Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Page 14

  ‘That same soft, forlorn expression, too.’

  ‘Did you see her? In her coffin, I mean.’

  Another slightly hors-piste remark, Darac reflected. ‘I didn’t see her, Flak; I saw it – what was left of the body. The him and the her disappear the moment you die, don’t you think?’

  Boldness vied with discomfort in Flaco’s large, dark eyes. ‘They don’t so much disappear as go on, I think.’

  He looked at her. ‘You’re a believer? That surprises me.’

  ‘Because you take me for a “no-nonsense character”.’ Bolder and bolder. ‘Right from maternelle back in Guadeloupe, people have thought of me like that. And I am, I suppose, in a lot of ways.’

  Darac felt strangely moved that after eighteen months with the Brigade, Flaco was finally opening up to him. ‘In my book, no nonsense trumps nonsense every time.’

  ‘It explains why I am a believer, actually.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘To me, life makes no sense unless there’s something more to it. What that something more is, though, I have no conception.’

  He collected up the photos. ‘So you don’t buy the whole package?’

  ‘The whole Catholic package?’ She grinned. ‘Too much voodoo in my background for that.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Seriously.’

  ‘Well, there’s very little voodoo in my background but I tell you what I believe in, Flak. I believe in your abilities as a police officer. We all do.’

  Her eyes swam. Her mouth widened the merest scintilla. ‘Thank you.’

  He went to an armchair and grabbed a handful of cloth. ‘Shall we, after all?’

  A search of the soft furnishings revealed that nothing had been hidden in a cushion or a frame lining. The pair put the room back as they had found it.

  ‘Nothing of interest in the entire apartment,’ he said, closing his notebook. ‘And there’s no sign Delmas has been here since he got out.’

  There was a loud knock at the door. The pair exchanged a look.

  ‘Cover me,’ Darac whispered. ‘Just in case Carl Halevy Two is standing there.’

  Flaco drew her SIG, stood firm and aimed it into the doorway. Darac drew his and concealed it behind the door as he opened it a crack and then wide. Carl Halevy Two proved to be an intelligent-looking elderly lady with wide-set cheekbones and downy white hair. With the quickness of conjurers, Darac and Flaco holstered their weapons.

  ‘I… heard voices,’ the woman said. ‘I wondered if it was Monsieur Delmas.’

  ‘You are Madame Otaphu, I believe?’ Darac said. ‘Monsieur Delmas’s next-door neighbour? We’re with the Brigade Criminelle.’ He showed her his ID. ‘And this is Officer Yvonne Flaco.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘We were just about to knock on your door but we could talk here, if you prefer. It will only take a moment.’

  ‘Alright.’ Tentatively, as if she were trespassing, she stepped inside. ‘I’ve never been in this room before.’ She looked around. ‘It’s unfair to judge in its present state, I suppose. But drab, isn’t it?’

  ‘Our understanding is that Monsieur Delmas was a rather understated individual.’ Darac went to remove a cover from the sofa. ‘Please, sit down.’

  ‘I’ll stand, thank you. Yes, he was understated.’

  ‘I know the other officer asked everyone in the building to contact us should Monsieur Delmas appear. To your knowledge, has anyone else been here looking for him?’

  Her eyes took on a provocative glint. ‘Apart from the officer who sits outside in his car all day? Apart from him, you mean?’

  ‘Ah, but there’s another one around the corner you haven’t spotted.’

  A throaty laugh turned into a brief coughing fit.

  ‘Some water, madame? The supply’s switched off but…’ Flaco reached into her bag. The bottle was half full. ‘I have Vittel.’

  ‘No thank you,’ she said, conveying that the prospect was an unappealing one.

  ‘I could pour it into a cup,’ Flaco said, her hackles rising, ‘if you prefer.’

  ‘No, no. I’m…’ She coughed once more. ‘I’m perfectly alright now.’

  ‘I’ll have a swig, if I may.’ Darac held out his hand. ‘I’m a little dehydrated this afternoon. Too much espresso.’ He put the bottle unceremoniously to his lips and took a good mouthful. ‘Thanks, Flak.’

