Graeme Burnet - The Disappearance of Adèle Bedeau

THE FOLLOWING DAY MANFRED ROSE at the usual time. He showered, set the coffee on the hob and dressed before sitting down to breakfast. He felt calm. He harboured no bitterness towards Gorski. If anything, it had been a relief to unburden himself. Gorski had made little or no comment as he related his story. He had betrayed no sign of judging him. Still, he was an officer of the law and it was his role to set in motion the mechanisms that the state had evolved to deal with such events. And, naturally, Gorski would use his confession to pin the business with Adèle on him as well. Manfred could hardly blame him. Would he not draw the same conclusions if he were in Gorski’s shoes? But none of that mattered much anymore.

He left the building, as he always did, at 8.15. Despite the events at the Petite Camargue, Manfred still found himself hoping to bump into Alice. Of course, he would not blame her if she were to walk straight past him. On reflection, it was better that he did not see her. He would never see her again. The thought made him sad. Instead of turning right and walking along the Rue de Mulhouse towards the bank he turned left and doubled back behind the building. Some Arabs were already loitering outside the Social Security office. He walked past the play park towards the railway station. It was a crisp, sunny morning. There were a few people around, but nobody gave him a second glance. Why should they? There was nothing remarkable about him and he had always kept himself to himself.

They would not miss him in the bank today. It would be assumed that he was taking care of his grandfather’s affairs. It was quite normal to take a period of leave following a bereavement. Mlle Givskov would relish being left in charge. The Restaurant de la Cloche was another matter. As it was market day, Marie would reserve his table in the corner for 12.30. His non-appearance would certainly be noted. Marie would pass comment on the matter to Pasteur, who would reply with his customary shrug. Next Thursday his table would not be reserved for him and someone else would take his place, most likely ignorant of the fact that they were sitting at Manfred Baumann’s table. The following week, his absence would not even be mentioned.

The station was busy with commuters. Some read newspapers. Others kept their eyes on the platform or occasionally glanced at the departure board. Nobody spoke. As Manfred arrived on platform three a train pulled in. It was for Mulhouse. Several people boarded in an unhurried fashion. The carriages were not crowded. Manfred watched the train slowly pull out, then walked to the far end of the platform where there were fewer people. He was not familiar with the train schedule at this time of day, but another train was sure to arrive presently. It did not matter to Manfred where it was going. He had chosen platform three out of habit, since this was the platform from which trains for Strasbourg departed. It would be a simple matter to step off the platform. It was, after all, an action he had carried out hundreds of time. Today would be no different.

The sun was already warm. Perhaps Manfred should have waited in the shadow of the awning or checked when the next train would arrive, but that had not been part of his plan. In any case he did not want to draw attention to himself by walking back along the platform. He took out his handkerchief and wiped a few beads of sweat from his forehead. He had always disliked standing or sitting in direct sunlight. Years ago he had formed the opinion, rightly or not, that it contributed to the onset of his headaches.

A train approached the platform opposite. Manfred felt a tingling in his stomach. Nobody got off at Saint-Louis. When the train pulled out, the platform was empty, as if a magician had pulled his cloth from a birdcage. Manfred watched the heavy steel wheels of the train slowly pick up speed as the train drew away from the station. It was stupid not to have checked the timetable. Perhaps there would not be another train along for half an hour or more. He would begin to look conspicuous. But the fact that there was still a handful of people waiting suggested that a train would be along soon. Manfred’s gaze followed the tracks beyond the station to the outskirts of the town. In the distance a factory chimney belched grey smoke into the sky. He had been waiting for some ten minutes. Mlle Givskov would be arriving at the bank.

Finally a train pulled into view. It appeared to be travelling exceptionally slowly. Manfred took a few steps back along the platform. He felt light-headed, perhaps on account of the sun. He had no idea if Gorski had any men watching him or whether they would make any attempt to intervene. It did not matter greatly. Manfred stepped up to the edge of the platform. He closed his eyes for a few moments, then felt a disturbance of air in front of his face as the train pulled in and came to a halt. Manfred opened his eyes, feeling as if he had been asleep for a moment. Then, without looking round, he opened the door and stepped onto the train. He did not hear anyone call his name or feel a hand on his shoulder.

The train remained in the station, as it always did, for a minute or two. Manfred’s heart was racing. His brow was prickled with sweat. The other passengers buried their heads in books and newspapers. A man in his fifties stared blankly out of the window, registering nothing that passed before his gaze. Probably he had been making the same journey every day for years. Manfred expected Gorski to board the carriage at any moment and escort him onto the platform. The train seemed to remain stationary for longer than usual. Perhaps the driver had received a radio message informing him that there was a fugitive on board. But the police did not come and, at last, the guard sounded his whistle and the train jolted and eased out of the station. As it cleared, first, the platform and then Saint-Louis, Manfred felt exhilarated. He sat completely still as if any movement would alert his fellow passengers to his presence. They were oblivious to the momentous events to which they bore witness.

The train picked up speed and Manfred watched farm buildings and scrubby fields flash by. And, quite suddenly, he was a fugitive from justice. He had, it appeared, evaded the clutches of the police. It was quite thrilling. All he needed to do when he reached Strasbourg was to change trains. Trains departed Strasbourg for destinations all over France, indeed, for all over Europe. Even if Gorski were to discover Manfred’s absence in the next hour or so, no one appeared to have recognised him as he boarded the train. He would be in the clear.

Of course, there was the matter of money. Manfred had in his wallet sufficient identification to make a large withdrawal from his savings account. But it would not be difficult for the police to trace the time and location of any withdrawals he made. Perhaps a freeze would be placed on his assets. The thing to do was to close his account to cash before he changed trains in Strasbourg. There was a branch of Société Générale on Rue Moll, not ten minute’s walk from the station. He could go there, take care of his business and be back at the station in half an hour. It was an additional risk, but preferable to giving away his whereabouts at a later date. Then he would board the next train out of Strasbourg. It did not matter where the train was heading; in fact, the more arbitrary the destination the better. He must not choose where he was going. He must leave it to chance. In any case, whatever his destination, he would travel on from there. At some point he could buy new clothes and get a haircut. Perhaps he would grow a beard. It was all quite simple. If a dimwit like Adèle Bedeau could disappear without a trace, surely he could do the same? Thousands of people disappeared every year. He had once read a magazine article about it. Within a few weeks he would be forgotten or presumed dead. As far as the state was concerned he would cease to exist.