Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

He turned on the shower and stepped into the cabinet before the water reached a comfortable temperature. He imagined a surveillance team making derogatory remarks about the size of his penis. The drumming of the water on the floor of the cabinet was comforting and he was glad when the glass began to steam up. He turned his face to the water and held it there, close to the showerhead. He must put these silly thoughts from his mind. Of course, the technology existed to place people under surveillance in their homes, and no doubt such technology was at the police’s disposal, but the idea that Gorski would have gone to the trouble of breaking into his apartment and fitting concealed cameras was ridiculous. Sketchy as Manfred’s knowledge of the law was, such an operation would surely entail the consent of a magistrate, not to mention the manpower required to install the equipment and monitor the footage. Surely, even if the law permitted it, Gorski would not go to such lengths. On the other hand, perhaps it was precisely this operation which had necessitated his removal to the police station the previous day. Gorski would have had to be certain that Manfred would not suddenly arrive home during the installation of the equipment.

Manfred concentrated on the business of his shower. He shampooed his hair and used a rough loofah on his back before taking the showerhead from its bracket and washing away the lather from the crevices of his body. He stepped out of the cabinet and dried himself. He resisted the temptation to put his robe back on, instead wrapping a clean towel around his waist. He wiped the steam from the mirror above the wash-hand basin. His skin was grey and his eyes were bloodshot. He had inherited his father’s rapid growth of stubble and he enjoyed the ritual of transforming his face each morning. This morning, however, his skin felt loose and his hands were shaking slightly so that he had to take great care not to cut himself. He patted his face dry and walked back along the passage to the kitchen, still with the towel around his waist. He set a pot of coffee on the hob and looked out of the kitchen window over the children’s play park. Perhaps Gorski’s men had taken an apartment in the building opposite and were photographing him through an oversized telephoto lens. The thought caused Manfred a wry smile. The only rooms that overlooked the play park were the kitchen and the bedroom, and he rarely bothered to raise the blind in the bedroom.

He dressed, combed his hair and put on his watch. Back in the kitchen he laid out two croissants in a basket, butter and jam, a plate and a knife. He poured the coffee into a large bowl and sat down at the table. As he ate his breakfast, he looked around the room. There was no sign of his apartment being disturbed, but there was no shortage of places in which a camera could be hidden. Manfred was tempted to get up and start squinting at the light fittings and air vents. But it would be impossible to institute a search thorough enough to convince himself there were no devices in the apartment, and, in any case, would the very fact that he was searching for them not be interpreted as a sign of guilt?

It was 8.07. Manfred forced himself to finish his breakfast at his usual pace and left the apartment, as he always did, at 8.15. He paused at the bank of mailboxes in the foyer. Some leaflets were sticking out of the slat of Alice’s box. It was curious that they had only once encountered each other in the morning. Manfred was quite sure he would have noticed her. And now it appeared that Alice’s mailbox had not been emptied. Probably there was a quite innocent explanation. Perhaps she had gone away or had simply grown tired of discarding the accumulated junk mail.

Outside, Manfred scanned the street for Alice’s sports car. He had not noticed what make it was, but he was sure he would recognise it. Instead of turning right and walking towards the bank, Manfred retraced the route he had followed the morning he had met Alice. Most likely she always parked her car behind the building. Perhaps residents even had designated parking spaces, but Alice’s car was not there. Manfred reprimanded himself for snooping around in this way. Still, as he headed towards the bank, he could not shake the thought that it was strange that he had never once seen Alice before he found her blouse in the dryer. The more Manfred thought about how they had met, the more suspicious it seemed. The fact that he had happened to bump into her only days after the incident in the laundry room seemed too much of a coincidence. Then there was the absurd charade of her finding his gauche conversation amusing. Manfred cursed himself for having been taken in. He had even secretly congratulated himself on being in possession of a certain charm. What a vain, naive fool he was! And worse, he had actually begun to harbour feelings for her. Since they had met, his mood had lightened at the thought of her. And that all this had occurred while the business with Gorski was going on had not caused Manfred even a moment’s pause. When one pieced the thing together it became quite clear that Alice must have been planted by the police in order to inveigle her way into his confidence. Gorski must have a very low opinion of him if he thought he would fall for such an obvious set-up.

Despite this, as he walked to the bank, Manfred could not resist the temptation to scan the streets for Alice’s car. Part of him still wanted to catch a glimpse of her. A brisk breeze rattled the papery leaves of the trees which lined the street. Manfred buttoned his raincoat. To the east, the sky was darkening. The aspirin had had no effect on his headache. Manfred kept his eyes trained on the pavement and quickened his pace. At the bank, he was greeted by silence. The staff made no pretence of continuing their conversation. Perhaps they had assumed he would not appear that morning and that the next they would hear of him would be from the front page of L’Alsace . Manfred did not bother to bid them good morning. He called Carolyn into his office and had her bring him some coffee. It was an aberration from his routine. Normally he waited for her to bring him a cup midway through the morning, but in the current circumstances, it seemed a trifle.

Carolyn looked at him with concern and asked if he was all right. Manfred snapped that he was fine and immediately regretted his harsh tone. When the girl returned with his coffee, he apologised and explained that he had a headache. Carolyn nodded and slunk out of the room as if she was afraid to turn her back to him.

Manfred spent the morning staring blankly at the documents on his desk. It must have been quite obvious that he was not doing any work. Manfred reminded himself of his resolve to act naturally, but his thoughts about Alice had thrown him off kilter. The more he thought about it, the more bloody-minded he felt. He went over and over their encounters in his head and the more he reflected, the more he concluded that it could be nothing other than a conspiracy. The timing and details — the fact, for example, that she had been wearing the pale blue blouse on the morning he had met her — and most of all the idea that a woman like Alice Tarrou would be interested in him, all contended against his desire to believe that she was unconnected to the investigation. Manfred had come across such plots in many a novel. It seemed an unlikely tactic for a provincial police force to employ, but the evidence spoke for itself. His headache increased. Everything he had said to Alice would have been reported back to Gorski, including his ill-judged comments about Juliette. Despite his previous resolve to follow his routine, he decided that he should not have come to work. What would have come of it? What if he had disappeared just as Adèle had done? The bank would still have opened. After a few days, head office would send someone to replace him. There would be some gossip, then it would all be forgotten. He would be forgotten.