Essence of Murder Page 3

  ‘Splendid,’ he said.

  At the desk, faces familiar and unfamiliar had come and gone but with only the last few to check in, here was a woman Elie knew only too well. ‘Thea,’ she said. ‘How nice to welcome you again. I have the room you requested.’

  For a second, Thea performed an impression of a waxwork figure of herself. And then, eyes wide, her mouth fell open.

  ‘Yes, it is me.’ Elie handed her a card. ‘If you would?’

  ‘What... What have you done with hair? With your hair, I mean.’

  Elie didn’t know whether to feel irritated or touched that a woman of Thea Petrova’s professional standing cared enough to be so obviously appalled. ‘Don’t you like it?’

  ‘Well, I mean, it’s not that I don’t. It’s just...’ As if staring might restore its former chestnut luxuriance, Thea’s focus was still on the atrocity that had taken its place. ‘How long have you had like that?’

  Elie had first had it done on her birthday back in April but she had no desire to explain herself further. ‘Just a few weeks. Your signature?’

  ‘A passing fancy, possibly. That’s good.’

  ‘Signature, if you would?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  Meanwhile, Barbara was doing her best to attend to the Calons. For the moment though, she had lost husband Jérôme’s attention.

  ‘You know, now I’m getting used to it,’ he said, talking across her. ‘I’d go as far as to say I like it. And it must be cooler in the warm weather than that big old bouffant you used to have. Marcie, what do you think?’

  ‘Bouffant!’ she said, pushing herself forward. ‘That’s how much notice to take of him. Now please don’t take offence, Elie. From my QA returns over the years, you know I have the highest regard for you. And in her very own way, for Clarice. And our dear Barbara here, come to that.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘It’s hideous. The style and especially the colour. And I’m sure that’s what Thea thinks, too.’

  Elie smiled. And you Marcia, are a moon-faced crawler with orange peel skin, mean little eyes and a brain to match. But I keep that to myself. She turned to Thea. ‘So, first floor, room 9 as before.’

  The routine continued in similar vein until there was only one person left to check in. And as yet, he had not emerged from the lounge. Elie felt her pulse quicken. ‘Barbara, would you be an angel?’

  ‘In the next life, I doubt it.’ She gave Elie a look. ‘In this one, why should today be any different?’

  It was the general factotum’s lot to be overworked and underpaid. But one thing Barbara couldn’t complain about was being underappreciated. By Elie, at least.

  ‘Barbara, I only ask because I know you’ll do it properly and I’m going to be otherwise...’ She stopped. Urquelle had finally emerged from the lounge and was heading with that slight limp towards the desk.

  ‘What do you want me to do?’ Barbara said, reclaiming Elie’s attention. ‘I’m due off in fifteen minutes.’

  ‘Uh... nothing. I’ll continue here. You may as well go home.’

  Barbara needed no second invitation and in less time than it took to say “Wonders will never cease,” was gone, leaving the floor to Elie and Urquelle.

  ‘It’s Madame Tiron, isn’t it?’

  That smile. The smile that had started it all.

  ‘It is.’ She fished out his registration card and set it on the desk in front of him. ‘Monsieur Urquelle.’

  Still smiling, he slipped a fountain pen from his pocket and uncapped it. Elie recognised it as the Lepic given him by his company as a reward; the one bearing the inscription she knew by heart. But using it to provide his signature, it seemed, would have to wait. Instead, Urquelle appeared to go into a kind of reverie, absently tapping the pen against the corner of his mouth as he kept his eyes on Elie, studying her. And then, as if arriving at some sort of conclusion, he gave a series of nods. He knows who I am, Elie said to herself. He knows who I am, after all. A chill ran down her spine.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes,’ he said. ‘You know I wasn’t quite sure at first, Madame Tiron but it’s your hairstyle. Forgive me but I think it is quite wonderful.’

  Her stomach turned over. Caring nothing for Urquelle’s opinions, she hated being scrutinised by him like this. But it seemed she was still incognito, at least, and that was a situation worth preserving.

