The Girl in the Fog Page 14

  Martini wondered if this was just a trick to make him think that there was nothing to fear, because the officer had known from the start what his name was. ‘Yes, that’s me,’ he confirmed.

  ‘I imagine you must be wondering why we stopped you. We’re doing some random checks. This’ll only take a few minutes.’

  ‘Is it about the missing girl?’

  ‘Do you know her?’ the officer asked abruptly.

  ‘She’s the same age as my daughter and attends the school where I teach, but honestly I don’t remember her.’

  The young officer paused for a moment and Martini had the impression that he was studying him. Then Borghi resumed speaking with the same cordiality as earlier. ‘I’m going to ask you a typical police question.’ He smiled. ‘Where were you on the twenty-third of December at five in the evening?’

  ‘In the mountains,’ Martini immediately replied. ‘I was away for several hours and got back home in time for dinner.’

  ‘Are you a climber?’

  ‘No, I love hiking.’

  Borghi gave a grin of approval. ‘Good heavens. And whereabouts did you go hiking on the twenty-third?’

  ‘I went up to the pass and then chose a route on the eastern slope.’

  ‘Was anyone with you? A friend, an acquaintance?’

  ‘No, nobody. I like walking alone.’

  ‘Did anybody see you, another hiker, someone looking for mushrooms perhaps, anyone who could confirm where you were?’

  Martini thought about this and said, ‘I don’t think I came across anybody on the twenty-third.’

  Another silence. ‘What did you do to your hand?’

  Martini looked at the bandage on his left hand, as if he had forgotten it. ‘I slipped. Actually, that was the day it happened. I took a wrong step, and to break my fall I instinctively grabbed hold of a branch that was sticking out of the ground. It’s taking quite a while to heal.’

  Borghi studied him some more. Martini felt a sense of unease. Then Borghi smiled again. ‘Good, we’re finished,’ he said, and gave him back his papers.

  Martini was surprised. ‘Is that all?’

  ‘I told you it’d only take a few minutes, didn’t I?’

  Borghi got up and Martini followed suit. They shook hands.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Signor Martini.’

  For dinner this evening, Clea had made roast chicken and fried potatoes, the family’s favourite dish. When something wasn’t going well, or when they wanted to reward themselves, the Martinis always tucked into a nice chicken.

  He didn’t know why his wife had chosen chicken tonight, maybe it was to celebrate the fact that things were on an even keel with Monica again. He hadn’t told Clea what had happened on New Year’s Eve, hoping his daughter would. She hadn’t had the courage to do so, but her sense of guilt had led to a rapprochement with her mother.

  There was a new atmosphere in the house. At last, the dinner table was the scene of lively chatter. The subject was the neighbours. The Odevises were the object of amused scorn. Clea and Monica were laughing at them, couldn’t stop talking about them. Fortunately, Martini thought. That way, they wouldn’t notice his silence.

  After leaving the police station, he had driven home feeling quite relaxed. But, as the hours had passed, strange questions had started to take shape in his head. Why had they let him go so soon? Was he really to believe that Officer Borghi’s kindness was genuine? Had the fact that he had no way of proving his own ‘alibi’ for the day of the disappearance roused their suspicions?

  After dinner, he tried to correct some of his class’s homework, but his mind continued to wander. He went to bed about eleven, aware that sleep would be a long time coming.

  Everything’s going to be fine, he told himself as he slid under the blankets. Yes, it’ll all be fine.

  ‘Are you a climber?’

  ‘No, I love hiking.’

  ‘Good heavens. And whereabouts did you go hiking on the twenty-third?’

  ‘I went up to the pass and then chose a route on the eastern slope.’

  ‘Was anyone with you? A friend, an acquaintance?’

  ‘No, nobody. I like walking alone.’

  ‘Did anybody see you, another hiker, someone looking for mushrooms perhaps, anyone who could confirm where you were?’

