Impure Blood Page 2

  Darac followed her gaze. Outside the prayer room, white-clad figures hovered like partially materialised ghosts over the shimmering tarmac. At their blurred feet, a vague white shape lay motionless.

  ‘Meanwhile, they might get heatstroke.’ Straightening, she waved him through. ‘With any luck.’

  Smiling, Darac restored John Coltrane’s ‘Naima’ to its rightful volume and headed for the action.

  Nearing the inner ring of cordon tape, he ran an eye over the sheet-draped corpse and the pathology team waiting to examine it. Leading it was a woman with a fine-boned face and the round-eyed alert expression of a small bird. ‘Well, well,’ Darac said aloud. Professor Deanna Bianchi attending the scene? They really meant business. Trailing Coltrane’s mournful horn through the on-off crackle of police radios, he slowed to park.

  ‘Ciao, bella,’ he called to her through his opened window. Her forehead creased as she gave him the merest nod in acknowledgement. Deanna subdued? Unusual.

  The ache in the tune demanding a respectful fade, Darac slowly turned down the volume, then pulled on his police armband and got out of the car.

  Among the airless, grimy streets clustered around Nice’s main railway station, the leafy Rue Verbier formed a welcome oasis. Orientated east-west, the street’s northern side was lined mainly by apartment houses, some with ground floors converted into shops and cafés. Its southern flank was taken up entirely by the Basilique Saint Eustache and the car park laid out in its voluptuous shadow.

  Occupying the premises of a former bistro, the prayer room was tucked away at the end of the street furthest from the Basilique, just before it opened out into a small marketplace. Here too, Crowd Control seemed to be doing a good job of keeping spectators back.

  A little further along stood the phone booth from which the emergency call had been made. ‘I’m ringing from the box on Rue Verbier,’ the anonymous female caller had said. ‘The one outside the pharmacy. A Muslim has just been killed. On the street. During a prayer service.’ No further details had been given and Darac still knew nothing about how the man in question had died. Ideally, he would have liked to talk to the caller but unless someone identified her or she came forward, it wouldn’t be possible to trace her: the emergency 17 number she’d dialled was a free, cardless call.

  As Darac scanned the streetscape, he realised he might not need her. Apart from all those going about their business at ground level, at least fifty apartment balconies and ten times as many windows overlooked the scene. A couple of CCTV cameras set up in the car park might also have a story to tell – perhaps of a shot being fired from one of those windows. A sniper could easily have picked off a stationary target from such a vantage point. And from a silenced rifle, the report would have sounded no louder than a cough.

  But it wasn’t all good news. A crime scene without witnesses was one sort of problem; a scene with too many could prove a logistical nightmare. Triage was the key and Darac’s best man for it, his second-in-command, Lieutenant Roland Granot, had booked the day as leave.

  As the forensic examination tent finally went up, most of those looking on from above strolled back inside their apartments. Curtain down for the moment. Perhaps they should have stuck around. In the marketplace, an entertaining shouting match was starting up. Crowd Control and TV news crews often clashed. Recognising the reporter at the centre of it, Darac gave a little smile as he headed off to the inner cordon. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before she caught sight of him.

  ‘Darac! We’re in Siberia over here. Do something about it, will you?’

  He kept moving.

  ‘You’re better off where you are.’

  ‘Better? Hey – this wouldn’t happen anywhere else in Europe! Even fucking England!’

  ‘Well this is fucking France.’

  The pathology lab technician, Patricia Lebrun, was waiting to sign him into the red zone. On seeing him, she turned to a box containing crime-scene overalls and decided to start counting them. If Darac hadn’t known better, he would have sworn she was trying to avoid him.

  ‘Chief? Hold it!’

  The voice was as rich as cream-smothered clafoutis. And it was one Darac wasn’t expecting to hear. He turned. The moustachioed figure bustling towards him was Granot, alright. At fifty-one, the man was twenty years older than his boss. He was also thirty kilos heavier. On what was the hottest day of the summer so far, sweat stains the size of dinner plates had turned his short-sleeved shirt into a peek-a-boo disaster area.

  ‘Take it easy.’

  The big man was breathing too hard to reply.

