Box of Bones (A Captain Darac Novel 3) Read online

  Perceptions…

  Angeline had once asked him to describe his colleagues using just one word. The purpose, although he hadn’t tumbled to it at the time, wasn’t only to gain meaningful insights into them; it was to expose the underpinnings of his assumptions and attitudes.

  ‘Okay – in one word, give me… Granot.’

  ‘Gruff. Painstaking—’

  ‘No, no. Just one word. The distilled essence of the man.’

  ‘Indomitable.’

  ‘Bonbon?’

  ‘Bonbon in just one word? Impossible.’

  ‘Indulge me.’

  ‘Alright… Sweet.’

  ‘Frankie?’

  ‘Beautiful.’

  What a faux pas. Answering ‘womanly’ would scarcely have triggered a more searching examination of his attitudes. Adding that he’d meant it in a complete sense had only made matters worse. But that was then.

  Finally, he reached the parking lot. ‘Hey, Frankie.’

  Frankie turned. And yawned. ‘Excuse me… Hey, yourself.’

  ‘You’re not going to drive all the way to La Turbie in that state, are you?’

  ‘No, I was thinking of taking a room at the Negresco.’ Making combs of her hands, she drew her hair back from her forehead and kept them in place. ‘Or perhaps a suite.’

  ‘I’ve got a spare bed, you know.’

  ‘Which, following a fumbling exchange, we’ll naturally both climb into.’

  The scripted response was, ‘Naturally.’ Regulation kisses of parting would then follow and they would go their separate ways. An alternate play was to enquire after her husband, Christophe, a designer who was often away on business. Christophe was a bright man. A good man. A man who deserved consideration. A man, Darac felt quite suddenly, who had been given quite enough consideration over the years.

  ‘Yes, Frankie.’ He looked into her eyes. ‘I would love you to come home and sleep with me.’

  She looked fully awake, suddenly. ‘What?’

  ‘Come home with me,’ he said. ‘To bed.’

  One hand went to her forehead, the other to her hip. ‘God, after all this time, you come out with this now?’

  ‘Well, I… The time just seems right, somehow.’

  She stared away, shaking her head. ‘I don’t believe it.’

  ‘What don’t you believe? That I have feelings for you? And have done for some time?’

  ‘Feelings for me?’ She bit her lip. ‘Why do you think I left your team four years ago? Huh?’

  The question perplexed him. ‘I thought it was to take on a new challenge. That’s what you said.’

  She moved in close, her eyes wide. ‘Well, I lied! Okay? I left because my feelings for you were getting out of control.’

  The words exploded like a stun bomb between them.

  It was Darac who finally spoke. ‘I wish I had realised that.’

  ‘You are a great detective, I must say…’ She exhaled as if the breath had been held in ever since that time. She took his hand. ‘Paul, back then, I would have given anything to have heard you say these things. But now, it’s…’

  His turn to exhale deeply. ‘All too late?’

  ‘Yes.’ Her brow lowered. ‘Perhaps.’ She shook her head. ‘Perhaps not. I don’t know.’

  ‘Keep that thought, will you?’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘The one that says there may be hope.’

  ‘I will keep it. But in any case…’ She closed her eyes. ‘What am I trying to say?’ She had it. ‘If somehow our circumstances changed and we found ourselves in a different place, I wouldn’t want it to begin like this. At the end of a ridiculous day when we’re both dog tired and our judgement is all to—’

  ‘Cock?’

  She laughed. ‘Yes.’

  He kissed her hand, and held her for a moment. ‘You alright to drive now?’

  ‘Believe me, my eyes closing for a second on the way home is no longer an option. Or even when I get home, come to—’ Her brows rose, propelled, it seemed, by a horribly disconcerting thought. ‘What just happened. That wasn’t your way of ensuring I wouldn’t go off the road?’

  ‘No, Frankie. It wasn’t.’

  They embraced, and went in for regulation kisses of parting. But they didn’t part and after a moment, there was nothing regulation about it.

  32

  For the past eight years, a buzzer had roused Pierre Delmas from sleep. The crowing of a solitary cockerel was proving a far more agreeable alarm. Or it had, until today.

