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here. It was like an influx of the living dead from some B-movie. The media showed up half an hour later. Not to photograph the crime scene, obviously, nor was there to be a press statement, but within hours leaks had sprung and by 2 p.m. it seemed better to make a statement than to leave the media to their own devices. Camille phoned Le Guen from his mobile and explained his concerns.
    “There’s been a lot of talk around here, too,” Le Guen said.
    Camille stepped out of the Courbevoie apartment with only one goal: to say as little as possible.
    There were fewer people than he had expected: twenty or so gawkers, fewer than a dozen reporters and – at first glance – no big names, just freelances and ambulance chasers; it was an unexpected opportunity to defuse the situation and gain a couple of precious days.
    *
    There were two good reasons why Camille was both famous and infamous. His expertise had earned him a solid reputation whichhis height had transformed into notoriety. Though it was difficult for cameramen to frame him, the journalists rushed forward with questions for this diminutive man with his peremptory manner. They found him to be curt but candid.
    *
    On certain occasions – cold comfort, given the many drawbacks – Camille’s physical appearance had its advantages. Once seen, he was never forgotten. He had already refused to appear on various television programmes knowing he had been invited in the hope that he would deliver the stirring monologue of a man “who has brilliantly triumphed over his physical shortcomings”. Clearly, presenters were drooling at the prospect of lead-in footage showing Camille in his Motability vehicle – a car with all the controls on the steering wheel but a police siren on the roof. Camille would have no truck with such publicity – and not just because he hated driving. His superiors were grateful to him for this. Only once had he weakened. A stormy day. An angry day. A day when he would probably have to take the
métro
while people either gawped at him or averted their eyes. He had been invited to participate in a current affairs show on France 3. After the inevitable hand-wringing homily explaining that this was a general interest report he had a duty to represent, the programme researcher had obliquely hinted that Camille stood to gain from it on a personal level, presumably imagining the whole world was desperate for fifteen minutes of fame. This was the day when he had slipped in the bathtub and fallen flat on his face. A miserable day for midgets. He agreed, and his superiors did their best to pretend they were happy for him to appear on the show.
    When he arrived at the studios, already depressed at having given in to temptation, he had to take the lift. A woman jugglingan armful of files and tapes got in with him and asked which floor he wanted. With a stoical look, Camille gestured to the button for the fifteenth floor which was a little beyond his reach. The woman gave him a shy smile, but, reaching for the button, she dropped everything she was carrying. When the lift arrived at its destination, the two of them were still on all fours gathering up papers and stuffing them into files. She thanked him.
    “I have the same problem hanging wallpaper,” Camille reassured her. “Everything goes pear-shaped.”
    The woman laughed. She had a lovely laugh.
    He had married Irène six months later.

8
    The reporters were in a hurry.
    “Two victims,” Camille began. “Who are they?”
    “We don’t know yet. Two women. Young …”
    “How old?”
    “About twenty-five. That’s all we can say for now.”
    “When are they taking the bodies?” a photographer asked.
    “In a while. We’re running a bit late. Technical problems …”
    A pause in the questions, the ideal moment to rush in:
    “I can’t say much right now, but to be honest the case is nothing out of the ordinary. We’ve don’t have much to go on, that’s all. We’llbe making a statement