Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Page 13

  ‘Yes, I know the chapel.’ Darac could picture its cool, pastel walls; its weathervane in the form of the village’s lizard emblem. The place was one of his former lover Angeline’s favourite spots in the area. ‘Were there other vehicles parked nearby?’

  ‘It was on its own.’

  ‘Why did you pay attention to it?’

  ‘To begin with, I just thought a truck that size looked out of place in Coaraze. And especially parked where it was.’ He smiled, reliving the moment. ‘Then I spotted this faded old AS Roma football pennant hanging in the cab and I remembered it. The week before, I’d seen the very same truck at the construction site.’

  The answer begged an obvious question. ‘Malraux, do you have anything?’

  ‘I can speak now, can I?’

  Aureuil gave Darac a look. ‘You’ve got a right one here, Captain, haven’t you?’

  ‘Malraux?’

  ‘Alright, you identified the lorry as one of the hundreds of trucks you’d seen at Rue Lamora, and the site was right next door to the Société Provençale Bank. But what made you think that particular one had been used in the robbery?’

  ‘Good question,’ Darac said, quite genuinely.

  ‘I didn’t. But there was a two-million-euro reward out, right? So I went up and first of all, I looked through the windows of the farmhouse it was parked next to. Couldn’t see anything. Then I went up to the lorry and had a closer look in the cab. There were a couple of paper wrappers on the floor – the sort banks use for wads of notes. That got me thinking a bit. So I went off to the café to mull things over and they had the TV news on. That’s when I nearly had a heart attack. They flashed up a picture of the guy they’d arrested, you know – Delmas. I knew what the score was then, alright.’ Sitting forward, he lowered his voice. ‘The day before the robbery, I’d seen that very same man getting into the cab of that very same truck.’ Triumphant all over again, Aureuil sat back. ‘I called you lot. You came running. I sat in my taxi and watched the whole thing. By the time the American couple got back, it was all over.’

  ‘What a photo opportunity they missed,’ Darac said, amusing Aureuil all the more. ‘Did you have the farmhouse in view the whole time you were waiting for the police?’

  ‘I nipped off to get a bottle of wine. Gone ten minutes max. If the gang had been in the place and driven away, they would’ve gone past me. I didn’t see anyone.’

  ‘A house with nineteen million euros sitting in it? There must’ve been someone there, you’d think.’

  ‘If there was, they must have got away on foot.’

  ‘When you saw Delmas get into the truck back at the Rue Lamora site – what was he doing exactly?’

  ‘Dunno. But I definitely remembered him. Big witless-looking fella.’

  ‘Did you see anyone else?’

  ‘No, he was the only one.’

  ‘Think about this.’ Darac looked into the man’s light-brown eyes. ‘Did he see you?’

  Aureuil didn’t need to give it any thought. ‘It’s dusty work on a dump truck, mate. I was wearing a mask. And a hard hat.’

  ‘That makes sense… And then in due course, you picked up the reward.’

  ‘All two million lovely euros of it. The happiest day of my life. By some distance.’

  ‘Fantastic.’ Darac smiled, sharing the moment. ‘What did you do with it? If you don’t mind me asking.’

  ‘You can see what we did with some of it. And I bought the cab company I was working for, too. That was really sweet. And I’ve never worked since. Well, not what you’d call work.’

  ‘Alright for some. Which company is yours?’

  ‘Pro Cars, we called it. Well, I say we. Paulette came up with it. Neat touch, eh?’

  ‘Very appropriate.’ Darac rose. ‘Well I think we’ve detained you for quite long enough, Monsieur Aureuil.’

  ‘I’ll see you out. Pity you missed Paulette.’

  The e-photo frame was showing a different image of Madame. She looked just as cheery, fresh-faced and in her early fifties as in the earlier shot.

  Darac and Malraux rode the lift in silence and maintained it as far as the car park. In the rail yards beyond, rakes of wagons were moving to and fro on separate tracks.

  ‘I’m getting back to the office,’ Malraux said.

  ‘Are you free this afternoon?’

  ‘Might be.’

  ‘We’re exhuming Sylvie Galvin’s grave. If you can make the cemetery in Vence by four o’clock, come along.’