  ‘Thank you. If you would just sign the card?’

  ‘Oh, of course. Apologies.’

  It seemed to Elie that, perhaps through force of habit, Urquelle made something of a show of handling his oh-so-special pen; a way of drawing attention to it, the prologue to a thousand re-tellings of his oh-so-heroic story. ‘And this should prove useful,’ she said, taking back the card and reaching for an info sheet.

  He took it without looking. ‘You know what it puts me in mind of? Your hairstyle? The Patricia character in À Bout de Souffle. But with the colour of a Caribbean flamingo. It’s fantastic. Really.’

  Elie had heard all about Urquelle’s gold-plated patter but she hadn’t experienced it at first hand until now. He knew what to say and how to say it. And that smile... ‘Thank you, again.’ Move on. ‘You’ll see on the sheet that the various wines you will be tasting with Mathieu are available at a 15% discount on the retail price per bottle and 20% by the case.’

  ‘Listen, I have a confession to make.’

  Have you? Really? Of course you haven’t. You just want to change your room, don’t you? Or your parking space. ‘Confession? I’m sure not.’

  He drew down the corners of his mouth. ‘You’re going to hate me for this.’

  I’ve hated you for years, you bastard. ‘Ah, yes?’

  ‘Yes. You see my wife, Vivienne, whom I know you know and who sends her very best regards, by the way...’

  ‘And mine to her.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Centimetre by imperceptible centimetre, he leaned in closer. ‘Well, knowing my passion for wine over these many years, Vivienne purchased Mathieu’s course for me as a surprise gift. However, I would like to take this opportunity to spring a surprise on her.’

  Elie remained mute.

  ‘So if it’s at all possible, I would love to change the wine into perfume, as it were, and take Mademoiselle Hamada’s The Magic of Scent instead.’ Now oppressively close, he looked into Elie’s eyes but, her stomach turning over once more, she took a half-step back. ‘Imagine Vivienne’s face when I arrive home not with a couple of cases of Burgundy but with a fragrance crafted by me especially for her. She won’t have had the faintest intimation it was going to happen.’ He lowered his voice. ‘But obviously, if it isn’t possible to change courses in midstream like this, I would of course, understand.’

  Elie explained that it was perfectly possible providing the class numbers worked, which, on this occasion, they would. And Zoë and Matthieu would have to agree to it but she was sure that would prove no problem. And there would be a slight upward adjustment of the fee.

  Urquelle produced his credit card. A couple of internal calls were made, the paperwork duly completed and at the end of it, Urquelle had succeeded in setting up the next few days nostril-to-nostril with the pretty and eager-to-please Lydia Félix.

  ‘Don’t forget your first session at 8.30 this evening is now in the Salle des Rêves.’

  ‘I won’t and I can’t thank you enough,’ he said, turning to leave. ‘Oh, Vivienne mentioned the lift sometimes has its own ideas about one’s travel arrangements.’

  ‘It’s far less wilful these days.’

  ‘That’s good to know. Thanks again.’ He smiled, holding the look for a moment. ‘Céline.’

  4.31 PM

  Captain Paul Darac and his lounge guitar were an easy-going pair. Or so it might have appeared to visitors. A venerable arch-topped acoustic, the instrument required no amplifiers or other equipment to make i
ts rich, resonant voice heard. And spending its off-duty hours leaning against a wall rather than locked away in a case meant it was always at hand, ready, like Darac himself, to be called upon at any time, day or night.

  The guitar may have been an everyday presence in Darac’s apartment, a rooftop eyrie of a place suspended between the tangle of the old town and the boulevards of the modern city of Nice, but it was only in a figurative sense that it had become part of the furniture. Darac had played some of the most explorative improvised solos of his life on the instrument, some of his most heartfelt blues, and some of the hottest swing. But like the hardworking Darac himself, the instrument needed an occasional break and for the past two weeks, it had been away on R and R. Now fully restored, it was ready to be collected.

