Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3)
Contents
Cover
Also by Peter Morfoot and available from Titan Books
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
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Acknowledgements
About the Author
Available Now from Titan Books
BOX OF BONES
Also by Peter Morfoot and available from Titan Books
Impure Blood
Fatal Music
PETER
MORFOOT
A CAPTAIN DARAC MYSTERY
BOX OF BONES
TITAN BOOKS
Box of Bones
Print edition ISBN: 9781783296682
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296699
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: April 2018
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
Copyright © 2018 by Peter Morfoot. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
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For Clare and Bryan
1
A world of sound and light awaited them in Place Masséna.
‘We’ve got here far too late,’ Darac shouted over the spit and thump of a high-energy dance track. ‘Maybe we should forget it.’
Erica Lamarthe gave a sad little nod. ‘Yes, who wants to have fun, anyway? Let’s just give up and go.’
A largely traffic-free space flanked by gardens, fountains and statuary, Nice’s Place Masséna had a pleasant, relaxed vibe for most of the year. For three weeks in early spring, it was the epicentre of one of the most spectacular carnivals in France. Starting and finishing in the Place, the nightly Parade of Lights was a living lava flow of giant figures, fantastical creatures, dancers, jugglers and musicians.
Darac swept an arm across the scene. ‘Well, look at this. There must be twenty thousand people here.’
‘Twenty thousand… and two. So what we do…’ Erica threaded a slender hand through the crook of his arm and held tightly on to it ‘…is think rugby. Come on! We can do this!’ Taking a deep breath, she put her head down and shoved into the scrum.
‘Rugby?’
‘Move!’
He moved.
‘I love… the theme this year.’ Playing prop forward was straining Erica’s voice. ‘Don’t you?’
‘Dunno. What is it?’
‘King of Harmony.’
From a gantry high above the Place, a searchlight gyrating around the night sky suddenly raked the crowd. Darac scrunched his eyes as it found him. ‘Sure it’s not Escape from Colditz?’
Erica’s smile was tart. ‘Quite sure.’
Over the PA, a voice like a machine gun announced that the parade had formed up ‘off-stage’ and would be entering the Place in less than ten minutes.
‘Plenty of time.’ Erica redoubled her effort. ‘Come on.’
The circular bulk of a colonne Morris stood away to their left. In the swell of bodies, an unhelpful current was dragging them toward it.
‘Do something, Darac. We don’t want to get stuck against that.’
A hit with the silly stringers, the colonne was hung in webs of psychedelic snot.
‘Don’t worry. It wipes off, according to Bonbon.’
‘Stuck, as in not being able to move, I mean. Pull to the left.’
‘I am pulling to the left.’
‘Pull harder!’
Moments later, they made landfall against the colonne.
‘Clockwise?’ Erica said, her nose pressed against its circular display.
Still bound together, they began waddling their way around the obstacle.
‘I feel like a wind-up penguin.’
‘I told you it would be fun. Now, we’re not going to get anywhere unless we work harder. What we need is a big five minutes. Big five! Come on! What do we want?’
Where had all this come from? ‘Erica…’
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘A big five.’ Darac shook his head. ‘Jesus.’
‘That’s it. Ready? Hup!’
Five minutes of determined scrummaging followed. At the end of it, they were further from the action than they had been originally.
‘Look,’ Darac shouted over his shoulder, ‘I’m meeting my father for a drink later and you’ve got a date, right? So why don’t we cut our losses and—’
Erica tugged sharply on his arm. A meaningful silence followed. With some difficulty in the press of bodies, he turned to face her.
‘Darac, do you actually like Carnival?’
‘No.’
‘Not even the Parade of Lights?’
‘No.’
‘No. Alright. But you do want to see Marco’s samba band? And the boy – the one you lent your guitar to?’
‘Freddy. Well, ye-es.’
‘So stop playing the moaning Minnie and start using your shoulders.’
‘I have been using them.’
‘You have. Uh-huh.’ Erica pursed her lips. ‘Okay: new tactic.’ Gripping his arm once more, she took a deep breath. ‘Police! Make way, everyone! Brigade Criminelle!’
The warning went unheard, buried under an avalanche of PA announcements. Among them was the promise that the head of the parade was now only two minutes away. Around the Place, sound and light crews eased down the
blare and bump. Disco hour was over.
‘Thank God for that.’ Darac cocked his ear. ‘Listen.’
In the distance, he heard whistles, drums and trumpets. And dancing above it all, an electric guitar.
‘Is that Marco’s band?’
‘He said they were near the front.’ The pair were still completely hemmed in. ‘Seriously, we may just have to miss them.’
