Impure Blood
Contents
Cover
Also by Peter Morfoot
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Friday 3 July
1.06 PM
2.18 PM
2.33 PM
2.55 PM
2.58 PM
3.03 PM
3.08 PM
4.05 PM
4.20 PM
4.26 PM
4.55 PM
4.56 PM
5.10 PM
5.52 PM
6.31 PM
6.35 PM
6.52 PM
7.19 PM
7.22 PM
8.57 PM
10.38 PM
11.59 PM
Saturday 4 July
7.46 AM
8.02 AM
8.42 AM
9.47 AM
11.00 AM
11.01 AM
11.02 AM
12.44 PM
1.48 PM
1.50 PM
4.05 PM
4.44 PM
6.03 PM
6.47 PM
9.34 PM
Sunday 5 July
1.05 AM
5.15 AM
7.28 AM
7.30 AM
7.45 AM
7.58 AM
10.35 AM
11.13 AM
11.33 AM
12.44 PM
12.45 PM
1.15 PM
1.28 PM
1.36 PM
1.52 PM
1.56 PM
2.13 PM
2.15 PM
11.15 PM
Thursday 9 July
11.00 AM
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Coming Soon from Titan Books
Available Now from Titan Books
Also by Peter Morfoot and Available from Titan Books
Babazouk Blues (April 2017)
Box of Bones (April 2018)
Impure Blood
Print edition ISBN: 9781783296644
E-book edition ISBN: 9781783296651
Published by Titan Books
A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd
144 Southwark Street, London SE1 0UP
First edition: April 2016
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Names, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead (except for satirical purposes), is entirely coincidental.
© 2016 Peter Morfoot
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.
For Rob and Katey
To arms, citizens!
Form your battalions!
March, march!
Let impure blood
Water our furrows!
From the French national anthem,
‘La Marseillaise’
PROLOGUE
The boy swung the scythe in a low, slow arc. As precise as a pendulum, it was a movement beautiful in its economy; the blade levelling the crop and gathering it in one fell swoop. With each pass, he edged further into the waist-high wheat, using the old Roman road that ran alongside the field as a guide. Turning at the end of the first swathe, the cut crop lay in an arrow-straight row in front of him.
Hand-scything a one-hectare field gave the reaper plenty of time to think. Or to dream. The boy was imagining himself a warrior facing impossible odds; a lone swordsman pitted against the endless ranks of a vast army. A sudden scuttling in the undergrowth reminded him of the true enemy. Why, he wondered, did a rat disturbed at a field margin almost always head back into the uncut crop? His father had told him that rats were clever, resourceful creatures. But if they were, why didn’t they break cover while the going was good instead of retreating into an ever-shrinking island of safety? The last part of the field to be cut, the boy knew, would be alive with the devils. And then, as if in agreement, they would all rush out at once. That’s when the fun would really begin. He felt the weight of the shotgun against his back as he worked on.
The main line to Paris flanked the far boundary of the farm. The groan and squeal of a train pulling away made the boy glance up. It was as well he did. Something was moving in the field ahead; something feral among the waving wheat. He couldn’t see the creature directly but the parting and closing of the canopy above it pinpointed its position. Whatever it was, it was bigger than a rat. As if attracted to the shoop shoop of his slashing blade, it seemed to be heading straight for him. He stopped swinging the scythe. Still the thing advanced. And then he heard it, a whimpering cry among the dry scratch of the stalks. An injured animal was dangerous. A half-dead boar could still kill, he’d heard. His eyes fixed directly ahead, the boy moved back and slowly set down the scythe. With a shrugging motion, he unhitched the shotgun and took aim. The creature didn’t appear. Perhaps it had changed course at the last moment. He scanned the whole front rank of the crop. There? No. Just a shadow. There? His trigger finger twitched. The stalks finally parted. The boy stared for a long moment. And then he lowered the gun.
FRIDAY 3 JULY
1.06 PM
A tram materialised out of the heat haze and floated towards the stop at Jean Médecin. On the platform, wilting clumps of passengers picked up their bags and shuffled forward. From a balcony in the adjoining Rue Verbier, Marie Lacroix watched the tram whine to a halt and open its doors. She ran an eye over the new arrivals. None was wheeling a case. Marie glanced at her watch and sighed – the family taking the apartment was now thirty minutes late. Reasoning that if she stopped looking out for them, they might arrive sooner, she decided to check out what else was happening. It should certainly prove more entertaining; her balcony overlooked one of the most cosmopolitan streets in Nice.
Opposite the apartment, a living statue was setting up her pitch under the palm-buttressed north wall of the Basilique Saint Eustache. Made up as a white marble Medusa complete with snake headdress, the girl looked startling. Yet the size of the crowd she was attracting surprised Marie. Maybe they knew something she didn’t. Staring blindly ahead, the girl mounted a low plinth, exhaled deeply and froze into a classical pose. Marie looked on for some moments. And? Giving a shrug, she returned her attention to the avenue.
