The Red Notebook Read Free Page A

Monsieur,’ suggested the policewoman. ‘It’s at 36 Rue des Morillons, in the fifteenth.’
    When he left the police station he found another text from Maryse: her train had only just started moving again – she would not be there by opening time. Laurent walked past l’Espérance without stopping; he would read his notes on Pichier at work.
    The green dustcart had stopped in front of the apartments and two young refuse collectors plugged into iPods were hooking on the bins, which were then emptied noisily into the truck. There was no doubt that without Laurent, the bag would by now havebeen taken by someone or have ended up in landfill with only flies for company.
    Laurent, the temporary guardian of someone else’s belongings, went up to his apartment, put the bag on the sofa and went back down again to open the bookshop. The day could begin.

     
     
    At twelve-thirty, having read the night porter’s note about a slightly peculiar guest, the two reception staff began to worry. The woman should have left her room long before now, and by midday check-out at the latest. One of the men decided to go up with the master key. Having reached the room, he put his ear to the wooden door and listened for the shower. He couldn’t go striding into a woman’s room and risk catching her coming out of the bathroom naked; this had happened to him once before and he had no intention of making the same mistake again. But there was no sound coming from 52. He knocked several times but receiving no reply, he decided to go in.
    ‘Reception, Madame,’ he said, flicking the light switch. ‘Since you haven’t vacated your room, I took the liberty of—’
    He stopped in his tracks. Laure was sprawled on the bed, her half-naked body lying between the cover and the sheet. With her eyes closed, she appeared to be asleep. He took a step forward. Her head was resting on the pillow.
    ‘Mademoiselle,’ he said loudly, and again, ‘Mademoiselle,’ as he edged towards the bed. He was becoming more and more certain that something was not right. ‘What the hell’s going on?’ he muttered. He said the word ‘Mademoiselle’ once more, knowing it would be met with silence.
    He leant in closer. Her face was perfectly still, the featuresregular and relaxed. In spite of his growing concern, he found himself noticing she was pretty before forcing himself to focus on establishing one key point: was she breathing? He thought so. He reached over and touched her shoulder. No reaction. He shook her gently. ‘Mademoiselle …’ Her eyes remained shut and she did not stir. The hotel employee stared hard at the woman’s bare breasts, watching to see if the chest rose and fell. Yes, all was well, she was breathing. A pigeon landed noisily on the balcony, making him jump. Without thinking, he swiftly pulled back the curtains, sunlight flooded the room and the bird flew off. Perched on a chair in the window of the building opposite was a black cat whose dilated eyes seemed to stare back at him. The man lifted the phone beside the bed and dialled nine for reception.
    ‘Julien,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem with the guest in 52 …’
    As he spoke, his gaze fell on the pillow. Under Laure’s head, there was a large patch of dried blood and her hair was stuck to the towel beneath it.
    ‘A big problem,’ he corrected himself. ‘Call an ambulance, immediately.’
    Half an hour later, Laure was wheeled out on a folding stretcher, pushed thirty metres along the pavement and lifted into the back of the red vehicle. The words ‘haematoma’, ‘head injury’ and ‘coma’ were mentioned.

     
     
    In the boiling-hot shower, shampoo ran down his face. Laurent had sold twenty-eight novels, nine coffee-table books, seven children’s books, five graphic novels, four essays, and three guides to Paris and France. He had filled in four loyalty cards and placed fourteen orders. Then the day had finally come to an end and he had been able to close the shop