Graeme Macrae Burnet is one of the UK’s brightest literary talents. His second novel, His Bloody Project, was shortlisted for the Booker Prize 2016, won the Saltire Society Fiction Book of the Year Award 2016, and was shortlisted for the LA Times Book Awards 2017. His fourth novel, Case Study, was longlisted for the Booker Prize 2022 and was included in the New York Times 100 Notable Books of 2022. His most recent book is A Case of Matricide.
One
Hôtel Bertillon was situated in an inconspicuous, whitewashed building at the intersection of Rue de Mulhouse and Rue Henner. Aside from a modest sign on the wall above the entrance, there was little to alert passers-by to its existence, and even this sign was in such a state of neglect that it was more likely to deter than entice potential custom. The bill of tariffs taped to the inside of the glass panel by the door was yellowed and torn. The surrounding paintwork was blistered, and bare wood was visible where it had flaked away altogether. A quantity of dry leaves had accumulated in the corner of the vestibule.
Inside, the establishment was no more appealing. The narrow foyer was dimly lit and smelled of stale carpet. The décor was tired.
Georges Gorski rang the brass bell on the counter. A man emerged from the office, which was partitioned from the counter by a rectangular glass panel, so that it resembled a large aquarium. He was very small and neatly dressed in grey slacks and a shirt and tie beneath a V-neck sweater. Around his shoulders was a pair of reading glasses on a chain. He had the grey pallor of a man who rarely exposed himself to sunlight. He had mentioned his name on the telephone, but Gorski had forgotten it, an increasingly regular occurrence.
Gorski held out his ID. ‘Monsieur Bertillon?’ he said, though he knew this was not correct.
‘Oh no,’ replied the little man. ‘I am not Bertillon. Bertillon was my wife’s name. Well, my wife’s maiden name. The hotel belonged to her parents before ... before it, eh, passed to us.’ He paused, realising perhaps that Gorski was not in need of a history of the business. ‘My name is Henri Virieu.’
‘Yes,’ said Gorski, as if refreshing his memory, ‘Monsieur Virieu.’
There was a short silence. The man’s fingers fidgeted on the counter as if playing a toy piano. His hands were bony and flecked with liver spots.
‘You’ll probably think me a dreadful busybody,’ he said. ‘It’s just that, well, I suppose it seemed the right thing to do. In case, in case of, you know—’
‘In case of what?’ said Gorski. He had taken a dislike to Virieu on the telephone. He was a man who opened his mouth without having first formulated what he wanted to say. His explanation for calling had consisted of a string of meaningless half-formed phrases and fatuous aphorisms. ‘Prudence is the mother of security, as they say,’ he had wittered.
Ineffectual. He was an ineffectual little man, and meeting him in person only confirmed the impression.
Rather than answering Gorski’s question, Virieu lowered his voice and, with a furtive glance along the passage, invited him into the office. ‘There we can converse undisturbed,’ he said, as if he was a member of the DST.* He raised the flap on the counter and ushered Gorski into his sanctum.
Everything was neatly arranged. Behind the desk were shelves of box files, each one clearly inscribed with the year. On the desk was a copy of L’Alsace, open at the page with the crossword, which was half-completed. There was a glass cabinet displaying a number of small trophies.
‘From my chess career,’ said Virieu, seeing Gorski glance towards them. He unlocked the cabinet and handed one to Gorski. It declared him champion of Haut-Rhin. It was thirty years old. ‘I still play of course, but the mind, well, the mind isn’t what it used to be. One finds oneself besieged by the young. Do you play at all? Perhaps we could have a game sometime.’
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* Direction de la Surveillance du Territoire, the French internal security service – translator’s note
Gorski shook his head.
A cat was asleep on the chair in front of the desk. Virieu tickled it behind the ear and murmured some soft sounds, before shooing it onto the floor. ‘Our oldest employee,’ he said, with a little laugh.
Gorski smiled thinly and took the cat’s seat. The glass wall afforded a panoramic view of the foyer. Virieu sat down behind the desk, then immediately leapt to his feet.
‘Perhaps you would do me the honour, monsieur, of sharing a glass with me.’ From a filing cabinet he produced a bottle of schnapps. Gorski corrected his mode of address but did not decline the drink, which Virieu had in any case already poured.
He resumed his seat.
‘Your very good health, Chief Inspector,’ he said, with an ingratiating emphasis on his title.
He knocked back his drink. Gorski did the same. Virieu refilled the glasses. It was half past nine in the morning.
A Case of Matricide by Graeme Macrae Burnet (Saraband) Out now
Chief Inspector Gorski returns … In the unremarkable French town of Saint-Louis, a mysterious stranger stalks the streets; an elderly woman believes her son is planning to do away with her; a prominent manufacturer drops dead. Between visits to the town’s hostelries, Chief Inspector Georges Gorski ponders the connections, if any, between these events, while all the time grappling with his own domestic and existential demons. Graeme Macrae Burnet once again pierces the respectable bourgeois façade of small-town life in this, the concluding part of his trilogy of Gorski novels. He injects a wry humour into the tiniest of details and delves into the darkest recesses of his characters’ minds, but above all provides an entertaining, profound and moving read.
More information about his books and writing can be found on his website. You can find Graeme Macrae Burnet on Facebook. You can also follow him on X @GmacraeBurnet and on Instagram @graememacraeburnet.
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