  ‘And what are you doing here, anyway? You’re supposed to be on a day off.’

  ‘Might disappear… later. We’ll see… how it goes. Uh… listen…’

  ‘I’ll talk – you get your breath back.’ Darac turned to the street scene. ‘Talk about a cast of thousands… So what have you got? Those worshipping outside at the time of the death; those worshipping inside the prayer room itself; people who may have seen something from shops, apartments and the like, and finally, passers-by?’

  Granot wiped a ham of a hand across his forehead.

  ‘Yes, more or less.’

  ‘Top work.’

  ‘No point in separating them individually… They had more than enough time… to get their stories straight… before we got here.’

  ‘What are people saying about how the man died?’

  In the background, a young officer questioning passers-by jetted Darac a quick glance.

  ‘No one knows anything.’

  ‘Bang goes my sniper theory.’

  Granot seemed in no mood for gags.

  ‘Listen, chief, I’ve got to tell you something. You’re… off the case.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. Let’s go.’

  Granot threw out a restraining arm.

  ‘Seriously. You’re off the case. Or that’s how it’s looking.’

  The humour that habitually played around Darac’s eyes and mouth disappeared.

  ‘How can I be off the case? I haven’t got started on it yet.’ Granot gave a sideways nod.

  ‘That’s how.’

  Outside the prayer room, the squat, grey-suited figure of the public prosecutor, Jules Frènes, was jabbering into his mobile as he paced back and forth. Every few steps, a stubby index finger stabbed the air – a small man laying down the law.

  ‘What’s the little arsehole up to?’

  ‘Telling Agnès he wants her to lead the investigation, I should think. He’s already told the examining magistrate that’s what he wants.’

  ‘The boss lead the case?’ Darac’s expression regained its characteristic lift. ‘What’s the problem? Let’s get on with it.’

  ‘Uh… it’s not just a question of you not leading. Frènes doesn’t want you anywhere near…’

  Granot was talking to fresh air. Darac was already striding away.

  ‘Don’t hit the bastard!’

  Outside the prayer room, Frènes was still declaiming as he spotted Darac. He hurriedly ended the call and stood his ground. It didn’t last.

  ‘Not here, Captain – my car.’

  ‘Monsieur Frènes…’

  ‘My car.’

  A couple of uniforms smiled as Darac, a light heavyweight, pursued his welterweight quarry to a shiny new Mercedes. He joined Frènes on the back seat.

  ‘Why, monsieur?’

  Frènes knew a thing or two about confrontation. He stared straight ahead.

  ‘Are you a good Catholic, Captain?’

  Obtuse yet seemingly direct, it was a typical opening from the public prosecutor.

  ‘There’s no such thing as a good Catholic, I’m told. I ask you again. Why?’

  ‘No matter. Thanks to the separation of church and state in our system, citizens are not required to observe, believe, or even show respect for the Catholic faith. First and foremost, we are Frenchmen, are we not? Frenchmen first and last.’

  Darac ran a hand through his black, wavy
hair.

  ‘Why, monsieur?’

  Frènes continued to address his monologue to the stalls.

  ‘But while showing respect for the faith may not be a requirement, showing tolerance toward it most certainly is. You, Captain, have never shown any such tolerance. Indeed, you show no tolerance toward any faith or creed, do you?’

  ‘You really are the king of cant, Frènes. Why…’ Trying not to lose it, Darac took a deep breath and began again. ‘Why do you want me off the case?’

  Beads of sweat began to dribble through Frènes’s sleek, swept-back hairline. As if staunching a haemorrhage, he took a silk handkerchief from the breast pocket of his jacket and pressed it to his forehead.

  ‘Why? Because we are faced with a very delicate situation here. Whatever we may think of our Muslim friends worshipping on the street – practically within sniffing distance of the Basilique’s censer, indeed – our investigation must not only be seen to be a thorough one, it must be conducted tactfully, sensitively, diplomatically. Any other approach and our streets may descend into chaos. Our streets may become littered with burning cars as happened in Paris four years ago.’

  As he listened, Darac saw the lean, red-headed figure of his other trusted lieutenant, Alejo ‘Bonbon’ Busquet, step out of the prayer room and exchange a few words with a uniform. It was difficult to tell what was on Bonbon’s mind; his foxy face was invariably creased into a grin. The uniform pointed at the Mercedes.

