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

  Her brows lowered. ‘Were you?’

  ‘Our drummer was playing.’ There seemed little point in mentioning the guitar. ‘And Erica had a spare ticket. Next thing, a drunk falls under a float and we’re putting in a spot of unpaid overtime.’

  ‘Just an accident, then?’

  ‘Yes. And get this: CCTV confirms it.’

  Frankie drew down the corners of her mouth. ‘You mean it actually came in useful?’

  ‘Well, it had to come up trumps some time.’

  ‘France Info just reported that the remaining parades might not go ahead.’ She gave him a knowing look. ‘Refund all that ticket money? It could happen, I suppose. Telonne’s giving a press conference about it tomorrow.’

  ‘They’ll just put crash barriers up, won’t they?’

  ‘If they go that far. But obviously, press conferences will be the last thing on your mind tomorrow.’ Frankie reached for his hand. ‘I hope it all goes well, Paul.’

  Darac’s signature expression, a sort of amused empathy, lost all its levity for the moment. ‘I’m off to meet Papa now, actually.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I think he has something he wants to tell me.’

  3

  Most of the second-class hotel bars of Nice’s palm-studded Promenade des Anglais charged first-class prices for drinks, most offered evenings of faux jazz, and most were unsuitable places in which to hold discreet conversations. Apart from the presence of a white baby grand, mercifully sans pianist, Hotel Brunswick’s Le Phare Blanc seemed an exception to the rule.

  ‘Welcome, Captain. Monsieur Darac is seated in the corner banquette.’

  To even the most casual of observers, Darac’s resemblance to his father, Martin, was remarkable. From him, he’d inherited the light-heavyweight build, the black wavy hair, and the strong, broad-boned face. The humour that gave his expression its relieving lift was a blessing from both parents.

  The embrace was warm and prolonged.

  ‘So Frankie is still wearing Marucca,’ Martin said, sitting. ‘Or someone is.’

  ‘It’s Frankie.’ Darac smiled at the familiarity of it. A perfume industry ‘nose’ for almost thirty years, his father could never resist the challenge of naming a scent, however faint its traces.

  They ordered Courvoisiers and, as if sticking to a mutually agreed script, chatted light-heartedly while they sipped them. It was during a second round that the elephant in the room finally got to its feet and joined them.

  ‘Paul…’ Martin stopped swirling the cognac around in his glass. Its shimmering surface came to a rest before he continued. ‘With tomorrow in mind, this may seem to you exactly the wrong moment to say what I’m about to but…’ He stalled.

  ‘I can’t judge until you say it.’

  Trepidation vying with earnestness, Martin looked his son squarely in the eye. ‘I’m very, very serious about the woman I’ve been seeing. So serious, that… I’m thinking of asking her to marry me.’

  Darac gave a slight shrug. ‘Congratulations.’

  Martin exhaled deeply. ‘Doesn’t the identity of the accused at least interest you?’

  A small man wearing a tuxedo and a disappointed expression sat down at the piano and lifted the lid. After a moment, ‘Night and Day’ came limping lame and leaden across the floor.

  ‘It’s Martine, I imagine.’

  Martin’s eyes hardened. ‘That was over some time ago. You know that.’

  ‘Oh yes. Well, it was for the best. Martin and Martine?’ He made a moue. ‘Not ideal.’

  Martin took a deep breath. ‘She’s called Julie Issert. She’s forty-one, she lives here in Nice and she runs a travel agency. Well, a personalised travel service.’

  After just a few bars, ‘Night and Day’ was already segueing into ‘They Can’t Take That Away from Me’.

  ‘And you’ve known her for…?’

  Martin downed his cognac. ‘Another?’

  ‘No thanks.’

  Martin caught the waiter’s eye and held up one finger. ‘Look, Paul… I don’t have to account for anything in this. I don’t need your permission—’

  ‘How long have you known her?’

  ‘Four months. I don’t need—’

  ‘Why her? Why not Lorena? Mariette? Adriana?’

  ‘Why? Because I didn’t love them.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And four months doesn’t mean anything. I knew within four hours of meeting Mama that I wanted to be with her for the rest of my life.’

  ‘That was Mama, though, wasn’t it.’