  ‘Four?’ He ran his fingertips across the backs of his hands in turn. ‘No, I can’t. I’ve got something on.’

  ‘Okay. All the best, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Darac walked to his car feeling something remarkable. He felt sorry for Malraux.

  22

  ‘Your back appears to be doing well at the moment, Agnès?’

  ‘It’s much better. If you ever need an osteopath, I’ve got a name.’

  Darac made a little amused sound in his throat. ‘Do you remember the time your feet were aching and I found you trying to massage them? In this very office, it was. You could hardly bend so I massaged them for you. Nearly causing the greatest scandal in the history of the Caserne.’

  Agnès’s smile was at her most feline when there was sass in the air. ‘“Foot-Gate?” Never forget it. You know, there was scarcely a woman in the place who didn’t ask me “what was it like?” afterwards. It was like being back at school after my first… encounter.’

  ‘School?’ Darac said, essaying shock.

  Agnès gave a little shrug. ‘Well, you know…’ She sat back in her chair. ‘Why do you bring that up?’

  ‘I was thinking about feet.’

  ‘Uh-huh?’

  ‘And reflecting that you are one person I never have to worry about treading on eggshells around.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I put that really clumsily and it’s a tired metaphor, anyway.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Uh… I’ve been reexamining So-Pro, trying to get a handle on what’s going on with Delmas and co. and I found some problems.’ Darac had scarcely blushed in his life but he could feel his face flushing as he continued. ‘Problems in the interpretation of events.’

  ‘My interpretation of events, you mean?’

  ‘Well, yours and… yes, yours.’

  Agnès stiffened. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I only mention this—’

  ‘Paul. Just get on with it.’

  He took a stack of photos from his bag and began his analysis. She listened in near silence as he built his case point by point. However much he sugared the argument with disclaimers and with references to other triumphs, it still amounted to a demolition.

  When he had finished, Agnès put her glasses on the desk and like a slowly deflating balloon, shrank back in her chair.

  ‘In just an hour or two of looking at secondary materials, you’ve wrecked what I took days to put together working on the spot.’

  No, no, no! Anything but this.

  ‘Agnès, please…’

  She slipped on her shoes. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, with the smallest, politest of smiles.

  And walked out of the room.

  23

  The officer looked only a year or so older than young Freddy. He reached for the cordon tape. ‘Would you like a moment alone, sir?’

  Although his mother’s graveside provided a focus for contemplation, Darac rarely felt closer to her there than he did elsewhere. Less so, in fact. ‘You are Officer…?’

  ‘Marquand, Roger.’

  ‘It’s fine. I was just wondering if the flowers and so on had been cleared away.’

  ‘I see.’

  Darac looked at the bullet-pocked headstone. The travestied forename. The pieces missing.

  ‘We’re all really sorry about what happened, sir.’ Marquand’s young face lightened. ‘I always say hello to her when I come on. And goodbye. We all do, I think.’

  Darac couldn’t say anything f
or a moment. ‘Thanks, man.’ He gave the boy a pat on the arm. ‘Thank everyone.’

  Darac walked away, taking Carl Halevy’s firing line. Some twenty-five metres ahead, Sylvie Galvin’s tomb was surrounded by a green canvas screen. The girl had finally attracted quite a crowd to her graveside: a priest, two court officials, a forensic anthropologist, funeral directors Marvais père et fils, cemetery labourers and their manager – it was a good turnout. There was no sign of Pierre Delmas.

  And there had been no sign of a rapprochement with Agnès. An exchange just before Darac had left the Caserne had been conducted in an atmosphere of aching cordiality, references to their earlier meeting studiously avoided.

  He looked back at the cemetery gates. Beyond them, a couple of men were in conversation over the opened bonnet of a Fiat Punto. One of them gave Darac a discreet shake of the head. Still no sign of Delmas.

  A tall, raw-boned black man was standing a little apart from the exhumation party. Djibril Mpensa, the pathologist, was a welcome sight.

  ‘Alright, Map?’

  ‘More to the point, how are you?’

  ‘I’m fine. Glad you’re here.’

