘His father, Marcel Legrand, was a senior officer in the French secret service, in charge of training. An expert in undercover operations and intelligence. At some point he started showing signs of being unbalanced, although we don’t have much information on that. We got as far as we could, but the French government didn’t open up very much. It must have caused a lot of headaches. But we know enough to reconstruct what happened. After a series of episodes, Legrand was invited, one might say, to leave active service of his own accord and take early retirement. That must have unsettled him even more. It was probably the final blow to his unstable mental state. He moved to Cassis with his pregnant wife and his housekeeper, a woman who had been with him since he was a child. He purchased an estate, La Patience, and locked himself up there like a hermit without any contact with the outside world. And he forced his family to do the same. No contact, for any reason whatsoever.’
Roncaille turned to Dr Cluny, tacitly acknowledging that he was the person best equipped to explain the psychological implications of the story. Cluny removed his glasses and pinched his nose with his forefinger and thumb, as usual. Frank still didn’t understand whether that gesture was the result of a careful strategy to get attention or simply a habit, but it didn’t matter. Having captured his audience, the psychiatrist replaced his glasses. Many of the things he was about to say were new, even to Roncaille and Durand.
‘I spoke with Jean-Loup Verdier, or Daniel Legrand. It wasn’t easy, but I managed to draw a general picture. At times, the subject showed readiness to open up and emerge from his total isolation. Anyway, as the chief said, the Legrand family moved to Provence. By the way, Mme Legrand was Italian. That’s probably why Daniel, or Jean-Loup if you prefer, speaks that language so well. For the sake of clarity I’ll continue to call him Jean-Loup.’
He looked around for their approval and the silence showed that there was no objection. Cluny continued explaining the facts, or what he thought they were.
‘His wife gave birth not long after they moved. According to her husband’s wish for isolation, which had become an obsession, no doctor was called. The woman gave birth to twins, Lucien and Daniel. But there were complications and Lucien was born deformed. There were skin growths that made him look monstrously disfigured. Clinically, I can’t say exactly what it was because Jean-Loup’s testimony is unclear. In any event, DNA tests on the mummified remains found in the bunker prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that they were brothers. The father was overwhelmed by this trauma and his mental state grew even worse. He refused to acknowledge his deformed son, as if he didn’t exist – to the point where he only declared the birth of one child, Daniel. The other boy was hidden inside the house, like a shameful secret. The mother died a few months later, from what the death certificate says were natural causes. There is no reason to suspect otherwise.’
Durand interrupted Cluny.
‘We have suggested to the French government that Mme Legrand’s body be exhumed. But after all these years, and with all the people involved gone, it probably won’t be of any significance.’ Durand leaned back in his chair, his face showing that he found such lack of care for details deplorable. He motioned to Cluny to continue. Cluny pretended it was a duty, not a pleasure.
‘The two children grew up under the rigid, obsessive hand of their father, who assumed total responsibility for their education, without any outside interference. No kindergarten, no school, no friends their own age. Meanwhile, he was really becoming maniacal. He might have suffered from paranoia, obsessed with the idea of having ‘enemies’ everywhere outside the home, which becomes a sort of fortress. That’s only a hypothesis, mind you. There is no concrete proof. The only person allowed to have sporadic contact with the outside world, under his father’s strict control, was Jean-Loup. His twin brother Lucien was kept prisoner in the house. His face was not to be seen, a sort of Iron Mask. Both boys were forced to undergo rigid military training, something like what Legrand had taught to secret service agents. That’s why Jean-Loup is so skilled in so many different fields, including combat and concealment. I don’t want to dwell on it too long, but he told me some horrifying details, perfectly in keeping with the personality he developed later.’
Cluny stopped again, as if it woul
d be better for everyone if the details remained known only to him. As for Frank, he was beginning to understand. Or at least he was beginning to imagine, which was more or less what Cluny had had to do. He was narrating a story that floated in time like an iceberg in the sea, and the part that emerged above the water’s surface was just the tip, a tip covered in blood. It was this tip that the world called No One.
