Under the Channel. Gilles Pétel

mulled it all over. A mafia hit, a dispute over drugs that had gone missing, perhaps, or been sold to the wrong person. Maybe the kid had tried to go it alone and had been busted, in the nastiest possible way. Forensics turned up soon after Roland, taking photographs, checking for fingerprints. The body was inspected from every angle before being sent to the coroner. Roland signed his report and made a run for it, feeling sick at what he had just seen. It was after 8.30 p.m. when he left. By the time he got back to the twentieth arrondissement, the kids would be in bed and Juliette would be fuming. Roland hadn’t had a chance to let her know he would be late. He had got the call to attend the scene while he was packing up for the day, eager to get home to his wife. The beat officer who had rung him had sounded so panicked that the lieutenant had reacted in the same way.

      ‘I found the headless body of a tall black man inside a rubbish container.’

      ‘Shit!’ Roland blurted. ‘On my way.’

      At what point could he possibly have rung his wife?

      Now he was standing with his arms dangling by his sides in the gloom of the corridor, which the light from the living room did little to lift. What a stupid argument about nothing. Roland was on the verge of turning round and leaving. But where to? Neither could he face going into the living room to be glared at. What am I doing here? Some part of him was on its way out. He knew neither which part, nor where it was going. It was like water leaking from a burst pipe. He suddenly pictured a whirlpool. He saw himself trying to swim against the current, being sucked towards an enormous plughole. Then, for no apparent reason, this image led on to another, perhaps to counteract it: a nice shower, which would make him feel better again.

      Roland tiptoed into the bathroom to avoid waking the children. The sight of his own face in the mirror gave him a fright. His features were drawn. The stubbly chin and greasy hair made him appear five years older. He looked awful. He slapped his cheeks. 1) Shave; 2) shower: wash hair and have a rub-down; 3) dry off, moisturise, slap on some after-shave lotion. No. Cologne. Juliette’s most recent gift to him. He wanted to smell nice for her, win her round. Twenty minutes later, Roland stood facing the mirror again. He admired himself, pleased with the results of his efforts. He was peering more closely at his skin when the memory of the torso-man returned, putting an abrupt end to the brief spell of satisfaction. It was shaping up to be a difficult inquiry. The person, or rather persons, who had committed the murder – they were definitely murderers in the plural – the crazy bastards who had cut the kid’s head off were no amateurs. Roland hoped someone else would be put in charge of the case. He had only just wrapped up a delicate fraud investigation involving a number of celebrities. He had tackled the job sensitively and with the utmost discretion. Only two names had got out into the press. He had been congratulated by the public prosecutor. Nice work. Roland looked up. He was smiling again. It was the start of a quiet weekend. He was looking forward to spending time with his children and his wife. It was time he went to find her.

      Dressed in a new pair of jeans and a white shirt, Roland made his entrance into the living room like an actor embarking on his debut performance. He had stage fright. Juliette had put her book down at her feet. She was curled up in the armchair looking determinedly relaxed. The halogen lamp cast a warm glow. A Gustav Mahler concert was playing on the radio that Friday, live from the Royal Albert Hall. Stopping to listen, Roland recognised the piece as the Austrian composer’s symphony Juliette had put on almost every night for the last few months. The music, which Roland found boring, helped her unwind after work, she said. The storm seemed to have passed. Roland hesitated, seized with a feeling of doubt as he looked around the room, closely scrutinising the place they had called home for the past five years. The white walls of the living room had greyed over time. The red sofa had faded, as had the canary yellow armchairs which Juliette had bought to liven up the room. And Juliette herself was perhaps not as beautiful now as Roland wanted to believe she was. Still feeling unsure of himself, stumbling over his lines, he found himself thinking it was about time they gave the living room a fresh lick of paint, and a new set of furniture wouldn’t be a bad idea either.

      ‘Hello, anybody home?’ asked Juliette, level-voiced.

      ‘It’s lovely, what you’re listening to. I haven’t heard this part before,’ he replied, trying to sound interested.

      The brass section tutti of Mahler’s tenth suddenly blasted out. ‘Great,’ thought the lieutenant. ‘Here come the trumpeters of doom.’

      ‘Aren’t you going to eat something?’

      ‘I’m not really hungry. I’ve had a bit of a day of it. Shall we have a whisky?’

      The storm was far off now. If Juliette agreed to this drink, it meant there was light on the horizon. She didn’t jump at the offer.

      ‘I promised myself I wouldn’t drink today.’

      ‘On a Friday night?’ Roland asked incredulously.

      He moved closer, gently placing a hand on her shoulder.

      ‘Alright, just the one.’

      She was backing down.

      ‘Tell me about your day,’ she finally said.

      The following Friday 19 September, Juliette booked a babysitter for the evening. Roland had asked her out for dinner. Juliette agreed without displaying much enthusiasm, but the truth was she was pleased. It was about time her husband tried to patch things up. Roland had been thinking the same thing. He felt it was his job to sort things out. Going for a meal seemed a good solution. He had chosen a nice restaurant in the seventh arrondissement.

      Roland had booked a table for nine o’clock, anticipating he might be late leaving work. As luck would have it, he had only minor matters to deal with that day: break-ins, pickpocketing, fights between junkies at Gare du Nord, credit card fraud and so on. The mystery of the torso-man had been entrusted to one of his colleagues. So in fact Roland arrived home early to find Juliette in the bath. ‘It worked!’ he concluded at once. ‘She’s making an effort. We’re back in business!’ He kissed her neck, complimenting her on the softness of her skin, to demonstrate his desire to win back her affection. She had had an exhausting day. A class of twelve-year-olds she thought she had under control had turned against her. She couldn’t understand why. Was she incompetent? ‘Not just at school, I mean, but generally.’

      ‘Do you still love me?’

      The question caught Roland off-guard. He had been expecting it, hoping for it even, but later – at the end of the meal, for example. He chose to reply with a kiss. Juliette waved him away, smiling.

      ‘Not now.’

      When Juliette had finished in the bathroom, Roland took a quick shower. Cleanly shaven, combed and cologned, he put on a navy blue shirt over a clean pair of jeans. ‘A bit hello-sailor. But, hey, blue does suit me.’

      Juliette was waiting for him in the living room, going over her instructions to the babysitter. Absolutely no sweets. TV off at nine. The girl nodded silently. She was intimidated by Juliette’s elegant appearance.

      Juliette had decided to wear black, perhaps in homage to the famous dress she had been wearing the night she met Roland. Her first thought had been to go for a simple T-shirt, worn without a bra. ‘I can still get away with it,’ she had told herself, running her hands over her breasts in front of the bedroom mirror. Then, less confidently, she had felt her stomach. There was no use lying to herself. It wasn’t flat anymore. ‘I’ll look ridiculous in a tight-fitting top. I’ll bulge out of it. Better not.’ She put the T-shirt back in the cupboard. She might just about be able to wear it on holiday. Or perhaps she should get back to the gym. But when would she find the time? She pored over every inch of her body, as if it belonged to another woman. She had put on a few pounds. Not much. She wasn’t overweight. Just a bit of flab. Her body was just tired. She smiled at her own words. That was it, spot on, exactly the right way to describe it; but try telling that to the cop. Roland didn’t look at her enough. She had let herself go because he wanted her less. Did he want her at all? Juliette brushed away the question. Thankfully her legs were still in good shape. She had always been proud of her long, slender legs. Gazelle legs.