  With shaking hands, he eased down the volume on his MP3 player and lay back on the pillow. The bedroom ceiling was Artexed. It wasn’t the kind of thing that would normally be considered fascinating but as the minutes ticked by, it came to command Delmas’s entire attention. He knew he had to snap out of it, that he had to sit up, take notice, and then swing his legs out of bed. But for the moment, it was beyond him. All he could manage was to stare up at the infinite ice floes of low-relief ripples drifting in and out of focus above him. It was like floating in an endless, timeless waste. It was an inhospitable place but as long as Delmas kept thinking that, he was safe.

  He’d had bouts of depression in prison. There was never any warning. He would go to bed feeling no more than frustrated, guilty and anxious, but it was as if the condition stole into his cell like an overnight fog and refused to lift with the light of day. It presaged feelings of numbness and flatness, a relatively lively state compared to the world of non-feeling that lay beyond.

  The fog had rolled in again last night. He knew that if he didn’t fight it, it would slowly and surely erase his world until nothing of any substance remained. Nothing left to react to. Nothing to connect with.

  The ceiling was disappearing.

  A dagger twisted in his temple. Jolted sickeningly into life, images of Sylvie’s grave came to him, releasing a stream of increasingly powerful feelings. Sector by sector, the ice world of the ceiling began to reappear as the depression lifted. Thanking God for pain and for anger, Delmas got out of bed. For the time being, he was alright. That was good. Because there was still a lot to get through.

  33

  Yvette Halevy peered around the frame of her living-room window. On the hill, the toy-like fort of Haut-de-Cagnes was picking up the morning’s first fingers of sun.

  ‘I need protection,’ she said into the phone. ‘But I can’t go to the police, can I? I’m not supposed to know anything.’

  ‘You won’t have to go to the police, sweetie.’ The voice was playing hide and seek with the metallic blurt of pneumatic drills. ‘They’ll come to you.’

  ‘I am not your sweetie. What am I supposed to tell them?’

  All she heard of the reply was a threadbare crackle of odd syllables. ‘I can’t hear a thing. Where are you?’

  ‘Where I’ve been most of my life, darling,’ Walter Picot said. ‘At the bottom of a big fucking hole. Hang on.’

  Yvette took a brisk drag of her Gauloise. And another. Picot came back on the line.

  ‘Can you hear me now?’

  ‘Yes. What am I supposed to say to them?’

  ‘Tell them the truth. You don’t know anything about it. Full stop.’

  Yvette filled her lungs with the last of the cigarette and ground it into an ashtray.

  ‘Look, it was easy on that first day – I didn’t know what Carl, the imbecile, had been up to. But since you passed on your suspicions, I cannot un-know them, can I? I’m no actress.’

  ‘No? Let me tell you something. Every woman’s an actress. There isn’t one…’

  Yvette opened her fingers and the handset dropped like a hanged man to the floor. Watching it turn on the end of its cord, she felt like kicking it. What have I done to deserve this? What have I done to have to listen to this garbage? She took a moment to recover, then locking her eyes on the toy fort on the hill, prepared to do battle once more.

  ‘…In fact, Yvette, you could be acting now. I wouldn’t put it past you to have
been part of the So-Pro gang yourself. Probably as the brains.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Is it so ridiculous? You’ve got bigger balls than Carl ever had. And you’re a lot cleverer.’

  ‘So is a worm. On both counts.’ She swiped the air. ‘Look – forget this rubbish. Tell me what to say to the police.’

  ‘Have it your way. I would tell them that as the widow of Carl Halevy, the man who tried to kill this Pierre Delmas guy, you’re concerned he may come after you.’

  Yvette withdrew from the window. ‘Why would the police believe Delmas would come after me? I had nothing to do with the shooting.’

  ‘Delmas’s not right in the head, is he? Haven’t you read the paper? He might do anything. Tell the police that.’

  ‘Well, it’s something, I suppose.’

  The doorbell rang. Her hand went to her throat.

  ‘Someone’s here. At the door.’

  ‘Well, go and see who it is.’