  ‘I don’t think I came across anybody on the twenty-third.’

  ‘What did you do to your hand?’

  Vogel stopped the video of the interrogation, freezing a closeup image of Loris Martini. He turned to Borghi and Mayer. ‘No alibi, and a wound on the hand,’ he said triumphantly.

  ‘But he has an unblemished record,’ Prosecutor Mayer objected. ‘There’s nothing to suggest he’s capable of a violent act.’

  Having viewed all Mattia’s videos, Vogel had become convinced that the boy really had supplied them with the lead they were looking for. He was their star witness. He and his mother had been taken to a protected location.

  Then they had immediately started keeping track of Martini. They had practically never let him out of their sight in the last seventy-two hours. They had watched him from a distance, filmed him in secret, noted down everything he did. Nothing unusual had emerged, but Vogel had certainly not been expecting that they would find ironclad proof so soon. And besides, it was often necessary to give things a little push in these cases. That was why he had arranged that morning’s fake roadblock. First, though, he had brought Mattia out of his refuge and explained to him exactly what he should do when he saw Martini on the street. He needed facial recognition.

  While Martini had stood there wondering why the boy had sped away when he saw him outside the DIY store, Vogel had been watching him from an unmarked police car, analysing his every expression.

  Taking him to the station and making him wait alone in a dusty records room for forty minutes had been a way to put pressure on him. Borghi had played his part well. He had been polite, he had appeared satisfied with the answers. But the questions hadn’t been formulated in such a way as to force the suspect into contradicting himself, only to arouse doubts in him.

  All this would bear fruit in the following hours, Vogel was convinced of it.

  Mayer was rather less so. ‘Do you know how many of the people we’ve questioned informally in the last few days have no credible alibi for the twenty-third of December? Twelve of them. And four of those twelve actually have criminal records.’

  Vogel had expected the prosecutor’s scepticism. But as far as he was concerned, Loris Martini fitted the profile. ‘Invisibility is a talent,’ he said. ‘It requires self-control and a lot of discipline. I’m convinced that Martini has often committed terrible acts in his mind, wondering each time if he would be capable of them in reality. Monsters aren’t born. It’s like with love, you need the right person … When he met Anna Lou, he finally realised what his true nature was. He fell in love with his own victim.’

  Borghi listened to this exchange without commenting. If he were to trust his own instinct, he would have sworn that the teacher had seemed much too calm during their encounter.

  ‘You said a while back that Anna Lou probably knew her kidnapper and had no qualms about going with him,’ Mayer said. ‘But we’re not even sure the two of them did know each other.’

  ‘Martini teaches in the same school the girl attended. She must have known him by sight at least.’

  ‘Anna Lou may well have known who he was, but would she have trusted him? It takes much more than a casual acquaintance to persuade a girl to get in a car when it’s dark out. Especially if the girl in question has been brought up to spend as little time as possible with anyone outside the brotherhood. And I don’t think this Martini fellow is a member.’

  ‘Then how do you explain Mattia’s videos?’

  ‘That footage isn’t proof, not yet anyway, as you know perfectly well.’

  But it’ll become proof, Vogel thought.

  And he gave another glance at the still image of th
e man’s face.

  Yes, Loris Martini was perfect.

  5 January

  Thirteen days after the disappearance

  The yellow light of dusk formed a kind of blue aura around the contours of the mountains.

  Martini was driving along the main road in the four-by-four, his wife beside him. The heating was on and rumbled a little, but the car was pleasantly warm. Clea had stopped talking some minutes earlier and seemed to be enjoying the lethargy of this relaxed atmosphere. Every now and again, Martini would turn to her and she would respond to his gaze with a smile. ‘That was a good idea of yours,’ she said. ‘We hadn’t been to the lake in ages.’

  ‘Not since last summer,’ he replied. ‘But I think it’s lovelier in winter.’

  ‘I agree.’

