Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

‘Of course, M. Baumann,’ she said as if the situation were entirely normal.

A police car was parked outside, even though the station was barely three hundred metres away. The young cop opened the rear door and Manfred got in. Nothing was said on the short drive. Manfred rarely had occasion to ride in a car. The same street that he walked four times a day looked different, as if he were seeing it in a film. The tinted windows of the vehicle had the effect of heightening the colours of the sky and the yellowing leaves on the trees. They pulled up outside the station and the cop led Manfred up the little steps, his hand on his elbow. He resisted the temptation to look around to see if anyone was witness to this humiliating spectacle. Manfred had never set foot in the police station before. Although the facade was shabby, it was a rather grand building by the standards of Saint-Louis. A washed-out tricolour hung limply above the entrance. To the right was a notice board displaying faded recruitment posters for the police and the foreign legion.

The policeman told Manfred to take a seat in the reception area and said something to the officer behind the glass partition. The officer, a man in his fifties with a grey face and a drooping moustache, looked over and nodded disinterestedly. Fifteen minutes passed. The officer with the moustache did not so much as glance in his direction when he appeared at the window to deal with the trickle of callers. An old woman, evidently well-known to the cops, came in to report her dog missing. A delivery driver asked directions. Manfred had taken the seat nearest the door and every time someone entered he had to move his legs to let them pass. He gazed at the dog-eared posters on the wall opposite, urging citizens to keep their houses and vehicles locked and to be vigilant against crime. After another ten minutes, Gorski arrived. He did not greet or even appear to notice Manfred. He tapped his keys on the window and someone buzzed open the door to the right.

Another few minutes passed. Manfred wondered if he should ring the bell and remind the desk sergeant that he was here. That was what an innocent man would do. Someone with nothing to hide, someone who was assisting the police with their enquiries would not sit meekly waiting to be called. He decided to give it another five minutes. Above the window was a circle of clean paint where there had once been a clock. The telephone on the counter rang. The grey-faced officer answered, his eyes staring blankly at Manfred while he spoke. He took down an address and promised to send someone round. Then he disappeared. Manfred heard an outburst of laughter. He imagined the cops behind the partition discussing how long they could make him wait. He felt his face colour and resolved to get up and ring the bell. As he was getting to his feet, Gorski appeared at the window. He had probably been clandestinely observing him.

‘Monsieur Baumann,’ he said, ‘please come through.’ He pressed a buzzer to open the door and ushered Manfred along a stale-smelling corridor into an interview room. He indicated that Manfred should take the seat with his back to the door and sat down opposite him. There was a tape recorder on a second table against the wall. Gorski did not switch it on. He put his elbows on the table and exhaled theatrically as if contemplating how to begin. He clasped his fingers together and rested his chin on them.

‘Monsieur Baumann,’ he began, ‘I’ve asked you to come to the station because I wanted to give you the opportunity to correct the version of events you have given me.’

Manfred remained silent.

‘It seems to me that…’ he made a show of weighing his words carefully, ‘…that you must have been mistaken in some of the things you have told me.’

Manfred did not know what to say. Be sure your sins will find you out, one of his grandfather’s favourite aphorisms, ran through his mind. Perhaps now was the moment to admit that he had seen Adèle. What, after all, would come of it? Certainly he could be accused of wasting police time, perhaps even obstructing the investigation, but such things were bureaucratic matters rarely resulting in charges. In truth, it would be a relief to admit to something Gorski clearly already knew, even if there were repercussions. And the repercussions of sticking to his story were undoubtedly worse. Clearly there must have been some development. Why else would Gorski have summoned him?

Before Manfred had the chance to speak, Gorski nodded curtly. The opportunity was gone. He got up and paced to the side of the tiny room.

‘You recall, of course,’ he continued, ‘that before her disappearance, Adèle Bedeau was seen in the company of a young man.’

Manfred nodded.

‘This young man — an Alex Ackermann — has now come forward. He came to see me because he was rightly concerned that he was a suspect in the disappearance of the girl. He seemed sincere in his desire to provide information and, without burdening you with details, initial enquiries appear to bear out his story. There are, however, a couple of points which require clarification.’

He paused. Manfred’s mouth was dry. Gorski’s pedantic manner irritated him. Why didn’t he just come out with whatever it was he had up his sleeve? It was too late now to admit that he had seen the young man. It would appear that he was only doing so because he had been cornered. And in any case, who was to say that Gorski would believe what he had to say? Had he not already proved himself to be a liar. Now anything he said would be treated with scepticism.

Gorski resumed his seat.

‘According to Ackermann, on the Wednesday night when he met Adèle, she was in the company of another man. He described the man as being in his late thirties, about one-eighty, with short dark hair, wearing a dark suit and tie and a light raincoat.’ Gorski widened his eyes and held out the palms of his hands. ‘So you can see why I am confused.’

‘That description could fit any number of people.’

Gorski tipped his head as if to concede the point. ‘What were you wearing that night?’

Manfred did not answer. He was surprised at the number of thoughts that could flash through his mind in a short space of time. He could affect surprise: Yes, of course, I remember now! I did walk a little way with Adèle that night. How stupid of me to have forgotten! But Gorski would never fall for such a ploy. Perhaps, it was time for outrage. He was an upstanding member of the community, a professional person with not a blemish on his record, he had had enough of Gorski’s insinuations. But Manfred lacked the decisiveness for either course. Instead he just sat there, awaiting the inevitable.

‘I simply want you to admit that you saw the girl on the night in question, so that we can move on,’ said Gorski.

‘He must be lying,’ Manfred said.

Gorski shook his head slowly. ‘It would be something of a coincidence, I think you’d agree, if he invented this figure who just happened to match your description. In any case, having come forward of his own volition, why would he lie?’

‘Perhaps he wanted to throw suspicion on someone else.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Gorski, as if he and Manfred were all of a sudden engaged in mutually trying to solve a puzzle. ‘But it’s an interesting question nevertheless: why would he lie? You’d agree, I imagine, that if a person lies they must have some reason for doing so.’

He let this last comment hang in the air for a few moments.

Manfred stared at the table. It had a chipped formica top and a metal rim. Previous visitors had scratched their names on the surface. It seemed a curious place, Manfred thought, to advertise one’s presence. Gorski sighed, leaned forward over the table.