‘I can say that Jean-Loup and his brother had no childhood to speak of. Legrand managed to transform one of the oldest childhood games, the game of war, of playing soldiers, into a nightmare. The experience cemented their relationship. Twins generally have a closer bond than other brothers anyway. There are plenty of examples. And especially since one was obviously handicapped, Jean-Loup took on the task of defending his less fortunate brother, whom his father treated as an inferior. Jean-Loup himself told me that his father’s kindest words were “you ugly monster”.’
There was a moment of silence. Cluny gave everyone time to absorb what he had said. The story they were hearing was confirmation of the trauma Jean-Loup had suffered, but it was beyond what they had imagined. And there was more to come.
‘They had a morbid attachment to each other. Jean-Loup experienced his brother’s distress as if it were his own, but perhaps even more so, more viscerally, because he saw him defenceless before the persecution of his own father.’
Cluny paused again, subjecting them to another nose-pinching ritual. Frank, Roncaille and Durand endured it patiently. He had earned it through his conversations with Jean-Loup, his contact with the darkness of that mind, his attempts to navigate the past in order to explain the present.
‘I don’t really know what set off the episode in Cassis that night so long ago. It might not have been anything special, but simply a series of incidents over time that created the ideal conditions for the tragedy. As you know, a corpse with a disfigured body was found in the burning house.’
Another pause. The psychiatrist’s eyes wandered around the room, not seeking but avoiding the others. As if he were partly responsible for what he was about to say.
‘It was Jean-Loup who killed poor Lucien. His love for his brother was so fierce that, in his deranged mind, he thought that it was the only way to heal him from his “sickness”, as he put it. As if his brother’s deformity was an actual illness. After that symbolic gesture of liberation came the ritual of skinning off the face to free his brother of his deformity. Later, he killed his father and the housekeeper to make the theory of the double murder-suicide seem credible. Then he set fire to the house. I could add the symbolic meaning of catharsis here, but I think it would be useless and rhetorical, not scientific. Then he ran away. I have no idea where he went.’
Roncaille intervened for an instant to bring the story, which was getting more grotesque and bizarre, back to earth.
‘Documents found in Jean-Loup’s house led us to an account in a Zurich bank. It probably contained money deposited by Marcel Legrand – a great deal of money, by the way. Only a code was needed in order to access that money. We’re unclear as to the source of Marcel’s wealth at this stage, and the trail on him has gone pretty cold. Nor do we know where Jean-Loup lived before he showed up in Monte Carlo, but it’s easy to say how. With that much money, he never had to work.’
Then Attorney General Durand had to have his say. ‘Another thing to remember. Since everyone thought that there was only one boy in that house, a body of that age aroused no suspicion. And the fire devastated practically everything inside. There were no traces left. Which is why the case was closed so quickly. When Jean-Loup found out that his brother’s body wasn’t destroyed by the flames, he broke open the grave and stole it from the cemetery.’
Durand fell silent and Frank spoke up.
And the music?’ he asked Cluny.
The psychiatrist took a moment before answering. ‘I’m still working on his relationship with music. Apparently, his father was a passionate fan and an avid collector of rare recordings. It was probably the only luxury he allowed his sons in exchange for what he made them go through. It’s hard for him to talk about it. Whenever I mention music, the subject closes his eyes and becomes completely removed.’
Now they were hanging on his every word. If he noticed, he didn’t show it. He was probably too immersed himself in the story he was telling.
‘I’d like to outline a particularly delicate aspect of the story. Jean-Loup suffers from unconscious feelings of guilt for killing his brother, which he’ll probably never get rid of. He has always believed that the whole world was responsible for Lucien’s death and for all he suffered for his monstrous appearance. And that’s how Jean-Loup evolved into a serial killer: it’s part missionary complex, part desire for power. A complex induced by external forces, by his dysfunctional family and by his obsession with giving some fleeting sense of normality to his brother. The real reason that he killed all those people and used the mask of their faces on his brother’s corpse is that he thought he owed it to him. It was a way of repaying him for everything he suffered.’