  The demonstration cut no ice with Madame. ‘You ask if there has been anyone else looking for Delmas?’

  ‘I did, yes.’

  ‘There has. Yesterday, I heard a knock on Monsieur’s door.’

  ‘At what time would that be?’

  ‘About five o’clock. I popped my head out to see if there was anything I could help with. But the man walked away just as I spoke.’

  ‘Did he pass you?’

  ‘No, he went toward the stairs rather than the lift. I didn’t see his face.’

  ‘It was definitely a he?’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I assumed so. But not necessarily when I think about it.’

  ‘Height? Build?’ asked Flaco.

  ‘Shortish for a man; taller than average for a woman. One seventy to one seventy-five, I would say. Something like that. Of slim build.’

  ‘What was the person wearing?’

  ‘This is why I’m hesitating as to the gender. He or she was wearing motorcycle leathers. Or probably not leathers nowadays, are they? A two-piece riding suit, anyhow. And a helmet.’

  Flaco shared a look with Darac.

  ‘Wearing a helmet?’ he said. ‘On a third-floor landing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Colour?’

  ‘Black, navy blue, brown – something dark.’

  ‘Any insignia or distinguishing marks?’

  ‘Yes, there was. At the back of the helmet, two initials I suppose it was. They were quite large but I couldn’t be absolutely certain what they were.’

  ‘Think, madame,’ Darac said, a touch of impatience propelling the voice. But then he remembered his own dismal performance as an eyewitness. ‘I’m sorry. If you could picture it, we would be most grateful.’

  ‘It was either BL, RL, BI or RI. I think.’

  ‘Thank you. That may be of great help to us.’

  Darac ended the interview moments later and the pair closed up the apartment. In the subsequent door-to-door, a second resident corroborated Madame Otaphu’s sighting of the mystery motorcyclist but could add nothing to her description. As they left the building, Darac and Flaco ran through the names of everyone connected with the Delmas case so far. None matched the motorcyclist’s suggested initials. But at the wheel of an unmarked Renault parked opposite, the surveillance officer, Walter Peyresourde, still had his contribution to make.

  First, the pair had to wake him.

  26

  The petit train touristique snaked on to Villefranche’s Quai Amiral Courbet and slowed to a stop. An anomalous yet familiar sight locally, the white-painted locomotive, complete with smokestack and cowcatcher, was a pastiche of a Wild West steam engine. Things were a little more indigenous behind: its three open coaches bore destination boards reading: Porte de la Santé – Place de la Paix – Citadelle – Porte de la Santé.

  The train driver’s mike resembled a silver goose neck. He pulled it toward him and cleared his throat. ‘Okay, folks, we’ve stopped right on the edge of the quay so I hope you can all swim. If you can’t, my lovely assistant will dive in and save you.’ The ticket girl struck a presentation pose. ‘At no extra cost.’

  A couple of passengers alighted; a couple boarded. It was no surprise that trade had slowed over the past hour: another Parade of Lights was due to start in the city shortly.

  The driver put the engine in gear. ‘I’m Alain; the young lady demanding money with menaces is Danielle. And so, taking your lives in my hands – let’s go.’

  One passenger seemed to enjoy the gag, anyway. Alain switched on the recorded commentary and pulled away.

  On th
e quayside, waiters were already laying places for dinner, scurrying between tables that clung like clusters of barnacles outside each of the restaurants. Alain bantered with a couple of them as he trundled sedately past.

  ‘The Rade de Villefranche is considered by many to be the most beautiful bay in France,’ the commentary announced. The punters needed no such encouragement. Every face was turned toward it already.

  Every face except one. Sitting at the rear of the front coach, Pierre Delmas was engrossed in a Nice-Matin article headlined VENCE CEMETERY SHOOTING. The page carried two police artist sketches of him: one balding with goatee, the other balding and clean-shaven. He concluded that in his disguise of the day, he looked insufficiently like either to cause him any trouble. And that was good because he had things to do and kicking his heels in police custody was not an option.

  He set the paper down on the seat next to him. Ahead, a Menton-bound TGV powered easily along the embankment that described a perfect arc around the bay. All that speed. All that ease. All that freedom.

