The Circle Read Online Free PDF Page A

dresser and, behind a column, a stairway leading to the floor above. The humid air wafted in through the French windows, and Servaz noted that someone had blocked them so they wouldn’t bang.
    A gendarme walked past them; the beam from his torch lit up their silhouettes for a moment.
    â€˜We’re in the process of setting up a generator,’ said Bécker.
    â€˜Where’s the kid?’ asked Servaz.
    â€˜In the van. In safe custody. We’re going to take him back to the gendarmerie.’
    â€˜And the victim?’
    The gendarme pointed to the ceiling.
    â€˜Up there. In the attic. In the bathroom.’
    From his voice, Servaz could tell he was still in shock.
    â€˜Did she live alone?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    Judging from what he had seen from the street, it was a big house: four floors, if you included the attic and the ground floor – even though each level was no more than fifty square metres.
    â€˜She was a teacher, right?’
    â€˜Claire Diemar. Thirty-two years old. She taught I don’t know what in Marsac.’
    Servaz’s gaze met the captain’s in the darkness.
    â€˜The kid was one of her students,’ said Bécker.
    â€˜What?’
    The thunder had drowned out the gendarme’s words.
    â€˜I said, the kid was in one of her classes.’
    â€˜Yes, I know.’
    Servaz stared at Bécker in the dark, both of them lost in thought.
    â€˜I suppose you’re more used to this sort of thing than I am,’ said the gendarme at last. ‘But let me warn you: it is not a pretty sight. I’ve never seen anything so … revolting.’
    â€˜Excuse me,’ said a voice. They turned towards it. ‘May I know who you are?’
    Someone was coming down the stairs.
    â€˜Commandant Servaz, Toulouse crime squad.’
    The man held out a leather-gloved hand. He must have been almost seven feet tall. At the top of his body Servaz could just make out a long neck, a strange square head with protruding ears and hair cut very short. The giant crushed his still-damp hand in the soft leather.
    â€˜Roland Castaing, public prosecutor for Auch. I’ve just had Catherine on the telephone. She told me you were on your way. May I ask who filled you in?’
    He was referring to Cathy d’Humières, chief prosecutor for the Toulouse region, whom Servaz had worked with several times before, in particular on the case that had taken him to the Wargnier Institute a year and a half earlier. Now Servaz hesitated.
    â€˜Marianne Bokhanowsky, the young man’s mother,’ he replied.
    A silence fell.
    â€˜Do you know her?’
    The prosecutor’s tone was slightly astonished and suspicious. He had a deep, solemn voice that rolled over his consonants like the wheels of a cart over pebbles.
    â€˜Yes. A bit. But I hadn’t seen her for years.’
    â€˜So why, in that case, did she call you?’ asked Castaing.
    Once again Servaz hesitated.
    â€˜Undoubtedly because my name has been in the news.’
    For a moment the man remained silent. Servaz could tell that he was examining him, looking down on him from his great height. Even in the dark he could tell the prosecutor’s gaze was on him, and he shivered: the newcomer made him think of a statue from Easter Island.
    â€˜Ah yes, of course … The killings at Saint-Martin-de-Comminges. Of course, that was you … an incredible business. I imagine it must leave a mark, a case like that, Commandant?’
    There was something about the magistrate’s tone that Servaz found extremely unpleasant.
    â€˜That still doesn’t explain what you are doing here.’
    â€˜I told you: Hugo’s mother asked me to come and take a look.’
    â€˜The case has not yet been assigned to you,’ said the magistrate sharply.
    â€˜No, it hasn’t.’
    â€˜It falls within the jurisdiction of the public prosecutor’s office at Auch. Not Toulouse.’
    Servaz almost