Among the many stories those walls could have told, there was now a new one: the story of an unexpected consultation late one winter evening.
‘I still can’t believe you’re here,’ Flores admitted, with a hint of embarrassment. ‘My wife and I have seen you so many times on TV. You’re a celebrity.’
Vogel merely nodded. He certainly seemed to be in a confused state – unless he was a consummate actor.
‘Are you sure you feel all right?’
‘I’m fine,’ Vogel replied in a thin voice.
Flores moved away from the heater and went and sat down behind the desk, in the armchair that over the years had taken on his shape. ‘You were lucky, you know. On my way here, I passed the scene of the accident. You ended up on the right side of the road. True, there’s quite a deep ditch, but on the other side there’s a ravine.’
‘The fog,’ Vogel said.
‘Yes, a freezing fog. You don’t see them often. It took me twenty minutes to get here, usually it’s less than ten by car from my house.’ Then he put both his elbows on the arms of his chair and sank back. ‘We haven’t yet introduced ourselves: I’m Dr Auguste Flores. Tell me, what should I call you? Special Agent Vogel, or just Signor Vogel?’
Vogel seemed to give this a moment’s thought. ‘You choose.’
‘I don’t think a police officer ever loses his rank, even when he stops practising his profession. So for me, you’re still Special Agent Vogel.’
‘If you prefer it that way.’
Dozens of questions were crowding into Flores’s mind, but he knew he had to choose the right ones to start. ‘Frankly, I wasn’t expecting to see you around here any more. I thought you went back to the city some time ago, after what happened. Why have you come back?’
Special Agent Vogel slowly passed his hands over his trousers, as if trying to remove non-existent dust. ‘I don’t know.’
That was all he said. Flores nodded. ‘I understand. Did you come alone?’
‘Yes,’ Vogel replied, and it was clear from his expression that he hadn’t understood the meaning of the question. ‘I’m alone.’
‘Does your presence here have anything to do with the missing girl?’ Flores ventured. ‘Because I seem to remember you were removed from the case.’
These words evidently awakened something in Vogel, who seemed to Flores to get on his high horse, as if his pride were wounded. ‘Why are you detaining me? What do the police want with me? Why can’t I leave?’
Flores tried to summon up all his reserves of patience. ‘You had an accident this evening, Special Agent Vogel.’
‘I know that,’ Vogel replied angrily.
‘And you were alone when it happened, is that right?’
‘I already told you that.’
Flores opened a drawer in his desk, took out a little mirror and placed it in front of Vogel, who didn’t seem to take any notice. ‘And you emerged unscathed. No injuries whatsoever.’
‘I’m fine, how many times are you going to ask me that?’
Flores leaned towards him. ‘Then explain something to me. If you’re unscathed, whose blood is that on your clothes?’
Suddenly, Vogel didn’t know what to say. The anger evaporated, and his eyes came to rest on the mirror that Flores had put in front of him.
Now he had to see them.
Little red stains on the cuffs of his white shirt. A couple of bigger ones over the stomach. A few darker ones, less visible because of the colour of the suit and the coat, but noticeable from the thicker texture. It was as if Vogel was seeing them for the first time. But part of him knew they were there, Flores was sure of that. Because Vogel wasn’t unduly surprised and didn’t immediately deny their presence.
There was a different light in his eyes now, and his confused state started to fade as if it were fog. But the real fog was still there, outside the window of the office, hanging over the world.
The night everything changed for ever had only just begun. Vogel looked Flores straight in the eyes, suddenly lucid.
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I think I owe you an explanation.’
25 December
Two days after the disappearance
The fir woods clung to the mountain slopes like the serried ranks of an army preparing to invade the valley. The valley was as long and narrow as an old scar, and through it ran a river. The river was an intense green, sometimes placid, at other times treacherous.
That was where Avechot was, bang in the middle of this landscape.
An Alpine village a few kilometres from the border. Houses with protruding roofs, a church with a steeple, a town hall, a police station, a small hospital, a school, a couple of bars and a sports stadium.
The woods, the valley, the river, the village. And a huge mine like a monstrous futuristic scar on the past and on nature.
There was a restaurant just outside the built-up area, by the side of the main road.
From the window, you could see the road and the petrol pump. Over it was a neon sign wishing passing motorists HAPPY HOLIDAYS. Inside, though, the letters were the other way round, which resulted in a kind of incomprehensible hieroglyphic.
In the restaurant, thirty-odd blue Formica tables, some hidden inside booths. They were all laid, but only one was occupied. The one in the middle.
Special Agent Vogel was alone, eating a breakfast of eggs and smoked pancetta. He was wearing a lead-grey suit with an olive-green waistcoat and a dark blue tie, and hadn’t taken off his cashmere coat to eat. He sat bolt upright, his gaze fixed on a black notebook in which he was writing with an elegant silver fountain pen that he put down on the table every now and again in order to take a forkful of food. He alternated the gestures at precise intervals, diligently respecting a kind of inner rhythm.
The elderly proprietor wore a grease-stained apron over a red and black checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He left the counter and approached with a newly made pot of coffee. ‘To think I didn’t even want to open today. I said to myself: Do you really want to come here on Christmas morning? This place used to be full of tourists, families with children … But ever since they found that fluorescent crap, things have changed.’ He uttered these words as if regretting a distant, happy era that would never return.
Until just a few years earlier, life in Avechot had been quiet and uneventful. People lived off tourism and selling craftwork. But one day, someone from outside had come in and speculated that beneath those mountains lay a fair-sized deposit of fluorite.
The old man was right, Vogel thought: ever since then, things had changed. A multinational had arrived and purchased the lands above the deposit, paying the various owners handsomely. Many had become rich overnight. And those who hadn’t been lucky enough to own one of the lots had found themselves suddenly impoverished because the tourists had disappeared.
‘Maybe I should make up my mind to sell this place and retire,’ the man continued. Then, shaking his head irritably, he topped up Vogel’s coffee, even though he hadn’t been asked to. ‘When I saw you coming, I thought you were one of those salesmen who come in every now and again to try and flog me their cheap rubbish. Then I realised … You’re here because of the girl, aren’t you?’ With an almost imperceptible movement of his head, he indicated the flyer on the wall next to the front entrance.