  ‘I’m just observing. A courtesy, really. But I’ll be able to interpret stuff for you. If there’s any need.’

  ‘Good.’

  Behind them, Benoit Marvais was buttonholed by one of the cemetery staff. As they exchanged a few words, old Monsieur Marvais took the opportunity to slip his leash. ‘Everything will be as it should be,’ he said to Darac. ‘You’ll see.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so.’

  ‘And I have to tell you, Captain, that I am frankly dismayed that this desperate performance should have been deemed necessary.’

  ‘And I am frankly dismayed that your son has taken it upon himself to withdraw from sale some of your finer coffin handles.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Coffin handles. Are you aware that your establishment no longer offers B3?’

  ‘The Malmaison?’ The old man’s mourning-black eyes widened in astonishment. ‘But it’s—’

  ‘A classic – absolutely.’ Darac clicked his tongue. ‘That’s progress, I suppose.’

  Benoit Marvais intervened at the double. Escorting his father to a neutral corner, he gave Darac a poker-hard stare as the recriminations began.

  ‘What on earth was that about?’ Mpensa asked.

  ‘Just a bit of nonsense.’

  Standing nearest the entrance to the screen, the senior court official looked at her watch and nodded to a couple of men in overalls. At their feet was a selection of masonry tools.

  ‘What I’m really worried about, Map, is what may emerge from Sylvie’s grave.’

  ‘What are you hoping for?’

  ‘That’s a difficult question. Have you read the file?’

  ‘Yes.’

  All was not well at the screen. The priest, a preternaturally solemn figure in full regalia, halted the masons before they had taken a step. He indicated his watch as he spoke to the court officials, and pointed in the general direction of the old town.

  ‘Let’s say the tomb contains only Sylvie, and everything is as normal as old Monsieur Marvais just assured me it would be. What kind of state might she be in?’

  ‘From what point of view?’

  ‘From the point of view of the squeamish bystander.’

  Mpensa performed a double-take. ‘This from the man who once found three decapitated heads in a kitchen cupboard and didn’t throw up?’

  ‘Consistency is an overrated virtue, don’t you think? Some of the time.’

  Mpensa smiled. ‘In science, we kind of depend on it, you know. But there are so many factors in play, it’s almost impossible to predict what the body will look like.’

  ‘Take a stab at it.’

  ‘She’s three years dead?’

  ‘Yes. She died in hospital and was presumably attended to promptly.’

  ‘That’s obviously crucial. Embalmed?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Wooden coffin?’

  ‘What else would it be?’

  ‘Cardboard. Metal. Cloth bag, even.’

  ‘Cardboard and cloth, bad; metal, good? From the appearance point of view, I mean.’

  ‘Not necessarily. In fact, with a sealed metal casket, you can get what we call the… you don’t want to know.’

  ‘It was wood for the first two years. Wood-effect, anyway. Above-ground interment.’

  ‘We-ell… there’ll be the skeleton and skull, obviously, complete with teeth, hair and nails. There could be tendons, sinews and similar tissues. Perhaps some adhering skin. As she died of a diagnosed condition, there was probably no autopsy, but if there was, there’ll be some redistribution and bagging. But we’ll just have to wait and see.’

  The answer wouldn’t be long in coming. In the old town, the church bell sounded four times. Satisfied that the appointed hour had finally arrived, the priest intoned something pious and led a small procession into the screened-off area.

  ‘I’m on,’ Mpensa said, falling in behind them.

  At the Fiat, the guys closed the bonnet and looked up and down the street. Darac met the gaze of one of them. He shook his head.

  24

  Wherever Jacques Telonne looked in the city, he saw something he’d built or developed in one way or another.

  ‘What does that feel like?’ the reporter asked him in the site office of his latest project, a hotel complex in the ‘up and coming’ area of Pont Michel.

  Telonne could tell him exactly what it felt like. A couple of months before, he had been flying over Nice in the company helicopter with his wife, Elise. ‘I could get a hard-on the size of the Eiffel Tower looking down on all this,’ he’d said.

