Lullaby - Leila Slimani Page 0,63

d’Hauteville and they will begin the reconstruction. Nina has informed the investigating judge, the prosecutor, the lawyers. ‘I will play the nanny,’ she said. Nobody dares contradict her. The captain knows this case better than anyone. She was the first to reach the crime scene after the phone call from Rose Grinberg. The music teacher screamed: ‘It’s the nanny! She killed the children.’

That day, the policewoman parked outside the apartment building. An ambulance had just left. They were taking the little girl to the closest hospital. Already the street was filled with onlookers, fascinated by the screaming of sirens, the urgency of the medics, the paleness of the police officers’ faces. Passers-by pretended to wait for something; they asked questions as they stood in the doorway of the baker’s or under a porch. A man, lifting his arm above the crowd, took a photograph of the building’s entrance. Nina Dorval had him removed.

In the stairwell the captain walked past the medics who were evacuating the mother. The accused was still upstairs, unconscious. In her hand she held a small white ceramic knife. ‘Take her through the back door,’ Nina ordered.

She entered the apartment. She assigned each person a role. She watched the forensics experts working in their baggy white overalls. In the bathroom she took off her gloves and leaned over the bathtub. She began by dipping her fingertips into the cold, murky water, tracing ripples, setting the water in motion. A pirate ship was taken by the waves. She couldn’t make up her mind to remove her hand; something was drawing her into the depths. She submerged her arm up to her elbow and then up to her shoulder, and that was how the forensics officer found her: crouching down, sleeve soaked. He asked her to leave; he was going to make an inspection.

Nina Dorval wandered around the apartment, Dictaphone pressed to her lips. She described the premises, the smell of soap and blood, the noise of the television and the name of the programme that was on. No detail was omitted: the open glass door of the washing machine, with a crumpled shirt hanging out of it; the full sink; the children’s clothes strewn across the floor. On the table were two pink plastic plates containing the dried-out remains of lunch. The police photographer took a picture of the pasta shells and the pieces of ham. Later, when she knew more about Louise, when she’d heard all the stories about the obsessively tidy nanny, Nina Dorval was surprised by the disorder of the apartment.

She sent Lieutenant Verdier to the Gare du Nord to meet Paul, who was coming back from a business trip. He’ll know how to deal with the situation, she thought. He’s an experienced man; he’ll find the right words; he’ll manage to calm him down. The lieutenant got there very early. He sat sheltered from the draughts of air and watched the trains arrive. He wanted to smoke. Passengers jumped down from a carriage and started running, in clusters. They probably had to catch a connecting train. The lieutenant watched as they passed, this crowd of sweating people: women in high heels, clutching their handbags to their chests; men shouting, ‘Get out of the way!’ Then the London train arrived. Lieutenant Verdier could have walked to the carriage where Paul was sitting but he preferred to stand at the end of the platform. He watched the father of the dead children coming towards him, headphones covering his ears, carrying a little bag. He didn’t move to intercept him. He wanted to give him another few minutes. Another few seconds before abandoning him to an endless night.

The policeman showed him his badge. He asked Paul to follow him, and at first Paul thought it was a mistake.

*

Week after week, Captain Dorval went over the course of events. Despite the silence of the nanny, who did not come out of her coma, despite the corroborating testimonies about this perfect nanny, she told herself she would find the flaw. She swore she would understand what had happened in this warm, secret world of childhood, behind closed doors. She summoned Wafa to police headquarters and questioned her. The young woman couldn’t stop crying; she didn’t manage to articulate a single word and in the end the policewoman lost patience. She told her that she couldn’t care less about her situation: her papers, her work contract, Louise’s promises, Wafa’s naivety. All she wanted to know was whether she had seen