  ‘Yes – “go and see”. I’m not used to this!’

  ‘Don’t go, then.’

  She padded quietly up to the door and put her eye to the spy-hole. A pig-faced individual with a shaved scalp was holding up an ID. She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘It’s the police.’

  ‘Better than a nut job with a sawn-off. Just remember what I told you the other day and what I said just now and you’ll be fine. Sweetie.’

  Setting her chin, Yvette Halevy cursed the man all the way to the door.

  34

  It was a cool, bright morning as Darac took the up-ramp and nosed into Boulevard Risso. In the car, Satie’s ‘Gnossiennes’ drifted from Richard Galliano’s accordion like slowly vaporising breath.

  Rush-hour traffic sometimes moved with reasonable speed along the boulevard. Today, it was pouring like molasses from a narrow-necked bottle. But Darac was in no hurry. He had the beauty of local boy Galliano’s playing to listen to. And he had Frankie to think about. Yes, everything was on hold between them. Yes, it was possible, even probable, that it would stay that way. But he had kissed her and she had kissed him back and that had felt very, very good.

  In the cold light of day, thinking about her husband, Christophe, felt far less good. As he slowed to a halt behind the Renault in front of him, further reflection was interrupted by his mobile.

  ‘Marco. How are you feeling, man?’

  ‘Fine. All the more so for hearing from Sticks last night.’

  Rama ‘Sticks’ N’Pata was a former drum student of Marco’s, and for a short time in his absence, his deputy in the Didier Musso Quintet.

  ‘Sticks? How’s he doing?’

  A full-scale row was starting to develop in the Renault. Darac kept an eye on the two men as he listened.

  ‘Brilliantly. Touring Canada with the septet at the moment. And they’ve got a couple of New York gigs coming up. Iridium and ker-tish! The Blue Note.’

  Darac’s smile was broad. He had a special place in his heart for the young drummer. ‘He had a good teacher, they tell me.’

  ‘The best. So you got the Gibbo back?’

  It was turning ugly in front.

  ‘Just a second, Marco.’

  Still stopped in the traffic, Darac got out of his Peugeot and walked forward. He knocked hard on the Renault’s nearside window.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘To arrest you two if you give me any more concerns.’ He showed his ID. ‘Everything alright here?’

  ‘Course it fucking is,’ the passenger said. He shared a look with the driver. ‘Jesus.’

  The traffic began to move. Horns blared behind. Having given the men a common enemy, Darac assessed he’d taken the heat sufficiently out of the row. ‘I’ll be watching.’ He got back into the Peugeot. ‘Sorry about that, Marco. Yeah, I got the SG back.’

  ‘I tell you, Freddy was so relieved.’

  ‘Sweet kid. Really promising player, too. From the little I heard.’

  ‘Would you consider taking him under your wing?’

  ‘He’s got a teacher already, surely?’

  All seemed harmonious in the Renault as it took the turn for the Palais des Sports.

  ‘We use a couple of guitar guys at JAMCA. Both are good but one’s only a kid himself, more or less, and the other has a couple of weak spots. One of them is improvisation and that’s your strongest.’

  ‘Thanks for asking, Marco, but I really can’t. I can barely find the time to play, myself.’

  ‘Understood. Shame, though. There’s nothing so rewarding as nurturing talent. And the kids are great, you know. Most of them.’

  ‘Besides, I don’t know what I could pass on to Freddy. Or to any student, come to that. When I play, I just do everything I can think of. Not much of an approach for a teacher.’

  ‘You know more core stuff than you realise. A lot more. For instance…’

  Marco spent a good couple of minutes highlighting Darac’s skills as an all-round player and his potential as a tutor. He made a pretty good case.

  ‘Thanks, man, but I just can’t see it.’

  ‘I’ll get you on board yet.’

  Reaching the Caserne, he exchanged nods with the barrier man and rolled into the compound. ‘I’ve decided to use the SG at tonight’s gig, by the way. On a couple of numbers, anyway.’

  ‘I loved the sound of the thing at the Parade. Before I took a header off the float.’