  ‘What does it feel like?’ he said to the reporter as site foreman Walter Picot handed him a clipboard. ‘I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it.’ He began running an eye over the topmost sheet. ‘Humbling, I suppose would be the word.’

  Telonne’s PA, Véronique Savart, bolted on a smile. ‘Just one more,’ she said, unbolting it just as efficiently.

  ‘Monsieur Telonne,’ the reporter began, essaying a faux grin of his own. ‘Although we’re still only halfway through the current term, a question on the mayoral race? An opinion poll yesterday puts you, for the first time, trailing both the incumbent and your principal rival to replace him at the next election.’ Telonne looked up from the sheet. ‘The reason, it seems, lies in your performance as chair of the carnival committee. Many believe your handling of the fatal incident four days ago showed immaturity, arrogance and even a sense of disconnection from the general public. And without its initial support at the ballot boxes, your perceived advantage with the councillors themselves would never, of course, be put to the test. You would remain plain Monsieur Jacques Telonne.’ His grin gone, the reporter eyeballed his victim. ‘Monsieur, plain and simple.’

  Véronique stepped in with the speed of a stricken boxer’s corner man. ‘Enough! We are not going to dignify such a—’

  Looking as if he’d like to throw a punch anyway, Telonne laid a restraining hand on Véronique’s forearm instead. ‘No, no – it’s a fair question.’ He turned to his inquisitor. ‘I would ask you to note, monsieur, that the source of that poll, Radio Côte 415, is one of the many media holdings of my “principal rival”, as you call him. Now if you’ll excuse me, some of us have real work to do. Walter?’

  Telonne and Picot left the journalist to Véronique. They pushed through the site office door into a maelstrom of cranes, diggers, drills and trucks.

  ‘I’ve never been behind in any poll before.’ He slapped the costings clipboard against Picot’s chest. ‘Never! Not even on that fucking little nonentity’s phone-in.’

  ‘Opinion polls don’t matter.’ Picot launched a gobbet of spit into the dust. ‘Nobody will vote for an arse-wipe like him, come the day. But I tell you what does matter. Setting straight a little blond piece by the name of Yvette Halevy.’r />
  Telonne came to a dead halt. His index finger jabbed the air in front of Picot’s nose. ‘I shouldn’t be having to give even a second’s thought to any of this! I ought to—’

  Picot knocked Telonne’s finger away. ‘You ought to what, Jacques? You think Fouste going under the truck was a vote loser? That’s nothing. Is it?’

  Their eyes bored into one another.

  ‘The costings stink,’ Telonne said. ‘Get them done again.’

  25

  Flaco followed Darac into Pierre Delmas’s apartment and closed the door quietly behind her. Uppermost on the mat was the notice of exhumation. Beneath it was a loose pile of circulars and junk mail.

  ‘Untouched, Captain. And nothing among the rest.’

  ‘The super said he hasn’t seen a personal letter for years.’

  An atmosphere of suspended animation hung over the long-empty apartment, an effect given ghostly connotations by the white sheets that had been thrown over the furniture.

  ‘Why do I have an urge to remove all these sheets, Captain?’

  The remark, uncharacteristically relaxed and personal, took Darac by surprise. Maybe it was his father’s Nymphe des Bois talking.

  ‘It’s the completist in you,’ he said. ‘A good thing in a flic. But we can leave the sofas and things.’ Darac went to a bureau shape in the corner of the room and pulled off its cover. ‘There shouldn’t really be anything of interest but things get missed.’

  It took them just five minutes to sort through Delmas’s sparse collection of documents and personal items. They left his photos until last, setting them out on a coffee table.

  ‘No shot of Delmas in a group,’ Flaco said, scanning them. ‘So no clues to the gang’s identity there.’

  ‘Nor at the exhumation, earlier.’

  ‘Did you really expect to find others alongside Sylvie in the grave, Captain?’

  ‘Under the circumstances, anything was possible. I wasn’t even sure Sylvie’s remains would be there.’ He shook his head at the scant pickings before them. ‘These pictures are all of Delmas himself, alone.’

  Flaco swiped her mobile and, bringing up Sylvie’s tomb photo, held it next to a photo of her father. ‘Strikingly similar, aren’t they?’