A bald man kneeling at the far kerb seemed far more interesting. In the glare of the midday sun, he wore neither hat nor shades. A bottle of Evian sticking out of the hip pocket of his white linen suit seemed to be his only concession to the heat. But it was the shoelace-tying movement he was making with his hands that really captured Marie’s imagination – the man appeared to be wearing slip-on loafers. Rising tentatively, he fingered the screw-top of the Evian bottle as he stared along the pavement towards the tram stop. Then looking all around him, his gaze seemed to settle on the circular billboard, the Colonne Morris, standing on the Rue Verbier side of the avenue. As if compelled to check it out, he hurried across the street towards it.
Surely, Marie thought, the man must have seen this material before; it’s plastered all over the city. Had been for weeks. The posters were shouting up just one thing: the Tour de France. Two hundred thousand people were expected to attend the opening stage, a time trial around Monaco. But for the Niçois, the real excitement began on day two.
Cresting the ridge of the high Corniche, the 180-strong peloton would fly down the coast road
into the old port, file around the foot of the Château Park, and then power out of the city along its palm-fringed hem, the Boulevard des Anglais. A map illustrated the whole stage. There was just one day to go before the Tour began. Two before it rolled into Nice.
Slipping behind the Colonne, the man in the white suit leaned around its circular bulk and peered back across the avenue. Who was he watching so covertly? Marie looked in the general direction of his gaze. There were any number of candidates. None seemed noteworthy.
A shriek rent the air to her right. Marie shot a glance towards the Basilique but before she could make out what was happening, laughter rang out, allaying her concern. Now she understood why Medusa was a hit. While the girl herself remained utterly deadpan, the nest of vipers in her hair had turned into a living, writhing, tongue-darting nightmare. It was so horribly convincing, Marie could hardly bear to look. It was some moments before the snakes froze, prompting sighs of relief tempered with disappointment. The vile creatures would strut their stuff again, wouldn’t they? Medusa let the tension build. Just when it seemed there would be no reprise, they squirmed into life once more. A wave of delighted revulsion broke around the audience. There was nothing so entertaining as fear and suspense, Marie reflected, reacting with everyone else.
It was during the next lull in the action that White Suit came jogging into the street. Marie half-expected to see someone chasing him but there was no one. Running in this heat? In playing hide and seek, perhaps the guy had made himself late for a train – Nice’s main station, Gare Thiers, was just a couple of streets away. As he jogged past the steps that led to the west door of the Basilique, a bell began to toll and some members of Medusa’s audience took their leave. One of them, a bearded young man carrying a rucksack over one shoulder, stepped blindly into White Suit’s path. The collision almost knocked the pair of them off their feet. White Suit issued a breathless apology and hurried off, a move that earned a hideous writhe from Medusa’s snakes. It drew a big laugh.
As the bell continued to toll, Marie followed White Suit’s progress for a moment and then looked past him to the far end of the street. There, a congregation of a different order had already been called to prayer. She’d witnessed the scene before.
The venerable and the vulnerable were always the first to take up places in the prayer room itself. On Fridays, the room filled up quickly and for the rest, there was no alternative but to form ranks on the street outside. Most laid down mats or towels. Others made use of flattened packing materials donated by local shops and cafés. Marie felt a certain sympathy for them. Catholics praying in the vaulted sanctity of the Basilique were often disturbed by sightseers. But Muslims praying in the hustle and bustle of the street had far more to contend with: stray footballs; delivery vans; rubberneckers; abuse hurlers. The solemn choreography of the prayer ritual seemed rather beautiful to her.
Marie’s eyebrows rose. Cardboard box in hand, White Suit was one of those joining the outdoor congregation. He hadn’t been in danger of missing a train, after all. He’d been in danger of missing midday prayers.
Her mobile rang. In passable French, her client apologised for his late arrival. He anticipated being with her in forty-five minutes. An hour at most. Marie sighed, thanked him for the update and settled down to watch the service once more. Everything seemed to go smoothly until the final cycle of prayers. At first, she didn’t notice the old woman who wheeled her shopping trolley up to the rear of the congregation.
‘Look at this!’ the woman shouted, fanning herself furiously. ‘And taking up the whole street!’
Her observations grew more aggressive as she jolted the trolley off the kerb and set off around the obstruction. Midday prayers being silent, her words carried starkly across the rows of prostrated backs. That they appeared to have no effect seemed to irritate her still further. As she rounded the rearmost rank of worshippers, she turned in sharply, catching White Suit’s elbow as she ran a wheel over his makeshift mat. Even if he had wanted to, he couldn’t have washed off the smudge at that moment – he’d already used his bottle of Evian to wash his feet. Making a clicking sound with her tongue, Marie shook her head. The old woman tottered off towards the Basilique and another potential hold-up. Marie looked expectantly across but there would be no clash of the soul sisters. Medusa had struck camp, the crowd had dispersed.
Outside the prayer room, a hundred backs were still bent in prostration to the east. Then, as a tram rolled past the end of Rue Verbier, the congregation rose.
All, that is, except one.