  ‘The Eglise St Michel boasts one of the finest tiled cupolas on the whole Côte d’Azur…’

  Prompted by the turning heads, Delmas, too, cast a glance inland. What they were looking at in particular, he wasn’t quite sure. When he turned back, the ticket girl was standing in front of him, smiling and mouthing something.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, taking out his earphones. ‘I didn’t catch that.’

  ‘I said, “Good idea to bring an MP3 player.” The recorded commentary is terrible.’

  ‘Oh dear.’ He smiled back. ‘And you have to listen to it all day.’

  ‘There are worse things.’ Her eyes scudded across Delmas’s newspaper. ‘It’s ten euros, please. But for that you can hop on and off as many times as you like.’

  Delmas made no attempt to cover up the sketches as he reached into his jacket. But he kept his palm over his wallet photo of Sylvie as he took out a note. ‘I have only twenty,’ he said. ‘Apologies.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Her eyes met his as she gave a ten in change. Her smile returned undiminished. ‘Thank you and have a nice trip.’

  ‘As atmospheric as it is beautiful, the quayside has featured in several movies…’

  Putting his earphones back in, Delmas caught sight of his reflection in the driver’s rear-view mirror. Once again, he rode the moment. He had no intention of making himself known. Not yet.

  27

  Stepping off the loft ladder brought it all back. For some moments, Julie Issert just stood breathing it in, as if the air still bore traces of the things that had happened there.

  It had been one of the happiest days of her life when the purchase went through on the Saint-Sylvestre villa. Not that there had been any doubt about it. She had bought it from her cousin Liliane, who had wanted to keep the property in the family. Julie was delighted because she had known and loved the villa since she was a child. Loved it despite some unhappy times spent there.

  Converted into a den-cum-playroom, the loft had been one of the key sites of her childhood, a magic faraway place just a ladder-climb away. Or it should have been. It should at least have been a place in which she, her cousin and her friends bonded. But on most occasions, it hadn’t worked out that way. They played board-game marathons that Julie always won, until she’d started losing on purpose. They mounted elaborate fashion shows in which Julie, fleshily ill at ease on the catwalk, had been the butt of their whispered asides. They acted out episodes of Charlie’s Angels in which Julie had never been allowed to play anyone but Sabrina, the part they deemed the least glamorous. After each of these humiliations, she had gone home knowing that Liliane and the others merely tolerated her. Perhaps she had been included in the first place only at the insistence of her sweet Aunt Josephine.

  But now here she was. A successful businesswoman. She’d shown them.

  It had always irritated her parents that Julie never quite seemed to fit in. Wherever she went, whatever she became part of, the girl seemed to generate a sort of centrifugal force that always propelled her to the periphery of things. Having her first period a full twelve months before any of her peers hadn’t helped in this process; it had just added to the sense of her difference, her otherness. A lone butterfly circling the pupae.

  Slight in stature, her brother Sebastien had nevertheless been a tower of strength during those years.

  ‘So the little tossers went to the cinema without you. Screw them. It’s their loss.’

  ‘But Mama and Papa said…’

  ‘Yeah, well I’ve got news for you. Mama and Papa don’t always know best.’

  Julie stepped away from the hatch entrance and started exploring. Like any family, the Isserts had acquired all manner of paraphernalia over the years. Julie had kept nothing but Sebastien’s stuff. Things that reflected their shared passion for motorcycles were divided into two parts. Practical things like clothing, spare bike parts and manuals, Julie was putting to good use already. Magazines, books, memorabilia and the like were stored in the loft. Seeing it all again was a double-edged experience for her. At the time of Sebastien’s death, she had been unsure if she wanted to keep it. Her feeling lately was that she ought to set aside some time for going through it all and then let it go to a collector or a club or something. Which is probably what Bastien would have wanted.

  But the motorbike memorabilia wasn’t the reason Julie had taken on the climb and the cobwebs. She was almost certain that she had kept… Yes, there it was. She smiled. What a card it was to play. A card that, one way or another, was sure to change things.