But then, by some obscure principle of the motion of bodies en masse, pockets of space suddenly opened up in front of them. Trimming the angle of their shoulders, the pair took off into the first, side-slipped smartly through the next, and then following a series of zigzagging passes, came in to land right on the parade route.
‘See? We did it!’
‘Yes.’ Darac released her arm. ‘We did.’
Erica’s eyes were everywhere. ‘I so love this!’
Darac’s attention was on the roadway. ‘Still no barriers.’
‘Still? What do you mean?’
‘Haven’t been to this thing since… for years. Suppose I expected changes.’
A Police Municipale sergeant was drawing laughs as he walked the line. ‘This is a street party, so no enjoying yourselves now, people. No smiling, laughing or dancing. But if you have to go nuts, do it safely. Safety first, guys. And watch your wallets. Wallets, cameras and phones.’ Recognising familiar faces, the sergeant gave his shtick a rest. ‘Evening, Captain. Mademoiselle. No need to tell officers of your calibre to be careful when it all starts coming through, is there?’
Erica gave him a sympa smile. ‘I like your patter, Sergeant…?’
‘Magne. Thank you. It’s better to keep it light for things like this.’
Amid cries of protest, a couple of young men stumbled on to the road behind him.
‘No pushing!’ Rolling his eyes, Magne sidled off toward them. ‘Did you two hear what I just said?’
Glancing at her watch, Erica stood on tiptoe and peered into the distance. Marco’s samba band wasn’t getting any louder. ‘Still can’t see them. They must be holding them further down the avenue.’
‘Wouldn’t you rather have been sitting up there?’ Darac gave a nod to the temporary stands erected on the opposite side of the parade route. ‘Better view. And you’d be the first to see anything.’
‘No, no. You’re not part of it up there. You’ve got to be down on the street.’
Taking a shove in the back, Darac found himself all too literally on the street.
‘Sorry, monsieur.’ Many hands helped him up. ‘There was a surge.’
Like a mother fussing over a child, Erica started brushing him down, then thought better of it. ‘You alright?’
‘Yeah. Nobody’s fault.’ He scanned the scene behind and realised the culprit was a stocky, red-faced man wearing a denim jacket. Pushing a bow wave of irritation, he was thrashing his way through the crowd as if his life depended on it. ‘I take that remark back.’
Erica shook her head. ‘Poor man. Claustrophobic, probably.’ She looked more closely. ‘Or stinking drunk.’
For a moment, Darac considered giving chase but abandoning Position A wasn’t an option. Besides, another victim appeared to have grasped the nettle. Issuing apologies to the crowd, a man wearing a red scarf and a blue jacket was in determined pursuit of the drunk.
Erica turned away and stared hard into the mouth of Avenue des Phocéens. ‘Come on, people!’
Across the street, ushers were showing invited guests into a fenced-off area at the foot of the stands, a temporary gated community for bigwigs. Darac ran an eye over the Great and the Good: some footballer who was the guest of honour; the five-strong carnival committee and their guests; and finally, front and centre, the mayor and his entourage.
‘I have a feeling things will move any second now, Erica.’
‘About time.’
‘Check out Jacques Telonne.’ Suave and smiling, Telonne was the chair of the carnival committee, one of the fattest of Nice’s fat cats and the potential next mayor of the city. The man’s smile faded as he cast an eye over the mayoral party. ‘Look at him sizing up the even bigger wigs. You can practically see what he’s thinking from here.’
‘Really?’ Erica murmured, not looking.
His eyes still on Telonne, Darac leaned in to her. ‘He’s wondering which of them will back him for the top job if we the suckers vote him on to the council.’ He gave a dry little chuckle. ‘You’re worrying about the wrong people, Jacquie boy. You’ve got enough mates in high places. It’s winning over us plebs first that’s your problem.’ He gave Erica a look but she wasn’t listening.
‘This is starting to get a little…’ Her eyes widened. ‘Wait.’ A frisson crackled around the Place. ‘Aha!’ She went up on to her tiptoes as the drums, whistles and guitar grew louder. ‘Here we go.’
The head of the procession came into view. Erica took it upon herself to give a running commentary. ‘First is… a float. What’s that say? Oh boring. It’s just some corporate thing. Look at the number of people milling around it, though! Can’t see the road at all.’ A stronger charge jolted the crowd. ‘Now this is more like it! A dragon, is it? Yes. It’s huge! And further back, the king, look. Storeys high!’ Erica’s fine blond hair swished like a pennant as she jetted Darac a glance. Her face was so aglow with excitement, it touched him.
‘You’re not sitting on my shoulders, if that’s what you’re after.’