  ‘Our streets.’ Darac nodded. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Our streets, yes!’

  ‘Okay – first, monsieur, I have no real idea of what’s happened here, and as Professor Bianchi is only just beginning her preliminary exam, I suspect neither do you. Second, should the dead man prove to have been murdered during ritual prayers by one of us “real, pure-blooded” Frenchmen, I fully realise I will need to tread carefully.’

  As if throwing down the gauntlet, Frènes whipped the silk handkerchief from his forehead and finally turned to face him.

  ‘Tread carefully? If there are toes to be trodden on, Captain, you tread on them. If there are feathers to be ruffled, you ruffle them. You delight in so doing.’

  ‘Bullshit.’

  Frènes raised his hands palms upwards.

  ‘There we have it.’

  ‘Bravo. It’s still bullshit.’

  ‘I’m sure that your musician friends, and yes, even some misguided individuals in the service, find your irreverent approach amusing, Captain. I do not. We cannot tolerate it on this of all occasions. Understood?’

  ‘“We”, Monsieur Frènes? Let me ask you something. How did your superior, the examining magistrate, react to your recommendation I be excluded?’

  ‘As you well know, Examining Magistrate Reboux is not my superior. Our roles run parallel…’

  The vein in his temple throbbing with his growing exasperation, Darac got in close.

  ‘Listen, I don’t care if you and Reboux run parallel, opposite, upside down or up each other’s arses. How did he react to your suggestion?’

  A moth flying too close to the flame, Frènes fluttered back into his own space.

  ‘Naturally, he agreed with me.’

  ‘Alright, he agreed with you. I’ll bet my superior didn’t…’

  Frènes’s eyes were as black and expressionless as buttons. But they slid tellingly downwards.

  ‘…And without Agnès’s agreement, you’d have to apply for a formal suspension to sideline me. A suspension on suspicion I might step over the line? It’s possible you’d pull it off, but it would be a long shot. Am I wrong?’

  Before Frènes could reply, there was a rap on Darac’s window. He turned. The burning bush had appeared. A sign from above! Either that, or it was the sun catching Bonbon’s shock of red hair.

  ‘Am I wrong, monsieur?’ Frènes made no reply. ‘Thought so.’ Darac opened the door. ‘How’s it going, mate?’

  ‘Not so bad, chief. Yourself?’

  Frènes had already heard enough – and not only because he sometimes struggled to understand the syncopated rhythms and altered vowel sounds of Bonbon’s Perpignan accent.

  ‘What do you want, Busquet?’

  ‘Oh yes, monsieur.’ For the nth time that morning, Bonbon dragged his police armband back up his beanpole of an arm. ‘I thought you ought to know something about the dead man before you make a complete… Before you get any further.’

  ‘Well – what about him?’

  ‘What about him?’ Drawing out the moment tried Frènes’s patience all the more. ‘Oh, just that he wasn’t a Muslim.’

  ‘But… he was bowing down to the east and all that nons— He was praying.’

  ‘I’ve just questioned the young guy who was worshipping next to him.’ Bonbon’s armband was already making the journey south. ‘His mind on higher things, he didn’t realise anything was amiss straight away. Eventually, though, he became aware that the man on his right didn’t know the score. He was just copying everyone else. And that was also the conclusion of a couple of onlookers. They’d spotted it from the start. The guy had no idea what to do, they say. He was faking it.’

  ‘Oh, thank God.’ Exhaling deeply, Frènes gave his forehead a prolonged dab. ‘But why would anyone do that?’

  Darac got out of the car and leaned in.

  ‘That’s the first thing I aim to find out, monsieur. I take it you have no objection if I get on with things?’

  ‘Uh… under the circumstances, I suppose you may as well continue. As soon as you know the dead man’s religious status for certain, let me know, Captain. Understood? In the meantime, I shall issue a statement to the media about this discovery.’

  ‘That should pour water on any burning rags.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Frènes nodded, missing the gibe.

  ‘And you can stand the bully boys down now, monsieur. We won’t be needing them.’