  ‘I’d abandon plans to reprise that this evening. There’ll be no Erica to tend your wounds this time.’

  ‘Erica! Oh, my Lord. What a sweet… technician.’

  Darac could almost see Marco’s expression – eyes on stalks as in a cartoon.

  ‘Yes, she is.’

  ‘You haven’t got her phone number, have you? Having a bit of a software issue with my MacBook.’

  ‘She doesn’t make house calls.’ Darac pulled into his space. ‘Especially to play around with horny old drummers’ laptops.’

  ‘Pity. And less of the old.’

  ‘Got to go now, Marco. See you tonight.’

  ‘Bring Erica, anyway.’

  Darac caught up with Granot outside Building D. The man seemed to be in one of his less expansive moods.

  ‘Will you co-ordinate things this morning, Granot?’ They started up the steps. ‘I’ve got a load of stuff for the Palais to deal with first.’

  The big man gave a shrug only a degree or two into the affirmative.

  ‘Thanks. I had nothing in overnight, by the way.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that.’

  ‘Alright, Granot – let’s hear it. What’s up?’

  ‘I called in at the canteen on my way home last night. Just briefly. When I got to my car, I saw you. And Frankie.’

  They paused on the landing.

  ‘Did you?’

  ‘Joking around about rubbing Agnès’s feet, holding her hand and so on – that’s funny. And it’s good for morale.’

  Darac stared out toward the street. A lecture was the last thing he needed.

  ‘Having an affair with a fellow officer?’ Granot shook his head. ‘Doesn’t work. Particularly when one of the pair is spoken for.’

  ‘Have you finished?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone. But it’s better to stop it, believe me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to stop. For the foreseeable future, at least.’

  ‘That’s not what it looked like. If you two go any further, it’ll be Pandora’s box time. Anything and everything could come out.’

  ‘You’re a friend, Granot.’ Darac punched in the door code. ‘But one more comment and I’m going to have to tell you to mind your own damn business.’

  Bzzzzzzzut!

  Granot’s expression remained fixed as they entered the building.

  Darac went to his desk recalling the conversation he’d had with his father in the hotel bar. He knew he’d been arsey with him about his relationship with Julie Issert. Darac understood Martin’s reaction better, now.
The three of them were having dinner soon. He’d already made his mind up to cut them both some slack; now, he felt inclined to go a little further. Above all else, he knew his mother would never have wished a life without love on anyone, especially Martin.

  Halfway to his espresso machine, the black desk phone rang.

  ‘Charvet, Captain. I’ve got Monsieur Jacques I-want-to-be-mayor Telonne on the line. Well, his PA, but he’s waiting to talk to you.’

  ‘What the hell does he want?’

  Bonbon walked into the office. Darac raised an invisible cup to his lips and pointed at the machine. Bonbon nodded.

  ‘Shall I tell her you’re in, Captain?’

  ‘Yes, go for it.’

  ‘I think it’s lovely,’ Bonbon said, as Darac waited for the connection. He picked up a couple of cups. ‘You and Frankie.’

  ‘Captain Darac? Jacques Telonne. How are you today?’

  ‘Fine. Could you just hang on one second, monsieur?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Darac smothered the mouthpiece. ‘How do you—?’

  ‘Saw you in the car park. About time. The two of you are made for each other.’

  ‘Granot saw us, too. He’s revolted at the thought.’

  ‘I’ll tell you why some other time.’ Bonbon began grinding the beans for two espressos. ‘Of course, it’s a shame about Christophe. Nice man. Kind. Bit safe, though, isn’t he? Secure. Unlikely to stop a bullet designing a new font or a food mixer.’

  ‘So you don’t approve, either?’

  Whether Bonbon was genuinely affronted or just feigning it, Darac couldn’t tell.

  ‘Of course I approve. On a personal level, that is. On a practical level…’ Pressing his lips together, he canted his head almost to the horizontal. ‘Tricky.’

  ‘Look, there’s nothing really going on.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘I should get back to this call. It’s Jacques Telonne.’

  Bonbon’s mouth formed an upside-down U. ‘What does he want? Put it on speaker.’