Cluny was seated with his legs slightly apart. He lowered his eyes to the table and they were filled with pity when he raised them. ‘Whether we like it or not, everything he did was out of love. An abnormal, unconditional love for his brother.’
He got up from his chair almost immediately, as if finishing his presentation relieved him of a burden that he had no desire to carry alone. Now that he could share it with others, his presence was superfluous.
‘That’s all I have to say for the moment. I’ll have a report ready in a couple of days. Meanwhile, I’ll go on examining him, though we’ve learned almost all we can.’
Roncaille got up and came around his desk to thank the psychiatrist. He shook his hand and walked him to the door. When he passed Frank, Cluny lay his hand on his shoulder. ‘Congratulations,’ he said simply.
‘You, too. And thank you for everything.’
Cluny replied with a grimace that was either a smile or a declaration of modesty. He motioned to Durand who was sitting very still. Durand nodded back. Then Cluny left and Roncaille closed the door gently behind him.
The three men sat in silence, lost in thought. Finally, the attorney general stood up and went to look out of the window. He decided to break the silence from that observation point. He spoke with his back to them, as if ashamed to face them.
‘It seems that the whole business is finished. And it’s thanks to you, Frank. Chief Roncaille can confirm that the Prince himself has asked us to send his personal congratulations.’ Durand’s pause had far less dramatic impact than Cluny’s. He decided to turn around. ‘I’ll be as honest with you as you were with me. I know you don’t like me. You were quite open about it. I don’t like you either. I never did and never will. There are thousands of miles between us and neither of us has the slightest intention of building a bridge. But to be fair, there’s one thing I have to say –’ he took a couple of steps and stood right in front of Frank, putting out his hand – ‘I wish there were a lot more policemen like you.’
Frank stood up and shook Durand’s hand. For now and probably for ever, it was the most the two of them could do. Then Durand went back to being what he was, a distant, elegant political official with a slight claim to efficiency. ‘I’ll leave you now, if you don’t mind. Goodbye, chief. Congratulations to you as well.’
Roncaille waited for the door to close and then his face relaxed considerably. He became less formal, at least.
‘Where to now, Frank? Back to the States?’
Frank made a gesture that could mean anywhere or nowhere. ‘I don’t know. For now I’m just going to have a look around. We’ll see. I have time to decide.’
They said their goodbyes and Frank finally felt authorized to leave. As he put his hand on the doorknob, Roncaille’s voice stopped him.
‘One last thing, Frank.’
Frank didn’t move. ‘What is it?’
‘I just wanted to confirm that I’ve taken car
e of what you asked for in respect to Nicolas Hulot.’ Frank turned and bowed slightly, as one does to a gallant adversary who has proved himself a man of honour.
‘I never had any doubt that you would.’
He left the office, closing the door behind him. As Frank walked down the hallway, he wondered whether or not Roncaille knew that he had just lied through his teeth.
SIXTY-FOUR
Frank walked out into the sun through the main entrance of the Sûreté Publique of the Principality of Monaco. He narrowed his eyes against the sudden brightness, after the dim lights of headquarters. The Frank Ottobre of the past would have been bothered by that total luminosity, that unmistakable sign of life. But not any more. Now all he needed was a pair of sunglasses, and he pulled his Ray-Bans out of his pocket. So much had happened, most of it awful and some of it horrendous. So many people had died. Now and in the past. Among them Nicolas Hulot, one of the few men he had ever known whom he could really call a friend.
Sergeant Morelli was waiting for him on Rue Notari, his hands thrust into his pockets. Frank walked calmly down the steps and joined him, taking off the sunglasses he had just put on. Claude deserved to be able to look him in the eye, without screens or barriers. Frank smiled and wondered if he still possessed a light-hearted tone somewhere.
‘Ciao, Claude. What are you waiting for? Someone stand you up?’
‘No, sir. I only wait for people I know will come. In this case, I was waiting for you. Did you think you could get away with leaving just like that? I’m holding you responsible for a return trip from Nice with a daredevil maniac.’
‘Xavier?’
‘Former Agent Xavier, you mean. At the moment, he’s looking through the classified ads. Landscaping in particular. You know, lawn mowers.’