  The man responsible for the health of all Darac’s instruments was a gnarly former rock-and-roller turned guitar tech who still went by his stage name of Elvis Tonnerre. Elvis worked out of his apartment near Gare Thiers, a cluttered warren occupying the floor above one of Darac’s favourite couscous joints in the city. He usually timed his trips to drop off or pick up an instrument with lunch or dinner but today, he had contrived to miss both. As Elvis buzzed him into the building, a family party was underway in the restaurant and the spicy tang of tagines and other delights made Darac’s mouth water as he headed for the stairs.

  A taciturn individual who communicated mainly in grunts and nods, Elvis resticted his comments to clients to four: “I’ll do what needs doing.” “I’ll call when it’s ready.” “It’ll cost x,” and, on handing back the guitar in question, “Any problems, bring it back.” But there never were any problems and as a bonus, for the first couple of days after returning an instrument to the fold, Darac could smell just the slightest hint of baked meats and fruits rising from its soundboard as he played. On a previous visit, he’d mentioned to Elvis just how much he enjoyed this sensation. The man nodded, said ‘Uh-huh,’ and Darac loved him for it.

  Business concluded with the usual dispatch, Darac laid the rejuvenated instrument into the threadbare velvet cocoon that was its case and, clutching it to his chest – the case had lost its handle years ago – headed back through the spice waft into the vestibule. Something he hadn’t noticed on his way in was a full-length mirror newly set into the wall by the street door. Confronting his reflection, he was reminded of a sepia-toned photograph that hung in the hall of his father’s villa in nearby Vence. Its subject was a man with a strong, broad-boned face, black wavy hair and soft, expressive eyes. Paul’s great-grandfather, after whom he had been named and to whom he bore a marked resemblance, had been the last in a long line of Daracs to farm sheep in their ancestral département of Creuse in the heart of the country.

  In the photo, he too was clutching something of significance to his chest – not a rescued musical instrument but a rescued lamb. Paul junior had always felt an affinity with this tough but tender-hearted man and he had occasionally wondered what Paul Senior had made of the lives of those who came after him: his son, Jean-Louis, a Jack of all trades until he trained to be a teacher in his mid-thirties and stayed in education for the rest of his life; his granddaughter Sophie, another late bloomer who eventually built up a successful catering business singlehandedly; his grandson Martin, a freelance “nose” in the perfume industry who went on to found the boutique ‘House of Darac’ brand of fragrances. And then there was great-grandson Paul junior, a man who enjoyed leading a double life as a so-called poète-policier.

  What he would make of the lives of his own descendants was something Paul knew he would never have to consider. If, that is, the relationship with the love of his life, fellow officer Frankie Lejeune, stood the test of time as he hoped it would.

  Back out on the street, further musings on the themes of ancestry, husbandry and progeny were put on hold when his mobile rang.

  ‘Darac? Armani. When was the last time we went on a stake-out together?’

  Except in matters of fashion and sport, drug squad chief Captain Jean-Pierre ‘Armani’ Tardelli was not given to idle speculation. Unless cash was involved.

  ‘The last time?’ The first rays of the late afternoon sun were beginning to find the street and as Darac reached his Peugeot, it seemed to light up in greeting. ‘Must be five years ago. Probably more. So do you win it?’

  ‘Bet on a thing of such importance? As if I would. No, the point is, it was years ago, exactly. So it’s high time we did it again, right? Picture the scene – the captains of the two most important police squads in the city back in harness. Together again, like...’

  ‘I need both hands, Armani. Wait a second.’

  Slipping the mobile into his breast pocket muffled Armani’s voice but it was still extolling the value of partnerships after Darac had stowed the guitar case in the boot, got in behind the wheel and docked the phone.

  ‘... Pavarotti and Andrea Bocelli. There!’

  Darac turned on the engine, releasing the opening bars of John Coltrane’s ‘Syeeda’s Song Flute’ into the air, and pulled away from the kerb. ‘Pavarotti, right,’ he said, turning down the CD player. ‘And Bocelli. But the real reason for shouting out our non-awaited comeback is..?’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘At last, we communicate. Just leaving Rue Assalit.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘On my way home, Armani. Home.’