  They had spent the entire day by a lake located high in the mountains. To reach it, you had to hike for a couple of hours. It wasn’t a difficult route, unlike those he usually took. Clea wasn’t used to hiking, which was why he had chosen that itinerary. In the woods, little rivers and streams intersected with the path, which was cleared frequently to allow hikers to reach their goal. The unusual absence of snow in the region made the climb easier. The reward, once you got to the top, was the view of a small valley surrounded by rocky peaks, not far from a huge glacier. At the foot of this was a very clear stretch of water, its surface sparkling with golden light. All around, a forest of rhododendron trees, whose foliage in summer was bright red. Next to the lake was a mountain hut where you could eat. The menu consisted of only three dishes, all local. Martini and his wife went there for the vegetable soup and black bread in particular. The hours had passed quickly, and by the time they had got back to the car, it was almost dark.

  ‘What are you thinking?’ Clea asked. It seemed a harmless enough question.

  ‘Nothing.’ He was sincere. The thoughts that had been disturbing him, even just a day earlier, had all faded, and now he was calm again. But he hadn’t told her about the roadblock, or about the interrogation – if you could call it that – that he had been subjected to.

  ‘You should cut your hair,’ she said, passing a hand through his layer of chestnut curls.

  Martini liked his wife’s little attentions. They made him think she hadn’t given up on him. ‘You’re right, I’ll go to the barber tomorrow.’

  They were happy, but also tired. They both looked forward to getting home and having a nice shower. Martini, though, noticed that the fuel gauge had lit up on the dashboard. ‘I have to fill her up.’

  ‘Can’t you put it off until tomorrow?’ Clea asked. She really didn’t want to stop.

  ‘Unfortunately not.’

  About ten kilometres further on, he spotted a service station. When he turned off the road, though, he realised that it was full of cars and camper vans. Strange – usually this wasn’t a busy area. The missing girl, he thought. They’ve come here to snoop.

  There was a party atmosphere. They had come in groups and the clamour of people and children was almost unbearable. When his turn came, Martini served himself from the self-service pump. Then he went inside the restaurant to pay. He queued at the cash desk, where a young girl was trying her best to keep things moving. On a shelf high up in a corner near the ceiling was a TV set. The voices of the people crowding the place drowned out the sound of the set, but images from the umpteenth item about Anna Lou Kastner flashed on the screen. Martini snorted in annoyance and looked away.

  At last, it was his turn to pay. ‘I filled her up from number eight,’ he told the cashier.

  ‘You’re from around here, I suppose,’ the girl said, checking the amount on a computer. Her tone was exasperated.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘I saw you snorting just now.’ Then she added in a low voice, ‘My boss is happy with all these people, he says it’s good for business, but I go home in the evening with my feet burning and a headache you wouldn’t believe.’

  Martini smiled. ‘Maybe it won’t last much longer.’

  ‘Let’s hope not, but today was a special day: the TV channels seem to have gone mad. All they do is show the same images.’

  ‘What images?’

  But the cashier had been distracted from her activities and the queue was getting longer. ‘Sorry, you did say number eight?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  She turned to the window of the restaurant, through which his white four-by-four could clearly be seen. Then she looked at Martini again with a puzzled expression on her face.

  ‘Is there some problem?’

  The cashier looked up at the television set. Martini did the same.

  On the screen were images from an amateur video. Anna Lou captured at various moments: walking alone along the street with her brightly coloured satchel and a bag with her ice skates; in the company of a friend – Martini immediately recognised Priscilla; coming out of her house with her younger brothers. In each case, the image froze and there was a zoom in on a white four-by-four always visible in the background, a few metres away.

  Martini realised that this was what the networks had been showing all day. It was the same thing that had drawn all these people to Avechot. A lead at last. A white four-by-four just like his.

  No, it wasn’t ‘just like’ his: it was his.

  The scoop was due to the famous TV reporter Stella Honer. Superimposed on the screen were the words THE TURNING POINT: SOMEONE WAS FOLLOWING HER.