2.18 PM
Captain Paul Darac had to queue at Fantin but the wait was worth it. Warm pâtisserie in waxed cardboard; the smell was making his mouth water as he threaded his way between the trinket sellers in Place Garibaldi and headed home. It was going to be a late breakfast; he hadn’t got in from The Blue Devil jazz club until 4 am.
It had been some gig, though. Avoiding the runs and chord progressions he’d played a thousand times before had led Darac into some strange territory during a couple of solos. But those moments of being almost lost, of needing inspiration to find a way back to the band, was one of the things he loved about playing jazz. Each return from the unknown had been rewarded with whoops of appreciation from the audience and, a rarer accolade, spontaneous yells of ‘yeah!’ from veteran club owner, Ridge Clay.
Sightseers were already out taking photos in the Place. Padding like a sleepwalker behind outstretched hands, a prodigiously paunched man in his sixties almost collided with Darac as he crossed in front of the Garibaldi statue.
‘Well what do you know?’ the man called out in English, finally lowering his camera. ‘Garibaldi the Italian patriot, right? It says on the plinth he was born right here in Nice.’
A full ten metres to the man’s left was a little nugget of a woman wearing white pedal pushers and a sun visor. Hands on hips, she was surveying the scene with the air of the commander of an invading army.
‘Make sure you get the arcades. They’re elegant. And check out these apartment houses. So Côte d’Azur.’
‘Yes they are.’
‘But see the balconies?’ A charm bracelet jangled as she waved at one of the frontages. ‘All that stone decoration? That’s Baroque. Like Rome.’
‘Rome is right!’
Darac gave a little snort. Those balustrades and pediments were not stonework but brushwork – a painted trompe l’oeil. But visitors could be forgiven for being fooled. Many things about the Côte d’Azur were not as they seemed.
As a tram snaked behind him into Boulevard Jean Jaurès, Darac left the Place and disappeared into the whorl of narrow streets and alleyways that made up the old town, a quarter known as the Babazouk. Exuding coffee, fish, flowers and drains, the Babazouk had the feel of the Moorish souk its name suggested – a shaded warren frequented by fast locals and slow tourists. For all its teeming life, the Babazouk was a secretive place. Behind façades washed in tones of cayenne, cumin and turmeric, anything from ratty flats to filigreed palaces could be found. And at every window, swing-wing shutters acted as a sort of niqab against prying eyes.
Street signs in the Babazouk were written in two languages – French and the local Nissart. Embedded in the quarter’s northern rim, Place or Plassa Saint-Sépulcre was a grand title for what was no more than a large, cobblestoned courtyard lined by ancient apartment houses on three sides, the rear wall of the eponymous church on the fourth. Darac had acquired his roof-terrace apartment in the Plassa five years ago. It had proved a good move. The pan-tiled canopy of the Babazouk was an atmospheric habitat and it suited him to live suspended between the tangle of the old town and the Nice of the boulevards.
Following the series of doglegged ruelles that led off Rue Neuve, he entered the Plassa by a locked iron gate. He hadn’t taken more than a few strides before his neighbour Suzanne came hurrying towards him. His strong, broad-boned face broke into a smile as he turned back and unlocked the gate. Adopting a doorman’s pose, he held it open fo
r her.
‘Late?’
‘Sister Lasorgue will murder me. You working today?’
‘Certainly am.’
‘Then you’ll know who to arrest. Vivà!’
‘Vivà, Suzanne,’ he called as she disappeared into the ruelle.
‘Kiss Angeline for me!’
‘Sure.’
He could try, anyway. The smell of the cooling pâtisserie fading in his nostrils, Darac re-locked the gate and walked through blue shadows into the Plassa. The sun was blowtorch hot. It’s going to be busy today, he thought. An overheated city always brings out the craziness in people.
And then his mobile rang.
2.33 PM
Downing a triple espresso, Darac swung his unmarked Peugeot into Rue Verbier and hit the brakes. He’d expected one, perhaps two, POLICE INCIDENT – NO ENTRY signs to have been set down across the entrance. Instead, he had to negotiate a slalom course of staggered pairs. After the final gate, cones funnelled him towards a trio of shirt-sleeved officers standing in a shady spot on the kerb. One of them stepped forward and held up her hand. Slowing to a stop, Darac eased the volume on his CD player and lowered his window.
The officer leaned in.
‘Quite a production number.’
‘Hi, Captain,’ she said, smiling as they shook hands.
‘They’ve got the riot squad standing by as well.’
‘Wonderful.’ Crushing the espresso cup, he tossed it into the empty Fantin box sitting next to him. Crash barriers; riot squad – it all added up to one thing: Public Prosecutor Frènes, the Palais de Justice official who had green-lighted the investigation, wanted the world to see he was committing every resource to what was a ‘sensitive’ situation. Darac indicated a group of spectators corralled on the opposite pavement. ‘It’s certainly brought out the fans.’
‘Don’t know what they expect to see from back here.’ She cast a glance towards the far end of the street. ‘And we’ve told them the forensic guys will have their tent set up in a minute.’