Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

‘After this mysterious figure walked off — in the direction of your apartment, I might add — Ackermann asked Adèle who he was. She replied that he was a customer from the restaurant and that he “gave her the creeps”.’

Manfred felt like he had been kicked in the stomach. He gave her the creeps . The phrase made him nauseous. Why would Adèle say such a thing? Their relations had always been polite, cordial even. He had never treated her with anything other than courtesy. If anything, he had gone out of his way to be pleasant in order that she would understand that he did not look down upon her as a mere waitress. On top of that, on the night in question, they had passed a few pleasant moments together and she had called him by his first name. And yet she had told this young upstart that he gave her the creeps. It did not make sense. Perhaps she had said this because in fact she felt some attraction to Manfred and had not wished to arouse the jealousy of her boyfriend. Perhaps he was the hot-headed type and would have made a scene. This tallied with the fact that when they had said goodnight, she had addressed him as monsieur, clearly in an attempt to cast their relationship in a more formal light.

Gorski had paused and was looking at Manfred, but his words had washed over him. He had obviously asked a question.

‘I’m sorry?’ said Manfred. He could hardly explain how offensive Adèle’s words were since he had previously claimed that he had no feelings one way or the other about her. If this were the case, why would he be so concerned with what she thought of him? Or perhaps Gorski had reached the same conclusion about the hurtful words Adèle had used — that there was more to their relationship than either of them wished to admit, something which would be quite understandable given the difference in their ages and standing in the community.

Gorski shook his head. ‘Manfred, I’ve given you every opportunity to put your version of events right. All I want to do is piece together Mlle Bedeau’s movements before she disappeared. By your own admission, on the night in question, you left the Restaurant de la Cloche shortly after the girl. You walked in the same direction, yet you claim to have seen neither Adèle nor this young man. And now Ackermann, who has never seen you before, describes a man precisely answering your description. You must recognise that I can hardly do anything other than conclude that you’re hiding something from me.’

Was it, even now, too late to revise his story?

‘I understand,’ said Manfred.

‘So you maintain that you saw neither Adèle Bedeau nor Alex Ackermann that night?’

Manfred nodded sadly.

Gorski stood up and walked towards the door. Manfred took this to mean the ordeal was over, but he merely shouted along the corridor for two cups of coffee. He sat down again, and the two men waited in silence for the coffee to arrive. Manfred stared at the names on the tabletop. Perhaps like him, these previous occupants of this room felt that they were disappearing into the netherworld of the penal system. The impulse to write a tabletop epitaph to oneself seemed suddenly less strange.

The cop with the drooping moustache brought the coffee in two plastic cups and wordlessly placed some sachets of sugar on the table. Gorski tore three open and emptied them into his cup. Manfred found it incongruous that the detective would load his coffee with so much sugar. He took a sip before resuming, leaning across the table, his face close to Manfred’s.

‘The following night, the night of Adèle’s disappearance,’ Gorski was speaking rapidly now, ‘Ackermann saw the same man pass the park at the Protestant temple, then wait in the shrubbery at the edge of the park until Adèle arrived. When they rode off on his scooter, the man ducked into a doorway, clearly in order to conceal himself.’

Manfred felt his throat tighten. He should say something. What would someone falsely accused say?

‘He must be mistaken.’

‘Mistaken?’ said Gorski. He shook his head slowly.

Manfred did his best to maintain eye contact with Gorski. Then he looked at the table. There was a wasp on the lip of his coffee cup, moving sluggishly as they always did at this time of year. Gorski pushed down on the table, his fingertips evenly spread. He had small delicate hands. The wasp dropped to the table and struggled to right itself. Gorski scraped his chair back, stood up and leant on the wall to Manfred’s right. He adopted a more conversational tone, as if they were two friends passing the time of day over a drink in a bar. That night, he informed Manfred, Adèle and Ackermann had visited what could only be described as a shebeen, where they had drunk a large quantity of alcohol and smoked joints.

‘Afterwards they went to a house party in a basement on Rue de la Gare,’ he went on. ‘To cut a long story short, they had an argument and Ackermann left. That, he claims, was the last he saw of Mlle Bedeau. From what I can gather, she later left the party alone and in a state of some intoxication.’

Manfred lowered his eyes. He took a sip from the plastic cup in front of him. It tasted foul. The wasp was slowly making its way around the metal rim of the table. He was relieved that the interview had at least moved on from his own actions that night. Gorski appeared to be waiting for him to respond, but he said nothing. What could he expect him to say about Adèle’s actions on the night in question?

‘Surely you can see why I’m telling you this,’ said Gorski.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t,’ Manfred replied.

‘Rue de la Gare is not three hundred metres from your apartment.’

‘And?’

‘You say you went home directly that night.’

‘Yes.’

‘What did you do?’

Manfred thought for a few moments. ‘I read for a while, drank a whisky or two and went to bed.’

‘Watch any television?’

‘I don’t own a television.’

‘Make any telephone calls?’

‘No.’

‘Anyone call you?’

‘No’

‘Did you speak to anyone in the building?’

‘No.’

‘So, really you could have been anywhere.’

‘I was at home.’

‘But you couldn’t prove that.’

Manfred shrugged.

Gorski drained the remains of his coffee, placed the cup carefully back on the table.

‘Have you ever harboured any thoughts about Adèle Bedeau?’ he asked.

‘What sort of thoughts?’

Gorski fixed him with his gaze. ‘You know what sort of thoughts, carnal thoughts.’

Manfred could hardly tell Gorski that he spent his evenings surreptitiously spying on her and often went home and masturbated thinking about her heavy breasts and wide behind.

‘Certainly not,’ he said, ‘I have nothing but respect for Mlle Bedeau.’

‘So you think it would be disrespectful to have sexual thoughts about a woman?’

Manfred felt besieged. ‘I don’t think about Adèle Bedeau that way.’

‘Are you a homosexual?’

‘No,’ said Manfred.

‘Some people seem to think you are.’

This came as no surprise to Manfred. He had heard whispers to this effect in the bank. Lemerre often liked to taunt him with such insinuations. He could all too clearly imagine the hairdresser gleefully telling Gorski that he was that way inclined.

‘I’m not queer,’ he said.

‘A pity that,’ said Gorski, ‘since it’s unlikely that a homosexual would be involved in crime like this.’

‘A crime like what?’ said Manfred. He raised his voice slightly. Gorski ignored his question.

‘What about women?’ he went on. ‘Do you have a lover?’

Manfred thought of Alice. He felt suddenly that he would never see her again.

‘No,’ he said.

‘But a man of your age has needs.’