She gave him a more considered look, smiled and returned her attention to the parade.
As the dragon in all its scaly, smoke-belching vileness bore down on them, Darac was contemplating something altogether more serene. Jaume Plensa’s Conversation à Nice was a grouping of seven sculpted figures that lived permanently in the Place. Each sat atop a pole-mounted plinth, the figures changing colour over time, acting and reacting in a complex interplay with its neighbours. They were mainly blue at the moment.
‘It’s about communication, you know,’ Erica said.
‘What?’
‘The sculptures. The value of people talking. To each other.’
‘Absolutely right.’ He smiled, coming back to the here and now. ‘Sorry.’
The dragon was quite something, he had to admit. Using combinations of rods and wires, the beast’s black-clad animators looked like Lilliputians on a night-fishing expedition. Somehow, their presence didn’t spoil the illusion. On both sides of the route, the crowd gasped as the beast shook itself like a wet dog, then reared up and puked a plume of pink smoke in the direction of the bigwigs on the dais. They seemed to take it in good part. To sustained cheers, the dragon gathered itself and clattered away to begin the sequence all over again.
‘Wasn’t that fantastic?’ Erica was already turning to the next thing. ‘Is this him? Marco?’
Darac grinned. ‘Oh yes.’
Riding a float tricked out as a tropical paradise, Marco’s band was chanking out a slow and slinky samba. Ahead of them, lines of women wearing little but crested headdresses were moving like waves breaking on a white sand beach.
‘Oye como va, mi ritmo, Bueno pa gozar – mulata…’
Her eyes on Marco, Erica leaned back into Darac’s shoulder.
‘The white suit really sets off his beer belly. And that beret-ponytail combination? Class.’
‘He’s turned out in worse for the quintet, believe me.’
‘He’s positioned himself right at the front of the float, I notice.’
‘Playing timbales behind these girls for two hours? He’ll think he’s died and gone to heaven.’
Unable to resist the beat, Erica began to move to it.
‘This is jazz, you know,’ Darac said. ‘Of a sort. The stuff you’re supposed to hate.’
‘No-ooo. It’s Latin.’ Raising Darac’s hand, she circled sinuously under it. ‘Oye como va, Da-da-dah…’
Marco spotted them, celebrating the moment with a fusillade of rim shots. ‘Darac!’ Indicating the dancers, the drummer mimed going at the knees as he returned
to the number’s elusive clave beat.
‘Is he always like that?’
‘Always.’ Darac finally caught sight of the guitarist. A star of JAMCA, one of the local youth orchestras run by Marco, the young man was leaning against a palm tree at the back of the float. ‘Hey, Freddy!’
The boy’s open face lit up and he stepped forward, hanging a lissom little riff around the head of the tune as the dancers swayed this way, then that. After a couple of variations, he brought the sequence to a close with a rapid upward arpeggio.
‘He’s wonderful,’ Erica said, trying to clap in time with the number. ‘How old is he?’
‘Fifteen, I think.’ Darac gave him a thumbs-up.
‘How sweet of you to lend him one of your guitars.’
‘It’s special, that one, actually. It was the first really good instrument I bought.’
‘Really sweet.’
‘I’ve got four nicer guitars. I could have lent him one of those.’
‘Well, you tight bastard.’ Flicking up a shoulder, she turned back to the parade. ‘Oye como va…’
Sergeant Magne came shimmying alongside.
‘Nice moves!’ Erica called.
Magne responded with an extravagant flourish but then, gazing past them, his party face fell. Darac followed his gaze.
A squeal of tyres. Airbrake hiss. Shouts. Dragon handlers down. The dragon itself, half a tonne of wire, sheet metal and fibreglass lolling unfettered over a scattering crowd. Screams. Samba float stopped dead. Dancers: some down; some scrambling away; some looking to help. People in the stands on their feet, watching, helpless. Marco’s six-strong band all down, some still on the float; others, including him, pitched on to the road. Timbales rolling like stray hubcaps in all directions. Magne running up the road to the head of the parade. Behind him, the fallen samba girls hobbling around. None of their injuries looked serious.
‘Marco!’ Darac dodged between the walking wounded toward his friend, who was lying on his back, eyes closed. He looked the worst off of anyone they could see.
‘Ambulances!’ Erica shouted into her mobile, following him. ‘Plural. Place Masséna. Now.’
‘Medics? Any medics here?’
No takers.
‘How’s your first aid, Erica?’
‘Hope yours is better.’
A couple of the dancers were fluttering ineffectually over Marco. Others were shouting at the samba float driver. ‘You ran into us! Arsehole!’