  Martini left a fifty-euro note on the counter – a lot more than he had to pay – and quickly left the queue, ignoring the cashier’s stunned expression. He hadn’t yet reached the exit when he saw someone pointing at something through the windows.

  ‘Hey, that’s the car!’ someone else cried.

  In the meantime, a small group of men had formed outside, behind the four-by-four. They were checking the licence number. Luckily, Clea, still sitting inside, was busy sending a text message and hadn’t noticed a thing. Martini started walking faster, while those present all turned to watch him. When he got to the four-by-four, he quickly climbed in.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Clea asked, seeing how agitated he was.

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ he said. Without wasting any more time, he put his key in the ignition. His hands were trembling so much, the car wouldn’t start. Meanwhile, people had surrounded them – men, women and children. In their eyes was the same mixture of surprise and fear he had seen in the cashier’s eyes. If one of them decides to do something, the others will follow suit, Martini thought, terrified. At last, he managed to start the car and pull out. He immediately turned onto the main road, then glanced in the rear-view mirror. They were still there, standing staring at him threateningly.

  ‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?’ Clea asked again, alarmed.

  He didn’t have the courage to turn and look at her. ‘Let’s go home.’

  On their way home, he couldn’t avoid the barrage of questions his wife threw at him. He tried to explain the situation, even though he didn’t entirely understand it himself.

  ‘What do you mean, they stopped you?’

  ‘Two days ago. It was a roadblock.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘Because I didn’t think it was important. They stopped a lot of people, not just me. People I know,’ he lied.

  When they finally reached their destination, Martini expected to find the police waiting. Instead, the street outside their house was strangely deserted. There wasn’t a soul in sight, but he still hurried his wife out of the car. ‘Quick, let’s get in the house.’

  They walked in to find their daughter standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the TV screen. ‘Mummy, what’s going on?’ She was scared. ‘They’re saying the missing girl … Someone was following her … They keep showing a car that looks like ours.’

  Clea embraced Monica, not knowing what to say, then looked to her husband to say something. But Martini couldn’t move from the corridor. ‘I don
’t know, I don’t understand,’ he murmured. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  The white four-by-four appeared on the screen.

  ‘But that’s our car.’ Clea was incredulous and upset.

  ‘I know, it’s crazy,’ Martini said as Monica started to cry. ‘I told you: I was at the police station, they asked me some questions and then let me go. I was convinced there was no problem.’

  ‘You were convinced?’ There was accusation in Clea’s tone.

  Martini seemed increasingly agitated. ‘Yes, they asked me where I was when the girl disappeared. Things like that.’

  Clea fell silent for a few seconds, as if trying to remember. ‘You were in the mountains that day. You came back in the evening.’ She sounded calm enough, but deep down she was starting to realise that her husband didn’t have an alibi. ‘Yes, they made a mistake,’ she said firmly, because she couldn’t imagine any other hypothesis. ‘Now call the police and demand an explanation.’ Determined as she was, though, there was uncertainty there, too.

  At last, Martini managed to advance into the living room. He reached the telephone and dialled the number. At the other end, they answered after a moment or two.

  ‘This is Loris Martini. I’d like to speak to the officer I saw the other day, please. I think his name was Borghi.’

  As he waited for them to put him through, he turned and looked at his wife and daughter. They clung together, confused and afraid. It hurt him to see them in that state. But the worst of it was the feeling that this embrace excluded him. It was as if they had already decided to keep their distance from him.

  Minutes passed, then a voice said, ‘Borghi here.’

  ‘Can you tell me what’s going on? Why my car is on TV?’ Martini was beside himself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Borghi said in a flat tone. ‘There was a leak. It shouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘A leak? Am I accused of something?’

  There was a brief silence at the other end. ‘I can’t tell you anything else. We’ll call you, but my advice is to get yourself a lawyer. Good evening.’