  ‘She was special, yes. She was fabulous. But so is Julie, Paul. She’s full of life and energy. And she has that same…’ As if the quality he sought could be extracted from air, he made a sifting movement with his hand. ‘Well, you’ll see when you meet her.’

  ‘You realise that this is exactly what you said about—’

  Martin shook his head. ‘This is ridiculous! I’m fifty-six, for God’s sake. And you—’

  The waiter arrived. He seemed to take an age to remove the new glass from the tray and put it on the table and put the empty back on the tray and wipe the table and step by halting step, slope slowly out of earshot.

  ‘And you, Paul—’

  ‘I’m still twelve. Is that what you think? Is that why you’ve chosen this day of all days to let me in on your plans? To test my mettle?’ Their eyes met in a slipping of gears that was almost audible. ‘Well get this: I went to the carnival tonight. How’s that? Do I pass?’

  The fight went out of Martin suddenly. He reached out and squeezed his son’s knee. ‘Paul, that night had no bearing on what happened. None.’

  ‘Yes, so they said.’

  ‘You know…’ Martin hesitated. ‘Mama would have hated this. Hated it.’ Another squeeze. ‘You have to let her go. For everyone’s sake.’

  It was Darac’s turn to stare at his drink. ‘You’re not driving home, are you?’ he said, at length. ‘Three cognacs is one too many, you know.’

  ‘Uh… no. I’m staying here in Nice. I’ll get a cab.’

  Darac nodded. ‘With Julie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘She feels the same about you, I take it?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ A sip of cognac. ‘So she runs a travel service? Handy.’

  ‘Yes. Air miles, freebies. All that.’

  At the piano, Monsieur Disappointed’s mood showed no signs of lifting as he gate-crashed ‘Puttin’ On the Ritz’.

  ‘I’m heading off to the Blue Devil. Anders Bergcrantz. Trumpet. Great player.’

  ‘Well… enjoy it.’

  ‘I could drop you off en route. Save you the cab fare.’

  ‘Julie lives up in Saint-Sylvestre. It’s ridiculously out of your way.’

  ‘Alright.’ He got to his feet and for the moment, just stood there. ‘You know Mama’s death and all the things that surrounded it? I have let it go.’

  If an actor were ever called upon to convey paternal love, exasperation and incomprehension in just one facial expression, they could not have bettered Darac père at that moment. ‘Then why…?’ He gathered himself. ‘Then why have you always been so disapproving of my women friends? All of them, practically. Why have I been petrified at the thought of even mentioning Julie to you?’

  Unsure of how to frame his response, Darac fils said nothing at all. It didn’t thrill him that conversations on this topic tended to bring out an unsuspected judgemental, even passive-aggressive, streak in him. Whoever his father chose to spend his life with was nobody’s business but his own. Yet, when it seemed so obvious that Martin’s love of love never brought him any real happiness, Darac had to say something, didn’t he? His eyes slid to the piano. ‘I just don’t want you to end up like him.’

  ‘I won’t. But I reserve the right to run that risk.’

  They embraced.

  ‘See you tomorrow, Papa.’

  4

  The kitchen was faced with oak, granite and ter
racotta. Sleek, flush-fitted and devoid of protruding buttons, an ensemble of top-of-the-range appliances maintained the hard, clean lines. From microwave to flat-screen TV, everything in the room worked without any obvious means of control.

  Slipping on to a perch at the breakfast bar, a top-of-the-range woman wearing a white towelling dressing gown reached for a remote and waved it lazily in the air. In a frisson of static, larger than life-size heads appeared on the wall opposite. The woman kept her eyes absently upon them as she raised a teaspoon of yoghurt-moistened berries to her mouth. A press conference with the carnival committee was in full swing, and the floor had just been opened to questions.

  ‘So, Monsieur Telonne,’ Annie Provin began, ‘you have decided to go ahead—’

  ‘I have not decided, Annie,’ Jacques Telonne replied smoothly. ‘The committee has decided.’

  ‘Very well – the committee of which you are chair has decided that the remaining five parades, and the climax of the season, the burning of the king, will go ahead. But last night, monsieur, a man was killed in Place Masséna. Surely—’

  ‘Annie – a man was killed last night in Toulon. Another in Grenoble. Last week, a family of three was killed on the N98 near Saint-Raphaël. Such accidents are regrettable. They are tragic. But unless we are all to stay at home wrapped up in cotton wool, accidents will always happen.’