  ‘If by “bully boys”, Captain, you mean the CRS…’

  ‘Don’t look so offended. You’ll be saving money.’

  ‘Yes. Well…’

  Darac turned to take his leave but Frènes had one further point.

  ‘Bear this in mind, Captain: if it transpires that the dead man indeed wasn’t a Muslim, you will still need to tread carefully.’ Frènes folded the handkerchief back into his breast pocket almost reverently; silk dampened in the line of duty. ‘Should one of them prove guilty of murder, ensure that you do everything – and I mean everything – by the book. If you don’t, I shall apply for that suspension anyway.’

  There was no need to ask Frènes who he meant by ‘them’.

  ‘I’ll keep you informed, monsieur.’

  As they strode away, Darac gave Bonbon a pat on the shoulder.

  ‘Timely rescue, man – thanks.’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘Two minutes in Frènes’s company and I feel as if I can’t breathe.’

  Bonbon hoisted his armband up the pole once more.

  ‘Agnès came through for you as well, I imagine.’

  ‘As always.’

  ‘Gangway!’

  A black van brushed Darac’s elbow as it crept past, heading for the tent.

  ‘God, we’re going to miss that woman.’

  Bonbon took a packet of wrapped sweets from his pocket.

  ‘Only like we’d miss our right arms. Mint pillow?’

  ‘No Kola Kubes today?’

  ‘The stall in Cours Saleya was out of them.’

  ‘Pass.’

  Ahead, a couple of cheerful types hopped out of the van. As one opened the rear doors, the other slid a wheeled stretcher out on to the pavement and locked its legs with a practised flick of the wrists.

  ‘I hate to share even a thought with Frènes…’ Darac paused as the morgue boys crossed in front of them with the trolley. ‘…but why was a non-Muslim diving in amongst their prayers?’

  Bonbon allowed the softening sweet to roll around his tongue.

  ‘A bet? Or just to see what it was lik
e? Maybe an actor researching a part?’

  ‘What – and someone took offence and killed him?’

  ‘The only person who seems to have taken offence at anything was a passer-by. An old woman.’

  ‘A non-Muslim?’

  ‘As Vichy, by the sound of her. The imam was pretty forgiving about it, I must say.’

  Over Bonbon’s shoulder, Darac spotted a smiling, dignified-looking figure appear in the doorway to the prayer room.

  ‘That’s him, isn’t it?’ he said, pulling at the hem of his polo shirt to lap a little air around his torso. ‘I recognise him from Nice-Matin.’

  Bonbon turned.

  ‘Monsieur Abdel Asiz, yes. Nice man, warm, urbane – not what you might imagine an imam to be like. And co-operative. He asked all the congregation to stay behind to talk to us, for instance.’

  ‘And did they?’

  ‘As far as we know.’

  ‘He was inside the prayer room throughout the service?’

  ‘Yes, another man, one Hamid Toulé, was leading the outdoor congregation – and by leading I mean literally standing in front of them – but he didn’t see anything, either. It’s not surprising. They don’t look around like people do in church. Even when they’re not prostrating themselves.’

  Outside the prayer room, a uniform approached Imam Asiz and suggested he go back inside. Pointing at his watch, he exchanged a few remarks before complying.

  ‘He’s concerned we might still all be here when the next prayer service is due to start. Asr, it’s called.’ Bonbon spelled it. ‘Short and sweet. The word – not the service.’

  ‘When is it?’

  Bonbon’s elastic band of a mouth stretched into a wider grin.

  ‘All of three hours away.’

  Darac let out an involuntary laugh.

  ‘Tell him we should’ve finished in the prayer room itself by then but the outdoor area will be cordoned off for a lot longer than three hours.’ Making a shade of his hand, Darac scanned the area. ‘We’ll have to find somewhere else for them.’

  ‘That might not go down too well with the local traders. Christ!’ Bonbon screwed up his face, suddenly – a meandering trickle of sweat had found its way into his eye. There was nothing for it. Reaching into his back pocket, he unfolded his police-issue cap and corkscrewed it on. Filaments of red frizzy hair escaped its elasticated rim; he looked as if he was wearing a head wreath made of copper wire.