  28

  At last, the head of the parade appeared at the entrance to Place Masséna. Behind it, the heads of giants receded into the darkness. In the dignitaries’ box, Laure Telonne leaned in cosily to her stepmother. ‘The guy that got splatted under the float the other night? His head looked like a burst melon, they say.’

  Elise Telonne stirred uncomfortably in her seat. ‘The one time you sit with us… I might have known there would be a price to pay for the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘His eyes stuck in the tyre treads. They had to scrape them out.’

  Elise turned to her. ‘Do you get pleasure from being so wicked, Laure?’

  ‘That’s what wickedness is for, isn’t it?’ A buzz went through the crowd at the roadside. She felt a pang of nostalgia. ‘It’s nowhere near as much fun stuck in here as it is out there.’

  Flanking Laure on her other side, Jacques Telonne kept the smile on maximum as he canted his head toward her. ‘I want you here where I can see you.’

  Laure smiled back, mimicking him. ‘Does she know?’

  Still the smile. ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Do I know what?’

  ‘Nothing, Mama. I’m looking forward to the music, aren’t you? I’m into guitars now, by the way.’

  Laure began to laugh. At that moment, a Steadicam operator scanning the crowd appeared in front of them. Jacques Telonne joined in the laughter suddenly, giving Laure’s shoulder a playful slap. What a witty girl she was! What an asset! Laure stopped laughing immediately.

  To a rising crescendo of noise, the parade began to move forward. Laure could see the dragon, lolling and rearing, shaking itself and blowing smoke. Fuck that. It was the samba band she wanted to see. Years of headphone abuse had taken the edge off her hearing and she cupped her hand around her better ear to listen for a guitar she knew wouldn’t be her Gibson. But she was intrigued by the boy, the one who’d gone charging off after the fat prick who’d fallen off the float. And left the SG right there under her nose. And it wasn’t even his. At last, she picked up the sound of a guitar. And then she saw him. He was playing some cheapo copy. You win some, you lose some. How old was the little angel? A couple of years younger than she was. Pity. He was cute.

  Oye como va, mi ritmo, Bueno pa gozar – mulata…

  The dignitaries’ enclosure allowed just enough space in front of the seats for dancing. If, that is, you were sufficien
tly intimate with your partner. Rolling his hips, Jacques Telonne stood and archly held out his hand. Elise’s white-out smile matched his as she stood and took it. The self-made man and the ex-model – a moment or two of moving to the music was expected of them. Beneath the rainbow of their outstretched arms, Laure sank into her seat. The couple took a step forward and Elise started to move spectacularly around her flat-footed husband. A cheer went up from the Great and the Good. Dazzled by Elise’s mastery of her art, or maybe just fooled by Jacques’s hard-on persona, hardly any of them seemed to notice that only she was actually dancing.

  ‘I want to be there,’ Laure said to herself, almost throwing up with the pain of it. ‘I want to be there when that flic plugs in his guitar.’

  29

  There were two phones on Darac’s desk: black for internal calls, beige for outside lines. At first, he didn’t hear the black phone ring. He was lost in thought. Lost and not lost – he could at last see a way into the Delmas case. A light indicated the call was from the commissaire’s office.

  ‘Got a second?’ Agnès said.

  Less formal. A good sign, perhaps.

  As so often, he found her sitting barefoot at her desk, reading glasses halfway down her nose. Parking them over her ash-blond bob, she sat back in her chair and gestured him to sit. As he did so, she swung around and began stamping lightly on the tiles.

  ‘Crunch, crunch, crunch – if eggshells do crunch when you tread on them. It’s more of a thack, thack sound, really, isn’t it?’ Her eyes met his. ‘There. All gone.’

  Darac exhaled deeply, and ran a hand through his hair. Twice. ‘Thank God. I thought I’d really—’

  ‘The problem was all mine.’

  ‘No, no.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I had to point out what the gang had done.’

  ‘Absolutely. They had a ploy and I fell for it. But it wasn’t you pointing it out that got to me. Not so much, anyway.’ She gave a little shrug. ‘And if we hadn’t got on to Delmas immediately and retrieved the haul so quickly, I may well have rethought the thing and put it right.’