  Setting down her spoon for a moment, the woman retied the belt of her dressing gown.

  On the television, a second journalist had piped up. ‘Monsieur Telonne, that is a very partial answer. I know it would change the street-party atmosphere to an extent but simply by erecting barriers around the Place, this particular tragedy could have been averted.’

  ‘Had there been barriers, Jean,’ replied Telonne, ‘there could have been more loss of life than there was. If you were a football fan as I am, you would know what disasters can happen when a body of spectators is penned in to an enclosure from which there is no ready egress.’

  ‘But Promenade des Anglais has barriers for the Parade of Flowers,’ Provin said.

  ‘That is because there are far more lorry-style floats in the Parade of Flowers than there are in the Parade of Lights…’

  Wearing a thigh-length Aphex Twin T-shirt, a girl in her mid-teens padded bare-legged into the kitchen and crossed behind the breakfast bar. ‘Any pizza left?’

  ‘Good morning, Laure,’ the woman said, without turning around.

  ‘Yeah, ye-eeeah.’ In mid-yawn, Laure ran her fingers through her hair, a dark-brown mat that sat on its undershaved sides like a cheap toupee. ‘Pizza?’

  ‘There isn’t any. Besides, you don’t want pizza for breakfast.’

  Laure dabbed a panel on the fridge door. It opened in a controlled glide. ‘No? I thought I did.’

  ‘I’ll rephrase that. You shouldn’t have pizza for breakfast. Or at any time. Apart from anything else, it’s bad for the skin.’

  ‘Bad for the skin? It isn’t me who has a tattoo on her left, no, right arse cheek.’

  The woman stiffened but said nothing

  ‘Even if it is a pretty little butterfly.’ Laure smiled with exaggerated sweetness. The smile disappeared. ‘Coffee?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  The fridge door set off on its return journey. ‘I meant is there any?’

  Still absently watching the screen, the woman gave a sideways nod. A chrome cafetière was sitting on a worktop.

  ‘Where’s the glass one?’

  ‘Dropped. Shattered.’

  ‘Tut, tut.’

  The woman turned up the television. Annie Provin’s voice rose above the sound of coffee being poured. ‘And in the ensuing mayhem, three wallets, a handbag, two cameras and more significantly, a valuable musical instrument were snatched by thieves. As a potential mayoral candidate, you cannot be happy—’

  Laure glanced at the screen as she set the cafetière back on the table.

  ‘As a potential mayoral candidate, you cannot be happy—’

  ‘What are you suggesting now? That opportunists taking advantage of an extraordinary circumstance constitutes a crime wave? Let me tell you something, Annie. Thanks to our policy of zero tolerance, the city of Nice has never in its entire history been as safe and as free of crime at all levels as it is now.’

  Capping the pronouncement with a belch, the girl grabbed a couple of croissants and headed back to her room.

  ‘Laure?’ The woman finally turned. ‘Remember what we said. Keep it down.’

  ‘Keep what down – my breakfast? Bulimia’s your thing, Mama dear. Not mine.’

  Of the fifteen rooms in the house, Laure’s bedroom was the smallest. She had chosen it deliberately. A note for visitors scrawled on the door read: YOU WILL CRASH AND BURN. Back-heeling it shut, she picked her way to her bed and, hitting the play button on her laptop, slipped on a pair of headphones. It wasn’t a concession to her stepmother. The track was her latest composition and she wanted to listen to it critically.

  As chaotic and colourful as the kitchen was sterile, the place was part bedroom, part DIY recording studio. Following circuit diagrams and wielding soldering irons held few fears for Laure – she’d put in most of the electronics herself. Keyboards were her thing. But as she listened to the track, she realised it needed something else. A different sound. Coffee soaking into the croissant began to scald her fingers as her eyes slid to the corner of the room. There, propped against the wall, was the solution. She smiled, a bubble of transgressive pleasure rising in her stomach. She knew that the guitar was an old Gibson SG Standard. She knew that it was sought-after and valuable. Best of all, she knew that it was hers now.

