Irene by Pierre Lemaitre Read Free Book Online Page A

the map. At least until she is found hacked to death in the warehouse apartment in Courbevoie.

16
    Last known address:
cité
Marcel Cachin in Bobigny. A 1970s sink estate with smashed-in doors and ransacked letter boxes, adorned from floor to ceiling with graffiti tags. On the third floor, a door with a spyhole. At the words “Police, open up!”, the haggard face of Évelyne’s mother appears. It is impossible to guess her age.
    “Madame Rouvray?”
    “We’d like to talk to you about your daughter Évelyne.”
    “She doesn’t live here anymore.”
    “Where did … where does she live?”
    “I’ve no idea. I’m not the police.”
    “Well, we are the police, so it’s in your best interests to help us out here … Évelyne’s got herself into trouble, serious trouble …”
    Curious now.
    “What sort of trouble?”
    “We need an address for her.”
    She hesitates. Camille and Louis are still standing on the doorstep. They’re cautious. They’re old hands at this.
    “This is important.”
    “She’s at José’s place. Rue Fremontel.”
    The door is about to close.
    “José who?”
    “I don’t know. Just José.”
    This time, Camille jams his foot in the door. Madame Rouvray isn’t interested in her daughter’s problems. She’s got other fish to fry.
    “Évelyne is dead, Madame Rouvray.”
    In an instant, she is transformed. Her mouth widens into an O, her eyes well with tears, there is no scream, no sigh, just these silent tears and suddenly, inexplicably, to Camille she seems beautiful. There is something about her face, something he saw in young Alice that morning, though Madame Rouvray’s face is not bruised, only her heart. He looks at Louis, then back to her. She is still gripping the door, staring down at the floor. No words, no questions, only silence and tears.
    “We’ll need you to come down to identify the body …”
    She is no longer listening. She looks up again and wordlessly lets them know she understands. The door closes quietly. Camille and Louis, relieved that she did not invite them to come inside, turn to leave.

17
    José, according to the central computer, is José Riveiro, aged twenty-four. A precocious career criminal with a record for car theft and violence, he has been arrested three times. Having spent several months inside for his part in the hold-up of a jeweller’s in Pantin, he was released six months ago and there has been no news of him since. With a bit of luck, he won’t be home and if their luck really holds he’ll be on the run, he’ll be their man. Neither Louis nor Camille believes this for an instant. From his police record, José Riveiro is not some crazed killer with a taste for the high life. In any case, he answers the door wearing jeans and slippers; he is not particularly tall, his sullen, handsome face wears a worried expression.
    “Hello, José. I don’t believe we’ve met.”
    From the moment they clap eyes on each other, it is war between José and Camille. José is a real man. He stares down at this little runt as though he were a piece of dog shit on the pavement.
    This time, Camille and Louis immediately step inside. José asks no questions, he lets them pass, his mind probably working overtime trying to think why the police would show up at his place unannounced. This is all he needs. The living room is tiny, with a small sofa and a television. There are a couple of empty beer bottles on the coffee table, a hideous painting hanging onthe wall, the stink of sweaty socks: obviously a bachelor pad. Camille steps into the bedroom. It’s a pigsty, men’s and women’s clothes strewn everywhere, the décor is creepy, the duvet cover is fluorescent plush.
    José is leaning against the doorframe, tense, spoiling for a fight, determined not to say anything, to put one over on the Feds this time.
    “You live on your own, José?”
    “What’s it got to do with you?”
    “We ask the questions, José. So, do you live alone?”
    “No. I live