  ‘Understood. Completely. But this will only take five minutes...’

  * * *

  Ten minutes later, Darac was parked outside a car repair place squeezed into Rue Louise Ackermann and Armani, an unopened bento box on his lap, was sitting next to him. Without making it obvious, their eyes were trained intermittently on the low-rise apartment block beyond. Stationed inside were two members of Armani’s squad.

  ‘Which apartment are we looking at?’

  ‘Third floor,’ Armani said. ‘Second one along.’

  ‘The one with the half-open window?’

  ‘That’s it. The street door’s below and to the right. I’ve got Luisa and Farid inside. If our man has the stuff and tries to beat it, they’ll grab him.’

  Darac’s brow lowered. ‘And so why are we here?’

  ‘In case they lose him.’ Armani’s “What a dumb question!” face set new standards for the genre. ‘What do you think?’

  Darac gave Armani a look. ‘In other words, we’re back-up.’

  ‘I suppose you could call it that.’

  ‘We, the captains of – what was it? – “the two most important squads in the city.” ’

  ‘And proud of it!’

  ‘I see.’ Darac enjoyed working out the why and how of things and the challenge presented by Armani’s frequent machinations had a fascination all of its own. He decided to have fun with it. ‘So your car’s in the shop, right?’ he said. ‘Broke down just around the corner.’

  ‘Sadly.’ Armani made a moue and nodded. ‘That’s why I called you.’

  Darac glanced across at the garage. ‘In fact, that’s it, isn’t it? The one in the service bay.’

  Roughly following Darac’s gaze, Armani considered the question. ‘I... think it might be, yes.’

  ‘Look closer... No, no, the white convertible’s the one we’re interested in. The Audi. The one it seems they’re getting ready to valet. Inside and out.’

  Armni gave that some thought, too. ‘They’re very thorough here.’

  ‘Really? I recognise that Audi, Armani. It’s yours. Yours and Noëmi’s own car.’

  ‘In... a sense.’

  ‘In every sense.’ Darac ran an eye over Armani’s outfit: ‘And what do we have here? Neither the crackhead nor dealer look. But not full preen and primp, either.’

  With a dismissive gesture, Armani styled his off-the-peg shirt. ‘Semi-preen, at best.’

  ‘The sort of thing you might wear on a day off, in fact.’

 
The concept clearly appalled him. ‘Jean-Pierre Armani Tardelli wear this on his day off? Are you kidding?’

  ‘Depends on how you’d planned spending it, doesn’t it? For tackling those jobs you’ve been putting off, such as taking your car to your favourite back-street garage for a spruce-up, it might work.’ He cast a glance at the place. ‘Looks OK. Tidy. Efficient. But it’s a confined space, isn’t it? With the best will in the world, there’s bound to be the odd spot of grease or oil around. And those piles of old tyres? A brush with any of those things might wreak havoc with your usual off-duty wardrobe. In short, it’s a place in which a dressed-down approach would be the call. Such as the one you’ve gone for.’

  Armani essayed an innocent nod. And nailed it. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’ll talk you through what happened. While you were in there, explaining exactly what you wanted doing and how, you get a call. “Chief? Sorry to trouble you on your day off but that operation we’ve been working on? We’ve finally run Monsieur X to ground at an apartment in Rue Louise Ackermann. Yes – right where you are!” “Great work,” you reply. “But how do you know where I am?” “We’ve just seen you going into the garage.”

  ‘I thought you didn’t believe in coincidences?’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘There we have it.’ Armani bore the look of a tennis player who had lured his opponent to the net only to lob the ball deep. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Except when they happen,’ Darac said, retrieving it for a winner. ‘So here you are with a car down on the street and two of your guys are on foot up in the building. Lady Luck has given you the perfect set-up, hasn’t it? There’s only one problem. Said car is out of action. But even if it wasn’t, you probably wouldn’t want to risk getting it all grubby or worse if something went down.’ Darac grinned. ‘So you decide to send for another vehicle. Right so far?’

  Armani pressed his lips together. ‘It’s a theory.’