  5

  Darac had never been a good time-keeper. Late for school. Late for band practice. Late for this, late for that. But on 27 February every year, he was always the first to arrive at the old cemetery in Vence. Set on a terraced hillside just outside the town walls, it was a classic burial ground in the local style; no sylvan idyll but a conurbation of stone tombs and statuary laid out in a strict grid. A tiny city of the dead.

  Usually dormant, Darac’s sense of his mother’s loss, deepened by convictions that allowed not the slightest hope of eventual reunion, awakened with some force as he waited at the gates for the others. He was never quite sure how to deal with the emotion. Give himself up to it? Snap out of it? He turned away for a moment and looked back toward the living city.

  It was an overcast but warm morning for early spring, as was often the case for the anniversary. All around, there was a feeling of life freeing up, breaking out, burgeoning. Small birds flitted from branch to branch of a nearby shrub, flashing particoloured patterns against the pale green leaves.

  ‘Goldfinches. A charm.’

  Darac turned. The woman was elderly, rail thin and, with her spry demeanour, somewhat birdlike herself.

  ‘That’s what they call a group of goldfinches.’ She smiled. ‘A charm. Lovely, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We used to get them in our hibiscus when we lived in Antibes. Almost sixty years, we were there. Of course, I’m over in the apartments now. La Belle Vue. Do you know it?’

  There wasn’t a centimetre of Vence that Darac didn’t know. ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘It’s very nice. But it’s not the same.’

  Darac was carrying a spray of perfect white roses. The woman’s eyes alighted on it, darting with unconcealed pleasure from bloom to bloom.

  ‘How beautiful.’

  ‘She would have loved them,’ Darac found himself saying. And then wondered why he had. ‘Mama, that is.’

  The woman smiled with a sort of knowing gravity. Leaning into him, her eyebrows rose as she touched his arm. ‘She does love them, my dear. By God’s good grace, she loves them at this very moment.’

  However well-meaning, Darac didn’t need it. ‘Yes, well I must be going.’

  ‘Of course, monsieur.’ As if listening for a faraway voice, she canted her head slightly toward the aven
ues of tombs laid out beyond the gates. ‘Yes, she is so happy you’re here.’ She nodded. ‘I know, you see.’ Her face was riven with concern, suddenly. ‘I hope you are not the only one for her?’

  But before Darac could answer, she spotted something behind Darac and her face lightened. ‘Ah good, I see you have company. Your friend obviously didn’t notice you.’

  Darac looked over his shoulder. A man in a black coat, carrying a huge bouquet of lilies, was walking briskly through the cemetery gates. After a moment’s hesitation, he began slow marching along the nearest rank of graves, reading each inscription in turn.

  ‘As I say, I really must be—’

  ‘Yes, you go and join him. What was your mother’s name, by the way?’

  Some medium you are, Darac thought. But at least the woman had asked the question directly, not recited a roll-call of initials until the connection with the ‘other side’ was made by nothing more supernatural than a process of elimination.

  ‘It was Sandrine.’

  The woman was only partially satisfied. ‘Sandrine…?’

  Enough was enough. ‘Sandrine.’

  ‘Yes.’ The woman gave him a slightly straitened look. ‘Forgive me. But remember what I said, monsieur. She does know. Goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, madame.’

  It was a further ten minutes before the first of the party, his mother’s older brother Clément, joined him at the gates. And then in short order, his aunts Sophie and Antoinette, assorted cousins and old friends of the family, and even a few former students from the school at which Madame Sandrine Darac had been head of mathematics. As the appointed hour arrived, only one person was absent.

  ‘He’ll be here shortly, Paul.’ Aunt Antoinette gave him a reassuring smile. ‘Got a bit held up, that’s all.’

  Trying to hide his irritation, Darac said nothing. Other well-meaning people uttered well-meaning excuses for Martin as the minutes ticked by. Just as someone suggested that mobiles be switched on after all, a red Citroën swung into the street, stopped and reversed sharply into a parking space. The passenger door opened and Martin jumped out. Behind the wheel, a striking-looking woman with a head of auburn hair watched Martin hurry toward the party. The woman, it was clear, was Julie Issert.