got a cake paper stuck to your left shoe.’
‘A what?’
‘A paper stuck to your shoe.’
‘Oh, thank you.’
Hopping on one foot, he removed the paper from the other shoe, looked around for a waste-paper basket, then crumpled the paper in his hand and put it in his pocket with a shrug of the shoulders.
They passed several canteen trolleys pushed by bored-looking West Indians. Fabien wondered what he would have for lunch; he was hungry. The morgue was right at the other end of the hospital, near the bins. Forlani turned back to Fabien and paused for a moment. ‘Here it is.’
He sounded so serious that Fabien couldn’t suppress the beginnings of a smile. The inspector was like a dwarf on tiptoes. As he pushed open the door, they had to stand aside to let two women pass, one young, the other a bit older, both very pale. The room was reminiscent of an office canteen – vast, with white tiles, glass and chrome. Forlani spoke to two men in short white coats. They glanced briefly at Fabien and pulled the handle of a sort of drawer. Sylvie slid out of the wall.
‘Is this your wife?’
‘Yes and no. It’s the first time I’ve seen her dead. I mean, the first time I’ve seen a dead body. It’s not at all like a living person.’
Forlani and the men in white coats exchanged looks of astonishement.
‘It’s very important, Monsieur Delorme. Do you recognise your wife?’
Of course he recognised Sylvie, but not the smile fixed on her face.
‘Yes, yes, it’s her.’
‘Right. Do you know what her final wishes were?’
‘Her final wishes?’
‘Yes, whether she wanted to be buried or cremated?’
‘I’ve no idea … I imagine like everyone she didn’t want to die at all.’
‘OK, we’ll sort that out later then. Don’t worry, we’ll look after everything.’
‘I’m not worried. I trust you. It’s my first time; I don’t know what to do.’
‘We understand, Monsieur Delorme, we understand. If you’d like to follow me, I have some questions to ask you.’
They went back the way they’d come, still at the jerky pace of the inspector. Fabien felt as if he were watching a film in reverse. Had they not stopped by the coffee machine, he could have gone back in time to before his visit to his father, and found Sylvie fresh and elegant. He wouldn’t have been surprised. Since the previous evening, nothing much surprised him.
‘Sugar?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘So, Monsieur Delorme, you weren’t aware your wife was in the area?’
‘No, she didn’t tell me she was coming here. I thought she would be at home.’
‘In Paris, 28 Rue Lamarck?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Monsieur Delorme, where were you this weekend?’
‘I was visiting my father in Ferranville, in Normandy. I helped him clear out his attic. There was a car-boot sale.’
‘You went on Friday and came back on Sunday evening?’
‘Yes.’
‘You had no idea your wife had come to Dijon?’
‘No, we don’t know anyone here. At least, I don’t.’
Forlani was taking notes in a brand-new 12.50-franc notebook, the price sticker still on it. The cap on his biro was chewed and the stem bent outwards so that he could bounce it on the edge of the table as he was thinking. What was it he was not saying?
‘Monsieur Delorme, do you know if your wife was having an affair?’
‘An affair?’
‘Whether she had a lover?’
‘A lover? What’s that got to do with it?’
‘Your wife wasn’t alone in the car.’
‘Ah.’
‘She was with a man who also died in the accident.’
‘But just because he was in the car with her doesn’t necessarily mean …’
‘Of course not, Monsieur Delorme, but the evening before they went to an inn where they were well known because they’d been there several times. Le Petit Chez-Soi. Have you heard of it?’
‘Le Petit Chez-Soi? No. That’s a horrible name, don’t you think?’
Clearly Forlani had no opinion about the name. He simply made a face as he waved his biro like a rattle.
‘I bet they have lamps made from wine bottles with tartan lampshades.’
‘I couldn’t say, Monsieur Delorme. Perhaps, perhaps they do … Tell me, do you have a car?’
‘No, I don’t drive.’
‘Do you mean that you don’t have a driving licence?’
‘That’s right. I hate cars. With good reason now, wouldn’t you say?’
‘Yes, indeed … In that case I won’t detain you much longer.’
‘Before I go, I’d like to know a bit more about how the accident happened.’
‘Of course. Well, it was on Saturday evening, about eleven thirty, dry, straight road, at the bottom of a hill. The car must have been going quite fast. It crashed into the security barrier on the right and fell into a ravine. Your wife and the man who was driving were coming back from a restaurant in Dijon, but they hadn’t drunk much. Perhaps the driver was taken ill, or perhaps he had to swerve to avoid an oncoming vehicle? There were tyre tracks from another car. They’re being investigated.’
‘What was he called, my wife’s … lover?’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘Perhaps I know him; affairs often develop between friends. And also, we’re sort of related now.’
‘I can’t tell you, Monsieur Delorme. The man is also married.’
‘To one of the women we passed as we went into the morgue?’
‘Well … yes. You should go home now, Monsieur Delorme. We’ll keep you informed.’
‘You’re right … Oh, sorry, I’m so clumsy!’ He had just spilt the remains
