"No, I don't think so. Do me a favor and go and wait for me at the gate with the rest."
Grumbling, Sélier went off with his cap pointing skywards. Karim watched him as he walked away, then looked back at the slightly opened door.
He decided to do a little caving. He went in, crouching under the roof, and lit his torch. Down the steps he crept, the gravel creaking under his boots. He felt as though he was breaking an ancestral taboo. He reflected on how he had no religious beliefs and, just then, congratulated himself on that fact. The beam of light was already piercing the gloom. Karim went on, then stopped in his tracks. The little wooden coffin, positioned on two trestles, stood out clearly in the beam from his torch.
His throat like sandpaper, Karim went over and examined the coffin. It measured about six feet. Its corners were topped with mouldings and silver arabesques. Despite possible leakages, the whole thing looked in good condition. He felt its joints and said to himself that, without his gloves, he would never have dared touch that coffin. This sensation of fear irritated him. At first sight, the lid had apparently not been taken off.
He gripped his torch between his teeth and set about a close examination of the screws. But a voice boomed out above him: "Whatcha think you're doing here?"
Karim jumped. He opened his mouth, the torch fell out and rolled onto the coffin lid. As he turned round, the shadows fluttered over him. A man – with low shoulders and a woolly hat – was leaning down through the entrance. The Arab felt for his torch on the ground. He panted:
"Police. I'm a police lieutenant."
The man said nothing, then growled:
"You've no right to be here."
The policeman found his torch and made his way back to the staircase. He stared up at this big sullen character, standing in a frame of light. He must be the cemetery keeper. Karim knew that he was trespassing. Even in such a context, he still needed a written authorisation, signed by the family, or else a special search warrant for tombs. He climbed the steps and said:
"Watch out. I'm coming back up."
The man stood to one side. Karim drank in the sunlight as though it were nectar. He presented his tricolor card and announced:
"Karim Abdouf. From the Sarzac station. Was it you who discovered the profanation?"
The man remained silent. With his colorless eyes, like bubbles in gray water, he observed the Arab.
"You've no right to be here."
Karim nodded absent-mindedly. The morning air was sweeping away his fears.
All right, old pal. Don't make a scene. Policemen are always right."
The old man licked his lips, which were surrounded by stubble. He stank of booze and damp mud. Karim tried again:
"OK, tell me everything you know. What time did you make your discovery?"
The old man sighed:
"I came here at six this morning. There's to be a burial."
"When was the last time you were here?"
"Friday."
"So the vault could have been opened any time during the weekend?"
"Yup. 'Cept, I reckon it was last night"
"Why?”
"Cos it rained Sunday afternoon and there's no trace of dampness inside the vault. So the door must still have been closed." Karim asked:
"Do you live near here?"
"Nobody lives near here."
The Arab glanced round the little cemetery, a paradise of peace and quiet.
"Do you ever get kids hanging out round here?" he pressed on. "No."
"Never any suspicious visitors? Vandalism? Occult ceremonies?"
"No."
"Tell me about this grave."
The keeper spat on the gravel.
"There's nothing to tell."
"It's a bit odd having a vault just for one child, isn't it?"
"Yup, pretty odd."
"Do you know the parents?"
"No. Never seen them."
"You weren't here in 1982?"
"No. And the guy before me's dead." He sniggered. "Even we have to go sooner or later."
"The vault looks well looked after."
"I didn't say no one ever came here. I said I hadn't seen them. I'm experienced. I know how fast stones get worn away. I know how long flowers survive, even plastic ones. I know how the weeds and brambles and all that mess starts growing. So I can tell you that this vault is looked after regularly. Only I've never seen a soul."
Karim had another think. He knelt down and looked at the little frame, shaped like a cameo. Without lifting his eyes, he said to the keeper:
"I've got the impression that the grave robbers stole the photo of the kid."
"Eh? Yeah, maybe they did."
"Do you remember what the kid looked like?"
"No."
Karim stood up, took his gloves off and concluded:
"A team of specialists will be along later today to take fingerprints, and pick up any clues. So, cancel this morning's funeral. Tell them there's work going on, flooding, whatever you like. I don't want anybody in here today, got it? And definitely no journalists."
The old man nodded his head, but Karim was already on his way to the gate. In the distance, a piercing bell was chiming nine o'clock.
CHAPTER 9
Before going back to the station and writing up his report, Karim decided to drop back in at the school. The sun was now dousing the crests of the houses with its yellow rays. Once again, he said to himself that it looked as if it was going to be a lovely day, and the banality of the thought made him retch.
Upon reaching the school, he asked the headmistress:
"Did a little boy called Jude Ithero come to school here during the 1980s?"
Playing with the ample sleeves of her cardigan, the woman simpered:
"Do you already have a lead, inspector?"
"Just answer my question, please."
"Well…We'll have to go and look through the archives."
"Come on then, let's go."
The headmistress led Karim once again to the little office full of plants.
"During the 1980s, you say?" she asked, while running her index finger along the line of registers behind the glass doors.
"1982, 1981, and so on," Karim replied.
He suddenly noticed that she was hesitating.
"What's wrong?"
"How odd. I didn't notice that this morning…"
"What?"
"The registers…The ones for 1981 and 1982…They're missing."
Karim pushed her aside and examined the spines of the brown volumes, piled up vertically. Each one bore a date. 1979, 1980…the next two were indeed missing.
"What do these books contain exactly?" Karim asked, while flicking through the pages of one of them.
"The pupils in each class. Teachers' comments. They're the school's logbooks…"
"If a child was eight in 1980, what class would he have been in?"
"fours élémentaire 2. Or even Moyen 1."
Karim read through the corresponding lists. No Jude Ithero. He asked: "Does the school keep any other documents concerning the years 1981 and 1982?"
The headmistress thought for a second.
"Well…We'd have to look upstairs…The school canteen records, for example. Or the medical reports. They're all kept up in the attic. Follow me. Nobody ever goes up there."
They leapt up the linoleum-covered steps four at a time. The woman seemed highly excited by all this business. They went down a narrow corridor and reached an iron door. The headmistress stopped in front of it in amazement.
"I…I just don't believe it," she said. "This door's been forced open, too…
Karim examined the lock. Broken, but with the same extreme caution. The policeman went inside. It was a large gabled room without any windows, except for a barred-off skylight. Bundles of documents and files were stacked up on metal cases. Karim was struck by the smell of dry, dusty paper.
"Where are the files for 1981 and 1982?" he asked.
Without a word, the headmistress strode off toward some shelving and started rummaging through the heavy bundles and bulging files. Her search took only a few minutes, but her conclusion was categoricaclass="underline"
"They're missing, too."
Karim's skin tingled. The school. The cemetery. The years 1981 and 1982. The name of a little boy: Jude Ithero. All parts of the same puzzle. He asked: